“You realize, of course, that you’re going to have to kill him.”

My heroines rarely visit me—at least, not the way my heroes do. These guys lounge around the house, tell me what kind of sex they want, insist on interviews—make themselves VERY real to me.

But my heroines are usually very low-key. Until now.
And one of my weaknesses has always been that I LOVE a really great bitch.

Reclining on my French-provincial loveseat with a cigarette in one hand and martini in the other, she was absolutely stunning in all black. The color suited her. She struck me as an icy merry widow.

“Don’t be silly, Leyla.” I attempted a light tone I didn’t feel. “I have no intention of killing him.”

“I’m telling you he has to die.”

“Leyla. I’m being patient with you because you’re only a few weeks old, and the story isn’t finished.” I watched as she crossed her legs, one high-heeled shoe dangling from the tip of her toe. My authoritative voice didn’t affect her one bit. “As I said—he’s the hero. It isn’t much of a romance if he dies.”

“Sounds like a personal problem to me.”

“Yeah, well, my problems are yours, dear,” I snapped. “In case you hadn’t noticed.”

“I’m telling you he has to die.” Fishing the olive out of her drink, she sucked the pimento from the center. “So either you kill him—or I will.”

Damn, I love a really great bitch. But I had to be firm about this, if only because her idea was actually starting to appeal to me…
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