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So fixed was Hugo upon his musings that for a moment, he did not realize that the maid had paddled out of view. Where the waterfall cascaded, the pool below was out of his line of vision, being blocked off by the rock outcropping on which he lay. He assumed that the girl had ducked beneath the waterfall, perhaps to rinse her hair.
Hugo waited, pleasantly anticipating the girl’s reappearance. He wondered to himself whether the chivalrous thing to do was to creep away now, without drawing attention to himself, then meet up with her again upon the road, as if by accident, and offer her escort home to the Stephensgate.
It was as he was deciding that he heard a soft sound behind him, and then suddenly, something very sharp was at his throat, and someone very light was astride his back.
It was with an effort that Hugo controlled his soldierly instinct to strike first and question later.
But he had never before felt so slim an arm circle his neck, nor such slight thighs straddle his back. Nor had his head ever been jerked against such a temptingly soft cushion.
“Stay perfectly still,” advised his captor, and Hugo, enjoying the warmth from her thighs and, more particularly, the softness of the hollow between her breasts, where she kept the back of his head firmly anchored, was happy to oblige her.
“I’ve a knife at your throat,” the maid informed him in her boyishly throaty voice, “but I won’t use it unless I have to. If you do as I say, you shan’t be harmed. Do you understand?”
Thursday, April 27, 7 p.m., the loft
Daphne Delacroix
1005 Thompson Street, Apt. 4A
New York, NY 10003
Dear Author,
Thank you for giving us the opportunity to read your manuscript. However, it does not suit our needs at the present time.
Not even a signature! Thanks for nothing.
I just walked in the door and Mom wants to know why someone named Daphne Delacroix keeps getting all this mail from publishing houses addressed to our apartment.
Busted!
I thought about lying to her, too, but there’s no point, really. She’s going to catch me eventually, especially if Ransom My Heart does get published someday, and I build my own wing onto the Royal Genovian Hospital, or whatever.
Okay, well, I have no idea how much published novelists get paid, but I heard the forensic mystery writer Patricia Cornwell bought a helicopter with her book money.
Not that I need a helicopter, because I have my own jet (well, Dad does).
So I was just like, “I sent out my book under a fake name just to see if I could get it published.”
My mom already suspects what I wrote wasn’t a really long history paper. I couldn’t lie to her about it. She saw me in my room, listening to the Marie Antoinette movie sound-track with my headphones on and Fat Louie by my side, typing away all the time…well, whenever I wasn’t at school, princess lessons, therapy, or out with Tina or J.P.
I know it’s bad to lie to your own mother. But if I told her what my book was really about, she’d want to read it.
And there’s no way I want Helen Thermopolis reading what I actually wrote. I mean, sex scenes and your mother? No, thank you.
“Well,” Mom said, pointing to my letter. “What did they say?”
“Oh,” I said. “Not interested.”
“Hmmm,” Mom said. “It’s a tough market these days. Especially for a history on Genovian olive oil presses.”
“Yeah,” I said. “Tell me about it.”
God, what if TMZ got hold of the truth about me? What a liar I am, I mean? What kind of role model am I? I make Vanessa Hudgens look like Mother Freaking Teresa. Minus the whole nudity thing. Because I’m not about to take naked photos of myself and send them to my boyfriend.
Thankfully it was kind of hard to have a conversation with Mom because Mr. G was practicing his drums, with Rocky banging along on his toy drum set.
When he saw me, Rocky dropped his drumsticks and ran over to throw his arms around my knees, screaming, “Meeeeeeaaaaaaahhhhhh!”
