to
e
mail.â
Even Zoe, trying as she was to calm the waters, seemed surprised by that. âBut your âPotShotsâ is an online book review site. How can you notââ
âPrecisely,â the man interrupted. âWhich is why I donât open my email. Do you really think I want to hear all the belly-aching from authors â whether newbies or established franchises â who seem to think I
owe
them a good review?â
PotShots rang a bell. âWhy, youâre Laurence Potter.â
I felt Pavlikâs surprise as Potter turned toward me. âI am, indeed. And you are?â
âMaggy Thorsen,â I said, holding out my right hand. âI enjoy your reviews.â
âThen you certainly canât be an author yourself.â Potter enveloped my fingers and drew their knuckles to his lips, a glint in his eye. âHow refreshing.â
âAs refreshing as your critiques.â I took my hand back, willing myself not to reflexively wipe it on my pants. A rumored womanizer and sleazeball, Potter might be a nasty piece of work â as were his reviews â but he was also borderline charming and certainly entertaining. âYou sure donât pull any punches.â
A modest shrug, though I had a feeling that nothing Potter did was modest, and that what he did to appear modest was nothing like unrehearsed. âToo many critics simply donât bother to review books that are dreadful. Personally, I donât subscribe to the old saw, âIf you canât say something nice, donât say anything at all.â In fact, I donât know why words uttered by some rabbit in a childrenâs animated feature would be so revered in the first place.â
The words were âuttered byâ Thumper in
Bambi
. And it was âsay
nothing
at all,â not âsay anything at all.â Sheesh, if you canât trust a reviewer to get it right â¦
âWhat about the old saw, âthose who canât do, teachâ?â a voice from behind me contributed. âDo you âsubscribeâ to that one, Larry?â
I turned to see a chic woman with short, choppy black hair. She wore a deceptively simple white blouse over designer jeans â and not the department store kind. Iâm talking denims that command upwards of a thousand dollars. And have waiting lists.
âLaurence,â Potter snapped, his eyes narrowing.
The new addition to our group smiled icily. âOh, Larry, Iâve known you for years. Why so formal?â
âIâve grown tired of correcting the hearing-impaired morons who insist on confusing my name with that of JK Rowlingâs detestable four-eyed wizard.â
Ah, Harry Potter.
âBe glad your nameâs not Dumbledore,â I said under my breath, winning me a warning look from Pavlik, who knew I liked to stir a cauldron myself now and then.
Meanwhile, the smile was etched on the chilly face of the elegant woman. âSo now you only need to inform them that Laurence is spelled with a âUâ and not the more pedestrian âW.ââ
âAs is the case with Olivier and Fishburne, so Iâm in rather good company,â Potter said. âAnd speaking of the company we keep, how nice it is to see you again, Rosemary.â
âAnd me, you,â the woman said. They air-kissed, each of them careful not to engage in any actual flesh-to-flesh contact.
It was obvious both of them were lying respectively through their tightly clenched teeth and suddenly I realized why. âRosemary Darlington. Iâve been reading about your new book,
Breaking and Entering
.â
And I had, on PotShots. The first book from the legendary lady of romantic suspense in years and Laurence Potter had absolutely eviscerated it. Called it smut, even. Apparently the âBreakingâ part referred to hearts. And the âEnteringâ ⦠well, as Potter had written on PotShots,
Do I have to