When he returned to an upright position, his smile was
transformed into a full-blown grin.
"Jason Armstrong is my name—" there was a
brief but very effective pause "—also known as Cathryn James."
Chapter 2
Samantha stared at him for a moment,
almost—just almost—tempted to believe he was actually serious. Then
she turned on her heel and ambled down the beach, tossing back a
comment over her shoulder. "Sure you are. And I'm Norman Mailer."
Jason Armstrong caught up with her easily, his long-legged form
falling in beside her. "You don't believe me?"
She sent him a sidelong glance. "Mr.
Armstrong—"
"Jason. Call me Jason."
"All right then." She gave him a saccharine
smile and said mildly, "Not that I'm trying to criticize, but you
are sadly in need of a lesson with regard to the written word—"
"Aha, now you're beginning to sound like the
teacher you are."
She lifted a slender brow in reproach and
continued, "Men write science-fiction stories, fantasy and
adventure stories—"
"Sleazy adventure stories?"
"Well, yes—" she frowned slightly at him
"—with a lot of sex and violence--"
"And your romances aren't full of sex?"
"Not in the way you're thinking," she
reproved confidently. "They're love stories, and there's a world of
difference between love and sex." She halted, planting her feet
firmly in the soft sand to look up at him. "Even if you are a
writer--which I'm not convinced you are--you certainly couldn't
write a romance."
"You sound very sure of yourself." He smiled
down at her, laughter flickering in his eyes.
"I am. I've read dozens and dozens and
dozens of romances, both historical and contemporary, but I've
never read one written by a man—"
"Oh, yes, you have." His tone was very soft,
almost caressing.
Samantha glowered up at him, beginning to
wonder why he was persisting in his little joke. "I haven't," she
insisted, a bit more bitingly than she intended. Taking a deep
breath, she ran her fingers upward through the soft hair lying on
her nape. "Look, I don't know why you insist on—"
"Would you rather have me lie?"
"No, of course not." The tiniest bit of
exasperation was beginning to gnaw at her, but as his eyes held
hers, she saw something in the chocolaty-brown depths that caused a
niggle of doubt to enter her brain. He couldn't possibly be
serious... or could he?
She let him lead her over to a huge chunk of
whitewashed driftwood near the edge of the sand. With a gentle
hand on her shoulder he pushed her down to a sitting position.
"This is just beginning to get interesting,"
he said as he sat down beside her.
Samantha eyed him rather warily. "What
is?"
"Your views on why a man couldn't possibly
write a romance." His eyes were full of mirth and his mouth kept
twitching as if he was barely able to contain his laughter.
Again Samantha experienced a tiny spurt of
doubt. She gazed at him hesitantly. "You really are a writer?"
"I really am a writer," he assured her. "And
I make a very good living at it."
"A fiction writer?"
"A fiction writer. Now if you don't mind,
pray tell me why you think a man couldn't possibly write one of
your precious romances."
Samantha breathed a sigh of relief. At least
this time he wasn't insisting he was Cathryn James! "Well--" a
thoughtful frown creased her forehead for a moment "--for one
thing, I just can't see a man being able to get into the head of a
woman the way another woman could."
"Cathryn James writes from a dual point of
view, if you recall. The hero's thoughts and feelings are just as
much in evidence as the heroine's."
Samantha's eyes flickered away from his
steady gaze and she shifted uneasily. "Yes, that's true, but . . ."
She stopped, not sure she wanted to go ahead with what she'd been
about to say.
"But what?"
Jason lifted one of her hands from her thigh
and began to lightly trace a pattern in the palm of her hand.
Her breath caught in her throat. His touch
sent a wild swirl of emotion rushing through her. She was
transformed into a full-blown grin.
"Jason Armstrong is my name—" there was a
brief but very effective pause "—also known as Cathryn James."
Chapter 2
Samantha stared at him for a moment,
almost—just almost—tempted to believe he was actually serious. Then
she turned on her heel and ambled down the beach, tossing back a
comment over her shoulder. "Sure you are. And I'm Norman Mailer."
Jason Armstrong caught up with her easily, his long-legged form
falling in beside her. "You don't believe me?"
She sent him a sidelong glance. "Mr.
Armstrong—"
"Jason. Call me Jason."
"All right then." She gave him a saccharine
smile and said mildly, "Not that I'm trying to criticize, but you
are sadly in need of a lesson with regard to the written word—"
"Aha, now you're beginning to sound like the
teacher you are."
She lifted a slender brow in reproach and
continued, "Men write science-fiction stories, fantasy and
adventure stories—"
"Sleazy adventure stories?"
"Well, yes—" she frowned slightly at him
"—with a lot of sex and violence--"
"And your romances aren't full of sex?"
"Not in the way you're thinking," she
reproved confidently. "They're love stories, and there's a world of
difference between love and sex." She halted, planting her feet
firmly in the soft sand to look up at him. "Even if you are a
writer--which I'm not convinced you are--you certainly couldn't
write a romance."
"You sound very sure of yourself." He smiled
down at her, laughter flickering in his eyes.
"I am. I've read dozens and dozens and
dozens of romances, both historical and contemporary, but I've
never read one written by a man—"
"Oh, yes, you have." His tone was very soft,
almost caressing.
Samantha glowered up at him, beginning to
wonder why he was persisting in his little joke. "I haven't," she
insisted, a bit more bitingly than she intended. Taking a deep
breath, she ran her fingers upward through the soft hair lying on
her nape. "Look, I don't know why you insist on—"
"Would you rather have me lie?"
"No, of course not." The tiniest bit of
exasperation was beginning to gnaw at her, but as his eyes held
hers, she saw something in the chocolaty-brown depths that caused a
niggle of doubt to enter her brain. He couldn't possibly be
serious... or could he?
She let him lead her over to a huge chunk of
whitewashed driftwood near the edge of the sand. With a gentle
hand on her shoulder he pushed her down to a sitting position.
"This is just beginning to get interesting,"
he said as he sat down beside her.
Samantha eyed him rather warily. "What
is?"
"Your views on why a man couldn't possibly
write a romance." His eyes were full of mirth and his mouth kept
twitching as if he was barely able to contain his laughter.
Again Samantha experienced a tiny spurt of
doubt. She gazed at him hesitantly. "You really are a writer?"
"I really am a writer," he assured her. "And
I make a very good living at it."
"A fiction writer?"
"A fiction writer. Now if you don't mind,
pray tell me why you think a man couldn't possibly write one of
your precious romances."
Samantha breathed a sigh of relief. At least
this time he wasn't insisting he was Cathryn James! "Well--" a
thoughtful frown creased her forehead for a moment "--for one
thing, I just can't see a man being able to get into the head of a
woman the way another woman could."
"Cathryn James writes from a dual point of
view, if you recall. The hero's thoughts and feelings are just as
much in evidence as the heroine's."
Samantha's eyes flickered away from his
steady gaze and she shifted uneasily. "Yes, that's true, but . . ."
She stopped, not sure she wanted to go ahead with what she'd been
about to say.
"But what?"
Jason lifted one of her hands from her thigh
and began to lightly trace a pattern in the palm of her hand.
Her breath caught in her throat. His touch
sent a wild swirl of emotion rushing through her. She was
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