A Prologue to Seduction (The Scarlet Diaries #1) Read online

  CONTENTS

  Title Page

  Copywrite

  Excerpt

  August 10th

  One - August 10, 10:32 am

  Two - August 10, 10:47 am

  Three - August 10, 10:59 am

  Four - August 10, 11:22 am

  Five - August 10, 11:41 am

  Six - August 10, 12:09 pm

  Seven - August 10, 12:49 pm

  Eight - September 6, 1:27 pm

  Coming Soon

  Copyright © 2014 by Rowan Wells.

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law.

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance of actual persons—living or dead—or to events or locales is entirely coincidental.

  A challenge she can’t ignore…

  “Oh, my god,” I shrieked, reaching for the stall door to make a run for the exit. He leaned against it again, trapping me inside. Shocked by his nerve, I had to break my vow of silence. “What are you, a pervert?”

  “Says the girl who came to the men’s toilets for a—”

  “Moment of peace and quiet! To read! That’s all!”

  “And as I said, don’t let me get in the way. You’re free to carry on with your so-called reading.”

  “Assuming I was doing what you think I was doing, I’d need my book back. Give it to me.”

  I caught a glimpse of his fingers toying with the edge of the pages of Chained Love, as if he was caught in the middle of an internal debate and didn’t know yet which choice he’d make. And then he paused mid-flip to run one finger across the lines printed on the page.

  “I have an idea,” he drawled. “Maybe we could help each other out.”

  Losing my v-card sounded great, but even a desperate virgin had her limits. “I’m not doing a stranger in a public restroom.”

  “That’s not exactly what I had in mind. The popularity of this book is relevant to my completely legitimate, non-prurient interests. It’s well known that the vast majority of video and photographic pornography is aimed to please the male gaze. That women turn to other mediums of erotic entertainment is no surprise to me,” he said, “but I do wonder if women use these books the same way men use pornography.”

  “I’m sorry, what?”

  “For self-gratification. As in, do women use books like these because they need something to read, or because they need to get off?” He paused, and so did my heartbeat, but I was still unprepared for what he said next.

  “Maybe you can help me figure this out, and I can help you come.”

  August 10th

  When your parents name you Magdalena Grace Conway, there seems to be only one path in life: twelve years of Catholic school, marriage before sex, and perfect kids living in a perfect slice of suburbia, bound by a perfect white picket fence. And for so many years, I bought the dream my parents were selling me—until my parents couldn’t even sell it to themselves anymore. Just before graduating from college, my father lost the big corporate job that made our comfortable life possible and my mother worked double time turning her writing hobby into a career while we downsized our life. Gone was the suburban McMansion. We moved into an apartment that didn’t have a fence, much less a white picket one. The check my folks cut to pay my last tuition bill for college emptied the bank account for an entire week before Mom’s next royalty check came in.

  Somewhere, in all the sacrificing, I began to question the path my parents set out for me. Suddenly, the real world seemed far scarier than my parents told me, like a nasty place where even the people who did all the right things ended up struggling to keep themselves out of the gutter. Eventually, Mom pushed enough pages to keep enough food in the fridge and a modest roof over our head. But it wasn’t enough when the law school bills came in.

  When your parents name you Magdalena Grace Conway, you can’t exactly change your name to Jezebel Cox and star in porn to pay your way through law school.

  But maybe you can start writing it.

  This is how I got started.

  ONE

  August 10, 10:32 am

  “Pick up the pace, Magdalena,” Mom said as she burst past a geriatric in a motorized scooter zipping down the convention center hallway. “Oh, how on earth could we be so late? We only have thirty minutes to find our table and get set up. How could this day be any more of a disaster?”

  The old woman hit the breaks just in time to avoid the wagon of posters, bookmarks and other trinkets Mom wheeled behind her and scowled at us. Lost in her own emergency, Mom barreled forward while I had the misfortune of meeting the woman’s beady gaze. She squinted to see me through her cataracts but quickly lost interest in favor of glaring at Mom.

  “Disaster?” the old woman muttered. “I’ll show you disaster.”

  The lady motioned as if she was revving up her scooter, so I pushed my cart, stacked high with boxes of Mom’s books, between the old woman and my mother’s swiftly retreating back.

  “Sorry,” I said to her with a smile. She didn’t return the gesture, and instead blinked at me like she had completely forgotten I was here.

  Which was probably true. Girls without curves for days or a face cut like a model tended to fade into the background. Girls like me faded away especially when they had mothers who blazed through life in a whirlwind of pink, smelling like Mary Kay perfume, and flashing an orthodontically-enhanced smile the size of Texas. Heck, not even little old ladies remembered my existence. Talk about sad.

  Sucking back my ire, I plucked one of Mom’s books from the stack and dropped it into the scooter’s basket. There, that should calm her down. Who doesn’t like free stuff? “It’s on the house.”

  “On the house?” Using only the tips of her fingers, the woman plucked Mom’s book out of the basket as if it were covered in herpes. (Grace in Your Arms, with the words “A New York Times Best Seller” printed on the cover even larger than Mom’s name.) “Mary Conway? Who the hell is that?”

  Did she really have to say that so loudly? Yes, actually, if the hearing aid half-sticking out of her ear was any indication, but I cringed all the same. The woman’s words carried far enough to slap Mom across the face and bring her to an abrupt halt. Mom doubled back to stand at my side, wearing a dazzling smile that only I, as her daughter, knew wasn’t real.

  “Who is Mary Conway?” she said. “Why, that’s me, darling!”

  “I’m not your darling, darling,” the woman said, showing her dentures.

  “No offense meant, sweetie. I’m from the south, where everyone without two balls and a chain is a darling,” Mom replied as she laughed. The old woman harrumphed. “Mary Conway, U.S. Today and New York Times bestselling author, also a RITA nominee and an INDIE award winner. That book right there—Grace in Your Arms—was on the bestseller list for two weeks straight. I promise you’re in for a real treat! Magdalena, a pen.”

  Mom kept a Sharpie in her purse for just these moments—well, maybe not these moments, but the ones where actual fans recognized her. I dug it out of her purse and handed it to her. Mom took the book from the old woman and scribbled her name across the cover. The old woman took the book back even more hesitantly than before.

  “Happy reading!” Mom chirped and began her decent to the sales floor once aga
in.

  Thankfully, she was too far away this time to hear the woman mutter, “There better be sex in this.”

  Then she swerved around my cart and zipped down the hall. If she came to the convention looking for books crammed with sex, little miss scooter was in for a big disappointment. She wouldn’t be stopping by Mom’s table to buy any books today once she cracked open the cover and saw just what category my mom got those nominations and awards for.

  Then again, if we weren’t set up by the time the selling floor doors opened, we wouldn’t be able to sell to anyone. The Royal Blush Romance Book Convention was one of the largest in the nation, and its high level of attendance mandated certain traits from the authors who attended, one of those traits being punctuality. How inconvenient it was for Mom and I, then, that punctuality was one of those boxes God forgot to check when making my mother. We’d been coming to the convention for four years straight, and each year Mom’s makeup or her hair or a misplaced pink stiletto got in the way of us arriving on time.

  This year, it was something as mundane as the car keys. Like how I prevented a scooter versus stiletto collision, my sole purpose on these convention trips were to make sure Mom actually made them and when she did, that she stayed on track. That’s right, I’m a glorified personal assistant. Blame me for not foreseeing that she’d put her keys inside the cooking pot in our extended stay hotel “for safe keeping” in case, you know, the help decided car theft from their place of work was a more lucrative business than dumping waste baskets and cleaning toilets.

  That’s my mom. While other people had mothers who worked regular nine to five jobs, mine gallivanted across the country hawking books.

  Mom breezed through the ballroom’s double doors. Even as her heels clattered against the cement sales floor in a frenzied pitch, Mom kept her head high and a perfect smile on her face while waving her fingers and winking at everyone she passed. This was the part I hated most about the convention—not the plane rides, the bevy of greasy fast food and the long, boisterous lines at the convention centers, but the showboating.

  Don’t think that the romance writing business is all roses and rainbows and, well, love. It’s cutthroat. Competition to make it to make it to the top is fierce. Only a few people make a real living off their books, something Mom had been able to do in the past year. Something Mom was sure to make sure everyone else knew.

  “Gina, love, you look fabulous! Did you lose weight? Love your new book, Felicity. When are we having lunch? Oh, my goodness Olivia you’re finally putting out a new book! I’m so glad you got over that pesky writer’s block—not that I know what its like, and I hope I never do! All the best for your release. I’ll send my daughter around to get a few copies—”

  “Mom,” I said, finally, drawing to a stop. I leaned against the boxes, huffing, and used my t-shirt to wipe away the sweat at my brow. Mom pursed her lips, though I couldn’t tell if it was at my clothes in general, or from the fact I used my clothes to clean my face. When you had to haul tens of pounds of books and promotional gear through a convention center, comfort took priority over looking cute, especially since only women came to these romance conventions anyway. Besides, it wasn’t my name on the cover. Why did I need to be in a pink power suit dress? “You can say hello to all your writer friends later. If we don’t set up soon, we’re going to be in big trouble.”

  “As if I don’t know that, Magdalena. I’m trying to find it but—”

  “We’ve already been down this aisle. Your table isn’t here.”

  Mom spun around. We stood in the thick of the section where we always set up, right in the heart of the inspirational romance section. Her success this year gave Mom reason to reserve one of the larger tables, but they were all full. Not even the smaller ones in this section had a vacancy. For the first time since arriving at the convention hall, I saw a bit of Mom’s smile slip.

  “Well, Magdalena, I’d say you’re right. There must be some mistake. I mean…” Mom paused to move closer to me. “How on earth could Olivia Benedict command one of the premiere tables? She hasn’t put anything out in three years! You, over there!”

  A wide-eyed convention worker coming up the aisle froze in place.

  “I’m sorry, but I think your people made a boo-boo. Be a dear and tell me which of these tables is mine.” Mom waited, tapping one toe as the worker flipped through her clipboard to find a floor map. “I’d hate to have to get one of these ladies uprooted but it’s critical that I get the right table, you see.”

  “I’m pleased to say you won’t have to uproot anyone,” the worker chirped. “Your table isn’t on this aisle. I’ll take you right to it, Mrs. Conway.”

  Those eight words were probably the best thing Mom heard all day. She clasped her hands together and gasped. “Oh, heavens. You know who I am?”

  “Of course! I have all of your books. Mary, Mary is my favorite!”

  The two were so busy gabbing about Mom’s books that Mom missed what I saw. The convention worker lead us from the inspirational section, past the contemporary books, through the historical romances, and towards real estate that grew more and more unlike anything Mom would even dream of writing. Romantic suspense was too violent for her. Those paranormal shifter books were just too close to bestiality for her liking. But no matter how deep in conversation she was with a fan, nothing could keep her from noticing what was on the banners of the tables surrounding the one the worker led us to.

  The three B’s of book covers, as I liked to call them—boobs, butts and bare-chested men. Most books aimed at women focus on one other the other, or if the book is daring, all three at once. Unfortunately for Mom’s delicate sensibilities, we stood firmly in the territory where all of the three B’s could be seen on the face of most books. That’s right, lady’s and gentlemen. My southern Baptist queen of inspirational romance found herself deep in the dirty, oily trenches of the erotica badlands.

  TWO

  August 10, 10:47 am

  Mom jerked to a halt at the end of the aisle as if someone had dribbled a line of salt across the way to keep people like her out. One hand reached out to cover my eyes, but I slapped it away and turned…so that she couldn’t see me ogle a table advertising a series on the lives of male hookers.

  Not that I’m interested in male hookers or the wonderful little gifts they might leave behind, but I don’t exactly get to see a lot of chests like those while sitting in a pew on Sundays or in class, which was the sum of my life at the moment. And that probably explained the steadily growing heat throbbing in quick waves between my legs. I stood still, hoping that I could find cooler thoughts to prevail over my neglected hormonal needs.

  (That’s the problem with being a nineteen-year-old virgin—the smallest thing gets you hot, like freaking book covers of faceless, bare torsos. But my woeful love life, or lack of one, is a tale best left for pages in this diary that are not about my mother.)

  So, back to my mother. She was clearly not thrilled by this development. The poor convention worker wilted under her inferno-like glare as Mom demanded, “What is the meaning of this?”

  “Y-your registration came in late,” the girl stuttered, “so this is the only place where we could put you.”

  “The only place? I hardly believe that’s true. I swear, Royal Blush is going to hell in a hand basket. When I first started coming here, you didn’t even allow these erotica people onto the selling floor. Now you’re giving them an entire section?”

  “Hey!” a rotund woman down the way shouted. “Those people can hear you, you know!” The woman rested her arms on her books and leaned onto the table, craning her head to glare at us. Her weight on the table rustled a banner draped there. On it, a pair of handcuffs completed the double o’s in the name emblazoned on her banner—Kat Boots.

  Wait. Was she the Kat Boots? I schooled my face, hoping Mom hadn’t seen the flash of recognition cross it. Then again, even she must know the woman who made millions writing erotica. Who didn’t? Kat Boots c
ommanded headlines in papers around the nation when she released a new book. There was a movie in the works based on her infamous Chained series, starring two hot Hollywood stars.

  Mom was going to try her hardest to do pretend as if she didn’t know that she was in the presence of a modern literary powerhouse, though. She cleared her throat and trained her eyes towards the ceiling. “I’m sorry, darling,” she said to the convention worker, “but you need to call someone to rectify this immediately. My readers wouldn’t dare set foot in this territory. I won’t sell a thing over here.”

  “Mom, please.” I lugged one box from the cart and dropped it onto the table. “The doors are going to open in five minutes. We really don’t have time for this. And look at it this way—you’re at the end of the row. Your readers can come to see you without having to go past the other tables.”

  “But—”

  “And I can hand out some book marks in the inspirational romance section to let the attendees know where your table is.”

  By then, I’d unloaded a pile of book onto the table and moved on to unraveling her banner across the table. Love: It’s all in God’s Hands, it reading curling pink text, right next to a photo of Mom’s face. And just like magic, the tension melted from her shoulders and a bit of truth returned to her smile.

  “Would you like to help us set up?” Mom said to the worker. “I’ll get you all the free books you want, darling.”

  “No need! It would be my pleasure,” the worker gushed.

  Mom shoved a box of bookmarks at me. “Go hand these out, Magdalena. I want you at the inspirational romance section, but put some on these tables here. Some of the ladies might be in need of the good word.”

  Most of them were looking at us with the kind of heat that told me exactly where they wanted to stick Mom’s words, but I kept that little observation to myself.