"Improper English" - читать интересную книгу автора (MacAlister Katie)

“It’s vivid, isn’t it?”

“Well. . .”

“Do you like the imagery? I tried to make it colorful.” I reached for the teapot and felt its round little brown belly. It was cold. Rats. I hoisted myself off the floor pillow and padded barefoot over to the cubbyhole that passed for a kitchen.

“Yes, it’s colorful...”

“And you’ll notice I have them in bed in the first chapter. Sex sells, you know, and I’ve started things off with a bang. Ha! A bang! Get it?” I snorted to myself as I checked the water in the kettle and plugged it in.

“Erm . . .”

“Heh. So what do you think? Do you think it’s good?” I marched back and stood in front of the vision lounging on the wicker chaise. Isabella bit her bottom lip and looked vaguely uncomfortable, despite being in possession of the most comfortable piece of furniture in the flat. “Alix ...”

“Yes?”

“It’s dreadful.”

I frowned at my critic. Dreadful? My story? “Surely it’s not that bad?”

Isabella grimaced and waved a rose-tipped, slender hand at me in a vague fashion as if she were swatting an unimportant gnat. “I’m sorry, darling, it is. It’s perfectly dreadful. Terrible. Trite, in fact, and almost sickeningly brutal.”

“Brutal? It’s not brutal, it’s erotic! There’s a difference.”

She shook her head at my protest, her hair a shimmering curtain of silver-blond that aroused the fiercest envy in my brunette-headed heart, and eased herself into a sitting position. She tapped at the stack of manuscript pages sitting on the small wicker end table at her elbow. “This isn’t erotic, it’s tantamount to rape. There are no emotions involved in either character, no foreplay, no affection, just a man bent on taking what he can.”

“Oh.” I felt my face fall with my spirits, but immediately began the buoying process. After all, Isabella herself admitted that she didn’t read romances and probably wouldn’t recognize a good one if it came up and bit her on the backside. Still, it was important I get this right on the first try—I didn’t have long to prove myself with it. “You didn’t like Lady Rowena? Or the dashing Lord Raoul? What’s not to like about Raoul?”

“Neither. No, I tell a lie, I liked Rowena. And I suppose Raoul shows promise.” She waved her hand again and gave a little shrug as I hooked my foot around a three-legged stool and pulled it over, carefully lowering myself onto it. I’d had experience with that stool during the ten days I’d been living in the flat, and now approached it with the respect it was due. More than once I had been unwary, only to have it buck me off, resulting in gruesome rug burns from the horribly scratchy polyester burnt-orange carpet.

“Honestly, Alix, it’s not the characters, it’s the writing.”

I sat up straighter and snatched the plate of lemon biscuits from where she was about to snag one. Now this was hitting a little too close to home! “What’s wrong with the writing?”

“Well. . . it’s a bit purple.”

“Purple!”

“Yes, purple. Exaggerated. No one calls a cock a purple-helmeted warrior of love.”

I blushed a little. “Well, I don’t call it... it... you know, either.”

“What?”

“You know. What you called it. The c-word.”

“Cock?”

“Yeah.”