The annual Historical Romance Writers of the World convention in New York City is calling to Jacqueline Kirby, a Nebraska librarian who desperately desires some excitement. But all is not love and kisses at this august gathering of starry ' eyed eccentrics and sentimental scribes. As far as Jacqueline is concerned, the sudden ' natural ' death of a gossip columnist seems anything but. And when she ' s approached by a popular genre star who fears for her own life, the resourceful Ms. Kirby quickly goes back to work ' as a sleuth. Because there ' s a sinister scenario being penned at this purple prose congregation. And when jealousy and passion are given free rein beyond the boundaries of the printed page, the result can be murder.
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1 . Best living author
Posted November 20, 2009 by Diana , San DiegoThis is the best living author I have read. all her books are delightful. I hate romances. I dislike gothic romances. Yet she weaves both into a modern day setting and they are really fun and entertaining.
No mushy stuff, no weird relationships. Just a slight hint of romance with a heavy dose of mystery and clever plot.
January 08, 2002
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Excerpt from Die for Love by Elizabeth Peters
"When Blaze awoke she found herself lying on a silken soft surface amid the seductive scent of strange perfumes. A cool night breeze -- the air of the desert, exotic and amorous -- stroked her naked flesh. Naked? A soft cry escaped her voluptuous lips as she realized the truth. Where were her clothes? What unknown hands had stripped them from her helpless body? Where was she?
"Lamps carved of alabaster gave enough light to answer the last question. Overhead a silken canopy shielded her from the night sky, a patch of which, glittering with stars, was visible through the open flap of the tent. Scarcely had she realized this when the stars were blotted out by a dark form. Stooping, he entered the tent, and Blaze's white hands fluttered, trying in vain to conceal her softness. It was the Arab who had stared at her so boldly in the bazaar. Intense blue eyes studied her over the folds of the kaffiyeh that hid the lower part of his face. 'You are no Arab,' Blaze gasped. 'I know those eyes -- you are -- you are --'
" 'Your husband.' The kaffiyeh fell away; it was indeed the face of Lance, Earl of Deptford, his chiseled lips curved in a mocking smile. 'Come to claim the rights you have so long denied me, my love. The disguise disturbs you? Off with it, then.' And he flung the robe aside.
"Blaze's eyes moved from the bronzed chest, seamed with the white scars of a hundred duels, to the narrow waist and flat, muscled abdomen, down to..."
Jacqueline's eyes bulged. "My God," she said aloud. "It's The Lusful Turk."
Jacqueline looked up from the pages of Slave of Lust. The stewardess stood beside her, trying to read over her shoulder. Obligingly she held the book up so the girl could see better.
The young woman's eyes lit up. "It's the new Valerie Vanderbilt! I haven't read that one yet. But I just love her books, don't you?"
Jacqueline inspected the cover of the paperback. Blaze ("the streak of silver in the midnight blackness of her flowing locks had given her her name") reclined on silken coverlets, her softness discreetly veiled by the broad bronzed body of the Earl of Deptford. The title and the name of the author were printed in brilliant scarlet letters.
"Valerie Vanderbilt," Jacqueline repeated. "I must admit this is the first of her books I have read."
"She's divine." The stewardess sighed voluptuously. "They say she's really a countess or something, but she doesn't use her title because her noble family has disowned her on account of she's had so many love affairs. This one is about a Turk?"
"You misunderstood my reference," said Jacqueline. She glanced at the cart, with its rows of bottles and glasses, whose progress along the aisle of the plane had been interrupted by the stewardess's literary interests. "Are you by any chance selling drinks? I'll have Scotch. No. I'll have a double."