Here's a peek at my work-in-progress, Peak. It'll be heading to my editor soon. It's a contemporary romance with lots of hotness and a swoon-worthy French supermodel, Paul Charbonneau.
"Once they arrived at the Strand, she and Candice exited the car to the snaps of cameras and the guards who ushered and blocked. The crowds were already growing, huddled outside the barriers in little fan groups. She was noticed and there were several who yelled, “Hey, Claire!”
Candice was a good sport and huddled to the side, waiting while Claire modeled for several pictures. Sometimes, she thought she looked like a goof with the supermodel poses, but she’d never been embarrassed when the pictures hit the local mags and papers. It didn’t hurt that she was toned from her bares arms to her long legs. She did a couple of the ingénue over-the-shoulder looks so everyone got to see her exposed back.
Just as quickly as she’d gotten attention, it was taken away.
There were screams from the crowd, young girls in love with a male supermodel. Chants of “Paul. Paul. Paul.” started. Then an “I love you, Paul,” rang out. She understood exactly why the Charbonneau’s inspired such fierce fangirling.
Claire could only see a hand waving above the crowds about him.
“Let’s find the loo, Candi.” They presented their tickets and entered the building.
“You look fine.”
“I need to look great.”
“Go on then. I’ll find where we are supposed to sit. And where the shopping rooms are.”
Claire gripped her clutch and strolled down the hallway, seeing a few faces she knew. By name only. Others experienced the same sensation when looking at her. A few people just smiled and said, “Hi, Claire.” One held out a program and asked for her autograph.
One of the strangest sensations of quasi-fame was peoples’ reaction to her. She climbed mountains for a living, how did that qualify her to give an opinion on the Royals, Cadbury Eggs or Outlander? After all, Cadbury Eggs were not in her diet and never had been. Did that make her a bad Brit? And she wasn’t into addictions, which is why she rarely binged anything, even if it meant watching a hot redhead with a sexy Scottish burr. Politics? Windsor intrigue? It was hard to resist the Daily Mail headlines, but who in their right mind would want their life?
Claire stood in front of the bathroom mirror again—in one day, had she ever looked at herself so many times? Suitable was the only word that came to mind, and probably accurate, considering the most beautiful people in the world were gathering for the show.
She left the room, head down and digging in her clutch, when she ran into a well-dressed man.
“Oh!” she said, looking up at him. “David?” she said, the smile on her face genuine, the churn in her stomach frightening and the urge “to jump his bones” very real. Magnetism was such an undefinable thing, but the pull of attraction surged through every fiber and hair of her body. His eyes sparkled as their gazes locked.
Good God, was there anyone in the world better looking?
His hand gripped lightly on her upper arm. Had he saved her from a fall? A head-over-heels fall?
“Oui,” he said in French. Probably a reflex. And probably laughing at her since he was so unmistakable.
“I’m Claire Allen. The climber.”
Was there a more perfect head of jet black, wavy hair? She was susceptible to his intrinsic allure and thought she might be leaning toward him.
He smiled. She turned to liquid. “I know who you are,” he said."