I’m thrilled that the authors in the Curved Lines box set enjoyed a great release week. We hit bestseller lists on All Romance, Amazon, B&N, and Kobo, and gained a few fans. If you got the set, thanks so much. Hope you enjoy all the stories. I had a wonderful time taking part in the release and hanging with this great group of ladies.
That said, it’s your LAST CHANCE to get the set for 99 cents. It’s a limited time set as it is, but after August 14 the price goes up, and it won’t go down again. You can’t beat the price, so don’t hesitate.
I’ve received some nice reviews for Finish What You Started, which is a bestseller at All Romance, too. The good buzz has boosted me considerably and I’m determined to finish the second book in this trilogy by the end of Fall. Drive My Car will continue the story of Hollywood heartaches and hopes, and I have a small teaser to get you interested.
Drive My Car will tell Steffi’s story. She’s kind of the villain in the first book, but she’s not a bad person. Just misunderstood, and down on her luck…as you’ll see:
Drive My Car by Kathryn Lively
“Ms. Corden, your car is here,” he announced and offered her his arm. He tried to block the cameras’ view, pivoting when they turned, and it worked for a few seconds. His appearance seemed to bring some calm to the situation, even to Steffi, who paused in the middle of a stream of four-letter words to regard him.
“Who are you?”
Really? We spoke five minutes ago. I broke two seat filler commandments. We kissed on live television, for crying out loud. He straightened his posture and tried to look authoritative. A quick glance toward the curb showed him a few limousines ready for pickup. Surely they all led to the same party. If he could get her into one heading in that direction maybe a well-meaning friend would spot her and take over. Those parties were private, so she’d have the space to rant and drink herself silly without judgement.
“I’m here to escort you to your car, Ms. Corden.” She’d ignored his gesture, so he gently slipped his hand under her arm and took a step onto the carpeted path. “If you will come with me—”
“I don’t want to go.” Steffi sounded like a little girl, whiny and petulant. “I can’t show my face anywhere else. They’ll all laugh at me.”
“Ms. Corden, nobody is laughing at you. Your fans are here for support.” Big mistake in looking out to the crowd. Hands held phones high, weaving and waving among a sea of raised arms. Voices taunted Steffi about Gabby, and some catcalled for her to show off her assets. Unfortunately, he couldn’t block sound with his body and Steffi leaned past him to shout back.
“I don’t need Dash Gregory! I don’t need anybody! I can get my own damn car.”
She shoved past him and stomped up the carpet. The media folks surrounding Barry recorded her exit, and somebody within his earshot snickered.
“She’ll never do lunch in this town again,” one quipped.
“Looks like she’s about to lose her lunch,” came a response.
Barry sweltered in his rented suit. It was just after eight, but still light out and probably in the low eighties, if the temperature hadn’t changed from the afternoon. He wanted nothing more than to get out of touristy Hollywood and into his shower to scrub off this awful experience. Yet, for some reason, he thought of his friend Mags and the smile of relief on her face when he’d agreed to this gig. He’d saved her bacon, so she said, and despite all the crap he endured this evening he knew he’d look back one day and feel good for helping a friend in need.
He’d probably never encounter Steffi Corden again, and she didn’t know him from any of the bystanders heckling her now. Still, what Catholic guilt remaining in his head and heart nagged at him to take action before the actress did something completely unforgiveable like, as somebody near him implied, vomit in full view of the public.
He started up the carpet, but Steffi had a solid lead on him. Ahead, a man in full livery stood by an open back passenger door of a purring limo, glancing at Steffi as if unsure of whether or not to let her slide in. For all Barry knew, the car was reserved for the head of a network or the acting guild, but Steffi surprised them both by wrenching the front door open and diving in headfirst.
“Miss!” called the driver. “You’re not supposed to—”
The miss shouted a garbled curse and Barry caught a flash of middle finger. Seconds later the car lurched forward a few inches and, with both right-side doors still ajar, pulled away from the curb.
“Oh, holy crap,” Barry muttered.
While I’m working on that, I’ve finished another manuscript to be called If You Want It. I need to polish it up and get it ready to submit. It begins again…wish me luck!