Here's an excerpt from this humorous cozy mystery about a 63-year-old erotic romance writer who goes to the Las Vegas Adult Entertainment Expo where her agent is killed:
I needed my husband’s assistance with the corset. He had to truss me up like Scarlett O’Hara had been when her maid helped her get dressed for her rendezvous with Ashley Wilkes. After many attempts, my husband finally found my sweet spot: I looked half-way decent and could still breathe. I put on a wide velvet collar that had a large ring dangling from it. It was the first time my husband had ever seen it and he asked, “What do you do with the ring?”
“You attach a leash and take me for a walk.”
“Sorry, hon. No can do.”
I rolled my eyes at him and said, “You don’t have to do it. I was just joking.”
“I’m not a big fan of all this sadomasochism stuff.”
“Neither am I, honey; but it’s what everyone wants to read."
With that, I grabbed a pile of my books and headed out to the convention. My hubby escorted me there; and after kissing me goodbye said, “Good luck. I hope you sell lots of books! And be careful with those horny fans of yours! If anyone gives you any trouble, call me!”
“Thanks, honey,” I answered and kissed him on the cheek.
“Be careful,” he reminded me again.
“I promise I’ll be. Don’t forget to feed the cat,” I told him and opened the door, took a deep breath, and prepared myself for the surreal world of the Vegas Adult Entertainment Expo.
Before I started feeling too above-it-all and self-righteous, I had to remind myself that I was a player in this circus. Peddling my X-rated romance novels, I was part of the Sex Industry. Let’s face it—I sold smut, I told myself.
Do you want to know what happens when
her agent is killed at the Expo?
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