Cat In A Diamond Dazzle

Chapter Interlude

Ah, Sweet Mystery of Hystery

A laptop computer was such a tidy, nonthreatening machine.

Its small empty screen seemed especially easy to fill This made writing like walking--one step, one word, at a time, and you could see yourself getting somewhere. The reward . . . ah, maybe an award.

Maybe a fat book contract and a river of royalties.

Anybody could write a romance.

The writer lifted poised hands above the keyboard like a musician about to throttle the Lost Chord out of an organs resisting throat--it helped knowing how to type--and glanced at a stack of paperback novels on the hotel desk. The well-thumbed covers curled, making the hero's hands seem to rest audaciously higher than usual on the heroine's bared thighs.

That was the image to keep! All those steamy covers to inspire the all important "sensual scene" that the Loves Leading Amateur contest required as the test of true romance.

Any idiot could write a romance.

As for the historical details, a few could be dropped in later. Details didnt matter, except in the

"sensual scene." The writer paused, then typed two words.

Savage Surrender

The cursor sat blinking just beyond the final "R," a twinkling Tin-kerbell of the keyboard. Did that title have fairy dust? Would it drive the contest judges to their knees? It was alliterative; it had sinuous initial esses, it implied torrid sex.

Now, what about the pseudonym? Every romance writer worth her salt had a catchy pseudonym.

Watch this, cursor!

by Felicity Fever

No. Too phony-sounding. And not "hot" enough, despite the last name. Another name. Something hot-sounding. Hot . . . something, hot...hot...

by Tamale Tower

Naw. Somebody would probably pronounce the first name Ta-mail.

by Tempest Tower

There we go. Nothing to it. Writing these things is so easy it should be prosecutable. Big bucks, here I come!

Okay. Him. Think hunk. Highwaymen are always hot.

It was a bright and moonlit night.

Good start. Classic.

The road was a ribbon of moonlight over the purple moors.

Golly, this is easy. The words come flowing out like red-hot lava. People. Better get the people in there fast.

The

Captain? Too ordinary, too low on the totem pole. The Masked Avenger. The Maroon Mask. Not virile and dangerous enough. The ...Demon of Devonshire. The Demon Dagger of Devonshire. There we go!

The man known as the Demon Dagger of Devonshire drew his

namesake weapon while he waited for the carriage to arrive.

He didn't know which of the two treasures the vehicle carried was the more tempting: the five hundred thousand pounds for the Earl of Eddington's daughter's dowry, or the Earl's adored only daughter herself.

He could hardly wait to get his hands on them both.

An entire itty bitty, teeny weeny screen full, but, hey, War and Peace wasn't written in a day. Maybe we need some sort of detail here. Remember the tip sheets, hero is central.

He lifted his pistol barrel to brush the long, golden hair from his forehead as the wind rippled against his body like the expert fingers of his latest tart. Soon he would be back at the Bow and Bottom. . . Bow and Bum . . . Bow and Arrow. Hell, forget bow. At the Bottle and Bun.

Bottle and Bun with his booty. And perhaps also with his beauty, if he deigned to despoil the lovely wench before shipping her back to her dastardly dad . . . father.

Long had the man known only as the Demon Dagger of Devonshire waited for this moment of revenge on the wicked Baron who had ruined all his relatives, turned the family estate into a sheep farm and stolen their famous and fabulous jewel, the

Pigeons-blood . . . naw, too ordinary.

Peacock's-blood Blue Diamond of the Punjab!

Getting the hang of it, excuse the expression, Mr. Demon Dagger, you. Oops, that's right, mention danger, always sexy. Something like: If the Crown captured the Demon Dagger of Devonshire, his long, trademark tresses should serve as his hangman's noose.

Huh? What does this mean? Dunno. Sounds good. Nobody reads these things for sense, anyway.

But the beautiful

Oh, boy. Beautiful. . . Hazel. Sounds like a witch. Ariania. There we go, just a bunch of vowels and a couple consonants. Good thing Ive pounded out a few good lines in my day job.

Ariania was worth the price.

Dagger reined his coal-black steed to a stop in front of the carriage.

"Stop!" he shouted at the shrouded coachman, waving his Pistol? Were they used then? Just when is this? Horses, highwaymen. Somewhere in the seventeenth or eighteenth century, I guess. Check it later. Besides, this guy is Mack the Knife in a pony tail.

waving his long, silver dagger in the moonlight.

Great! And that big knife is a phallic symbol, too. What a genius. I should have done this years ago.

Don t forget about that moonlight. Terrific detail.

"John, what is it?" trilled a melodious female voice.

The coachman huddled in his cloak, saying nothing.

That's the kind of minor character I like. Minds his own business and stays out of the way.

The Dagger nudged his powerful steed toward the coach

What the hell does a coach have, a door? Door will have to do.

door. The fair Airiania . . . Araniana

What the hell was that stupid name?

Araniana shook her long, coal-black hair as she pushed her head through the window in the door of the coach.

"Who are you?" she quavered, her eyes glistening in the moonlight as she gazed up at the tall, dark figure on the huge black horse with the long, flowing golden mane.

"You will never know my name," he spat in the dark. "But you will come to know me well. Where are the jewels?"

Yeah, where are they?