Welcome to the crazy world of bestselling New York City author Maggie Kelly. . .brought to you by New York Times bestselling author Kasey Michaels. . .

Kelly's Law #1: Just when things seem to be settling down, the other shoe drops. . .with a vengeance. In this case, it's more like a boot--a Regency-era riding boot belonging to Alexandre Blake, Viscount Saint Just, hero of the bestsellers I write. And the man who's been throwing gold-filigree monkey wrenches into my life for the past three months. When he defied all laws of time, space, and--let's face it--reality by walking out of my dreams and into my living room, I figured there must be a way to get him back home to the corner of my fevered imagination from which he'd escaped. Okay, so I was wrong. The thing is, I'm kind of getting used to having him around. Alex Blakely, as Saint Just now calls himself, isn't exactly hard on the eyes, and he's chock full of editorial suggestions. Not that I need them. Much.

Kelly's Law #2: All's fair in love and WAR. WAR being We Are Romance, the country's largest romance writer's group. Despite the fact that the WAR-riors unofficially booted me from their little club a while back, I'm still technically a member, which is how I got the invitation to their Manhattan conference. How Alex convinced me to go--and take him along--is another story. I just knew it would be a bad thing. Bad for my blood pressure. . .and very bad for my budding flirtation with Lieutenant Steve Wendell--he of the shaggy hair and the NYPD--who's been suspicious of my relationship with Alex from the get-go. Of course, there's nothing to be suspicious about. . .yet. But my publisher and my agent are attending the conference. Plus, complimentary cocktails! When will I learn there's no such thing as a free drink?

Kelly's Law #3: That thing sticking in your back that looks like a knife? If you're at a writer's conference. . .it probably is. The best part of WAR thus far has been witnessing Alex being mistaken for a cover model competition contestant. The worst part? Take your pick: Conniving colleagues. Over-ambitious wannabe writers. Homicidal maniacs. First, a shaved chest is permanently retired when one of the cover hunks turns up dead. Then, the publisher of the country's leading romance book review rag is offed in the elevator. Now, Alex is on the case. And so is Steve. And so am I. Killers to the left of me, hacks to the right, here I am. . .stuck in the middle without a clue. Looks like I picked the wrong week to quit smoking. . .again.