Dear Miss Snark,
I am the author of Her Uptown Man, a 100,000-word contemporary romance that I hope provokes your interest.
Gabrielle Sullivan is the accidental investment banker. She doesn’t possess a milligram of killer instinct and she can’t smooth-talk clients without blushing. Never mind, because in this high-rolling industry, even a low flyer makes a comfortable living. But when her job is restructured out of existence and her faithless boyfriend absconds with her virginity (ebay!) and trust in men, Gaby’s ordered world disintegrates. Finances dwindling, the desperate woman resorts to deception to get hired as secretary to America’s toughest CEO, aka America’s sexiest CEO. Yet despite his deserved Casanova reputation, this jaded alpha male with a fear of gold-diggers is vulnerably lonely. When a straitlaced Gaby battles virile Morgan, animosity explodes into earthy passion. Until his scheming ex-lover uncovers Gaby’s deception. (she's really a man!)
Thank you for your time and I hope we can take this further.
Ah yes, those one word signifiers for character: virile Morgan, straitlaced Gaby. Miss Snark prefers at least two adjectives: tammed and leashed Killer Yapp; hot and hunky Mr. Clooney; drunk and disorderly Mr. Gibson. That way she knows what to think about people without wasting any time actually watching what they say or do. Saves a lot of time. Efficient and organized Miss Snark.
An ominous sign that, the door to his spacious office thrown open.
Once inside, Clare Prescott scanned futilely. “Where is she?” But no mistake, during her two-minute dash to the restroom, he’d dispensed with the remaining prospect on the shortlist.
At her plaintive bleat, the black leather chair swung round for its occupant to observe her rather than the rain pounding the floor-to-ceiling windows. One corner of his mouth lifted mockingly. “She was eager to tell me: one, I remind her of Keanu Reeves except that I’m ... even better looking, and two, she’s unmarried.” The black humor shot off his face as his palm hit the table. (was he trying to retrieve the black humor?) “I’m after a secretary, not a wife. Even if the woman is as irresistible as Amanda Chevalier thinks she is.”
The scene played out in Clare’s mind. Amanda edging gingerly into that antiquated, straight-backed chair with the curved arms--the one he reserved for his hapless interviewees--and mouthing the toxic words that made it irrelevant whether he resembled King Kong or Mr. Reeves. He to his feet in fluid motion and escorting her to the door without apology, despite her first-class credentials. After a decade with him, Clare knew he gave one chance; if you blew it, it was adieu. But he would always give you that chance.
“Shall I ask the agency for a new shortlist? A more promising one, of course,” she said even though his answer was a given.
His face contorted, and then the direction of his gaze shifted. (His poor face, shooting, now contorting. He'll be getting his own reality tv show soon: Nip and Tuck-The Apprentice Years)
“Darling, you ready to leave?”
Clare swiveled her head. (why do I hear theme music here that sounds oddly like...tubular bells?) The woman framed by the door had one languid arm leaning against the hinge; other hand, slender fingers outstretched, braced against the deep curve of her narrow waist. Her blood-red, Cupid’s bow lips fashioned a Marilyn Monroe pout and her green, sloe-shaped eyes smoldered at Clare, or rather, at the man seated behind Clare.
She remembered when that fashion magazine appeared on his desk. Its cover featured Supermodel Shirley Maxwell on a confident strut down the catwalk; the front-V of her halter neck plunged to below her naval (ahoy indeed) and a minuscule piece of dark-colored lace clung to her narrow hips. Her figure, even a woman couldn’t fault. Her face, Clare didn’t consider capable of launching any warships, only fistfights between silly men, but maybe that was the bitch in her speaking. After all, Shirley’s torrid affair with America’s sexiest CEO had been raging for a year. Clare prayed they wouldn’t stay an item much longer.
As she turned to leave, he called out, “Get another agency. Tell them to hit me with their two best candidates, and I have better like one of them.”
Shirley waited until they were alone before flattening both palms on his desk and leaning to kiss him lingeringly on the lips. Finally, she straightened to perch on the edge of the writing surface. “What was that about?”
His fingers rubbed rhythmically against his temples. “Her successor. The last candidate thought this place was a marriage mart.”
Her eyes narrowed. “Some women have no shame. Surely they have to look only at Clare to get the message.”
She colored as his eyebrow arched. However, all he said was, “The right person is proving elusive to find, but there’s nothing I can do about that tonight. Shall we?”
At six three, he was slightly taller than Shirley was. But unlike her, he was broad shouldered with a muscular, yet deceptively lean build. Surprisingly girlish eyelashes framed a pair of alert gray-blue eyes; their veiled expression signaled his intolerance of intrusion, except intrusion with his rare permission.
There are readers who love this kind of sloe eyed, narrow waisted, naval academic excercise in adjectivity. I am not one of them.
Shirley the Supermodal gets a form rejection.