An Irresistible Bachelor (2 page)

At the time I was writing
Bachelor
, I was still pretty much seat-of-the-pantsing it when it came to the drafting. I had developed only a rather loose outline for the book and, as usual, handling the conflict between the hero and heroine was my big weakness. Naturally, when I got toward the last quarter of the story, I realized that I didn't really have much of a dark moment. Which is like buying a pair of jeans that doesn't have any material where the seat is: In romance novels, the standard rhythm is two people meet, they fall in love, BANG! something drives them apart . . . and then they come together at the end for their happily-ever-after.

I had no BANG! in this book.

Enter my first stab at “credible surprise.”

One of the things I think good writers do is they create shock points in books—things that are seemingly out of the blue, but ultimately make you think, Well, hell, I should have seen
that
coming. I mean, that's life, isn't it. How many times have you been going about your merry business when suddenly something happens and you're like WTF! Except then as you go back and look at what led up to it all, you realize the event or the conversation or the reversal of fortune (for good or bad) was inevitable.

For a credible surprise to work, it absolutely must be believable in the context of the world you've created. Set your book in the Adirondacks and have a massive L.A.-style earthquake wipe out a town: Surprise? Yes. Credible? Ah . . . not so much. Assuming you're not in a paranormal world with some bad guy who's got a really powerful wand up his or her sleeve.

When it came to
Bachelor
, I can remember feeling really stumped at the big, fat nothing I'd whipped up. For Jack to go against what he'd promised Callie (namely that he wouldn't make up his mind about his candidacy before she decided if she could trust him fully with her secret) would be totally unheroic. So he couldn't be the one to blow the whistle. And his close friend Gray Bennett was set to be a hero in a future book (assuming I ever got published again). Callie would never say a word. . . . What the hell was I going to do?

At this point in my career, I was still trying to “think up” books, i.e., I was trying to manufacture specific endings and force characters into places I thought they should go (as opposed to just letting them do what they're going to do and getting out of the way). (P.S. I've had much better luck NOT thinking.) Eventually, however, it dawned on me: Jack's mother, the evil witch, could blow them apart. Perfect! The first credible surprise I ever tried. Not a big one, granted. But her announcing his candidacy before he was ready was exactly the kind of obstacle that Jack and Callie's story needed. Was it believable? Yes. Did it come out of nowhere? Well, for Jack and Callie it sure did.

And yes, they worked through it, and they did get their happily-ever-after.

Man, do I remember feeling out of control as I came up to that announcement scene. And I guess that's why I'm such a careful outliner now. I can't write well if I'm not really grounded in the levers and pulleys of a book's inner mechanics. Now I know that the better prepared I am, the more I can let myself go . . . if that makes any sense.

After I was released from my contract, which happened, just as I had suspected, shortly after I turned this manuscript in for production, part of my restructuring myself as a writer focused on how to identify, magnify, and resolve conflict between characters. Which, in retrospect, is ironic. I spent a lot of time and money getting and reading books on the craft of writing. . . . I even ended up sitting down and deconstructing, chapter by chapter, the plotlines in some of the books that I loved the most . . . and yet I ended up as a writer taking all that formal stuff and all the “rules” out of my process and my plots.

It's weird, though. Courtesy of all that studying, I changed my game big time. I used to hate conflict. Now when I write, I wallow in it. Big emotions on the page used to scare me. Now I'm addicted to them. And finally, going dark used to be something that I was steered away from. Now that's where I'm most comfortable—because I know that the inevitable redemption at the end burns all the more brightly for the contrast.

I truly hope you love
Bachelor
as much as I do. I think it's a very solid book, and rereading it now makes me see a lot of where I eventually ended up. This was the big turning point where everything changed for me, and for that alone, Jack and Callie will always have a special place in my heart.

And, well, I still love a hot guy in a suit—whether it's made of worsted wool or black leather. . . .

 

Happy Reading,

 

J. R. Ward

January 2011

THE WOMAN came to him from the shadows and he knew her by the red of her hair. She moved slowly, deliberately, toward him and he released his breath with satisfaction. He wanted to ask her where she'd been because he'd missed her.

But the closer she got, the less he felt like talking.

As she stopped in front of him, he reached out and ran a finger down her cheek. She was achingly beautiful, especially her eyes. They were spectacular blue, a shade that perfectly complemented the auburn waves that fell past her shoulders. He wanted her. No, he
needed
her.

Her smile deepened, as if she knew what he was thinking, and she tilted her head back. Staring at her upturned mouth, at her parted lips, a wave of urgency shot through his body. Giving in to the hunger, he put his hands on her shoulders and pulled her close, wanting to take what she was offering quickly before she disappeared again.

Bending down, he felt anticipation and something else, something that made his heart pound with more than lust.

Jack Walker's eyes flipped open. Caught up in the raging hunger in his body, he wasn't sure whether he was truly awake. Or where the hell he was. He knew the bed wasn't his own, but not much else.

He looked around at the dark shapes in the room. After a few deep breaths, the patterns made sense to him. He was at the Plaza Hotel in New York, in the suite he always used when he was in town.

And the woman he still wanted so badly it hurt had disappeared into thin air. Again.

He stared up at the ornate ceiling in frustration. He hadn't slept well the last two nights and he needed some sustained shut-eye soon. He didn't have much patience to begin with and lack of sleep wasn't getting him any closer to Mother Teresa territory.

The dream was driving him crazy.

Every time it was the same. Just as he was about to kiss her, right before he knew what she would taste like, he'd wake up slick with sweat and in a hellacious mood.

Jack pushed a hand through his hair. Without a suitable target for his frustration, he seethed in the darkness.

He'd met the woman only once and he hadn't thought she'd made that big an impression on him.

Restless, he had to fight his way out of the sheets that had gotten tangled around his naked body. When he was finally free, he walked over to a bank of windows and looked outside. The view was characteristically New York. Skyscrapers reaching toward the heavens, taillights flashing in a maze of asphalt down below. It was late at night, but the city was still hopping.

A couple of days before, he'd come down from Boston expecting to meet with his college roommate, who was now a top-notch political consultant, and to buy back a family painting. Picking up a subconscious sexual obsession had sure as hell not been on his itinerary.

But at least the meeting had gone well. And he'd gotten the portrait.

Last night he'd been the successful bidder at the Hall Foundation's lavish gala. The painting was John Singleton Copley's masterful rendering of Nathaniel Walker, a Revolutionary War hero and one of Jack's most prominent ancestors. He'd paid almost five million dollars for it, but he'd have gone higher. The painting should never have left the family and he was the only one who could afford to get it back.

Which would have been a surprise to anyone other than his immediate relatives.

Since the day his father had gone discreetly bankrupt, Jack had been shelling out his hard-earned money to protect and fortify his family's legacy. To be properly sustained, the proud heritage and luxurious lifestyle of the Walkers required a tremendous, unceasing river of cash. Among the gene pool, however, there was a dearth of earners and a plethora of spenders. Jack was on the short list of the former.

His father's poor asset management and the financial realities of keeping up the Walker Theme Park had helped to ensure that he didn't turn into yet another useless blueblood. Instead, he was a hard-hearted, competitive SOB who had a reputation for winning at all costs. It had been an evolution his father, Nathaniel James Walker VI, had never approved of, but then, the man's opinions and choices had usually been poor in Jack's opinion. Nathaniel Six, as he'd been known, was the epitome of the Old Guard philanthropist. He felt there was only one proper thing to do with money: Give it away. A gentleman simply didn't tarnish his hands with the ugly business of making the stuff.

It was an entitled way of looking at life, and one that had resulted in his father being much celebrated by the universities, libraries, and museums that were the fortunate recipients of his largesse. Unfortunately, all that philanthropy had also landed him dead broke by the time Jack was twenty-five. The painting had been one of the first things sold to keep up the charade of limitless wealth.

Although Nathaniel Six had been dead for almost five years, Jack could clearly imagine how conflicted his old man would have been at the first Nathaniel's return. The patriarch's picture was back in the family, but thanks only to Jack's dirty hands.

What a catch-22, he thought, thinning his lips.

Shaking himself free of the past, Jack figured he shouldn't be quite so pleased with himself. He'd got the painting, all right. And the goddamn dream.

He'd gone to preview the piece at the Hall Foundation before the auction, expecting to quickly verify it was in reasonable shape and move along. He'd done the former, but in the process had met the art conservationist who'd been keeping him up nights ever since.

He'd first seen her as she'd been backing out of an office. She'd turned around, her deep red hair swinging over her shoulders, and their eyes had locked. He'd been intrigued, as any man would have been, but it wasn't like she'd struck him dumb with her charms.

His old friend, Grace Woodward Hall, president of the Foundation, had introduced them. The woman, Callie Burke, was an art conservationist, and on a whim, he'd invited her to come with them to view the painting. Standing over the canvas, he'd been struck by her thorough commentary on the condition of the painting and her assessment of what needed to be done to properly care for it. He'd also liked the way she'd looked at the portrait. Her eyes had clung to his ancestor's face, as if she were utterly entranced. When he'd asked if she might like to conserve the work, though, she hadn't seemed interested and they'd gone their separate ways. At least until his head had hit the pillow that night.

He'd laughed off the dream at first, pleased to find that at the age of thirty-eight his sex drive was as high as it had always been. With each passing night, however, he lost more of his sense of humor. He'd decided the one saving grace was that they'd never meet again, so eventually he'd forget about her.

But then last evening, after his successful bid at the auction, his friend Grace had brought up the woman again. Grace had urged him to follow up with this Callie Burke, stopping just short of asking him to do it as a personal favor to her. Evidently, Grace felt confident that Ms. Burke could do the work and pushed him to look into the conservationist's background so he'd know just how talented she was. By the end of the evening, he'd agreed to play along though he still had no idea why it was so important to his friend.

Looking out over the city, he figured that he'd check into the conservationist's background tomorrow, and then he'd go find her and ask her again. He wasn't much for giving people second chances, but maybe now was a good time to give it a try. He had to admit he'd been rather touched by Grace's ardent support of the woman.

And the dreams? He wasn't going to worry about them. Hell, he didn't even like redheads.

“Jack?”

He turned to the bed and looked at the dark shape of Blair Stanford. His fiancée.

“Sorry I woke you,” he said as she sat up on her elbows.

“Are you okay?”

“Yeah, I'm all right.”

She reached a hand out to him. “Come back to bed.”

Jack slid between the sheets and felt Blair put her arms around him.

“You're tense,” she said softly, stroking his chest.

He wove his fingers through hers. “Go back to sleep.”

“Is there something wrong?” she murmured. “You've been tossing and turning every night for the past few days.”

“There's nothing to worry about.”

He stroked her forearm, trying to get her to relax, but she propped her head up on her hand.

“Jack, we know each other too well for secrets.”

“True. But who says I'm hiding anything?” He smiled at how her short blond hair was sticking out at right angles. He reached up and smoothed the sides down, thinking she wouldn't have stood for that kind of disorder if she'd known about it. Even in the middle of the night.

Blair stared down into his face for a long time. “Are you rethinking our engagement?”

“What makes you say that?”

She hesitated. “I was very surprised when you asked me to marry you and we haven't really talked about it since.”