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Posted July 3, 2013 by Nightstand Novels in Guest Post
 
 

Novel Spotlight: Wanted: Wife by Gwen Jones

Wanted: Wife
By Gwen Jones
 

 

WantedWife

 

 

 

 

*Genre: Romance

* Published: June 4, 2013

*Publisher: HarperCollins Avon

*Word/Page count : 377 pages

*ASIN : B009NG3BB2

Book Blurb

“* Handsome, but with old-school communication skills and a secret past *

Seeks healthy, athletic female

* Preferably a pretty reporter with a messy love life who has never spent a day in the woods *

For marriage and family

* What could possibly go wrong? *”

 

Wanted: Wife is available at:

AAAMabuyAABarnesnob

 

 

Juest a tastefancy


The Flipside of Serious

 
“Holy Mother of—God . . .” Denny said.
My sentiments exactly. Andy Devine had to be the most stunning man I’d ever laid eyes on.
He was tall, six foot two at least, his black hair swept back to just nick his collar, his skin tanned, his cheekbones high, his shoulders as wide as his waist was lean. He wore dark trousers, a white shirt, a tie, and a vest, but I could tell immediately he was used to more freedom. His body looked sculpted by hard and frequent use, his biceps nearly bursting from their cotton casing, and even in that un-air-conditioned room, he looked as cool and collected as if encased in ice. Putting it all together, he was quite the package, but that wasn’t what took my breath away. As I came toward the table, as he moved around it to meet me, it was his eyes that nearly nailed me to the floor: two sharp, liquid arrows so regally blue they looked cut from some empirical standard, and infused with an intelligence so far above any preconceived notions, I genuinely felt embarrassed.
To put it simply: he was not what I expected.

 
“What can I do for you?” he said, the overhead fans ruffling his thick hair.
Not that I would allow him to ruffle me. “As I said, I’m Julie Knott from Channel 8 News, and this is my cameraman, Denny O’Brien.”

 
Denny cleared his throat—loudly—lowering the camera to his side. “Pleased to meet you,” he said with surprising steadiness, in spite of his blanch a minute before.

 
Andy Devine nodded, but didn’t reach for either of our hands, which we were too off-kilter to offer anyway. Instead he eyed us with a curiosity I’d last seen at the zoo.

 
Inwardly, I was a little miffed that any human—insanely gorgeous or otherwise—could invoke such ridiculous reactions, doubly so as I groped for the right thing to say. My God! When’s the last time that happened? Still, years of experience let me slip into my screen-perfected smile and simpatico interviewer’s mode, my voice precisely modulated as I leaned in and said conspiratorially, “Maybe you’ve heard of me? I do segments on Channel 8 called ‘Julie Knott’s Random Access.’”

 
“Can’t say I watch much TV,” he said. Then his eyes narrowed. “Random, as in meaning . . . ?”

 
“You know, out of the ordinary, off the beaten track. Unusual.”

 
“Ah.” He considered that for a moment. “You think I’m unusual?”

 
Only the fact that you’re actually saying that with a straight face. “Well, your interview process certainly is. We’d love to do a story on it.”

 
He looked honestly perplexed. “Why?”

 
I almost laughed. Either this man was yanking my chain, or there were still people out there who could surprise me. “You don’t think advertising on a utility pole for a wife is a bit out of the ordinary?”

 
He leaned back against the table, folding his arms across his massive chest. “No more than when a woman tricks herself out and goes into a bar, advertising herself as available. I’m just giving her a more respectable venue.”

 
His voice was deep and melodious, yet he had the oddest accent, as unmistakably American as it was faintly exotic. The sound of it sent a distinct wave of heat through me. Good God. I scrubbed my hand across the back of my neck; I refused to let him throw me. “So, you don’t see having them parade before you like horses at an auction as a tad different?”

 
That seemed to amuse him. “Miss Knott, it’s me who’s really for sale, and don’t think for a moment each one of those women out there isn’t aware of it.”

 
I had an image of Mr. Gorgeous being yanked from one frantic female to the other, One Day Sale! signs hung around his neck.“That would be true if they were doing the choosing.”

 
“Even the woman I pick still has to agree to it. I’ll be making all the promises.”
“As in a contract.”

 
“Actually, it’s very simple. I’m offering a three-month trial marriage, in which I’ll promise to house, feed and provide my wife with anything she needs. All I’m asking of her is to be healthy, work hard and try for a baby. If for any reason she’s not completely satisfied—and pregnant within three months—she’ll walk away with a generous compensation. So obviously, the risk is more at my end. Their risk is relatively effortless.”
“Effortless!” The ways in which this preposterous proposition so did not resemble effortless nearly made me laugh out loud. “Mr. Devine, I’d hardly call bearing your issue effortless!”

 
He bristled. “I’m not saying it would be. I only thought of children as a logical progression.”

 
Amazing, truly. He wasn’t medieval; he was positively Neanderthal. “A logical progression of what?”
“Why, marriage, of course.”

 
“So couples that don’t have children . . .” I flung my hands in a futile gesture. “Who don’t want or can’t have them—their marriages are a sham?”

 
“No . . .” he said, a bit condescendingly. “That would be the logic of their own particular marriages. But in ours, the terms will already have been spelled out. I have a farm. She’ll help me run it. And if it’s run well, we’ll share equally in the benefits and rewards. You couldn’t get a better deal than that.”

 
“You talk as if this marriage’ll be nothing more than a business relationship.”

 
He looked incredulous. “Isn’t that what all marriages really are?”

 
“Of course not,” I said. “What a crazy idea.”

 
“Well, if they aren’t, they should be. Because that’s what it comes down to at the divorce settlement anyway. A dissolution of a partnership, a consolidation of debts, a distribution of the assets. Are you married, Ms. Knott?”

 
I caught his glance to my left hand. I shoved my bare fingers into my pocket. “No. Presently unattached.” Denny cleared his throat. I tossed him a filthy glare. And when Andy Devine lifted a brow, I knew I’d better offer a quick clarification before my cameraman spilled it. “I just broke it off with my fiancé this morning.”
“Does this upset you?” he said.

 
I could feel the blood rising to my face. “What do you think? We were to be married in two weeks. The man practically left me at the altar.”

 
“Did you love him?”

 
He was beyond belief. “Of course I did! Why else would I have married him?”

 
“Probably not for any of my reasons. Because from what I can assume . . .”—he assessed me quickly—“You’re probably a good risk. Which just proves how ancillary love actually is.”

 
If the morning hadn’t already unhinged me, this Andy Devine threw the door right off the hinges. “You’re wrong,” I said, my hands clenching so tightly I nearly crushed the mic. “Even after what my fiancé did to me, I still believe the only logical progression is people meet, fall in love, get married. That’s the way it’s supposed to be. Because without love, Mr. Devine, your marriage will never be a real one.”

 
He sprung from the table toward me. “Oh believe me, Ms. Knott, with or without love, this marriage will be a real one. In every sense of the word.”

 

 

guestpost12

Author Gwen Jones Gives us a glimpse of her “Woman Cave” and shows us where the magic happens!

work space

WRITER’S CORNER – Genius ain’t easy, sweeties…


Virginia Woolf spoke of a “Room of One’s Own” if she is to write fiction, and what I’m showing you here is my own little “woman cave” where I go to create my genius. Okay, laugh if you must, but genius is hard work, sweeties. As is cleaning this den of iniquity of dead yogurt cups and pretzel salt after I’ve spent twelve hours straight in it. But today it actually looks quite civilized, so it’s a good a time as any to give you a tour.

 

 
First and foremost you have to start out with a good chair. I’ve been told the one I have costs upwards of $500, as it swivels, has an adjustable base, a lumbar back and sturdy construction. Not that I paid that much! I’m a writer NOT a hedge fund manager! My husband got it at an office moving sale for $50, so keep your eyes peeled. But one thing to remember is even with a good chair, my chiropractor says you still need to sit straight with your feel flat on the floor, and for no longer than 50 minutes at a stretch. Yes, I regularly go to a chiropractor. Why? Because I’m notorious for not taking his advice. He just loves that.
 

 
Next, of course is a good desk. I bought mine for $200 from a local antique dealer who also buys estates. An absolute steal as it’s solid cherry with a huge drawer for squirreling lots of crap. My crap is office supplies, a journal, back scratcher, manicure set, rulers, scratch pads, Post-it notes and an endless supply of pens and goodie-room swag from various writers conferences. (Love that stuff!) Most importantly my desk is my workspace, housing my laptop, and all the accoutrements of the writerly trade: more pens, the indispensable Post-it Notes, lamp, phone, dictionary and thesaurus, mile upon mile of notes and research in variable sizes shoved into files or laid out randomly, as well as the all important Coffee Cup. Except for me it’s a tea cup, usually housing stone-cold tea. I do drink it eventually. And no—I did not go to Yale, but I have a friend in New Haven. My Ivy League of choice is Princeton. And I did go there. (Yesterday, for lunch. Triumph Brewery on Nassau Street. Highly recommended.)
 

 
And another indispensable need for a writer is a good bulletin board. (I actually have two.) This one is pretty spare of stuff right now, but that’s because I’ve just started a new book. It’ll slowly fill up until the cork will be just a memory. Note the Post-it Notes. I just love Post-its. Can you tell? (Tossing this – ® – in just in case.)
 

 

You may have noticed the large bookcase against the wall. What’s a writer after all, without her books? Writers need to read as well as write, maybe even more so as so much of our craft is geared toward the end result. Since I also teach writing as a college professor many entries in my bookcase are on craft or scholarly, but I won’t bore you with those. What I will tell you is I have two more bookcases out of camera range just crammed with trashy reads, scandalously spicy stuff that’d turn a Bible Belt librarian’s hair white. But I’ll just leave the juicy details to your imagination.
 

 

Lastly is my comfy chair, where I can get away from my desk for a little while. This is a spot where I both read and write, settling my laptop atop my, er…lap and work. This chair is also a great place to ponder plot, and I’ve written many a proposal from there. Its armrests are also just high enough to strategically prop my hand under my chin and with just the right leverage, take a nap sitting up. True! It’s been done! And so I sleep, perchance to dream…

 

 

 

 

GwenJonesAuthorPhoto

 

 

 

 

 

about Author

 

 

 

Gwen Jones, after spending years writing several unpublishable novels, decided to learn what she was doing wrong or give it all up. So after earning an MFA in Creative Writing from Western Connecticut State University, she’s now so good they even allow her to teach there. An unabashed born-and-bred native of Southern New Jersey and the Jersey Shore, she lives with her husband, Frank, and the absolute cutest cat in the world, Gracie.

 

 

You can find out more about Gwen by visiting her:

Website| Facebook Author Page| Twitter

 


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