Read an Excerpt
Hello, Doggy!
Chapter One
"You've heard of Keenan James?" the publisher asked. His white eyebrows curved up at the ends so that they looked like little wings on his face. His eyes were faded blue, but sharp.
"Keenan James?" Tory Hoffstra repeated, trying to keep the scorn from her tone and disapproval from her face. "That television guy pretending to be a psychologist?"
"Yes, the man who runs the Just-Dump-Him Round Table." Franklin Fender walked around his desk to sit on the edge of it in front of her. "He's doing amazing things, according to reports. Helping women get out of bad relationships, develop self-esteem, take control of their lives."
"He—he . . ." Tory searched for something positive—or at least not negative—about the man she considered a dangerous charlatan. "He had that special on The Discovery Channel, right?"
It had been little more than an extended infomercial for his women-only get-mental-health-quick program. She'd been so disappointed in The Discovery Channel that she'd actually written a letter in protest.
"Exactly." Fender smiled as if they'd reached some accord on the man. "He wants to write a book. And we want to publish it."
He paused, let that sink in, and Tory realized that she was not here because of her proposal to write a book—A Humanistic Approach to Cognitive Adjustment in Post-Teenage Women and the Attachment Theory. Optimism seeped out of her.
"Oh?" she offered weakly. She pushed her glasses up higher on her nose.
"The problem is . . ." Fender looked upward, as if posing for his portrait to be painted for theGreat Hall of Editors. "He has no credentials. He's not a doctor, or even a psychologist. He's not even a certified counselor."
Tory frowned at the "even a psychologist" remark. As if she were a lesser being for choosing the cognitive side of the equation instead of the medical.
"That is a problem," she said significantly.
"That's why we want you," Fender said with a smile that implied he was bestowing a Nobel Prize, "to cowrite the book with him. Give him some credibility, add the right mumbo-jumbo to some of his theories. Make a real psychology book, but one for the masses."
"Me?" Tory nearly flinched. "You want me to write his book?"
"Well, with him, of course. They're his ideas, after all."
She cleared her throat, cheeks burning, and willed herself to stay calm. She'd thought this was her shot. When she'd gotten the call from Franklin Fender's secretary about a meeting, she was sure it meant deliverance from her failed career in the form of a book deal. Recognition, appreciation, proof that all that school and all those articles were not just confirmation that "those who can't do, write."
Instead of throwing her a life raft, however, fate had sent her a shark. Her choice: to drown or be devoured.
"Mr. Fender, are you aware that I sent you a proposal for a book based on my own research and ideas? Containing sound psychological theories and verifiable case studies?"
"Of course," Fender said, looking at her as if reassessing her intelligence. "That's why I contacted you. You have the credentials, the education, the knowledge."
"And the ideas, Mr. Fender. My research into the psychological attachments of post-teenage women and the perceptual angst involved in—"
"Yes, right, of course. But that, you must admit, Dr. Hoffstra, has a much more limited audience than a book by Keenan James. I mean, here's a guy who dates supermodels, who appears regularly in the tabloids, who's known for moving in celebrity circles. He's Manhattan's hottest bachelor! Women would love to get inside his head."
He rose from his seat at the edge of the desk and moved back around to his chair. He didn't sit, but stood behind the mahogany edifice with his fingertips on the surface.
She wondered if he did all that moving around to show off the excellent cut of his obviously expensive suit. It almost made him look as if he didn't have that giant, white-guy-behind-the-desk belly.
She lowered her eyes, afraid he'd see her less-than-charitable thoughts in them. She had to get a grip. Fender was a businessman and she had a product. This wasn't personal. She had to show him her mettle, her smarts. That's what businessmen respected.
Fender continued, "He's a name, Dr. Hoffstra. Especially since that Discovery Channel special. And he's a damn good-looking guy, if you'll permit me. Those two things alone will sell books."
Tory's eyes flashed up to his. "So you want to sell women a book on how to get better relationships by convincing them a good-looking guy famous for dating models can set them straight." Her tone was deadpan, but Fender didn't notice.
"Sure. What better way to get them to pick up the book? If they're drawn to that type of man, they'll be an easy sell. But inside, Dr. Hoffstra," he said in a seductive tone, "inside will be your writing, your educated take on James's methods and successes. They'll be taking your advice as much as his."
Tory paused. This was a point, she had to admit. She would have some control, she presumed, on what went into the book as well as on how it was presented. She could make sure it wasn't psycho-tripe. A spark of interest flickered.
"It'll be like that book," Fender continued, "He's Just Not That Into You, with not just the television credentials—you know of course that James wrote the smash HBO series Sex at Midnight—but the fame. He's a known man-about-town, handsome, suave, worldly. If anyone could clue women in about the male side of relationships, and empower them to be equal partners, he could."
Tory sighed. Her vision of molding this venture into a scholarly tome of some worth popped like a soap bubble. "Yes, he does have a reputation for being with a lot of women."
"That's right. And with you giving him the academic credentials, Dr. Hoffstra, the book is bound to do well. What he has is a formula, a proven strategy. And he has that round table."
Hello, Doggy!. Copyright © by Elaine Fox. Reprinted by permission of HarperCollins Publishers, Inc. All rights reserved. Available now wherever books are sold. <%END%>
