The Club

Hi all,
It’s been a busy week. My four-year-old came down with viral hives on Thursday—I had him halfway to daycare in the stroller when my daughter pointed out that he was turning red. And on Friday, I thought that I might be expecting baby no. 3. (A surprise and it turned out not to be the case.)

I also finished revisions on The Club, my sexy February release with Dell books, and made much progress on Blood Deep, my wip for Aphrodisia. Research for The Club has proved to be interesting, giving me the chance to read up a little on harems, the Kama Sutra, and India. I became completely addicted to a book that detailed how India was surveyed in the early 1800s. Enormous spiders, tigers, and disease proved to be very problematic, and ultimately the lead of the surveying team died, leaving a last journal entry that was the date and a dash—he never completed it.

The cover I’ve shown is obviously for The Club, and I’m thrilled at the elegant look Dell has given me. Plus, I’m in love with the hero’s shoulders. This will be out in February 2009. Here is a small excerpt from The Club (unedited):

"How am I going to explain to a man I’ve paid that I do not actually want him to make love to me?"

Jane asked the question of her image in the cheval mirror, but her reflection could provide no answers, obviously, that she could not think of herself.

So speaking aloud to it was quite pointless.

Groaning, Jane stalked around the brothel’s bedchamber, biting her thumbnail, and dreading the knock that was soon to come.

She had come here for Delphina, had come for answers. She’d paid a veritable fortune for the services of one of the young men employed by Mrs. Brougham, the woman who ran this Georgian house on the fringe of Mayfair, known simply as the "The Club". But since it had been a ruse, she now had to convince the man to leave without touching her.

Would he be angry?

She shivered.

Would he come to her aroused? Fear coiled, tight and cold, around her heart. She knew—though she had never experienced it with her own late husband—a man could become belligerent when he was aroused and the woman refused to play.

With Sherringham, she’d never had the courage to refuse to play. He had now been dead for thirteen months, and she no longer had to endure the nights he came to her bedroom. She no longer had to fight to find the courage to send him away, then despise herself when she couldn’t.

Jane paced, hugging her chest.

Surely a large bribe would soothe any ruffled…well, whatever might be ruffled on a randy young man. The man she’d hired had intimate relations for money, so wasn’t money the most important thing? And there were dozens of society ladies in attendance. Any reasonably attractive, healthy, and erect young man wouldn’t be frustrated for long.

Oh dear God, she thought, and she took hold of one of the bedposts for support.

Excerpt From The Club, © 2008 Sharon Page