"Write about a passionate, sensual kiss."

Dang. You'd think this would be easy. Kissing scene, romance writer; that's one of the most natural combinations in the writing world. Normally, one would think that. What do we really get, though?

Performance anxiety. Not mine, mind you. I have a full decade of marriage to my name, and I haven't had any complaints from the spousal unit in the kissing department. We can be sure the big zero I drew isn't because I don't know the subject.

Why, then, does the performance anxiety hit? Like I said, it's not mine. It's Mikel's, or Robbie's, or maybe Will's. All fine, stalwart gentlemen, ready to--pardon the pun here-- rise to the occasion.

I have an image of them and their hero-brothers from the other books filed on my to-be-written list, lined up along a wall, draped in the same basic white towels. It's like a line-up of near-naked men. Identity parade, for my British characters. Charlie would insist on the translation. They'd all have the same shocked look on their faces.

"Right here?" I can hear one of them ask. "Now? In front of all these...women?"

"Yes," I would tell them. I always answer my fictional men when they ask a question. If I don't, they may feel ignored and stomp off to some other writer's imagination in high dudgeon. "Yes, in front of all these women. Who do you think is going to be reading the books, football players?"

A hand goes up. It belongs to Charlie, a blond, moustachioed futuristic British privateer.

"Yes?" I make it a question, flashing back to my days of facing a classroom full of third-graders. I think that they have rather a lot in common with these towel-clad heroes, but that's another subject altogether. "Go ahead, Charlie."

"British football?"

I sigh. "No."

He pouts.

"All right, fine," I say, craning my neck to see if I can make out the sword and roses tattoo from here. The towel covers the rubber duckie one on his hip. "British or American. It doesn't matter. Besides, you all like women. It's women you're going to be kissing, anyway." I roll my eyes.

"Are you questioning my manhood?"

"Mikel, not now, all right?" I'm getting a headache. It's hard for even a sixteenth-century Dutch merchant captain to glower in only a towel, but he's doing his best. "And never say 'manhood' to a romance writer." Out of the corner of my eye, I see another hand go up.

This time, the hand belongs to Robbie, a rational, reasonable, levelheaded modern hero. At least he and I both live in the same century. I give him the nod.

"Can you say 'manhood' in an inspirational?" He looks worried.

"It's not going to come up," I say.

He nearly drops the towel at that. "You never mentioned that in the synopsis. I remember the poodles, the bad hotels, Serena's former..."

I jump out of my chair, waving my hands frantically. "Ssssh! These people haven't read you yet." I take a couple of deep breaths to calm myself. "Besides, I don't write the steamy stuff. That's what caused this problem in the first place. I was asked to write a scene about a sensual, passionate kiss, and share it with the rest of the group when I was done." I am beginning to regret this whole endeavour.

Mikel's brow furrows. "I do not perform in public, mistress."

"You do for me," I tell him. "Otherwise, you just stay right here, in the towel."

His long, tanned fingers pluck at the edge of the terrycloth, worrying the tag with the washing instructions. "For how long?"

"Forever. You are at my complete and total mercy, and don't you forget it. Oh, and never say 'mistress' to a romance writer, either." I reach for the Diet Coke beside my monitor and take a healthy swig. I notice that Robbie is eyeing the can.

He clears his throat. "Exactly how many people are going to be, umm, watching us?"

"There's no way of telling ahead of time," I tell him. "It all depends on where the book sells, and which line it goes to, where it's placed in the publisher's..."

A Cockney oath splits the air. "Bloody 'ell! Yer is selling us? Selling? In'uman, 'at wot it is!" Charlie's accent gets thicker when he's agitated.

"Not you," I say, nudging some research books into the right position in the bookcase. If I crane my neck just right, I can see a colonial-era British officer's red coat hung on a peg in the changing room. (Yes, my imagination has a changing room.) Great. Just what I need. More of these guys. I've learned the hard way that military men ask a lot of questions and none of them easy. I motion for the men to get back in line.

I take a deep breath and try it again. "I'm not selling you, the people. Nobody can do that." There is a collective sigh of relief. "It's the stories I'm selling. People pay to hear about your exploits. Good heavens! If I were selling you, I'd also be selling your heroines," I pause as they all glower, "and the villains." They all nod with approval at that one. "Not to mention every secondary character from grandmothers to stablehands."

Charlie raises a hand again.

"Yes, Charlie."

"No stable'ands on my ship."

I sigh. Heroes can be a pain. "Crewmen, then."

He nods with satisfaction, his blond queue swishing over his shoulder.