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Escapist literature, if you wish. My readers are for the most part women. I ask you, if the very hassled woman of today takes time to read, does she want to read about the trials and tribulations of a real woman and her real husband—real people have to worry about bills, taxes, kids and probably worst of all commuting and the car breaking down. And real life extends to the bedroom. Does a real woman want to read about a man who's too tired to give her pleasure, or even worse, doesn't care. No, don't interrupt me! I did give you a chance. I write entertaining literature—yes, literature, David. It's not Proust or Stendhal. I have never wanted to write the great American novel. I just want to write what I enjoy reading, and I enjoy writing romance novels."
    "I suppose some women do need that sort of thing."
    "If you make it sound like a hefty dose of castor oil one more time, I'm going to smear the black guacamole on your face! Every damned novel, even your ridiculous Westerns, has romance in it. If there were no romance in life, this would be an awfully grim place. Don't you believe in romance? Didn't you experience it when you were going out with your ex-wife? You know, loss of appetite, all your thoughts of that one person—"
    David held up his hands and sighed deeply. "How did this happen again? If I recall correctly, we've been through all this in fine detail before. All I wanted to do was neck."
    Chelsea, who'd learned from George how to expertly flick a towel, connected with David's thigh with a satisfying thwap. He yelped. She burst into laughter. "I've always said that if intelligent discussion fails, try pain."
    David straightened and, without a word, stalked toward her. "David!"
    She flicked him again with the towel, but only got his thick sweater. "Drat!" She chose retreat and scurried around the kitchen table.
    "It won't do you any good," David said. "You've now got a Mark I hero on your hands. The Mark II just expired quietly."
    "How much do you weigh?"
    That stopped him for a moment. "One-eighty. Why?"
    Chelsea inched nearer the doorway. "How tall are you, David?"
    "Six-one or thereabouts. Why?"
    "Well," she said, cocking her head, "you've got the basic ingredients for a Mark I." She dashed toward the open doorway. She yelled over her shoulder, "But I just bet you're slow!" She felt a strong arm circle her stomach, and then she was lifted and carried like a sack of avocados into the living room.
    "Put me down, you jerk!"
    "Is a jerk better than a nerd?"
    "They're both equally repulsive!"
    David sat down on the sofa and dragged Chelsea facedown over his thighs. "You've got the nicest bottom," he said, wistfully eyeing her.
    "You already said that," Chelsea said, squirming to look up at him. "Parts is parts, David. Now let me up."
    "Only if you promise to turn civilized and kiss me."
    "All right," she said with no hesitation at all.
    He was grinning when he turned her over. "Time to pay up, lady."
    She was out of his arms and standing in front of him in an instant. "Your question was in reality two. When I said yes, I was answering only the first. Behold, a calm, civilized person."
    He said nothing for a long moment, merely stared at her thoughtfully.
    Chelsea said nervously, "I got you fair and square. Why don't you just admit it?"
    "I'm trying to figure out what a Mark I hero would do in this situation. How 'bout if I throw you on the floor and tickle you until you plead for mercy?"
    Chelsea shook her head. "No, that's a definite Mark II reaction. Much too lighthearted for a Mark I."
    "Hmm, how 'bout if I grab you, fling you over my shoulder and toss you in the shower? Lots of cold water."
    "That's just punishment with no real satisfaction for the hero. Nope, won't cut it."
    "I think I've got it." David rose quickly, grabbed her hand and tossed her down onto the sofa. He eased down on top of her and pulled her hands above her head.
    Chelsea didn't struggle. She felt the hard length of him on top of her, but he