I thought it would be fun go back in time and post the opening six from To the Limit, my RWA Golden Heart® finalist, published by Harlequin. The was the first "book of my heart," and the second manuscript I ever finished.
I'll let my hero, Nicholas Romero, introduce my heroine, Mary Beth Williams. Here are keywords I would use to describe To the Limit: romantic adventure, kidnapping, South America, diplomat, librarian. Here are the opening six:
She'd come armed. The dress made a formidable weapon.
Simple, sophisticated, tasteful. The kind of dress most women did not have the grace to wear. Another woman would have chosen a little black dress to show off a curvaceous figure. This woman's regal posture said she chose this little black dress to put off any man willing to approach her.
Comments are welcome!
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This is from a romance novella I've written, but haven't edited fully. The tentative title is Dancing in the Dark. These six, not the first six, are in the heroine's POV.
She was Janey Blackmon, Plain Jane, as she'd been known in high school, and he was Matt Kincaid. Super Cool Matt Kincaid. Known only as Matt, when all the other Matts had to use their last names to differentiate themselves. An enigma even then, but one that drew people to him. As she'd been drawn.
She watched him walk down the hall, a tall shadow against the stormy sky beyond the living room window.
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This continues with more from Another Hero, an unpublished work. Laura Morales is hiding from authorities and waiting tables at a South American beach side restaurant/cantina. A stranger has been watching her, and now the man considered her father's enemy (Ruiz, a powerful political figure), has arrived and decided he will make her sit at his table, unaware of who she is. He forces her down into a chair by grabbing her shoulders, then running his hands down toward the front of her blouse.
Here are the six sentences:
Without a single thought beyond getting away, she jumped up, turned, and swinging upward, slapped him. The sound, sharp and satisfying, echoed in the silence of the veranda.
She barely had time to curse her reflexive action before Ruiz, surprised in mid-laugh, his face already showing the imprint of her hand, pulled her close. “Muchacha, who do you think you are?” he asked, his fingers biting into her cheeks.
“Release me,” she said, sounding so formal, so calm, as if she were as brave as she pretended when her fear was a living thing, altering her breathing, making it shallow and short.
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