Jane Bites Back_ A Novel - Michael Thomas Ford [86]
A murmur passed through the crowd, and several people clapped.
“Well, I think you’ll be as surprised as I was to meet her for the first time.” There was a dramatic pause. “Or I should say to meet him,” she concluded, indicating Byron with her hand. “May I present Mr. Tavish Osborn, the man behind Penelope Wentz!”
Gasps were heard all over the room, and several cameras went off, their flashes momentarily blinding Jane as she was caught in their glare. She tried to lean away from Byron.
A woman in the front row stood up. Dressed entirely in pink, she was clutching a copy of one of Penelope Wentz’s books. She held it to her chest as she looked at Byron accusingly. “I don’t believe it,” she said. “No man could understand what it’s like to be a …” She paused for a moment. “Woman of a certain age,” she concluded.
“That’s an excellent point,” said Rebecca quickly. “After all, the theme of our panel is what women want from romance fiction. Perhaps you could answer this reader’s question with that in mind,” she suggested, looking over at Byron.
“I’m more than happy to, Rebecca,” Byron said. He fixed his gaze on the woman who had spoken. Jane watched as she took a step back and sat down as if she’d been pushed. She knew Byron was casting a glamor on the audience. As if he needs to, she thought. Half the people in here are already in love with him.
“I know it will come as a shock to many of you that I’m a man,” said Byron. “After all, you’re wondering, how can I know what it’s like to be a woman? Well, I’ll tell you my secret.” He leaned forward, as if inviting them to come closer. And indeed many in the audience did lean toward the table. “I absolutely love women,” Byron said. “I love everything about you, and most of all I love listening to you.” He leaned back. “And that’s my secret,” he said. “I listen. When you read my books, it isn’t me telling the story, it’s you.” He pointed to the woman who had questioned him, who blushed deeply. “And you,” he continued, indicating another woman. “And you.” He pointed somewhere in the middle of the audience.
They all think he’s talking just to them, Jane thought. He’s glamored each and every one of them.
“That’s cheating,” she hissed softly, knowing that Byron could hear her.
“When I write, I’m giving voice to what you feel,” Byron continued, ignoring her. His voice was practically a purr.
The room erupted in applause. Half of the audience rose to their feet, their hands slapping together like the flippers of trained seals. Watching them, Jane wanted to tell them all to sit down and shut up. Byron looked over at her and gave a cocky grin. You horrid, horrid man, Jane thought at him.
“What an eloquent answer.” Rebecca had resumed control over the panel. Jane, looking at her, saw that she was wiping her eyes. Was she actually weeping? She was. Jane felt sick. Byron had them all in the palm of his hand.
“And just what is it women want?” Jane heard herself ask.
All eyes turned to her, including Byron’s. Jane felt herself flush, but she knew she had to continue. She took a breath and faced Byron. “I would like to hear what Penelope believes women want,” she said.
“I don’t think we—” Rebecca began.
“But I do,” Jane interrupted. “After all, Mr. Osborn has sold a great number of books based on his deep understanding of what women want. I’m wondering if he might care to share that secret with us—his readers,” she added.
Byron’s mouth twitched at the corners, and Jane knew she had landed a blow. But he quickly composed himself. “I’d be happy to,” he said.
“Without glamoring them,” Jane whispered as she pretended to take a drink of water from the glass set before her on the table.
Byron ignored her. “What women want,” he began. There was a long pause, which grew longer as Byron seemed to think. Jane sensed the audience growing restless. Someone coughed.
“What women want is to be accepted for who they are,” Byron said finally. “Not what the media tells them they should be, but who they really are.”
As the audience clapped, Byron turned to Jane with a triumphant look in his eyes.