I’m looking over my shoulder, praying I can send this message before I’m discovered at the computer. I was on my way to the airport when a drop-dead gorgeous guy named Thor captured me and dragged me off to his luxury mountain lodge. Nobody knows I’m missing, since I’m supposed to be on a business trip. Thor has kept me busy with unbelievable hot, creative sex for the past few days. But finally, he passed out on the bed, and I slipped downstairs to send this message. Unfortunately, if you get it, I don’t know what good it will do me, because I don’t even know where I am.

Wait, that’s not right. That must be a fever dream inspired by the cover models. I’m really writing from the RT Convention. Most sessions haven’t started yet, so I’m catching up with old friends, putting out wads of my little "Rebecca York notebooks" on Promotion Lane, and talking to fans, while hoping one of the tornados in the area doesn’t hit the hotel.

Tonight we’ve got two parties. The RT welcome reception and the Ellora’s Cave party.

Tomorrow is a really full day. That’s why I’d rather be off in a mountain lodge with Thor. First thing in the morning, the thriller writers, me included, are hosting a breakfast for booksellers. We have to be there at eight in the morning to stuff goody bags. Later, I’ve got a meeting with my agent. Then I’m doing two workshops in the afternoon. And parties again in the evening.

If I can still walk and talk straight by the end of the day, I’ll be amazed.

Rebecca