JAYNE BRINGS YOU TERESA MEDEIROS

Jayne, here, to introduce my guest, TERESA MEDEIROS. Listen up all you historical romance fans who have begun to despair because it seems like every book in the romance genre now features a guy with fangs. I’ve got great news. Teresa’s new book, SOME LIKE IT WILD, is for those who are desperate for wonderfully entertaining, witty, sexy historical romance featuring a spirited heroine and an old-fashioned (read really, really big) kind of hero. Please welcome Teresa who is going to give us a taste of the story.

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It's always a delight to blog with the Quills (even if they've never completely forgiven me for hanging around with those peckish chicks on Squawk Radio.)

One of the greatest joys of my job is falling in love with a gorgeous new man every year (and my husband doesn't even mind as long as those royalty checks keep coming!) I've noticed that my heroes seem to fall into two physical categories—the "broad-shouldered, lean-hipped, fill-out-a-pair-of-buff-breeches-or-faded-Levis-quite nicely" type of guy and the "towering, muscle-bound, warrior guy" who can lift you with one hand. In this scene from SOME LIKE IT WILD, Pamela witnesses Connor arguing with a French fencing master over the size of Connor's...sword. See if you can tell which hero type he is.

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"Bloody hell, man, you don't honestly expect me to fight with that thing, do you?"
As that familiar roar reached Pamela's ears, she froze, cocking her head to listen.

"I might be able to darn my stockings with it but it's not good for much else. Unless, of course, you'd like me to shove it up your arrogant—"

As that threat met with a virulent outpouring in fluent French, Pamela lifted the hem of her gown and took off at a dead run. By the time she flung open the tall double doors at the end of the corridor, she was dangerously close to swooning—a condition aggravated by the sight that greeted her.

Connor stood at the center of the ballroom, facing a slender, effete Frenchmen who had a long, thin sword in his hand and a murderous gleam in his eye. The man was still spewing out a torrent of French, most of it mercifully incomprehensible to Pamela's ears.

Connor might have been unarmed, but he still towered over the sputtering Frenchman by half a foot. He was dressed as simply as a highwayman posing as a gentleman could be—in black trousers and a white lawn shirt with full sleeves and flared cuffs. He wore no waistcoat and his cravat was knotted in a simple loop at his throat. A black satin queue secured his gleaming hair at the nape.

It should have been illegal for a man to look so good without even trying, Pamela thought, biting her lip in consternation. Or at least immoral.

The enraged fencing master spotted her first. He spread his arms in a dramatic appeal, the waxed ends of his thin black mustache quivering with indignation. "Do you hear the words of this barbarian, mam'selle? He dares to insult the size of my sword!"

As he brandished the long, thin blade of the delicate epee at her, Pamela had to choke back a snort of laughter. It wasn't that difficult to imagine Connor darning his stockings with it.

"That is not a sword." Glowering at them both, Connor marched over to the wall and swept down one of the massive broadswords displayed next to an empty suit of armor. He strode back to the fencing master, wielding the enormous blade with one hand. "This is a sword!"

"Ha!" the Frenchman barked, dismissing the weapon with a flick of his hand. "Only if one has no skill! No grace! No honor! That blade is fit only for digging your grave after a French foil pierces your cowardly heart."

"Oh, really?" Connor took a step forward, the menacing gesture wiping the sneer right off the Frenchman's face. "Then perhaps you'd like to match your blade against mine and we'll just see whose grave we'll be digging come sunset."

As the fencing master lowered his sword and went skittering backward in alarm, Pamela boldly stepped between the two men.

She flattened her palm against Connor's chest, giving him a beseeching look. "Now, darling, you know I faint at the mere mention of blood, much less its sight. There's really no need for such posturing. I'm sure that everyone, including Monsieur Chevalier, would agree that your blade is superior." She drew even closer to Connor, lowering her voice to a conspiratorial whisper. "As well as much larger."

Connor gazed down at her, his scowl slowly melting to an expression that was even more dangerous. At least to her.

He covered her small hand with his, binding them together so she could feel every powerful beat of his heart beneath the thin lawn of his shirt. "If you're so convinced my blade is superior, lass, then why don't you give me the chance to prove it?"

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So how about YOU? Do you prefer your heroes (and your men) lean and mean or do you want a man with enough muscle to literally sweep you off your feet? When it comes to heroes, does size truly matter?