Covered

There are some readers who think that the cover of Eloisa James' latest novel:



...is too racy to read in public. Oh, how I scoffed. This cover doesn't bother me; it's actually quite nice. I'll gladly show this off in public, and anyone who doesn't like it can take their prejudgments and.. whatever.

Sadly, last week I ate those sentiments with a big side of rice. Alas, atop my to-be-read pile finally surfaced the following embarrassment:




That's right; I had to read this abomination in public. To the non-romance reader, I know you're asking, why? That's because this writer is actually one of the finest in the entire business, and I not only wanted to learn from her, but I wanted to enjoy a really good book. Would anyone guess that this writer is actually unsurpassed in her genre? No, neither would I.

It has to be said yet again - I don't know who Loretta Chase offended at her publisher, but she has been cursed with a string of the worst covers I have seen for a big-name writer. That she sells any books at all, except to misled gay men (and Corey Hart fans for the above book), is a testament to her loyal fans, who are willing to weather the humiliation of appearing to read gay male porn at 8 a.m. on the way to work. We are suffering for you, Loretta. We really are.

The book was pretty good, though not the best Chase I've ever read (everyone has their favourite, but mine is far and away Mr. Impossible). Next up, however, is a Chase that got near-universal acclaim last year, and is frequently compared to the venerated work of Gergette Heyer:






Eeeehhhhrrrgggggh. Agh. I want to wash my eyes just looking at it, but I bought it, and I'll read it, and my fellow commuters will once again think I am reading gay porn.

I suffer for you, Loretta. I suffer.