From the Publisher

story of love, life and going completely la-la in LA, from the internationally bestselling author of Bare Necessity and For Better, For Worse, Carole Matthews.

Sadie Nelson knows that falling in love can be big trouble - especially when she discovers that the best things in life are never free. Her heart starts causing trouble when she first lays eyes on Gil McGann, the sexy and powerful Hollywood producer at the London Book Fair. In no time, Gil is whisking her away from her dead-end job and drizzly old England to join him in the land of the perfect suntan. Then there's Tavis Jones, an irresistibly endearing — and criminally good-looking — actor who's soon pulling her heartstrings in a different direction. Suddenly the choices facing Sadie in the home of the famous and the desperate-to-be-famous are enough to drive a good girl insane — especially when no-one is quite what they seem to be. It's not great to find out that Gil has a sticky ex who won't let go or that Tavis's uncertain orientation may permanently cast him in the role of "good friend". With her real life turning rapidly into a mad movie plot, what does a slightly crazed woman two much in love do?

Kirkus Reviews

Hopeless girl gets swept off feet by wealthy movie producer, only to be tempted by cute but poor actor. There are authors who can work comfortably inside the genre, giving fresh spin to the old, tired, chick-lit conventions. If only British writer Matthews (Bare Necessity, 2003, etc.) were one of them. Her London girl of the moment, Sadie Nelson, is at loose ends. Once a trader in the City, Sadie is now reduced to a lifestyle a few steps below going on the dole. Temping at a book convention, she meets Gil McCann, a Hollywood producer who just bought the rights to a hot new novel. He's charming, devastatingly handsome, obviously loaded, and a genuinely nice guy. Having pretty much run out her string in London, Sadie doesn't take long to accept his invitation to come see him in California, an invite that should be the gateway to a Pretty Woman life of riches and great sex. But roadblock after roadblock gets tossed in the mad new couple's way, from Gil's alcohol-sodden trainwreck of a soon-to-be-ex-wife to Tavis, the simply adorable actor who's sadly pretty poor and quite possibly gay, but seems quite smitten with Sadie nonetheless. Gil and Sadie are realistically uncomfortable with each other, only having just met, of course, but just about every other element here is as artificial as Gil's wife's breasts. When Sadie's not whining internally about her situation-even though within a matter of days, she's got herself a decent job and apartment, not to mention Gil's penchant for buying her expensive presents when yet another of their dates goes to pot-we've got Gil to deal with, who's not only far too much of a human being to be a producer but talks like a girl. Matthews has a tin ear for alldialogue, but her inability to write a male character (or any character other than a young, white British woman) is especially pronounced. Light as a breeze and about as memorable. Agent: Helen Breitwieser/Cornerstone Literary

Product Details

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Read a Sample Chapter

The Sweetest Taboo

Avon Books

Chapter One

I can tell you exactly when I fell in love. The exact place. The exact minute. The London Book Fair. Here. Now. Let me quickly check my watch so that I will remember it forever -- 3.45 P.M. I have no idea who he is -- yet -- nor that he's about to turn my life upside down, but already I'm bitten, smitten. He looks at me again and smiles, and my insides flood with a tingling warmth that I haven't felt for a very long time. I also have pins and needles in my feet, but that's more to do with uncomfortable shoes and the first glimmer of a bunion than Cupid's deadly aim.

"We need someone gorgeous," he tells me, and I realize that I'm staring.

He has an American accent that I can't place. East Coast, West Coast -- I'm hopeless, they all sound the same to me. Drawly and sexy. And they all make me go weak at the knees.

"It'll take about five minutes. No more," the All-American man is saying to me now. "Can you spare the time?"

I want to tell him that if he asked me nicely I could probably spare the rest of my life, but only manage to stammer out, "Y -- Yes."

Reaching out, he takes my elbow and guides me toward him. I gape round -- having failed in the mouth-closing area -- looking for approval from Nigel, the manager of the book stand where I'm supposed to be helping out. But he is busy talking numbers to a bookshop owner in a corduroy jacket and no one else is the slightest bit interested in what I'm doing.

What I am doing is some temporary work for Bindlatters Books, publishers of a highly dubious range of Technicolor horror books for the youth market that seem to involve more blood than your average abattoir sees in a week and lots of heads being ripped off.

Working for a book publisher may sound interesting -- I can just hear myself dropping it into the conversation at dinner parties -- but what I'm actually doing is wearing a red polyester uniform and attempting to give out leaflets to people who don't want to take them.

"Publisher?" my American asks as he eases me through a crush of people.

Would that I could claim such a lofty position. I could pretend, but what would that achieve? But maybe I don't need to admit that my knowledge of books extends to buying the battered copies that have done the rounds of charity shops to fill my long and lonely nights. I am an aficionada of dog-eared Danielle Steel. "No." How can I make this sound riveting? I have no idea. I'm not that inventive -- at least not at short notice. "I'm Chief Leaflet Giver-Outer."

He tries to look impressed, as if I've just told him I'm chancellor of the exchequer.

"It's a temporary position." Oh dear. I sound dreadfully bitter.

The London Book Fair is held in Olympia and it takes me forever to get here every morning -- as I live in Battersea on the wrong side of the river. But it's only for a week. I have to keep reminding myself of that fact. However, what happens at the end of the week could well be worse. A big fat nothing is currently looming large on the horizon of my life.

I glance at my inadequate official badge. It doesn't bear my name -- Sadie Nelson -- or any of the other details that single me out from A. N. Other. Just the name of my stand. I guess the people who generally perform this thankless task don't hang around long enough to warrant having a printed name badge.

"I'm Gil," this gorgeous American says over his shoulder. "Gil McGann."

"Publisher?"

"No." He gives a dismissive shake of his head and takes a firmer grip of my arm as we thread our way through the oncoming throng. "I'm a Hollywood film producer."

Yes, and I'm Halle Berry.

"I've just bought a great book," he continues. "The One That Got Away. A romantic comedy -- funny as hell."

"I'm here to do smiley things with the author."

Oh good. So let me just get this clear: I'm standing here in a red polyester uniform, which is designed specifically to fit someone shorter, fatter and forty years older than me, talking to a gorgeous Hollywood film producer about his latest movie acquisition. On the plus side, I'm having a good hair day. And, despite not asking my name, he told me I was gorgeous. Any minute now, my alarm clock is going to go off and I'm not going to be able to decide whether this was a dream or a nightmare.

Currently, it could go either way.

We squeeze through the crowd and onto another exhibition stand which is a hundred times bigger and swankier than Bindlatters Books' one. It is hung with huge posters of trendy books, some of which I've even heard of, but haven't read because they haven't hit the Skid Row of the charity shops yet. There is a group of people drinking champagne in the corner and laughing loudly. A stainless-steel table with a smear-free glass top has been arranged at one side and there is a crackle of anticipation in the few people, looking decidedly like fellow minions, who are milling around.

Gil stands next to me but doesn't let go of my arm. I'm not complaining. I have goose pimples all over me and yet I'm not the slightest bit cold. In fact, you could probably grill hamburgers on my cheeks.

"I hope you don't think this is too much of an imposition?"

"Not at all." My hormones are nudging me to do my most winning smile. I can't -- my feet are hurting too much from standing in one spot all day in high heels. My lips stretch tightly across my teeth and from somewhere in the depths of my reserves, I send a tired smile back at him. "Though you haven't actually told me what you want me to do."

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Excerpted from The Sweetest Taboo by Matthews, Carole Excerpted by permission.
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