Her Secret Shame
An Annotated Mills & Boon Romance In Digest Form
By Siobhan Starmayden and A. Edwina Drubbersnout
Carmelita Sandblower sat in the Three Broomsticks, sipping Butterbeer and attempting to alleviate the ennui that had overtaken her like Communism through Eastern Europe. In her hand she held a bunch of neatly-bundled letters, each one a tear-stained reminder of the life she must leave behind, a life that she could never return to.
These letters were her secret shame, and that was why she was occupying the corner booth, dropping each page individually into the cold hearth, cold like her prospects of love, and burning it with a flame that could only mock the hot passion she had known.
"Incendio." Some of the pages were so wet with tears that they wouldn't light. Those she took and tore into tiny little pieces like the pieces of her life, which she must now try to gather together, like Purdy and Pongo's 15 puppies, each piece trying desperately to squirm and wriggle away.
A/N – AD: Siobhan, you're off your chump! No-one's going to get the reference to Communism, and where's the bloke? I want to finish this before I grow old and die, could we get on with it please? I'm getting a pain in my arse sitting and reading this drivel. Also, aren't some of those comparisons a little – well, hackneyed? Your paper and your parts are pure crap.
A/N – SS: Edwina, all things come to those who wait. Rome wasn't built in a day. Perfection takes time. And as for your arse, well, Abscess makes the heart grow fonder, yuk yuk yuk!!
No, but seriously, I get what you say about my writing style. So, I have two things to say to you: Beta Version, and Your Turn.
It was as she was using her pearly-white teeth to tear apart a particularly tough piece of parchment, that she sensed a presence at the door. It was a presence perceived rather than felt. She unwillingly raised her tear-stained face to the shadowy presence, standing taut and sardonic in the backlit barroom door, and she felt her bosom heave with longing.
Slowly, inexorably, the man, dripping with masculine ironicism, stalked into the room, like a wild animal on the hunt. The smell of cheroots filled Carmelita's sensitive, softly-curved nostrils, and she knew in an instant that it must be him. Christopher St. Nicholas, otherwise known as The Saint. The man she wept for. The man she longed for. The man she left.
The man who came for her.
Striding purposefully forward, the man known as The Saint grasped Carmelita painfully by the shoulders, drew her roughly into his arms, held her against his taut body, already hardening with desire, and kissed her deeply on her softly-curved mouth. Suddenly released from his arms, strong like rebar, Carmelita slumped back onto the barstool.
Without a word, The Saint, the smoker, the man she loved, dropped a thick, creamy
A/N – SS: Edwina, you gotta be kidding. This is a family story.
A/N – AD: Siobhan, will you please open your eyes and shut your mouth?!
envelope on the table before her. Wordlessly he stalked from the room, and she heard the chirp of a Muggle car alarm being turned off, and the soft 'click' of The Saint's Viper door opening and closing.
Grasping the envelope with trepidation, she opened it. In it was only one thing. A key. The key to all the joy and fulfillment that had heretofore been denied her…the key to Christopher's car.
Now that she had the means to enter and even drive his car, things would never be the same. And yet…things would never be different the way they were going to be.
The End.
A/N – SS: Edwina, can I convey to you how ardently I admire and love you?
A/N – AD: Siobhan, yes you can, but not here, not now.
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