Other than a mid-1980s dalliance with the "Sweet Dreams" teen series of romance novels, I have never been a fan of the genre, neither the "historical"bodice rippers nor the more hip, modern versions that feature lascivious hunks with vastly unbuttoned shirts and oiled, ripped chests on the front covers, tempting lovelorn women to pick them up and live out their wildest fantasies. Yeah. Right.I will confess, however, that I am perpetually intrigued with said covers and the titles. The artwork absolutely slays me, and it amazes me how similar the titles (and the plots outlined on the back cover) are to one another.
I mean how many contemporary romance novels out there are about sweet young things falling hard for a race car driver? Almost every other one I pick up (the others are about firefighters or handsome young doctors.)
How many women actually meet a hot race car driver and fall for him? Oh wait, I should ask one of my distant cousins. She dumped her husband in purusit of a married driver. Seriously. You can't make this stuff up. At least not in my family.
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