- hires a gnarly biker to run me down and beat me senseless with a tire iron
- plans to use his outboard motor to turn me into chum while I’m swimming
- intends to blow me sky high with the blocks of C-4 gathering dust in his garage
- tinkers with a Ferris wheel gondola to splatter my body three stories down
- dynamites a Jamaican cave to bury me inside.
Perhaps my lovable Aunt Kate’s to blame. When she babysat my sister and me, my great aunt acted out Macbeth as a bedtime story. So, naturally, if a flu bug kept me home from school, I imagined the creaking floors in our old house were caused by a knife-wielding madman ready to yell "Out, damn'd spot! out, I say!" shortly after he plunged his dagger in me.
My phobias are a great help to my villains. They seem quite keen on using my fear of heights, snakes, large spiders, small dark spaces and rabid dogs.Yet my heroines always survive.
That’s the great thing about romantic suspense. The heroine gets to live AND she gets the guy. Her brush with death makes the HEA (happy ever after) all the more sweet.