Phyllis Gordon was completely honest and very intelligent. Terry McLean was her first and only lover, and she knew his declarations were sincere. But Phyllis cared too much for him to marry him until she had rid herself of her unrequited passion for her millionaire employer, Kenyon Rutledge.
But that looked like a hopeless cause, because Kenyon’s fiancee, Letty Lawrence, was also well equipped with beauty and brains, and she had money besides. How’s a girl to compete with that?
Then Phyllis’s little country cousin, Anice Mayhew, arrival in town spelled danger for both Phyllis and Letty. For Anice was dewy-eyed, super sweet … and diabolically innocent.
by Peggy Gaddis
Eroline Pearl Gaddis Dern (1895 – 1966) began her literary career editing trade journals and fan magazines. For thirty years she wrote traditional romances for a single publisher, Arcadia House. For the last ten of those years she wrote principally nurse novels. She also wrote “love novels,” a romance genre invented by lending-library publishers that was considered a bit racier for the times.
An excerpt from No Nice Girl:
The house next door slept placidly in the moonlight. That is, there were no lights and the curtains were neatly drawn and all was silence. Above, the first full moon of summer hung in the sky, making it almost as bright as day, though with a softness that added clarity to the scene.
The house was small and neat and white, framed by a freshly painted white picket fence behind which grew neat flower beds and carefully trimmed shrubbery. In fact, the house stood out in that rather down-at-heels neighborhood, especially in comparison to the two on either side of it, neither of which boasted a fence, fresh paint or flower beds.
In the dwelling on the left, a girl who was only a dim, shadowy figure, invisible to anyone outside, hunched beside the window, watching the neat little white house with a gleam in her eyes.
Down the street, in the thick shadows cast by an old sycamore tree, stood a handsome, expensive coupe. With the lights off, the car was invisible more than a few feet away—except to the carefully hidden watcher who had seen it being parked there shortly before eleven o’clock, long after the shabby little side street had turned out its lights and gone to bed.
Behind the watcher at the window, a clock chimed twelve. She grinned to herself, decided it was safe to risk a cigarette if she stepped back into the shadows of the room before she struck the match. With the cigarette glowing between her fingers, she settled herself a little more comfortably in the battered old wing chair, and once more took up her vigil.