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  The significant third character is most often the child of the hero or heroine, though she can be a parent, sibling, or friend who plays a very large part in the story. If the hero and heroine are together only because they've been named guardians to an orphaned six-year-old, the child is the significant third character. If the hero needs the heroine to provide care for his very sick father, and much of the story happens at the old man's bedside, the father is likely to be the significant third character. If the story is a psychological thriller in which the hero and heroine know exactly who's chasing them, the villain is often the significant third character.

  It's a challenge to keep this character in her proper place—at the edge of the main story, not in the middle. It's easy to get careless and drift away from the main characters toward the significant third, particularly when this extra character is a child. We're almost programmed to put a child's needs before those of adults, and that carries through in odd ways when writing about a child. The result—anything from a textbook on child raising to a dictionary of baby talk—isn't a romance.

  Many a romance novel has been destroyed by a significant third who became too important. The romance must remain firmly fixed on the two main characters.

  Even if the most troublesome problem between them revolves around the significant third, it is the tension between the two main characters that is important.

  In the first chapter of Penny McCusker's long contemporary Noah and the Stork, the significant third character appears just as the hero, Noah, and the heroine, Janey, are about to say good-bye after their first meeting in nearly a decade:

  "I guess I should head out," he said, but instead of leaving he had the audacity to step up to the fence and offer his hand.

  Janey was going to take it, too. There was no way she'd back down from the challenge she saw in his eyes, no matter what it might cost her to actually put her hand in his. She took a step forward, then stopped short at the sound of her daughter's voice.

  "Mom," Jessie called, racketing out the front door and down the steps, jumping the last three as had become her habit. ... "Mrs. Devlin called. They're riding out to bring in the spring calves this weekend, and she asked if I want to go along. ..."

  "Mom?" Noah said, his jaw dropping. Not that he couldn't see her as a mom; he couldn't think of anyone who loved children more or would be better at raising them than Janey. It was only that, in his mind, she was still seventeen, still carefree and single, not a grown woman with a kid eight or nine years old. ...

  Jessie turned around then and Noah found himself looking into a pair of green eyes, the kind of green eyes he'd seen every morning of his life, staring back at him from his own mirror. ...

  They stood that way for a moment, eyes locked, nerves strained, enough emotional baggage between them to make Sigmund Freud feel overworked.

  The kid came to everyone's rescue. She glanced up at her mom, then confidently stepped out of the shelter of Janey's arms. She stopped halfway between the two adults, fixed Noah with a stare that was almost too direct to return, and said, "I'm Jessie. Are you my dad?"

  Once Noah knows about his daughter, he's no longer in a mood to shake hands and walk away; he's furious, and he's determined to have a part in raising his child. The rest of the story happens only because of Jessie. Yet, though we see Jessie interacting with each parent, the majority of the story is about Noah and Janey, with their daughter remaining on the edges of the action.

  The Villain

  Not all romance novels have villains, and in the ones that do, the villain may be important enough to be considered a significant third character or he may be a secondary character, less crucial and less well developed. The villain's goal is usually not directly connected to the romance. He isn't trying to break up the couple; they're just standing in his way as he's trying to get revenge, acquire money, or eliminate a threat. So the classic villain is much more likely to appear in single-title or mainstream books, historicals, or long contemporary

  category romances—all of which have more room for complex subplots, mysteries, or intrigue.

  A truly powerful and effective villain must have something sympathetic about him or he will be interchangeable with dozens of other forgettable bad guys. The readers don't have to approve of his breaking in to the bank vault, but if they understand—and maybe even respect—his reasons, he'll be a much more effective foil for the hero and heroine.

  A villain always has a reason for doing what he does—and he's always convinced it's an excellent reason. In real life, a bad guy's reasoning may make no sense to other people, even though it seems perfectly legitimate to him. In fiction, however, the more logical the villain's reasoning is, the more involved the readers will be in the outcome. If you explain your villain's actions by simply saying that he's crazy, you won't satisfy your readers.

  In this selection from her single-title historical The Warrior, Claire Delacroix shows her villain justifying any means to gain control of an important relic—because it will establish his claim to take over his enemies' land:

  At the original site of Inverfyre, Dubhglas MacLaren worried the scarred flesh where his eye had once been. ... He ... stood outside the burned wreckage of the chapel, the wind tousling his hair as he gazed upon the splendor of the new Inverfyre.

  Soon it would be his own.

  Hopefully, his man ... would discover the location of the Titulus Croce, for Dubhglas would need the relic to be invested as Laird of Inverfyre. His possession of it would prove the legitimacy of his claim to the common people. ...

  In Dubhglas's mind, this relic is important enough to kill for. Though we as readers don't agree with his reasoning, we understand why he feels that way; Dubhglas is a scarier opponent for the hero and heroine because it's clear that he won't be easily stopped.

  The Other Woman

  Not every romance novel includes an Other Woman who competes for the hero's attention and love, but many do. She might be a current girlfriend or an ex-wife, a co-worker, a friend, or someone he's never paid attention to at all. The Other Woman provides opposition to the heroine and adds an extra level of interest.

  Like the villain, the Other Woman is more effective if she's at least somewhat sympathetic—at least in the beginning. If it's instantly obvious to the readers that she's a complete bitch, how could your supposedly intelligent hero ever have fallen for her? And if she's clearly a self-centered liar, why does your supposedly intelligent heroine believe her? But if she starts out as a reasonable person, it will be even more shocking when she ultimately reveals her inner Hastiness.

  And if you give the Other Woman not only some redeeming characteristics but a reason for her interference (not just a desire to make the heroine miserable), you'll create a much more interesting and believable scenario.

  The heroine should never descend to the Other Woman's level, but she should be able to put the Other Woman in her place—as does Melody, the heroine of Annette Blair's single title The Kitchen Witch.

  "Witch," Tiffany said, almost, but not quite, beneath her breath. ...

  "Shark," Melody said, in the same low biting manner.

  Tiffany stiffened, and Logan began to cough.

  "Over there," Melody said. "In the aquarium, isn't that a shark?"

  Melody makes her point and puts Tiffany on notice not to attack her again, but because she hasn't exactly called Tiffany a name, she hasn't sacrificed her standing as a heroine.

  Though the Other Woman can play a pivotal part in the romance, she is a secondary character, and she shouldn't take over the story. Since she can sometimes be more fun to write about than the heroine, limit the amount of time the Other Woman and the hero are together without the heroine present. Avoid writing from the Other Woman's point of view, because going into her thoughts takes the focus off the heroic couple.

  The Wrong Man

  The masculine equivalent of the Other Woman is the Wrong Man—the one who's bad news for the heroine in one way or another. He mi
ght be her fiance, ex-hus-band, or the man she's dating when she meets the hero. The heroine may have dated him just once, but he continues to pursue her because he's convinced she's the only woman for him. Or, he might not be anything at all to her, but he'd like to be.

  The Wrong Man comes in many varieties. He's not necessarily a bad man, he's just wrong for the heroine. He may be so devoted to his job that he has no real time for the heroine, or he might be so passive and dependent that he's more like a doormat than a man. Alternatively, he might be so nice and agreeable that he has no convictions or strength. He may be using the heroine financially or emotionally. Or he might simply be self-centered, arrogant, and oblivious to her needs.

  In any of these variations, the Wrong Man can be thoroughly unpleasant if he doesn't get his way, and he's not above deliberately causing trouble between the hero and heroine.

  The heroine may have already realized how bad this man is for her, or she may come to understand this during the story because of the contrast between the Wrong Man and the hero.

  The Wrong Man can be just as much fun to create as the Other Woman. But it makes sense to be careful when building the character, especially if you want your heroine to he seriously involved with him before she meets and falls in love with the hero. If he's so bad for her, or he's such a loser, why hasn't your brilliant heroine seen through him already? If you let him show his true colors slowly and subtly, your readers and the heroine will discover together exactly how awful he is.

  In her sweet traditional That Old Feeling, Cara Colter shows the moment her heroine, while talking to the hero, realizes that the guy she's been dating is the Wrong Man:

  "I have to leave," she said, and hoped he could not hear the faint note of desperation in her voice. ... "First thing in the morning. ... I've had a call from Jason."

  "Ah," [Clint] said. ... "And Jason is?"

  "A friend. A good friend. The boy who's asked me to marry him, actually."

  She knew as soon as she blurted it out how wrong it sounded, but he picked up on the part of it that was wrong.

  "A boy," he said, with the softest edge of scorn.

  And she knew it was true. Jason was a boy. Immature and self-centered, perhaps even colossally so. They'd been friends for years, and none of those things had mattered, as long as they were just friends.

  Then ... in a moment that was probably inspired by too much champagne, Jason had seen her romantically. ...

  She had said she needed time to think things over, but her time with Clint was not helping her sort through anything. It just confused everything more.

  Only one thing was crystal clear: Clint was a man. Jason was a boy.

  Until she compared him with the hero, Colter's heroine thought that Jason was a pretty good guy. But once she spots the contrast between Jason and Clint, she can't ever go back to thinking that Jason might be right for her.

  Like the Other Woman, the Wrong Man may try to take over the story, absorbing space and story time. Be wary of letting the focus of the story slide off of the main characters and onto the Wrong Man.

  The Parent/Grandparent

  Meddlesome parents, grandparents, and other assorted relatives used to be a staple of the romance novel. Now that young adults are more independent and less concerned about what others think of them, the managing relative is less useful to the romance novelist. But that doesn't mean the breed has died out.

  However, the relative plays a different role today than she did in the past. Instead of matchmaking or actively manipulating the hero and heroine, the relative expresses a real problem or need that the hero and heroine get caught up in resolving.

  A big temptation when dealing with a parent or grandparent is to let the story drift into details of the past, concentrating on things like the relationship between parent and child during the adolescent years—whether or not it has anything to do with the current story.

  Occasionally the parent/grandparent doubles as the villain, as in Jo Beverley's single-title historical The Devil's Heiress. In this passage, the hero, Hawk, confronts his father, who he suspects is planning to destroy the family estate:

  Hawk was blunt. "Is Slade planning more building here?" His father twitched, then looked away. "Why?" Guilt, for sure.

  But then the squire looked back, arrogance in place. "What business is it of yours? I still rule here, boy. ..."

  "It is my inheritance, sir," Hawk said, "and thus my business. What is Slade planning, and why are you permitting it? ... I was told that there were men here who sounded like surveyors studying the area along the river and that they later spoke to Slade. What interest could Slade have down here? There is no available land. ..."

  "You might as well know. Slade's planning to tear down this place, and the cottages too, and build himself a grand riverside villa. ..."

  Doubt and fear stirred. His father, for all his faults, was not a fool, nor had his illness turned him mad. "What have you done?"

  The squire took a sip of brandy, managing to look down his long, straight nose. ... "I have gained a peerage for us."

  The father's actions prompt the rest of the story, as Hawk's efforts to save the family home force him to court a woman he doesn't love.

  The Extended Family

  Sometimes it seems that romance heroes and heroines come in just two varieties—those who have no family at all (or at least none that they want to speak to) and those who have enormous, close, warm-and-fuzzy families.

  Family members can be terrific tools for giving information to the readers. They're likely to be delightfully and brutally frank, they can act as a catalyst for a main character's action or change of heart, and they know more about the hero's or heroine's past experiences than most friends do.

  One danger with using family members as characters is becoming too involved in explaining the family relationships. If you find yourself detailing the birth order of siblings, or how their current quarrels and disagreements hark back to their childhood days, refocus the story on the hero and heroine.

  It's tempting sometimes to throw a kid into a story just for the entertainment value—maybe an ornery little brother, the precocious child of the hero or heroine, a cute niece or nephew. But unless this child is an important part of the plot, think twice. Even if the child is an important secondary character, it's easy to allow her to distract you from the main story. Send the kid out to play or put her down for a nap so you can keep the focus on the hero and heroine.

  The Best Friends

  Next to family members, friends are the most likely characters to speak their minds. They're also the characters most able to influence a main character's actions. Unlike heroes and heroines, friends aren't restricted to speaking gently and being polite. Showing a hero or heroine interacting with a friend is one of the best ways to demonstrate what sort of person the main character is.

  Friends are also a good source of information for the hero or heroine, allowing the author to share details in an interesting way. In her long contemporary The Secret Wedding Dress, Roz Denny Fox shows her heroine, Sylvie, and her best friend as they piece together information about Sylvie's new neighbor:

  Anita heard the bumping going on next door, and paused. "Has someone moved into Iva's house?"

  "In the process of moving. See the van? ... You mean you haven't heard any scuttlebutt at work?" Anita was the loan manager for Briarwood's only bank.

  "We wouldn't necessarily hear if there's no mortgage involved. Iva's great-nephew probably sold the property. I think he's employed by a newspaper in Atlanta. Iva used to brag on him. ... I can't remember, but I think he may have been Iva's only living relative."

  "Wouldn't we know if he'd listed the property for sale?" Sylvia ducked to see if she could ascertain what was going on next door.

  "I suppose it's conceivable the nephew just retired."

  "Then he's not the man I saw carrying stuff in from the car. And there's a little girl. She can't be more than six or seven."

  Thro
ugh their dialogue, the two characters fill in the reader while the main character also finds out what's going on. (We'll talk more about the use of dialogue in chapter twelve.)

  Friends or groups of friends sometimes creep into stories because the author would like to write sequels featuring related characters. New writers often spend so much time and effort setting up such a sequel that they get distracted from the initial story. Or, in an effort to make a secondary character suitable to star in her own books, they try so hard to preserve the heroic qualities of the character that she doesn't fulfill the useful role she should be playing in the first story. Make sure your secondary characters stay in a secondary role.

  TERTIARY CHARACTERS

  Tertiary or third-level characters are the walk-ons, the extras who probably have no recurring part in the story. Because they're less important to the plot, they may not have names at all, or they may have only a single name. Examples might be the butler, the waitress, and the secretary, all of whom function in the story without being a critical part of it.

  It's a good idea to check all the tertiary characters to see which ones are really necessary. Can you combine several of them into one?

  The appearance of large numbers of tertiary characters can be a tip-off to poor scene construction. For instance, if a cab driver appears once in your story, is he really necessary? Unless something important happens during the heroine's cab ride—something that seriously impacts the story—it might be better to begin the scene with the heroine's arrival at the party, rather than with her getting in the cab. Eliminating the cab ride also removes the need for the cab driver.

  The goal is not to do away with tertiary characters altogether but to avoid using precious space on them unless they're a real benefit to the story. In her long contemporary Cinderella Christmas, Shelley Galloway's heroine meets a shoe salesman, a tertiary character who will fill the role of fairy godmother: