


Love's Tender Fury

MaryJanice Davidson





CHAPTER ONE


It began as it always did, another endless book signing in an overcrowded
bookstore. The theme du jour was controlled chaos-lots of clerks dashing
about, long lines at the checkout counter-a consumer's nightmare, a store
manager's dream. Any other author would have been thrilled, positively
joyful at such a busy book signing. Not Marnie Hammer. Never Marnie
Hammer.

She could hear the babble of her fans around her. Instead of thrilling
her, as it had in the very beginning, or infuriating her, as it had the
last few years, now she merely found the enthusiasm profoundly depressing.

Head down, signing like an automaton, she could hear the next two women
in line chatting.

"Is that the time? I've been here for an hour already."

"I've been here since lunch," her companion gushed. "Who cares? You know
what a signed Jessica LeFleur is worth? I'm still hanging onto the one I
got from last year's book tour. See?" The woman, a smartly dressed
brunette, dug a hardcover out of her totebag and flipped open the cover,
reading aloud. "`Why don't you try Les Miserables? Jessica.'"

"Doesn't she have the best sense of humor?"

Puke , thought Jessica. "Next!"

The first woman elbowed her way to the head of the line. "Could you sign
it, "To my number one fan, Love, Jessica?"

Jessica snapped her gum, quelling irritation. She had so many "number one
fans", she needed to employ a census taker to keep track of them all. "I
could." She took the proffered book, her newest release, and scribbled,
`Help! I'm trapped in a publishing contract and I can't get out!'" Then
she handed the book back.

The customer read the inscription and smiled uncertainly. "Um.thank you."

Jessica cracked her gum again. "Next!"

Seated beside her, her best friend, Joe Halloran, growled to show his
disapproval. He knew why she was rude to her fans, but didn't tolerate
it. "Cut the crap," he muttered in her ear, "or no more M&M's." He added
to the still smiling, still puzzled customer, "Don't mind her, ma'am.
She's on medication."

"Oh! I'm sorry to hear that. I hope you feel better soon. I just love
your work."

Oh, here we go , she thought. "Why?"

"Because-" The woman faltered, then plunged ahead. "Because you write
such beautiful love stories. You're my favorite author. Better than
Danielle Steele and Julie Garwood put together!"

Jessica sighed. It never ceased to amaze her. She wrote crap, which
people mistook for gold. Libraries were stuffed with dusty classics, and
meanwhile people were standing in line for three hours to get a signed
Jessica LeFleur. It was beyond ridiculous. Worse, it made you lose
respect for them. Almost as much respect as she had lost for herself.

* * * * *

Toward the end of the line, Tony Freeborg was amazed at the number of
women in line. And not your everyday hausfraus, either; many of them were
in business suits that cost more than everything in his closet put
together. Not such a trick, given where he shopped and how often he
shopped-which was bi-yearly at the most-but still.

"I can't believe it!" his mom was raving, in itself a startling
development. Elinor Freeborg did not rave. "I can't believe I'm going to
get a signed LeFleur! Now, when we're up there, smile nice and give her
your card."

"Ma. I'm a nobody. I have exactly zero clients, which is why I still work
for Mutch and Musch. She's Jessica C. LeFleur, worldwide sales in the
bazillions. She doesn't need an agent, she needs an accountant." His cell
phone rang; he pulled it out and flipped it open. "Freeborg.I can't talk
right now. And for the tenth time, I don't want the service!" He paused,
listening, while his mom looked on, unabashedly curious. "No.no! Just
leave me alone. I don't want to talk! About anything!" He slapped the
phone shut and stuffed it back into his pocket.

"What in the world?"

"My boss is making all the editors carry cell phones, and she bought us
free hours of Dial-A-Shrink."

"Well. That was nice."

He snorted. "Yeah. A nice pain in the ass. None of us were using the
service, so my boss is making the shrinks call us. All day long, my damn
cell phone is ringing, and on the other end I hear, `Tell me about your
mother.' The trouble with people in therapy-like my boss-is that they
think everyone else should be in therapy, too."

Elinor smiled. "Think about the state of the world for a moment. Then
tell me more people shouldn't be in therapy."

"Ha! Good-"

"Look! It's almost our turn."

His mother, who hadn't gotten excited when his brother graduated magna
cum laude or when his father won the local lottery, was actually jumping
up and down on her little size fives. He had to laugh.

"All right, ladies." There was a man at the signing table, standing and
holding his arms up like a television evangelist. "Ms. LeFleur is
finished signing books for the day."

As one, the crowd groaned. The man winced, but bravely continued. "She'll
be in attendance at the Romance Readers' Convention tomorrow at the Civic
Center ."

Remarkably mercurial, the crowd perked up.

"But now she has to go."

Tony could see the man standing beside Miss Hot Stuff Author was clearly
uncomfortable at being the bearer of bad tidings. Tony could also see
Miss Hot Stuff Author didn't mind making her flunky do the dirty work.
She wasn't even looking at her loyal fans, just lying there, her head
pillowed on her arms, eyes closed. Meanwhile, Flunky Boy was still
yapping.

"I'm sorry. She'll be signing books tomorrow."

It was maddening. They finally made it to the head of the line, only to
be told Miss Hot stuff Author had writer's cramp or whatever and was
blowing off the rest of her fans.

He cleared his throat. "Um.Miss LeFleur."

Miss Hot Stuff Author, he noticed, couldn't be bothered to look up. All
he could see was the top of her head.

"Don't call me that," she groaned into her forearm. "I can't take it. My
name is Marnie."

His mother tugged so hard at his sleeve, she practically ripped his arm
off. "Don't bother her."

He ignored her, bending toward the table like a testy maitre `d. "I
realize it's asking too much of you to sign books for fans, thereby
increasing sales and your bottom line. It must be a terrible burden.
We're really sorry to put you out like this. But if you could bring
yourself to sign just one.more.book. If you try to make that extra effort
that separates champions from schmucks-"

What's-her-name stood, and then she was gone, stomping past the crowd. At
no time, he noticed, did she trouble herself to look him full in the face.

Disgusted, he straightened. "And speaking of schmucks."

His mother shook her head. "She's tired. We only waited in line for half
an hour, but she's been here all day, signing. It's okay."

What's-her-name's flunky, meanwhile, had been shifting from one foot to
another, and now he cleared his throat. "Why don't you give me your
address, ma'am? I'll send you a signed copy."

Tony had been about to answer when his mother sent a sharp elbow into his
ribs. He glared at her, but obediently reached into his pocket and.

"Here's my card."

Flunky Boy took it, studied it. "Mutch and Musch?"

"It's a small publishing house," he explained. "We do mostly poetry
anthologies and a few literary novels. You can send the book to my
attention."

Flunky Boy was now looking at him appraisingly, tapping his business card
against his teeth. "Ah-hmm. Maybe we could have dinner sometime. I know a
charming bistro that doesn't skimp on the bread. I can give you Love's
Tender Fury then."

His mother jumped in. "He'd love to."

"Ma."

"He's free for a date tomorrow. Or anytime!"

Tony swallowed a groan. Matchmaking was one thing, but. "First of all,
I'm not free tomorrow. Second-"

"What's the matter with you? He's about your age, he seems to like you,
he's handsome.if you like skinny.he hangs around writers so he must be
smart-"

"But I'm not gay."

She threw up her hands. "Oh, picky, picky."

Flunky Boy snorted. "You can't blame me for trying."

"Tony, he's nice! And how do you know you're not gay unless you've tried
it?"

As God was his witness, he had no idea how to answer such a ridiculous
question.

"Well, if you decide you do want to try it." Flunky Boy was trying very
hard not to laugh.

"You'll be the first person I call," he said dryly.

"I just think," his mother said with cool dignity, "you should keep your
options open, is all."

"Great, Ma."



CHAPTER TWO

˙

Mystery writers got together and tried to solve fake murders. Science
fiction writers went to Star Trek Conventions, planetariums, and toured
NASA. Literary writers went to graduate school. And romance writers?
Romance writers held giant conventions with half-naked men parading down
runways, while women screamed themselves hoarse and vied to buy the chaps
off the models' bodies. And then complained that no one in the publishing
industry took them seriously.

Marnie Hammer, a.k.a. Jessica C. LeFleur, watched the pandemonium, and
with great difficulty, stifled a yawn. A few of the men on the runway had
modeled for some of her books, but she had never gone for the
overly-muscular, blond, long-haired type.

"Maybe it's just me," she told Joe Halloran, her best friend and,
occasionally, worst enemy, "but I could never date someone prettier than
I was."

Watching the show with avid curiosity, Joe didn't look at her as he
replied. "Maybe, but you have to admit, it's hard to resist a man wearing
crotchless chaps."

She had to smile at that. She and Joe had been best friends since high
school. They did everything together.she couldn't remember the last book
signing she'd had to do solo. He was always at her elbow, joking with her
fans, fetching her water, reading her books, flirting with the bookstore
clerks. She and Joe had lost their virginity together, and had been
lovers right up to the day Joe had come out of the closet. Sprinted out
of the closet, actually.

Fool that she was, his being gay hadn't changed her feelings for him. Now
here he was, drooling over the cover models, and if just once he'd ever
looked at her that way, just one time.

Abruptly, Joe whooped. "Passion's Warrior! Yeah!"

"Will you shut up? You're making a spectacle of yourself."

"I can't help it. Buff, gorgeous men as far as the eye can see. This is,
like, gay Graceland !"

The announcer boomed, "You've seen him on the cover of Savage Bliss. You
swooned when he carried his virgin bride over the threshold of his manor
house, Cresthaven. A big hand, ladies, for.Blanco!"

The crowd, as they say, went wild. The hall absolutely erupted with
cheers and feminine shrieks. Marnie could see a tall, muscular man with
shoulder-length brunette curls prowling the runway. He was classically
handsome, the de rigueur romance novel hero. As he approached the end of
the catwalk he turned slowly.and, to Marnie's surprise, somehow spotted
Joe in the throng.

She and Joe looked at each other, then up at Blanco, whose gaze was
riveted on Joe.

"Blanco?" she asked. "That's Spanish for white. What the hell kind of
name is that?" Joe, she was irritated to note, was still staring
helplessly. And Blanco, she was doubly irritated to note, was blowing her
ex-boyfriend a kiss. "These women are making fools of themselves. And so
are you."

Instead of being chastised, her friend only sighed. "I love romance
conventions."



CHAPTER THREE

˙

An hour later, the reluctantly famous "Jessica C. LeFleur" was seated at
her table, and Love's Tender Fury was stacked all around her. She made
herself sign books like a zombie, never looking at her fans. As always,
Joe was at her side, constantly scanning the crowd.

"Will you cut that out?" she murmured. "What is this, your Secret Service
impersonation?"

"Just watching for a familiar face."

She scrawled something unintelligible on a copy of Love's Tender Fury,
slammed it shut, and handed it back without looking. "Next! Let's keep it
moving, people, I'd like to get some lunch before midnight ." She turned
to Joe. "Who are you looking for?"

Joe didn't answer, and she went back to her work, trying to hold her
temper. Book signings always brought out her worst traits, and she had
promised herself she wouldn't be a bitch today. Should have promised
something easier, like ending infant mortality in Calcutta .

Beside her, Joe gasped. "Oh my God! How do I look?"

"Like your usual drippy self. Luckily I'm not the type to be hung up on
looks, or I'd definitely trade you in.for.a newer.uh.model." It was hard
to concentrate. It was extremely hard to concentrate. While she was
signing, an enormous pair of white, fringed buckskin pants had entered
her line of vision at crotch level. She slowly looked up.and up. Blanco
in person was huge-well over six feet. "Guh."

Blanco stretched out one huge hand, grabbed Love's Tender Fury, and
handed it to her.

"Sign, por favor."

Recovering, she smirked and took the book. "Big fan of romance novels,
are you?"

Blanco, of course, was staring at Joe, who was staring back. Marnie tried
to make eye contact, in vain.

"SĄ. I am.how to say? Libro grande."

She raised her eyebrows. "You're a big book?"

"Big fan. Sign, please."

"Okey-dokey. Love the fake Spanish accent, by the way." She flipped open
the book and began writing. "To.my good.friend.Blanco. I'll remember.last
night.always. Your passion.your stamina.your broken English. Yours,
Jessica C. LeFleur."

She slapped the book closed, wondering if he would actually read the
inscription, and gave it back to him. Blanco took it and looked her full
in the face-finally.

"I have a flat tire."

She rolled her eyes. The guy was transparent and unbelievable. "This
isn't the Triple A booth, pal."

"Jack!" Joe yelled, startling everyone around them.

"Gosh, how rude of me," she said with faux brightness. "Blank-o, this is
my friend Joe, who likes to refer to himself as Jack. Joe, meet Blank-o."

"I mean.I have a jack." Joe smiled weakly.

"Bien. Vamos."

Just like that, he turned and marched out, and Joe scrambled out from
behind the table to follow. Amused in spite of herself, she watched them
go. So did about fifty awestruck spectators.

* * * * *

About ten fans back, Tony Freeborg was standing in line. He'd asked
himself again and again why he was here, and could find no satisfactory
answer. Instead, he kept pulling out his business card, then stuffing it
back into his pocket, then pulling it out-it was getting a little
crumpled from all the handling. He kept peeking around the people in
front of him to look at Marnie-a.k.a. Jessica C. LeFleur.

"Hi, I'm Tony Freeborg," he practiced. "Tony Freeborg, Mutch and Musch.
Hi there.hi, I'm Tony.how are you? Hello. Freeborg's the name.books are
my game. Ugh!"

Get hold of yourself, moron , he instructed himself sternly. Don't know
why you'd be nervous, anyway, she's rude and full of herself. "Hi, I'm
Tony Freeborg, Mutch and Musch. Are you looking for representation? I
realize this isn't the time or place, but perhaps we could discuss it
over dinner?"

That was about right. Interested and friendly, but not a potential
stalker-exactly the image he wanted to project.

Before long, it was his turn. Marnie grabbed yet another copy of Love's
Tender Fury and signed it without looking up. He wasn't surprised; he
didn't know her that well (at all, actually), but it was clear she hated
being where she was. The woman was a mystery, and Tony Freeborg had
never, ever been able to resist a mystery.

He took a deep breath and prepared to launch into his speech. "Hi."

"Hi."

He'd been prepared to be ignored. When she spoken so abruptly, it threw
him off. So did her looks-he hadn't gotten much of a glimpse yesterday,
but today he did. And she was spectacular, like a heroine out of one of
her own romance novels. Shoulder-length blonde hair, big green eyes. Fair
skin. Mouth in a frown, but he could see the lips were full, the lower
one tender and waiting for kisses, kisses that-

"Next!"

And that was that. He'd been so busy staring at her like a school-boy,
he'd blown his chance. And, walking away, he knew he'd never have such a
chance again.

His cell phone beeped at him and he fished it out. "Biggest chump in the
world speaking."

The voice that greeted him was a pleasant contralto, slightly breathy,
and ridiculously young. "Having a rough day, Tony?"

"You could say that. If this is about the Girl Scout Cookie thing, I told
you, the check's in the mail."

"Har, har. Why don't you tell me about it, dude?"

"Oh, man, not you guys again. How many times do I have to explain this? I
don't want to make use of your service."

"Aw, don't be like that. Your boss bought, like, a humongous block of
time. I'm obligated to make myself available to my patients."

Tony glanced back; he could barely see Marnie, surrounded by fans, but
that one glance was enough to weaken his resolve. "How old are you?"

"Twenty."

"And you're a real psychiatrist?"

"Board certified. I'm sort of a genius. But call me Dr. Doogie just once
and I'm so hanging up on you."

"I'll keep it in mind."

"So come on, man. You've got the time, I've got the time.to use a
psychological term, spill your guts."

He hesitated, but he was dying to confide in someone. He supposed the
trendy dial-a-shrink would have to do. "Well.there's this woman."

"Isn't there always?"

˙



CHAPTER FOUR

˙

"Thank God that's over for another year. Jesus! I don't know why I let
myself get talked into going every time."

Joe laughed at her and drained his drink. "A little thing in your
contract called a publicity clause?"

"Don't talk to me about contracts. I've got to see Don when we finish up
here."

Before Joe could comment, the waitress came over and set down more
drinks. "Absolut on the rocks," she said, deftly sweeping their trash out
of the way.

"Ewww, Joe! How can you drink that liquid hell?"

The waitress didn't change expression, but Marnie thought she detected a
twinkle in the woman's eye as she added, "And a Shirley Temple.with a
tequila chaser."

Now that was more like it. Marnie gulped down her tequila as the waitress
left, then followed it with a swallow of Shirley Temple while Joe looked
on in mingled fascination and nausea. "My editor's going to want a title
for my latest literary bowel movement."

"Will you knock it off? You write great books. Even I like to read them."

"I'm a whore for the entire paperback book industry."

"Waitress!" Joe screamed.

The waitress, who hadn't had time to get far, came back.

"Take these away, please," he continued, shoving the glasses toward her,
"and bring the lady some coffee. Repeatedly."

"I loathe coffee," Marnie muttered.

"You get so obnoxious when you've been drinking. It's either drink coffee
or be slapped."

"Can't we do both?" She paused, trying to decide if she was joking or
not. Since she didn't know, Joe was probably right.it was time to switch
to coffee. "We're still on for the movies tonight?"

"Assuming you can crawl out of your self-pity pit long enough to fork
over eight bucks to General Cinemas, yes. Listen-for a title, how `bout
Passion's Fury?"

"Done that. But that's a good try. Anything with Fire or Flaming in the
title works, too."

"How about Love's Blazing Inferno?"

She laughed. "Sounds like a cross between Die Hard and Gone with the
Wind. Nice try, though. There's a list."

"What?"

"There must be a list. Some editor wrote up this list and sent it to the
marketing department of every romance novel publisher in the world."

Joe looked at her and, when she didn't crack a smile or otherwise
indicate she was joking, said, "Okayyyyy, way past time for you to sober
up."

"Ardor," she said. "Beauty, bride, bliss, caress, dawn, desire, dusk,
evening, fire, flaming, flower, fury, garden, heart, jewel, lady, love,
moon, moonlight, moonstruck, morning, night, passion, pirate, plunder,
queen, ravish, ribald, savage, sweet, sunrise, sunset, tender, wanton."

"Seek help, Mar." He paused, then asked, "What's the new book about?"

"It was about Bard and Deirdre, a poet and a psychologist who meet at an
environmentalist convention. They fall in love while implementing a
terrific recycling program that will cut paper waste by twenty-two
percent." She gulped coffee, grimaced, then took another swallow. "But
after this meeting, I'm guessing it'll be about.ah.Brad and Debbie. They
meet at a singles bar. She's there on a dare, dressed up as a prostitute
because she lost a bet. He falls for her disguise. They have mindless sex
and fall in love while implementing a new martini menu for the bar."

"How about Cocktails for Two?"

"How about I just kill myself now?"

"Passion's Plunder"?

"Been there, done that."

"Come the Dawn"?

"That has possibilities," she admitted. "Let's remember that one."

"Come the Dusk"?

"See how easy it is? I could do a whole series. The Come Trilogy. Remind
me to put you on my acknowledgments page. `And thanks to my best friend,
Joe Halloran, for a mediocre, yet provocative, title.'"

"I've been on your acknowledgments page and honey, the thrill is gone. In
lieu of seeing my name in print for the fourth time, can I have cash
instead?"

She laughed. She couldn't help it. No matter how down she got-and these
days, she was always down-he could always crack her up. It was one of the
nicest, yet most irritating, things about him. "Off the subject, how did
Blank-o work out?"

He shivered. "Badly. As you suspected, the accent is a fake-I happen to
know el cabeza estupido doesn't mean `I can't live without you'. Blanco's
looking for love in all my wrong places.never mind. You know what you
should try?"

"A home lobotomy?"

He ignored that. "Why don't you write gay romances? There's a great
market, and I bet you could have some flexibility. A lot of my friends
complain they don't have anything to read."

"That's a really good idea, but it's not for me. I'd better stick to what
I know."

"Ha! And yet you're writing about happy women having sex. When you're
about as happy as a chocoholic on a diet, and I know perfectly well you
haven't gotten laid since Earth Day, 2001."

"Let's skip that subject, okay? I can only focus on one aspect of my
sucky life at a time."

"Don't take this the wrong way, but." He yawned theatrically.

She made no attempt to hide her irritation. "If I were a nobody, I could
write the kind of books I want. But because I'm "Jessica C. LeFleur", I'm
stuck in the bodice ripper niche."

"Bullshit."

"Truth! Even if I switched publishing houses, they'd expect a certain
type of work from me. The stuff that makes money.that's all the big
houses care about. And if I actually managed to convince someone to give
a literary manuscript a chance, the critics would hate it before they
read a word."

"The critics don't hate you now. How can you be so sure they-?"

She snorted unbelievingly. "Are you kidding? Most critics won't even
condescend to review a romance novel. But they'd all rush to review my
literary work, and trash it, to keep me in my place."

"Bitchy and paranoid. Nice combo."

"They'd think I was overstepping my bounds," she continued morosely.
"Because I'm not a real author. Not in the eyes of anyone who matters."

Joe leaned forward on his elbows, and in spite of her dreary mood, she
was again struck by his fine good looks. His eyes were large, blue, and
soulful. His hair was so black it was nearly blue under certain lights.
He was exactly her height, lean and wiry, and not for the first time did
she think AmerAsians were some of the best-looking people on the planet.
Born of a Japanese-American and a Northern European American, Joe was one
of the best-looking men she'd ever seen.

If he was only ugly, she thought desperately. I'm shallow, I'm sure I
wouldn't be so in love with him if he looked like he drank water out of a
toilet bowl.

"A) About five hundred thousand readers would disagree with that," Joe
was saying in that lecturing tone she knew well. "B) What do you care
what a bunch of stuffed-shirt critics think, and C) You're making me
sick. Do you realize how many aspiring authors would sell their sisters
to be where you are?"

"So what? I never wanted to be a best-selling author. But my agent sold
my soul to a publishing house that builds fiction giants, not literary
little people."

"Please! Not another `my life sucks even though I sell gobs of books and
have money falling out my ass' speech. Besides, your agent didn't do shit
without your permission."

Her grip tightened on her coffee cup as she glared across the table at
Joe. "My permission?!? I didn't know what I was doing back then, I
trusted his advice! The only reason I wrote Love's Sweeping Tide was
because that spawn of Satan told me the romance market was the easiest to
break into!"

"Well. He was right."

She had to agree with that one. Once all she dreamed of was getting
published; she had never thought beyond that. Now.now she was hearing
herself whine about her good fortune and it made her sick.

"I always thought I'd be so grateful to be published that I'd write
whatever they wanted. Now that I'm stuck writing crap, it's just not
enough. I know I sound whiney, I know you're sick of hearing it, but I'm
not happy."

"Think about your money! Works for me."

"`It is neither wealth nor splendor, but tranquility and occupation,
which gives happiness.' Thomas Jefferson."

In response to this, Joe scooped his bag off the floor, rooted around in
it, and produced a battered paperback. He thumbed rapidly through
tattered pages and, when he had found what he was looking for. "`There
are two things to aim at in life: first, to get what you want; and, after
that, to enjoy it. Only the wisest of mankind achieve the second.' Logan
Pearsall Smith."

"Cheater."

"You're the cheater," Joe retorted. "You've got a photographic memory,
for God's sake. It's not like you stay up late memorizing this stuff. How
many grading curves did you wreck in high school? Used to drive me crazy,
especially since you only sound smart."

"Cogito ergo sum," she said smugly. "I think. Therefore I am."

"You look like a monkey, and you smell like one, too. How `bout that?"

"Great, Joe."

˙



CHAPTER FIVE

˙

Incredibly, being at the bar with Joe was probably going to be the
highlight of her day, though all she had done was complain like a spoiled
child. Now she was seated in front of her editor's desk, having a
stare-down with a man she cordially detested. She wondered: would she
speak first, to complain, or would he?

The mystery was solved when Don cleared his throat. "I just had a lovely
chat with the hostess of the last book signing. She was thrilled to have
a famous romance novelist in her establishment. Only, next time, she
hopes you remember to take your medication before you stop by."

Marnie had no comment. They had done this dance before, she and Don. They
did it during every publicity tour. She was certain he disliked her at
least as much as she disliked him. She supposed they were both being
punished for sinful past lives.

"Since you're not on medication," he continued, "I've come up with
another explanation for your ridiculous behavior. That you've gone right
the hell out of your mind!"

"This, from a man who eats aspirin like they were Tic Tacs."

"How shall I put this to a writer of your delicate, creative nature? Your
attitude blows."

"Also, I'm clearly unstable. You'd better release me from my contract."

"Nice try, Jessica-"

Marnie slammed the palm of her hand on the arm of her chair. The sound
was very loud; she was gratified to see Don jump. "Don't call me that. My
name is Marnie. I have a perfectly fine name and it disgusts me that you
won't let me use it on the books."

"Be reasonable. Your full name doesn't project the image we need."

"There is nothing," she said through gritted teeth, "wrong with my name."

Don snorted. "Marnie L. Hammer? You sound like a Spanish hitman, for
Christ's sake. That's not the image we want to sell romance novels.
Jessica C. LeFleur has style and pan-uh-chee."

"That's panache."

"Whatever. LeFleur's got it, Hammer doesn't. For the nine billionth time."

Marnie rubbed her forehead with her fingers. She felt like the "before"
picture in a headache ad. "I can't believe they're letting you edit my
books."

Her editor fumbled for a bottle of aspirin. He popped the cap and
dry-swallowed three tablets. "What `let'? Honey, they don't let me, they
make me. As in, I lost the coin toss. As in, in addition to listening to
freaked-out bookstore managers and wading through letters from
weirded-out fans, I get to read through this." He gestured to the piles
of paper on his desk. ".and try to pull a love story out from the crapola
you keep tossing in there."

"Crapola? Oh, that's nice."

He grabbed a sheaf of manuscript pages, put on his glasses, and flipped
randomly. She cringed, knowing what was coming. "Here we go. `Deirdre-'
That's changing, by the way. I'm thinkin'.Debbie. Yeah. Debbie. `Debbie
stood at the window, her thoughts as quick and silvery as many small fish
being chased by a predator.'"

"I hate it when you do this. You could pick random lines from Tolstoy and
make them sound stupid."

Don paused in his reading and looked up, puzzled. "Tolstoy? That's the
guy who wrote about hobbits and stuff, right?"

"Oh my God," she moaned.

"Whatever. Now listen: `She could not but help reflect upon the words of
some unknown philosopher, who said, `But at my back I always hear time's
winged chariot hurrying near, and yonder all before us lie deserts of
vast eternity.' Zzzzzzzzzzz." Don had tilted back in his chair, eyes
closed, mouth open, and was fake-snoring loudly. She glanced at his desk
for something to throw, and just as her fingers closed around his
stapler, he pretended to wake up and leaned forward.

"And that's on page two. It only gets worse from there. Why do you do
this to me every damn time?"

"I was going to ask you the same question."

He gestured irritably and leaned back in his chair. "Knock it off. You
know why I called this little meeting today?"

"To further ruin my life?"

"Give me a break, okay? You've got a great life. You're rich, you have
gobs of fans and your own web site, people read your books all over the
world. In a nutshell: quit your bitching."

"I write fairly good books," she corrected him. "You turn them into crap.
Then you sell the crap to millions of women who insist on calling me
Jessica. In a nutshell: you're ruining my life."

"It's only fair, because you're sure as hell ruining mine." He flipped
through the manuscript pages and picked another paragraph at random.
"`Bard-' I assume that's Brad misspelled."

"It's not a misspelling, it means poet. The hero is a sensitive man.
Contrary to the example before me, that's not an oxymoron."

Immune as always to her insults, Don shrugged. "Doesn't matter what it
means; we're changing it to Brad. Try this: `Brad gave Debbie a look of
apprehension, for though he longed to make her his, to possess her
utterly, he worried for her. His penis was a symbol of man's tyranny,
man's need to rend and tear and make things his. How could she see him as
anything but a monster?'"

"Good question."

"I got a news flash for you-heroes of historical romance novels aren't
feminists, okay? They don't read Gloria Steinem and they don't fret about
the symbolism of lovemaking in the post-modern world. They ravage. They
plunder." He gestured to the manuscript pages scattered all over his
desk. "Four hundred seventy-five pages of this! Don't you get it? I'm
saving you from yourself! Women don't want this! Romance readers don't
want this!"

"Really?"

"They want to get lost in the fantasy, they want to escape from board
meetings and emergency surgery and whatever else it is they do when
they're not reading. Your books should pull them out of that, not push
them in deeper."

She clapped, slowly and mockingly. Don flushed. "Just because my uncle
owns the company doesn't mean I don't know what I'm talking about."

"`No man's knowledge here can go beyond his experience.'"

"Thanks a lot. Now everything's nice and clear. Now we won't have these
fights anymore."

"It's from John Locke," she explained testily. "Read a book some time,
Senior Editor."

She got up to leave. Don watched her, clearly frustrated. "This thing
needs a title once I get done. If I can get through it without killing
myself. Give it a shot."

"You hate my titles," she sighed.

"Just try, okay? Please. I'm begging you. Keep it under five words, okay?
And we're working on the cover design-"

She sighed again. Cover design-always a special torture. "Already?"

"Hey, advance printing. Three hundred seventy-five thousand, baby. Time
to get cracking. We're talking to Fabio's people to get him to pose.he's
been trying to get away from that for years, but we think the publicity'd
be good for both of your careers. His comeback, and your continuing climb
to the top."

This, she decided, was as good a time as any to leave. But Don jumped to
his feet and shouted after her.

"So for Christ's sake, don't pull his hair this time!"



CHAPTER SIX

˙

If seeing her editor was a little like being inside one of the circles of
hell, seeing Joe's parents was heaven. James Halloran, Joe's dad, was
hugging her so hard she feared her ribs would crack, while Tina, his
wife, kept trying to elbow him aside so she could hug Marnie as well.

"It's so great to see you!" Tina said happily.

"You're looking good there, kiddo," James crowed. "You do something
different to your hair?"

"I-"

"Joey!" Tina bellowed, startling her. "Marnie's here!"

"I know," Joe said sourly, coming down the stairs. His parents' love for
his former girlfriend was aggravating only because it let them remain
comfortably in denial about his lifestyle. "I heard the celebration.
How's it going, Marnie-the-Great?"

"It's-"

Tina saw Marnie was holding yet another copy of Love's Tender Fury and
grabbed it. "Is it signed? I'll add it to my collection."

"Don't you mean the shrine?" Joe asked.

"Don't be bitchy," Marnie said under her breath, hiding a grin. She
noticed another copy of her book on the couch; there was a bookmark two
thirds of the way through it. "Tina, how many times do I have to tell you
not to buy my books? I get two hundred promo copies.you don't have to
plunk down nineteen ninety-five. No one should have to," she added
frankly.

"It's okay, hon. I didn't want to wait. Is the paperback coming out soon?"

"This new one's pretty spicy, kiddo." James clapped her on the back, hard
enough to jolt, then winked. "Maybe you been doing some research with my
kid here, eh?"

As always when teasing her about Joe, he was a little too hale and
hearty. It was painfully clear he was praying the answer would be yes.
Marnie didn't know what to say.

"Dad, please. You're embarrassing yourself and humiliating me. Again."

"No," she said kindly, "I didn't research with Joe."

"You outgrew him," Tina declared. "He was just a high school fling for
you."

"Uh, sure, that's one explanation for why we broke up."

"Mom." Joe whined.

But Tina was headed toward the mantel, where the Joe and Marnie photo
collection took up most of the wall space. As she had a thousand times
before, Tina pointed to their high school prom picture: a much younger
Marnie, grimacing for the camera, and a teenage Joe, eyeing the prom
dress-not Marnie-appreciatively. The photographer had caught Joe feeling
the fabric with his fingers, testing for texture. "Is there a cuter
couple on the planet?"

"Couple of what?" Joe muttered.

Enough of this , Marnie thought. "Can I get a drink of water?"

"Sure, hon."

Tina and Marnie walked into the kitchen, leaving Joe staring at the photo
shrine and shaking his head. In the kitchen, Tina deftly produced a glass
and filled it with ice-cold water from a pitcher. "Here you go. You're
looking so good. And the books are doing well."

Marnie managed to finish her water without choking. "Yes. Thank you."

"We're so proud of you, dear. James and I talk about you all the time.
It's like you're our own daughter."

"Which is kind of gross, given mine and Joe's romantic history.never
mind. You're very good for my ego. What I don't get is, neither of you
like the romance genre. But you can't wait for my books."

"They're about good men falling in love with good women and having good
sex. It's nice to know you're so normal." Tina gave her a pat.

"Uh.thank you?" This woman, she thought, was insane. Nice, but nuts.

"I don't mean to be a buttinsky, but have you ever thought about settling
down? Maybe what you need is right in front of your face. And Joe needs
you.this phase.it can't last. He'll get over it soon."

Marnie stared at Joe's mother, startled, and there was a long silence
while she thought about what Tina just said. Then she took a deep breath
and spelled it out for the woman, as tactfully as she could. Explained a
truth she herself had spent years facing.

"You `get over' the chicken pox. Not this. If you're hanging onto this
hope that he'll come home one night and present you with a wife and
two-point-three children.well.you're really kidding yourself."

Tina took Marnie's empty water glass from her and rinsed it out, too
thoroughly. She couldn't look at Marnie; instead, she concentrated on
scrubbing the already-clean water glass.

"Haven't you ever thought about trying again?" she asked wistfully.

"I'm crazy about your son. But we're better as friends.we knew that when
we were seventeen. We were each other's first. And that's always going to
be special. But we can't go back."

"You don't date much. And you and my son are always together, it seems.
That's why I thought-"

Marnie spoke the hated, bitter truth, mouthed the worst words in
language. "We're just friends. Once, I thought."

Unfortunately-or not, depending on how you looked at it-James entered the
kitchen right then. He went straight to the fridge and began rooting
around for a snack. "Thought what?"

"That her new book is much better than the last one," Tina lied smoothly.
"What was it? Passion's Sweet Fever?"

"No," James said thoughtfully, "I think it was Pirate's Lady."

"It was Sweetest Desire," Marnie corrected. "And thanks. But Tina, I
could publish my grocery list and you'd rave about the pathos I evoked
with my superb characterization."

The doorbell rang, surprising them all. James straightened up from the
fridge. "Are we expecting anyone else?"

Puzzled, Tina shook her head and headed for the living room. Marnie
chewed her lower lip, dreading what was coming. "Joe said something about
his date meeting us here."

James turned toward her so sharply his hip slammed into the corner of the
fridge. "He's bringing a date? When he's going out with you?"

"He likes me to meet them," she explained, knowing she sounded lame, but
helpless to stop. "The men he likes. He values my-he's not going out with
me per se. We're just friends." Ugh! Having to mouth the hated phrase
twice in two minutes. Worse, she could have cried at the crestfallen look
on James' face.

"I thought.something else," he said stiffly, and abruptly stalked out of
the kitchen. Marnie trailed after him unhappily.

In the living room, Tina was greeting Joe's date, Curtis
something-or-other, and the reception was bit chilly, to put it mildly.

"So nice to meet one of Joe's little friends."

Marnie had to smother a laugh. Curtis, shaking Tina's hand, was clearly a
bit taken aback, but rallied gamely. "So nice to be one of Joe's little
friends."

Dead silence, which Marnie broke. She could hear the false note of cheer
in her voice, and hated it, but what else was there to do? Stay in the
living room and stare at each other? Watch Joe lose his temper again at
his parents' refusal to accept him for who he was?

But, by staying in love with him for this long, wasn't she guilty of the
same thing?

She put that thought out of her mind in a hurry. "We'd better get going,
you guys. I don't want to miss sitting in the theater for half an hour
with nothing to do."

"Goodbye, honey. It was just wonderful to see you again. Are you coming
over for dinner this Friday?" Tina's invitation held all the warmth she
had withheld from Curtis.

Marnie stole a glance at a tight-lipped Joe, at the silent Curtis. "I'll
let you know."



CHAPTER SEVEN

˙

The three of them-Marnie, Joe, and Curtis-didn't have a lot to say in the
car, but once at the theater, Joe laid it all out for Curtis.

"My parents are in total denial about my life," he said, clearly
aggrieved. "And they adore the monster over there."

Marnie smirked. "That's Ms. Monster to you, buster."

"We dated in high school-if you can picture that without barfing-"

"Lord knows I can't."

"And my parents were pretty annoyed when I broke up with her-"

"Ennhh ! Thank you for playing, but the correct response is, when she
broke up with me".

He shot an irritated glance at her. "When we came to a mutual parting of
the ways, and I came out of the closet."

"Lunged out, is more like it. You could have thought about my needs, for
once. How do you think it looked to people when you slept with me, then
publicly stated-more than once-that you prefer men? The cheerleaders made
fun of me for weeks."

"Anyway. They won't see that we're just friends."

"Only friends."

"That there's no spark there."

"We're in a spark-free zone," she declared.

"And the thought of us ever getting back together is just extremely very
stupid."

"An impossibility of nature." Somehow, this wasn't as much fun as it had
been a few seconds ago. "Never happen."

"But they refuse to see it," he continued to an enthralled Curtis. "Take
tonight-perfectly innocent, right? Mar and I are going to see the new
Sandra Bullock flick-"

"Love her," she agreed.

"-because going to the movies together is this totally innocent thing
that we've done forever. And Mom and Dad had to paint it like some big
romantic evening."

"When it's not big. And certainly not romantic," she added.

"Which is where I come in." Curtis didn't phrase it as a question, but he
did raise his eyebrows.

"Eeeee.yeah," Joe said reluctantly. "And I'm sorry I put you on display
like that. But rubbing their noses in it is the only way to make them
see."

Marnie munched popcorn while Joe and Curtis talked, and realized she was
as content as she could be while the man she loved was flirting with
another man. Maybe it was the locale. She adored going to the movies.

The lights went down and she sat up straight. The familiar green "this
preview has been approved for all audiences" logo came up; then the first
preview unfolded. On the screen, Marnie could see a beautiful woman,
dressed in 18 th century clothing. The movie announcer's dulcet baritone
boomed through the speakers.

"She was a woman of noble blood. Untouched.innocent.with a terrible
secret."

On screen, the woman of noble blood was standing on a beach gazing out to
sea, looking pensive. The scene shifted to a handsome, bearded man,
shirtless and standing behind the wheel of a ship. A wave broke over the
bow, drenching him. He threw his head back and laughed like a manly man.

"He was a rogue," the announcer intoned, "the bastard son of royalty.and
her only hope."

Marnie could feel the blood draining from her face. This was absolutely
not happening. Absolutely not. No.

"From the author of Passion's Sweet Caress and Flaming Surrender comes
the movie based on the national best seller."

She opened her mouth in a yowl. "Aaaaaaaaaaaaa-" She dropped her box of
popcorn and jabbed an elbow into Joe's side. Joe was staring at the
screen, his mouth open in delight.

"Maybe it's not your book."

"-aaaaaaaaggggggggggghhhhh-"

"For God's sakes, Mar. Breathe or your going to pass out on this
disgusting floor."

"The breathtaking saga of Shyla and Marcus, brought to the big screen.
Their passion."

Onscreen, Shyla belted Marcus across the mouth. "You cad!"

"Their pleasure."

The scene shifted, and now Shyla looked ecstatic. By contrast, Marnie
thought she might vomit soon. This wasn't happening. It wasn't happening!

Okay, it was. She'd known the movie was going into production. It had
been her decision to sell the film rights three years ago, after all. Her
reasoning had been simple: it was a bad book (one of many), so what did
she care if they made a bad movie out of it?

Only she did care.

"The only thing more unthinkable than being together.was being torn
apart."

"You call that unthinkable?" Marnie shrieked at the screen. "This can't
be happening. I thought I was safe here!"

"Take me, Marcus," Shyla breathed, fumbling with one of the several
hundred buttons on her dress. "Take me as only you can.make me a woman."

"Shut up, you ninny!" There were several "shhhhhhhh"s around her, but
Marnie ignored them all. "Your name used to be Ramona! And you never wore
dresses that low cut in any of my manuscripts!"

"Love's Eternal Caress.experience it at a theater this fall."

"Not fucking likely!" She sat up straight, her despair gone and replaced
with a new resolution. "That's it. I'm taking steps. This can't be
allowed."

Joe looked thoughtful, his arm up to the elbow in his popcorn bucket.
"Guess you shouldn't have let your agent sell the movie rights, huh?"

"Just because I sold the movie rights doesn't mean they actually had to
make a movie out of it!"

"You sound just like Anne Rice, complaining when Tom Cruise got cast as
Lestat. You didn't hesitate to cash the check, I can't help but remember."

"You're so lucky!" Curtis gasped, staring at her, dazzled.

She stood slowly. "I've been a victim long enough. Persecuted wherever I
go. And I'm not going to whine quietly about it anymore!" She shook a
fist at the screen, ignoring the muted shushes around her from her fellow
movie-goers. "As God is my witness.as God is my witness! If I have to
lie, cheat, steal, or kill.I'll never write romance novels again!"

The music from the preview swelled around her. A box of Sno Caps hit her
on the back of the head. That was all right, the way she was feeling.
That was just fine.



CHAPTER EIGHT

˙

Staring at the bizarrely dressed mannequins, Joe asked, "Tell me again
why we're at Macy's?"

"You know why," Marnie replied shortly.

"Well, count me out, honey."

With difficulty, she restrained herself from seizing him by the lapels
and giving him a good shake. "You're going to help me do this or I'll
tell your mother you made a pass at me last night."

Joe's gasp wasn't entirely unfeigned. "Don't you dare!"

"She'd be mad?" Curtis asked

"She'd be thrilled." Marnie said this with a very dry smile, wondering
why Curtis had tagged along. She supposed she could put up with him until
Joe came to his senses.

"You're so ruthless when you're not getting your way," Joe complained.
"And there's nothing wrong with the way you look!"

"That's the whole point. I look too healthy and normal. I need to look
cadaverous. Brooding and complex. I need to look like a Serious Writer.
And I absolutely cannot be recognizable as Jessica LeFruit."

"Yeah, but.a disguise?" He looked doubtful. "For how long?"

"As long as it takes. And you're going to help me. You know everybody in
this industry, and you go to all my promotional stuff. You've got to have
a contact for me."

Joe got a funny look on his face, took out his wallet, and extracted a
business card. "What are you, a witch? I got this just the other day.
Nice enough guy and his mom-of course, you completely blew them off
because you're a jerk and a snob, but-"

She snatched the card and read it. "Mutch and Musch. Perfect."

"Perfect if you're a nobody. They're teeny and nobody's heard of them."

"That's the whole point," she repeated patiently. "If I give them a
serious manuscript and look like a serious writer, a serious nobody
writer they've never heard of, I'll get a contract. Or at least an
open-minded editor to read my book. Heck, I'd settle for that-it's better
than what I have now."

"But what about your contract at the other place?" Curtis asked.

"Jessica LeFruitLoop is under contract, not me," she explained. "It's the
name, not what I produce. Besides, they won't mind if I sell something
they won't buy, anyway."

Joe was already shaking his head. "This isn't an episode of I Love Lucy,
moron. Disguises? Tricking people? Think about what you're proposing."

"`Fortune sides with him who dares!' Virgil."

"Yeah, okay, that's relevant."

"It's from the Aeneid, and it's my new motto."

"What happened to `I've fallen and I can't get up'?"

"Quit with the jokes already. Now let's get to it!"

"Get to what?"

She managed not to shriek. "Pay attention! I need a new look."

Incomprehension, irritation, and confusion were now being replaced with
offense. "What, because we're gay we can help you with a makeover?"

"You dress better than I do and you know it."

"Like that means anything?" he yelped. "In high school you were voted
Most Likely to Be Mistaken for a Homeless Person!"

"My point! I need you."

"We're not your gay fashion police, okay? Lose the stereotypes, honey."

"You want me to quit bitching all the time? You want me to stop
pretending I'm a victim? Then help me do this."

That did the trick. And much later, Marnie couldn't believe the
transformation. An hour in the hair salon had left her blonde hair
slicked back into a bun. Joe had borrowed letter openers from the
receptionists' desk; they were now sticking out of her bun with just the
right kooky-artistic touch. She was clad head to toe in black, all the
way down to her ballet slippers. Another kooky artistic touch-Marnie
couldn't plie if someone stuck a gun in her ear.

"Perfect," she said, supremely satisfied. She looked weird, she looked
tormented, she looked long-suffering. Nothing like a romance novelist.

"Not quite." Joe handed her a pair of dark sunglasses, which Marnie
obediently put on. Getting out of her chair, she tripped and would have
brained herself on a table if Joe hadn't steadied her.

"Never take them off," he warned.

"I can't see shit!" Despite the grumble, she didn't remove them. "This is
going to work."

"Almost." He went back to the hapless receptionist, nipped a cigarette
out of her hand, and trotted back, giving it to Marnie.

"A final touch. How can you be brooding and tormented if you don't have a
filthy life-destroying habit?"

"This is why I love the man with all my heart," Marnie informed Curtis.
He laughed, but she could only manage a small, very dry smile.



CHAPTER NINE

˙

Tony Freeborg was having trouble believing he wasn't dreaming. While
waiting for yet another appointment with a would-be author, in walked the
woman of his dreams, the woman he couldn't stop thinking about. Jessica
C. LeFleur in the flesh. In his office in the flesh.

He couldn't begin to imagine what she wanted. He got his first clue when
she made no mention of her publishing history. She was-he was sure he was
misinterpreting, but it seemed as though she was in disguise. She was
pretending she'd never been published, that she-big laugh-needed him to
succeed.

And why was she smoking a cigarette, when she obviously didn't smoke?

"So what do you think?" she asked him, then bent forward and coughed
harshly.

Mystified, he stared at her, wondering if she was going to yark up a lung
or what. "You have no idea."

"Pardon?"

"Miss.uh.Hammer, I'm not sure if you're aware, but Mutch and Musch is a
very small literary house. We're talking six books a year. Maybe."

"Great!"

"And they never make the best seller list," he continued doggedly,
positive she wasn't getting it. "Windows on the Nile sold eight thousand
copies, and we threw a party."

"That's wonderful!"

Sure, he thought, wonderful for a small literary house. But six thousand
sales for a best-seller was peanuts. Worse than peanuts. Sub-peanuts.

What was she up to? How did she pick him out of the crowd to try and
fool? He had recognized her in an instant, despite the ridiculous
disguise, but it was obvious she was unaware they had met-sort of-twice
before.

"We don't have much in the way of marketing budgets, we don't do much
promoting, and we never print more than two thousand for a first run."

"I know. Windows on the Nile was brilliant. But literary novels about
Egyptian dogs don't make the best seller list. Too bad."

She coughed out more smoke, her eyes watering, and looked around in vain
for an ashtray. She was holding the cigarette with the ginger care of
someone who's been a smoker for all of ninety seconds.

He decided to try once more. "I'm proud of the work we do here. It's
excellent quality. But it's not very marketable. I'm not sure we're what
you're looking for."

"Trust me. You're exactly what I'm looking for."

"Well.I'm actually leaving this house to open my own agency. I'm hoping
to represent more.commercial pieces to bigger houses. Maybe you'd
consider writing something-"

She sat bolt upright, so quickly her dark glasses fell off her face and
into her lap. Weirdly, this aroused him. He could actually feel all the
blood start to leave his head and go.er.somewhere else.

"No! And I don't need an agent, thanks very much. Are you going to help
me, or do I need to talk to someone else here?"

"Help you how?" he asked, and the vague question actually made him feel
like blushing; she was so cute and so pissed off, he wanted to call it a
day, hustle her over to his apartment, and fuck her until they were both
sweaty and out of breath.

Try to get ahold of yourself, man!

"Uh.help you how?" he asked again.

She was so angry, she didn't notice her cigarette, which had burned down
to her fingers. She yelped and dropped it, then jumped up and stomped it
out before the carpet could catch fire.

Tony watched this and waited to wake up. He assumed he was having this
bizarre dream because he'd had a hot fudge sundae just before going to
bed. Well! No more of that.

His cell phone rang and, without taking his eyes off her, he pulled the
phone out of his pocket and flipped it open. "Not now, doc." He slapped
the phone shut and put it away. "You're quite confident for a fledgling
writer. Surely you know this is a tough business for newcomers."

Marnie finished putting out the cigarette and sat down, carefully folding
her sunglasses and putting them away. His heart broke a little at the
helpless, almost desperate look on her face.

"I'm just asking for a chance," she said quietly. "I'm sorry I lost my
temper earlier. It's just.I don't have a lot of use for commercialism."

While he stared, she took out another long, black cigarette, looked at it
doubtfully, then put it away. She stuck out her tongue and picked off a
piece of tobacco, then longingly eyed the glass of ice water on his desk.
He slid it over to her. She picked up the glass and gulped gratefully.

"Look, why don't you think about a few ideas to pitch to my boss? I'll
try to set up a meeting so she can meet you."

She was so excited, she started to thank him while drinking, and water
dribbled down her front. She set the glass down with a thud and water
sloshed over the side, wetting his blotter.

"Okay! Great! Jeez, that was easy."

Under the desk, where she couldn't see, he pinched his thigh, hard. It
stung like a bastard. Definitely not dreaming. "Well, it's clear that
you're a great-I mean, you seem like you'd be a great writer.
Very.uh.deep."

"Thanks!"

She jumped up and for one glorious moment, he thought she was going to
hug him. Instead, she settled for vigorously shaking his hand, hard
enough to make his fingers ache. Then she gathered up her stuff and
practically skipped out of the office.

Maybe, he thought to himself, they're re-making Candid Camera, and I just
starred in the pilot episode. Maybe.

His cell phone rang again. He snatched it. "Whaaaaaat?"

Dr. Jorenby's girlish voice filtered through the phone. "Is now a good
time?"

"My goodness, is cheerleading practice over already?"

"As if! I can't do a cartwheel to save my life. Want to chat? Any
repressed childhood memories surface recently?"

"Yeah, I dreamed I was being tortured by a psychiatrist younger than my
socks. You're not going to believe who was just here."

"Jessica C. LeFleur."

He had been leaning back in his chair, and when she guessed correctly he
nearly fell on the floor. He opened his mouth but Dr. Jorenby interrupted
him.

"Don't even ask me, dude. Who else would make you sound so surprised and
happy? It was a totally logical deduction on my part."

He got out of his chair and went to the window. He was only two stories
up, so it was easy to spot the small figure in black skipping down the
sidewalk. Marnie Hammer, a.k.a. Jessica C. LeFleur, happier to get a
meeting with a small literary editor than she had been at a book signing
with a thousand fans.

It was all very strange. And for some reason he was in the middle of it.
God was good.

"Dr. Jorenby, I am in love."

"Well, duh. Like I hadn't figured that out in two nanoseconds."

"Oooh, you're so smart."

"You see LeFleur as the embodiment of all you enjoy about literature, and
women. She's passionate, articulate, intelligent."

A little thrown by the surfer-girl voice sounding like a mental health
professional, he rallied gamely.

"Rude, snobbish, ungrateful."

"And way cute."

"How do you know that?"

"Got her latest novel right in front of me. Cover photo looks like
something from Glamour Shots."

He spun away from the window and started pacing in front of his desk.

"Why did you buy her book?"

"Research, oh obsessive one. Don't know how I'm going to wedge this thing
into your chart, though. So why'd she come to your office?"

"Ah.I'd better not. I think I need to keep her secret for a while, until
I figure out what she's up to."

"Dude, ever heard of doctor-patient confidentiality? I could not be more
silent on the subject of La LeFleur if I had been born without vocal
cords."

"But I'm not your patient."

"What are you, my pool boy? Spill. Start with, `Imagine my surprise when
Jessica came into my office,' and end with, `and then my brilliant
psychiatrist called, and I told her everything.'"

He grinned in spite of himself. Shrugged. And told her everything.



CHAPTER TEN

˙

Joe opened the door and she almost dropped her purse. He looked
ghastly-eyes swollen and bloodshot, face too pale. He was holding a glass
full of what she assumed was whisky. The glass was so big, it looked like
a mixing bowl on a stem.

"Uh.I got your message."

He shrugged. "That bitch."

"Do you mean Curtis? Don't tell me, let me guess-he thinks you're too
smart for his own good."

"He's thinking about going back to his ex-girlfriend. He's with her right
now." Joe actually shuddered. "Discussing it."

"What a slut! Both of them."

He stood back from the doorway. "Come on in."

She followed him in, wrinkling her nose at the state of the apartment.
The shades were drawn, there were dirty dishes everywhere, and the
television was on.

"Sit," she ordered.

He listlessly complied. She bustled about, throwing open the shades,
picking up dishes, making a cheerful racket. Joe, she was annoyed to
notice, was unmoved. He was slumped in front of the television, gulping
at his whiskey and feeling pretty damned sorry for himself.

She came over and shut off the television. Joe jerked in surprise and
glared at her.

"Dammit! Let me die in peace."

"Forget it, pal. Hey, this ought to cheer you up-I have to work here for
the next few days. They're painting my apartment."

"After seven years?"

"They finally believed me when I said the walls weren't supposed to be
beige."

"Good," he said listlessly. "I could use the company. Especially now that
you've pulled out of the pity party you've been throwing forever."

"Which reminds me, let me tell you about my great day! Then you'll
realize that even though your life sucks, just being associated with me
is something to be grateful for."

"I can hardly fucking wait."

"I went to see the guy, Tony Freeborg, at Mutch and Musch?"

"Try to keep my name out of these meetings, okay? I don't want him to
find out I sicced you on him."

"He'd thank you!" she said brightly.

"With a bullet."

"Well, he's going to get me a meeting with his boss, how about that, wise
guy? I'm going to pitch her a few novel ideas."

While speaking, Marnie had been rooting through her tote bag, pulling out
a T-shirt and shorts, and changing out of her "serious author" costume.
She had just stripped down to her bra and panties when Joe sat up
straight.

"Oh my God!"

She froze, startled. It never occurred to her that Joe might be
shocked-possibly excited?-by her undressing in front of him.

She smiled tentatively. "What?"

"What the hell is that thing on your leg?"

She glanced down and saw the fist-sized bruise on the outside of her
thigh.

"Oh. Walked into the corner of a low bookshelf. Then started swearing. A
lot."

"Ouch, looks nasty. Anyway.you were saying about meeting Freeborg's boss?"

She stared at him for a long moment. He stared back. His hair was so
untidy it was actually standing up in spikes all over his head, but he
still looked yummy to her.

Don't do this, she thought.

"Do you feel anything?"

Bad idea, she warned herself.

"What?" he asked.

Stop now. It's still possible to stop. " Right now. I'm in my underwear,
and it's expensive stuff. How does that make you feel?"

"Like you must be freezing your ass off. Want a sweater?"

She shook her head and got dressed. Of course, he didn't feel anything.
He thought they were friends. She didn't know if that made him the fool,
or her.

She cleared her throat. "So.what? Curtis was just using you to get back
at his lady love?"

"I don't know. Maybe."

"It's so ironic. Men do to you what you used to do to me. They use you
for sex, even if they don't feel anything."

"This is fun. You should come over more often when I'm depressed. Are you
implying I deserve this treatment?"

"No. I'm implying that it's ironic."

"Is that what you think I did to you?"

"That is what you did to me. I was your experiment, your `Hey, maybe I'm
not gay' attempt to fit in." She coughed, surprised at how anger surged
up at the thought, even after all this time. "Your token woman."

"You're nobody's token anything. And we were seventeen.that hardly
qualifies you as a woman."

"It doesn't qualify me as a trout!"

He put his arm around her and hugged gently, dropping a kiss to the top
of her head. She submitted sulkily.

"For what it's worth, you really confused me. You were the only woman I
was ever attracted to. You know, besides Tom Brokaw."

"Well, you really confused me. You were the only man who had sex with me
and then decided he preferred men."

"I dunno.maybe you should have switched deodorant.or something."

She stared at him incredulously, then realized he was teasing. She seized
a couch pillow and let him have it right across the face. He retaliated
with a couch cushion. They fell to the floor, shrieking and wrestling.

˙



CHAPTER ELEVEN

˙

Tony knew he would have a tough time convincing his boss, Robbie Todd,
Editor-in-Chief, to see a best-selling author who was pretending to be a
nobody. Not because Marnie was pretending to be a nobody. No, it would be
tough because his boss was completely out of her mind. Since book
publishing was a tough business, Tony didn't know if Robbie being a
nutcase worked for her or against her.

But he had his theories.

He had a hard time believing he was even doing this.if only he wasn't so
damned mixed up! He liked Marnie a lot, and he'd sure love to get her
between the sheets, but when it came to how she felt for him.total blank.
He had no idea. In fact, he strongly doubted she was aware he had a penis
at all. Which was annoying, to say the least.

Fuckit. He could do this for her, regardless of how he felt. And he
wasn't the sort of man who did favors with strings attached.

While he tried to convince her, Robbie was lining up her daily dose of
medication and vitamins on her spotless desk blotter. There was exactly
one piece of paper in her in-bin. Her out-bin was empty. The office was
as barren as a cell, and she appeared to be caught up with her work-a
near impossibility in the publishing business.

"I'm telling you, Robbie, this is a great writer."

"How's Dial-A-Shrink working out for you?" Robbie asked without looking
up.

"It's the biggest waste of company funds since you decided we needed
bi-weekly physicals."

Humming, she said, "A healthy staff is a productive staff." She suddenly
straightened, and her eyes went wide with alarm. "Is there a bee on me?"

"No. Listen, cancel Dial-A-Shrink, will you? I don't need to tell Jorenby
all my deep dark secrets."

"Dr. Muffy Jorenby was a child prodigy."

"Muffy?"

"She's published dozens of academic papers, and is making quite a name
for herself in the field."

"I've been baring my soul to a Muffy?"

"Lucky bastard."

"If she's so great, why is she working at Dial-a-Shrink?"

"Right now her youthful appearance puts patients off."

"Ya think? She sounds like a cheerleader coming down from acid-I can't
imagine what she looks like. Look, I'd rather talk about this new writer."

"No manuscript, no meeting."

She put her head down on the desk, her cheek against the blotter, and
flicked the first in a long line of pills into her mouth, then sat up
straight and chewed placidly, like a cow.

He was so used to his boss's oddities, he barely noticed. "She's had some
experience. And she's brilliant, Rob. Intense and brilliant. Ten minutes
of your time. Let her pitch."

"She knows we're small and she wants us anyway. She doesn't have a
manuscript but she expects a meeting with the Queen."

"That's an honorary title. You aren't actually royalty."

Robbie flicked two more pills into her mouth in rapid succession, then
crunched them up and swallowed them. "Let's keep reality out of this for
a moment, shall we?"

"Don't we always?"

"I say this woman has something up her sleeve. Is there a bee on me?"

"No."

"She's hiding something, and you know what it is, and for some nasty
reason, you're keeping it from me, the greatest editor who ever lived.
Ergo, it's probably something I don't want to get anywhere near."

Flick. Crunch. Swallow.

"Unfortunately, you wretch," she continued, "you know I've got a
curiosity bump the size of Washington State. So, she can have ten
minutes. Starting right now."

He turned and sprinted out of her office, racing down the hallway until
he came to the reception area. Marnie was waiting for him, dressed in her
absurd costume, reading what appeared to be one of the volumes from "The
Encyclopedia Britannica". A quick glance confirmed she was reading the
letter M.

He screeched to a halt in front of her, but Marnie was-or was pretending
to be-engrossed.

"Ms. Hammer?" he wheezed.

No response, except her face was so close to the book her nose was
practically touching the print. She shook her head in pseudo-fascination
and quickly turned the page.

"Marnie. My boss is waiting to see you."

She jumped and slapped the book shut. "Oh! Sorry, Mr. Freeborg. I didn't
see you there. Don't you think marmosets are fascinating?"

"I think about them day and night. And please call me Tony. This way."

He ushered her into Robbie's office, noticing without surprise the
extreme change in the room. Gone were the neat little lines of pills; now
the desk was covered with galley pages. The phone kept beeping, but
Robbie, intent at her work, didn't answer it. Her computer was on and a
mail icon was flashing on the screen. It was controlled chaos.

"Robbie, this is Marnie Hammer."

His boss didn't look up from her work. She was, Tony knew, afraid of
people whose last names were things, i.e. Gunn, Hammer, Rock. It was one
of the many things that made her an interesting woman to work for.

"I need a manuscript."

Marnie nodded, then seemed to realize Robbie couldn't see her because she
still hadn't looked up.

"Of course. How about an outline and three sample chapters by the end of
tomorrow? I can download it right to your E-mail account, or courier over
a hard copy, or a disc. If I could trouble you or your assistant for a
copy of your writer's guidelines, I could get right to work."

Robbie slowly raised her head. Marnie smiled at her. "Of course, I
couldn't produce more than three sample chapters without discussing the
possibility of an advance. But there's time for that later."

"How very.professional of you. What did you say your name was again?"

"It doesn't matter who I am. What matters is what I produce, yes? `The
use of language is all we have to pit against death and silence.'"

"Joyce Carol Oates."

Marnie, who'd been opening her mouth to give the quotation's source,
stared at Robbie like a diabetic stares at ice cream, then beamed.

And speaking of staring, Tony was doing his share. Marnie was awfully
spectacular when she smiled. Hell, who was he kidding? She was
spectacular, period.

On the spur of the moment, he asked her to lunch. And to his amazement
and delight, she accepted. They went to Hoolihan's, which, as it was well
past lunch time, was nearly empty.

He couldn't get over the change in her. The sullen, depressed woman he
had seen before was gone. A smiling, laughing charmer had taken her place.

"Your boss is incredible. Imagine, an editor who actually reads."

"You mean, reads the sort of thing you find appropriate."

"I mean, reads books without pictures." She snorted and took a sip of her
water. He watched her, amused.

"Do you have an eye infection?"

"No."

"I only ask because every time I've seen you, you've had dark glasses on."

"It's.uh.to shield my vision from the state of the world. I'm very
sensitive, you know."

"`Where there is no vision, the people perish.'"

She stared at him, then slowly took off her sunglasses. She would look
beautiful if not for the two letter openers sticking out of her bun, the
hideous black clothing, and the tobacco leaf sticking to her upper lip.

"I'm-I don't know that one. Where is it from?"

"The Bible. Proverbs. You see before you a proud graduate of Catholic
high school. But I'm about to sorely disappoint you-I can't remember the
chapter, or verse, or where the text appeared on the page. Aren't
photographic memories great?"

"But if you don't remember the page number and such, then you don't-"

"No, but my mom does. Used to drive me crazy when I was a kid. Never, but
never, ask that woman to help you with your homework. I'm lucky I made it
through senior high without choking her."

"Consider me warned. She must be pretty proud. You turned out all right."
She paused, then lightly touched him on the wrist. "In fact, I'd say you
turned out great. You really helped me out today. Thanks a lot."

He swallowed hard, then tried to break the tension. "You can make it up
to me by picking up the tab."

She laughed a little and drew back. He dabbed sweat from his forehead
with his napkin when she wasn't looking. He couldn't believe he was nuts
about a woman who ran around in disguise trying to fool his crazy boss,
who pretended she was a smoker and wasn't a best-selling author.

"My mom really likes-would really like you."

"Why?"

"Because. Actually, what she'd do is try to set us up. She's been after
me to get married for years."

"Oh, God, mine too! Like a marriage license is going to solve all my
problems. Like picking out china is going to improve my outlook on life!"

"Exactly. There's more to life than saying I do."

"Right!"

"The lone wolf. Answering to no one. You can come and go as you please."

She rapped the table with her knuckles. "Come as I please, go as I
please."

"Sure, it gets a little lonely at holidays.and on birthdays.and
practically every weekend."

"Cut it out. Traitor. So what?"

He shrugged and picked up the dessert menu.

There was a long silence while she studied him. "Actually, my mother's
got this dumb idea that I'll never find anyone because I'm still in love
with my high school boyfriend." She paused, appearing to think it over.
"The annoying thing is, she's right. I think about him-this guy-all the
time. But he thinks we're good friends. Which we are."

He smiled through his disappointment. "But you want to be good naked
friends."

She laughed. "Well.yeah."

"Well. Good luck with that. And to head off the awkward silence that's
about to descend, I'm going to change the subject. What kind of book do
you want to write?"

"Something evocative, yet meaningful."

"If you're going to write for us, you have to actually think about what
you're going to say. `Evocative, yet meaningful' won't cut it."

Her eyes widened with surprise. "You're sure different from the people at
my old.um.job. The only time they noticed me was when I tried to deviate
from the norm."

"Deviate from the norm? You? Never happen."

"All they cared about was junk," she said bitterly.

"Oh, I don't know. There's a lot to be said for junk. Otherwise, we'd all
be driving Ford Escorts and eating nothing but tofu and fat-free
crackers."

"There's no place for junk on bookshelves."

He managed to look unknowing, though he finally had an idea what her
problem was, and where she was going with this. "Junk on bookshelves,
huh? You mean like comic books and TV Guide?"

"And romance novels."

Oh, boy , he thought. Time to jump in with both feet. "Actually, my mom's
a big romance fan."

"Your mom and half the world. It's disgusting."

"Yeah. Reading for fun. A real abomination."

She picked her purse up off the floor, wrenched it open, and irritably
stuffed her glasses into it. He winced when he heard the small crunch.

"Please! Did you know that all romance novels have to have a happy
ending? It's the law. No realism, please, we only want Disney endings."

"Well, Disney with sex."

"And the hero has to be older, preferably by ten years or more,
preferably richer than God. And the heroine has to be rescued. And God
forbid if you try to inject a little realism into the books, like HIV or
starving children or the state of the world."

"I don't think that's true anymore. In the seventies, maybe.besides, I
think some people have a little too much reality in their lives. Maybe
once in a while it's nice to sit down with a book that's going to make
you feel good. What's the harm?"

She slammed her hand on the table hard enough to make the cutlery jump.
"The harm is, forty-nine percent of all paperbacks sold are romance
novels. Almost half! One out of every two!"

"What the hell is your day job-census taker?"

He was trying to hold his temper, but it was tough going.

"Don't mock me . Those figures mean almost nobody's interested in what's
going on around them. They just want to read about Rachel and Brad and
will she Save-It-For-The-Marriage-Bed? It's sick."

"You would have made a great Eva Braun. Why don't you go blow up a book
warehouse or something? Make you feel better, force people to read the
books you want them to read. God, I-"

`Can't believe I liked you' was what he was going to say, but that
obviously wouldn't do. So he didn't finish the sentence. Instead, he
glared at her, which worked out nicely because she was glaring at him.
They both stood and threw their napkins down at the same time.

"No you don't!" she snapped. "You insulted me. Stay here. I'm walking out
on you."

"Like hearing you rant and rave about people making their own choices
wasn't insulting? I'm walking out on you."

She gasped. "Don't you dare!"

"Watch me."

"Fine."

"Fine!"

They left, taking different routes away from the table but running into
each other at the doorway. Tony shook a finger under her chin and was
about to continue lecturing her about the evils of censorship, when he
was interrupted by the waitress, who appeared like a genie, waving the
bill.

"And.who gets the check?"

"Eva over there. Careful she doesn't set it on fire if she doesn't like
the way you added."

With that, he left-angry at her, and even more angry at himself for being
so blind.

Stomping down the street, he noticed other pedestrians getting the hell
out of his way, which suited his mood just fine. He reached into his coat
pocket and yanked out his phone, then irritably stabbed out a number.

It rang twice, and then-thank God!-she picked up. "Muffy Jorenby, M.S.,
M.D., PhD, PhD, speaking. What's up, doc?"

"I can't believe I let you talk me into having lunch with that jerk!"

"Daddy? I thought you and Mama were going to give it another try."

He nearly walked into a street light. "Uh.this is Tony Freeborg."

"I know. Just messing with your head. Which, by the power vested in me by
the American Psychiatric Association, is not only fun, but totally
profitable. How'd lunch go with the Empress of Erotica?"

"It's worse than I thought," he said glumly. "She's a closed-minded snob."

"Yeah, but she's totally salvageable."

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"It means, she's with you-Mutch and Musch-to try and improve her
self-image. She doesn't get why other people like reading what she hates
writing. That's not snobbery. That's someone who doesn't feel good about
herself and takes it out on everyone else."

"Well, what am I supposed to do about it?" he whined.

"Be her agent. Help her sell the manuscripts she cares about."

He nearly choked at the absurdity of the idea. "She doesn't need me."

"Wrong, oh bastion of insecurity."

"I'm not insecure!"

"Scared to death, then."

"Is that supposed to be a professional opinion, you little twit?"

He heard the distinct sound of popping bubblegum. "I know you are but,
like, what am I?"

"Goodbye, Muffy."



CHAPTER TWELVE

˙

Marnie was trying to work in Joe's home office; her gaze was riveted on
the computer screen as she reads a few lines from her literary effort.

"Rachmaninoff's Misery," she read aloud. "Ahhh.no." She backspaced and
tried again. "Rachmaninoff's Tears. A literary novel by Marnie L. Hammer.

"Chapter One. Kirsten sensed the coming spring, sensed it as an alcoholic
sensed the nearness of fine wine. Too long she had been a virtual
prisoner in her apartment, with only the company of her flat-mate, Jeff,
to beat back the boredom of the long winter days. She had known Jeff
exactly four months and twenty days, and thought him splendid in all
ways, save for his manner of speaking without thinking. And, of course,
the way he sprayed saliva when he spoke."

She backspaced; tried again. "And thought him splendid in all ways, save
for his manner of speaking without thinking. But he was young. Time would
teach him restraint. And speaking of restraint, she wished he would
exercise a little less of it. Rather than remaining aloof as a well-fed
cat, she wished he would notice her. She yearned for his touch on her
face, her shoulders, her creamy, upthrust breasts. She wanted him to take
her, to know her, as a man knows a woman, intimately, deeply.repeatedly.
She.

" Oh you numbskull, this isn't working!"

She brought her fists down on the keyboard, instantly typing gibberish.
More gibberish, anyway. Then she took a deep breath, deleted the chunk,
and started again. "Rachmaninoff's Tears. A literary novel by Marnie L.
Hammer. Chapter One. Kirsten sensed the-"

She cut herself off as the front door slammed, and cocked her head,
listening. She could hear someone stomping around in the living room, the
rattle of keys, a grocery bag being slammed onto a table. Then the
beep-boop-boop-beep-boop-boop-boop of someone dialing a touch-tone phone.
A long pause, as if someone was listening to an answering machine
message, and then.

"You jerk," Joe spat in a low voice.one that carried perfectly. "I
thought you cared about me. Don't ever call me again."

She breathed out, her heart contracting a little in empathy. "Oh boy."

She heard Joe, obviously dumped again, slam the phone into its case.
After a long moment, she got up and headed for the living room.

Once there, she saw him pouring himself a drink. Pure whiskey, straight
into a gigantic water glass. This was usually for show-Joe liked to walk
around with a glass full of hard liquor, but gagged after the second
swallow and ended up pouring the rest of the booze down the sink. But
tonight he had the look of a man who was planning to drink until he
puked, gagging or no gagging.

"Don't do it, hon," she said sympathetically. "You'll be going to the
bathroom all night. You know that stuff's a diuretic."

He didn't answer, just took a defiant gulp, then coughed explosively.

She cleared her throat. "So.ah.Curtis decided to go back to the
ex-girlfriend?"

"Ex-boyfriend. The one before Sara. Austin somebody."

"A flexible young man, Curtis."

He flinched and she was sorry to see it; she hadn't meant to add to his
pain.

"But him being a cheesy slut doesn't mean you're a bad person," she
continued. "In fact, his decision probably doesn't have anything to do
with you."

"Next you're going to tell me it's not me, it's him."

"Well, it's true."

"Basically, I wasn't enough for him. But that doesn't have anything to do
with me. I mustn't blame myself."

"He was a bimbo! You were smarter than him and better looking, I might
add. Frankly, there was nothing for him to bring to the relationship."

"It's not that I don't appreciate this-actually, I don't appreciate it."

"You'd rather be here sulking by yourself?"

"To preserve our friendship, I won't answer that. Listen, if I'm as great
as you say.why can't I find anyone?"

She rubbed her temple. "Oh, jeez. Why do you think that because you
haven't found anyone, it has to be a failing in you?"

"Because it is a failing in me."

"By that logic," she said reasonably, "then I deserve to be alone, too.
Is that what you think?"

"Well. You're a snob.and irritating, sometimes.and you don't know how to
dress.and you get pissy when you don't get your own way.and you take your
good fortune for granted."

She waved him along. "Yes, yes."

"But no. I don't think you deserve to be alone."

"There you go. I don't think you deserve to be alone. See? We agree."

She waited expectantly, but Joe didn't get it.

"Why are you still here?" he asked.

"Hey, you didn't let me wallow in self-pity when I was Jessica
LeFahrvegnugen. Now it's your turn to be cheered up against your will. To
start." She tried to take his whiskey glass away; Joe held on; they
struggled. Then he spitefully let go and she found herself drenched with
Canadian Club.

"Nice try, but that didn't cheer me up."

"You bastard! I'm-God, this stuff stinks! I feel like I should be lying
in a gutter."

She smacked him on the arm; he smacked her back. They glared at each
other, then attacked like crazed alley cats, kicking, scratching,
growling. They ended up on the floor, Marnie on top; she grabbed his
shoulders and jerked him to her until they were nose to nose.

"Repeat after me. The bimbo. Wasn't. Good. Enough. For me."

"I smell booze," he said sternly. "Have you been drinking?"

She clutched her head. "Aarrggh!"

"The worst part is, that's the last drop of liquor in the place. And I'm
not nearly drunk enough to quit."

He managed to flip her off him and then pounced, grabbing her shirt
collar and then sucking on the cloth.

"Stop!" she shrieked. "That tickles!"

"Now if you kept cocktail onions in your hair, you'd be the perfect
woman."

She tried to slap him away, but she was laughing too hard. And when his
lips moved to her neck she stopped laughing. Practically stopped
breathing.

Joe pulled back and looked down at her. "You're the greatest."

"Yes. FYI, if you don't kiss me, I'm never speaking to you again."

He bit his lower lip. "Marnie."

"Shut up, fool." She grabbed him and pulled him toward her for a long,
searing kiss. He half-heartedly resisted for a moment, then gave up the
pretense and began-oh, thank God!-kissing her back in earnest.

"Do not stop to wring my shirt out over a glass," she muttered.

"Later," he growled back.

˙



CHAPTER THIRTEEN

˙

Afterward, Marnie thought, well, I guess it just didn't occur to him that
anal sex wasn't the goal of the day. It didn't matter, though. Well, it
had stung like crazy, and she was still mystified by the whole thing-what
was the big deal?-but at last, at last they were one.

It had been amazing at first, like being a teenager again, when sex was
the most exciting thing in the whole world. When it was all you could
think about, and when, when you were finished, you couldn't wait to do it
again. She and Joe had been like that when they were dating-curious,
insatiable.

This time, they both had some years under their belt. They certainly
weren't kids anymore. And they both had their own condoms and, in Joe's
case, a truly amazing selection of lubricants.

He hadn't gone anywhere near her cunt, but had lavished attention on her
ass, and when he eased inside her she'd been stroking her clit from sheer
hunger, and had been able to bring herself off while he pumped inside her.

Okay, so, not exactly fireworks. But that was all right. They had years
to get it right. Hell, they had the rest of the day to get it right. What
mattered was, Joe had finally realized they were meant to be together, it
was fate, destiny, it was.

"This was a terrible mistake."

"What?"

"I am so sorry."

"What?"

"You must be so pissed at me."

"I'm starting to be."

"I know, I know. I don't blame you." He sat up and looked at her, shaking
his head. "Like things weren't bad enough. Then we had to go screw up a
perfectly good friendship. No pun intended."

"Joe, this just makes our friendship better. I love you and you love-"

"Stop trying to make me feel better! The last time you did that I took
advantage of the best friend I've ever had. It was stupid, stupid."

"I thought it was okay. No bells and whistles, but.we're a little out of
practice."

"Make that a lot out of practice."

"Well. Let's get back into practice. Try not to call out another man's
name this time."

"You're joking, right?"

She said nothing.

"Are you insane? I'm gay, Marnie."

"I've heard the rumors."

"Last night didn't change that. Nothing will change that."

"Don't you have any feelings for me at all?"

"Have any-I love you, idiot! You're my best friend. But we're not going
to be lovers, Marnie."

"Again."

"What?"

"We're not going to be lovers again."

"Right. You got it. We're not."

"I can't think why not."

"God, I'm so sorry. I'd give anything to go back in time and un-do last
night."

That did it. Bad enough he was denying her, denying them. But then to
wish what had given her such happiness had never happened.

"Well, I wouldn't un-do it! I thought it was wonderful, I thought you
were wonderful. You're talking like I poured hot water on your gonads."

"You're great in bed, Marnie, but I prefer my partners with a little less
estrogen."

Everything inside her froze. Before, she had been so happy. Now, five
minutes later, she had never been so humiliated.

"You son of a bitch."

"That's the spirit." He started to leave the room, then stopped and
whirled like an angry cat. An angry naked cat. "Goddammit, Marnie! Why
isn't my friendship enough for you? It's never been good enough. You've
always wanted more-always. To be published. Then to be published again.
Then more respect as an author, more time to write what you want to
write, more of me. And none of it was ever enough for you! Not once, not
once!"

Stunned, she sat there as he pulled on his clothes with fast, furious
motions. He strode to the door, yanked it open, and paused, turning for
one last shot.

"And you know what? I knew you could never be satisfied, but I loved you
anyway. And what I could give you, I did. But you took everything I was
able to give and it wasn't enough. That's like spitting on fifteen years
of friendship. I love you more than anyone.and it's never been good
enough for you. And after today, I see it won't ever be good enough. So
go spit on somebody else for the next decade."

The wall shook when he slammed the door on the way out.

When she was sure he wasn't coming back, she lowered her head to her
knees and cried.

˙



CHAPTER FOURTEEN

˙

Hunched over Joe's desk, Marnie tried to lose herself in her writing. She
refused to let her personal problems affect her art. If she worked hard,
she could temporarily forget about Joe and how he had broken her
heart-again.

"Sands and Dollars, by Marnie L. Hammer. Chapter One. Barbara stood
looking out a large window, holding back the curtain with her finger and
talking to herself. As it reads in the first book of Corinthians, `When I
was a child, I spake as a child, I understood as a child, I thought as a
child: but when I became a man, I put away childish things.' I would
imagine that could apply to women as well, even though I did not get
around to putting away childish things until well after my thirtieth
birthday.'"

Oooooh, yeah. Good stuff.

"At that moment, Peter strode into the library, spotted her by the
window, and said, `I'm really sorry about all those years I repressed
you.' He paused to pick his nose, and added, `It's nothing personal. Just
the nature of man. We're forever condemned to rape, pillage, plunder, and
then keep women down for centuries. Sorry.'"

She was typing so hard, the tips of her fingers were numb. But pain was
irrelevant. This was good stuff!

"Barbara smiled sweetly and said, `That's all right.' She brought her arm
up and threw a really huge filet knife at Peter, killing him instantly.
Blood splattered like a thousand tomatoes.no, no, no!"

Marnie massaged her temples, where a truly gigantic headache was forming.
She had to focus. She had to concentrate. She had to quit writing this
crap.

She took a deep breath. "Okay. Let's try again. Go back to what you were
working on last night. And quit talking to yourself.

"Dara, a glorious redhead, was sitting on the lush green grass of her
father's country home, her arms filled with flowers. She could hear hoof
beats in the distance, and looked up to see Daniel, her beloved,
thundering toward her on his charger. She ran to him as he dismounted. He
held out his arms to her, his handsome face flushed with happiness and
triumph. She reached him and, as his head was bending toward hers for a
passionate kiss, she slammed her knee into his groin. Daniel dropped like
he'd been axed. `That,' Dara informed him, `was for letting me get
kidnapped by pirates.'"

Marnie stopped typing, stood, yanked the keyboard plug from the back of
the computer, and dropped the keyboard in the trash. She wondered
bitterly what else was going to go wrong this week. Always before, no
matter how much she hated the work, no matter how useless she thought the
subject, always before she could write. Now she had even lost that.



CHAPTER FIFTEEN

˙

Marnie sat amid the chaos of Tony Freeborg's office. Boxes were
everywhere; she remembered he had said something about leaving the
publishing house to start his own literary agency.

She was back in her disguise, but her heart wasn't in it. She had left
her hair down and she had lost her dark sunglasses. She was holding a
cigarette, but couldn't bear to light it and cough out her lungs for the
next half hour. The only thing she clung to was wearing black.

Tony finished reading her manuscript pages, and looked up. "This
is.interesting reading."

"It's crap. It's puerile, predictable, and nugatory."

"Nugatory?"

"`Of little or no importance; trifling. Without force; invalid.' American
Heritage Dictionary." She sighed. "Page eight-sixty-two."

"Oh, yeah? Well, can you pat your head and rub your stomach at the same
time?"

To her surprise, he proceeded to do just that, surprising a laugh out of
her. She tried to copy his actions, and found she couldn't.

"It's all in the wrist, sugar.well, well, we can't do everything, can we?"

Just like that, her temporary cheer disappeared. She scowled and gestured
to the pages on his desk. "Obviously not."

Tony, still rubbing his stomach and patting his head, leaned forward.
"The words are great. The way you string them together.not so much. It's
clear the ability-the talent-is there. I get the feeling you're trying
too hard. Reaching for.well, I don't know. Do you know?"

He finally quit rubbing his stomach and patting his head. She looked him
in the eye and, for a moment, saw something there she could trust.

No, you don't.

Yes, I do.

She leaned forward and rested her elbows on the edge of his desk. "This
is going to sound.beyond stupid, I know. But here it is. For the longest
time, I only wanted two things. To be a respected author. Not a famous
one. Respected. There's a difference, you know."

"Sometimes."

"I wanted critical acclaim, and.well, one other thing. One other person.
And now I'm wondering if the two things I wanted most, that I've spent
years working for and pining for and wishing for, I've got to wonder if I
really wanted him-them-after all, and how much of that time spent wanting
is dead time, wasted."

There was a long silence. Then he cleared his throat. "Y'know, I never
wanted to write. But I love books. That's why I got in this business. And
you know how they say those who can't, teach? Well.one of the first rules
of writing is do it because you love it. Not to be famous. Excuse
me-respected. You should write literary novels because nothing in you
will rest until what's inside, is out on paper. Not because you think
people should write good reviews about you."

She was giving him her careful attention, even as she could feel her eyes
filling with tears. "I can't help what I need."

He laughed, without humor. "Tell me about it." To her surprise, he took
her hand, and when he spoke again, it was most gently. "Marnie L. Hammer,
what's wrong with doing what you're good at?"

"What if what I'm good at isn't worth anything?"

"Why don't you let me be the judge of that? You know-someone objective,
who doesn't-" He coughed suddenly. "-have any sort of emotional
investment in you?"

She pulled her hand out of his grasp. The moment, if one had ever existed
outside her imagination, was over.

"Look, feed those pages to the shredder or use them to line the bottom of
your birdcage or set them on fire. I'll do better. I'll work on it some
more this week and I'll do better." She got up, then looked back at him
and managed a smile. "Thanks for listening to me whine, though. It was
pretty great of you, considering the words we had at lunch the other day."

He had the grace to look embarrassed. "About that-"

"Forget it. We both said awful things."

He raised his eyebrows at her. "True, but one of the two of us was
significantly more awful."

She scowled. "Let's not talk about it, all right?"

"You brought it up."

"And now I'm dropping it. I'm sorry I've wasted so much of your time.
I'll let you get back to work."

She moved toward the door. Tony jumped up. "Wait a-"

But she was gone. He sat back down, dispirited. He hadn't ever seen her
so depressed, not even when she was signing books she hated. Obviously,
writing literary novels meant a great deal to her. She had been
devastated to find out she couldn't do it.

What to do, what to do?

He fished out his cell phone and hits the speed dial.

"Thank you for calling Dial-A-Shrink. If you're depressed, press one. If
you're hearing voices in your head, press two. If you're-"

He impatiently hit a number and waited, drumming his fingers on the desk
blotter.

"If you know your psychiatrist's extension, please-"

He again cut off the voice, stabbing in four numbers.

"This is Dr. Wechter. How may I help you?"

Dr. Wechter's tone was deep, soothing. Tony realized the man he was
speaking to had a voice right out of central casting, and sounded
extremely capable. He was unmoved.

"I want Muffy!"

"Dr. Jorenby is on the other line, sir. May I help you? What would you
like to talk about? Work? Family? I'm here to help."

"Stay out of my head, you quack! I want Muffy. Tell her to call the
bastion of insecurity when she gets a moment."

He hung up without waiting for an answer and then headed for the window
to watch Marnie walk away. But it was too late. He couldn't see her
anywhere.



CHAPTER SIXTEEN

˙

Marnie was looking through a bookstore window. Love's Tender Fury was
prominently displayed and she realized for the first time that it didn't
look like an awful book. The cover was tasteful and the colors were nice.
She wondered if people were enjoying this one.

"Excuse me.Miss LeFleur?"

She rolled her eyes and turned. A short, dark-haired woman was standing
behind her, timidly holding Love's Tender Fury . When Marnie faced her,
the woman smiled, relieved, and held out her hand. "Hi. I'm a big fan of
yours. Barbara Lorentz."

She shook Barb's hand. "My name isn't Barbara Lorentz."

Barb laughed.

"Hallelujah! A fan who gets my jokes."

"We're not all illiterate housewives, Miss LeFleur. Just like not all
romance novelists wear cheesy silk robes and lie around nibbling caviar
while writing love stories with a feathered quill pen."

"Who let you spy on me? Touch."

"Um.I hope I'm not disturbing you. I thought maybe.you were on your way
to a funeral or something."

Marnie glanced down at her black shoes, black pants, black turtleneck.
She realized she was still holding the unlit cigarette and
self-consciously tucked it into her fist. "I sort of am. I'm mourning the
death of my literary talent. Although you can't really mourn for
something that never existed, can you?"

"Who told you that? People are sad for things they never had, pretty much
every day. Anyone who says different is a fool or a liar."

"You are really refreshing. Ever think of going into publishing?"

"Never once. I'm sort of prejudiced. I love my job, and I think anything
outside my field is sort of a waste."

"Uh-huh. And what do you do?"

"I'm an ICU physician."

"Oh."

"You walked right into that one," Barb said kindly.

"Well. You know. Books can save lives, too. Um-you can stack them under
an unconscious person's feet so they come around quicker. Speaking of
books, did you want me to sign that for you?"

She reached for the book tucked under Barb's arm, but Barb clutched the
book and slowly shook her head. "I'm going to be really forward, here. If
you're not doing anything for the next hour, could I get you to come with
me? The book's not for me, it's for a friend. And meeting you would make
her day. Her year."

"Go off with a stranger instead of attending to my mysterious business?"
Marnie shrugged. "What the hell. The day I've had-the week I've
had-walking off with a perfect stranger to meet another stranger seems
logical."

"Actually, studies show that less than thirty percent of strangers are
perfect. In fact, some people think it's more like seven percent."

"Do you stumble across a lot of trivia in Intensive Care?"

"As a matter of fact, yes. Listen, if you're going to smoke, you'd better
do it before we get to the hospital."

"God, no. I don't want it. I don't smoke."

"Oh."



CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

˙

The friend Barb wanted her to meet was in the hospital. As they opened
the door, Marnie could see a middle-aged woman sitting on the bed,
talking on the phone. Chemotherapy had left her completely bald, she was
so pale she was the color of the bed sheet, and she was much too thin.
But her voice was cheery and upbeat.

"Aunt Kathy, listen. To. What. I. Am. Saying. I feel fine. I look great.
You know that problem with split ends I kept having? Totally taken care
of. And I've lost a ton of weight. Seriously. I'm going to recommend lung
cancer to all my friends." She paused, listening to the voice on the
other end of the phone. "Uh-huh.uh-huh. No, I have everything I-well, I'd
love a cigarette or ten, but I don't suppose you'd-no? Oh, fine, refuse a
dying request. That'll get you straight into Hell, no waiting.aw, cut
that out. I was only kidding, Aunt Kathy. Yes, I'm sorry. Yes, I won't
joke about dying anymore. Which reminds me, did you hear the one about
the corpse and the pathologist? Okay, well, the pathologist is walking
down the street, and he realizes he left his bone saw in the-" Lynn
looked up, saw Barb, and waved. Then she noticed Marnie and her eyes
widened. "Holy shit! I have to go, Kath. Dr. Doofus and a best-selling
romance novelist just walked in.no, I haven't had my medication yet.I'll
call you back."

She hung up the phone and turned to greet her visitors, folding her hands
primly on the sheet. "When you said you were running out to pick up a
LeFleur, I sort of thought you meant the book." She smiled broadly at
Marnie. "Hi. I'm Lynn Filkins. It's really great to meet you."

Marnie crossed the room and shook Lynn's small, hot hand. "Thanks very
much. I ran into Barb just outside the bookstore."

"And she hit you over the head and brought you here. Well, I can't say I
condone her methods, but I sure appreciate the results. Could I get your
autograph, Miss Hammer?"

Marnie was already digging in her purse for a pen, but at the sound of
her real name, she looked up. "How did you know my real name?"

Lynn rolled her eyes, clearly disgusted with such a stupid question.
"Puh-leeze. Every real fan knows your name is Marnie Hammer. The name is
on the copyright page of all your books, for God's sake. Which reminds
me, were your parents into, like, really bad Hitchcock films?"

Marnie grinned, delighted. "Yes! Marnie isn't even short for anything. I
can't tell you how many times people think my name is Barney. Especially
when I have a head cold."

Meanwhile, Barb had been busy on the other side of the room, and she
returned to the bed with an armful of LeFleur paperbacks, retrieved from
their place on the counter. She dumped them on the bed, where Lynn
shuffled through them expertly.

"Would you mind signing the whole lot?"

"I'd be honored."

The hell of it was, she would. She had finally found a pen, and pulled up
a chair to start signing. Barb handed her Love's Tender Fury, and Marnie
flipped the cover open to a blank page, as she had done thousands of
times before, and bent to her task.

"How long are you going to be here, do you think?"

"Until I die."

She froze in mid-autograph. Oh, shit. Nice question, loser. By the way,
are we done feeling sorry for ourselves yet?

Lynn was looking at her kindly enough, but when she spoke it was as if to
a small-or dumb-child. "I have end-stage lung cancer. And only one lung
left to have it in. It's pretty much hopeless. Didn't Barb tell you? No,
I guess not."

"But you can't-you aren't more than-how old are you?"

"Twenty-six."

Marnie shook her head. That couldn't be right. Lynn looked as if she was
in her late thirties, at least. She had no idea what to say, what to
think.

"I'm so sorry. I'm really sorry."

"My own stupid fault. Well, mine, and the tobacco company's. Hey, come
on, you look like somebody just die-I mean, cheer up. I've come to terms
with it. And you coming here really makes my day. I love your books."

"Tell her about your goals."

"Oh. Well, after I got the bad news-you know, that they don't get cable
on this ward-and then the very bad news-that I probably wouldn't live to
see Thanksgiving, which, given my family's history of overeating and then
picking fights wasn't exactly the worst news I'd ever-"

"Lynn."

"I'm getting to it! Anyway, once I found out my time was more finite than
I'd thought, I set a goal-hang on until Love's Tender Fury came out."

Marnie didn't know whether to be appalled or flattered. "You're kidding."

Lynn patted her bald head. "Hello? Do I look like I'm kidding? What,
that's not a worthy reason to hang around the planet for a while longer?
I should have decided to hang around for the Super Bowl?"

"I-I didn't-I don't-that's-"

"Boy, you're probably the least articulate best-selling author I've ever
met. Anyway, the book is out, right? I mean, you're holding it in your
hands. So the new goal is to see the movie."

Marnie just sat there. She remembered her actions at the movie premiere
and wanted to squirm with shame. And had she really thought she had a
life full of problems? Had she really?

"Helloooooo? Are you still in there? Don't make me slap you; I haven't
got the strength."

Barb shook her head. "She's so stubborn. The doctors gave her six months
to live. Ten months ago."

Marnie laughed. "Shame on you. Not listening to your doctors. Naughty
girl."

Lynn laughed, too, but the laugh soon dissolved into a coughing fit. She
turned an alarming purple color and Barb hurried to her side, but Lynn
got control of it and ended up flat on her back, exhausted.

"Shit. Can't even have a good laugh anymore.that's the worst part." She
sighed, then forced a smile. "Anyway, you coming here.that means a lot.
I'm so glad to finally meet you. I wanted to tell you how much I liked
your books before I couldn't tell anyone anything."

Marnie inched her chair closer and took Lynn's hand. "Don't thank me
again. I should thank you."

"Why?"

"You've really helped me get a handle on.on some things that have been
happening lately. I was trying to write a different kind of book.not
because I could, but because I didn't think these." She gestured to the
small stack of paperbacks on Lynn's bed. ".were worth anything."

"Well, you write what you like, Ms. Hammer. But those books are gold to
me."

Barb cleared her throat. "I'm sorry to interrupt, but I've got to get up
to the floor.rounds start." She looked at her watch. ".ten minutes ago."

"So?" Lynn asked. "Who's stopping you?"

Barb blew a kiss to Lynn and shook Marnie's hand. "Thanks a million for
coming back here with me. Lynn, behave yourself. I'll come down on my
break."

"Okay, but I can't promise to be alive."

The doctor rolled her eyes. "That's some disgusting sense of humor you've
got there. `Bye."

"You know, I have another book coming out. But it's not slated for
release until after the New Year."

"You're trying to trick me into enduring another Thanksgiving with my
family! Well, I won't do it."

"I could get you the galleys next month. They're like a rough draft."

Lynn smiled tentatively. "Really? I could get a LeFleur book before
anyone else? Oh, the advantages of being terminal!"

"`Dying is an art, like everything else.' Sylvia Plath."

"Quote Ms. Plath to me again, I'll be forced to get out of this bed and
kick your ass, literary idol or no."

She snorted. "I wouldn't be your idol if you'd seen some of the dreck
I've been producing lately."

"Hey, if it works, don't fix it. You write great love stories. Your
heroines have functioning brains. Your heroes are honorable and don't
smack the ladies around. It works."

"I don't know, the romance genre is so.it's got such a trashy reputation.
Nobody takes it seriously."

"What's that line from The Fisher King? `There's nothing trashy about
romance.' Besides, there's worse genres. True Crime, how about that?
How'd you like to write about nothing but murder cases.ooh, there's a
literary goal."

"Hmm."

"And while we're getting all cozy, here, what's with the black clothes?
You look like a gangster.or like you were on your way to a funeral. I'm
not dead yet."

"It's sort of a long story."

"Do I look like I'm going anywhere?"

Marnie leaned back and got comfortable. "Okay, well, you asked for it.
See, in high school, I fell in love with this guy, this really great guy."



CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

˙

Joe slowly went to his door. The sound made his head and his heart
hurt-Marnie used to pound on it that way, that `hurry up, we've got
things to do' way that always made his day. But she wasn't likely to be
pounding on his door anytime soon.

He missed her so much, and wasn't sure if he was angrier with himself-for
spoiling their friendship by giving in to her in a moment of weakness-or
her, for wanting more than he could give.

So it was with a heavy heart that he opened the door.

Marnie grinned at him. "If you're ready to apologize, I'm ready to
listen."

She was standing there, having the nerve to look prim and wait for his
apology, it was just so typically Marnie, and he suddenly knew. It was
going to be all right.



CHAPTER NINETEEN

˙

"So I told my friend Joe." Marnie chewed and swallowed. "I told you about
Joe, right?"

Tony nodded. "The good friend you want to get naked with."

"Right. Anyway, I had a long talk with him last night and he and I
decided it's time to tell you everything."

"You're both secretly in love with me?"

"No."

"Rats."

Suddenly, it was very hard to look him in the eye. You'd think she was
about to confess to murder, rather than writing successful romance
novels. "The thing.the thing is.I've sort of.got.a publishing history.
That is to say, I've.had some experience writing." She glanced up and
froze in surprise. Tony's mouth was hanging open and he had dropped his
napkin in his soup. He clutched his heart, rocked back in his chair-and
toppled to the floor in spectacular fashion.

A long moment passed, and then she saw a hand reach up, grope around, and
grab the edge of the table. Tony hauled himself back in his seat, dabbing
his forehead with his napkin.

"I'll.I'll be all right," he gasped. "Just give me a minute. The
news.such a shock."

She narrowed eyes. "Son of a bitch."

He smirked at her. "May I have your autograph, Miss LeFleur? I'm just
your biggest, biggest fan."

"Oh my God. You knew. The whole time, you knew. You let me make a fool of
myself!"

"What was I supposed to do? Tell you I knew you were lying through your
teeth?"

"I never lied about who I was. Marnie is my real name."

"A lie of omission is still a lie."

She gnashed her teeth, but he was right. "So why play along?"

"It seemed to be something you needed to do. And I wanted to help you."

Still shocked, and feeling more than a little foolish, she tried to get
her mind around what he was telling her. He had known. All along, he had
known. And he had done nothing but help her. She had misled him and
deceived him and he had helped her.

"How'd you know who I was? You're not exactly in my demographic."

"My mom's a big fan. We stood in line for a while to get the new book
signed. Incidentally, you're much cuter when you're not pretending to be
a pretentious, chain-smoking, pseudo-intellectual."

She sputtered wordlessly, trying to respond to pretentious,
chain-smoking, and pseudo-intellectual at the same time. After a moment
she gave up and shook her head.

"All this time, you've been letting me run around in black, trying to
smoke those gross cigarettes, reading the crap I've been-"

"Who told you it was crap? Where do you get these ideas about yourself?
About your work? Don't you know how great you are? Most of the time, I
mean?"

She laughed suddenly; she couldn't help it. "This was supposed to be my
meeting. I was going to reveal myself as Jessica LeFruitbat, you were
going to be revolted and kick me out, and I was going to go back to
writing romance novels."

"Now, as to going back to writing romance novels, sure, why not? You
should do the things you're good at-and take pride in them."

"How uplifting. You should write fortune cookies."

He gave her a look, and continued. "Why don't you get yourself a new
contract with your House, one that stipulates, say, two bodice rippers
and one book in another genre? For that matter, why haven't you tried it
before?"

"It won't work. I don't have the talent for a literary novel." She
managed to say this without flinching. And was surprised at how easily
the truth came. Strange that it didn't hurt, admitting she was a failure.
It should have hurt.

"So? Maybe it's not your style. Write a children's book. Write a mystery.
Hell, write a book on writing. You've got a lot to teach."

"There are other genres out there, aren't there? Duh. Actually, a friend
of mine reminded me of that very thing.that's a good idea, Tony."

"You mean I'm not as dim, as dull-witted as you thought I was? Did you
know my knuckles don't drag on the floor when I walk? Not since I had the
operation, anyway."

"You're insufferable."

He stretched out in his chair and laced his fingers behind his head.
"Naw. I'm an agent. Speaking of which, how are you fixed for
representation these days?"

"I'm my own agent. I fired mine after he signed me to write six romance
novels in two years."

He dug in his breast pocket, pulled out his card, and handed it to her.
"My card."

She looked at it for a long time, thinking. "You knew. You even got me an
appointment with your boss. And you didn't tell her who I was." She
smiled. "We're going to be great good friends, aren't we?"

"At least."

His cell phone burped, startling them both, and he said, "That's my
psychiatrist. You mind if I take this call?"

"You're in therapy?"

"Not exactly."

Marnie excused herself, looking puzzled, while he flipped his phone open.

"Muff! Where the hell have you been?"

"Tanning. Did you win the fair maiden?"

"Not yet."

"Carpe the diem, dude."

"Working on it."



˙

CHAPTER TWENTY

˙

It was showdown time. The participants of the literary gunfight were all
highly intelligent-well, two of them were. The other was dim, but
catching on.

"You're willing to sign another contract," Don said, fiddling with his
pen. "For three books."

"See?" Marnie said to Tony, delighted. "I told you we didn't need the
hand puppets. He understood you just fine."

"What's the catch?"

"Why so suspicious?" Tony asked.

"I know the psycho, there. She's got something up her sleeve. Probably a
.357 Magnum. What's the catch?"

"Well." Tony coughed. "There is one minor stipulation."

Don Peter, Senior Editor, groped for the aspirin bottle on his desk.
Marnie saw without surprise that it was roughly the size of a milk jug.
"I knew it. You've come bearing gifts to the pig in the poke, and now
you're thinking you'll get two birds with one stone."

"You've really got a way with words, Don."

Tony leaned forward. "Two of the books will be romance novels.
Historicals, three hundred pages or more.the moneymakers."

"And the third?"

"Marnie gets to pick the genre."

"No freakin' way."

"Told you," she said.

"You did, but I never thought he'd throw away the potential hundreds of
thousands of dollars of profit, because he was too gutless to gamble on a
third book." Tony paused. "But, I hear Pocket has been interested in
signing you for a while. We'll-"

"Siddown!"

They sat. Don stared at them, his gaze unblinking. Like a lizard's.

"The romances come first," he said after a long beat.

She yawned, concealing her joy.

"Sure," Tony replied easily.

"And the third isn't literary-like. Something else. True crime or
something. And under your own name. We own Jessica C. LeFleur."

Oooh, Marnie thought. That's telling me.

"Oh, all right," Tony sighed. "You drive a hard bargain, my man. You've
got yourself a signed contract."

"I've got it!" she said, jumping up. "How about a gripping mystery?
Beautiful, intelligent authoress is accused of murdering her simian
editor. While no jury in the world would convict her, still, she-"

Don was crunching more aspirin. "And no funny names in the romance
novels. And knock off the quotes!"

"`It is a good thing for an uneducated man to read books of quotations.'
Winston Churchill."

"`I hate quotations,'" Tony replied, "`tell me what you know.' Ralph
Waldo Emerson."

She stared at Tony, feeling a quite goofy smile come over her. He grinned
back. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw her editor shudder and put
the top back on the aspirin. All was right with the world.



CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

˙

"I still can't believe how easy it was! I've been miserable for so
long-and it was so simple to fix!"

"Easy, you're about to bounce into traffic. Besides," Tony added, "that's
hindsight. I think you had to go through all that disguise nonsense to
find out what you wanted to do. Not what you thought you wanted to do.
Why go into a contract meeting unless you know exactly what you want?
Since you and I knew what we wanted, knew what to ask for, it was easy.
If you'd tried it a month ago, maybe not so much."

"I guess. Thanks for walking me here. Unnecessary, yet touching."

"Well, since I'm now your agent, I have a vested interest in making sure
you don't get creamed by the number sixty-seven bus on your way home. Is
this where you live?"

"No. An old friend lives here. I'm staying with him while my apartment's
being re-painted."

His face fell, and she was startled at his expression.

"What is it?"

"Nothing," he said shortly. "I'll talk to you later. I'd better-"

Like that, it hit her. When she spoke, it was almost accusingly.

"It's Joe's apartment! But you didn't know that. You thought I was
staying with a boyfriend!"

"Did not."

She smiled, a giddy grin full of hope and promise. "Did too! Did I
mention my friend Joe-"

"Repeatedly."

"-is about as interested in me carnally as I am in him?"

"What does that mean?"

"He's got this funny idea. About me. And my head being up my ass. But I'm
better now. I'm not into crying for the moon anymore."

"No."

"What?"

"No, you hadn't mentioned it."

"Pity. Why don't you come inside, and we can talk about it over cups of
international coffee?"

He laughed, and followed her inside.

* * * * *

"Oh, Christ!"

"Yup."

"Holy God!"

"Uh-huh."

She was still out of breath, and they'd finished ages ago. "Seriously, do
you take vitamins, or what?"

He laughed and pulled her on top of him for a hug. "No. But I'd better
start. You're going to wear me out, aren't you?"

"I think so, yes."

He rubbed her buttocks and kissed the hollow of her throat, and she
closed her eyes and gloried in the sensation of being held, being
cherished.

It had been like flying. It had been heaven. It had-she couldn't think of
the exact word, she, who always had a quote or an adjective for every
occasion. Tony had been hungry, he'd been skilled, he'd been phenomenal.
His mouth had been everywhere, his hands, his fingers, his tongue. He'd
made her laugh and come in the same breath. He'd made her come before she
had all her clothes on the floor.

And he hadn't gone anywhere near her ass.

Not, as Seinfeld would say, that there was anything wrong with that. But
Tony did so many other things. Instead, he'd made himself at home between
her legs and licked and sucked and nibbled until she was screaming at the
ceiling. When he'd surged into her, her vision actually went dark around
the edges as her orgasm bloomed within her like a black orchid.

She'd begged, she'd screamed, she'd shuddered around him, she'd left
tracks on his shoulders.and he had asked for more, demanded more.

Oh, it had really been something.

"I think you've ruined me for life," she said, stroking his hair.

"Ruined you for gay men at least."

"Well, that, too."

She felt two of his fingers slide up inside her and shuddered as he
quickly worked her to another orgasm. "Oh, jeez, you've got to let me get
my breath back."

"Why?"

"So I can return some of those amazing favors you've bestowed upon me."

"But you're so slick and slippery," he teased, and oh God, she was, his
fingers were still sliding around and she squirmed against his hand, "I
can't stay away."

"Well, I never said-said I wanted you-you to stay away-oh, God-"

"If you don't mind," he said into her mouth, "I really need to fuck you
again."

"Mind?"

He slid inside her with a laugh, and she wrapped her legs around his hips
and pumped back at him. Oh, Christ, it was so sweet, it was delicious, it
was heaven in bed. "Look what I've been missing," she gasped.

"Well, I didn't want to rub it in," he teased, though she was gratified
to hear he was out of breath, too. His breathing started to hitch and he
buried his face in the hollow of her throat, nipping lightly as she
clenched around him, as she felt a new wave of heat race down her limbs,
through her stomach, through her cunt.

"Oh God!"

He groaned something in response and then shuddered above her.

"Oh God," she said again, slightly more calmly.

"I must be crushing you," he moaned, but didn't move.

"You're all right. Stay right there."

"Forever," he moaned again.

She laughed, and kissed the top of his head.

˙



EPILOGUE

˙

Fourteen months later, Marnie was at another book signing and, for a
wonder, was enjoying herself. Sales of Be Careful What You Wish For were
brisk, and if it didn't do as well as one of her romance novels, she
wasn't going to cry about it. This was the book she wrote for the
pleasure of it, not because she was trying too hard to be what she was
not.

This signing was different in other ways, too. For one, Joe and Tony had
come with her. Joe, poor bum, had a rather large crush on Tony. Tony was
oblivious, but Joe had no secrets from her. She was sorry for him, but
not immune to irony. Hopefully after her wedding next spring Joe would
recover from his case of puppy love and settle down himself. She supposed
it was about time she turned matchmaker, which was another irony.

"Say, didn't you used to be Jessica C. LeFleur?"

Startled from her thoughts, Marnie looked up and saw Barb, the ICU
physician, standing at her table, holding a copy of Be Careful What You
Wish For.

"Dr. Barb! How are you? I haven't seen you since Lynn's funeral."

"I'm good, thanks. It was kind of you to come."

"It was the least I could do, believe me. She fought to the end, didn't
she?"

Barb nodded, and Marnie saw the woman's smile tremble a little.

"Ah-don't you dare buy that book, I'll give you one of my copies."

"It's a wonder you make any money at all. No, I'll buy it, thanks." She
flipped the book open and, with a twinkle in her eye, read the dedication
out loud. "For the late, great Lynn Filkins, who hung around long enough
to show me the truth, and then went on to a better place. We miss her so
much." Barb smiled and slapped the book shut. "She would have loved that."

"I wish she could have seen it."

Barb sighed. "Baby, don't we all. What kind of book is the new one?"

"Well, it's not literary. But it's not awful, either. It's kind of a
mystery, I guess. I hope you like it."

"I'm sure I will. I have to run, Marnie. It was nice to see you again."

Before she could answer, Barb was gone. Marnie couldn't help but again
think of Lynn's influence. She'd spent one afternoon with the dying
woman, and it changed her life. It was all very-

"Hi.I know you're promoting your new book.but I was hoping you
could.maybe sign this one?"

Marnie looked up and saw an older woman with a kind, lined face. She was
neatly dressed, but her clothing had seen years of use. She tentatively
handed Marnie a battered copy of Love's Tender Fury. At the sight of the
familiar cover, a tangible symbol of her past unhappiness, Marnie had to
smile. She had been unhappy, yes, dreadfully so. But it was of her own
doing. She'd never been a victim, no matter how much it had pleased her
to think so.

"No problem at all. What's your name, ma'am?"

"Karen. I really liked it. It's my favorite."

"I'm so glad. If you like my style, you might want to try Julie Garwood
or Catherine Coulter."

Tony, returning with coffee and sandwiches for her and Joe, stopped short
by her table. "She's recommending other romance authors! My heart!
Can't.take.the shock."

After setting the coffee down, Tony dramatically tumbled to the floor.
Marnie didn't turn around, though her fan gasped and looked suitably
alarmed. She handed the book back, explaining, "That's my fianc. He
hasn't taken his medication today."

Karen was backing away. "I-I hope he gets better."

"Unlikely. But thank you."

Marnie glanced behind her, toward the floor. "Tony, you're scaring the
customers. Joe, get off him! He does not need artificial respiration.
Will you get off? I said get off him right now!"

For heaven's sake, she thought, trying not to laugh. I need to get Joe
fixed up, pronto. Say.there might be a book in that.

THE END







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