"Bulls.h.i.t."

"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 ma.n.u.script 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."

"b.i.t.c.hy 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 j.a.panese-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 a.s.s' speech. Besides, your agent didn't do s.h.i.t 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 sp.a.w.n 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 c.r.a.p, 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 G.o.d'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 h.e.l.l 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 att.i.tude 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 c.r.a.pola you keep tossing in there."

"c.r.a.pola? Oh, that's nice."

He grabbed a sheaf of ma.n.u.script pages, put on his gla.s.ses, 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 G.o.d," 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 d.a.m.n 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 nutsh.e.l.l: quit your b.i.t.c.hing."

"I write fairly good books," she corrected him. "You turn them into c.r.a.p. Then you sell the c.r.a.p to millions of women who insist on calling me Jessica. In a nutsh.e.l.l: you're ruining my life."

"It's only fair, because you're sure as h.e.l.l ruining mine." He flipped through the ma.n.u.script pages and picked another paragraph at random. "'Bard-' I a.s.sume 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 p.e.n.i.s 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 ma.n.u.script 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 t.i.tle once I get done. If I can get through it without killing myself. Give it a shot."

"You hate my t.i.tles," 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 h.e.l.l, 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 b.i.t.c.hy," 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 embarra.s.sing 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 s.p.a.ce. 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?"