"We're not going to be lovers again."

"Right. You got it. We're not."

"I can't think why not."

"G.o.d, 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 b.i.t.c.h."

"That's the spirit." He started to leave the room, then stopped and whirled like an angry cat. An angry naked cat. "G.o.ddammit, 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 ma.s.saged her temples, where a truly gigantic headache was forming. She had to focus. She had to concentrate. She had to quit writing this c.r.a.p.

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 gra.s.s 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 pa.s.sionate 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 sungla.s.ses. 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 ma.n.u.script pages, and looked up. "This is...interesting reading."

"It's c.r.a.p. 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 embarra.s.sed. "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 m.u.f.fy!"

"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 m.u.f.fy. 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? Touche."

"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.