Naked Once More Read Free Page A

agent.”
    “But…” Chris tried to think of a polite way to put it. He failed. “But, Miss—er—Ms.—er—Mrs. Kirby, you can’t do that. I couldn’t take an author from a colleague. Especially Hattie Foster.”
    “I can.” The statement was followed by a crisp sound, as of teeth snapping together.
    And she could, too. After he had read the first fifty pages of the manuscript, which arrived via messenger that afternoon, Chris had called Hattie, and Hattie had assured him she would never dream of holding an unhappy client to an agreement and that, moreover, she wished both of them the best of luck. The sentiment was so wildly unlike Hattie that Chris could only conclude Jacqueline was blackmailing her. He asked no questions, then or later; he didn’t want to know about that, either.
    “Names?” Jacqueline said, and Chris dismissed past memories for present business.
    They discussed the matter—the pros and cons of various individuals, the burning question of large agencies versus independents—but it was increasingly evident to Chris that Jacqueline’s heart wasn’t in it.
    “I don’t know whether I want another agent,” she muttered, studying the dessert menu.
    “Oh, go ahead; have the chocolate cake.”
    “I intend to. You never hear me babbling about dieting, do you?” She didn’t give him time to answer. “That’s not why I’m grumbling. I’m upset. I’m not going to try to talk you out of it, I really am not; but I hate the idea of finding someone else. I lucked out the first time; how can I hope it will happen twice?”
    The compliment was too graceless to be anything but sincere. Chris beamed. “Don’t depend on luck. Use your intelligence.”
    “I don’t know whether I want to write anymore.”
    “Nonsense.” Chris addressed the waiter. “Two coffees, and the lady will have the Deadly Delight.”
    Jacqueline leaned back and contemplated her ringed hands. “I wrote that first book as a joke, you know. Surrounded by romance writers, unable to believe the stuff I was reading had actually been published… I was astonished when it took off the way it did.”
    “So was I.” This candid admission won Chris a hostile green glance from his client. He tried to make amends. “Nobody knows what makes a best-seller, Jacqueline. Yours was a good book—of its kind—and eminently readable. The second book was stronger, more professional. If you continue to improve—”
    “But I don’t want to continue. I hate the damned books.” The waiter thrust Jacqueline’s cake in front of her and beat a hasty retreat. She contemplated its swirled frosting gloomily. “Oh, don’t worry, I haven’t developed delusions of grandeur; I don’t want to write lit-ra-choor, or win the Pulitzer. The literary pundits may dismiss my kind of writing as ‘popular fiction’; but it’s a lot harder to write than those stream-of-consciousness slices of life. A ‘popular’ novel is just about the only form of fiction these days that has a plot. I like plots. I like a book to have a beginning, a middle, and an end. I’m proud of what I do and I have no desire to read or write anything else. But ro-mance? God save the mark! There haven’t been more than half a dozen good historical novels written since the turn of the century, if you count Dorothy Dunnett’s six-volume saga as one.
Gone With the Wind, The Time Remembered, Katherine, Amber, Naked in the Ice
.… Did you just flinch, Chris? Why did you flinch?”
    “It wasn’t a flinch, it was… Nothing.”
    Jacqueline was too preoccupied with her grievances to pursue the point. “Well, maybe
Naked in the Ice
isn’t a historical novel. It’s a unique blend of fantasy and fact, an adult
Lord of the Rings,
a literary
Clan of the Cave Bear,
a Pleistocene
Gone With the Wind.
But you know one thing all those books have in common, besides being best-sellers? Not a single organ of the body throbs, hardens, or pulsates! Honestly, Chris, if I have to write one