Pulling Home by Mary Campisi Page B

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    you with his tough guy antics. He might be a manipulating conniver, but he’s still a businessman, and you’re valuable intellectual property. He knows that. He also knows the mystique behind On Eden Street’s head writer. You’re winning him awards and growing his audience. People love a good intrigue and as long as the show’s growing, he’ll feed the frenzy, count on that.”
    “What if it suddenly becomes too much effort to keep my name a secret?”
    Peter leveled his blue gaze on her. “Then it’s fifty-fifty which will win out—
    Howard’s greed or his word.”

    ***
“Damn good to have you back, girl.” Howard Krozer lifted a cigar from his
    humidor and smiled, his smallish face puffing out like a blowfish.
    “Thank you, Howard. I appreciate it. I’m sorry I wasn’t available earlier. It’s been a tough week.”
    “I know, honey.” He reached across the massive desk and patted her hand. “This
    marriage business is a tough gig. I’ve tried it four times and still haven’t gotten it right.
    Of course, I don’t ever love them, not the way you did with the ‘death do us part’ bit. I like them all well enough, though, and I certainly desire them. But love? Now that’s a damn uncontrollable creature. But you loved the guy.” He trimmed the end of his cigar and stuck it in his mouth. “And that’s the bitch of it.” He lit the tip, puffed, puffed again, then blew out a blur of smoke. “Now you got a hole in your heart. What the hell good is that?”
    Howard could make an optimist consider suicide but he was a brilliant producer
    and most of the time, a decent employer.
    “So, back to the business. I got the whole lot of ‘em stewing over why the hell the head writer isn’t sending new material. Did she have a nervous breakdown? Is she on a three day screw? Did she jump out a window? And I have to deal with it all. Now I’m as good a liar as the next, but my limits get tested when they hit my wallet.” He tapped the ashes of his cigar in a silver ashtray. “All I’m saying, is don’t friggin’ disappear on me again. I don’t care if you have to write on the wing of a plane or in the hospital ICU. I need material. Period. That’s the only way we stay on top, and it’s the only way I can guarantee your anonymity. You start screwing up and people get pissed. And then they want to get even. The damn cleaning lady could follow you to your car and write down your plate number. Identify the car, identify the driver. Cha-ching. The Enquirer pays big bucks. We don’t want that.”
    No, she certainly didn’t. Audra shifted in her chair and met Howard’s purposeful gaze. “I understand. I appreciate your help.”
    “You’re my girl.” His small, white teeth spread into a broad smile. “My golden
    girl. You can fly to Zimbabwe next week and I don’t care, as long as the work is in on time and it’s top shelf. Gut-wrenching, in your face work, like you’ve been giving me.
    Do that and we’ll have a long, happy life together.”

Chapter 13
    “There is such a thing as God’s will, even if you don’t like to acknowledge it.”—
    Leslie Richot
     
    “Yes! Yes! Ahhhhh, yes!!” Leslie threw back her head and rode Jack hard and
    fast, her hands cupping her enormous breasts. Leslie loved her breasts, loved stroking them, pinching the dusky nipples, dangling them in his face. Large breasts had their benefits but Jack was partial to smaller, well-rounded ones that rested perfectly in the palm of his hand.
    He was thinking of those breasts and the woman attached to them as he grabbed
    Leslie’s hips and thrust into her, eyes squeezed shut, jaw clenched. When his body convulsed in ragged, uneven jerks, sending him into a vicious climax, he was still thinking of those other breasts—that other woman.
    “Jack!” Leslie fell against him in a wave of quivering exhaustion.
    Jack kept his eyes closed and imagined the smell of honeysuckle. For the past
    three days, he’d been