"Why, I had no idea you wrote, Miss Wilson," he had said, drenching her in his jowly grin and wiping perspiration from his naked, fringed pate. "Imagine that, a writer and an agent living in the same building…"

Some phenomenon, Karen mused, dropping into a living room chair, her robe falling partially open to reveal the slightly tanned flesh of a smooth rounded thigh. All the same, she hadn't told him of the half-dozen rejections the book had brought her so far, only of her scant, now-and-then magazine credits, implying that she made her living at it. Well, she hadn't really lied about that; it was her only earned but thank God for the small annuity her parents had arranged for her before their horrible auto accident last year.

After all, she wasn't exactly destitute or without an active means of livelihood; she always had her teaching credential that she could rely on… even though she had never used it. Her ambition as far back as she could remember had been' to write. Teaching had been something to fall back on, in case the need should ever arise, and so far it hadn't, but there had been many discouraging days after Jeff had gone and before the income her parents had left her. Now, she was determined, by hook or by crook, and she was beginning to believe that one more often made it by "crook" rather than ability.

How many times had Jeff said, It isn't what you know, honey, it's who you know.

Whom, darling, she would correct… damnit, there she went again. Jeff, Jeff, Jeff! He haunted her sleep and tortured her when she was awake. Her brain reeked with his memory! Damn him to hell, anyway! She bolted to her feet and went to the cupboard for the half-emptied bottle of bourbon. She was going to need something this day and there was no question about that. There, she was crying again… She spiked her coffee stiffly, watching through blurred eyes, then drank half of it, feeling it burn all the way down into her belly. She went back to her chair and fell into it, wiping at her eyes once more.