“I don’t like being bullied.”

“You mean if he’d been clean shaven, neatly pressed, sober and polite, you wouldn’t have been so stupid?”

“I don’t consider standing up for myself to be stupid, thank you.”

“Yeah, well, just be glad you’re explaining that to me and not St. Peter.”

“Martha…”

“No, I mean it,” she insisted emphatically. “You could have been killed over some pocket change. As it is, your arm looks like a purple tattoo of King Kong’s fingerprints. Instead of being so damned concerned about that stupid jacket, you should be in Dr. Mooney’s office right now. Or better yet, in a police station picking that vermin out of a line up.”

“Oh yeah, there’s a great idea,” Elgin feigned agreement. “I have him arrested and some shyster lawyer finds out I’m a writer with more than ten bucks in the bank and the first thing you know, I’m being sued by that Bozo for damaging the family jewels. That’s five years of being mired down in legal hassles and six hundred-dollar an hour lawyers only to have my insurance company buy him off on the courthouse steps. That, of course, results in my liability insurance premiums being jacked up to roughly the budget of a Third World Country or being canceled altogether.”

She shook her head. “Uh-uh. I have enough troubles without that. I took a couple of painkillers and I’ll stick to long-sleeve shirts for a few days so as not to offend your delicate sensibilities.”

Her tone softened and she smiled. “Look Martha, I appreciate your concern, but you’re my secretary, not my mother. So why don’t you go and see if there’s anything in the ‘fridge for lunch while I check my e-mails?”

“All right,” Martha agreed with a small sigh of resignation. “There’s a pile in your chat folder because of the program tonight but other than that, nothing pressing.”

“Okay then. I’ll be in my study. Call me when lunch’s is ready. Let’s eat on the terrace. And hold my calls this afternoon unless it’s Sheila.”

“Will do.”

“Where do you get your inspiration? Do you research everything, including the sex, yourself? Are you married? Have you ever had sex on an airplane? Do you sleep in the nude?”

Elgin scanned through the papers and took another bite of salad.

“I wonder how many times I’ve answered those same questions?” she giggled.

“Hey, if you wrote cookbooks, people would probably want to know where you buy your eggs or which lemons have the best juice,” Martha replied with a little giggle of her own.

“No doubt. It just gets a little repetitive, that’s all. I sometimes wonder if anyone ever asked Jane Austin about her favorite position. Or Emily Bronte if she’d ever done it out in the English Moors.”

“Well, don’t the chat moderators try to weed out the real perverts?”

“Yeah, but there’s only so much you can do. This chat is supposed to be a purely fun interview. Let the reader’s get up close and personal as it were. Of course, no one wants to know that I work eight and ten hour days just like everyone else and that I wear nighties to bed and I haven’t been with a man in so long, I’m writing purely from imagination.”

“No, I guess that would sort of blow Gillian’s image all to hell.”

“So, I’ll tell them that I have a whole wardrobe of sexy lingerie, depending on my mood and my company and that it’s hot and cold running hunks, twenty-four/seven. I also intend to casually mention that my newest book will be out this summer and that since I’m taking the entire summer off, they better stock up now because it will probably be Christmas before I have anything new.”

“Are you still planning on going up to that place in the country?” Disapproval sounded in Martha’s tone.

“Yes. I need the rest. And no, as I’ve said before, you don’t have to come with me. I don’t want you to come with me. I’m paying you three months’ salary so you won’t come with me. There aren’t going to be any secretarial duties for you and I’m perfectly capable of opening tuna cans and diet soda bottles by myself.”

“I can’t imagine what you’re going to do for three whole months up in that God-forsaken wilderness,” Martha grumped. “I mean, the couple of weekends we went up there, I couldn’t believe how boring the place was. No television. No radio. No neighbors. No nothing. It’s positively dead.”

“Exactly. I’m going to walk in the woods, swim some, maybe rent a little boat and go out on the lake and I’ve got two years worth of books I’ve been wanting to read that I never have any time to start. I’m going to veg out completely.”

“Sounds awful.”

“Sounds wonderful.”

Elgin finished her salad, sat back in the cushioned patio chair and stretched. Immediately, she winced and pulled her arms down.

“You okay, El?” Martha reached out and laid her fingertips lightly on her boss’s right arm.

“Yeah, I’m fine,” Elgin assured her. “Just a stitch. No doubt my arm’s gonna hurt for a few days and it’ll probably get worse before it gets better.”

“I wish you’d let me call Dr. Mooney. That maniac could have pulled something or strained something. Even a hairline fracture. I’ve read…”

“I’m fine, Martha, really. I just stretched a little too hard. Now I’m going in and see if I can squeeze out some possible plots for a new book. Sheila says if I’m going to disappear for three months, I have to at least leave her with an outline of my next project.”

“Maybe you ought to take a nap. Or better yet, cancel this whole stupid chat thing anyway. I think people will understand when you tell them that some loony tried to break your arm this afternoon.”

“You don’t know Gillian’s fans,” Elgin laughed. “They do not take disappointment well, especially from their favorite author. If I’d been murdered, someone would be trying to arrange a séance. Now, I’ll help you clear the table and then I’m going to lock myself in my ivory tower and not come out until dinner.”

“You okay?”

“Sure.”

“You look like hell,” Martha observed dryly.

“And a gracious good morning to you, too.”

Elgin eased herself carefully onto the sofa and sighed as she leaned back.

“You get any sleep?” Martha asked, handing her a glass of orange juice.

“Enough. It’s just that the chat ran long and then even with more painkillers I couldn’t seem to find a comfortable position. Not to mention that every time I did manage to close my eyes, that creep was all over me again, stink and all.”

“You oughta see Dr. Mooney. Get something heavy duty for the pain. And you oughta call the cops about that bastard. I’d think with everything else that’s been going on around here lately, you wouldn’t want one more lunatic hanging around.”

“Please, Martha,” she sighed wearily, “not now. The bruises will heal, the beggar’s one of the hazards of modern city living, and you’re making a mountain out of a molehill.”

“What about the flowers?” she insisted. “And the candy? And the bra and panty set? All anonymous and all delivered right here to your supposedly ‘secret’ home address.”

Elgin heard the concern as well as the annoyance in her secretary’s voice. Even though they were virtually the same age, she knew Martha tended to be very protective, almost maternal about her. And while she appreciated the thought behind it, sometimes it did get a little much.

“I’ve told you. The flowers and the candy and even that outrageous lingerie are a gag, no doubt being played out by one or more of my slightly demented friends. Who else would know about the carnations or the peanut brittle or my taste in underwear? Or my home address?

“If I make a big production number out of it, they’ll just keep it up. Believe me, the best way to make it go away is to ignore it.”

“But…” The sound of the intercom buzzer from downstairs interrupted Martha.