Elliot gaped at Luke, his eyebrows shooting up above the thick-rimmed spectacles. They were standing in Elliot’s living room, and Luke had just informed his agent that there was no chance of him completing the Kingsley Jeffers sequel. “’Fraid not.” Luke sighed. “I’m sorry, Elliot, but I just can’t write another word about that pretentious jerk.” The other man’s long, thin face flushed. “That ‘pretentious jerk’ has put you on the bestseller lists. That ‘pretentious jerk’ is worth a fortune to you.” And you, too. But Luke held back the retort. “I know that, but I can’t force it. I can’t write something I don’t believe in.” “Frigging hell! What’s that got to do with anything?” Puce to his hairline, the agent jabbed an accusing finger at Luke’s chest. “You owe me, you bastard. Jesus Christ! I’ve been babysitting you for the past six months.
