Naked Once More Read Online Free
Author: Elizabeth Peters
assured their immortality. And the disappearance of the author had aroused a storm of publicity that lasted for weeks.
Jacqueline had passed into a catatonic state, eyes glazed. Chris poked her. “Don’t ham it up, Jacqueline. You must have heard rumors of this. It’s been six weeks since the courts declared Kathleen Darcy legally dead. I don’t know why it took so long. All the evidence indicated that she committed suicide seven years ago, but you know how the law works: like the mills of God.”
Jacqueline continued to stare, not at him but at some ineffable vision in the near distance. It was perhaps her look of semi-imbecility that prompted Chris to comment, “She was a weird lady. Anyhow, she’s dead, legally as well as de facto, and her estate has been handed over to her heirs. It’s now definite; a sequel is planned.”
“Me?” Jacqueline breathed. “Sequel?
Naked
?”
“Why not? Omniscient as you are, you must know that Kathleen Darcy planned another book, possibly a trilogy. You’ve only written two books, but they are in the same genre, and they’ve been enormously successful. The competition will be keen, but the only factor that might have worked against you is that Booton Stokes, Kathleen’s agent, will give preference to one of his own authors. He may not admit it, but he will. Now that you’ll be needing a new agent—”
“No.”
“What?” It was Chris’s turn to stare.
“No. No. Chris. I will have to find a new agent, but I will not write the sequel to
Naked in the Ice.
I love that book. I’ve read it twenty times. Let someone else massacre the sequel. It won’t be me.”
Chapter 2
“Please-take-a-seat. Mr. Stokes will be with you as soon as his schedule permits.”
The receptionist delivered this speech in a rapid monotone, without looking up from the magazine she was reading. Jacqueline did not reply, or move away. She simply made her presence felt, like a persistent and unpleasant smell. After a few moments the receptionist shifted uneasily and raised her eyes. Jacqueline’s expression of vague benevolence did not alter, but the girl swallowed and raised a nervous hand to her brassy-blond hair.
“Uh—Mr. Stokes is running a little late this morning, ma’am. Like, an emergency, you know.”
Being a woman of moderate expectations, Jacqueline accepted the stumbling courtesy in the spirit in which it had been offered. One did not, after all, expect the manners of a bygone age from a young woman whose nails were painted iridescent mauve. She nodded pleasantly and took the afore-mentioned seat.
Though mildly vexed at being kept waiting for an appointment she had made over a week earlier (what kind of emergencies did agents encounter? terminal writers’ block?) she was not sorry to have a few moments in which to compose her thoughts and study the decor.
It appeared to have been inspired by 1930s films and completed by an enthusiastic absence of taste. In color and shape the chairs resembled overripe eggplants; they were uncomfortably low, and covered with prickly cotton velvet. The desk of the receptionist was a (fake) rococo construction featuring a good deal of inlaid mother-of-pearl and brass. The same might have been said of the receptionist, except for the mother-of-pearl. A good deal of her was faux, including, Jacqueline suspected, the thrusting twin cones that teased the silky fabric of her blouse like… Jacqueline stopped herself. Romance novels had a pervasive and perverse effect on one’s similes. God and Mr. Stokes willing, her next novel would include not a single heaving or thrusting mound. Kathleen Darcy had achieved her erotic effect (and there were plenty of them in her book) without such crude techniques.
A less self-assured women might have squirmed at that point in her deliberations. Jacqueline never squirmed, but the trickle of unease that had accompanied her since she had made the appointment swelled to Rubicon width. It was not too late; she had
Jacqueline had passed into a catatonic state, eyes glazed. Chris poked her. “Don’t ham it up, Jacqueline. You must have heard rumors of this. It’s been six weeks since the courts declared Kathleen Darcy legally dead. I don’t know why it took so long. All the evidence indicated that she committed suicide seven years ago, but you know how the law works: like the mills of God.”
Jacqueline continued to stare, not at him but at some ineffable vision in the near distance. It was perhaps her look of semi-imbecility that prompted Chris to comment, “She was a weird lady. Anyhow, she’s dead, legally as well as de facto, and her estate has been handed over to her heirs. It’s now definite; a sequel is planned.”
“Me?” Jacqueline breathed. “Sequel?
Naked
?”
“Why not? Omniscient as you are, you must know that Kathleen Darcy planned another book, possibly a trilogy. You’ve only written two books, but they are in the same genre, and they’ve been enormously successful. The competition will be keen, but the only factor that might have worked against you is that Booton Stokes, Kathleen’s agent, will give preference to one of his own authors. He may not admit it, but he will. Now that you’ll be needing a new agent—”
“No.”
“What?” It was Chris’s turn to stare.
“No. No. Chris. I will have to find a new agent, but I will not write the sequel to
Naked in the Ice.
I love that book. I’ve read it twenty times. Let someone else massacre the sequel. It won’t be me.”
Chapter 2
“Please-take-a-seat. Mr. Stokes will be with you as soon as his schedule permits.”
The receptionist delivered this speech in a rapid monotone, without looking up from the magazine she was reading. Jacqueline did not reply, or move away. She simply made her presence felt, like a persistent and unpleasant smell. After a few moments the receptionist shifted uneasily and raised her eyes. Jacqueline’s expression of vague benevolence did not alter, but the girl swallowed and raised a nervous hand to her brassy-blond hair.
“Uh—Mr. Stokes is running a little late this morning, ma’am. Like, an emergency, you know.”
Being a woman of moderate expectations, Jacqueline accepted the stumbling courtesy in the spirit in which it had been offered. One did not, after all, expect the manners of a bygone age from a young woman whose nails were painted iridescent mauve. She nodded pleasantly and took the afore-mentioned seat.
Though mildly vexed at being kept waiting for an appointment she had made over a week earlier (what kind of emergencies did agents encounter? terminal writers’ block?) she was not sorry to have a few moments in which to compose her thoughts and study the decor.
It appeared to have been inspired by 1930s films and completed by an enthusiastic absence of taste. In color and shape the chairs resembled overripe eggplants; they were uncomfortably low, and covered with prickly cotton velvet. The desk of the receptionist was a (fake) rococo construction featuring a good deal of inlaid mother-of-pearl and brass. The same might have been said of the receptionist, except for the mother-of-pearl. A good deal of her was faux, including, Jacqueline suspected, the thrusting twin cones that teased the silky fabric of her blouse like… Jacqueline stopped herself. Romance novels had a pervasive and perverse effect on one’s similes. God and Mr. Stokes willing, her next novel would include not a single heaving or thrusting mound. Kathleen Darcy had achieved her erotic effect (and there were plenty of them in her book) without such crude techniques.
A less self-assured women might have squirmed at that point in her deliberations. Jacqueline never squirmed, but the trickle of unease that had accompanied her since she had made the appointment swelled to Rubicon width. It was not too late; she had
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