The Saint Read Online Free Page B

breath on their necks and were anxious to fix their place in the history books before their relatives did—even if it meant some liberal fact-stretching. One had been a corrupt two-time governor, the other an empire builder doing his level best to rid his state of trees and clean water. She had declined both jobs.
    She could afford to back then. Now? Well, she might just have to hold her nose and ignore what smelled. This client didn’t simply want to be the son of immortals, he wanted to be immortal himself. That alone suggested an arrogance passing into true mania.
    She was also worried because she liked to keep a low profile. Her privacy was like a religion. It wasn’t that she had anything specific to hide—she wasn’t wanted by the IRS, the FBI, or a sadistic exhusband—she simply liked her solitude, and the thought of the possible celebrity to come with this project made her uneasy. She didn’t mind writing about high-profile people, but becoming one was another matter.
    And yet . . . the poverty thing loomed large. She had discovered that she really hated being poor— for all the usual reasons and then one more: boredom. Boredom was terrible enough on its own, but when she was idle too long, her brain—always hungry for information or new projects—began taking self-inventory, and it never liked what it found. This time it said that she was a weakling who couldn’t stand being alone. And that was a little too close to the truth for any degree of comfort.
    Adora knew from experience that, short of putting her inner voice in a chemical straitjacket, the only way to stop its carping catalogue of defects was to demonstrate to her inner critic that she was emotionally and materially self-sufficient.
    But . . .
Santa Claus?
    â€œWhat’s the problem?” she finally responded. “Well, gee, Ben, this guy thinks he’s the real Santa Claus! Even you have to admit that that’s crazy. And no one can write a biography about Santa—a
living
Santa at that—and not get laughed out of the field,” she added reasonably. She always tried to be reasonable, she really did. It was just that some days it came harder than others. Especially when she felt like she was being teased for a paycheck.
    â€œLook, Adora, most rich people are a little eccentric. It’s their privilege. They earn it by paying higher taxes.” Ben, as he had told her before, wasn’t joking when he said this.
    Many of them are also jerks,
but she didn’t say that out loud. Ben loved the rich. They were his hobby, his obsession. He was going to be one when he grew up. Sadly, he was running out of time to achieve his goal, and was becoming depressingly more aware of it.
    â€œThis isn’t eccentric, it’s insane—even for a rich man. It’s the line between charmingly quirky and a wackjob—a slight but distinct difference, in my book.”
    Ben leaned forward and fixed her with his bloodshot gaze. “But it’s a hundred grand, and to do a job that should be fascinating. And no one else is rushing in with offers, are they? Look, Adora, just take the meeting. You don’t like what you hear,
then
you walk away. In the meantime, you get to meet one of the great fruitcakes of our time, and you get to fly first-class in a private plane to Los Angeles and have lunch at the Beverly Wilshire. And think about this: People might eventually call you both nuts, but this book could easily be a bestseller. In fact, I’m betting this guy makes sure it’s the
best
bestseller. You could be set for life!” And that would assure Ben some fresh and possibly famous clients when they decided that they, too, needed to be immortalized in print.
    â€œHmph!” she said. But whatever her agent’s motives, he was likely right. Santa Claus was a perennially popular subject. Chances were she wouldn’t enjoy the interviews with the subject himself, but that was