PROLOGUE

      ‘SO WHAT did your elusive author have to say to my offer this time?’ Nik prompted the publisher as the two men faced each other across the other man’s desk, his American accent muted with deceptive boredom.

      Deceptive, because Nik was anything but bored when it came to acquiring the movie rights to J. I. Watson’s emotive book…

      James Stephens looked uncomfortable. A man in his mid-fifties, head of Stephens Publishing since his father had retired over twenty years ago, James had obviously seen it all when it came to the often unpredictable temperaments of the authors who wrote for him.

      But Nik’s assessing gaze beneath lowered lids could see that the other man was as baffled by the attitude of the author J. I. Watson as Nik was himself.

      What was so difficult about him wanting to acquire the movie rights to the book that had taken the publishing world by storm six months ago? Surely it was every author’s dream to have their book turned into a movie? A movie—and even if Nik did say this himself!—to be produced and directed by none other than the Oscar-winning Nikolas Prince?

      But no, of the four letters sent to the author in the last two months, the first two had gone unanswered, the third one had resulted in a polite but terse refusal of the proposal, and Nik had yet to hear a response after the fourth. But from the resigned look on James Stephens’s face, it was yet another refusal.

      To be truthful, Nik had found the last two months of waiting to meet J. I. Watson increasingly frustrating. A month ago he had even wined and dined the female senior editor here who dealt with the author in the hopes that he could bypass James Stephens altogether and get straight to the author himself. After several dinners Jane Morrow had become relaxed enough in his company to confide in him, after making him promise not to reveal his source, that the author’s real name was Nixon. But she had gone on to admit that this little nugget of information wouldn’t be too much of a help to him, because the publishers always corresponded with the author through a PO box.

      ‘He turned my offer down again,’ Nik guessed grimly now.

      ‘Yes,’ James confirmed, obviously relieved not to have to say the words himself.

      ‘What’s wrong with the man?’ Nik stood up forcefully, a big man, well over six feet tall, his dark hair overlong and slightly unkempt, glittering grey eyes dominating his hard-hewn features. ‘Does he want more money? Is that it?’ he speculated. ‘I’ll