Mr. Personality by Carol Rose Read Free Book Online Page A

contract, he’d indicated little about the content of the book. It had been years since an editor even suggested the need to approve his story ideas. Cynthia had complete faith in his instincts. Whatever he offered up, Haskell published gratefully. Only now he—
    “Oh, that’s where you went.” Nicole mounted the stairs, her curious gaze falling briefly to the yellow legal pad on his lap, his Pilot pen idle in his hand.
    “What?” He knew his irritation was clear.
    “Where’s your phone book?” She tilted her blond head, looking at him expectantly. “I need Haskell’s number. I looked for an address book or something, but—“
    “Number six on the speed dial.”
    If he didn’t find this book, didn’t garner some idea to develop…and soon, he’d have to seriously consider shooting himself.
    “What are you doing up here?”
    “Working.”
    “Is this where you usually write?” Leaning one slim arm on the newel post, she tilted her head to one side as she stood regarding him.
    Max put up a hand to rub his aching temples. Why would the perky blonde not go away? He couldn’t think of a remark so scathing as to drive her back to the office.
    “Yes. This is where I usually write.”
    Nicole looked out the window. He knew what she saw. A collection of grimy buildings, their brick and stone laid out in visual texture upon texture. No pleasing view of the park. Not even another apartment dweller’s bedroom window to add salacious appeal to the prospect.
    He waited for her comment, undoubtedly a pedestrian reference to the lack of “prettiness” in his customary panorama.
    “This city is so…complex, isn’t it?” She turned her gaze back to him. “Number six on the speed dial?”
    “What?” He stared up at her. “Yes. Six.”
    “Okay.” Nicole turned and skipped down the stairs.
    Max found himself staring after her, the mixture of exasperation, intrigue and interest that she triggered in him getting him no closer to his goal. Turning his gaze back to his empty pad, he begin turning book ideas over in his head. Before this, he’d always had a surplus of ideas bombarding him day and night. Sometimes in order to sleep, he had to get up and scribble a few words down.
    If only he could recapture just one of them. When he’d worked on his last book, two different ideas had teased at him. Max wrote them down now on his pad, hoping to beat at least one of them into giving up its secrets.
    The notion of personal emotional debt had always intrigued him…as did the payback individuals committed themselves to without ever realizing it.
    Pete’s image flashed in his mind for a moment. Max turned his head sharply to the window, as if to dislodge the jarring image of his brother. No member of their family had ever been really intimate. They’d shared the same genetics and occasionally breathed the same air, but little more. Now, of course, Pete hated his guts.
    Unbidden, thoughts of his own culpability rose up in him, Max’s throat tightening. He fixed his gaze on the building just opposite his window, his body braced against the guilt. How could he have been so stupid, so unaware—
    “I’m sorry to interrupt you again,“ Nicole Cavanaugh appeared next to him, her voice jarring his ruminations.
    His head snapping around, Max felt his jaw tightening. “What now? I’m trying to work here.”
    She scowled back at him. “I’m trying to work, too, but these character sketches seemed to have been written by a demented chicken who happened to run across a leaking ink pen. Do you call this ‘handwriting’?”
    “Let me see it.” He took the pad out of her hand. Three words were circled, each with a question mark beside it. In silence, he printed the words out. “There? Do you think your ability with the English language—such as it is—can take over from here?”
    Making a face at him, Nicole retorted, “I’ll certainly do my best. And if that isn’t enough, I’ll try and figure out what language