Page 10 of It Takes Three To Tango

“You won’t find the answers in Spain,” Helen replies. Maybe I don’t want any answers.

“Have you managed to get any interest elsewhere in the Blackwater series?” I deflect her comment and hear her slightly exasperated sigh down the line.

“Not yet. Too many of the big houses are asking why Deatons dropped it. I’m sorry, Rafe. You’re not known as a gritty crime writer. It’s not going to be easy to sell it and I might need to go to the smaller publishers.” My heart sinks. I feared this might happen. Whilst Deatons isn’t one of the big six, it’s head and shoulders above the small publishing houses and I’d felt so proud when they’d offered me a contract eightyears ago. It hasn’t all been easy, and I’m in no way a household name, but I make a decent living. The new contract for the six-book Blackwater series—and the possibility of film or TV rights—had made me feel like I might make it to the big time. Those had been the rumblings. I was an ascending star a few weeks ago. Now, if no one else wants the series, it feels like I’ll be starting all over again. The problem is that I spent a year creating the series, outlining it, pitching it—everything short of actually writing it. But now the motivation has gone and I can’t find the words. The muse has left me.

“I still can’t see any reason to return yet, then,” I sigh.

“Being present and over here will show people you’re serious about your career. I might be able to get you some interviews.”

“TV? Radio?” I ask.

“Probably not.” I thought so. “You know they only happen for new releases. Maybe some magazines or newspapers.”

Maybe not. I could tell by her voice she wasn’t convincing herself any more than me. What was the real reason she wanted me back? True, if I didn’t make money, neither did she, but I wasn’t the only author she was an agent for. She probably made more than me anyway, with the authors on her roster.

“Tell them to email me the questions, or ask them to call me if you do manage to get an interview.” I grit my teeth, feeling petty and irritable.

“Will you answer the phone to them?” she replies archly. I don’t always get on with my agent—she can be pushy and I’m naturally resistant to that—and we’ve had a few arguments in the past. At those times, she often sounds exasperated at best, and at worst, disappointed with me. But she did get me my first break, so I feel I owe her some loyalty.

“Maybe,” I answer since I can’t shrug down the phone.

“Look, Rafe.” Her tone softens and I hear her release a deep breath. “There’s something else.”

Helen only ever sounds like that if she needs to deliver bad news. So I don’t answer, but I brace myself for whatever it is.

“It’s Loretta.”

Oh. Somehow I hadn’t been expecting that. All other thoughts drain out of my head.

“She’s been seen with Sloan Thorpe.”

“Seen?” I croak out, my voice dry.

“Dinner... a club. She was also present at his latest book launch a couple of days ago.”

Sloan Thorpe.

Tall. Blond. Chisel-jawed Sloan Thorpe, who also happens to be a bloody good author.

Sloan fucking Thorpe.

Well, shit.

I bet he’s not “boring.”

I sink onto the hotel bed, my legs no longer able to hold me up.

“Rafe? Are you okay?” Helen’s concern sounds far away.

“Yeah.” Even my own voice sounds alien to me.

“If you need anything . . .” she begins.

I need to forget it all. Forgetting was what I’d been doing all along, quite successfully, and now it’s all vividly brought back to me. I realise she’s still talking.

“And so that’s why I think you need to come back as soon as possible.”

“No.” It’s the only word I can summon right now. I don’t wait for an answer but ring off, slowly placing the receiver down.

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