Page 1 of Duty and Desire

Prologue

March 9

San Francisco

Gio

Isat at the huge table atPhilz, surrounded by six people beavering away on their laptops, cups of fragrant coffee placed at a minimum safe distance—yeah, been there, and I didn’t want to go there again—their focus locked onto their screens, their notebooks, their phones. A couple of them were students, judging by the textbooks, but a few were writers. Frequent visitors. Probably mired in their first book. They might even have been working on their second.

Bastards.

Except I didn’t mean that. Nearer to the truth would be I envied the hell out of them.

My phonepinged, and I knew without looking who was messaging me. Only because he’d done the same thing every goddamn morning for a week.

Oneweek? Try three.He was getting to be a pain in the ass.

Someone needed to back Patrick Wilson into a corner, then point out to him that breathing down an author’s neck might yield results occasionally, but in most cases, all it did was piss the writer off, pushing them deeper still into the creative slump threatening to overwhelm them.

For confirmation, I glanced at my phone.

Patrick: How’s it going? Any movement on the manuscript? Or do you have your eye on something new?

Christ, the urge to stab my fingers on virtual keys and tell him to go to Hell was all-consuming. The way I was feeling? I’d go so far as to send him directions.

“Gio?”

I jerked my head up, and couldn’t rein in my smile. “Roger. What are you doing on the west coast?” I stood and he gave me a typical Roger bear hug, squeezing the last drop of air from my lungs. I swear he cracked one of my ribs.

Roger released me. “Business, of course.” He gestured to the counter. “Let me grab a coffee, and we can talk. I want to hear all your news.” He strode off, and I had to chuckle. Roger Farris was a force of nature, a self-made man who’d risen above his extremely humble origins—and some desperate times—to become a tycoon, an entrepreneur…and a close friend.

And when was the last time you spoke with this close friend?

My gut clenched. Way too long ago. Then a trickle of suspicion slid through me.

This is no accidental meeting.I’d bet any amount on that. Which meant Roger would want to talk.

About me.

And knowing my friend, he was going to push until I caved and bared my soul.

Not gonna happen.

I glanced at my fellow table occupants. I wasn’t about to let them overhear the conversation I knew was coming. Then the guy on one of the high stools by the window got up and walked out, and Igrabbed my chance. I scurried over to claim two stools, hauling my crap with me.

There was a time when my laptop was my baby, my Precious, the fount of all knowledge, gatekeeper to my words.

Lately it was starting to feel like nothing more than a plastic-and-metal brick. On some days I even considered launching it out of the window.

Roger joined me a few minutes later.

“I always forget how long it takes to get a coffee in here. Which I assume means it’s going to be good.” He removed his brown leather jacket, folded it and placed it on the ledge, then sat beside me. The aroma of ginger reached my nostrils. “I was beginning to think you’d died. I was about to check the obituaries.” His blue eyes twinkled. “Imagine my relief when I saw you in here. Good to see some habits persist.”

My suspicious nature kicked in. “You justhappenedto be in San Francisco on business? In the Castro?” He opened his mouth, undoubtedly to protest his innocence, and I held my hand up. “Before you come up with some elaborate cover story, may I say something first?” I looked him in the eye. “Iknowyou, Roger Farris.”

He flushed. “Okay, Iamactually here on business.”

“In San Francisco?”

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