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thing to do, but I was pissed off at you too. I couldnt get you out of my head and I wanted to make sure you didnt just forget me. I wanted to see you again." I stood in silence, afraid to look at him, afraid of what my rapidly beating heart meant. "Look Imogen, Im sorry. How many more times are you going to make me apologize?" I shook my head, relieved when the elevators doors opened to reveal the lobby. "None, Im done with you." I stalked off, not needing to look over my shoulder to know he was right behind me. "Why?" Sims voice was unnaturally loud in the echoing expanse of the lobby; heads turned. "Why, what?" I sighed, suddenly very tired of the little game we were playing. I badly wanted a cup of tea and some peace and quiet. "Whyd you come here today, Imogen?" I stopped walking and could feel Sims heat as he came to stand closely behind me. I wouldnt give him the satisfaction of turning and facing him. I didnt want him to see just how much he affected me. Why had I come? "Imogen?" Sims voice was low-pitched and for a moment I could almost pretend he sounded genuinely concerned. "I- I dont know," I admitted finally. "I havent been able to write since that afternoon and I thought..." I trailed off uselessly; I dont know what I thought. "You needed to see me again, too," Sim whispered with a note of satisfaction. "No," I spat out quickly, knowing it was a lie the moment Id said it. "Yes," Sim whispered lowly, sending a shiver up my spine that had nothing to do with the heavily air-conditioned lobby. "You did. You had to." I stood motionless and silent for a minute, trying to catch my breath and think of something witty and cutting to say. Blondie behind the receptionist desk was staring blatantly at us and even the drowsy security guard was watching us surreptitiously. I fought my nervousness down; I couldnt let Sim see how much hed rattled me. "Are we done?" I asked bitingly, turning around to face him. I put my chin up another notch and resisted the urge to stand on my tiptoes to feel taller. A flash of hurt crossed Sims handsome face before he scowled darkly. "Yeah, I guess we are." And for the second time in less than two weeks I watched Simeon Forster walk away from me. Blondie at the receptionist desk whistled long and low and if she hadnt been six inches taller than me I might have gone over and smacked her one; as it was I didnt like the way she watched Sim hungrily as he stalked off. The security guard, obviously roused slightly from his stupor by the show, eyed me warily as I stomped outside in a huff of righteous indignation. Simeon Forster freakin Jr. could kiss my ass, I thought as I made my way automatically to the safety of my nearby café. My hands shook as I ordered my


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usual Earl Grey. It was Becks day off, which made me even madder; I needed to vent. And to make matters worse I had left my laptop at home not thinking Id need it, so I didnt even have an outlet for all my energy, but my fingers itched and digging about in purse I unearthed a pen. Within moments I was scribbling furiously on a pile of napkins. I wasnt writing anything with a real purpose, just blowing off steam like a pissed-off teenager, but just the act of putting pen to paper (such as it was) made me feel better, so that by the time I had covered a dozen napkins, front and back, I could feel my racing heart slow. A shadow fell across the table, and looking up I recognised the silent, harassed-looking employee from Logan, Richardson and Monk standing hesitantly over me. M-miss Wallis?" "Yes?" I snapped rudely. "T-this is for you," he handed me an envelope. I took it from his pale fingers and eyed it warily. "Its from Simeon Forster," he said in a monotone. "Which one?" I grumbled, turning the envelope over and over. Nothing was written on the outside and when I looked up the young man was gone. I shook my head, taking a bracing sip of tea. The envelope was different from the one Id gotten that morning; it was larger, smoother, the paper better quality. Forster Sr., I was willing to bet. I slit the envelope open with a fingernail. Inside was a creamy sheet of watermarked stationary and a business card which read: Simeon L. Forster Sr., B.A.H, M.A. Chief Commissioning Editor Canadian Office Logan, Richardson, & Monk Publishers I turned the card over to find a phone number scribbled across the back; intrigued, I opened the letter to discover his bold, flowing handwriting arched across the page; it was not unlike his sons. Miss Wallis, Meeting you this afternoon was a pleasure. If you are ever interested in publishing anything more mainstream than your current project please do not hesitate to give me a call. The phone number can also be used if you wish for me to buy you dinner, which I think we would both very much enjoy. Although I would be more than pleased to consider you for submission in any mainstream genre, I cannot lie and say that I do not look forward to reading what you have written for Prurient Press as I suspect your talents in that area are considerable; Linda Swartz is lucky to have found you. I hope that you did not take offence to my behaviour this afternoon. Never let it be said that I do not enjoy a beautiful woman with a temper. I apologize as well for the behaviour of my son; he lacks much of his fathers worldly experience and does not necessarily recognize a good thing when she throws something at him. It will be many years before I forget the way you took him down a peg. It made my afternoon. All the best in your