It's About Us. It's About Trust.

I Didn't Get Fired." "you Didn't Punch Your Boss And Get Fired From The Tribune? That's What I Heard." "i Punched What Could Loosely Be Called A Colleague For Cribbing My Notes On A Story And Since The Editor–who Happened To Be The Asshole's Uncle–took His Word Over Mine, I Quit." "to Write Books. Is It Fun?" "i Guess It Is." "i Bet You Killed The Asshole In The First One You Wrote." "you'd Be Right. Beat Him To Death With A Shovel. Very Satisfying.

I Want To See You Again." He Stopped, Took Her Face In His Hands. "i Need To See You Again." Her Pulse Jumped, As If It Had Nothing To Do With The Rest Of Her. "roarke, What's Going On Here?" "lieutenant." He Leaned Forward, Touched His Lips To Hers. "indications Are We're Having A Romance.

The Man's Got More Money Than God, And He Sends You A Bag Of Coffee?

My Fondest Wish, I Suppose, Would Be To Die At The Keyboard Right After Finishing A Book, Perhaps With A Little Time Off To Have Some Really Good Sex. It's Not, 'oh, Thank God, This Is Book No. 250. I Can Die Now.'

When Something Comes Easy, You Usually Let It Go The Same Way.