‘Have I ever let you down before?’
‘No. But that’s because I hound you to death. Which brings me to the other reason for this call. The annual literary-awards dinner is tomorrow night. You’re the hot favourite for the Golden Gun award again, so you will show up, won’t you?’
‘Wild horses won’t keep me away, Helene.’
Although he wasn’t overly fond of award nights, Jack was actually looking forward to going out tomorrow night. It had been weeks since he’d socialised in any way, shape or form. Weeks, too, since he’d slept with a woman, a fact brought home to him this morning when he’d answered the door and found a drop-dead gorgeous blonde standing there, instead of plump, homely Gail.
Despite her hoity-toity, touch-me-not manner, Lisa Chapman had certainly reminded him that there was more to life than work.
Too bad she was married. Jack’s observant eyes had noted the rings on her left hand within seconds of her introducing herself.
‘Jack! Are you there?’
‘Yeah, yeah, I’m here, Helene. Just wool-gathering.’
‘Thinking about that last chapter, I hope.’
‘All the time.’
Jack hated last chapters. He had a tendency to want to end his stories with a happily-ever-after scene. But that would be so wrong for a Hal Hunter book, especially at this stage in the series. Jack needed to come up with something seriously anti-heroish for his hero to do this time to finish up on. Couldn’t have his readers start thinking Hal was some kind of saint, just because he went around making sure the baddies got their comeuppances.
Jack knew that it was Hal’s political incorrectness which appealed to his fans. They enjoyed Hal doing what they would never dare do themselves. They thrilled to his ruthlessness, plus his uncompromising sense of justice and vengeance.
‘I’d better get back to work, Helene.’
‘Fine. But one last thing about tomorrow night. Do try to bring a girl who’s read a book this time, will you?’
Jack laughed. The blonde he’d taken to the awards dinner last year had been none too bright, something he hadn’t realised when he’d first met her on Bondi Beach and asked her to come with him. He’d been distracted at the time by how well she’d filled out her bikini.
By the end of the evening, any desire he’d originally felt for her had well and truly disappeared. He’d taken her straight home, much to her obvious disappointment.
‘Look, I’ll probably come alone.’
‘I find that hard to believe. Jack Cassidy, without a gorgeous blonde on his arm?’
‘I don’t just take out blondes,’ he protested.
‘Yes, you do. The same way Hal does.’
Jack’s eyebrows rose. He hadn’t realised.
Still, there was no gorgeous blonde in his life at the moment, except for the very beautiful girl who was currently cleaning his penthouse.
If only she wasn’t married…
Some people tagged Jack as a womaniser. But he wasn’t. Married women were off limits in his view, no matter how attractive they were.
On the other hand, Hal was a womaniser. The so-called hero in Jack’s books wouldn’t have cared less if Lisa Chapman was married. Not one iota.
This last thought flashed a light on in Jack’s head.
‘Get off the phone, Helene. I’ve just had a brilliant idea for my last chapter.’
‘Can I take any credit?’
‘None whatsoever. I’ll see you tomorrow night.’
Jack hung up and set to work with renewed gusto, plunging into the final chapter, smiling wickedly to himself as Hal blotted his hero status with the beautiful blonde housemaid who’d come to change the linen in his hotel room. She was married, of course. But she forgot about that once Hal went into seduction mode. The girl knew that he was just using her. But the fiery passion in his kisses proved irresistible. She felt powerless to say no, powerless to stop him.
Hal made love to her several times, making her do things she’d never done before. But she thrilled to her own unexpected wantonness.
The last page saw her dressing afterwards, then bending over the bed to kiss the tattoo on Hal’s bare shoulder.
He didn’t stir. He seemed to be asleep. He didn’t want her any more and she knew it. She sighed as she left the room. Only then did Hal roll over and reach for a cigarette. He lit up and dragged in deeply. His eyes were blank and cold.
‘Done!’ Jack muttered as he punched in ‘THE END’, then copied everything onto two flash discs, putting one in his top-drawer and the other into the lead-lined safe he’d had built into the bottom drawer. Jack believed in solid security. He would read the last chapter through again later this afternoon before emailing the manuscript to London, but he felt sure he’d got it right.
Of course, there would be a hue and cry from his editor. She’d complain that his hero was getting too dark. But he’d weather the storm and have his way. And his readers would love it.
Jack chuckled when he thought of Hollywood’s reaction. But they’d just have to like it or lump it as well. Helene had done a fabulous job, not only selling options for all the Hal Hunter books—including those not written yet—to a top movie studio for an absolute fortune, but also in forcing them to sign a rock-solid contract. They had to bring his books to the screen as he’d written them. No changes in titles, plot-lines, settings or characters. Definitely no changes to endings.
Jack wondered who they’d cast for the blonde in this last scene. Not anyone obvious or voluptuous, he hoped. Someone slender and classy-looking. Someone like Mrs Hoity-Toity out there.
Damn, but she’d stirred his hormones. A lot.
For a split-second, Jack toyed with the temptation of making her an indecent proposition. But he quickly got over it.
He was not Hal. He did not seduce married women.
Neither did he right the dreadful wrongs in this world.
That only happened in fiction. In the real world, the baddies didn’t get their comeuppances. They lived on with their millions and their mistresses. They destroyed countries and slaughtered innocent people, but rarely faced punishment.
Jack grimaced. Not that bandwagon again, he lectured himself. There was nothing you could do back then. Nothing you could ever do. None of it was your fault.
Jack’s brain knew that. But his heart didn’t always feel the same, that unexpectedly sensitive heart which had been stripped bare by his experiences in the army.
Despite not having worn a soldier’s uniform for six years, the memories of all Jack had witnessed still haunted him. He would never forget. Or forgive.
But
