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that would be! The search for the actress to play Scarlett O’Hara paled by comparison.
    The elevator doors opened. Jacqueline stepped heavily on the foot of the unkempt youth who had attempted to precede her, gave him a dazzling smile and a soft “thank you” and swept into the elevator. The youth followed, limping, and retreated into the corner, his back against the wall.
    Casting the film would be another publicity agent’s dream. How to replace those two young victims who had been so breathtakingly right as Ara and Hawkscliffe? There would be a film, of course; any industry that could churn out sequels to
Jaws
and
Rambo
would fight for the sequel to
Naked.
    And so would a lot of other people. Brunnhilde’s methods were deliciously direct, but she wasn’t the only writer who would employ and method short of mayhem to gain the prize. Not to mention interested agents, editors, publishers.…
    A radiant smile transformed Jacqueline’s face. For sheer bloody-mindedness and vicious power struggles, not the Mafia, not even the bureaucracy in Washington, could hold a candle to publishing.
    Chris was not amused.
    “Exaggeration is the cheapest form of humor,” he said repressively. “You know that isn’t true. There are many decent, intelligent people in the publishing business.”
    Her mouth being full of food, Jacqueline could only scowl.
    They were “doing” breakfast at Chris’s favorite place, an appalling short-order restaurant on West Seventy-fourth. Most of his clients loudly refused to eat there. Jacqueline, who doted on all food that wasn’t good for her, was tucking into a breakfast high in polysaturated fats with only the faintest touch of fiber.
    Chris spread strawberry jam on his English muffin, started to take a bite, and then drew back, looking dubiously at the semi-congealed crimson blob.
    Jacqueline swallowed. “Brunnhilde threatened to strangle me and Boots. You have to admit that wasn’t nice.”
    “The woman is certifiable,” Chris muttered. “The last time she was looking for an agent—which she does about once a year—I spent a long fortnight in Maine. I don’t like this, Jacqueline. Give it up.”
    “I can’t.” The fork in Jacqueline’s hand dripped egg yolk, like the bright yellow blood of a slaughtered alien. “I’ve entered into a gentleman’s agreement with adorable Booton. (Which is rather amusing, since neither of us is a gentleman.) As for Brunnhilde, what do you think she’s going to do, murder all the other competitors? I mean, even Catriona couldn’t get away with that as a plot for a mystery story.”
    “You said she threatened you—”
    “Oh, she does that all the time.” Jacqueline crunched bacon.
    “True.” Chris considered the English muffin warily, decided it didn’t look as bad as he had thought, and took a bite. “Evelyn makes her own strawberry jam,” he mumbled.
    Jacqueline smiled. “Is that her name? You lucky devil, you. Not only a librarian, a librarian who can cook. Does she bake her own bread?”
    “I bake the bread.”
    “My God, how impressive. To think you have all these talents you’ve never displayed. I am deeply hurt, Chris, that you never baked bread for me.”
    “Stop changing the subject.”
    “You were the one who mentioned Evelyn. Can I have the other half of your English muffin?”
    “No.” Chris waved at the waiter. “An English muffin for the lady, and more coffee. Now, Jacqueline, this is supposed to be a working breakfast. I want you to think very carefully about what you are doing. It’s not too late to get out of this, even your so-called gentleman’s agreement with Stokes.”
    His long, amiable face was more serious than usual, and Jacqueline responded with equal gravity.
    “What’s the problem, Chris? If I am chosen, the writers who lose out will make rude remarks about my lack of talent, and about literary prostitution, but you know most of them will be choking on big mouthfuls of sour grapes. I’ve weighed