Read Online Running on Empty by Sandra Balzo - Free Book Online

and countless others. Dark hair, now salt-and-pepper. Deep
     brown eyes.
    Sort of a pocket Sean Connery.
    Joy was standing toe-to-toe with him, obviously angry, though AnnaLise couldn't yet
     make out individual words. The third person, staying to the side and seeming to listen
     intently, was the father of the family AnnaLise had seen leaving Mama's restaurant
     that morning. Presumably David Santino — the developer Bobby had mentioned.
    AnnaLise was about to retreat to save everyone embarrassment, when an apartment window
     quietly slid closed above the trio. It might as well have sounded like a thunderclap
     for the reaction it elicited. The three people sprang apart as Daisy rounded the corner,
     too, joining AnnaLise.
    Dickens Hart was the first to catch sight of mother and daughter.
    Since it now would be more rude to turn tail and run, they walked up to the group.
    'AnnaLise,' said Hart. 'It's been a long time. Can I hope you're moving back to town?
     Maybe looking for a nice place to live?' He swept his hand toward the buildings. 'It's
     a prime time to buy in.'
    'Unless you're me, of course.' This from Joy. Somehow, without AnnaLise noticing,
     Sabatino had disappeared.
    Like James Duende, entering the Sutherton Inn as a silent shadow.
    'I said buy in,' Hart snapped. Then he apologetically addressed Daisy. 'I'm sorry. Family squabble.
     You know how it is.'
    ' Ex -family,' Joy snarled.
    'Family stays family. Forever.'
    A life sentence. The way Hart said it made AnnaLise very glad she wasn't related to
     him. And, despite Daisy and Mama's gossiping, she dearly hoped Bobby Bradenham wasn't
     either.
    AnnaLise had been very young when she first heard the term 'womanizer'. Her father
     had been talking about Dickens Hart, and though AnnaLise hadn't known what the word
     meant, she knew it wasn't a good thing to be. Growing up, AnnaLise had always kept
     her distance.
    'The subject of family reminds me,' Hart continued, turning to AnnaLise. 'I was going
     to email you on your newspaper's website.'
    'You were?' Granted, AnnaLise was a reporter, but on an urban daily newspaper nearly
     eight hundred miles away. What possible good could she do Hart? 'Why?'
    'I'd like to publish my memoirs. I've been piecing together notes and journal entries.
     I'm looking for someone to help me with the project.'
    'In what way?'
    He looked puzzled. 'To collaborate. You know, in the writing of it.'
    'You want me to collaborate on your autobiography? I'm a journalist not a... a book
     author.' God help her, she'd almost said 'novelist'. But in truth, what better way
     to blur the line between fact and fiction than for a journalist to help an egomaniac
     twist his memoirs?
    'I've read your work,' Hart persisted, looking her straight in the eye. 'And while
     I've interviewed a couple of highly-recommended ghostwriters, I really need someone
     who knows both the High Country and Sutherton's place in it. To make things simpler.'
    And probably cheaper for him. Which meant that the best way to say 'no' would be to
     quote a fee so high Hart would have to be an idiot to agree. Like a bluff bet in poker.
    'Well, thank you for thinking of me,' AnnaLise said, glancing over at Daisy. 'I'm
     afraid, though, that I'm very busy right now and I couldn't possibly take on something
     of this magnitude for less than a hundred thousand, upfront, whether we're the only
     ones who ever read it or not.'
    Hart's mouth opened.
    Better up the ante. 'And I'd want fifty-percent of any advances and royalties from
     the publisher if the book is accepted, of course.'
    'Umm...'
    'Before agent commissions and my out-of-pocket expenses.'
    'Uh...'
    Raise him again. 'Plus, I'll work only on my own timetable. From Wisconsin.'
    'But—'
    Now call his bluff. 'And I'm not ghosting this, Dickens. I demand full collaborator's credit on
     the jacket cover.'
    'Done,' said Hart.
    Shit, girl. You've negotiated yourself one hell of a deal. Or... the deal from hell.

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