QUOTE : getting it on with him in her head. She swallowed thickly and managed to squeak, "Fine." He studied her with his all-encompassing gaze a moment longer. Then he said, "What sort of secrets do you think she had?" Camille blinked, discombobulated. "What?" "Your gourd artist. What sorts of secrets does she keep?" Without thinking, she said, "She was spurned by a paperboy when she was a teenager and has been harboring a hatred for anyone tied to journalism ever since. She was planning on killing me and stuffing me in a gourd." Dylan shook his head. "Your talents are wasted. You should be writing fiction." Just like that, she went on guard. "I'm a journalist." "You're a writer," he insisted. "A good writer, and a good writer can write anything he wants." "If I'm good enough to write anything, why can't it be news? Why are you always trying to get me to change my focus?" She picked up her wine so she'd have something to do with her hand, but she didn't try to drink any, afraid she might choke. "Because your purpose isn't telling people what's already happened." Impassioned, he turned to bracket her with his legs. "It's entertaining people with your unique point of view." She remembered the harsh red letters her mother had scrawled on her partial manuscript and felt