Free Twilight Hunger by MAGGIE SHAYNE

she wanted. And that included hiring period experts to help her plan her restoration, to make it as accurate as possible. Although much, much more luxurious.
    Her third film had been out for exactly eight weeks, and it had already made Morgan wealthy beyond her wildest dreams. David, as well. And now they waited to see what other dreams might be realized.
    Morgan glanced at her watch. “Isn’t it time yet?”
    â€œClose enough, I suppose. Come on.” David got to his feet, held a hand out to her. She took it and let him pull her up. “God, Morgan, you’ve got to put on some weight. You’re not an actress, you know.”
    She smiled at him, hiding the weakness in her legs, the slight rush of dizziness that often hit her when she got up too quickly. “You can’t be too rich or too thin,” she quipped. “Be sides, if all goes well, I’ll need to look good in some designer’s idea of a dress in a few weeks.”
    Right. As if she would leave this place, even for that.
    They walked across the tiles to the double doors that opened into her office. The fireplace had been converted to gas now, and the first thing Morgan did upon entering was turn it on. Lush oriental rugs covered the newly refinished hard wood floor. The desk was a reproduction, the computer state of the art. And the walls were filled with images of Dante. Charcoal sketches she’d done herself, rather than stills from the films. The actorwho played him did a wonderful job, of course, but he wasn’t Dante. She knew Dante.
    There was a sketch of him as a small boy with huge dark eyes, peering up at a beautiful Gypsy woman who danced be side a campfire. There was another of him sitting at this very desk, brooding over his journals.
    â€œThis is almost creepy,” David said, shivering a little as he crossed the large room, took a seat and picked up a remote control. “God, don’t you ever get sick of him?”
    Morgan paused near another drawing, her eyes locked with the staring, sightless eyes of the subject. “I know every line and contour of his face,” she whispered. Then, as the silence drew out, she shook herself, forced a smile. “Of course that’s impossible. It’s all what my mind has created from the raw materials in the di—in the screenplays. But it seems real. I see him in my dreams as clearly as if he were real.” She smiled. “I even know the sound of his voice.”
    â€œWriters,” David muttered. He pushed a button, and the antique replica cabinet’s doors slid open, revealing the big-screen television set behind them. He hit another button to flick it on, and one to set the channel. “I’d get sick of him,” he said. “Real or not.”
    â€œI could drown in him and not get sick of him,” she said. “Sometimes I think maybe that’s what I’m doing. Drowning in him.”
    When David didn’t answer, she glanced his way, saw him looking at her oddly. Morgan gave a little laugh to ease the worry from his eyes. “We creative types are supposed to be eccentric. Don’t scowl like that, you’ll wrinkle.”
    He looked away with a sigh, but his gaze froze onthe television screen, and he snatched up the remote, thumbing the volume up higher. “Here it is!”
    The famous couple at the podium took turns reading from a list, and Morgan thought the brief spot took longer than any two-hour feature she had ever sat through. She slugged back her drink and waited until they got to the part that interested her.
    â€œIn the category of best original screenplay, the nominees are…”
    A hum seemed to fill her head, the room, her ears. She couldn’t hear what they were saying any longer, but suddenly she saw her name on the screen along with four others. “Morgan De Silva, for Twilight Hunger. ”
    David surged to his feet, hugging her hard against him, smiling and laughing and