Dimensions
134 x 200 x 30mm
Paul Sheldon used to write for a living. Now, he's writing to stay alive . . .
Mouth-to-mouth, the woman had forced him back to life, pumping great sickly-sweet gusts of bad breath into him. Sickly-sweet, she smiled down at him, pushing the painkillers into his dry mouth with her big, work-coarsened fingers. Coyly, smiling, she pillow-plumped and nurser-talked and made sure he finished up every last little scrap.
He was a writer. She was his Number Once Fan. She'd pulled him out of the car wreck, brought him home, splinted and set his mangled legs. All he had to do in return was to write a very special book, just for her, all about her favourite character from his novels. One he'd killed off and now had to bring back to life.
Because if he didn't, if he Bad and Didn't Do What Nurse Told Him, she would be cross - very cross - and do things that would make him scream and scream . . .
