by Radclyffe
“On it,” Terry said.
“Already talking to them about it,” Ron echoed.
“Good. Any author issues we need to know about?” Acquiring books and promoting them was only part of their job. Once the manuscripts were contracted and handed off to the publishers, a great deal of hand-holding was required to get their authors, especially the new ones, through the long, arduous process of editing, cover design, and advance promotion before the books went to press.
“All my chickens are happy,” Terry said.
“Race Evans doesn’t like his cover,” Ron said. “I can’t say I really blame him, but it’s right for the market and we got Sellers and Saylor’s art department to come as close as we could to what he was hoping for.”
“Hopefully he’ll be happier when he sees the sales.” Emily cast one more look around. Everyone seemed satisfied and on point. “All right, then. I’ll see you all Wednesday for production.”
She stayed seated while the others left, adding a few more notes. She had fifteen minutes before a phone call to a client about acquiring their manuscript, her favorite kind of call. The author was usually excited, and she was happy to be adding another new title to their list.
When her cell rang, she checked the number and answered immediately. “Hi, Vonnie.”
“Hi, Emily,” Vonnie Hall, the president’s personal secretary, replied. “Can you come on by? She wants to talk to you for a few minutes.”
Emily frowned and checked her watch. “Is it urgent? I have a phone conference in five.”
“I’ll let her know you’ll be half an hour.”
“Thanks.”
Thirty minutes and one about-to-be-signed contract later, Emily tucked her phone and tablet into her shoulder bag and climbed the winding wooden staircase to the fourth floor and made her way down the plush carpeted hall to the office at the far end. The top floor housed the senior agents’ offices and looked as Emily imagined it had a century before with its vaulted tin ceilings, ornate hanging light fixtures, and recessed alcoves framed in dark, carved wood. Above the gleaming walnut wainscoting, framed portraits of generations of Winfields adorned the pale green, floral-patterned wallpaper. In the muted light, the eyes of the men and one woman followed her. With each step, she felt as if she moved back in time, although there was nothing outdated or antiquated about the woman she was about to see. Like Emily, Henrietta Winfield simply appreciated history.
Vonnie Hall, a trim, flawlessly presented woman in a red suit with thin ribbons of black along the collar and cuffs, guarded the door to Henrietta Winfield’s inner sanctum with the ferocity of a she-wolf and the smile of an angel. She greeted Emily with genuine pleasure. “She’ll just be a minute. She’s finishing a phone call.”
“Sure,” Emily said. “How are you? Is Tom on his way home yet?”
Vonnie’s smile blazed at the mention of her husband, still deployed with the National Guard. “He’s in Germany, thank the Lord. He ought to be home in about ten days.”
“I’m so glad.”
A light on Vonnie’s phone blinked and she gestured toward the closed door behind her. “Go on in.”
“Thanks.” Emily shifted her shoulder bag a little higher, skirted Vonnie’s desk, and stepped into Henrietta Winfield’s domain. The room was twice the size of the library she’d just left but resembled it with its filled-to-capacity bookshelves on two walls, the comfortable leather sofa and chair in the seating area, and the big wooden library table that served as a desk. The president of the Winfield Agency sat behind it now in a dark brown leather swivel chair.
At five-four and a hundred and ten pounds, Henrietta should have been dwarfed by the size of the table and the expansiveness of the room, but she filled the space—any space—with a palpable energy. When Emily had first met her seven years before, she’d been twenty-two and fresh out of school, and had felt as if she’d walked into the path of a hurricane. Despite being five inches taller and nearly forty years younger than Henrietta—HW, as everyone called her in casual conversation—she still sometimes had to run to keep up with her. Henrietta was energetic, trim, and formidable. She was also Emily’s mentor, role model, and closest friend.
Henrietta, her shining black hair cut casually short, without any gray and naturally so, nodded hello. As was always the case, she wore a business suit, this one a gray pinstripe with a white open-collared shirt and a plain gold necklace showing at the throat.
“Hi,” Emily said. “Sorry I couldn’t make it sooner, but I just finished a call with a client.”
“That was the fantasy you were telling me about the other night at dinner?”
Emily shook her head, although she shouldn’t be surprised. HW’s memory was prodigious and enviable. “That’s the one.”
“Is the author signing?”
“She is.”
“Excellent. I agree with you—we’re going to see a resurgence in high fantasy in the next year. Can you get this one positioned with one of the brand divisions?”
“I think so.” Emily doubted Henrietta had called her in to discuss a relatively straightforward contract, but she waited patiently.
“Sit down. This will take a minute.”
Emily’s heart jumped. Something about the way Henrietta was looking at her sent a chill down her spine. When she’d been a young intern working directly for HW, she’d been the recipient of a few hard stares, an occasional quiet but unforgettable admonishment, and a thousand more words of encouragement. Henrietta Winfield was the best at what she did, and she’d held the reins of her company in a firm grasp through economic and industry upheavals that had decimated other agencies. If she was unhappy, Emily couldn’t fathom what might be the cause. She sat, feeling the pulse beat in her throat.
“I’ve just been on the phone with our attorneys,” Henrietta said without preamble. “There’s a better than even chance we’re going to lose our H-1B approval at the end of the year.”
Emily caught her breath. If that happened, her application for permanent residence would be in limbo—or terminated. “Why?”
“Because the idiots who make the laws, or listen to the people who elect them, are hysterical about immigration issues right now and they’re cutting all the quotas. We are not tech, and that’s where most of the allocations go.”
Emily knew that, but she’d been in the United States since she’d enrolled at Harvard as an undergraduate. Singapore had a very good working relationship with educational institutions in the United States and obtaining a student visa had been easy. Then when she’d been accepted as an intern after a year of graduate school, she’d moved into H-1B status. Other than being a supreme hassle in terms of paperwork and documentation, her visa had never really been a problem.
“But if—” Emily swallowed. “Am I going to lose my job?”
“Not if I can help it,” Henrietta said, a fierce light in her eyes. “The entire thing is ridiculous, and we’re working on it, but I wanted you to know.”
“Of course, yes.” Emily’s mind reeled. She couldn’t lose this job—this was more than a job, it was her passion, her future, and if she had to return to Singapore…she couldn’t. She’d never find the kind of job there she had here, and even if she could, she’d never earn the same. The cost of living was even worse than New York City, and with Pam’s expenses…she’d never manage.
“I don’t want you to worry.” Henrietta laughed shortly, her voice catching as she coughed. She drank from a glass on her desk and grimaced impatiently. “I know that’s a ridiculous thing to say, but we’ve worked our way through miles of red tape more than once. Unfortunately, this time we have to deal with multiple agencies, federal at that, and it might take some time.”
“I—” Emily cleared her throat. “I’ll do anything necessary. I love this job, you know that.”
Henrietta’s expression softened. “Of course I do. You also happen to be very good at it. We’ve never really talked about it, but someday, I expect you’ll have a much large
r role in the company.”
“I can’t imagine being anywhere else, doing anything else.”
“Well, I don’t plan on retiring anytime soon,” Henrietta said, “and there’s time for us to talk about that when this visa business is straightened out. We need to get you that green card and be done with it.”
Emily sighed. “Believe me, I know.”
“Well, I’ve set up a meeting with our attorneys for the end of the week. We’ll talk about all of it then.”
“Thank you.” Emily swallowed around the lump in her throat. She wouldn’t panic. They had time to straighten it all out. She’d keep her job, she’d be able to take care of Pam. Her plans would all be fine.
“Emily,” Henrietta said, rising from behind her desk and starting toward her. “You don’t need to worry. I’m not going to let—” She stopped abruptly, one hand reaching for the side of her desk. Her expression registered surprise and then she gasped, “Oh.”
“I’m sorry? What?” Emily said. “Henrietta? Henrietta!”
Emily jumped up as Henrietta Winfield slumped to the floor.
Chapter Two
Derian tossed the keys to the Maserati to the uniformed attendant who raced from beneath the portico of the Hôtel de Paris to intercept her before she had even turned off the engine. With a wave of thanks she strode up the wide red-carpeted stairs and into the lobby of the grand hotel. Despite the enormity of the space with its polished marble floors, high decorative arched ceilings, plush carpets, and many seating areas carefully designed for privacy as well as comfort, the decibel level was higher than usual. Early crowds already filled the streets, cafés, and hotels for the upcoming race. She cut her way rapidly through the milling people to the single bank of elevators in the rear that led to the exclusive racecourse suites. She punched in the security code and within seconds was whisked to her level and the doors to the elevator slid silently open. The hallway was a stark contrast to the bustling lobby—quietly proclaiming confidentiality and discretion even though all of the suites along the wide hallway were undoubtedly in use. Grand Prix time was synonymous with party time in Monte Carlo, and the race was only three days away.
She inserted her entrance card at the Garnier suite and walked into a party well in progress. A wall of sound accosted her, dozens of voices laughing, calling to one another, conversing animatedly. The drapes had been pulled back from the floor-to-ceiling French doors opening onto one of the balconies overlooking Casino Square and the course, and the late-afternoon sun streamed into the room, bathing the faces of the partygoers in soft golden light. The beautiful people glowed with good health, good fortune, and bonhomie.
Derian wondered if their appearance of happiness was as false as what she sometimes felt, and just as quickly pushed the thought aside. Such slivers of dissatisfaction only plagued her when she was weary, and she’d had a long night at the gaming tables. She’d been winning, as she did more often than not, and the satisfaction of beating the odds had kept her mind and body energized. Now she would have been happy to take a long, hot shower and relax in the corner of the white leather sofa with a brandy and an audiobook, but the sun never set in Monte Carlo during Grand Prix season, the partying never stopped, and no one escaped. If she’d wanted to escape the never-ending bacchanal, she wouldn’t be here to begin with.
Shedding her black blazer, she tossed it over a hanger in the closet next to the door, rolled up the sleeves of her white silk shirt, and made her way around behind the wet bar set up at one end of a living room that was as large as some hotel lobbies. She sorted through the array of high-end liquors, two-hundred-dollar bottles of champagne, and vintage wines until she found the single malt. After pouring an inch of scotch into a short crystal glass, no ice, she sipped the smoky liquid and let the burn spread through her and blunt the edges of her simmering discontent. She wasn’t in the mood to look too closely at why she’d had an itch between her shoulder blades for weeks now, reminding her at the most inopportune times that she was bored or restless or simply tired of racing across the Continent following the circuit and chasing a high that never quite satisfied. Whatever it was would pass, and she could go back to living on the thrill of the next race, the next encounter, the next woman.
Speaking of women, she watched with appreciation as a buxom redhead in a very revealing form-hugging emerald green shirt, skintight black silk pants, and needle-thin heels stalked toward the bar. She didn’t know her, and she would’ve remembered a face like that—wide luscious mouth, high cheekbones accentuated with artful makeup, and a curly, flowing mane of hair glinting with gold and flaming reds that gave her a sultry, leonine appearance. She stopped opposite Derian on the other side of the wet bar and slowly appraised her.
“My, my,” the redhead said in a low voice that vibrated with a hint of French and teasing promise, “Michigan certainly is hiring attractive bartenders these days.”
“What would you like,” Derian said, not bothering to correct her.
“To drink? Or…”
“Or?” Derian smiled. Everything in life was a game, and none she liked better than the first few moments of establishing the playing field with a new woman. “Is there something else I might be able to do for you?”
The redhead chuckled and wet her lips with the tip of a pink tongue. “Darling, there are so many things you could do for me. What time do you finish here tonight?”
Instead of answering, Derian poured a glass of cabernet from a bottle of PlumpJack reserve someone had opened and left standing on the bar. Shame to waste a great wine on philistines, but she hadn’t invited most of the people crowding her rooms. The guest list had been Michigan Tire’s call. She handed the glass to the redhead. “You look like red wine—full flavored and unforgettable. This one is savory and mysterious, it lingers on your tongue as only the finest tastes can do. I think you’ll like it.”
Color flared in the redhead’s throat and she kept her eyes locked to Derian’s as she closed her fingers around the stem of the glass. Brushing her thumb across Derian’s knuckles, she lifted the wine slowly to her mouth. Her lips parted, caressed the rim of the glass, and she tilted the liquid into her mouth. She ever so slowly swallowed and made a low purring sound in her throat. “Very nice indeed.”
“I’m delighted you like it.”
The redhead cocked an eyebrow. “You’re not the bartender, are you?”
“I can be, if you’d enjoy that.”
“I already am. Who are you?”
“Derian Winfield.”
“Ah,” the redhead said, not missing a beat. “Then I have you to thank for this wonderful soirée.”
“Me and Michigan Tire,” Derian said.
“Yes, you’re one of the sponsors of their team, aren’t you?”
Derian found her scotch, took another sip. “That’s right.”
“I’m surprised you’re not driving one of the cars.”
Derian grinned wryly. “I thought I would, once upon a time. But it’s very hard work and I have an aversion to that.”
Laughing, the redhead held out her hand. “I’m Françoise Delacorte. Delighted to meet you—Derian.”
Derian lifted her hand, kissed her fingers. “Françoise. My pleasure.”
“So is it Dare as in daring?” Françoise held on to Derian’s hand, her lips pursing as her gaze slid down Derian’s body. “It suits you very much.”
“No.” Derian extracted her fingers gently. “It’s pronounced the same, but it’s D-e-r-e.”
“Are you then, just the same? Daring?”
“Some people think so.”
“Do you only gamble on cars and cards?”
Derian glanced out over the room at the sea of faces, some of whom she recognized, most she didn’t. She always sponsored a big party for donors, sponsors, and VIP friends of the team at each stop on the circuit. MT handled the invites, and she paid. She didn’t see anyone she wanted to talk to. The malaise settled in her chest again, the weariness of repetition growi
ng harder to ignore. She set down her glass. “I like a challenge—at the tables, on the course…in the bedroom.”
“Mmm. So do I.” Françoise took another swallow of wine and set the glass aside. “We are well-matched, you and I.”
“I think you’re right,” Derian said, sliding around the bar, “and I’d very much like showing you.”
“I think that’s a wonderful idea.”
“Will you be missed for a time?”
“Not right away.”
“Good.” Derian took Françoise’s elbow. “This way.”
She guided Françoise to the far side of the room and unlocked the door to her private rooms. The bedroom occupied a corner of the suite with the king-sized bed positioned to give its occupants a view into the square. When she closed the door, the sounds of the revelry faded. Turning Françoise to face her, she kissed her, sliding one arm around her waist, and took her time exploring the soft surface of her moist lips, tasting the earthy aftermath of the wine on her tongue. Françoise was an experienced kisser, and she melted into Derian’s body, one hand stroking up the back of Derian’s neck and into her hair. What Derian liked best about kissing a woman, about taking her to bed, was the way her mind shut off and her body took control. When she was focused on giving pleasure, she no longer recognized the distant pall of emptiness that lingered on the edges of her consciousness.
Françoise was a beautiful and seductive woman, but Derian was having a hard time losing herself in the taste of her mouth and the press of her breasts against her chest. She could see herself as if she stood a few paces away, watching the familiar scene play out, the familiar ending unreel. The challenge, the victory, the cries of passion, and, inevitably, the parting played through her mind as predictably as the endless cycle of parties, races, and risk that defined her life. The long, empty hours until the scene played out again stared back her, as accusing as her own eyes in the mirror. What was she doing, where was she going, and when would she stop running?