“Her mouth practically watered at the sight of Michael Devlin. She began to stalk him, but he ignored her and dodged all her attempts at seduction. J.P. was pretty surprised initially. No one had ever avoided her or said no. At first she thought he was playing hard to get. It tickled her because usually her lovers came meekly when chosen. She was intrigued that he appeared to be fighting his fate. This went on for well over a year, and then it all came to a head at the Christmas party six years ago.
“J.P. was wearing her usual winter-white outfit. I remember it well: a thigh-high light wool wrap dress with a deep vee neckline. It was around the time when she got that short cut and dyed her hair red. Flaming Mame, I remember Martin calling her. Well lubricated with a couple of margaritas, she managed to corner Michael Devlin, and I do mean corner.” Rachel chuckled. “She started putting her hands all over him, and those hands of hers were everywhere. He tried to politely fend her off, but her inhibitions were long gone, and she was listening to her cunt and not her brain.”
“Rachel!” Emily squealed at the use of the word.
“Sorry, dear, but there just isn’t any other way to put it. J.P. wouldn’t have minded if he stuck it to her right there in front of everyone, she was so hot for him. But of course he didn’t. He took her by her upper arms and set her back from him, holding her there. Then he said in the coldest voice I have ever heard him use, ‘I choose my own women, J.P., and I don’t choose you.’ Releasing her, he turned away, walked over to Martin, and after wishing him a Merry Christmas, left the party.”
“My God, how embarrassing for J.P. although I never thought I’d feel sorry for the bitch,” Emily said. “How did he end up in London?”
“Well, Michael had no sooner departed the party than J.P. was buttonholing Martin, and demanding he be fired. She claimed he had come on to her and it was all she could do to fight him off. She couldn’t work with someone like that, she told Martin. Martin, of course, had been privy to the whole incident, as had a number of other people. He had no intention of losing Michael Devlin, but he also wanted to have his cake and eat it too. J.P. is a very good president for Stratford Publishing. So he transferred Michael Devlin to our London office, which suited Michael fine. He was born and raised in Dublin. You’ll love his Anglo-Irish accent.”
“Why is he back now?” Emily wanted to know. “J.P. isn’t a woman to forget an insult. She holds grudges, Rachel. You know she does.”
Rachel paused a long moment, and then she said, “You might as well know, but this is also something that can’t be bruited about, Emily. Martin is going to semiretire within the year. He and Anita want to travel. Neither of his daughters is interested in the publishing business. Both are married to doctors. But Martin isn’t of a mind to sell. At least not yet. J.P. may be the company president, and Michael Devlin now the editor in chief, but Stratford is going to need a new CEO. J.P. thought she had it all sewn up, but she didn’t. Martin is undecided, which is why he called Devlin back from the London office to take my job. Now J.P. is using you to get that CEO position while at the same time trying to get rid of Michael Devlin for good. You’re right: She holds grudges, and she hasn’t forgotten he publicly refused her. The tension between them is palpable.”
“I don’t understand, Rachel,” Emily said, shifting nervously in Aaron’s big leather chair. “What have I got to do with it?”
“Look,” she said, “no one I know really likes J.P., including me. But she’s damned good at what she does, and what she does is run Stratford. Martin has been easing himself out for the last two years, and the responsibility has fallen on J.P.’s shoulders. She wants the title of CEO of Stratford, and all that goes with it. The truth is that she deserves it, Emily. But Martin wants the company to remain strong, and that means he needs a first-rate editor in chief, so he’s brought in Michael Devlin from London to take my place. J.P. and Devlin are going to have to learn to get along for the good of the company. And I’ve heard Martin himself hint that the position of CEO is up for grabs. He will play his little games, and J.P., for all her swagger, is just insecure.”
Rachel sighed deeply. “J.P. has never been a fan of your books, but you know that. The company makes a tidy little profit off of you, but it’s a sure bet that with your name and track record they can make an even bigger profit if you write sexier. But J.P. doesn’t think you can do it. She thinks you’re a prude and won’t be able to make the transition from sweet to sensual. She also believes she can fill the hole you leave in Stratford’s bottom line with half a dozen newbies who do write sexy. And one of them might well turn out to be very successful. You know publishing’s a crapshoot.
“So she told Martin that it was up to Michael Devlin to edit you, as you were an editor in chief’s writer, and to give you to just a senior editor would be a demotion for you. Martin agreed. He likes you, but you know that too. And he has great faith in Devlin. He knows how ruthless J.P. can be, but he’s the type of man who wouldn’t believe she’d ruin your career and endanger his company just to get back at a man who refused her lustful overtures years ago. You’re a pawn on the chessboard, Emily. If Devlin can get you to write sexier novels, he wins. Right now, that is a threat to J.P. After all, the editor with the big-name writer has a certain amount of power. He could leave and take you with him. But if he can’t get you to write that sexier novel, you both lose. Your career could tank, at least temporarily, and you know it’s tough to get going again in this business. Devlin’s reputation would certainly suffer, and since Martin will appoint J.P. to succeed him, she will make life so difficult for him that he’ll leave. He’s a proud guy. So both of you have to succeed.”
“No pressure, huh?” Emily said dryly.
Rachel laughed. “You can do this, my dear,” she repeated. “You are such a talented author, Emily. I know it’s going to be difficult, but you will find your way. And Devlin will be there to help you. What have you titled the new book?”
“The Defiant Duchess,” Emily said. “It’s set in the Terror during the French Revolution. It’s a Scarlet Pimpernel-in reverse-story.”
“Clever,” Rachel said. “And rife with possibilities for a couple of hot love scenes,” she noted. “Well, I’ve got to go, my dear. I have an appointment with a garden designer, and she seems to actually be on time. Call me if you need me. But, Emily, you can depend on Michael Devlin. Trust me.”
“I always have,” Emily responded. “But a male editor ... I just don’t know.”
“Don’t judge him until you’ve met him and worked a bit with him,” Rachel said. “We’ll talk. Bye.”
The phone line clicked off, and Emily set the handset back in its cradle. She sat for several long moments in Aaron’s chair, and then with a sigh stood up as her longtime agent stepped back into the room.
“Finished? How is Rachel?” he asked.
“Talking with a garden designer as we speak,” Emily said. “She’s going to stay up in Connecticut and sell the apartment here in town. She says she’s well fixed. I hope she wasn’t just saying that to soothe me.”
“She wasn’t. And not only that, she already has half a dozen manuscripts to edit freelance for a couple of publishers. When word got out yesterday, she said her phone started ringing off the hook. Are you ready? Our reservation is for one p.m.”
“Let me use your loo to freshen up,” Emily said. “I wasn’t expecting lunch with a new editor. You might have warned me, and I would have dressed better.”
“You look fine,” he told her, chuckling at the dark look she threw him as she disappeared from his office.
In the ladies’ room Emily peered into the mirror at herself. Well, it could have been worse, she thought. Her short, fluffy strawberry-blond hair was having a good day in the dry spring weather. But oh, how she longed for the pale blue suit she had just bought to add to her author clothes. Still, the cream-colored silk slacks and the pale pink silk shirt she was wearing weren’t bad. The whole look was rich-bitch, old-money, screw-you casual, she thou
ght. She washed her hands, fluffed her hair, and renewed her lipstick.
“Ready or not, here I come, Michael Devlin,” she said low. “And just remember it’s my work you’re buying, so who cares what I look like.” She went to join Aaron Fischer. “Let’s walk,” she said to him.
“Why not,” he agreed. “It’s only five blocks, and we’ll get there faster.”
“If you’re going to Felicity’s bring me back one of those divine little lemon curd tarts,” Kirk called from his office. “I’ve ordered a salad in with these damned contracts. And one for Sandra too,” he said, remembering their shared secretary, who sat at a large desk in the gracious and elegantly decorated reception foyer of their office, which took up the entire top floor of the small old Park Avenue office building where Fischer and Browne, Literary Agents, was located.
“Make mine fruit,” Sandra said as the elevator doors opened up. She was an older, motherly-looking woman who had been with the partners for years, coming to them fresh from the Katharine Gibbs Secretarial School. “I’m not into lemon curd, and Kirk knows it. Better bring him two.” She waved them off as the doors closed smoothly with a faint hiss, and they descended swiftly without a single stop.
They walked from Park and up Madison Avenue until they arrived at Felicity’s Tea Company, which served both luncheon and high tea six days a week. It was Emily’s favorite place to eat in the city despite the plethora of elegant restaurants available. She could hear herself think in Felicity’s, and the food was delicious. Felicity herself came forward smiling as they entered, holding out her hands to Emily.
She was a pretty woman with premature silver hair and dark eyes. She and her waitresses always wore the flowered, low-necked panniered satin gowns of the eighteenth century, and adorable little snow-white caps.
“When Sandra called to book I was hoping it was you,” she said, kissing Emily on both cheeks. “Your guest is already at the table. Wow! Who is he?”
“New editor,” Emily replied glumly. “Rachel retired.”
“Ohh,” Felicity murmured. “I’d love to write with him. He is very hot.”
Great, Emily thought. Every woman who saw him thought Michael Devlin was hot. Just what she needed: a hot man who was going to help her write sexier. And how was he going to do that? And then she saw him, and stumbled over her own feet like some fool of a schoolgirl. She caught herself up quickly, feeling her cheeks grow warm.
Michael Devlin stood up as they reached the table. “Aaron, good to see you again,” he said, a small smile touching his lips. He was very tall.
There it was: the soft, poetic hint of Ireland in his voice. Emily felt her knees weaken. This was worse than she had anticipated. She barely registered that Aaron was introducing them, but managed to stick out her hand nonetheless. Looking at him she had the distinct feeling that she knew him—really knew him—and yet he was a stranger.
“Ms. Shann, I am delighted to finally meet you,” Michael Devlin murmured, looking down at her. “Rachel has nothing but praise for you.” He drew her chair out and seated her before sitting down again himself. “You have a wonderful feel for eighteenth- and nineteenth-century England. Your research is quite excellent.” Jaysus, he thought. She’s utterly adorable. That fluff of hair, and those big cornflower-blue eyes. I’d like to eat her with a spoon. How the hell am I going to work with something so delicious when what I really want to do is take her to bed? He was astounded by his own thoughts. He’d never had such a strong reaction to a woman before. It was bloody unprofessional.
“You’ve read my books?” she inquired softly. Her own voice seemed to be coming from a very long way away. He really was gorgeous. He had to stand at least six-foot-three, and he had a lean, elegant body. His face was one of those long, sculpted faces, more angles than planes. His hair was jet-black, and his eyes were deep green. He looked like one of her heroes, for God’s sake. She couldn’t look at him too much, because every time she did, her heart raced. She had never had such a strong reaction to someone like this before.
“Not all of them,” he admitted, “but I will by the time you finish this next book for us. Would you like to tell me what it’s going to be about? I haven’t seen an outline yet, but I’ll look forward to it.”
“Emily doesn’t do outlines,” Aaron quickly said. “Well, not exactly. She can tell you what the book is going to be about, but not in detail. She doesn’t like to be held down to an exact story line. The sales department is used to her.”
“I always know roughly what I’m going to write,” Emily told Michael Devlin, now recovering from the initial shock that her new editor really was hot. “But the story seems to write itself as I go along. I suppose that sounds silly, but that’s how I do it.”
“I am not a man to argue with success, Ms. Shann,” he told her. He was getting a hard-on. What the hell perfume was she wearing? It smelled like lilacs.
“Shall we order?” Aaron said as their waitress came up to the table. “Em, the usual for you, or do you want something different today ?”
She shook her head. “No. The usual, Aaron, please.”
Aaron ordered the quiche lorraine and salad for Emily, and a mini chicken pot pie for himself. “And a nice large pot of Keemun,” he finished the order, looking to his companion questioningly.
Michael Devlin ordered the sirloin and cheddar with Dijon mustard in a tomato wrap. “How big is it?” he asked the waitress.
She looked him up and down, and then said, “You’ll need two.”
He grinned disarmingly at her. “Make it two then.”
“Three cups?” the waitress wanted to know.
“Three cups,” Devlin replied. “And make certain it’s good and hot, my lass.”
“As hot as you, milord.” The waitress chuckled, and bustled off.
There was a long, awkward silence. Emily didn’t dare look at her new editor. Her thoughts bordered on lascivious, much to her surprise. Had she ever before this moment had such libidinous thoughts? Writers—at least, smart writers—didn’t get involved with their handsome male editors. But then, she had never met such a good-looking man. Michael Devlin was really unique. And she sensed intelligence as well as the movie-star looks. She sneaked a quick peek from under her lashes. Yeah. He was that handsome. And that hot. And where the hell was all this overcharged libido of hers coming from all of a sudden? The lesson of her parents forever with her, Emily Shanski had always been careful where men were concerned. She was relieved to see that Aaron and Michael Devlin were now in serious conversation.
Their lunch came, and they ate quickly.
“Dessert?” the waitress asked with a twinkle in her eye. She had served Emily many times before. “The usual, Miss Shann?”
Emily nodded, grinning. “No visit to Felicity’s Tea Company would be complete without it. I’m afraid I’m a creature of bad habits. At least where dessert is concerned.”
“Mr. Fischer? Sir?” the waitress said.
“Bread pudding,” Aaron replied. “And give me two lemon curds, and a fruit tart to go. And I’ll take half a pound of gunpowder tea also.”
“I’ll have the caramel egg custard,” Michael Devlin said.
The waitress bustled away.
“What’s the usual?” Michael asked Emily.
“You’ll see,” she said with a small grin. “It’s difficult to explain.”
“Now I am intrigued, Ms. Shann,” he told her.
“Please, I think if we’re going to work together you should call me Emily,” she replied. “May I call you by your first name?”
“My friends call me Mick,” he responded. “And I suspect we’re going to be friends, Emily.” Reaching across the table, he took her small hand in his big one and smiled into her blue eyes. Then he released her fingers as quickly as he had taken them.
God in his heaven! She blushed. She was behaving like one of her heroines. No. She was behaving like one of their friends. Her heroines weren’t this sappy. To her relief the desserts came,
along with another pot of hot tea.
“What is that?” he wanted to know, staring at the plate the waitress set before her.
“It’s a very thin slice of Felicity’s Death by Chocolate cake, and a thin slice of her boysenberry pie,” Emily said. “I love them both, but I could never make up my mind which to have. So Felicity came up with this solution. Pretty cool, huh?”
He laughed. “It’s obvious you don’t have a problem with your weight.” Then he spooned up some custard. “This is good. She really does use eggs, doesn’t she? My gran back in Ballyfergus made custard like this. She’s gone now, of course.”
“I thought you came from Dublin,” Emily said.
“I went to school and university in Dublin,” he explained. “My parents were killed in an auto accident when I was twelve. Gran Devlin took responsibility for me, but she wasn’t up to having a growing lad in her house year-round. I went back to Ballyfergus during my school holidays to stay with her. We only had each other, you see. Very odd for an Irish family, of course. Most of them are big.”
“We have something in common then, Mick,” she said. She liked the way he spoke of his grandmother. There was warmth and genuine affection in his voice.
“Emily was raised by her two grandmothers,” Aaron spoke up. “Right from her birth. I knew them both. Wonderful women!”
“Were your parents deceased too?” Mick asked solicitously.
“No. They were both too young for a baby, and they had other plans,” Emily replied. Then she laughed at his look, which was half-shocked, half-curious. “It’s a long story for another time.”
Mick Devlin shook his head. “Sounds like your life is worthy of a novel, Emily.” Having finished his custard he put his spoon down. He was charmed by her. She was a practical woman with a sense of humor, and an obviously very romantic nature, he thought, smiling.
“No, it isn’t,” she said. “It’s my life, and nothing more.” She licked a crumb of the chocolate cake from the edge of her mouth. He was a good listener, Emily considered.
Forbidden Pleasures Page 2