Forbidden Pleasures

by Bertrice Small

  “I took the red-eye home. London was lonely. I think I needed you with me,” he told her. “How about if I take Friday off and come out Thursday night, angel face?”

  “Only if you’ll eat lamb chops and asparagus in bed with me,” she said with a happy smile. “And local strawberries. I dip them in dark chocolate laced with Grand Marnier. And we’ll have a bowl of whipped cream.”

  “I won’t promise to confine the whipped cream to the strawberries,” he told her.

  “Where do you want to put it?” she asked. She could almost hear his grin.

  “All over you, and then I’ll slowly lick it off,” he said.

  “Come early,” she told him.

  “I will.” He chuckled, and then he rang off.

  Reality was better, Emily decided happily as she turned her sausages in the frying pan. He had missed her. Well, she had sure as hell missed him too.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  The Tuesday-morning editorial meeting at Stratford Publishing was coming to a close. At one end of the conference table Martin Stratford sat considering, as he swirled the remaining coffee at the bottom of his cup, just how many of these meetings he had attended over the last forty years. He was anxious to get to his summer home on the North Fork of Eastern Long Island. It was mid-July, and the city was untenable. At the other end of the table his company’s president, J. P. Woods, sat looking as cool and unruffled as she always did. Martin considered for a moment whether J.P. ever broke a sweat. There was never a hair out of place on the damned woman, but she knew how to run a publishing house. He’d give her that. Still, she wasn’t the best-liked person in their industry, which was why he was considering someone else to sit in his chair next year.

  “Devlin!” J.P.’s voice grated on her employer’s ear. “What about Emilie Shann? How is her book coming? Are we going to have another three hundred and fifty pages of treacle? Or is she finally letting her heroine get screwed?”

  Martin Stratford raised an eyebrow at J.P.’s crudeness. “Language, J.P.,” he said in a warning tone.

  “The book is coming along very well, J.P,” Michael Devlin answered coolly.

  “You’ve seen it? Is it going to be on time? Or is Miss Prim and Proper going to be late, and have the vapors because she has to write about sex?”

  Some of the young editors about the table giggled.

  “Has Emilie Shann ever been late with her work, J.P.?” Devlin asked softly.

  “You’ve seen the book? Read some of what she’s written?” J.P. persisted.

  “I’ve been in Egret Pointe every weekend all summer,” he replied. “And I’ve rented Aaron Fischer’s cottage for August. Trust me, J.P The book is going to be good, and the heroine is going to be sexually satisfied. And we will increase her readership quite substantially for us all, with the right promotion and advertising.”

  “Miss Prim and Proper can sell on her name,” J.P. said.

  “Martin?” Devlin turned to the company head. “We’ve asked Emily to change her style and inject more sex into her book. We need advertising and promotion to acknowledge that change in order to attract new readers. Sales need to reflect that change when they head out to sell The Defiant Duchess.”

  “She already has a readership, Devlin,” J.P. said.

  “You asked her to make this change to increase her readership. Secondhand sales put nothing in our pocket, J.P., nor in Emily’s royalty statements to reduce her advance. This book has to be heavily promoted first with the distributors and chains, and then with the readers. May I remind you it’s the last book on her current contract? This book is going to be very big, J.P. And if we don’t have Emily tied up tightly for another few books, someone is going to sign her right out from under our noses. Aaron Fischer isn’t a fool. Or maybe you’re looking to get into a bidding war for the author who is responsible for at least a quarter of this company’s revenues.”

  “It’s that good?” Martin Stratford turned to look at the man on his right.

  “It’s that good, Martin,” Michael Devlin assured him. “It’s the best work she’s done yet. She’s stretching herself, and even I’m surprised at the depth and scope of this book. The readers are going to love it. And so will our bottom line.”

  “Then,” Martin Stratford said, “we’ll take your advice, and promote. Right, J.P.?”

  “If you say so, Martin,” J.P. answered him. She shot Michael Devlin a hard look. “You have to go to London before your vacation, Devlin. Prunella is having difficulties with Savannah Banning. I think she misses having you near her to keep her inspired,” J.P. said with a double meaning intended to insult him.”

  “Lady Palmer does not need me for inspiration. She has her husband. I am not going to London. I will call Prunella and learn what she has to say, and then I will speak with Lady Palmer.”

  “If I say you have to go to London, Devlin, you will go,” J. P. Woods snapped.

  Around the table the young editors were shifting nervously in their seats and trying to avoid eye contact with one another. The tension between their editor in chief, who was a good guy, and the company president who scared the hell out of them, was well-known. But until this moment they had never seen it so palpably.

  “I think this meeting is over now,” Martin Stratford said quietly. “Run along, people. J.P, Devlin. Stay!”

  “You bastard!” J.P. hissed furiously at her antagonist. “How dare you embarrass me like that in front of staff?”

  “Listen to me, you little bitch,” Michael Devlin said angrily. “Don’t you dare imply that I slept with Savannah Banning. For openers it isn’t true, and you not only slander Lady Palmer and her husband, you slander me. Shoot your mouth off like that, and Stratford could be in for a lawsuit. And why the hell are you gunning for Emily Shanski? What did that woman ever do to you? She’s important to this company.”

  “Children, children,” Martin Stratford said in a deceptively mild tone. “Play nice. Mick is right, Jane Patricia. You started it. It ends now! And Mick, I am well aware of Emily’s value to Stratford. I’ve always taken care of her, and she has always taken care of us. She isn’t going anywhere. Do you both understand me?”

  “Thanks, Martin,” Michael Devlin said, the fires of his anger easing.

  “I’m not so stupid as to sabotage our writers,” J. P. Woods muttered.

  Devlin crooked an eyebrow, but said nothing.

  “I would ask you two to kiss and make up,” Martin Stratford said with some humor, “but I’ve succeeded in this business by never asking the impossible of my employees. Mick, if you can straighten out Prunella and Savannah Banning by phone that’s fine with me. Do it. I know you only travel first-class, and if I’m going to be spending my money to properly promote The Defiant Duchess then I have to save where I can,” he said with a small smile. “Now, is it safe to leave the pair of you alone? I would like to get out to Orient in time for a late lunch. I’ve never been to Egret Pointe, Mick. What is it like?”

  “New Englandy,” Michael. Devlin answered. “Charming little village, lovely, gracious homes. And the inn at East Harbor has a delightful restaurant. Aaron and Kirk’s cottage looks like something out of the Devon countryside. I’m looking forward to August, even though it will be a working vacation.”

  “The book really is good?” J. P. Woods said.

  “It’s really good,” Michael Devlin answered her.

  “I’ll look forward to reading it,” J.P. responded. “I didn’t think she could do it. She always struck me as overly genteel and prudish. I mean, she’s in her thirties, unmarried, raised by two old ladies. What the hell could she know about the down and dirty? She was so tight with Rachel I often wondered if she wasn’t a lesbian.”

  Michael Devlin laughed aloud. He couldn’t help it. “Haven’t you ever heard that old saying about still waters running deep?” he asked her. My God! If she only knew how wild and passionate Emily Shanski was. His dick twitched, and he struggled to keep himself cool and under control. He couldn�
�t think about Emily without wanting her.

  “Old sayings are usually nothing more than old sayings,” J.P. replied.

  “Not always,” Martin Stratford murmured, looking at Michael Devlin curiously from over the top of his reading glasses. Mick, Mick, what are you up to? he wondered to himself. Was one of the best editors he knew getting involved with a writer? No. Mick was more professional than that. He would never do that. Would he? “If you two can refrain from killing each other,” he said, “I’m going to head out to the Island now. Mick, keep me informed about the Lady Palmer problem. You have the number out there, or my assistant can give it to you.” He stood up, and with a quick smile at them was out the door.

  “The company is mine,” J.P. said. “I’ve worked for it, and I’m not letting you come back from London and take it out from under me. Do you understand, Mick?”

  “Don’t get your knickers in a twist, J.P.,” Michael Devlin told her. “I don’t want the company. I’m an editor. A damned good editor. And that’s what I want to keep doing. There will always be a job for me. Even in this corporate climate, J.P.”

  “I don’t wear knickers,” J. P. Woods said.

  Michael Devlin laughed. “Why am I not surprised?”

  “You really don’t want Stratford?” She sounded almost anxious.

  He sighed. “No, I don’t. But don’t tell Martin. Let him play out his little game with us, and believe that he really did make the choice all by himself. If you can’t work with me I can go back to London and Random House. They never get tired of offering. ”

  “It would be easier if you stayed,” she admitted. “I know I’m not the most beloved person in this business. Besides, I can’t afford to lose the editor who got Miss Prim and Proper to write sexy. How did you do it?”

  “Trade secret, J.P., but maybe I will tell you one day.” He couldn’t laugh. He couldn’t give himself away. Not now. And he couldn’t hurt Emily or put her in a difficult position. “Look, I’m good at what I do. There’s really nothing more to it than that. I’ve always been good with writers. It’s an empathy thing. Look how I got Lady Palmer to get her manuscripts in on time when no one else had been able to do that.”

  “How did you do it?” J.P. wanted to know.

  “Savannah’s brain is usually cluttered with her stories. I showed her how to organize her time better. No magic. No smoke and mirrors. Every editor she had had before me was in awe of her. They let her get away with murder. I didn’t. And as soon as we understood each other, it all fell into place,” he explained. “Writers are human, J.P. But they need a little more cosseting in most cases than normal people.”

  “Do you cosset Emilie Shann?” J.P. asked slyly.

  “As a matter of fact, she cossets me. She’s a terrific cook. I’m going to miss my weekends just because of her cooking,” he said. “I’ve had to work out harder at the gym after our working weekends.” He chuckled. Information for J.P. to chew on, but safe information. It retained Emily’s nonthreatening image in J.P.’s mind.

  “Of course she would cook,” J.P. said acidly. “Does she do trifle?”

  “Trifle to die for, and her crème brûlée is incredible,” he answered.

  “Jesus, don’t say another word!” J.P. exclaimed. “I’m going to throw up.” She looked at her watch. “Crap! I’ve got a distributor coming in shortly.” She turned sharply, and was quickly gone from the conference room without another word to him.

  Well, that was interesting, Devlin thought, and he headed for his office.

  “Savannah Banning is on the line from England,” his secretary said. “She’s in high dudgeon, Mick. She insisted on holding until you came out of your meeting.”

  “How long?”

  “Close to five minutes now,” the secretary said.

  “I don’t want to be disturbed,” he told her, and shut the door of his office behind him, then picked up the phone. “Savannah! How are you? I understand we have a spot of difficulty. How can I help you?”

  “You can help me by getting your Irish arse back to old Blighty, damn it!” Savannah exploded. “That woman is an idiot, Mick! She doesn’t understand me at all!”

  “I’m not coming back to England, Savannah,” he said quietly.

  There was a long silence on the other end of the line, and then Savannah said, “How is Emily?”

  “Fine,” he answered her. “We’re talking about you, Savannah. Prunella just takes a bit of getting used to, sweetie. She’s never worked with an American before.”

  “She wants a detailed outline. She says sales needs it,” Savannah wailed.

  “I’ll call her and explain you don’t waste your time with outlines,” he said quietly.

  “She wants to see pieces of the manuscript,” Savannah told him.

  “I’ll tell her you deliver a completed manuscript, and not bits,” Mick responded. “What else?”

  “She isn’t you!” And Savannah Banning began to cry.

  Michael Devlin laughed softly. “I miss you too, sweetie. And I miss old Reg, and the kids, and those great family weekends down in Suffolk. But I suspect I’m back in the Colonies to stay. We’re both going to have to get used to it.”

  “Then Martin is going to put you in charge,” Savannah said.

  “I hope not,” Michael Devlin replied. “I like what I do, and J.P. is really more suited to run a publishing house than I am.”

  “You could learn,” Savannah sniveled.

  “I could, but I don’t want to,” he told her. “I just want to edit my books. I’ll make it all right between you and old Pruny, Savannah. Okay?”

  “Okay,” she agreed. “Now, tell me about you and Emily.”

  “There’s nothing to tell,” he lied.

  “Bullshit!” Savannah said.

  “Lady Palmer!” Michael Devlin exclaimed. “I’m shocked. Shocked.”

  “I hope you’ve become lovers, Mick. She such a sweetie, and she needs a good man,” Savannah told him.

  “Savannah, do not disparage my reputation. I pride myself on being a bad boy, and you know it,” he told her. “Remember all my fun miniscandals in London over the past few years. By the by, do the girls miss me?”

  “Mick, you are such a silly man sometimes,” Savannah remarked. “Was she a virgin? I somehow thought she might be.”

  “Savannah,” he warned. “Remember we’re on a company phone. Now if there is nothing else, I’m going to ring off. I’ll call Pruny tomorrow. She’ll be gone from the office by now with the time change. Say hi to Reg and the children for me. Ta.” He put the telephone down while at the same time reaching for his cell and punching in the number one.

  “Hello?” Emily’s voice came through clear and sweet.

  “I miss you,” he said.

  “It’s only been a day, Devlin,” she answered him.

  “A day and a half,” he corrected her. “I drove back late Sunday afternoon. Just another week, and we’ve got an entire month to ourselves.”

  “Devlin, I have to work if this book is going to be in on time,” she reminded him.

  “I want to be inside of you,” he murmured. “I sent you that little toy for times like this. When we aren’t together, I want to play phone games with you.”

  “Devlin!” she pleaded.

  “Get it,” he said. “I need you!”

  “Hold on. I hid it so Essie wouldn’t find it,” she half whispered.

  “I thought you didn’t let her in your office,” he said.

  “I don’t, but you never know. Okay, I’ve got it.” Emily was already feeling a twinge of excitement. The sound of his voice on the phone could make her wet.

  “Take it out of the box, angel face. Realistic, isn’t it?” he teased.

  “Looks just like you, Devlin,” she teased back.

  “What are you wearing?” he asked her.

  “Never got out of my sleep shirt this morning,” she told him.

  “Hold it in your right hand,” he instructed her. “Start licki
ng it. And use your left hand to play with yourself. I want you nice and wet, angel face,” he told her as he unzipped his slacks and released his penis, which was already partly swollen with just the sound of her voice. He imagined her leaning back in her big leather chair, the sleep shirt hiked to her waist, the softness of her smooth, rounded hips against the black leather.

  “Ohh, Devlin, this is so good,” Emily whispered into the telephone. “Ummm. Ummm. Ummmmm.” She began to suck vigorously on the dildo in her hand. It had been made to duplicate Michael Devlin’s long, thick cock in full flagrante. It was made of a natural colored rubber, and spitted on a twisted rod of polished ashwood.

  “Are you playing with your clit?” he wanted to know. The sucking noises were driving him wild. He could almost feel her mouth on his penis.

  “Are you playing with your dick?” she countered.

  “I am so hard you could break it off.” He groaned.

  “I’m so wet that Mr. Naughty is going to slip right in and go all the way,” she replied. “I’ve got it ready, Devlin. Do you want me to shove it in? Do you?” Her voice was breathy with her excitement.

  “Not yet. I want you to want it a little more, angel face,” he teased her.

  “You’re going to come all over your office, Devlin, if you don’t stop,” she said. “Better let me fuck myself now so you can cool off.”

  “Bitch!” He groaned. She was right. He reached for his handkerchief to contain the spurts of cum he couldn’t contain any longer.

  “Ahhhhhh! Oh, God, that feels good!” She thrust the dildo back and forth in her vagina until, with a long exhalation of a sigh, she came. “But it’s not as good as the real thing, Devlin, is it?” she complained. “I miss you too.”

  “I talked with Lady P today. She sends kisses,” he told her.