Forbidden Pleasures

by Bertrice Small

  As if on cue the doorbell rang and, opening it, she greeted the chauffeur. “Morning! Hope the drive wasn’t too bad.”

  “Nah,” he answered her. “Parkway is clear, and so are your roads. You got a good little highway department out here in the boonies. I’m Frankie. You ready to go, Miss Shann?”

  “Did they send lunch in the car, or should I make a sandwich quickly?” she asked.

  “You must be somebody real special,” Frankie said. “There’s a little hamper in the back for you. You just tell me when you want to stop and eat.”

  “I’m used to eating on the run,” Emily said. “You don’t have to stop for me, but thanks.” She put on her coat, cinching the sash to close it.

  He helped her into the car, set a thick fleece lap robe over her knees, and, gaining the driver’s seat, pulled out from the curb. A sudden wave of weariness swept over her. Emily closed her eyes and dozed. When she opened them again they were on the parkway, and she realized they were almost into the city. Glancing at her watch she saw it was one thirty. She had slept for an hour and a half. She felt better for it. Opening up the hamper, she pulled out a thermos. A label on it said, Chicken Soup. She opened it and poured some into the self-contained cup. It was delicious, and still quite hot. There were two miniature croissants wrapped in clear wrap. They were filled with thin slices of Havarti cheese and ham. She wolfed them down, wondering why, when you were sick, someone else’s food always tasted better. Closing the hamper, she wiped her mouth, pulled out her lipstick, and put on fresh.

  Around them the traffic was horrendous. Of course—it was two days before Christmas. Only an idiot brought his car into the city two days before Christmas. The world was obviously full of idiots, Emily decided as the cars around her honked noisily.

  “Jerks!” Frankie the chauffeur said. “Whatta they think? Honking’s gonna make the rest of the traffic disappear in a puff of smoke?” He swore under his breath as a black limo with black windows tried to cut him off, gunning the town car to keep his own place in the line of trucks, buses, and cars. “I got orders to pick up a Mr. Fischer,” he said to her. “You know him?”

  “He’s my agent,” Emily answered. Good. They would have a few minutes alone to talk before they got to Stratford.

  Aaron was waiting at the curb in front of his building as they pulled up. He got into the town car and went to kiss her cheek, but Emily pulled away, putting up a cautionary hand as she did so.

  “I’ve got an awful cold,” she told him.

  “You shouldn’t have come,” he exclaimed. He put a hand on her forehead. “I think you have a fever. What did Sam say?”

  “I didn’t call him, Aaron, and don’t fuss at me. I will when I get home. But you know as well as I do that this is a command performance. I took some cold pills last night, and again this morning to get me through. J.P. called me herself to issue the invitation. The good news is that she’s ecstatic about the book.”

  “I know,” he replied, sitting back. “She wants you to sign the contracts today.”

  “No. Not today. After the New Year,” Emily told him. “After Martin has made his announcement, and I am sure that Devlin will stay. He wants to remain editor in chief, and J.P. will be named Martin’s successor under those circumstances. I have to be sure she isn’t holding any grudges. I know every editor at Stratford. There isn’t one I’d be comfortable working with except Devlin.”

  “So this is love,” Aaron said dryly.

  “No. It’s business, pure and simple,” Emily told him.

  “But you love him,” Aaron remarked.

  “Yes, I do. But one has nothing to do with the other,” Emily insisted.

  “If you say so,” Aaron said with a small smile. “Can Kirk and I hitch a ride to Egret Pointe with you tonight? Hanukkah at Rina’s. Then we’re going to stay a few days at the cottage. I called your Essie to open it up, but she didn’t call back. Is she all right?”

  “She’s in Florida with her son and his family for Christmas,” Emily explained. “Better call Rina before we get to the party, and she’ll arrange it.” She settled back in her seat and closed her eyes again, listening as Aaron made the call, imagining Rina’s sharp comments to her brother for waiting until the last minute.

  “Did you know Emily is sick?” Aaron asked his sister.

  Emily’s eyes flew open, and she shook her finger at her agent.

  “What do you mean, sick?” Rina was demanding to know.

  “Sounds like a pretty bad cold to me,” Aaron replied. “Sam should look at her tomorrow. She’ll call him.”

  “If she’s sick she shouldn’t be in the city,” Rina said.

  Emily, knowing what Rina would be saying, grabbed Aaron’s phone from him. “I had to come. I took cold medicine. I finished your soup, and I’ll be home and will go to bed in a few hours. Okay? Don’t scold Aaron. He didn’t know.” She handed the phone back.

  “She looks beautiful for someone at death’s door,” Aaron teased his sister.

  “The pair of you are impossible,” Rina muttered. “I’ll call my gal and see if she can get over to the cottage. You did have an oil delivery made, didn’t you? Never mind. I’ll call. Really, Aaron, you and Kirk need a keeper. I’ll see you both tonight.”

  Aaron Fischer closed his elegant little cell and slipped it back into his pants pocket. “My sister, Rina, the boss of the world—but I did forget to call for oil,” he admitted sheepishly. “I would think there would have been enough to heat the place tonight, though. ”

  “All the businesses except the IGA close at noon on Christmas Eve in Egret Pointe,” Emily told him. “Oh, here we are, Aaron. Showtime! Smiles, everyone!”

  The town car glided smoothly to a stop, and Frankie got out, hurried around the vehicle to the passenger-side door, and opened it up. Aaron climbed out, and the chauffeur extended a hand to Emily to help her alight. “I’ll be here when you’re through,” he told them. “Mr. Stratford arranged it so I can wait for you right where I am. He’s got some pull, I’d say.”

  “He’s a generous man,” Aaron replied meaningfully.

  “Yeah, he’d have to be to have pulled this off at Christmas,” Frankie agreed, nodding.

  Stratford Publishing occupied three floors of the office building in which it was located. Martin Stratford paid the building management an extra stipend to have one elevator among the bank of them exclusive to his publishing house. He didn’t like to wait, and he didn’t want his employees or authors having to wait. And he paid a uniformed elevator man to run his private elevator.

  “Merry Christmas, Miss Shann, Mr. Fischer,” Bill said. “You’ll be coming for the party, I’m thinking.” The elevator man was a small Irishman of indeterminate age with the face of a leprechaun, who had somehow, after fifty years in the United States, still managed to retain his Irish brogue. He knew everyone who did business regularly with Stratford Publishing, as well as all its employees. He was a holdover from another era, but Martin Stratford felt that the private elevator and its uniformed operator gave him a certain kind of cache he was loath to do without. And the truth was, it did. “I’m hearing wonderful things about the new book, Miss Shann,” Bill volunteered as the elevator sped up its cables to the twentieth floor.

  “Thanks, Bill,” Emily told him.

  The elevator had been discreetly hung with an elegant, fragrant green garland. There was a wreath with a red plaid bow hung over the mirror in the rear of the car. They reached their destination quickly, the doors opened, and they stepped out into the foyer of the executive floor. More fragrant green garlands. Wreaths had been placed discreetly here and there. A large Christmas tree was set up to one side of the receptionist’s desk decorated with faux Victorian ornaments and strands of both popcorn and cranberries, and complete with a blue-and-silver Star of David topping it.

  “Oy vay,” Aaron murmured under his breath.

  Emily giggled. “I think they’re trying to be ecumenical,” she said.

  “I wond
er where the solstice and the Kwanzaa displays are set up,” he answered her. “Hello, Denise,” Aaron greeted the receptionist.

  “Happy holidays, Mr. Fischer, Miss Shann. The party has already started down in the boardroom. Can I take your coats?” She came from behind her desk to accept their outdoor garments. “I didn’t let them block the closet with the tree,” she confided. “Oh, Miss Shann, that’s a great outfit. I love the sweater. Is it cashmere?”

  “Yes, a friend knitted it for me,” Emily told the receptionist.

  “Gee, I wish I had friends like that,” Denise remarked.

  “You don’t get to come to the party?” Aaron asked the girl.

  “Not until four o‘clock, Mr. Fischer. Ms. Woods says everyone should have arrived by four o’clock. I don’t mind. I’m reading the ARC for the new Savannah Banning book. It is so hot!” She grinned.

  They laughed and made their way to the boardroom, which was located on a corner of the building and had a skyline view on two sides. J. P. Woods spotted them immediately as they walked in, and came forward. She was smiling toothily, and Emily thought she had never in twelve years seen J. P. Woods smile quite like that. It was a little frightening. J.P. had grown her hair long. It was still red, and fixed into an elegant chignon. She was wearing a Tudor-green silk wrap dress that outlined every inch of her figure, which Emily had to admit was damned good, wondering at the same time whether J.P. had had her breasts done. They were pretty perfect-looking tits for a woman in her late forties. She had to work out too, Emily decided.

  “Emily! Aaron!” J. P. Woods had reached them, and they all air-kissed. “Happy holidays to us all,” J.P. purred. “We are so pleased with The Defiant Duchess, as I told you the other night. It’s going to be very big. We have your new contracts all ready and waiting for you to sign today.”

  “Oh, not today, J.P.” Emily said.

  “Not today?” J.P.’s colorless eyes narrowed. “Why not today?”

  “Mercury is in retrograde,” Emily said with a perfectly straight face. “I never sign any documents when Mercury is in retrograde, J.P. It would be disastrous.”

  “I wasn’t aware you were into astrology,” J.P. said sharply.

  “Well, I don’t check my chart before I get up every day,” Emily answered her, “but I do have it done each year, and Mercury retrogrades four times a year. It’s always a time of Murphy’s Law. Things just go wrong. We’ll take the contracts with us, and I’ll sign them when the stars are aligned properly—right after the first of the year.”

  J. P. Woods looked somewhat chagrined by Emily’s explanation, but she also knew it wouldn’t look particularly good to get into a quarrel with the author over what was really a trivial matter. But she had hoped to make a big show of Emily’s signing today, and she was disappointed.

  “Now, where are these important distributors you wanted me to meet?” Emily said brightly, turning J.P.’s thoughts back to business.

  “They should be here any minute,” J.P. said. “One is from the Midwest, the other out of Atlanta, and the third from California. He’s the one you want to really schmooze,” she advised. “But come along now, the two of you. Martin is sitting on his throne over there just waiting for you two to pay him homage.” J.P. tittered.

  They made their way across the large boardroom, which had been emptied of its conference table and chairs which had been replaced by a few smaller round tables and folding chairs. There was a deejay playing at one end of the room, but the music was merely for ambience. Young waiters and waitresses in black pants and white shirts passed around trays of canapes. There was a bar set up at the other end of the room. As they moved across the space people parted for them, and Emily smiled to herself. Everyone, it seemed, had an eye out for J.P.

  Martin Stratford, seeing them approaching, arose from his comfortable chair and came forward, hands outstretched. “Aaron.” He nodded to the agent, but it was Emily’s small hands he took in his own. “My dear, beautiful as ever. And you are truly a wonder. We are all very, very pleased with The Defiant Duchess. Thank you.” Still holding her hands in his, he raised them to his lips and kissed them giving her a courtly bow as he did so. He was a tall, handsome man in his late sixties, with beautifully styled silver hair and piercing blue eyes. He was dressed impeccably in a dark suit, white shirt, and silk tie with a military stripe, which was held neatly in place with a gold tie pin. There were gold oval cuff links in his shirt cuffs, and just the barest hint of expensive men’s cologne about him. Martin Stratford had the elegance of an old-time movie star, and the same sort of charm as well. But he was a very smart man.

  Emily retrieved her hands, smiling. “Your blessing is very important to me, Martin, and J.P. called me the other night to tell me how much she had enjoyed the book. Knowing that I have the approval of both of you is wonderful.”

  “It was Rachel who was holding you back,” J. P. Woods said. “I just knew with the right guidance you could do a more sensual book for us, and do it well. Didn’t I say that, Martin?” J.P. smiled brightly.

  “Your faith in Emily has always been something of a wonder to me, J.P.” Martin Stratford said smoothly. He wondered if Emily knew the truth, and hoped she didn’t. He didn’t want to see this lovely young woman hurt. “Will you be signing your new contracts for us today?”

  J. P. Woods beamed, pleased at what she thought would be Emily’s agreement.

  “Not today, Martin. Right after the holidays, though,” Emily told him.

  “Fine, fine. I want you to know I’m going to be naming J.P. to replace me today,” Martin Stratford said quietly. “I’m going to be seventy next year, and it’s time for me to enjoy a little of life while I still can. My wife and I are going to take that fantastic Cunard around-the-world cruise this winter. We won’t be back until spring. We’ve booked a minisafari while the ship is visiting Africa.”

  “How wonderful!” Emily exclaimed. Oh, shit! She was going to have to be nice to J. P. Woods for the rest of her life. “J.P. deserves this promotion, Martin. As for the trip, I envy you. It’s something I’d love to do myself one day.”

  “But not right away,” J.P. chimed in cheerfully. “You have books to write for us, Emily.” Her white teeth twinkled again. “Oh,” she exclaimed. “There goes my beeper. Our special guests have arrived. You stay right here, Emily. I’ll bring them to meet you. We’ve got ARCs bound with the cover for them. You’ll sign them.” She hurried off, her Jimmy Choo heels making indentations in the carpet.

  “Is someone going to offer us a drink?” Aaron complained.

  “Sorry,” Martin Stratford said, signaling a waiter so they might give him their order. “You did good, Emily,” he told her. “I know J.P. isn’t your favorite person. You’re a smart girl. She knows how to run a company, but believe it or not she’s unsure of herself, which is what makes her so abrasive to deal with, I’m afraid.”

  The drinks came. Emily had ordered a shot of Glenfiddich Scotch for her cold. She sipped it slowly, her eyes sweeping the room. Where was Devlin? Where the hell was he? She was going to have to ask, if he didn’t show up soon. Had anything happened to him? she wondered. No. J.P. would have certainly said so. The three distributors were brought over to meet her. She was charming. They were flattering. They chatted. She signed their ARCs for them, and they drifted off. Aaron was deep in conversation with a senior editor of his acquaintance. Martin Stratford had made his announcement, passed out bonus checks, and was now making his departure, wishing them all a happy holiday.

  Emily saw him to the elevator and kissed his cheek. “You like the contract?” he asked her.

  “Aaron and I will discuss it in detail this weekend. He’ll be out in Egret Pointe for the holiday. Martin, I didn’t see my editor. Where is Michael Devlin?”

  “I believe he got stuck in London,” Martin Stratford said. “J.P. spoke to him this morning. She’ll know.”

  “Oh,” Emily said.

  Her companion stepped into the elevator. “Good-bye,
my dear,” he said as Bill closed the doors.

  Emily stood alone for a moment or two. She had spoken to Devlin only last night, and he said he was coming home. He should have arrived early this afternoon. As much as she disliked it, Emily sought out J. P. Woods, who was mellowing with her fifth drink. “J.P. Where is my editor? I understood he would be here today. I did want to wish him a merry Christmas,” Emily said, as if that were actually the case. Then she smiled at J.P.

  “Oh, he called this morning. Something came up in London, and he said he couldn’t make it back to the States in time for Christmas.” She laughed knowingly. “Probably some pretty creature he met, knowing Devlin. He really is a wicked devil. He was all business with you, I hope.”

  “He was extremely professional,” Emily replied, “but I can see what you mean, J.P. Devlin is a charming guy. But then, all Irishmen are—even your elevator man, Bill,” she said with another smile.

  J.P. laughed. “Yeah,” she admitted. “Those Irish boys do have their charms, though I never before considered putting little Bill and Mick in the same category. But I suppose you’re right, Emily. Well, as long as he edits you well, what do we care, right?”

  Aaron joined them. “Emily has been a good sport long enough, J.P. I’m going to take her home now. I hope you’ll have a good holiday.”

  “What’s wrong?” J.P. was suddenly businesslike again.

  “I just have a little cold,” Emily said. “Aaron worries like an old woman, but I am a bit tired. Going home sounds really good to me.”

  “Well, I’m not surprised,” J.P. said. “It was a big push, and you came through for all of us, Emily. I won’t forget that. Yes, go on home and cosset yourself.”

  “Have a good holiday, J.P.,” Emily told her.

  “I will,” J.P. said. Then she lowered her voice and said to Emily, “Have you ever heard of that women-only network? It’s called the Channel. A friend suggested it.”

  “Yes,” Emily murmured. “I suspect you’ll like it, J.P. Everyone I know who gets it just adores it. But be careful. It can be addictive sometimes, I’m told.”