The Man Who Has No Sight (Soulless Book 4)

by Victoria Quinn

  He was supposed to have submitted his manuscript for the newest book months ago, but he’d still failed to turn anything in.

  I started to worry, not just as an editor, but as a reader.

  I’d sent him an email from my desk two weeks ago, my hands shaking slightly because I was contacting the only person in the world I was awestruck by.

  Mr. Hamilton,

  Unfortunately, Hannah is no longer with Astra Books due to a family illness. I’ve taken her position, and I’m very eager to get my hands on your manuscript because I’m a big fan of your work and want to make this volume in the series the best yet. Allow me to introduce myself, I’m Emerson Lane. So lovely to meet you. Well, virtually at least. =)

  I checked that email a million times before I sent it, and I was disappointed when I heard nothing in response.

  Nothing at all.

  I asked a colleague about it. “Derek Hamilton…is he a diva author?”

  “Diva?” Janine asked. “No. He’s just…different.”

  “Different how?”

  She shrugged. “It seems like any time you talk to him he doesn’t want to be present in the conversation. Like you’re annoying him. He’s too busy for you, basically.”

  You know what they say—don’t meet your heroes.

  I emailed him again.

  Mr. Hamilton,

  I haven’t had a response from you, so I wanted to check in again. Could you give me an update on the manuscript? Will it be finished soon? I would love to jump on a call and discuss the specifics. I can even begin to edit whatever pages you have. As a big fan of your series, I can be used as a sounding board as well.

  Eagerly awaiting your reply,

  Emerson Lane

  There was still no response, not even a week later. I decided to take it a step further and call him directly. Most of the time, we didn’t call authors because they were all introverts who were overwhelmed by simple conversations, but Derek Hamilton was forcing me to push when I didn’t want to push.

  He answered. “Derek.” His voice was deep, and he sounded young, not what I imagined. His photograph wasn’t on the back of his novels, so I had no idea what he looked like. Based on the quality and depth of his work, I assumed he was a middle-aged man who had a lot of life experience.

  I didn’t say anything at first, because I was caught off guard. “Mr. Hamilton, this is Emerson Lane. I’m your new editor at Astra Books. How are you?”

  Silence.

  “Hello?” Did the line go dead?

  “I’ll submit the book when I’m finished.” Click.

  The phone started to beep when the connection was severed. “Did that bastard just hang up on me?”

  Janine chuckled from her desk, her eyes on her computer. “Told you. He’s different.”

  Now that he knew my number, he didn’t take my calls at all.

  Who the fuck did he think he was?

  Calling got me nowhere, so I emailed him, unable to keep the hostility out of my tone.

  Mr. Hamilton,

  It looks like we got disconnected the other day. I would really appreciate a completion date for this installment of the series. You’re already two months late, and there are other people in this office who are depending on this information to prepare for publication, publicity, and advertising.

  Please get back to me.

  Emerson

  That email went unanswered…like all the others.

  I was still a fan of his novels despite his arrogance and disregard for other people because he was that good. But I started to hate him a little bit. “His address is on his paperwork. I’m just going to talk to him in person.”

  “Whoa.” Janine turned in her swivel chair to face me. “You can’t be serious.”

  “I can’t get a response out of him, and Mark is breathing down my neck.”

  “But that’s…a little weird.”

  “What else am I supposed to do? I’ve emailed him a dozen times, and he won’t take my calls. I can’t even give Mark an update about the manuscript. This guy is making me look like an idiot, which is bad since I just started here.”

  Janine shrugged. “Yeah, I see what you mean.”

  “I’m just going to do it.” I shut down my computer and grabbed my bag before I left the office. It was the end of the day, so I would stop by on my way home. He was a writer, so he was probably home right now since he didn’t have a day job. Well, I assumed he didn’t. Based on his sales, he definitely didn’t need one.

  I walked up to his building then greeted the doorman. Once I stepped into the nice lobby, I realized this wasn’t an apartment building. Based on the fresh flowers in large vases, the nice Turkish rug on the floor, and the elaborate area where the mail was located, with a person working behind the desk, this was a high-end piece of real estate.

  Probably the lobby for a bunch of fancy condos.

  He sold a lot of books…but not that many books.

  His address in our file only had the location of the building, but I had no idea what floor he lived on or what unit number belonged to him. I went to the woman sitting behind the mail counter. “Hello, I’m Emerson Lane with Astra Books. I came here to see Derek Hamilton but can’t remember which floor he lives on. Could you direct me?”

  She stayed seated behind her desk, looking up at me like I was a nuisance. “I can’t give out that information.”

  “I understand, but I’m with his publisher. I’m here to see him—”

  “Miss.” She rose to her feet. “I have a lot of high-profile clients in this building, so I’ve seen this act before. You think you’re the first to pull a stunt like this?”

  My eyes narrowed. “I’m not pulling any stunts—”

  “The answer is no. Please leave.” She sat down again.

  I couldn’t believe I’d been spoken to that way. I was annoyed with this woman, but the person I was really angry with was Derek Hamilton because he had me jumping through hoops just to have five minutes of his time.

  I turned around but stopped when I almost collided with the man standing behind me. With dark hair, brown eyes, and a chiseled jaw covered with a sexy stubble of hair, he was in jeans and a t-shirt, his eyes narrowed and focused on my face.

  “Sorry…I didn’t see you there.”

  He was still as a statue, not even blinking, just looking at me with a gaze full of subtle hostility. He was tall and lean and muscular, his nice arms stretching the sleeves of his shirt. His shirt was flat against his chiseled stomach, and his jeans hung low on his hips. He was young, maybe a few years older than me. I was surprised he was standing there…and also because he was one hell of a hunk.

  I didn’t know what to do because our eyes were locked and he still seemed angry even though I’d apologized for almost colliding into him. “Alright, then.” I finally gathered my bearings and stepped around him.

  As I walked away, I heard the mail lady speak to him when he came to the counter.

  “Hello, Mr. Hamilton. Here’s your mail.”

  I abruptly turned around and watched him carry a few envelopes to the elevator. He had a satchel over his shoulder, and he stopped in front of the elevator as he waited for the doors to open. He looked through his mail, shuffling through the envelopes, and he acted like nothing had just happened.

  What a jackass.

  He’d overheard that conversation and knew it was me, but he didn’t acknowledge it at all.

  The doors opened, and he stepped into the elevator. He hit the button then continued to go through his mail.

  I quickly darted across the lobby and dashed into the elevator before the mail lady could figure out what was happening. I made it just in time, sliding through the closing doors before they registered my body and opened again.

  Derek Hamilton didn’t acknowledge me.

  The elevator started to move, and I noticed he’d hit the top floor, floor seventy.

  I stared at him.

  The guy was oblivious.

  �
��Uh, hi?”

  He stared at one envelope in particular for a long time, slowly turning toward me while barely pulling his gaze away from the words on the page. Then he finally severed the connection to the envelope and met my look. The hostility didn’t have to return because it was constantly in his expression.

  He was not at all what I’d pictured. I’d never imagined someone so young could write something so remarkable. And I’d never imagined he would be so goddamn handsome either. How could someone who wrote such an amazing story be devoid of all emotion? How could someone who wrote about perseverance and determination be so cold? Did he have a ghostwriter or something?

  “I don’t appreciate the way you’re ignoring me, Mr. Hamilton.”

  His eyes were open and expressionless. Seconds passed and he didn’t say a word, like he preferred silence to the spoken word. “I don’t appreciate you showing up at my home and breaching my privacy.”

  “I wouldn’t have to if you took my calls and responded to my emails. Mr. Hamilton, you signed a contract with us. If you continue to be difficult, we can withdraw your advance and freeze your royalties.”

  “I didn’t take an advance.”

  He didn’t?

  “If you were good at your job, you would have known that.”

  Wow…

  He turned back to his envelope, like this conversation was over.

  “We can freeze your royalties.”

  “I don’t care.”

  “What?” I asked incredulously. “How do you plan on paying your bills with no income, Mr. Hamilton?”

  The doors opened, and he stepped into the hallway.

  I followed him. “Mr. Hamilton?”

  He moved to his front door and pulled his keys out of his pocket. “Look at where I live. You think I need your royalties?” He got the door unlocked and stepped inside.

  I should just leave and tell my boss everything that had happened, that our client was being completely unresponsive and we’d have to take legal action against him since he’d failed to provide us what he promised and he wouldn’t even provide an update. But if I did that, this book may never get written…and it would be a disappointment to all his readers. When I was offered the job at Astra Books, the only reason I’d left my publisher was because Derek Hamilton would be my client—and his stories meant the world to me.

  I took a pause to calm my emotions, to turn into the pragmatic person I needed to be to deal with this very difficult man. “Mr. Hamilton?”

  The door shut in my face.

  “Breathe…just breathe.” I knocked on the door. “Eye on the prize.”

  No answer.

  I knocked again. “Mr. Hamilton? Please talk to me.”

  The door opened again, and he looked down at me with an even more potent dose of hostility.

  “Look…” I held both hands up, trying to defuse the situation instead of escalating it. “I’m sorry that I caught you off guard, but your novels are the best there is, and I want these stories to be published so everyone can enjoy them. If you haven’t written it, that’s okay. But please keep me up to date on your progress. That’s all I need.”

  With the same expression, he stared me down, one hand on the door. He had a masculine sharpness to his face, a cut jawline, hard eyes, full lips surrounded by the shadow of stubble that moved over his chin and slightly down his neck.

  Authors were usually a little odd because they were creative in solitude, so they didn’t exactly play well with others. They also didn’t like being told what to do, having their work criticized in the editing process. I’d had an author bring my revisions to the office, light them on fire, and then throw them at me. But this man…was by far the most difficult one of all. “How about this? In a few days, you give me a call or send me an email about where you stand with the story, and we’ll go from there.”

  His stare was still empty.

  Did he need to make every conversation so painful?

  “Alright.”

  I hid my reaction, but inside, I felt like I’d just won the lottery. “That’s great—”

  He shut the door.

  My hands moved to my hips, and I released the breath I was holding as I turned down the hallway and headed back to the elevator. “Wow.”

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