A Novel Seduction

by Gwyn Cready

  Knowing he was completely out of his depth and fearful of giving advice that would lead her astray, he begged her to call Ellery. Ellery, he said, would never be disappointed with anything she did. But Jill would not relent. Further, she made him swear he wouldn’t mention a word to her.

  He hung up and stared at the bare limbs of the tree outside for a good twenty minutes before moving. He’d never been a woman, obviously, and despite having grown up around four of them and spent a good part of his adult life in relationships of one sort or another with many more, he couldn’t help Jill navigate this with any degree of ability. No matter what she had made him promise, he knew he was going to tell Ellery. She was Jill’s guardian. Moreover, she loved Jill deeply and had stepped in without a second thought to care for her when their mother had died.

  But he also knew breaking his word to Jill would mark the end of the easy friendship they had just renewed. He wasn’t her father, but in the perennial “me versus them” battle every child goes through, his betrayal would brand him with that stain of parental them-ness, permanently changing their relationship.

  But there was another complication, one that was perhaps even more responsible for keeping him motionless since the end of the call. He did not want to have any sort of conversation with Ellery about pregnancy.

  Even five years later, the unanswered questions still pained him. No matter how he approached the subject of Jill’s situation, if he told Ellery, he would be entering a battleground defenseless.

  Ellery, Ellery, Ellery.

  He rubbed his aching neck and considered what Jemmie might do. He wished his sister had told him which Jemmie the women adored. Was it the wise Jemmie, the courageous Jemmie, the reckless Jemmie? He thought of his sister’s words.

  Don’t they understand they could get any woman into bed they wanted if they just acted like Jemmie in Kiltlander?

  Of course, Axel was no longer trying to get Ellery in bed. It wasn’t that he didn’t want to bed her; he did—and in a way that made his belly contract when he looked at her. But he had finally realized what he needed from her was something more important: her trust. And if she couldn’t give it to him, he couldn’t be with her.

  He doubted the conversation he was about to have with her would earn that trust, and he dreaded the ground they would have to cover, littered as it was with landmines big enough to destroy both of them. No one would come out unscathed. The one lesson he’d gotten from Jemmie was this: If you love a woman, you have to do what’s right for her. The only trouble is you’d better be damn well sure you know what’s right.

  Axel slipped his phone in his pocket, stepped into the hall and knocked reluctantly on Ellery’s door.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE

  “Plugged In: The Future of Publishing” Conference, Dorchester Hotel, London

  Barry Steinberg let his eyes wander from the intern at Condé Nast, whose breasts didn’t quite make up for her long and exceedingly dull story about her sister’s wedding in High Line Park, to the face of Bettina Moore, head of Pierrot Publishing, at the far end of the bar.

  His head was still muzzy from the night with Axel, but not so muzzy that it blunted the zing that went through Steinberg’s heart whenever he saw a mover and shaker. A year ago Bettina would never have made the cut for a summit like this. But having a book that had spent thirty-seven weeks at the number one spot on the best-seller list tended to shake up one’s social calendar.

  The intern’s voice fell to a faint hum, like the buzz of a mosquito, and despite the message his balls were furiously telegraphing to his mouth to make sure he said something to score himself a place somewhere later in her evening, he found himself being drawn to the light of Bettina Moore.

  “And the reception afterward was awesome. Everyone got Rollerblades and—”

  “You know what?” Steinberg said, tossing a ten-pound note on the bar. “What time are you leaving? I would love to pick this up then.”

  “I dunno.” The intern flipped her hair, smiling. “Maybe midnight?”

  “Perfect. Your last drink’s on me. I can tell you about the time Norman Mailer and I were thrown out of Farrell’s Bar in Brooklyn.”

  “Really? Wait, who’s Norman Mailer?”

  He threaded his way down to Moore, who was sipping something pink and girly, and signaled the bartender to make two more.

  “Bettina, you look lovely tonight.”

  He’d heard she was in the midst of an ugly divorce, but she was well over forty, so too old for serious consideration.

  “Hello, Barry. You look like shite.”

  He laughed. “Hell of a night last night. Ran into an old buddy. Axel Mackenzie, actually. You might know him.”

  It was her turn to laugh. “I sure do. He’s here? He’s working on an article on romance novels.”

  “Are you sure? He told me he was doing something for Vanity Place?”

  “That’s the article.”

  Steinberg laughed.

  She gave him a chilly look.

  “You find that odd?” “The magazine that likened J. K. Rowling to the Reverend Jim Jones? Yeah, actually. I do.”

  The bartender put down the drinks. Barry slipped him a twenty and picked up his.

  “Yeah, well, it’s going to be the cover story,” Moore said. “Maybe they’re changing.”

  “Sure. And maybe my Prius will take first place at Le Mans.” Strange of Axel to hide the fact he was working on a cover story. He was not one for modesty. He took a sip of the drink. Jesus, it was gin. “So it’s a photo essay?”

  “Hell, no. An in-depth into the enduring power of romance novels. Vamp’s going to be front and center.”

  Stranger still.

  “And what have you been up to? Nothing good, I’m sure.” She smiled.

  “Actually, I’m up for that new publisher’s spot at Lark & Ives.”

  “Well, well, well. Congrats.”

  “I don’t have it yet. It’s down to me and the critic at Vanity Place, actually. Ellery Sharpe.”

  “Ellery Sharpe?” Moore’s lip curled over the rim of her glass. “Axel’s working on the piece with her.”

  Steinberg put his drink on the bar. “Ellery Sharpe? Writing a story on romance novels?”

  Moore tossed back her drink and picked up the second. “Yep.”

  He looked at his watch. One o’clock in New York. Carlton Purdy should be at his desk. “Well, congratulations on the cover story. I’m going to have to tell you: That’s the greatest fucking thing I’ve ever heard.”

  CHAPTER FORTY

  Thistle Bed & Breakfast, Bathgate, Scotland

  Ellery cracked the door. It was Axel. There was a look of unease on his face, and despite a brief smile, she could tell he’d rather be somewhere else. She wished she wasn’t still wearing his shirt. “Come in.”

  He stepped in carefully, hands stuffed in his pockets, like he was walking between rickety shelves stacked with glass.

  She wasn’t sure whether to leave the door open or closed. “What’s up?”

  He took a spot by the desk and gestured to her laptop. “I heard you working.”

  “Yep. I’ve got a rough draft.”

  His brow peaked and a bit of the stiffness disappeared. “Of what? Not the romance article?”

  “Yep.”

  “Really?”

  She shrugged and let the door swing closed. “I debated for a long time. Finally decided to meet Black halfway.”

  Axel tilted his head. “‘Halfway’?” He bent to look at her screen.

  “‘The Postmodern Reader: Feminism and the Transformational World of Romance,’ ” he read. “What the hell is this?”

  “That’s my take on it. Dr. Albrecht gave me a lot of stuff on the sociological aspects of romance novels in the second half of the twentieth century. It’s tight. It gives romance novels their due. And it satisfies Black’s requirements.”

  He hit PAGE DOWN and scanned the screen. “‘By subverting a woman’s desire for fulfi
llment into easily consumable chunks,’” he read, “‘romance novels serve as a psychological break from the trials of everyday life’?” He looked up, horrified. “This doesn’t satisfy Black’s requirements. Where’s the joy? Where’s the excitement? Where’s the buzz coming from those Rosemary Readers? Christ, for this, I should have been taking pictures of you at a podium.”

  “Oh, of course,” she said hotly, “I forgot. It’s all about you and your pictures.”

  “I think you’ve been in the magazine biz long enough to know it’s nice when the copy matches the photos.”

  “Well, in this case, the requirement will have to slide. That’s the story I’m writing.”

  “Jesus, Ellery, I’ve never seen you cut a story off at the knees like this. For God’s sake, screw Carlton Purdy. You know you could make this subject sing. If he doesn’t like what a respected journalist writes about how women really feel, then he needs to find a new line of work.”

  “I can’t, Axel,” she said, each word a tight burst of scorching steam. “I want this job.”

  “I felt better when I thought you weren’t going to write it at all. At least then you were standing on some principles.”

  “Fuck you.”

  For a long moment the room echoed with the words; then Axel shook his head, his face an infuriating mix of disbelief and disgust. “Jesus, what the hell happened to you?”

  “You, Axel. You happened to me.”

  He strode to the door and flung it open. “Well, you know what? You happened to me too.”

  CHAPTER FORTY-ONE

  Greenwich Village, Manhattan

  Carlton Purdy took off his reading glasses, folded them neatly and placed them in the mid-century Blenko glass eyeglass holder on his bedside table. Tony was almost done with his shower, and he did not like him to be reminded his partner needed glasses. In fact, Carlton equipped himself with everything he could to minimize the fourteen-year age gap between them, including a modest number of hair plugs, a subscription to Men’s Health and an amazing stomach-reducing undergarment from Slapz called a Bear Hug.

  Of course, he wasn’t wearing one now. It was after their every-other-Friday lunchtime liaison, and their every-other-Friday lunchtime liaison meant Tony’s homemade seviche, Glee on TiVo and lighting the Diptyque Green Fig candles.

  Tony strode out, his smooth coffee-colored skin still capable of diverting Carlton from even the most intense conference call.

  He loosened the towel and snapped it playfully at Carlton’s legs. “Hey, what’s with the pajamas? It’s show time, amigo.”

  Carlton grinned. He liked being teased, but he also knew he looked fabulous in his Orvis black Lab pajamas.

  “Time to make those dogs hunt,” Tony said, and they both laughed.

  He dropped the towel on the floor and made a Superman-like leap onto the bed. Carlton sighed, half in response to Tony’s amazing abs and half in response to the wet towel on the repurposed oak flooring.

  “God, I love those candles,” Tony said, taking a deep sniff. “Smells like Fig Newtons.” He cocked a brow, and Carlton laughed again.

  Tony was fluffing the pillows when Carlton’s Black-Berry buzzed. “Here we go.” He propped himself on his elbow, waiting for Carlton to answer it.

  Carlton picked up the phone on the second ring, but couldn’t read the display.

  “Are you going to answer?” Tony said. The phone rang again.

  “Oh, it’s no one I want to talk to.”

  Tony pursed his lips, eyes glinting, and reached across Carlton to snag the glasses. “I don’t know why you don’t wear them. You look adorable.”

  Beaming, Carlton answered in a singsong voice. “Hel-lo.”

  “Carlton, it’s me. Barry Steinberg.”

  “Barry Steinberg, as I live and breathe. Why would Barry Steinberg be calling me on this overcast Friday? You’re not withdrawing your name from consideration, are you?”

  Tony whispered, “Lark & Ives?” and Carlton nodded.

  “No, no,” Steinberg said. “Not at all. I’m calling because I found out something that may be of interest.”

  “I’m listening.”

  “I just found out Ellery Sharpe’s writing an article on romance novels for Vanity Place.”

  “Don’t be ridiculous. I shouldn’t be telling you this, but she’s writing an article on the impact evolving forms of writing have on readers.”

  “Yeah, romance readers. Ellery Sharpe’s in the U.K. With Axel Mackenzie. They’re doing a spread on romance novels, with a focus on Vamp.”

  “Vamp?” Carlton sat up so quickly, he knocked Tony off his elbow. Purdy had heard a lot of unbelievable things, but Vanity Place running a spread on Vamp? It was preposterous. It was beyond preposterous.

  At the mention of Vamp, Tony bared his teeth and began to nibble on Carlton’s neck, which Carlton only half tried to stop.

  Carlton was conflicted. Ellery Sharpe, upright and reliable, had promised him and his board an article on evolving forms of fiction. Barry Steinberg, perhaps more reliable than upright, had said her article was on, of all things, romance novels.

  “You look cute when your lip curls,” Tony whispered.

  Romance novels were about as likely to find a place at Lark & Ives as a recipe for tuna casserole. Was she trying to sabotage him? If it were true, she was certainly sabotaging herself.

  He decided to take a neutral approach.

  “Thank you, Barry. I don’t think you need to trouble yourself about it. I’ll look into it. And I’m looking forward to receiving your piece at the end of the month.”

  He rang off and Tony said, “You’d better not be receiving his piece. There’ll be a duel at ten paces.”

  “There seems to be something amiss with one of my candidates, Ellery Sharpe. If what I just heard is true—and I can’t believe it is—she’s writing an article on romance novels.”

  “Oh, God,” Tony said in mock horror, “is it catching?”

  “Laugh if you will. There are certain things literary critics don’t do.”

  “You know, snobbishness is not exactly your most attractive quality.”

  “I’m not being a snob,” Carlton said, picking up the phone again. “I’m being…”

  “Narrow-minded?”

  “Realistic. The people who read romance novels are—”

  “Gorgeous, well cut and currently considering grabbing those pajamas at the ankles and yanking?”

  Carlton blinked. “Not you!”

  “Oh, yes. In fact, there’s a certain red-haired Scottish Highlander who’s haunted my dreams for years.”

  “Tony.”

  Tony dissolved into laughter. “You’re so easy to shock. I love that about you. Please tell me that phone’s in your hand because you’re planning to heave it into the wastebasket?”

  “Let me make just one more call. Please, please, please.”

  Tony growled good-naturedly. “Make it fast.”

  “We can settle this in two minutes.”

  “Then we’re going to settle something else,” Tony said, flopping back on his pillow. “And I can assure you, it’s going to take considerably longer than two minutes.”

  CHAPTER FORTY-TWO

  Thistle Bed & Breakfast, Bathgate, Scotland

  Jesus, what an asshole.

  Ellery slammed the door and tore off Axel’s shirt. I’ll go topless before I’ll give him the satisfaction of seeing me in something of his again.

  The phone rang and her heart skipped a beat. But it was neither Black nor Jill. It was Carlton Purdy, and she decided to send him to voice mail.

  Axel knocked on the door, and she flung it open, one arm stretched across her breasts and the other ready to stuff the shirt down his throat. “What is it, you asshole—”

  The brows on Dr. Albrecht’s face flew up. “I beg your pardon. I vundered if you had an outfit for tonight. The party is not formal. Still, there is a certain level of sparkle and shine. I have a neighbor who may be about your si
ze.”

  Ellery turned and struggled back into the abhorrent shirt. “Sorry. We were having a bit of a disagreement—Axel and I.”

  “Article writing must be quite challenging.”

  Ellery noticed a gleam in the woman’s eye and felt her cheeks redden. “He and I are… were… Oh, it doesn’t matter. Let’s just say he can be a jerk sometimes.”

  “They can be difficult, it’s true.”

  “How men think they’ve earned the right to be such god-awful imbeciles sometimes, I don’t know.”

  “Oh, I meant the Scots. My second husband vuz a Grant.”

  A Scottish husband? Ellery looked at her, surprised, and her face dimpled. “Yeah, well. Axel’s only half Scottish.”

  “Perhaps he’s only half an imbecile as well.”

  Ellery thought about the article. Admittedly, it hadn’t been her most stellar effort. It lacked the passion that usually marked her work. But why couldn’t he understand that that was the only way she could have written it? “Maybe,” she said, unconvinced.

  “There’s a scene in Kiltlander. It’s toward the end, so I von’t ruin it for you. But in it a thoughtless action on Jemmie’s part has unintentionally led to the destruction of something very dear to Cara—very dear to both of them, in fact. She is furious and has every right to be. In the midst of their argument, they come to the realization that the hurdle of being from two different vurlds is one their love, vhich has already stretched to the point of breaking, cannot overcome.”

  Ellery dropped onto the bed. “Are you telling me they don’t end up together?”

  Dr. Albrecht gazed at her over her glasses. “May I observe as a sociologist that, given the prescribed plot structure in romance, the considerable anxiety produced in a reader vis-à-vis the outcome of the story is fascinating to me and quite possibly unique in the vurld of literature.”

  “Oh my God, are you going to tell me or not?”

  “I am not. I am, however, going to tell you vhat Jemmie said to Cara. He said, ‘I canna promise not to make mistakes. I can only promise to learn from them.’ Vhen you think about it, that’s all vee can ask from anyone.”