“Right. Anything else?”
He lifted his gaze, and something flashed through his dark eyes—alarm? “Watch your back, Tallie.”
Her jaw loosened in confusion. She was on the verge of asking for specifics when his phone rang. He snatched up the receiver. “Ron Springer.” She turned to vamoose, and as she was closing the door, Ron said in a lowered voice, “I told you to never call me here—don’t you think I’m in enough trouble?”
Tallie bit her lip as she silently closed the door. It seemed reasonable to assume that the “trouble” her boss alluded to was the basis for his abrupt holiday. And for Ron to leave his responsibilities at Parkbench, even temporarily, the trouble had to be dire.
On the walk back to her office, she nursed mixed emotions—concern for her boss, elation over her high-profile assignment, and fear that she would do something to alienate the company’s biggest cash cow, Gaylord Cooper. She tingled with anticipation, thinking this could be a turning point in her career.
Watch your back, Tallie.
She worked her mouth from side to side, chalking up Ron’s odd comment to his uncharacteristic state of mind. Then she released a dry laugh. Or perhaps he was talking about what Scary Kara might do when she discovered Tallie had been singled out to work with Gaylord Cooper. A gloating smile curled on Tallie’s mouth, and she made a mental note to call her best friend Felicia to tell her the good news.
But meanwhile…back to the slush pile reading. Her phone rang and she smiled—a reprieve. “Tallie Blankenship.”
“Hello, Tallie,” said a deep, male voice—a hesitant deep, male voice. “My name is Keith Wages. We’ve never met, but our mothers are acquainted.”
Tallie squinted—Wages. “Sheila Wages in Ann Arbor?” She had met her mother’s childhood friend once, years ago. She vaguely remembered a son in the pictures the woman sent at Christmastime, but she couldn’t place his face.
“Right.” He gave a little laugh. “This is awkward, but I live in the city and when my mother found out that you live here, too, she suggested that I give you a call. You know…have lunch or something.”
Red flags went up in her mind. WARNING: GEEKY SON OF MOTHER’S FRIEND
DETECTED. PROCEED AT YOUR OWN RISK.
“That sounds nice,” she said carefully. “But I’m really swamped for the next couple of weeks.”
“Maybe we could grab a cup of coffee?” he suggested. “Something quick?”
Her mind raced, but she couldn’t think of a polite put-off. And if she didn’t meet the guy, her mother would eventually hear about it and pester her to death. “Okay,” she said, checking her calendar. “How about Wednesday at twelve-thirty?” She’d learned a long time ago that having to get back to work was the best way to escape an encounter-gone-wrong.
“Sounds good—where?”
Someplace not too close to her office and not a regular hangout, in case he turned out to be a psycho. “Are you familiar with Suspicious Grounds coffeehouse on Lexington Avenue?”
“Yeah, sure. I’ll see you there.”
“Um, wait a minute,” she said, her pulse suddenly picking up for no good reason other than the fact that he had a nice voice. “How will I know you?”
“I’ll be wearing a Michigan State ball cap.”
Oh, great—a sports nut, and obviously badly employed if he could wear a ball cap in the middle of the day. “Okay. See you then…Keith.”
He hung up and she replaced the receiver, already dreading the meeting. The weirdo quota in her circle of acquaintances was full. With a sigh she picked up Mr. Wannamaker’s cover letter for a quick skim to the end.
Many people don’t realize how interesting the life of an IRS accountant can be. There was the time I had a hit put on me for nailing a congressman for tax evasion. And the time I killed a man, and got away with it.
Tallie’s eyebrows shot up. She was accustomed to receiving outlandish letters from inmates trying to sell their life story, but this was a new one.
Suddenly, Mr. Richard Wannamaker’s submission was a lot more interesting.
Chapter 2
Felicia Redmon dropped into her desk chair and sorted through her phone messages. Suze Dannon. Phil Dannon. Suze again, then Phil again. She sighed—the Dannons were determined to drive her and each other completely mad. Her best-selling husband and wife writing team had separated under nasty circumstances but had agreed to finish one last book together. Unfortunately, Felicia had soon found herself in the middle of not only their editorial squabbles but also their personal disagreements. Playing referee was wearing her nerves thin, but sometimes an editor had to go beyond the call of duty to make sure the book got in on time. Still, she was afraid that if the Dannons didn’t find a way soon to put aside their differences, the hostile couple, known for their sensual murder mysteries, was going to wind up killing each other.
There was a message from her doctor’s office—an appointment reminder, no doubt—and one from Tallie, who probably wanted to firm plans for getting together at their regular hangout. And Jerry Key had called. Her heart jerked a little, just like every time she heard the bastard’s name.
She should have known better than to have gotten involved with a man with whom she would also have to do business, but literary agent Jerry Key had a way of making a woman forget little things…like consequences. He was probably calling on behalf of the Dannons, who were his clients. And whatever was wrong would definitely be her fault.
Might as well get it over with, she decided, and dialed Jerry’s number—by memory, how pathetic.
“Jerry Key’s office, this is Lori.”
Felicia cringed at Lori’s nasally tone. “Hi, Lori. This is Felicia Redmon at Omega Publishing, returning Jerry’s call.”
“Hold, please.”
Felicia cursed herself for her accelerated pulse. A year was long enough to get over someone, especially someone as smarmy as Jerry had turned out to be.
The phone clicked. “Felicia,” he said, his tongue rolling the last two vowels. “How are you?”
She pursed her mouth. “What’s up, Jerry?”
“What, you don’t have time for small talk anymore?”
Remembering the impending auction of one of his clients’ books, which she’d be participating in, Felicia bit her tongue. “Sorry, it’s been a long day. How’ve you been?”
“Never better,” he said smoothly. “Except when we were together.”
She closed her eyes. “Jerry, don’t.”
“Funny, I believe that’s the first time you’ve ever said ‘don’t.’ ”
Her tongue tingled with raw words, but she reminded herself that she was to blame for the predicament she’d gotten herself into. The bottom line was that Jerry Key represented enough big-name authors—some of them tied to Omega Publishing—that she had to play nice, no matter how much it killed her.
“Jerry, I’m late for a meeting, so I really can’t chat. What did you need?”
He sighed dramatically. “Sweetheart, we have a problem. The Dannons are upset.”
“Both of them?”
“Suze in particular. She said that you’re siding with Phil on all the manuscript changes.”
“Phil is the plotter, Suze is the writer, it’s always been that way. Suze never had a problem with Phil’s changes before.”
“Suze said he’s changing things just for the sake of changing them, to make more work for her.”
“Have you spoken with Phil?” Felicia asked.
“Yes, and I believe his exact words were ‘You bet your ass I am.’ ”
She rolled her eyes. “Jerry, the last time I checked, you represented both Suze and Phil.”
“Yes, but editorial disputes are your responsibility, Felicia, and I rely on you to be fair.”
She frowned. “I am fair.”
“Then you need to be firm. Being assertive isn’t your strong suit.”
Anger bolted through her. “That’s not true.” She only had a problem being assert
ive with Jerry; he had a way of making her feel defensive and defenseless at the same time. “Don’t turn this around, Jerry—you know that the Dannons are both hypersensitive right now.”
“Which is why, Felicia, it would behoove both of us if the Dannons find a way to patch things up and forget about this divorce nonsense.”
“And you’re telling me this because?”
“Because I think you should find a way to make this project more enjoyable, to make them realize how good they are together.”
She summoned strength. “Jerry, I’m not a marriage counselor.”
“But you’re a woman.”
A small part of her was flattered he remembered, but she managed to inject a bite into her tone. “What does that mean?”
“It means that…you know, you’re all wrapped up in the fantasy of marital bliss. If I tried to talk to the Dannons about staying together, they’d know I was bullshitting them for the sake of money.”
“Isn’t that what I’d be doing?” she asked.
“No, you actually believe in all that happily-ever-after crap.”
Felicia set her jaw. It wasn’t enough that the man had broken her heart; he had to reduce her hopes for the future to the lyrics of a bad love song.
“What do you say, Felicia? Why don’t you try to get the Dannons face-to-face and make them see that they’re better together than apart? If anyone can convince them to work together, you can. After all, you almost convinced me to give up my freedom.”
It was Jerry’s idea of a compliment, and she conceded a shameful little thrill at his admission.
“I’ll see what I can do,” she said. “Oh, and Jerry—have you set a date for the Merriwether auction?”
“No, but you’ll be the first to know.”
“Good, because I finished reading the proposal and I believe that Omega is the best publisher to take the book to market.”
“We’ll see,” he said, his tone noncommittal.
Unease tickled the back of her neck, but she figured it was just another Jerry Key power play.
“Sweetheart, I got another call coming in,” Jerry said. “Let me know after you’ve set up a meeting with the Dannons and I’ll be there.”
She started to say she couldn’t promise miracles, but he had disconnected the call. Listening to the dial tone conjured up memories of when Jerry had phoned her to abruptly “cool things off.” She had been in bed, still warm from their morning tussle, and had been caught completely off guard. Her cheeks still burned with mortification when she thought of it.
She called Phil Dannon first. “Phil, this is Felicia. How’s it going?”
“If you mean the book, not so well, but that’s Suze’s fault.”
Determined to keep her tone calm, she asked, “How so?”
“She refuses to make the changes that I want—you know that’s the way we’ve always worked.”
“Have you talked to Suze about it?”
“Talked, shouted, and screamed, in that order. She’s impossible. She has a lot of nerve, giving me a hard time when she’s the one—”
“Phil,” Felicia cut in, not wanting to hear details about the breakup, “I know this is a tough time for you and Suze to think about work, but everyone has a lot riding on this book. I was thinking that you both should come in to the city, then we’ll all sit down and work through these issues. How does that sound?”
“Fine with me,” he said. “Of course, I’m not the one being unreasonable.”
She decided not to bring up Jerry’s comment about the ass-betting. “If I can get Suze to agree, would the day after tomorrow be okay with you?”
“Wednesday? Sure, just let me know.”
“Meanwhile, could you fax me a list of the changes you asked Suze to make?”
“Will do. I’m sorry about all this, Felicia. I know this makes your job harder.”
“It’s okay,” she said, experiencing a surge of affection for the man. Suze was the creative one, and Phil had always been the voice of reason. She suspected that Suze had initiated the breakup, although she couldn’t be sure. And even though infidelity hadn’t come up in the conversation when Phil had broken the news they were going to divorce, she had speculated that Suze, a flamboyant and attractive forty-something, had had an affair. But she could be wrong. People had fooled her before.
“We’ll work through this,” she promised. “I’ll let you know about meeting on Wednesday.”
She hung up, feeling another headache coming on. They had escalated in frequency and duration over the past few months, all stress-related, she knew. Which was only more frustrating because she hated the idea that, to all the emotional pain that Jerry Key had caused her, she could add a psychosomatic condition as well. She opened her desk drawer and removed a bottle of Imitrex, popped one, and washed it down with Water Joe, hoping the caffeinated bottled water would speed the drug to the site of her pain. She couldn’t afford to go home with a migraine, not with all the work that had to be done this week.
She picked up the phone and dialed Suze Dannon’s cell phone number. Suze answered on the first ring.
“Hel-LO.”
Felicia blinked at the rather seductive tone of Suze’s voice, then recovered. “Hi, Suze, this is Felicia. Did I catch you at a bad time?”
“Oh. Hi, Felicia. No, I can talk. I assume you’re calling to plead Phil’s case.”
At the woman’s brittle tone, Felicia touched her temple. “No, Suze. I understand that you two are having some editorial differences, and I was hoping we could all sit down Wednesday and work through some things.”
“There’s nothing to work through,” Suze said. “Phil is being ridiculous. I’m not making the changes he wants.”
“Why don’t you let me see if I can come up with a compromise, Suze? The book is due in production soon and I need to know that both of you are happy with it.”
“I don’t know,” Suze said, her tone suspicious. “No offense, Felicia, but you always side with Phil.”
Felicia exhaled for patience. “I’m sorry if I’ve given you that impression, Suze, but believe me, I have only the best interests of this book in mind.” Appealing to Suze’s Achilles’ heel—pride in her work—Felicia said, “Since this might be your last collaboration, don’t you want it to be the best it can be?”
Suze sighed, and Felicia could feel the woman’s resolve crumbling.
“Besides, Jerry will be there to make sure everything is decided fairly.”
“Well…okay,” Suze relented. “When and what time?”
“How is Wednesday afternoon at two, in my office?”
“Okay, but I’m telling you, Felicia, I’ll kill Phil before I let him screw up this book or my career, got it?”
Felicia swallowed at the vicious note in Suze’s voice, then glanced up to see a courier standing outside her door, holding an envelope. She waved to the courier and managed a laugh for Suze’s sake just as the man stepped inside. “Well, let’s reserve murder as a last resort, shall we? I’ll see you Wednesday.”
She hung up the phone and looked up at the bike courier, whose casual stance and blatant stare around her office struck her as annoying and too familiar.
“My assistant has the authority to sign for my packages,” she said, her tone more sharp than she meant, but since her head had started to pound in earnest, she really didn’t care if she embarrassed the man who, by the way, looked a little too old in her opinion to still be riding a bicycle for a living.
The wiry man jerked his thumb toward the door. “No one was out front. Besides, the package has specific instructions to be delivered to the addressee personally.” He grinned. “So you’re an editor?”
Felicia pressed her lips together and reached for the envelope. “That’s right.”
He handed it to her, still grinning. “So is this an important contract or something?”
“Where do I sign?” she asked, ignoring his attempt to chat.
He removed a handheld electronic de
vice from a pouch on his belt that had JAG written on it in reflective tape. “Jag” handed over the unit, still grinning. “Have you read The Immortal Class by Travis Culley?”
She scrawled her name on the screen and handed back the device. “I can’t say that I have.”
“It’s about his life as a bike messenger. Good stuff.”
“That’s nice.”
From his blanched expression, Felicia saw that he realized she was dismissing him, but she refused to feel guilty for not engaging a deliveryman in conversation. “Is there anything else?”
He pursed his mouth, then lifted his hand. “No. Sorry to bother you. Have a nice day.” He walked out of her office with a long, athletic stride, and she felt a pang of remorse. She could have spared ten words for the guy—with thousands of bike messengers in the city, it wasn’t as if she would ever see him again.
With a sigh, she put the incident out of her mind and studied the return address typed on the plain manila envelope that was practically weightless. “Literary Associates,” she murmured. With a generic name like that, the contents were either some kind of direct marketing campaign or a desperate attempt by an author to get her attention.
Using a letter opener, she sliced open the envelope, and out slid a 4x6 picture of herself, smiling…and naked from the waist up.
Felicia gasped and instinctively released the photo, which floated out of her fingers before gliding underneath her desk. She cursed and dropped to her knees on the prickly carpet, feeling for the photo while panic lurched through her chest. When and where had the photo been taken, and worse—who had sent it?
A rap on her door sounded, then she heard her assistant Tamara ask, “Felicia?” Felicia spotted the photo and slapped her hand over it, then pushed to her feet while palming the photo. “Yes?”
Tamara frowned. “Is everything okay?”
Felicia managed a little laugh and smoothed her mussed hair. “Just chasing down a paper clip.”
But she suspected her casual tone belied her frenzied state, because her assistant stared at her curiously. “Okay, well, here’s the mail,” Tamara said, holding up a rubber-banded wad of envelopes.
Whole Lotta Trouble Page 2