Forbidden Pleasure

_{Chapter 10}

It was the first week in December, and The Defiant Duchess was finished at last. Caro and her duke had been reunited and would live happily ever after. The duchess had gained her revenge by finally trusting in her husband to aid her. It was a good story with fully developed and likable characters both major and minor. The villains were deliciously evil and got their proper comeuppance, because good must always triumph over evil. And, most important, there was lots of steamy sex. Emily was surprised at how easily a more sensual story line had been incorporated into her novel. It really hadn't spoiled a thing, once she had learned from delicious experience what real love, both emotional and physical, was all about.

She had gone over the chapters in her computer, making small corrections: adding a line here, deleting one there. Finally satisfied, she burned two CDs and printed out five paper copies of the five-hundred-page manuscript. Normally she would have printed out only four. Putting two large rubber bands about the first copy, she taped a small Post-it note to it that read, Dear J.P., I know how patiently you have waited for the final manuscript of The Defiant Duchess, so here is an early Christma present. As ever, Emilie Shann. Then, placing the manuscript in a box, she wrapped it in Christmas paper decorated with fat dancing Santas, and tied it with a large red silk ribbon. She kept a paper copy for herself, sent one to Aaron, and directed the last two along with a CD to Devlin's assistant, Sally. She had been e-mailing Michael Devlin at Stratford's London offices the final pages as she completed them. The entire finished manuscript would be awaiting him upon his return to the States.

Some authors celebrated the successful completion of a manuscript by going out to dinner. Some went off on little vacations planned weeks before. Emily Shanski cracked open a bottle of her favorite wine and opened a double box of Mallomars. Then, sitting in her den before a roaring fire, she listened to Mozart and unwound. Christmas was coming, and she had a great number of things to do. There were Christmas cards, both personal and business, to write. There were presents to buy. There was a very special Christmas dinner to plan for, as Devlin had missed Thanksgiving.

Already the village of Egret Pointe was in the holiday spirit. There were little pine trees with white lights in round red wooden tubs along Main Street. And all the shop windows were beautifully decorated. This year each had a miniature scene of a country Christmas in a past era. Egret Pointe's shop windows all followed a single theme each year in imitation of the store windows on Fifth Avenue in New York.

The weather was cold, but so far there was no snow, and for that Emily was grateful. She far preferred a green Christmas. She thought the composer of "White Christmas" should have been boiled with his own Christmas pudding, as Mr. Scrooge had once declared regarding the whole holiday. Emily loved Christmas, however. She just didn't like snow. For some reason it depressed her and always had. No one understood it, least of all Emily. Sure, snow was magical when it was falling. And the next day, when it sparkled on all the eaves and roofs in the bright sunshine, it was pretty. But the day after, when it wasn't gone and it sometimes stayed for weeks-oh, how she hated that! So every year Emily hoped for an El Nino and a mild winter that would lead into an early spring. Nothing was nicer than daffodils in bloom on St. Patrick's Day.

Several days after she had sent off the manuscripts, her office phone rang. As she was writing Christmas cards at her desk, she answered it.

"Ms. Shann? One moment for J. P. Woods," a young voice said.

There was a click. Another click.

"Emily? Sweetie, I was up all night reading! It's a triumph," J. P. Woods crowed. "Mick said it was, but we've invested so much into promoting this book I couldn't rest easy until I had read it myself. You've outdone yourself! I am so pleased." Emphasis on the last sentence. "And Aaron has probably told you that we've worked out a wonderful contract. Stratford isn't about to lose its brightest star."

"Thank you, J.P." Emily said. She really didn't like the woman, but this wasn't personal, after all. It was, to quote a certain megamillionaire, business.

"And you're happy working with Mick Devlin? We want you one hundred percent happy, Emily."

"He's a wonderful editor, J.P. I will admit to being upset when Rachel retired, but even I have to admit Devlin is a better editor. Yes. I am happy working with him. I hope to do many more good books for Stratford with him," Emily replied. "I want to thank you for putting me with him." Even if you did have an ulterior motive, you bitch. You didn't care whose career you destroyed in your pitiful attempt to get even with Devlin for turning you down all those years ago. I wonder what you would think, bitch, if you knew I've been fucking him for months. And he is good!

"I thought long about it," J.P. said. "But editors like Mick Devlin are few and far between. Martin and I felt you deserved the absolute best. And I was right," she crowed. "I just knew you could change your direction and produce a hotter book."

Emily gritted her teeth listening to J. P. Woods. Then she said, "Savannah Banning is willing to give me a quote, J.P."

"Wonderful! I was thinking of asking her. You're friends, aren't you?"

"Yes," Emily answered.

"And did she give you some advice on how to do a sexier novel?" J.P. tittered.

"As a matter of fact, she did," Emily said. She suggested I seduce my editor, and I did, and we all see how well that worked out.

"I don't suppose you'd share her secrets with me?" J.P. said coyly.

Emily forced a laugh. "Now, now, J.P. Trade secrets have to remain secret."

"Of course they do, and as long as they produce the results they did, Emily, I am more than satisfied," J.P. replied, all business once again. "Now, Emily, Stratford is having its Christmas party on December twenty-third, and we want you to come. The heads of several important book distributors will be here. We want you to present them with some rather special ARCs we're putting together now. Martin is sending a car for you. Sally or my girl will e-mail you all the details."

She didn't want to go into New York, especially two days before Christmas. The traffic would be horrendous. But this was a command performance, and Emily knew it. "I'll look forward to it," she told J. P. Woods. "And thank you for calling me. I'm so glad you enjoyed the book, J.P."

"I did, Emily. Good work! I'm now looking forward to what you'll do next for us. Good-bye." There was a click, and J. P. Woods was gone.

Emily set the phone back in its charger. Damn, and double damn. Now she would have to have everything done before the twenty-third. It was going to be a push. But it would be her first Christmas with Devlin, and she wanted it to be perfect. She had pretty much decided that if he didn't tell her he loved her, she was going to break the cardinal rule of dating women: She was going to tell him that she loved him. What could happen? He'd bolt and run? Well, that was always a possibility, but maybe, just maybe, if Rina was right, it would give him the balls to tell her that he loved her. And once they were over that hurdle there would be a future for them. And Emily Shanski wanted that future with all her heart and soul. She had two weeks to go.

She managed to finish the Christmas cards by the ninth. They were in the mail by the tenth.

"Right on time, Em," Bud Cranston down at the post office said as she handed him the shopping bag of Christmas cards over the counter. "You're like clockwork-December tenth, every year. Pat wants to know if you've got another book coming out soon. She says she's ready for one with the long winter ahead."

"Tell her next spring. Sorry," Emily said with a smile. "Merry Christmas, Bud, to you and the family. The kids okay?"

"Off the wall waiting for Santa." He grinned back at her, giving her a wave as she stepped aside to allow the next customer up to his window. Bud Cranston had gone to high school with Emily Shanski. Who knew she'd turn out to be a best-selling author? But Em never changed, he thought with a smile. She was still a nice small-town girl who always had a friendly word for you.

Now it was time to Christmas shop, and Emily did as much of her shopping locally as she could. The rest she purchased from catalogs. Now, as the gifts began to pile up in the den, she set about wrapping everything. Rina and Dr. Sam came by on the weekend, and they all drove out together to the Christmas tree farm to buy their trees, picking from among those already cut. Emily had never, since she was a little girl, had the heart to go out into the field, point at a living tree, and have it cut down. If it was already cut, that was a different thing. Her grandmothers had always laughed and said she was too softhearted, and she always agreed she was. Sam grumbled as he and the farmer's helper tied the three trees to the top of the car. Emily always bought two: a great big eight-footer for her living room, and a small table tree for the den window.

The trees were stored outside the kitchen door in buckets of water and sugar. On the twenty-first Emily and Essie set them up in their stands. Emily would spend the next few days decorating the two trees. She had come down with a cold that day at the tree farm. It had been cloudy and drizzly, but at least it wasn't snow, she thought thankfully. Despite the romantic song, white Christmases were very rare in Egret Pointe. But the beautiful blond weather forecaster in the city was predicting a seventy percent chance of snow late on the twenty-second, curse him.

"Good thing we're getting out of here in the morning," Essie said to Emily. "But I hate to leave you when you're sick, Miss Emily. And especially at Christmas."

"You've had this Florida trip with your son and his family planned for close to a year, Essie. I'll be fine. Mr. Devlin is coming," Emily reassured her housekeeper.

"Well, if you're sure then," Essie said, knowing even as she spoke that Emily would never ask her to cancel her plans, "I'll be going now. The car service is picking us up at six o'clock in the morning. By this time tomorrow I'll be lying by the hotel pool," she finished with a grin.

"Do a lap for me," Emily told her, and hugged the older woman. "Merry Christmas, Essie. I'll see you January second."

"Thanks for my Christmas gift, Miss Emily," Essie said, pulling on her gloves.

"I thought a little cash would be more appreciated than a flannel nightie this year, considering your trip," Emily replied with a grin.

"It is," Essie agreed. "Merry Christmas to you, Miss Emily. I hope you get just what you really want. And say hello to that handsome Mr. Devlin for me," she finished with a broad wink as she hurried out the door.

Emily closed the front door, the large green pine wreath on it rustling faintly as it shut. Her cell phone began to ring. Emily pulled it from her pocket and flipped it open. "Hello?"

"Hello, angel face!" Michael Devlin's voice purred into her ear.

"Devlin! Where are you? Are you home yet?" she asked.

"London still. Something has come up. I'll tell you all about it when I get home, but I'll be with you for Christmas, angel face, come hell or high water. I should be back just in time for Stratford's Christmas party Friday. Is it snowing yet?"

"God, no!" she said. "I'm dreaming of a sunny green Christmas, but they are predicting snow late tomorrow and into Thursday. Hopefully the AccuTracks, the Dopplers, or their Ouija boards don't know anything, and we'll get rain."

"Madame Scrooge, I presume," he teased her.

"Did you find a real Christmas pudding, Devlin?" she asked.

"At a little shop I know where they make it themselves," he answered. "It's already packed in my suitcase."

"Don't let them confiscate it at customs," she warned him.

"I had them box it, and then wrap it in some rather garish holiday paper complete with a big floppy bow," he told her. "I'm telling them it's a present for my maiden aunt."

"Perfect!" Emily replied. "Every customs agent has at least one maiden aunt."

"Emily? I miss you. These last weeks without you have been lonely for me. And I've missed Egret Pointe. Will they still have the windows up that you told me about by the time I get there?" He sounded almost wistful.

"They don't take them down until the day after New Year's, Devlin," she answered him. He had missed her! He was lonely without her! Now why the hell couldn't he get the rest of it out? "I've missed you too," Emily said, "but I've been busy. The house is all decorated inside and out. Garlands and wreaths up. Two trees. The one in the den is all finished. I'm working on the one in the living room. We're having an open house on New Year's Eve, Devlin. Will you still be here, or do you like your city celebrations?"

"Publishing is closed down Christmas week," he told her. "Can I stay the whole week with you? Or maybe you would like to come into town and stay at my place?"

"Stay with me," she said softly, meaningfully. "Besides, you live in a studio apartment, Devlin. You've said yourself there's barely room to swing a cat, and I'm much bigger than a cat."

"What will the neighbors think?" he asked her.

"To hell with the neighbors, Devlin," Emily said.

He laughed low. "Can you be a good girl until I get there, angel face?"

"If I can be a bad girl once you're here," she told him mischievously.

"I've got a big present for you," he teased her.

"And I have just the perfect place to put it," she responded.

"You're making me hot," he told her.

"I'm putting my hand in my pants," she said. "Oh! I'm already wet, Devlin. That's what the sound of your voice does to me."

"I'm in bed," he replied. "I've got my dick in my hand. It's already getting hard, because that's what the sound of your voice does to me."

"Make yourself come," she murmured seductively. "I'm going to make myself come. I'm already playing with my clit. It feels so good, Devlin. Oh! Oh! But I wish it were your tongue there, and not my finger."

"I'm polishing my cock to a fine stand," he said. "But I wish it were in your juicy cunt, angel face. I'm going to fuck your brains out when I get home." He heard her breathing coming faster in his earpiece.

"Oh! Oh! Oh! Ohhhh!" she exclaimed. "God, that was good! But not as good as you, Devlin."

She heard him groan. "Jaysus! What a waste of good cum! I've had to use two handkerchiefs. Damn it, I want you, angel face! I don't want to have any more dirty-talk phone sex with you over the transatlantic cable."

"Then get your cute Irish ass home, Devlin," Emily said.

She heard him chuckle, and then he responded, "As fast as I can, angel face. Just a few more days. Good night, sweetheart."

"Good night, Devlin. Dream of me." She made kissing sounds into the phone.

To her delight he made the same sounds back, and then the line was dead.

Emily flipped her cell shut. Just the sound of his voice, the knowledge that he was coming home soon, made her happy. Home. He had referred to Egret Pointe as home. She felt herself smiling, and then she sneezed. Damn! Her cold was getting worse, and she still had the big Christmas tree in the living room to finish decorating. Tomorrow, Emily thought. She'd finish it tomorrow. Tonight she would eat some of Rina's chicken soup and just go to bed.

The next day Emily struggled up, and completed decorating her big Christmas tree. Good thing, she considered, that she and Essie had begun it yesterday, and the top half had been finished. She didn't think she could have climbed up on the ladder, but fortunately all she had left had been the bottom half. She took the ornaments carefully from their wrappings. Most of them were antiques that had been in her family for over a hundred years. Her favorite was the skinny Father Christmas that had always been referred to as the seasick Santa.

But she was still feeling lousy. She had the tree finished by early afternoon, and considering that she had to go into the city tomorrow, she decided to rest. She was coughing now, but as much as she disliked having to make the trip, it was business, and it was important she be at Stratford's Christmas party. Aaron would be there. Devlin would be there. That would be the hard part: pretending they were just editor and author.

Her appetite was finicky. She finished Rina's soup and made herself a peanut-butter-and-jelly sandwich with a glass of warm milk. When she had eaten she went upstairs and swallowed some cold tablets. Looking outside, she saw it had begun to snow. Maybe it would snow so much she wouldn't have to go into the city, Emily thought. Crawling into bed she fell into a deep sleep. It wasn't even eight o'clock.

It was still snowing when she awoke the following morning. She felt a little better, and so she took some more twelve-hour cold medicine to get her through the day. Looking at the clock she thought, In another twelve hours I'll be home. It made the day ahead of her just a little bit less onerous. She showered, washing her hair, then drying herself and her hair thoroughly before stepping out into the bedroom. Even so, a chill swept over her. The chime from the hall announced nine o'clock. She had plenty of time. Wrapping herself in her pink fleece robe, she went downstairs, and made herself a bowl of apple-and-cinnamon oatmeal. The heavy cream she poured on it made it taste even better, along with the hot tea she drank.

Having eaten, Emily trudged back upstairs and got back into bed. She didn't feel great, but she felt better. Aaron called to make sure she remembered the car would be there for her at noon. She had at least two and a half hours before she had to get dressed. She set her clock for eleven fifteen, and when it rang Emily awoke to bright sunshine. The storm had blown itself out. Looking out the window, she saw the street was already plowed, which meant the parkway would be plowed too- worse luck.

With a sigh she turned to get dressed, slipping on a pair of pure silk cream panties and a matching lace bra. She was not going to the Stratford Christmas party without her underwear, and Devlin was just going to have to live with it. She couldn't decide whether she should wear a wrap dress or slacks, but given the snow she decided on her cream-colored wool slacks and a matching cashmere turtleneck. She pulled thin cashmere socks over her feet and slid into a pair of ankle-high Ferragamo boots in a rich chocolate-brown leather. Simple makeup: a little periwinkle-blue eye shadow, mascara, blush, and lipstick. Good, tasteful jewelry: an elegant gold-and-silver pin on the left side of her sweater, matching earrings in her ears, and Emily O's beautiful silver repoussé bangle on her right wrist, her own gold Seiko on her left wrist.

She took a small clutch in cream leather. In it she fit a little brush, a lipstick, a tiny spritzer of her favorite scent, sunglasses, tissues, a single credit card, a packet of vitamin C drops, and her cell. Looking in the mirror, she fluffed her hair with her brush. She had seen it look better, but she had a cold, and it would probably look fine for the day. Hurrying downstairs, Emily took her long camel-hair wrap coat from the closet, checked the pocket for a pair of gloves, and, reaching up onto the shelf, pulled down an Irish wool tam-o'-shanter. She had a cold, she rationalized again. She needed to keep a hat on until she got there. Didn't everyone say you lost most of your body heat through your head?

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 wonder 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. R 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 canapés. 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."

The two women air-kissed, then parted. Emily and Aaron made their way out to the reception room and took their coats from the closet. Denise was nowhere in sight. Bill, the elevator man, was slightly tipsy, they both noted with amusement as he took them back down to the building's lobby. Outside it was already dark, but Frankie was waiting patiently, and to their surprise Kirkland Browne was already in the car.

"I walked over," he said. "This way we can just get out of town. A messenger came, picked up the hamper, and delivered another. I didn't want to open it until you got here, as it's Emily's ride. I'll sit up front."

Frankie helped them in, and Emily realized as she sat down that she was absolutely exhausted. Despite the Scotch her cold was back full bore. She coughed as she fell into her seat. "I'll see what's in the new hamper," she said. "They sent me soup and little sandwiches for my ride into town." She lifted the wicker lid. Tea sandwiches, miniature tarts with lemon curd, raspberry, and mincemeat met her eye. There would be tea in the large thermos. "Frankie, you want some tea and goodies?" she asked the chauffeur.

"Nah, when Mr. Browne came I took the opportunity to run to the deli in the side street and get lunch. I got a couple of packages of Twinkies and some seltzer with me now. I'll be fine. Thanks, Miss Shann."

Emily poured tea in the cups provided and handed them around to Aaron and Kirk. Frankie began the trip from the city out to Egret Pointe. The two men demolished the little sandwiches and tartlets. Emily fell asleep again, awakening only when Aaron shook her shoulder gently.

"Em, you're home," he said. "I'm going to take you in." He helped her from the car and walked her into the house. The Christmas lights had gone on automatically at five that afternoon. "I'm going to have Sam stop by tomorrow. You've got bronchitis, if I'm not mistaken. I can hear it."

"Okay," Emily said weakly. "Thanks, Aaron."

When he had left Emily put on her electric kettle and climbed upstairs to get out of her author clothes. She hung everything neatly, pulled on a violet-sprigged flannel nightgown, and wrapped herself in her fleece robe. Padding downstairs to the kitchen, she made herself a cup of chicken bouillon, and sat down to drink it. A knock sounded at her back door. Emily got up and answered it.

"Aaron says you're sick." Dr. Sam came in, reaching for Emily's wrist. "Sit."

She obeyed. "It's the first night of Hanukkah," she said to him.

"So? I've got a sick patient. I'm a doctor. The grandchildren have already lit the first candle in the menorah and ripped open their presents. Rina is in her glory feeding everyone. Aaron and Kirk are both concerned." He took out his stethoscope and listened to her chest. "Yep, bronchitis, but not too bad yet." Pulling out a digital thermometer he said, "Open," and stuck it in her mouth. When the thermometer beeped Dr. Sam pulled it from her mouth, looked at it, and said, "Emily, you have a temperature of one hundred and two. You are sick. You have to go to bed and stay there." He put the stethoscope back in his bag and pulled out a small bottle. "There are eight antibiotics here. Take two now, and then tomorrow morning start taking one every six hours until they are gone. Are you all right alone? Rina will come check on you tomorrow, okay?"

"Devlin was supposed to come," Emily said. "He got stuck in London. I'll be fine; Rina doesn't have to bother. You've got the family here, for heaven's sake, Dr. Sam."

"You're family too, sweetheart," he told her. "I couldn't keep Rina away, and you know it. Even her brother won't have to nag her to come." Dr. Sam chuckled, getting up. "Now I'm going home, and you go to bed," he ordered her.

"Okay," Emily agreed, seeing him out and then locking the kitchen door behind him. She went to the sink, rinsed her soup cup, refilled it with water, and took two pills. She really was beginning to feel lousy. She was clammy and hot, and the skin across her chest itched. Vicks! She had some in the upstairs hall closet where she kept medical supplies. She climbed the stairs slowly, got the Vicks, rubbed her chest with it, and after taking her robe off climbed into bed.

Emily did not sleep well, however. She awoke several times in the night, coughing a deep, racking cough and spitting up amounts of thick green gunk. She thought her fever might be higher, but she couldn't remember where she had put her thermometer. And finally, when she had awakened for the fourth time, and the clock in the hall struck six a.m., she got up. She didn't feel any better lying in bed. She was sweaty and chilly by turns. Wrapping herself in her robe, she went downstairs and made herself a bowl of oatmeal and a cup of tea. She took another of Dr. Sam's pills, then fell asleep in her comfortable recliner in the den, only to be awakened by the ringing telephone. Devlin! It had to be Devlin. She grabbed for the receiver.

"Emily, it's Rina. How do you feel?"

"Terrible," she admitted.

"I'll come over," Rina said.

"Rina, please don't. I have everything. I'm not up to company. I love you, but I feel like crap right now. I just want to be left alone to die quietly."

Rina chuckled. "Okay," she said. "I'll call you this afternoon to see if there's any improvement. You have to let me do that."

" 'Kay. Bye." Emily hung up. And then she began to cry. She was alone, and she was sick, and it was Christmas Eve. Where was Devlin, and why the hell hadn't he called her? He had said he would be home, but instead he was cavorting in London with some young thing, J.R had said. Well, she hadn't quite said it. She had just suggested it, but J.P. had known Devlin longer than Emily Shanski. Emily sobbed and sobbed, until her nose was so stuffed up she could hardly breathe. Then she began to cough the green glop up again. Gradually her sobs died away. She felt empty. Putting her head down she fell asleep again.

It was almost four in the afternoon when she was awakened by the sound of pounding on her front door. Stumbling to her feet, she made her way into the hall and opened the door. Michael Devlin was standing there, a worried look on his face.

"Jaysus! You look like merry hell," he said to her as he came inside.

"Thank you." Emily sniffed as she closed the front door. "What are you doing here? J.P. said you were staying in London. That you couldn't get back. There's no food in the house. I couldn't shop." She began to cry.

Michael Devlin shook his head and took her into his arms. "I couldn't get back in time for the Stratford party, angel face, that's all. I didn't say anything about not being back in time for Christmas."

"She said you had probably met some young thing," Emily sobbed.

Michael Devlin sighed. "A lot J. P. Woods knows about me," he said. "How late are the markets around here open tonight? I'd better make a run for some food."

"The IGA is open until five thirty," Emily told him, beginning to pull herself back together. He was home! Devlin was home, and it was Christmas Eve! "The butcher will have the beef for tomorrow. I ordered it," she told him. "At least get the roast beef. We need other stuff, but I can't think right now."

"I'll take care of it, Emily. You just go back to wherever you were and get some rest. Has Dr. Sam seen you?"

"He brought me pills. Oh, Lord! I'd better take another one. I'll leave the kitchen door open for you. Don't lose my beef. And Devlin, I want an ice cream sundae. Stop at Walt's. Forbidden Chocolate with marshmallow and butterscotch. He's open until seven, even tonight. The early churchgoers usually stop in on the way home."

With a grin he hurried from the house. He gunned his Healy into the village, noting that the parking lot at the IGA was still full. Going inside, he grabbed a cart and headed directly for the butcher's counter. "I'm picking up Miss Shanski's roast beef," he said to the man behind the counter.

"You the boyfriend I've been hearing about?" the butcher asked with a friendly grin. "I got her meat all ready and wrapped. You pay at the checkout."

"Yeah, I'm the boyfriend," Michael Devlin said, grinning back. "Gimme that roasted turkey breast too. It'll do for sandwiches tonight."

The butcher took the turkey breast from beneath the heat lamp and put it into a clear plastic container. "Just came off the rotisserie an hour ago," he said.

"Thanks, and happy Christmas to you," Devlin said, putting both items into his cart. Then he began to make his way around the grocery store, choosing items he thought they would need for a few days. Rye bread for the sandwiches, Country Crock mashed potatoes, frozen Southland turnip, a small jar of onions, frozen French-cut green beans, heavy cream, and milk. He spotted a small bottle of horseradish sauce among some gourmet items, and took it. A carton of orange juice, and another of pineapple juice. Emily had a weakness for pineapple juice. He took a wooden carton of Clementines, and bagged some green grapes. Butter! You could never have enough butter. And very fine sugar, if she was making hard sauce for the Christmas pudding in his luggage. Passing the vegetables he grabbed a bag of mixed field greens. Then, glancing at his watch, he headed for the checkout.

"You just made it," the girl at the register said, eyeing him and smiling.

"I did, didn't I?" he agreed, smiling at her.

Putting his groceries in what passed for a backseat in the Healy, he headed for Walt's and got two sundaes.

"Only one person in town does Forbidden Chocolate with marshmallow and butterscotch," Walt said, "and that's Emily Shanski. You must be the boyfriend Pve been hearing about."

"Guilty as charged," Michael Devlin admitted with a smile. "I'll take coffee ice cream with chocolate and marshmallow."

"You got it," Walt replied, making up the two sundaes to go and bagging them.

"What do I owe you?"

"It's on the house," Walt said. "Tell Emily I said 'Merry Christmas.' I've known her since she was born, you know."

"I'll tell her, and happy Christmas to you," Michael Devlin said as he departed the little ice cream shop with the two desserts. Driving back to the house, he remembered how nice it was to grow up in a small town-the warm feeling you got in the shops knowing people's names and families. And it was obvious that, as quietly as Emily Shanski lived, she was well-known and well liked by the people of her hometown of Egret Pointe. He hadn't felt a twinge of embarrassment at all when people had identified him verbally as "the boyfriend." It had tickled him. Emily had been so discreet, and yet it would appear that everyone in Egret Pointe knew all about them, and it didn't bother Michael Devlin one bit.

Getting back to the house, he brought the groceries inside and checked on Emily. She had fallen asleep in the den again. He put everything away, setting the sundaes carefully in the freezer. Then he made them turkey sandwiches on rye bread with mayo. He fixed individual bowls of salad and dressed them with a raspberry vinaigrette he found in the fridge. Lastly he brewed a large pot of tea in the big brown teapot that had belonged to Emily's grandmother, Emily O. Setting everything on a tray, he brought it into the den and put it down on the table.

"Wake up, sleepyhead," he said, shaking her gently and kissing her brow. She was very hot. Dry and hot. Not good, he thought.

Emily opened her eyes. "You really are here," she said. "I didn't dream it, did I? Get the meat? And my sundae?"

"Got everything. Walt says, 'Merry Christmas.' The sundaes were on the house," he told her.

"He always did that when I was a little girl," Emily said. "What did you do, Devlin? I didn't know you could cook."

"I can't, really. And this is nothing fancy. I just made us turkey sandwiches and salad, angel face. The turkey breast was already cooked." He handed her a plate.

She still wasn't really that hungry, but she nibbled at half of the sandwich and a few mouthfuls of salad to please him. When he returned from the kitchen after taking their supper things back, she had fallen asleep again. The telephone rang, and he grabbed it before it could awaken her.

"Devlin?" It was Rina Seligmann. "You got here."

"Traveling at Christmas is not advised, Rina," he told her. "I got on the red-eye. Since I had left the car at the airport I just drove straight out. I've done her shopping and fed her-she didn't eat much, and she's asleep again."

"You're a good man, Mick," Rina said quietly. "Is she taking the pills Sam left her last night?"

"Yeah, but she's still got a temperature, I believe. She's hot and dry," he said.

"Keep her warm," Rina advised. "With luck the fever will break tonight or tomorrow. Still coughing?"

"Yep. And she smells of Vicks." He chuckled. "Reminded me of me grannie."

Rina laughed. "I doubt Emily has ever remotely reminded you of your gran, Vicks or no Vicks. I'm glad she had the sense to use it. It's old-fashioned, but it will help break up that congestion in her chest. Sam will come over tomorrow in the afternoon," Rina said. "If you need him before, just call. Good night, Mick."

"Good night, Rina." He hung up the phone.

"Who was that?" Emily asked sleepily.

"Rina, checking up. Are you awake enough to go up to bed?"

"Uh-huh," she said, struggling to her feet. "Where's my sundae?"

"In the freezer. You can have it later. Now you have to go to bed," Michael Devlin said, helping her upstairs and into her bed. "I'll be back. I want to clean up first."

"You're a great editor, a great lover, and it would seem a great houseman too," Emily half whispered.

He went back downstairs again to clean up, and when he had finished he sat down in the den, with its little Christmas tree on the table in the bay window and the crackling fire in the hearth. He was home. And the woman he loved above all else was asleep upstairs in her bed. He had been delayed in London for two reasons, one of which was to purchase Emily's Christmas present. He knew what he wanted, and it had taken the jeweler some extra time to find it, but he had. Michael was through with indecision.

He sat for some time until finally the fire had burned down to glowing red-orange embers. It was Christmas Eve, and everything around him felt magical. The clock from St. Luke's struck ten. Santa would be on his way, Michael Devlin thought with a small smile. Give me just a little time, Santa, he said silently. Then, standing up, he went upstairs, washed, got into his pajamas, and climbed into bed with Emily. She murmured softly and burrowed into him. Wrapping his arms about her, he knew that he had been given the greatest Christmas gift he had ever received.

Emily awoke to a bright, sunny day. She could hear Devlin in the shower and rolled over, smiling. She ran the tips of her fingers over the indentation his head had made in the pillow. She was sweaty, but she knew her fever was finally breaking.

"Happy Christmas, angel face," he said, coming into the bedroom, a towel about his loins.

"Damn, you look all fresh and clean, and I am so scuzzy. I think my fever's breaking, Devlin. I'm suddenly hungry, and I want a cuppa."

"Let me get my clothes on, and I'll go down and bring you one," he said.

"And my sundae too," she said.

He laughed as he dressed, pulling on his jeans, and a soft crewneck sweater. "Ice cream for breakfast, angel face?"

"Why not?" she asked. "It's Christmas. I'll come downstairs, but first I need a shower too."

"Is that wise if the fever hasn't broken yet?" he asked.

"Go make tea, Devlin. You're starting to sound like Rina," Emily chided him.

He left her, and Emily jumped out of bed and hurried to shower, tucking her hair in a cap to keep it dry. Drying herself thoroughly, Emily pulled on a pair of peach-colored fleece sweatpants, a matching tee, and over it a peach fleece sweatshirt. She ran a brush through her hair. It didn't look too bad, considering. Sliding her feet into her sheepskin slippers, she padded down the stairs. She felt suddenly normal. The fever had obviously broken while she was in the shower.

"In the den, angel face," he called to her, and Emily joined him.

"Two sundaes?" she said, surprised.

"One for you and one for me," he told her. "Tea?"

"No, ice cream first. My fever is gone, Devlin."

He popped the lid from a sundae container and handed the dessert to her with a spoon.

Emily accepted it, digging her spoon into the ice cream, and then suddenly she stopped and stared. Sticking out of the whipped cream atop the sundae was a diamond ring. Carefully she set the sundae down on the table and pulled the ring away from the cream. The diamond was a square-cut, with two rectangular baguettes on either side. The stones were set in platinum. Emily licked the cream from the band, rubbed it against her shirt, and put it on her finger. Holding out her hand she admired it, and then she said, "Well, this sure beats a cherry, Devlin. Yes."

"I haven't asked you yet," he said.

"Just take the yes," she told him.

"No," he said. "I am going to ask you, Emily Katherine Shanski, if you will do me the honor-the great honor-of becoming my wife. Now you may answer."

"Yes," she said, and, throwing herself into his arms, she added, "I don't think I'm contagious anymore." And then they kissed. When he was finally able to release her from his embrace several minutes later, Emily said, "I have to call Rina. She will never forgive us if I don't." Picking up the phone, she punched in the Seligmanns' number.

"Hello?" Rina answered.

"Rina, it's me. The fever has broken. Who's there with you?"

"Sam, my brother, and Kirk. The boys came for breakfast," Rina answered.

"Put me on speakerphone," Emily said excitedly.

"Okay, you're on," Rina said, suspecting what was coming, and unable to contain her smile. "What's up?"

"Devlin and I are getting married," Emily said happily.

Rina looked to her husband, her brother, and Kirkland Browne, nodding. "Emily, that is wonderful! We'll come over later, all right?"

"Okay," Emily said, and hung up.

"What did I tell you three doubting Thomases?" Rina Seligmann said triumphantly, looking at the three men sitting around her breakfast table. "Did I call it or not?"

Kirkland Browne and Dr. Sam nodded silently in acceptance of her wisdom, but Aaron Fischer, smiling, looked up and said only two words: "Thank heaven!"

"Thank heaven?" his sister asked. "For what?"

"For the miracle I asked for, Rina. My Hanukkah miracle," Aaron replied.

"For my Christmas miracle," Kirkland Browne added.

And then the four broke out in happy laughter, clinking their coffee mugs together as they toasted the wedding to come.