Forbidden Pleasure

Chapter 1

"I've got bad news and bad news. Whadaya want first?" Aaron Fischer looked across the large mahogany desk at Emily Shanski, a.k.a. Emilie Shann. He was a stocky man in his sixties who wore impeccably tailored Armani suits, and had beautifully manicured hands. His gray hair, what was left of it, was nicely barbered around his balding pink pate. On the third finger of his left hand he wore a gold band engraved with a Celtic knot. The gold tie pin in his silk tie echoed the same design.

"You dragged me in from Egret Pointe for bad news?" Emily grumbled. She didn't like the look in Aaron's usually warm brown eyes. Those eyes were serious today. It did not bode well. "Okay," she sighed dramatically. "Gimme the worst of it first. Then the not so worst."

"I'm not sure which you'll consider the worst," he said slowly. "Kirk!" he called to his business and life partner. "Come in here a moment, will you?"

Kirkland Browne appeared like a genie from a bottle. Actually his office was directly next to Aaron's, and they had connecting doors that were usually left open. He was a tall, slender man who seemed to be all angles. He was as well dressed as his partner, and wore both the same ring on his left hand and tie pin in his cravat. "What?" he demanded impatiently, his light blue eyes peering myopically over his gold-rimmed reading glasses. "I'm working on the Scofield contracts, and they're a bitch."

"Emily wants to know which news is worse," Aaron said with a little shrug.

"Stratford won't renew your contract after this last book unless you write sexier," Kirkland Browne said bluntly. "Now, Aaron, you tell her the rest." He turned and was gone back into his office before Emily's surprised gasp died.

"What? What does he mean, they won't re-up? I've written for them for eleven years, Aaron. My books don't lose money. My returns are modest, and I have a very large and loyal fan base," Emily protested.

"They want sexier. Sexy is in. Kick-ass heroines are in. What can I tell you, Em? It's the nature of the business now. You've got to go with the flow, or retire," he told her with a little shrug. "You've made a lot of money these last years."

"I'm thirty-one years old," Emily said. "I'm too young to retire, damn it!"

"Then you gotta write sexier," he replied implacably.

Emily's brow furrowed, and she wrinkled her straight little nose. Write sexier? Impossible! Maybe not for some writers, but for her. "Aaron, I have written for Stratford my whole career. I get great reviews. The readers love me. I have a reputation to uphold. Shit! I'm called the American Barbara Cartland. I fill a niche."

"Cartland's dead, and so are her sales," he said sanguinely. "Besides you're a much, much better writer than Cartland ever was, Emily. And you write bigger books with better plots, more textured prose, and interesting characters. But you gotta write sexier on this book you're starting or I can't guarantee another contract. I wish it weren't so, and I don't disagree with anything you've said, but there it is, sweetheart. You write first for Stratford, and Stratford wants sexier."

"So much for loyalty," Emily muttered darkly. Then she remembered: bad news, and bad news. "What else?" she asked him nervously. Could there possibly be anything worse than what he had just told her?

"Rachel Wainwright has retired," he said, bracing for the outburst that was going to come with this news, and wondering if he should get out the smelling salts in his desk.

"I talked to Rachel late on Friday morning, Aaron. This is Tuesday. She said nothing about retiring. I think my editor would have mentioned that little fact," Emily responded in measured tones. "They pushed her out, didn't they? J. P. Woods pushed her out. She's never liked Rachel, the bitch."

"She retired," Aaron answered stubbornly. "There is no plot here. For God's sake, Emily, Rachel's seventy-five. It was time she enjoyed that house up in Connecticut, and her longtime friend is going to be your new editor. You'll like him."

"Him?" Emily's voice rose several octaves. "Him? I can't work with a man!"

"Michael Devlin is one of the good guys," Aaron attempted to reassure her.

"You want me to write sexier, and work with a man while doing it?" Emily's heart was pounding now. Her perfect, orderly little world was being destroyed, and she couldn't see any way to stop it. Of course, she could write her book, hand it in, and be finished with publishing forever. She didn't lack for money. But what would she do with the rest of her life if she didn't write novels? It was all she knew. Her passion. Her raison d'etre. She sighed. She didn't want to stop writing, and she wasn't going to, damn it! There had to be a way around this edict from Stratford.

"I've arranged for us to have lunch with Michael Devlin at that little English tea shop you like over on Madison. Then you can catch the train out to Egret Pointe."

"Today? I have to meet this guy today? And I didn't take the train," Emily said. "I came into town with your sister. She wanted a day at Georgette Klinger. Then she'll do some shopping until I call her cell." God! If she had known she was having lunch with a new editor she would have dressed a bit more appropriately, worn one of her best-selling-author power suits. She felt tougher in a suit.

"Rina's in town?" He was surprised. His sister rarely came into town. "She didn't tell me she was coming." He loved Rina, but she made him nervous.

"She didn't want to go to lunch with us," Emily said with a small smile. "Sam says she's getting too plump and needs to take off a few pounds for her health. She's eating spa nibbles at Klinger's. You know how she gets on rabbit food."

"If she'd lay off the doughnuts she could drop her avoirdupois easily," Aaron replied, "but don't tell her I said so."

Emily laughed. "I won't, but jelly sticks are her downfall, I'll admit." Then she grew serious again. "I want to talk to Rachel before we go to lunch, Aaron."

He got up from his desk and, walking around it, said, "Use my phone. Don't waste your cell minutes, sweetheart. Rachel's Connecticut house is seven on my speed dial." At her surprised look he added, "Kirk and I go up for weekends." Then he left the room.

Emily stood up, walked around the desk, and settled herself in Aaron's comfortable big black leather chair. She heard a small click, and turned to see that the connecting door between his office and Kirk's had been discreetly closed. Picking up the telephone she hit seven, and listened to the electronic beeps as the number dialed itself. One ring. Two rings. Three rings. Please be there, Rachel, she thought desperately.

"Hello?" Rachel's warm voice came through the wire.

"Rachel, it's Emily. What happened? And why am I getting a male editor?"

Rachel Wainwright's grandmotherly chuckle greeted her query. "Have you met him yet? He's quite a hunk, Emily," she said. "If I were forty years younger I'd jump his bones. Honey, it was time I retired. Actually past time. Getting up and going to work at Stratford every day was just a habit. A bad habit."

"Will you stay in Connecticut?" Emily asked her.

"Yep. I'm putting the co-op on the market shortly, and retiring to the country for good and all," Rachel Wainwright said in a no-nonsense voice.

"Rachel…" Emily hesitated. "Will you be all right?"

"Oh, you sweet child! Yes, I will be all right. Martin has seen to it that I have a rather outrageous pension. Loyalty to Stratford paid off in the long run for me. Not like a lot of old editors in chief. I bought the co-op almost fifty years back. My father always said real estate was the best investment. It was paid off aeons ago, and in this market it is going to bring me a fortune. And with no one but myself to look after I won't suffer financially, my dear. And I've done pretty well in the investment market. I'm going to England in June, and I've rented a villa in Tuscany for August. Want to come visit?"

"They want me to write sexier, Rachel. I don't think I can," Emily said. "Aaron and Kirk said they won't renew my contract if I don't. I don't think a trip to Tuscany is in the cards for me this year, but it sounds heavenly."

"Aaron and Kirk are right," Rachel replied quietly, "but not to panic, Emily. You are a wonderful writer, and you can do this. I know you can. And you will have a marvelous editor in Michael Devlin. I've worked with him myself, and he knows how to bring out the best in his writers, my dear."

"His name is familiar," Emily said, "but I can't quite place him."

Rachel chuckled. "Okay, I'm going to tell you the story, but you have to promise me that you won't repeat it. Oh, Aaron and Kirk know it, but it's pretty hot stuff."

"Ohh, tell, tell!" Emily replied. "You know I love good gossip."

"Seven years ago Michael Devlin came to Stratford from Random House. He was already becoming well-known as an excellent editor, and Martin Stratford lured him over with the promise of his own imprint eventually. J.P. noticed him almost immediately. She had just become company president. I know you've heard the rumors about her, and they are all true." Rachel laughed. "She's Stratford's resident man-eater. She uses 'em and abuses 'em, and then moves on to her next victim. And because the lovers she chose were below her on the corporate scale, no one who valued his job ever caused a scandal or complained about her.

"Her mouth practically watered at the sight of Michael Devlin. She began to stalk him, but he ignored her and dodged all her attempts at seduction. J.P. was pretty surprised initially. No one had ever avoided her or said no. At first she thought he was playing hard to get. It tickled her because usually her lovers came meekly when chosen. She was intrigued that he appeared to be fighting his fate. This went on for well over a year, and then it all came to a head at the Christmas party six years ago.

"J.P. was wearing her usual winter-white outfit. I remember it well: a thigh-high light wool wrap dress with a deep vee neckline. It was around the time when she got that short cut and dyed her hair red. Flaming Mame, I remember Martin calling her. Well lubricated with a couple of margaritas, she managed to corner Michael Devlin, and I do mean corner." Rachel chuckled. "She started putting her hands all over him, and those hands of hers were everywhere. He tried to politely fend her off, but her inhibitions were long gone, and she was listening to her cunt and not her brain."

"Rachel!" Emily squealed at the use of the word.

"Sorry, dear, but there just isn't any other way to put it. J.P. wouldn't have minded if he stuck it to her right there in front of everyone, she was so hot for him. But of course he didn't. He rook her by her upper arms and set her back from him, holding her there. Then he said in the coldest voice I have ever heard him use, 'I choose my own women, J.P., and I don't choose you.' Releasing her, he turned away, walked over to Martin, and after wishing him a Merry Christmas, left the party."

"My God, how embarrassing for J.R although I never thought I'd feel sorry for the bitch," Emily said. "How did he end up in London?"

"Well, Michael had no sooner departed the party than J.R was buttonholing Martin, and demanding he be fired. She claimed he had come on to her and it was all she could do to fight him off. She couldn't work with someone like that, she told Martin. Martin, of course, had been privy to the whole incident, as had a number of other people. He had no intention of losing Michael Devlin, but he also wanted to have his cake and eat it too. J.R is a very good president for Stratford Publishing. So he transferred Michael Devlin to our London office, which suited Michael fine. He was born and raised in Dublin. You'll love his Anglo-Irish accent."

"Why is he back now?" Emily wanted to know. "J.P. isn't a woman to forget an insult. She holds grudges, Rachel. You know she does."

Rachel paused a long moment, and then she said, "You might as well know, but this is also something that can't be bruited about, Emily. Martin is going to semiretire within the year. He and Anita want to travel. Neither of his daughters is interested in the publishing business. Both are married to doctors. But Martin isn't of a mind to sell. At least not yet. J.P. may be the company president, and Michael Devlin now the editor in chief, but Stratford is going to need a new CEO. J.P. thought she had it all sewn up, but she didn't. Martin is undecided, which is why he called Devlin back from the London office to take my job. Now J.P. is using you to get that CEO position while at the same time trying to get rid of Michael Devlin for good. You're right: She holds grudges, and she hasn't forgotten he publicly refused her. The tension between them is palpable."

"I don't understand, Rachel," Emily said, shifting nervously in Aaron's big leather chair. "What have I got to do with it?"

"Look," she said, "no one I know really likes J.P., including me. But she's damned good at what she does, and what she does is run Stratford. Martin has been easing himself out for the last two years, and the responsibility has fallen on J.P.'s shoulders. She wants the title of CEO of Stratford, and all that goes with it. The truth is that she deserves it, Emily. But Martin wants the company to remain strong, and that means he needs a first-rate editor in chief, so he's brought in Michael Devlin from London to take my place. J.P. and Devlin are going to have to learn to get along for the good of the company. And I've heard Martin himself hint that the position of CEO is up for grabs. He will play his little games, and J.P, for all her swagger, is just insecure."

Rachel sighed deeply. "J.P. has never been a fan of your books, but you know that. The company makes a tidy little profit off of you, but it's a sure bet that with your name and track record they can make an even bigger profit if you write sexier. But J.P. doesn't think you can do it. She thinks you're a prude and won't be able to make the transition from sweet to sensual. She also believes she can fill the hole you leave in Stratford's bottom line with half a dozen newbies who do write sexy. And one of them might well turn out to be very successful. You know publishing's a crapshoot.

"So she told Martin that it was up to Michael Devlin to edit you, as you were an editor in chief's writer, and to give you to just a senior editor would be a demotion for you. Martin agreed. He likes you, but you know that too. And he has great faith in Devlin. He knows how ruthless J.P. can be, but he's the type of man who wouldn't believe she'd ruin your career and endanger his company just to get back at a man who refused her lustful overtures years ago. You're a pawn on the chessboard, Emily. If Devlin can get you to write sexier novels, he wins. Right now, that is a threat to J.P. After all, the editor with the big-name writer has a certain amount of power. He could leave and take you with him. But if he can't get you to write that sexier novel, you both lose. Your career could tank, at least temporarily, and you know it's tough to get going again in this business. Devlin's reputation would certainly suffer, and since Martin will appoint J.P. to succeed him, she will make life so difficult for him that he'll leave. He's a proud guy. So both of you have to succeed."

"No pressure, huh?" Emily said dryly.

Rachel laughed. "You can do this, my dear," she repeated. "You are such a talented author, Emily. I know it's going to be difficult, but you will find your way. And Devlin will be there to help you. What have you titled the new book?"

"The Defiant Duchess," Emily said. "It's set in the Terror during the French Revolution. It's a Scarlet Pimpernel-in reverse-story."

"Clever," Rachel said. "And rife with possibilities for a couple of hot love scenes," she noted. "Well, I've got to go, my dear. I have an appointment with a garden designer, and she seems to actually be on time. Call me if you need me. But, Emily, you can depend on Michael Devlin. Trust me."

"I always have," Emily responded. "But a male editor… I just don't know."

"Don't judge him until you've met him and worked a bit with him," Rachel said. "We'll talk. Bye."

The phone line clicked off, and Emily set the handset back in its cradle. She sat for several long moments in Aaron's chair, and then with a sigh stood up as her longtime agent stepped back into the room.

"Finished? How is Rachel?" he asked.

"Talking with a garden designer as we speak," Emily said. "She's going to stay up in Connecticut and sell the apartment here in town. She says she's well fixed. I hope she wasn't just saying that to soothe me."

"She wasn't. And not only that, she already has half a dozen manuscripts to edit freelance for a couple of publishers. When word got out yesterday, she said her phone started ringing off the hook. Are you ready? Our reservation is for one p.m."

"Let me use your loo to freshen up," Emily said. "I wasn't expecting lunch with a new editor. You might have warned me, and I would have dressed better."

"You look fine," he told her, chuckling at the dark look she threw him as she disappeared from his office.

In the ladies' room Emily peered into the mirror at herself. Well, it could have been worse, she thought. Her short, fluffy strawberry-blond hair was having a good day in the dry spring weather. But oh, how she longed for the pale blue suit she had just bought to add to her author clothes. Still, the cream-colored silk slacks and the pale pink silk shirt she was wearing weren't bad. The whole look was rich-bitch, old-money, screw-you casual, she thought. She washed her hands, fluffed her hair, and renewed her lipstick.

"Ready or not, here I come, Michael Devlin," she said low. "And just remember it's my work you're buying, so who cares what I look like." She went to join Aaron Fischer. "Let's walk," she said to him.

"Why not," he agreed. "It's only five blocks, and we'll get there faster."

"If you're going to Felicity's bring me back one of those divine little lemon curd tarts," Kirk called from his office. "I've ordered a salad in with these damned contracts. And one for Sandra too," he said, remembering their shared secretary, who sat at a large desk in the gracious and elegantly decorated reception foyer of their office, which took up the entire top floor of the small old Park Avenue office building where Fischer and Browne, Literary Agents, was located.

"Make mine fruit," Sandra said as the elevator doors opened up. She was an older, motherly-looking woman who had been with the partners for years, coming to them fresh from the Katharine Gibbs Secretarial School. "I'm not into lemon curd, and Kirk knows it. Better bring him two." She waved them off as the doors closed smoothly with a faint hiss, and they descended swiftly without a single stop.

They walked from Park and up Madison Avenue until they arrived at Felicity's Tea Company, which served both luncheon and high tea six days a week. It was Emily's favorite place to eat in the city despite the plethora of elegant restaurants available. She could hear herself think in Felicity's, and the food was delicious. Felicity herself came forward smiling as they entered, holding out her hands to Emily.

She was a pretty woman with premature silver hair and dark eyes. She and her waitresses always wore the flowered, low-necked panniered satin gowns of the eighteenth century, and adorable little snow-white caps.

"When Sandra called to book I was hoping it was you," she said, kissing Emily on both cheeks. "Your guest is already at the table. Wow! Who is he?"

"New editor," Emily replied glumly. "Rachel retired."

"Ohh," Felicity murmured. "I'd love to write with him. He is very hot."

Great, Emily thought. Every woman who saw him thought Michael Devlin was hot. Just what she needed: a hot man who was going to help her write sexier. And how was he going to do that? And then she saw him, and stumbled over her own feet like some fool of a schoolgirl. She caught herself up quickly, feeling her cheeks grow warm.

Michael Devlin stood up as they reached the table. "Aaron, good to see you again," he said, a small smile touching his lips. He was very tall.

There it was: the soft, poetic hint of Ireland in his voice. Emily felt her knees weaken. This was worse than she had anticipated. She barely registered that Aaron was introducing them, but managed to stick out her hand nonetheless. Looking at him she had the distinct feeling that she knew him-really knew him-and yet he was a stranger.

"Ms. Shann, I am delighted to finally meet you," Michael Devlin murmured, looking down at her. "Rachel has nothing but praise for you." He drew her chair out and seated her before sitting down again himself. "You have a wonderful feel for eighteenth- and nineteenth-century England. Your research is quite excellent." Jaysus , he thought. She's utterly adorable. That fluff of hair, and those big cornflower-blue eyes. I'd like to eat her with a spoon. How the hell am I going to work with something so delicious when what I really want to do is take her to bed? He was astounded by his own thoughts. He'd never had such a strong reaction to a woman before. It was bloody unprofessional.

"You've read my books?" she inquired softly. Her own voice seemed to be coming from a very long way away. He really was gorgeous. He had to stand at least six-foot-three, and he had a lean, elegant body. His face was one of those long, sculpted faces, more angles than planes. His hair was jet-black, and his eyes were deep green. He looked like one of her heroes, for God's sake. She couldn't look at him too much, because every time she did, her heart raced. She had never had such a strong reaction to someone like this before.

"Not all of them," he admitted, "but I will by the time you finish this next book for us. Would you like to tell me what it's going to be about? I haven't seen an outline yet, but I'll look forward to it."

"Emily doesn't do outlines," Aaron quickly said. "Well, not exactly. She can tell you what the book is going to be about, but not in detail. She doesn't like to be held down to an exact story line. The sales department is used to her."

"I always know roughly what I'm going to write," Emily told Michael Devlin, now recovering from the initial shock that her new editor really was hot. "But the story seems to write itself as I go along. I suppose that sounds silly, but that's how I do it."

"I am not a man to argue with success, Ms. Shann," he told her. He was getting a hard-on. What the hell perfume was she wearing? It smelled like lilacs.

"Shall we order?" Aaron said as their waitress came up to the table. "Em, the usual for you, or do you want something different today?"

She shook her head. "No. The usual, Aaron, please."

Aaron ordered the quiche lorraine and salad for Emily, and a mini chicken pot pie for himself. "And a nice large pot of Keemun," he finished the order, looking to his companion questioningly.

Michael Devlin ordered the sirloin and cheddar with Dijon mustard in a tomato wrap. "How big is it?" he asked the waitress.

She looked him up and down, and then said, "You'll need two."

He grinned disarmingly at her. "Make it two then."

"Three cups?" the waitress wanted to know.

"Three cups," Devlin replied. "And make certain it's good and hot, my lass."

"As hot as you, milord." The waitress chuckled, and bustled off.

There was a long, awkward silence. Emily didn't dare look at her new editor. Her thoughts bordered on lascivious, much to her surprise. Had she ever before this moment had such libidinous thoughts? Writers-at least, smart writers-didn't get involved with their handsome male editors. But then, she had never met such a good-looking man. Michael Devlin was really unique. And she sensed intelligence as well as the movie-star looks. She sneaked a quick peek from under her lashes. Yeah. He was that handsome. And that hot. And where the hell was all this overcharged libido of hers coming from all of a sudden? The lesson of her parents forever with her, Emily Shanski had always been careful where men were concerned. She was relieved to see that Aaron and Michael Devlin were now in serious conversation.

Their lunch came, and they ate quickly.

"Dessert?" the waitress asked with a twinkle in her eye. She had served Emily many times before. "The usual, Miss Shann?"

Emily nodded, grinning. "No visit to Felicity's Tea Company would be complete without it. I'm afraid I'm a creature of bad habits. At least where dessert is concerned."

"Mr. Fischer? Sir?" the waitress said.

"Bread pudding," Aaron replied. "And give me two lemon curds, and a fruit tart to go. And I'll take half a pound of gunpowder tea also."

"I'll have the caramel egg custard," Michael Devlin said.

The waitress bustled away.

"What's the usual?" Michael asked Emily.

"You'll see," she said with a small grin. "It's difficult to explain."

"Now I am intrigued, Ms. Shann," he told her.

"Please, I think if we're going to work together you should call me Emily," she replied. "May I call you by your first name?"

"My friends call me Mick," he responded. "And I suspect we're going to be friends, Emily." Reaching across the table, he took her small hand in his big one and smiled into her blue eyes. Then he released her fingers as quickly as he had taken them.

God in his heaven! She blushed. She was behaving like one of her heroines. No. She was behaving like one of their friends. Her heroines weren't this sappy. To her relief the desserts came, along with another pot of hot tea.

"What is that?" he wanted to know, staring at the plate the waitress set before her.

"It's a very thin slice of Felicity's Death by Chocolate cake, and a thin slice of her boysenberry pie," Emily said. "I love them both, but I could never make up my mind which to have. So Felicity came up with this solution. Pretty cool, huh?"

He laughed. "It's obvious you don't have a problem with your weight." Then he spooned up some custard. "This is good. She really does use eggs, doesn't she? My gran back in Ballyfer-gus made custard like this. She's gone now, of course."

"I thought you came from Dublin," Emily said.

"I went to school and university in Dublin," he explained. "My parents were killed in an auto accident when I was twelve. Gran Devlin took responsibility for me, but she wasn't up to having a growing lad in her house year-round. I went back to Ballyfergus during my school holidays to stay with her. We only had each other, you see. Very odd for an Irish family, of course. Most of them are big."

"We have something in common then, Mick," she said. She liked the way he spoke of his grandmother. There was warmth and genuine affection in his voice.

"Emily was raised by her two grandmothers," Aaron spoke up. "Right from her birth. I knew them both. Wonderful women!"

"Were your parents deceased too?" Mick asked solicitously.

"No. They were both too young for a baby, and they had other plans," Emily replied. Then she laughed at his look, which was half-shocked, half-curious. "It's a long story for another time."

Mick Devlin shook his head. "Sounds like your life is worthy of a novel, Emily." Having finished his custard he put his spoon down. He was charmed by her. She was a practical woman with a sense of humor, and an obviously very romantic nature, he thought, smiling.

"No, it isn't," she said. "It's my life, and nothing more." She licked a crumb of the chocolate cake from the edge of her mouth. He was a good listener, Emily considered.

"So," Aaron said before another silence set in, "you two need to get together to discuss how we're going to make this slight directional change in your work, Em."

"It isn't slight," she replied. "I'm known for writing sweet, not sexy. I'm not certain you can teach this old dog new tricks."

"You're a good writer, Emily, and we'll start easy," Mick told her. "It would be too much of a shock to some of your readers if we went too quickly. But not all of them will be shocked, judging by what's selling today. Your core readers will buy the book because you've written it, and you will gain new readers based on the reviews," Michael finished.

"You're presuming that the reviews will be good," Emily said.

"They will be," he assured her. "You're good, and readers love you."

"You'll have your editor out to Egret Pointe for a weekend," Aaron suggested. "That way the pair of you can get to know each other, and you'll work better."

Emily looked slightly surprised. The thought of being alone in her house with this man was rather intriguing. But of course it would be all business, she reminded herself.

"I wouldn't want to intrude on Emily's privacy," Mick quickly said. He used the British pronunciation of the word: priv -ah-see. God, a weekend alone with this fascinating woman would be heaven. But of course it would be all business, he reminded himself.

"No, no, of course you must come out," Emily told him. "Actually, it's perfect. I haven't started the book yet, and your input will be invaluable. Best to get started immediately, I suppose." She didn't sound wildly enthusiastic.

"Before you get frightened, write your usual story, and retire into anonymity," Mick murmured candidly. His eyes met hers briefly.

"Yes," she admitted, wondering how he could know her so well already.

"So let's set a date now," Aaron said. What was going on? He sensed something between Emily and her new editor. But how could that be? They hadn't known each other two hours yet. And Emily didn't have a boyfriend. He wondered if she ever had. Yet he also knew she wasn't gay. Something was happening here, but what?

A cell phone rang, and Emily reached into the thin purse she had hung over the back of her chair. "Sorry, I have to take this. Rina? Where are you? Oh. All right. We're at Felicity's. I'll be ready." She snapped the phone shut. "It's Rina. She's ready to go home. She'll pick me up here in ten minutes, depending on the traffic. She said you are not to go anywhere, Aaron."

"Oy vay!" the agent exclaimed. Then he looked to Michael Devlin. "My sister," he explained. Then he turned back to Emily. "I thought she was having a day at Klinger's. This is a day?"

"She said there were too many anorexic matrons with tight faces and expensive boob jobs for her taste. She did a manicure, pedicure, and facial. You know Rina isn't good in the city anymore, Aaron. She's become a real country girl. She and Sam love Egret Pointe."

Aaron shrugged. "Who would have thought a girl from Riverside Drive and Eighty-first Street would grow up to be happy in a place called Egret Pointe?"

"Hey, we've got a Krispy Kreme now," Emily teased him.

He chuckled, then got back to business. "So when should Mick come?" he asked her. "This weekend? Next?"

"Either is all right with me," Emily said. "I'll go with Mick's schedule."

He'd planned to look for a small summer rental at Montauk this weekend, but small rentals could always be found, especially if he didn't quibble over price. And besides, he wanted to know more about Emily Shanski, a.k.a. Emilie Shann. "This weekend will be fine," he said in his deep, lilting voice. "I've been back almost six weeks, and haven't had a weekend in the country yet. I like the country. Where would you recommend I stay?"

"Aaron has my number. Call me and I'll give you directions. Of course you will stay with me," Emily said almost breathlessly. A tall, handsome man with an Irish lilt in his voice wandering about the town would certainly attract attention in Egret Pointe. If she kept him bottled up in her house and garden for the weekend no one was likely to see him, and there would be no gossip about the good-looking guy with Emily Shanski.

"Good, good," Aaron said, relieved that it was all now settled. He let Michael Devlin pay the bill, and took the box with the tarts and the bag of green gunpowder tea from the waitress. They bade Felicity good-bye, introducing Michael Devlin before they went. Rina was just pulling up in her Lexus as they stepped out onto Madison Avenue.

She honked and waved.

"I will bid you good-bye, Emily," Mick Devlin said, smiling at her. "For now. I'll look forward to the weekend. I think we'll get some good work done. Aaron, I'll call you." Then he was off, striding down the street.

Rina had pulled over into a fire lane to allow Emily to get into the car. "Hey, big brother," she said. "When are you and Kirk coming out to open the cottage?"

"I'll ask him," Aaron said. "You look mah-vel-ous, Rina. Have you lost weight?"

"Go screw yourself, sweetie. Call me," Rina said as Emily climbed into the car and belted herself up. "Ta!" She gunned the car out of the fire lane, and back into the midafternoon traffic.

"Bye, Aaron," Emily called to him before Rina's window rolled up tightly.

"Who was the hottie with you?" Rina Seligmann wanted to know. "My God! Tall, dark, and handsome. You don't see too many of them today. Is he straight? Or is he one of Aaron and Kirk's friends? And why were you all having lunch together?"

"He's my new editor," Emily said. "Rachel's retired. It's a long story."

"It's a long ride home," Rina said. "Get talking, sweetie."

Rina Seligmann, nee Rina Fischer, and Aaron's younger sister, was the wife of Egret Pointe's beloved doctor. Her husband had cared for both Katya Shanski and Emily O'Malley until their deaths. Rina had known their granddaughter, Emily, most of her life. Actually, the young woman sitting next to her was the same age as her oldest child. She listened as Emily outlined her morning with Aaron, and her luncheon with her new editor.

"Aaron doesn't want to move you to another publisher?" Rina asked.

"I suppose that will be the court of last resort," Emily said slowly, "but it really wouldn't make a whole lot of sense, if we can avoid it. All my backlist is with Stratford, Rina. Even with my name and sales record, it would be starting over again."

"It makes me so damned mad that none of this is your fault," Rina said.

"It's like Rachel said: I'm a pawn on a chessboard. If I'm going to check the bitch queen, I have to pull this off. J. P. Woods doesn't give a shit for me. She just wants Martin to make her Stratford's new CEO so she can get back at Mick Devlin."

"Do you think you can work with him?" Rina asked. "I mean, without trying to jump his bones. He really is outrageously attractive. I'm glad he's not gay. That would really be a waste. Still, if he were gay we could all be friends, and cause gossip in town."

"He seems very nice," Emily said. Nice wasn't quite the word she wanted, but it would have to do. How could she tell Rina that this man she had just met had her thinking about being on a beach naked with him?

"Nice? Nice? The guy is gorgeous, sweetie," Rina exclaimed. The Lexus swerved just slightly. "Hell, I wish I were your age."

Emily laughed. "You haven't looked at another man since you met Sam," she said. "Why, you've even made him your hero when you watch the Channel."

"Now, who told you that?" Rina demanded to know.

"You did, when you first introduced me to the Channel," Emily answered her. "You said you thought of the two of you in your younger days."

"I talk too much," Rina muttered. "So what have you been using the Channel for, sweetie? Isn't it fun?" She chuckled.

"I'm just an observer," Emily said. "I imagine my books, and have the characters act it all out. It gives me a chance to see if it's realistic and not just silly."

"You don't put yourself in the heroine's role?" Rina was surprised.

"Good grief, no!" Emily exclaimed. "Why would I do that?"

"Well, I thought you might, since you don't have a boyfriend," Rina replied. "Did you ever have a boyfriend, Emily? I didn't think Katya and Emily O were that strict."

Emily thought a long moment, and then she said, "You know, Rina, I don't think I ever have had a real boyfriend. I mean, I like guys, and I was social in college, but no one ever really touched me emotionally. There was never any time, and the story of my parents' little misstep never really went away. I got the feeling the second I hit high school here that everyone was watching to see if I'd screw up like Katy and Joe. You know, some of my teachers taught them. That's why I took all those AP courses, so I could graduate early and get the hell out of Egret Pointe. But then I came back."

"But you were very popular at Egret Pointe High," Rina said. "And you were the class president for four years running."

"No one else wanted the job." Emily laughed. "Katy and Joe were king and queen popular. I was the likable nerd. Oh, I went to pep rallies, and games, and even a couple of dances. But I never let a boy get too close. And then I did college in three years too. Wellesley, like my mother. No boys at Wellesley." She chuckled. "And then just before I graduated Aaron sold my first book to Stratford, and the rest is history. I was a writer. I had a career, and no time for men. Actually, when I see some of the girls I went to school with I don't think I've missed a whole lot."

"You can't miss what you don't know, sweetie," Rina said as she swung off the parkway onto the Egret Pointe exit. "Or maybe you do know?" she probed.

Emily laughed. "I'll take the Fifth," she said. "Besides it makes me more mysterious to guard my privacy. People wonder just what I am guarding. And I don't want you selling my story to the Star."

"As if," Rina answered her. "Want to eat supper with Sam and me?"

"Thanks, but I'll take a rain check," Emily said. "I always get so keyed up when I have to make these city trips, and today was a shocker. I've got to sit quietly with some wine, and think about what happened. And my new editor is coming up this weekend, but don't you dare tell a soul, Rina!"

"What's he coming for?" the older woman wanted to know.

"He wants to work with me, and help me to direct the new story into a sexier mode," Emily said.

"And just how is he going to do that?" Rina queried, waggling her newly plucked eyebrows suggestively.

"I don't know," Emily said. "Writing sexy is a whole new ball game for me."

"Where is he staying? The Inn or the Motel 6?" Rina asked.

"He's staying with me," Emily said.

"Aha!" Rina exclaimed, pulling to a stop before Emily's house.

"Aha, what?" Emily wanted to know. "My reasons are based in practicality, Rina. Do I want a handsome hunk wandering about the town connected to me? I do not! The biddies would never rest until they had us involved in an affair. Mick Devlin is a nice man, and from what Rachel says a good editor. We're both in danger of losing our livelihoods because of that bitch Jane Patricia Woods. I don't know what Martin sees in her, but he sees something. So Mick will help me write sexy and keep my career, and by doing it I'll help him save his job. It's nothing more than that." She reached for the car door handle. "Thanks for the transportation. I'd still be on the train if it weren't for you." Leaning over, she gave the older woman a kiss on the cheek. "That's for Sam," she said.

"Hussy!" Rina shot back.

Emily chuckled and, stepping from the Lexus, closed the car door behind her.

With a beep of her horn Rina shot off down Founders Way, and turned the corner onto Colonial Avenue headed for her own home on Ansley Court. Emily watched her go, and then walked up the brick pathway to her house. It was a beautiful old home built in the 1860s. Her mother had been raised in this house. It stood next door to an identical structure in which she and her father had been brought up. Both homes had been built by Barnabas Dunham, a descendant of an early settler to Egret Pointe, as wedding gifts for his twin daughters. Mary Anne Dunham Smith and her husband had gone down on the Titanic in 1912. Their only daughter had sold her house to Jarek Shanski in 1922, and Emily's grandfather had been born in 1923. Mary Anne's twin, Elizabeth, also had a daughter, who had married Patrick O'Malley. Their grandson, Michael, had been born in this home in 1925.

Emily had inherited both homes upon the deaths of her grandmothers. She rented the Shanski house for income because she couldn't bear to sell it. She had been brought up in that house, as had her father and her grandfather. But she lived in the O'Malley house now. Her maternal grandmother, known as Emily O, had exquisite taste, and the house was furnished to suit her granddaughter. Besides, she held Emily O partly responsible for her becoming a writer. Emily O told marvelous stories, and could have been a writer herself.

And it had been Emily O who had opened up the world for her namesake. The summer Emily Shanski turned seven she went off on her first trip to England with Emily O. The highlights for her had been a pony trek in Wales, and visiting the city of Bath. And every summer after that new wonders were revealed to her. Europe. Turkey. India. Even China. And Emily O had not forgotten her granddaughter was an American. One summer they spent touring the continental United States in a lavishly furnished trailer with a driver so they might both enjoy the trip. There was a June cruise to Alaska, followed by a flight to the Hawaiian Islands, and a visit to Tahiti for several weeks.

She had loved it all, but Emily Shanski had returned to England as often as she could. The land, the people, the history all fascinated her. She spent days exploring Bath, and the sites of Regency London. She loved the museums and bookstores. Despite the lack of her parents Emily Shanski had had a wonderful childhood. She had been loved dearly by her two grandmothers, never missed Katy or Joe, and she knew how lucky she was in her life and in Katya Shanski and Emily O'Malley.

When she had been eight her mother had married Carter Phelps IV. Emily had gone to the wedding with her grandmothers, and Carter had insisted on having pictures taken of them all together. It was only when she was older and wiser that Emily understood that the now Senator Carter Phelps IV wanted no skeletons in his wife's closet when he one day ran for public office. Still and all, Carter was a decent guy, Emily thought, and on the rare occasions she saw her half sister and brother she was always made to feel welcome by the Phelps clan.

And then when she was almost fourteen her father had married, and his bighearted Irish-American wife wanted Emily to come and live with them. Her grandmothers had put a stop to that, and Joe's wife had gone on to have three sons in five years. There wasn't a holiday or family occasion that her stepmother hadn't included her and her grandmothers, or tried to. Emily actually felt far more comfortable with her father's down-to-earth family than with her mother's elegant political one.

Stepping inside her house she heaved a sigh of relief. There was no way she would ever be a city girl, Emily thought. It was good to be home. She had a lot to think about, and a guest room to air out and prepare. Walking into the kitchen she found a note from her housekeeper, Essie: Meat loaf, mashed potatoes, and corn in the microwave. Do two minutes on high. See you tomorrow. Emily smiled and, kicking off the elegant little shoes she had worn into town, pressed the appropriate buttons and waited for her dinner to get hot as she set herself a place at the kitchen table and poured a glass of wine. It had been an interesting day. And it looked like the days ahead were going to continue to be interesting. But she was going to survive this sea change in her life. She was!