Forbidden Pleasure

Chapter 2

"My dear girl, I care not a fig what you think. I look like I look," Justin Trahern, the Duke of Malincourt, said to his creator, romance novelist Emilie Shann.

"You cannot look like Michael Devlin," Emily said stubbornly.

"You have imagined me this way," he told her, and, whirling about, he gazed at himself in the mirror. "Read what you have written. I am quite handsome, and most satisfied with myself. Your last hero wasn't half the man I am." He brushed an imaginary speck of dust from the silken sleeve of his plum-colored coat.

"Oh, go to the devil!" Emily said irritably. "If you insist on looking like him then do so. And what was wrong with the Earl of Throttlesby?"

"Much too fair for a man, I fear. And his chin was just a trifle weak, dear girl," the duke replied. Then, looking directly at her, he said, "I want my defiant duchess to look like you, dear girl. I do have a weakness for fair women, especially those with a touch of red in their hair, like yours." He grinned wickedly at her as he leaned casually against the mantel of his library fireplace.

"Oh, be quiet," Emily said, "and let me think, Trahern." She looked closely at him, considering that he appeared far different from her other heroes. He was more masculine, a bit rougher, and definitely more dangerous, if that look in his green eyes was to be believed-and she suspected it was. He looked like a man who had wild sex. She shifted herself in the big wingback chair. Her heroines had never looked anything like Emily Shanski, but somehow the idea of being the defiant duchess to Justin Trahern's duke was extremely tempting. "I have to write a more sexually explicit book," she said.

"Huzzah! Huzzah!" he answered her with a chuckle. And then he grew serious. "How experienced are you, dear girl? I want to delight you, but not shock you. A lady's sensibilities must be taken into consideration, y'know."

"What does my experience have to do with anything, Trahern?" she demanded to know. She had used the Channel for several years now to create her books so that she might see what she was writing before she wrote it. It allowed her to work more quickly, but until tonight she had always been an invisible and silent observer of her creations. This was the first time she had ever actually interacted with one of them.

"My dear girl, surely you understand that while the Channel may allow you to live your fantasies, it cannot substitute for, um, certain realities in your life," the duke said.

"Such as?" Emily asked him.

"Your novels of Georgian and Regency England have always been warm family dramas, dear girl. Your heroines have been chaste, your heroes manly, and when they are finally wedded the door has always closed on the nuptial chamber. There have been kisses and caresses, but never have you permitted a hero to put his hand below the waist of one of your maidens. And never before have you begun a book with the hero and heroine a married couple. You have observed marriage enough to write about it, but have you experienced passion or bald-faced lust enough to write about it? I think not."

"I have quite a few books on the subject, thank you," Emily replied sharply.

He laughed aloud. "Not good enough, dear girl," the duke told her. "If you have not rolled amid the tangled sheets, sweaty and naked with a man you at least liked, the pictures in one of those books you have will not suffice. What experience will you draw upon to write of such an emotional encounter, dear girl? What knowledge? No, no, your virginity will not do. It simply will not do."

"I did not say I was a virgin," Emily snapped, but she was blushing.

"But you are, aren't you?" he responded. "There is no shame in it, dear girl. Actually it's quite charming."

Emily sighed. "But if you make love to me then I will be able to write what they want of me, Trahern," she told him. God! She never thought she would use the Channel for sexual gratification, like some of the women she knew. It was embarrassing.

"I can't," he said quietly. "Oh, I could go through the motions, dear girl, but you would feel nothing at all, because in reality you would remain exactly as you are. You will have to lose that tiresome virginity of yours in your own reality before we may begin to enjoy each other here within the Channel, I'm afraid," Trahern told her.

"And how the hell am I supposed to do that?" Emily demanded of him. "Perhaps I should put an advertisement in the Egret Pointe Times. 'Wanted: Studly gentleman to relieve me of my virginity so I may write sexier books.' " She stood up, reaching for the nearest objet d'art to throw. This whole situation was infuriating.

The duke stayed her hand. "No, no, dear girl, that vase is one of Josiah Wedgwood's newest creations. I'd prefer if you didn't destroy it in your pique. The answer to your dilemma is really quite simple. You have imagined me as someone you know. Obviously you are attracted to him. Seduce him, dear girl, and your problem is solved. I do not know why you didn't think of it yourself. And afterward when the deed is done, you and I will embark upon a delicious and-I promise you-a most wickedly delightful adventure."

"I don't know how to seduce a man," Emily said almost sadly.

"Within each woman, my lovely duchess, is the knowledge and the skill to seduce any man she desires," the Duke of Malincourt said. "Just this once, dear girl, wouldn't you like to enjoy the Channel as a visitor, and not an observer? Entice this man who attracts you, and you will gain everything you have ever wanted."

"But I just want to write good books and earn my living." Emily sighed, sinking back into the big wing chair.

"Unless you write more sexually detailed novels, dear girl, it seems you will not be able to do that. Have you any idea how that sad and woebegone little face of yours cries out to me to kiss you?" he asked her. "You have been kissed, haven't you?"

Emily nodded, and when she had the duke touched his lips to hers gently.

"You are very sweet, dear girl, and I will admit to longing for more than just the touch of your lips. Seduce the gentleman in question so we may begin our adventure."

"You say nothing of love," Emily noted.

"Nor do you," he replied with a small smile. "Is there such a thing?"

"I don't know," Emily answered honestly. She closed her eyes. "Farewell for now, Trahern." She sank away, and when she opened her eyes again she was in her own bed. Reaching for the channel changer Emily turned off the television. But she could not sleep. It was close to four a.m., and the sky outside her window was already beginning to grow light. A mourning dove cooed softly in the large pine by the corner of the house nearest her bedroom.

Seduce the man, Trahern had said. All well and good for him, but how the hell was she going to entice Mick Devlin into making a woman of her? To begin with, it had to be totally inappropriate for an author to sexually harass her editor. Still Devlin was, if the gossip was to be believed, a man who could be tempted. She had called her old friend Savannah Banning yesterday afternoon. Savannah also published with Stratford, and lived outside of London with her husband. Savannah knew everything of interest there was to know about in the world. Her curiosity, like her libido, was insatiable. If Mick Devlin had a reputation, she would give Emily the whole story, chapter and verse.

"Em!" Savannah had squealed when she answered the phone in her plummy British accent, flavored with South Carolina. "How are you? What's the news from New York?"

And Emily had told her.

"So old Rachel has been put out to pasture. Well, high time, darling. Nice as she is, she really is quite past it."

"Rachel is a wonderful editor," Emily defended Rachel.

"But Mick Devlin! Darling, you are just the luckiest girl. He's been editing me for several years. If I didn't love being old Reggie's wife so damned much I would have tried for Mick myself. Damn! If he's back in New York who is going to take care of me? I'll probably get stuck with old Prunella Baines-Harrington. She's a decent enough sort, but darling, she is the most booor-ing woman."

"Tell me about Devlin, Savannah," Emily said softly.

"What's to tell?" Savannah replied slyly, and then she giggled. "The women flock to him like flies to jam, darling, but he is very particular about his women. And no one has ever gotten close enough to slip a bridle on him. There was one little Sloan's Ranger who thought she had the inside track until he showed up at her birthday party with a really smashing model. Lady Something-or-other-hyphenated. The birthday girl proceeded to get very drunk, picked a fight with Lady whoever, and got shoved into her own birthday cake for her trouble." Savannah chortled. "Why do you ask?"

"I have to work with the man, Savannah, and Aaron told me a story about J.P. and Devlin. I've never worked with a man. Rachel and I got on so well."

"The story about J.P. and Devlin is true," Savannah said. "What else?"

"Stratford won't renew my contract after this book unless I write sexier," Emily wailed. "The rumor is that Martin wants to semiretire, but he can't decide into whose hands to put the company, J.P. or Michael Devlin. That's why he was brought back." She sighed. "I'm screwed, Savannah. I can't write sexy. And especially for a male editor. I worked perfectly with Rachel. What am I going to do?"

"Darling, I should only be in your slippers," Savannah said, sighing dramatically. "What should you do? Throw yourself on his mercy, is what you should do. You're really just his type, you know, Em. You're intelligent, funny, and quite lovely. And I expect he's at that vulnerable age when he might even be considering settling down."

"What are you saying?" Emily asked her friend, surprised.

"Look, darling, if Mick has to turn you into a sensuous instead of a sweet author, and he fails, the evil J.P. gets Martin's nod. But if he succeeds, Mick will get the company, and you'll both live happily ever after. His future is every bit as much on the line as yours is, Em. Use that to your advantage," Savannah advised.

"What exactly are you saying, Savannah?" Emily repeated.

Savannah laughed her low, husky laugh. "You know exactly what I'm saying, Em. Have a love affair with the guy. Seduce him! You might even win a gold ring."

"Seduce my editor? I wouldn't know where to begin, Sava."

Savannah laughed harder. "Sure you do," she said.

"It's inappropriate!" Emily protested.

"Oh, pooh! If you do it's going to make it all the more fun, especially when you run into J.P. You'll have that glow that a well-fucked woman gets, and she'll know Mick is going at you like a mastiff in heat. But you aren't a girl to kiss and tell. And J.P. won't ask, but it'll kill her anyway." Savannah choked on her laughter. "Revenge is so sweet."

"You are really quite dreadful," Emily told her, but she was smiling.

"He's a lovely man, darling. Enjoy yourself. Come to think of it, I don't think I've ever known a time when you did enjoy yourself with a man. Any man. Either you are the most discreet woman in the world, or…" And then Savannah gasped.

"I have to go, Sava," Emily said quickly. She did not want to get into a discussion about her virginity with Savannah Banning, whose novels, it was rumored, were printed on fireproof paper. "Say hi to Sir Reginald for me. Toodles!" And she rang off.

Emily turned restlessly in her bed, and asked herself for the third time just how she, inexperienced as she was, was going to seduce a sophisticated and urbane man like Michael Devlin. And he would be coming to Egret Pointe, to her house, for the weekend in just a few days. And suddenly she heard her grandmother O'Malley's voice as plain as day, saying, "The way to a good man's heart is through his stomach, Emily." She almost laughed aloud, remembering how he had gobbled down those two beef-and-cheddar wraps at Felicity's. The man had a good appetite on him.

"I'll bet no woman ever cooked for you, Mick Devlin," Emily said aloud.

Outside her window a cardinal started calling, and the sparrows in the pine tree were chattering noisily. The clock on her fireplace mantel struck five a.m. She was not going to go back to sleep. Emily sat up and swung her legs over the side of the bed. She had menus to plan for the weekend. And shopping to do. And she would ask Rina and Dr. Sam to dinner Friday night to help her get over any shyness with Devlin. She had a man coming for the weekend whom she had only met once. And she was going to seduce him. Well, she was going to try. With his reputation it would probably be easy. A prime rib, a good red wine. Chocolate mousse or trifle. He would be putty in her hands. If there was one thing Emily Shanski could do as well as write, it was cook.

Michael Devlin swung off the parkway onto the Egret Pointe exit. Turn right at the bottom of the ramp, Emily had told him. He did. When he'd heard her voice on the phone, his cock had tingled, and he was again surprised by the effect this woman was having on him. He was forty years of age come August, not some kid in heat for the first time. Two miles down County Road 3 he saw the sign: welcome to egret point, founded 1723. He was enchanted, for it had the air of a New England village, yet it wasn't New England. He was just seventy-five miles from the city.

The main street was lined in ancient maples just now greening up. There was a village green with a gazebo; a duck pond, on the far side of which were pink Kwanzan cherry trees in full bloom. The shops were deliberately small, and charming. Some had offices above them, for he saw a sign that read, johnson and pietro d'angelo, attorneys-at-law. And the streetlights were real antique gas lamps, not those faux modern ones you saw in so many places now. Devlin almost missed his turn onto Colonial Avenue at the far end of the village. He paid closer attention to his driving so that he was prepared for the turn onto Founders Way.

"It has just five houses on it," Emily had told him. "The first two are genuine Colonials. The next two are Empire, but one is modern. I'm the big Empire at the bottom of the street. It's not really a cul-de-sac, but similar to one. You can park your car at the very end of the driveway. I'll be watching for you."

He made the turn and drove to the end of the little street, pulling all the way up into her driveway, and catching his breath as she came out from the house to greet him. Damn, she was lovely! She was wearing khaki slacks that hugged a very round little butt, and a cream-colored silk shirt. She wore no lipstick, and it tickled him. Emily Shanski was obviously not a girl who doted on her appearance. It told him she had enough confidence in herself not to worry about such things. All the women he knew did.

"You drive a Healy!" were the first words out of her mouth, and she hurried by him to admire his car. "It's a 'sixty?" Emily ran her hand over the cream-colored fender.

'"Sixty-one," he said. "I brought it with me from Ireland to New York to England, and back to New York again. They are very rare now, I'm told."

"I have a 'sixty-three in the garage," she told him. "I just found it about five years ago, and had it restored. Mine is Racing Green, but I've got the roll-up windows."

"A distinct advantage when it's about to rain," he admitted.

"Oh, I'm being so rude," she exclaimed, blushing. "Welcome to Egret Pointe, Mr. Devlin. Grab your bag, and I'll show you to your room. I hope you don't mind coming in the kitchen door, but it seems silly to drag you around to the front at this point."

"Mick," he said. "My friends call me Mick. And I prefer the kitchen door. Back in Ireland when I grew up only the priest came in the front door." He pulled the elegant bag from the back of the car and followed her up two small steps into the house. His nose twitched. "Is that roast beef I smell cooking?" he wanted to know.

"I took the chance you didn't keep a meatless Friday," Emily admitted. "But if you do, I have some salmon in the freezer I can cook."

The look on his face was beatific. "No, I do not keep a meatless Friday, Emily, and rare beef is my favorite meal. There would not, by chance, be some potatoes roasting around that meat, would there?" The hopeful look on his face made him appear boyish.

"Now, sir, what kind of an Irish girl would I be if I didn't have the potatoes roasting about the beef?" she teased him.

"It's O'Shanski then, is it?" Devlin teased back.

Emily laughed. "My mother was an O'Malley," she explained, "and this was my Grandma O'Malley's house once upon a time. Both she and Granny Katya taught me to cook. I do a mean kielbasa and pierogies too."

"I think you may be the perfect woman, Emily," he flattered her. "You write wonderful novels, and cook as well." And I'll bet you fuck like a dream, too, he thought to himself, his eyes briefly sliding over the twin mounds beneath the silk blouse. He had never been more tempted in his life, and he was going to have a difficult time keeping his hands off of her, which surprised him. He had always managed a strong reserve where women were concerned. Enjoy what they offer, but don't get emotionally involved was his longtime motto.

"Reserve your judgment until you've tasted my dinner," Emily advised him. "Come on. I promised to show you to your room." She hurried from the kitchen, and he fell into step behind her.

The home had a gracious center hallway with a graceful staircase. As they reached it the doorbell chimed, and then the door opened to admit an older couple.

"Rina, Dr. Sam," Emily greeted them, turning. Then, looking back at Michael Devlin, she said, "Upstairs to the left, second door. And come back down to meet my friends." She gave him a smile before she moved away to welcome her other guests.

He mounted the staircase, and as he went he heard the newly arrived woman say, "My God, Emily, he's even more gorgeous close up! Are you sure you want us to stay for dinner? If I were in your shoes I'd want him all to myself." Devlin grinned to himself.

"Rina, he'll hear you," Emily said, and felt her cheeks growing warm.

Dr. Sam Seligmann chuckled. "I'm not going anywhere, Rina. I smell roast beef."

"Like I never cook?" Rina Seligmann said as they entered the gracious parlor of the house. She plunked herself into a comfortable club chair.

"You cook fine, but not like our Emily," Dr. Sam answered his spouse. "Shall I make everyone a drink?"

"For you and Rina, and Mick when he comes back down," Emily said. "We're having wine with dinner, and you know me-two glasses of anything is my limit."

Dr. Sam stirred up a pitcher of martinis, and had just poured one for his wife and for himself when Michael Devlin entered the room. Catching his eye, Dr. Sam held up the pitcher and tilted his head to one side quizzically.

"Martinis?" Devlin asked.

"Yep," Dr. Sam said.

"We're having wine with dinner," Emily put in quickly.

"Then I shall satisfy myself with a sherry, if you have it," Devlin replied.

"One sherry coming up," Dr. Sam answered, putting the martini pitcher down. "I'm Sam Seligmann, town doctor. My wife, Rina."

"You were the driver for Emily the other day in the city, weren't you?" Devlin asked, now remembering the brief glimpse he had had of Rina Seligmann. "You're Aaron Fischer's sister. Am I right?"

"His little sister," Rina responded with a grin. "He was almost eight when I came into the world. The prince of the family until my arrival." She chuckled.

"And he's terrified of her," Emily said, laughing.

"As well it should be," Rina Seligmann answered smugly.

Devlin laughed too. "I'm an only child," he told them. "I envy you a sibling."

The small talk continued back and forth, with Emily running in and out of the kitchen overseeing her meal. Finally she announced it was ready, and they all trooped to the table. Taking her place at the head of the table, she asked Devlin to sit at the other end, and the Seligmanns took their place on either side, as was their custom.

"Will you carve the roast beast?" she asked him, and he saw she had placed the platter with the meat before him. Before it was a carving knife and fork with bone handles. They were obviously very old.

The meat had been done perfectly. As he carved, he saw the medium-rare pieces fall from his knife from the outside, and the very rare bit of the meat was farther inside. He asked for preferences, and placed the appropriate slices upon the plates. The platter was then taken from him by Emily to be set upon the sideboard. A bowl of exquisitely roasted potatoes was passed. Then a smaller platter of fresh asparagus. There were two gravy boats: one with the au jus, and the other with a flawless Hollandaise sauce for the vegetable. There were dainty hot rolls, a silver dish of sweet butter, and tomato aspic salad on separate plates to each diner's left.

As they ate he learned that Dr. Sam's family had been early settlers of Egret Pointe. He was surprised until Dr. Sam explained that his ancestors had come to the Americas in 1709. It wasn't, Dr. Sam said, a well-known fact of American history, but there had been a number of Jewish families who had emigrated then. "We fought in the Revolution," he said proudly. "On the winning side, of course."

"And then he went and married a girl from the Upper West Side whose family was chased out of Russia by a troop of Cossacks," Rina said.

"But that's what makes our country so great," Emily spoke up. "We're such a wonderful mixture of peoples and cultures." She was glad she had asked the Seligmanns to help her defuse what might have been an awkward evening.

When they had finished almost everything Emily had prepared, she and Rina cleared the table for the dessert while the two men sat talking.

"God, he has such charm," Rina said, scraping the plates for the dishwasher. "He looks like a Celtic prince, and that delicious hint of Ireland in his voice." She sighed.

"He's very nice," Emily murmured.

"Huh?" Rina replied, looking closely at her younger companion. "Oh, my! You're attracted to him, aren't you, Emily Shanski? Well, why not, says I?"

"I don't even know him," Emily protested. "We just met on Tuesday. We've spoken once on the phone, and today is Friday."

"You've got an itch for him," Rina accused her with a grin. "I've known you most of your life, Em, and I've never known you to be attracted to any man. There have been times I've wondered if you weren't gay, like Aaron."

"I haven't got an itch, Rina, and I'm not a lesbian," Emily responded. "I just haven't had time for men, and I sure as hell didn't want to be like Katy and Joe. Have you any idea how hard it was for me in high school, with most of the same teachers they had had always watching, always waiting for me to fall from grace?"

"They never knew your mother had fallen from grace, as you so dramatically put it, until she was graduated, and at Wellesley," Rina said. "Thanks to your grandmothers your impending arrival was quite the surprise to everyone in Egret Pointe."

"That's what made it so hard for me," Emily replied. "Katy fooled them. Was I fooling them? Why do you think I worked so hard to get out of here, and into college?"

"Water under the bridge," Rina said. "You're a best-selling author now with a hot new editor. He isn't married. You're both fancy-free. Hell, if I were you I'd lay him!"

"Why does everyone keep saying that to me?" Emily wanted to know.

"Who else said it?" Rina asked.

"Savannah. I talked to her the other day. He was her editor in London, and I wanted to know more about him," Emily answered.

"And?" Rina's look of curiosity was so blatant that Emily had to laugh.

"To quote Savannah, the women flock to him like flies to jam, but he likes to pick his own friends," Emily said. "I doubt I'm his type."

"I think you're just his type. He's Irish, for heaven's sake. They like their women intelligent, good cooks, and just a little helpless at the right moments. You can play helpless, can't you, sweetie? Where's the dessert?"

"Fridge," Emily said. "I am not helpless, Rina."

Rina Seligmann opened the refrigerator door and pulled out a large glass bowl. "Don't tell me you haven't thought of having him between your legs, because I won't believe you. A woman would have to be made of stone to look at that man and not want him. What is this?" She looked suspiciously at the bowl she was holding.

"Chocolate trifle," Emily answered. "I couldn't make up my mind between mousse and trifle. So I made chocolate lady fingers, and mousse for filling with the sliced strawberries."

Rina began to laugh. "Yep, you're hot for him."

"How can you say that?" Emily wanted to know. It was embarrassing to be so damned transparent. Did Michael Devlin see what Rina saw?

"The double chocolate is a dead giveaway," Rina replied.

Emily blushed furiously. "Do you think he'll notice?" she asked nervously.

"Nah," Rina reassured her. "But you do know he likes you, don't you?"

"Rina, we've just met," Emily said exasperated.

"Look, sweetie, if there is one thing I understand, it's men. I know, I know. I've been married to Sam since I turned twenty, but I still know human nature. It isn't how long you've known someone. If there's chemistry it's there from the start. And there is definitely chemistry between you two. Enjoy it! You've worked hard all your life trying to make up for what you consider Katy and Joe's mistake. You weren't a mistake, Emily. Oh, I know. Your parents weren't lovers, and their coming together was a onetime thing. But they were best friends from the time they were in diapers. You were created from that loving friendship. You don't have to be a saint to make up for them. They created you, had you, and moved on with their lives. Time for you to move on, sweetie. Is there any whipped cream to go with this devilish creation?"

Emily didn't know whether to laugh or to cry. "I don't know what I'd do without you, Rina Seligmann," she said. "Since the grans died, you have been my rock."

"Of course I have," Rina replied calmly, brushing away the single tear that had slipped down Emily's cheek. "You could be my daughter, sweetie. And I could never have enough daughters. Sam will tell you that. 'A son's a son till he takes a wife. But a daughter's a daughter all of her life.' My mother always said that, but if truth be known my brother was a better daughter to our mother than I ever was." She chuckled.

"I'll make the whipped cream," Emily said. "It won't take long. Check to see if the men want coffee or tea. And would you take that bottle of ice wine in? The glasses are here on the tray." She pulled out the dark, slender bottle of the sweet dessert wine and handed it to Rina. Then she set about whipping the heavy cream, transferring the finished product into a cut-glass bowl with a scalloped silver spoon to serve it.

They had all decided upon tea, and Rina brewed a large pot of American black-leaf tea from the only tea plantation in the United States that was located outside of Charleston, South Carolina. Emily's friend Savannah Banning had introduced them to it. Emily spooned out the dark-chocolate trifle, adding a lavish dollop of the freshly whipped cream to each serving, and passing the plates around. There was virtual silence as the diners devoured it. Rina was in charge of the teapot and the ice wine.

Finally Michael Devlin pushed back his chair and sighed deeply. "I do not know when I last ate such a grand meal," he said, his green eyes on Emily.

"I'm glad you enjoyed it," she said almost shyly.

Rina saw Devlin's eyes soften. Hoo , boy, she thought. He wants her, all right. I wonder how long it will take for them both to realize it. She looked at her husband and saw that Sam was finally noticing the attraction between Emily and Michael Devlin too. Rina's eyes met her husband's in silent understanding, and Dr. Sam stood up.

"I hate to eat and run," he said, "but I've got rounds at the hospital early. Rina, come! Emily, as always, a wonderful dinner. Thank you, darling, for asking us. Mick, delighted to meet a fellow rare-roast-beef lover. I hope we'll see you again."

"I hope so too, Dr. Sam," Devlin replied.

"I'll see you to the door," Emily said, and she did, waving her two friends off as their car pulled away from in front of her house.

"Where do they live?" Devlin asked. He was standing next to her, she realized.

"A subdivision nearby. It's called Ansley at Egret Pointe," Emily said. "It's the only one in town, and has been there for years."

"When I came through the village I didn't see any serious shopping facilities," he replied, "and that wonderful beef had to have come from a real butcher. Let's sit. It's lovely out here on your big porch."

"The dishes," she protested.

"I'll bet you and Rina have everything in the dishwasher but for the dessert things," he said softly. "It's twilight, and I hear a robin singing. They have the sweetest song, and you hear them only at dusk and at dawn in the spring. Spring is already half-gone, Emily. You won't hear the robins until next year if you miss them now." He sat in a large wicker rocker, motioning her into a nearby chair.

She sat. "I never knew a man who recognized a robin's song, or knew when they sang," she told him quietly.

"I grew up in the country," he said. "Actually, I prefer it to the city."

"I couldn't live in the city," Emily admitted. "My father does, and my mother lives just outside of D.C. But I'm not a city girl at all. I have lived in Egret Pointe my whole life, and I never want to live anywhere else. I suppose that makes me a world class stick-in-the-mud." She laughed. "Did you like living in London? It's a wonderful city."

"I was very fortunate," he said. "I lived in an elegant little row house directly across from a lovely park. Actually, I own it. I've let it out for a year to a wealthy American widow, complete with my butler, Mr. Harrington, until I see how things go now that I'm back. I'm not certain I want to stay here."

"Oh." She sounded disappointed. "Why not?" she asked him. Then, "It's J.P., isn't it? She really is a dreadful creature, but she has made Stratford exceedingly profitable, and in publishing today profit is the name of the game. Martin couldn't do without her."

"You know what's happening then?" he said quietly.

"Yes, I know," Emily answered him candidly. Then she stood up. "I really want to get the table cleared and those dishes started, Mick."

"I'll help," he said, escorting her into the house.

They hardly spoke another word as together they cleared the rest of the dishes and glasses from the table. When everything was in the dishwasher and Emily had started it, she told him to take off the lovely Irish linen cloth that had covered her Duncan Phyfe dining table, and gather up the napkins.

"Essie, my housekeeper, will do them on Monday," she said, putting them in a basket in the laundry room off the big kitchen.

"Is that a laundry tub?" he asked her.

"One of the benefits of living in an old house," she replied as she set up the coffeemaker for the morning. "First one down turns it on," she told him.

"I'm not usually an early riser on Saturdays," he admitted with a grin.

"I thought we were going to work tomorrow," Emily said. "I have so much to tell you, and I've already fleshed out the story, Mick."

"It's still early," he responded. "I thought we might work a little tonight."

"Oh," she replied.

"Or we could sit out on your porch for a while longer, and get to know each other better," he quickly suggested, seeing her dismay. "You aren't a night person, are you, Emily?"

"Not really. My brain functions better when the sun's up," she confessed.

It was almost dark when they came out again to sit on the porch. They watched the night envelop everything about them, and they couldn't even see each other's faces, just their silhouettes. The stars came out to twinkle brightly in the blackness of the firmament. They talked about themselves, learning to become more comfortable with each other as the time slipped by.

"What's that?" he said, suddenly hearing a chiming coming from the village.

"The Episcopal church, St. Luke's, has a clock tower. Didn't you notice it before?" Emily wondered. She had gotten so used to it she rarely ever heard it.

"No, I was too interested in listening to you," he told her. "God, it's eleven o'clock, isn't it? I hadn't realized it was so late."

"Do you turn into a pumpkin at midnight?" she asked mischievously.

He laughed. "Did you leave any lights on in the house?" he asked her.

"I'll go put some on so you don't break your neck coming in," she replied, getting up to do exactly that.

Able to see his way in he thanked her for a lovely evening.

"You have your own bathroom," she told him as he made his way upstairs. "The house may be an antique, but I've modernized all the electric and wiring. And I am the proud possessor of three and a half bathrooms. Get up whenever you want, Mick. Good night," she called to him as he reached the landing.

He looked back, but she was gone. Gone to do what? Lock up? Put away the clean dishes in the dishwasher? Prepare a pan of sweet rolls for the morning? He had enjoyed this evening. Enjoyed the food, the Seligmanns, Emily. Closing the door of his bedroom he looked about him. The furniture was American Empire, large and mahogany. The dresser had carved feet. The big bed was a sleigh bed. He turned on the bedside lamp and, taking down the simple heavy white cotton coverlet, he folded it neatly and placed it on the spread rack at the foot of the bed. He stripped off his clothing and hung it up and, after walking into the bathroom, showered. Dried off, he opened one of the bedroom windows and climbed into the bed naked. He always slept naked. The bed was made European style, with just a bottom sheet and a down coverlet. It all smelled of lavender, and was surprisingly comfortable. He turned off the bedside lamp.

He wasn't yet sleepy. He heard Emily come upstairs, and listened to hear where she would go. He heard a bath running, and imagined her naked amid a tub of bubbles. She had little round breasts. He could tell that from the way her blouse clung. Were her nipples small or large? Dusky or a perky, pinker flesh? Her slacks had revealed by their fit a deliciously round little bottom. He imagined smacking that tempting little butt until she was wet with her desire, and ready to be mounted. He groaned softly and reached down to rub his dick, which was distended and hard with his lascivious thoughts. What the hell was the matter with him? He barely knew the girl, and if she was thirty-one, with no husband or visible male friend, it might be that men weren't her preference. Which, of course, didn't stop him from desiring her. She couldn't be gay. But there was an innocence, an untouched quality about her that just begged to be explored. And that was so damned unprofessional.

Martin Stratford had brought him back to the States for a reason. He couldn't disappoint him by losing his reason and fucking the ears off of Martin's prize writer. He had to get Emily to write a more sexually involved novel. The days of Georgette Heyer and Barbara Cartland were long over. Oh, there was a small, loyal market for those books, but it wasn't enough to generate the kind of profit a publishing house had to generate these days. Every book had to be an instant hit. A moneymaker.

Stratford did have the benefit of being a family-owned company-one of two left in the business. It allowed them the advantage of patience that the big conglomerate-owned publishing houses no longer had. Michael Devlin knew he could bring out more in Emily Shanski than she ever imagined she had in her. Make her books more profitable, which, of course, was a double-edged sword. If The Defiant Duchess turned out to be a really big hit among the readers-so much so that they bought it new rather than secondhand-one of the bigger companies might try to snap Emily up. She had a good track record. Her agent was no fool. He would want the best deal for his client.

Rachel had let Emily continue to write basically the same books. Maybe she hadn't seen it. Maybe her age finally caught up with her, and she was glad to get a clean, well-written manuscript that she didn't have to fuss with a whole lot, or request rewrites with all those deadlines looming. Emily's reputation was one of a writer who turned her work in on time and did her few rewrites, her line and copy editing, her galleys when requested, if not a bit before. She was reliable. There was no temperament involved with Emily Shanski, according to everything he had managed to learn about his new author. He was growing sleepy at last. His hard-on was fading with more sensible thoughts, but he wondered what she was doing as he finally fell asleep.

There had been no light under his door when she came up, Emily had noted. But she had heard the shower running when she was finishing up in the kitchen. He was a well-made man, and didn't appear to have any excess fat on him. No beer belly for Michael Devlin, although he certainly ate like he was starving, she remembered with a smile. She liked a man who enjoyed his food. And he hadn't sat back and let her do all the cleaning up. He had pitched right in to help her. His Irish grandma's influence, no doubt, Emily thought with another smile.

Then her thoughts turned, and she wondered what he looked like beneath those tailored slacks and that obviously custom-made shirt. One button had been open at the top of that shirt. She had seen no chest hair poking out. The bit of skin revealed had been smooth. She thought about what it would be like to run the palms of her hands over that skin. Was it soft? Was he hard beneath? He looked like he might be fit and hard.

The water in her tub was cooling. She quickly washed and stepped out, damp-drying herself with her washcloth, then using her towel to finish the job. Naked, Emily walked into her bedroom and looked critically at herself in the large mirror that stood on the floor. She certainly wasn't skinny, like his model friend must have been. She had inherited her Irish family's delicate bone structure, but she had meat on those bones like her Polish relations, and she wore a size twelve. Twelve was considered a larger size in this day and age. Would he think she was fat? Was she pretty enough to seduce a man who had been bedding English nobility?

She stared hard into the mirror. Her breasts were nice. Small, but perfectly rounded. Her hips were a little wide, but they were nicely curved, and her thighs, thanks to her regimen at the Awesome Woman gym, were slender. She peered over her shoulder at her butt. Fleshy, but firm and shapely. Okay, so she wasn't a model, but she had a nice body. He'd either like it or he wouldn't. But it didn't make any difference as long as she could get him to seduce her so she could then write about sexual encounters, and know what the hell she was really talking about.

She wondered how many times she would have to do it with him. Would once be enough? What if they had to do it more than once, and he didn't like the way she did it, and he wouldn't continue? Well, then she would simply go to her duke. Hadn't he implied that once she lost her virginity he was there to take over for Devlin? Maybe not exactly, but she had understood that once she had experienced passion in her own reality, it could also be there for her in the reality of the Channel.

But how was she ever going to seduce Michael Devlin? He was very sophisticated, and his reputation was that of a man who chose his own women, made his own decisions. All the books she had showing in copious and colorful detail the sexual encounter, the positions, and how they could be done offered nothing on how to get a man to do them. What had Savannah said? "Throw yourself on his mercy"? "You're just his type"? Emily wouldn't have thought an urbane guy like Devlin would look seriously at her twice. But then, maybe he was bored with his elegant and worldly women. Maybe. Just maybe a little country girl who needed his help would appeal to him. Could she pull it off without making a complete fool of herself? Well, she was going to find out soon enough. Picking up her sleep shirt from the chair where she had put it earlier, Emily slipped it on, wondering if she should maybe go down to Lacy Nothings in the village tomorrow and pick out something sexier in which to be seduced. Or would that be much too patent? A soft old cotton sleep shirt was hardly the garment in which to be seduced. She'd wager his women all wore elegant silk-and-lace lingerie when they bedded Mick Devlin. But wouldn't it look obvious if she did? As if she were expecting him to make love to her? Undecided, Emily climbed into her bed. She was in a dreamless sleep before she even knew it. It had been a long, hard day. And it was surely going to get harder before it got easier.