Forbidden Pleasure

_{Chapter 5}

The Tuesday-morning editorial meeting at Stratford Publishing was coming to a close. At one end of the conference table Martin Stratford sat considering, as he swirled the remaining coffee at the bottom of his cup, just how many of these meetings he had attended over the last forty years. He was anxious to get to his summer home on the North Fork of Eastern Long Island. It was mid-July, and the city was untenable. At the other end of the table his company's president, J. P. Woods, sat looking as cool and unruffled as she always did. Martin considered for a moment whether J.P. ever broke a sweat. There was never a hair out of place on the damned woman, but she knew how to run a publishing house. He'd give her that. Still, she wasn't the best-liked person in their industry, which was why he was considering someone else to sit in his chair next year.

"Devlin!" J.P.'s voice grated on her employer's ear. "What about Emilie Shann? How is her book coming? Are we going to have another three hundred and fifty pages of treacle? Or is she finally letting her heroine get screwed?"

Martin Stratford raised an eyebrow at J.P.'s crudeness. "Language, J.P.," he said in a warning tone.

"The book is coming along very well, J.P.," Michael Devlin answered coolly.

"You've seen it? Is it going to be on time? Or is Miss Prim and Proper going to be late, and have the vapors because she has to write about sex?"

Some of the young editors about the table giggled.

"Has Emilie Shann ever been late with her work, J.P.?" Devlin asked softly.

"You've seen the book? Read some of what she's written?" J.P. persisted.

"I've been in Egret Pointe every weekend all summer," he replied. "And I've rented Aaron Fischer's cottage for August. Trust me, J.P. The book is going to be good, and the heroine is going to be sexually satisfied. And we will increase her readership quite substantially for us all, with the right promotion and advertising."

"Miss Prim and Proper can sell on her name," J.P. said.

"Martin?" Devlin turned to the company head. "We've asked Emily to change her style and inject more sex into her book. We need advertising and promotion to acknowledge that change in order to attract new readers. Sales need to reflect that change when they head out to sell The Defiant Duchess."

"She already has a readership, Devlin," J.P. said.

"You asked her to make this change to increase her readership. Secondhand sales put nothing in our pocket, J.P., nor in Emily's royalty statements to reduce her advance. This book has to be heavily promoted first with the distributors and chains, and then with the readers. May I remind you it's the last book on her current contract? This book is going to be very big, J.P. And if we don't have Emily tied up tightly for another few books, someone is going to sign her right out from under our noses. Aaron Fischer isn't a fool. Or maybe you're looking to get into a bidding war for the author who is responsible for at least a quarter of this company's revenues."

"It's that good?" Martin Stratford turned to look at the man on his right.

"It's that good, Martin," Michael Devlin assured him. "It's the best work she's done yet. She's stretching herself, and even I'm surprised at the depth and scope of this book. The readers are going to love it. And so will our bottom line."

"Then," Martin Stratford said, "we'll take your advice, and promote. Right, J.P.?"

"If you say so, Martin," J.P. answered him. She shot Michael Devlin a hard look. "You have to go to London before your vacation, Devlin. Prunella is having difficulties with Savannah Banning. I think she misses having you near her to keep her inspired," J.P. said with a double meaning intended to insult him."

"Lady Palmer does not need me for inspiration. She has her husband. I am not going to London. I will call Prunella and learn what she has to say, and then I will speak with Lady Palmer."

"If I say you have to go to London, Devlin, you will go," J. P. Woods snapped.

Around the table the young editors were shifting nervously in their seats and trying to avoid eye contact with one another. The tension between their editor in chief, who was a good guy, and the company president who scared the hell out of them, was well-known. But until this moment they had never seen it so palpably.

"I think this meeting is over now," Martin Stratford said quietly. "Run along, people. J.P, Devlin. Stay!"

"You bastard!" J.P. hissed furiously at her antagonist. "How dare you embarrass me like that in front of staff?"

"Listen to me, you little bitch," Michael Devlin said angrily. "Don't you dare imply that I slept with Savannah Banning. For openers it isn't true, and you not only slander Lady Palmer and her husband, you slander me. Shoot your mouth off like that, and Stratford could be in for a lawsuit. And why the hell are you gunning for Emily Shanski? What did that woman ever do to you? She's important to this company."

"Children, children," Martin Stratford said in a deceptively mild tone. "Play nice. Mick is right, Jane Patricia. You started it. It ends now! And Mick, I am well aware of Emily's value to Stratford. I've always taken care of her, and she has always taken care of us. She isn't going anywhere. Do you both understand me?"

"Thanks, Martin," Michael Devlin said, the fires of his anger easing.

"I'm not so stupid as to sabotage our writers," J. P. Woods muttered.

Devlin crooked an eyebrow, but said nothing.

"I would ask you two to kiss and make up," Martin Stratford said with some humor, "but I've succeeded in this business by never asking the impossible of my employees. Mick, if you can straighten out Prunella and Savannah Banning by phone that's fine with me. Do it. I know you only travel first-class, and if I'm going to be spending my money to properly promote The Defiant Duchess then I have to save where I can," he said with a small smile. "Now, is it safe to leave the pair of you alone? I would like to get out to Orient in time for a late lunch. I've never been to Egret Pointe, Mick. What is it like?"

"New Englandy," Michael Devlin answered. "Charming little village, lovely, gracious homes. And the inn at East Harbor has a delightful restaurant. Aaron and Kirk's cottage looks like something out of the Devon countryside. I'm looking forward to August, even though it will be a working vacation."

"The book really is good?" J. P. Woods said.

"It's really good," Michael Devlin answered her.

"I'll look forward to reading it," J.P. responded. "I didn't think she could do it. She always struck me as overly genteel and prudish. I mean, she's in her thirties, unmarried, raised by two old ladies. What the hell could she know about the down and dirty? She was so tight with Rachel I often wondered if she wasn't a lesbian."

Michael Devlin laughed aloud. He couldn't help it. "Haven't you ever heard that old saying about still waters running deep?" he asked her. My God! If she only knew how wild and passionate Emily Shanski was. His dick twitched, and he struggled to keep himself cool and under control. He couldn't think about Emily without wanting her.

"Old sayings are usually nothing more than old sayings," J.R replied.

"Not always," Martin Stratford murmured, looking at Michael Devlin curiously from over the top of his reading glasses. Mick, Mick, what are you up to? he wondered to himself. Was one of the best editors he knew getting involved with a writer? No. Mick was more professional than that. He would never do that. Would he? "If you two can refrain from killing each other," he said, "I'm going to head out to the Island now. Mick, keep me informed about the Lady Palmer problem. You have the number out there, or my assistant can give it to you." He stood up, and with a quick smile at them was out the door.

"The company is mine," J.P. said. "I've worked for it, and I'm not letting you come back from London and take it out from under me. Do you understand, Mick?"

"Don't get your knickers in a twist, J.P.," Michael Devlin told her. "I don't want the company. I'm an editor. A damned good editor. And that's what I want to keep doing. There will always be a job for me. Even in this corporate climate, J.P."

"I don't wear knickers," J. P. Woods said.

Michael Devlin laughed. "Why am I not surprised?"

"You really don't want Stratford?" She sounded almost anxious.

He sighed. "No, I don't. But don't tell Martin. Let him play out his little game with us, and believe that he really did make the choice all by himself. If you can't work with me I can go back to London and Random House. They never get tired of offering."

"It would be easier if you stayed," she admitted. "I know I'm not the most beloved person in this business. Besides, I can't afford to lose the editor who got Miss Prim and Proper to write sexy. How did you do it?"

"Trade secret, J.P., but maybe I will tell you one day." He couldn't laugh. He couldn't give himself away. Not now. And he couldn't hurt Emily or put her in a difficult position. "Look, I'm good at what I do. There's really nothing more to it than that. I've always been good with writers. It's an empathy thing. Look how I got Lady Palmer to get her manuscripts in on time when no one else had been able to do that."

"How did you do it?" J.P. wanted to know.

"Savannah's brain is usually cluttered with her stories. I showed her how to organize her time better. No magic. No smoke and mirrors. Every editor she had had before me was in awe of her. They let her get away with murder. I didn't. And as soon as we understood each other, it all fell into place," he explained. "Writers are human, J.P. But they need a little more cosseting in most cases than normal people."

"Do you cosset Emilie Shann?" J.P. asked slyly.

"As a matter of fact, she cossets me. She's a terrific cook. I'm going to miss my weekends just because of her cooking," he said. "I've had to work out harder at the gym after our working weekends." He chuckled. Information for J.P. to chew on, but safe information. It retained Emily's nonthreatening image in J.P.'s mind.

"Of course she would cook," J.P. said acidly. "Does she do trifle?"

"Trifle to die for, and her creme brulee is incredible," he answered.

"Jesus, don't say another word!" J.P. exclaimed. "I'm going to throw up." She looked at her watch. "Crap! I've got a distributor coming in shortly." She turned sharply, and was quickly gone from the conference room with, out another word to him.

Well, that was interesting, Devlin thought, and he headed for his office.

"Savannah Banning is on the line from England," his secretary said. "She's in high dudgeon, Mick. She insisted on holding until you came out of your meeting."

"How long?"

"Close to five minutes now," the secretary said.

"I don't want to be disturbed," he told her, and shut the door of his office behind him, then picked up the phone. "Savannah! How are you? I understand we have a spot of difficulty. How can I help you?"

"You can help me by getting your Irish arse back to old Blighty, damn it!" Savannah exploded. "That woman is an idiot, Mick! She doesn't understand me at all!"

"I'm not coming back to England, Savannah," he said quietly.

There was a long silence on the other end of the line, and then Savannah said, "How is Emily?"

"Fine," he answered her. "We're talking about you, Savannah. Prunella just takes a bit of getting used to, sweetie. She's never worked with an American before."

"She wants a detailed outline. She says sales needs it," Savannah wailed.

"I'll call her and explain you don't waste your time with outlines," he said quietly.

"She wants to see pieces of the manuscript," Savannah told him.

"I'll tell her you deliver a completed manuscript, and not bits," Mick responded. "What else?"

"She isn't you!" And Savannah Banning began to cry.

Michael Devlin laughed softly. "I miss you too, sweetie. And I miss old Reg, and the kids, and those great family weekends down in Suffolk. But I suspect I'm back in the Colonies to stay. We're both going to have to get used to it."

"Then Martin is going to put you in charge," Savannah said.

"I hope not," Michael Devlin replied. "I like what I do, and J.P. is really more suited to run a publishing house than I am."

"You could learn," Savannah sniveled.

"I could, but I don't want to," he told her. "I just want to edit my books. I'll make it all right between you and old Pruny, Savannah. Okay?"

"Okay," she agreed. "Now, tell me about you and Emily."

"There's nothing to tell," he lied.

"Bullshit!" Savannah said.

"Lady Palmer!" Michael Devlin exclaimed. "I'm shocked. Shocked."

"I hope you've become lovers, Mick. She such a sweetie, and she needs a good man," Savannah told him.

"Savannah, do not disparage my reputation. I pride myself on being a bad boy, and you know it," he told her. "Remember all my fun miniscandals in London over the past few years. By the by, do the girls miss me?"

"Mick, you are such a silly man sometimes," Savannah remarked. "Was she a virgin? I somehow thought she might be."

"Savannah," he warned. "Remember we're on a company phone. Now if there is nothing else, I'm going to ring off. I'll call Pruny tomorrow. She'll be gone from the office by now with the time change. Say hi to Reg and the children for me. Ta." He put the telephone down while at the same time reaching for his cell and punching in the number one.

"Hello?" Emily's voice came through clear and sweet.

"I miss you," he said.

"It's only been a day, Devlin," she answered him.

"A day and a half," he corrected her. "I drove back late Sunday afternoon. Just another week, and we've got an entire month to ourselves."

"Devlin, I have to work if this book is going to be in on time," she reminded him.

"I want to be inside of you," he murmured. "I sent you that little toy for times like this. When we aren't together, I want to play phone games with you."

"Devlin!" she pleaded.

"Get it," he said. "I need you!"

"Hold on. I hid it so Essie wouldn't find it," she half whispered.

"I thought you didn't let her in your office," he said.

"I don't, but you never know. Okay, I've got it." Emily was already feeling a twinge of excitement. The sound of his voice on the phone could make her wet.

"Take it out of the box, angel face. Realistic, isn't it?" he teased.

"Looks just like you, Devlin," she teased back.

"What are you wearing?" he asked her.

"Never got out of my sleep shirt this morning," she told him.

"Hold it in your right hand," he instructed her. "Start licking it. And use your left hand to play with yourself. I want you nice and wet, angel face," he told her as he unzipped his slacks and released his penis, which was already partly swollen with just the sound of her voice. He imagined her leaning back in her big leather chair, the sleep shirt hiked to her waist, the softness of her smooth, rounded hips against the black leather.

"Ohh, Devlin, this is so good," Emily whispered into the telephone. "Ummm. Ummm. Ummmmm." She began to suck vigorously on the dildo in her hand. It had been made to duplicate Michael Devlin's long, thick cock in full flagrante. It was made of a natural colored rubber, and spitted on a twisted rod of polished ashwood.

"Are you playing with your clit?" he wanted to know. The sucking noises were driving him wild. He could almost feel her mouth on his penis.

"Are you playing with your dick?" she countered.

"I am so hard you could break it off." He groaned.

"I'm so wet that Mr. Naughty is going to slip right in and go all the way," she replied. "I've got it ready, Devlin. Do you want me to shove it in? Do you?" Her voice was breathy with her excitement.

"Not yet. I want you to want it a little more, angel face," he teased her.

"You're going to come all over your office, Devlin, if you don't stop," she said. "Better let me fuck myself now so you can cool off."

"Bitch!" He groaned. She was right. He reached for his handkerchief to contain the spurts of cum he couldn't contain any longer.

"Ahhhhhh! Oh, God, that feels good!" She thrust the dildo back and forth in her vagina until, with a long exhalation of a sigh, she came. "But it's not as good as the real thing, Devlin, is it?" she complained. "I miss you too."

"I talked with Lady P today. She sends kisses," he told her.

"I'll e-mail her later," Emily responded. "And as lovely as this interlude was, I think we both have to get back to work, Devlin."

"Yeah." He sighed. "I've got a lunch date with some sexy new author."

"Think of me when you're with her," Emily told him.

"That's the problem. If I think of you I'll get a hard-on. We wouldn't want another woman getting the wrong idea, now, angel face, would we?"

Emily laughed. "Good-bye, Devlin," she said as she hung up the phone. She hadn't answered his question. She couldn't. But the truth was, she didn't want him with any other woman. Almost eleven weeks ago Michael Devlin had walked into her life. She had lost her virginity and fallen in love for the first time. What an idiot she was. She was in love with a man who owned a house in London, and had women with titles fighting over him. "You have finally gone around the bend, Emily," she said aloud.

She had seduced him in order to experience sex so she could write the kind of novel Stratford wanted her to write now. She had blackmailed him into becoming her lover, and teaching her all those wonderful, delicious, and sensual things she needed to know. He thought of her as business, and nothing more. Oh, pleasant business, to be sure-for both of them, if she were being honest with herself. But she had no business falling in love with a man like Michael Devlin. He was going to break her heart. But until then she was going to enjoy every minute of her time with him. Autumn was coming. The book would be finished by November, the way she was writing. And then it would be over.

Emily started to cry. She didn't want it to be over. She wanted it to go on forever and ever. Her heroines got happy endings. Why couldn't she have a happy ending? Her intercom buzzed. Emily struggled to compose herself. "Yes, Essie, what is it?"

"Rina's here. She says you were to have lunch. You didn't tell me you were having company. I was doing your grandma's silver," Essie grumbled.

"We're going out, Essie. That's why I didn't tell you to fix lunch," Emily replied. "Tell Rina I'll be down in five minutes."

"Oh, that's okay then," Essie said, and the intercom went dead.

Emily sat for a long moment. Then, realizing the dildo was lying on her desk and her sleep shirt was up around her waist, she began to giggle helplessly. Good thing Rina hadn't come up, she thought, and found her with her legs spread open on her antique desk, fucking herself while she talked dirty on the phone with her editor. She wiped the dildo down with water from her water pitcher, and replaced it in the cream-and-gold silk box it had come in before putting it back in her bottom desk drawer, which she locked. Standing, she pulled her sleep shirt down. Then she hurried downstairs to her bathroom to wash her face and hands, get quickly dressed, and run a brush through her tangled strawberry-blond hair.

"You look cute," Rina noted as Emily came down the stairs. "I like the capris."

"Where are we going?" Emily asked her.

"I thought the club," Rina said. "It's quiet there with so many kids still in camp."

"Essie, I'm going now," Emily called to her housekeeper.

They drove to the Egret Pointe Country Club in Rina's Lexus, parked, and went through the bar to the terrace by the pool, seating themselves beneath an umbrella table. The waiter brought them peach iced tea, took their orders, and disappeared. No one was swimming, and there was only one other couple across the pool at a table. Emily recognized Nora Buckley and her employer, Kyle Barrington.

"He is so dishy," she remarked to Rina.

"Isn't he?" Rina chuckled. "But as was said of Lord Byron, mad, bad, and dangerous to know. At least, that's his reputation. I hear he's broken up one marriage and endangered at least two others. And he seems to do it just for the pure sport of it. He really isn't interested at all in the women he screws. I don't know how Nora manages to work for him, but she says he's a good employer, is nice to her, and hasn't hit on her."

"I think Nora's the nice one," Emily remarked. "And so brave, after everything that happened. She's your neighbor, isn't she?"

Rina nodded. "Yes, and she is nice. Ah, here's lunch."

The waiter set down salad plates, each holding a scoop of chicken salad, potato salad, and cole slaw along with a sliced tomato. The two women ate, and Emily was unable to resist dipping into the breadbasket for a miniature blueberry muffin. Sex always increased her appetite.

Rina chuckled as her companion reached for a second muffin. "The work is going well then," she said.

"Yep." Emily nodded, smearing soft butter on the little muffin and popping it into her mouth. "I would never have thought I could write like this, but I can!"

"And having your handsome editor in your bed every weekend hasn't hurt either," Rina murmured softly. She reached for the last little muffin.

"And I'm using the Channel too," Emily admitted. "I was always an observer before, but now I put myself in the heroine's slippers, Rina. The duke looks just like Devlin, but his personality is quite different."

Rina's brown eyes widened. "You're having sex there too?" she practically whispered. "My God! I thought you looked tired lately, but I put it down to the stress of work, and having to change your style so drastically. Emily, I'm not sure you should be doing what you're doing in the Channel. Oh, I know a lot of women take lovers there because they can't be caught or get STDs or get pregnant. And after a while most women need a bit of a change from their spouses. The Channel offers us our fantasies without any of the guilt we would have in our own reality. But I think you're playing a dangerous game, Emily, honey."

Emily shook her head. "Look, Devlin is doing what he's doing with me to help me over the-you'll forgive the analogy- hump and into a new style. He's my editor. It's his job. But once the book is done it will be over. I'll just have the lovers I take in the Channel. I think he might even go back to London."

"He's in love with you," Rina said quietly.

"No, he isn't!" Emily exclaimed. And she sighed wistfully.

"Sweetie, I could be your mother. I know these things. I recognize the signs. I've seen Michael Devlin with you. I've seen both of you in East Harbor at least twice. Once you were having a cozy luncheon in a corner of the Lobster Trap. Sam and I had been antiquing and were going there for lunch when we saw you. We stayed outside on the terrace so that you wouldn't see us and be embarrassed. It was obvious you just wanted to be with each other. Then we saw you another time at the inn when we went out for the anniversary. Oh, Emily! The way he looks at you. He isn't treating you like an editor with a writer. He's treating you like a man in love. Give him a chance, and you'll see."

"It's nothing more than a business arrangement, Rina. You'll see," Emily said softly, and she blinked back the tears that were threatening to well up in her blue eyes.

Rina smiled and shook her head. "No, you'll see I'm right."

"Dessert menu, ladies?" the waiter asked, coming up beside them.

Rina gave him a jaundiced look.

The waiter grinned and handed them the menus.

"I'll take the key lime pie," Rina said quickly.

"I want the three-berry sorbet," Emily decided. "What kinds today?"

"A scoop each, strawberry, raspberry, and blackberry," the waiter answered.

"Yum! Make it so," Emily told the waiter, who grinned at her Star Trek reference, and went off to fetch their desserts.

The couple on the other side of the pool got up and wended their way through the large planters of New Guinea impatiens, petunias, and trailing vinca to stop at their table. Rina and Nora Buckley greeted each other affectionately, while the tall, dark, and handsome Kyle Barrington stood waiting impassively.

"You know Emily Shanski, don't you, Nora?" Rina asked.

"I remember you as a young girl," Nora said, "and I certainly enjoy your books. How is your new one coming along, my dear?"

"Very well, thank you," Emily answered, wondering how Nora Buckley knew she was in the midst of a new book.

"How are the kids?" Rina asked. "I haven't seen you in ages."

"My job keeps me busy," Nora answered. "The kids are fine. Jill starts her last year at Duke Law in a few weeks, and J.J. is going into his junior year at State. And I have terrific news: Margo has finally agreed to marry Taylor. She kept turning him down because she said she didn't want to be widowed again. Turns out he's five years younger than my mother." She laughed.

"Nora."

"Oh, I'm sorry, Mr. Barrington. We really have to go, Rina. Call me. Bye, Emily. Nice to see you again." And then Nora was gone.

"He's even dishier close up," Emily remarked when the couple were out of hearing. "But he's got cold eyes. And he makes me nervous just being around him."

"Mad, bad, and dangerous to know," Rina repeated. "But Nora seems to do well with him, and she loves her job. He's quite the expert on seventeenth- and eighteenth-century English and American furniture, if you ever want anything in the house appraised for insurance purposes," Rina remarked.

"No use insuring antiques if you love them, my grandmother always said. If they're stolen or lost in a fire, money won't bring them back," Emily said.

They ate their dessert, and then Rina drove Emily back to her house. "When do you see Devlin again?" she asked as they drove along the tree-lined road.

"Well, he won't be staying with me in August because he's got Aaron's cottage," Emily replied. "I've got the book pretty much under control now."

"But you don't have yourself under control," Rina said. "Are you in love with him, Emily?"

"Doesn't matter if I am," came the reply.

"I told you that he's in love with you," Rina continued.

"I don't think he is, and I'm not going to embarrass him by declaring myself," Emily told her friend. "My God, Rina, what a wedge that would drive between us. He could never edit me if I went all mushy-gushy on him. And he is a good editor. Best I've ever had. Rachel was good, but Devlin's better, I have to admit."

"There's a lovely hot tub at the cottage out on the back deck," Rina informed Emily. "It's very, very private too." She grinned mischievously at her younger companion. "Sam and I did it there once when the boys weren't home."

"Too much information!" Emily said laughing. "I don't ever want to think of my doctor as having sex with his wife, who's like a second mother to me."

Rina chuckled as she pulled up to Emily's big house. "Hey, I'm not dead yet, kiddo," she told Emily.

"Never said you were, Rina, and never thought it either," Emily responded as she got out of the Lexus. "Thanks for lunch." She hurried into the house.

"Your office phone rang while you were gone," Essie said. "I finished your grandma's silver, and now I'm going home." She went out the door Emily had just entered. "Sounded like your agent."

"I'll check. Thanks," Emily called to her housekeeper's retreating back.

She ran upstairs to find a message from Aaron. She punched in his private number. "What's up?" she asked when he answered.

"Good news! Good news! J. P. Woods called me today. She wants to make us a new offer." His voice was brimming with his delight.

"And you told her…?"

"When I got back from Italy." Aaron chuckled. "I said there wasn't any time to negotiate anything to our mutual satisfaction right now. Your editor must be pleased."

"He seems to be," Emily replied smoothly. "We'll do some work while he's here. And I'll have him hire Essie to keep the place neat. Single straight men can be messy."

"Thank you, my darling. Tell Mick the gardener will be in once a week, so not to be surprised when Tony shows up. I probably won't talk to him before we go."

"When are you going?" she wanted to know.

"Tomorrow night," Aaron said.

"Have fun on Capri," she told him.

Aaron Fischer chuckled. "Ciao, bella!" he told her, and rang off.

Emily put down the phone. She had heard from Devlin this morning and Aaron this afternoon. In just a few hours the Channel would be up and running. She had a very passionate scene she wanted her duchess to play out with the duke. He has suddenly discovered her secret absences from Malincourt, and is suspicious. She must lull him into a sense of security, but he will not be soothed. And Caro uses her sexual wiles to distract her husband from learning about her secret life. Yes. Her character of the duchess had grown from a vengeful and determined girl into a powerful woman who would control her own life at any cost. It was up to Justin Trahern to save Caro from herself.

Emily had been going over some rather interesting pictures in one of her sexual research books. It offered a variety of positions she considered downright acrobatic, but some of them were quite conducive to the year 1793. Especially the one using the elegant tapestried wing chair, and another where a small silk cushioned side chair was utilized. The footstool she considered boring and a bit acrobatic. There had also been pictures of threesomes, which fascinated her, but there was no way to fit that kind of play into The Defiant Duchess. She giggled. But she would have to consider it for another book. Wouldn't J. P. Woods be surprised!

After their lovely lunch at the club she really wasn't hungry for the supper that Essie had left in the fridge for her to heat up. Instead Emily made herself a bacon-and-tomato sandwich with lots of mayo. Nothing tasted better than bacon and tomato when the tomatoes were in season. She had a basket of them on the kitchen table, courtesy of Essie's garden. She sat eating slowly, sipping her iced tea, waiting for eight o'clock to come so she could get to work. Well, maybe work wasn't quite the word she wanted.

The phone rang, and she picked it up. "Hello?"

"Just forty-eight more hours, and I'll be with you again," Michael Devlin's voice purred in her ear. "I miss you much too much, angel face."

"I already talked to you today," Emily teased him.

"Am I to be rationed then?" he demanded to know.

"I'll think about it." she answered.

"Are you working?" he wanted to know. "I can forgive you if I disturbed the muse, angel face." His voice was warm, and the very sound of it sent ripples of excitement down her spine.

"I just took a break to make a sandwich," she told him. God, she wanted him here! Wanted his strong arms around her, kissing the side of her neck, her shoulder, his breath warm and moist on her skin. She shouldn't love him, but she did.

"Can you spend the weekend at the cottage with me?" he asked her. "I'll stop at Leonardo's in town and pick up a pizza."

"A garbage pizza?" she said. "I can only be bribed for a garbage pizza."

"Your wish is my command, lady," he told her.

"Then I'll bring the salad and a bottle of wine," she promised.

"And your little toy," he said. "I'm going to show you something new on Friday night, okay?" He rubbed himself, because just hearing her voice made him hard. No woman had ever had such a strong effect on him as Emily Shanski did. He didn't want their affair to end. He didn't want any other man fucking her. He wasn't quite ready to commit himself to her entirely, but he wasn't a fool. Michael Devlin knew it was just a matter of time before he asked Emily Shanski to marry him.

"Ohh, are we going to be bad, Devlin?" she teased, her voice suddenly very sexy.

"We are going to be very bad," he promised her. "Good night, angel face. Don't work too hard, okay?"

"I'll have some good stuff for you to read on Friday," she promised.

"Saturday morning," he said. "Friday night is already spoken for, angel face."

The phone clicked off.

Emily smiled happily. Although Devlin would never know it, she loved him, and always would. But just maybe the passion they shared didn't have to end when the book was finished. Yet it was business between them. But did it have to be all business? Could either of them be that cold-blooded? Emily knew she wasn't. Yet how was she ever to find out if there was something there besides a mutual desire to keep their careers? Didn't romance authors get to have a happy ending too? Rina said Devlin was in love with her, but was he? Really? Or was Rina just being a wonderfully romantic fool?

The big tall clock in the front hall began to chime the hour. Emily got up from the table, stuck her plate and glass in the dishwasher, locked her kitchen and front doors for the night, then headed upstairs. Undressing, she slipped on one of her comfortable sleep shirts, washed her face and hands, and brushed her teeth. Climbing into bed, she took up the channel changer and clicked her television set on. She punched in the Channel's number, and when the grand entry hall of the duke's home came into view Emily pushed the enter button firmly.

The duchess was standing in the foyer, shaking the rain from her long cape. She turned, startled, at the sound of his voice.

"Where the hell have you been for the last five days, madam?" Justin Trahern demanded of his wife.

"In London," the duchess answered.

"You detest London, and especially in season," he replied.

"Yes, I do," the duchess said. "But my uncle's valet sent for me. The earl was ill, and he feared for him."

"You detest your uncle too," the duke said.

"Detest, milord, is perhaps too strong a word. I neither like nor dislike him. But he is my late father's younger brother. He has no one else but me, and I have an obligation as his blood relation to help him where I can," the duchess said coolly.

"And what illness did he have? Something brought on by too much wine, bad companions, and the riotous living he pursues, I have not a doubt," Justin Trahern sneered. "The man is a lost cause. The title will die with him, for no decent woman will wed him, nor would any decent father give his daughter to Eddis Thornton, despite his ancient title. Not even a rich merchant attempting to vault his family into the nobility with a nubile and well-dowered daughter would have him."

"For which I am very grateful," the duchess replied calmly, "for I mean to have the earldom of Chetwyn for a second son one day, milord. As I am the last of the Thorntons, and you have a good relationship with both the king and the prince, we should be able to manage it once Uncle has drunk himself into his grave."

"So that is why you cosset the man," Justin Trahern remarked with not just a hint of admiration in his voice.

"Yes," the duchess answered in a cold voice.

"Do you give him money?" the duke demanded to know.

"Of course," she said. "God knows I have enough, thanks to my father. His investments in the East India Company paid off quite well. I do not give my uncle a great deal. I pay his valet, his wine bill, and just enough of his gambling debts to allow him to keep gambling."

"Thereby continuing to make him unattractive as husband material, and gently hastening his path to the grave," the duke murmured. "Very clever, my dear. You say you want your family's title for a second son, but we have not even a first son. Or daughter, Caro. And you were not in London, my dear. At least, not at your uncle's."

"How can you possibly know that, milord?" She began to ascend the stairs.

"Because I had you followed," Justin Trahern responded, keeping pace with her. "Do you think I am a fool, Caro? We haven't even been married for a year, and you are always disappearing from Malincourt. You do not take your coach, but ride out alone."

They had reached the top of the stairs, and the duchess almost ran to her rooms.

"Where do you go? Have you a lover? Someone you took when my uncle lay dying?" he wanted to know.

"I think you can have no doubt that I was a virgin when we married," the duchess said coldly. "And I am not a woman to betray her marriage vows. How dare you impugn my honor, milord?" She had reached her chamber door. "Leave me now! I am tired and cold and wet. I wish a hot bath, a tray, and my bed." She looked at him imperiously.

"You may have your hot bath and your tray, madam," he said. "But I will share your bed tonight, for I have lacked your company for many nights."

"You are intolerable!" the duchess said, and she stepped into her chamber, slamming the door in his face behind her.

Behind her the door sprang open, and the duke entered the room. "Get out!" he said sharply to his wife's maid. "Her ladyship will call you when she needs you." He almost shoved the girl from the room. Turning, he said in a deceptively quiet tone, "Now, Caroline, you will tell me exactly where you have been, and with whom you have been consorting. If you do not I shall lock you in this room until you do."

"You wouldn't!" She gasped.

"But I would, madam. Oh, yes, I would," he responded.

"You would not understand, Justin," she said, actually using his name in her despair. "How could you? What could you know of the horror I have seen?"

"I cannot if you do not tell me," he replied in a gentler tone.

She flung herself into his arms, pulling his head down to hers and kissing him passionately. "Make love to me," she begged him. "Oh, please make love to me!"

Their clothing seemed to evaporate as they pulled the garments from each other. Naked, he swept her up in his arms and carried her to the large wing chair by the fire. And all the while they kept kissing each other again and again until both their mouths were bruised and sore from a mixture of both passion and sweetness. They cuddled together, slowly exploring each other's bodies. His big hands cupped her small, perfect breasts, kissing the nipples until they were tightly puckered, like small frostbitten rosebuds. His teeth tenderly scored the sensitive flesh of her bosom.

The duchess sighed with her pleasure as he lifted her to sit facing him and his mouth traveled across her torso. Her fingers entwined themselves in his dark hair, kneading his scalp with her rising desire to be possessed by him. Her slender legs rested on his shoulders. But as eager for her as he was, he was not quite ready to consummate their mutual passion. He licked her body, tasting the saltiness of the sea on her skin. Then, lifting her up, he impaled her onto his engorged lover's lance. She sighed again.

"Now, madam," he said in measured tones, "you will answer my questions or you will gain no further pleasure from me."

Her blue eyes widened with her shock. She could feel his thickness throbbing within her love passage. "Justin," she whimpered. "Please!" She attempted to ride him, but he held her firmly about her narrow waist, his fingers digging cruelly into her flesh. "Please!"

"Where were you?" he demanded once again. "Where?!"

"France." She gasped. "I was in France!"

"You will tell me the rest afterward," he told her, standing. "Put your legs about me, Caro." He walked across the room to her bed and, laying her down, stood over her, fucking her at first slowly, and then with more rapid strokes until she was sobbing for release. A release he was not yet ready to give her. He quickly took his own pleasure, and then withdrew from her heated body. Moving to a table with a basin and pitcher he bathed his satisfied member.

"Bastard!" she hissed at him. She was aching and unsatisfied.

"When you have told me all," the duke said, "I will scratch that naughty itch of yours, my dear. But not until then. Do you understand me?" He climbed into bed, taking his wife into his arms. "Now, why were you in France?"

"Have you heard of Lady Lavender, Justin?"

"The person who rescued the Duchesse d'Almay and her children? Of course. It was the talk of the ton several months ago. Why?"

"I am Lavender, milord. It is I and the women who work with me both here and in France who have been rescuing the victims of tyranny and injustice. Not just the nobility, but decent working people who have been denounced to the Committee for Public Safety. All one need do is drop a paper with a name on it in those boxes they now have in Paris and every small town in France. Today we brought back a vineyard owner, his wife, his old mother, her elderly maid, and three children. On our last trip it was the Comtesse d'Islay, her maid, and the old seamstress who had sewn for the comtesse for years. And Justin, there are so many more who need our help."

He was astounded by her confession, and then he grew angry. "How dare you endanger yourself, Caro! And who are the women who work with you? You all put yourselves at risk! It stops now! Do you comprehend me? It stops now!"

"No! No!" she cried to him. "There are too many who still must be rescued!"

"I cannot have the woman I love putting herself at risk like this," Justin Trahern told his wife. "I love you, Caro! Do you understand that? I love you! Even if you do not love me, I love you! I have since the first day we met, and I learned to my grief that you were my uncle's bride. I have waited patiently to have you. I will not lose you now!"

"Ohh, Justin," the duchess cried softly. "I love you too. From the first day we met, and I was your uncle's wife. But he understood young love, and that is why he arranged for us to marry when he was dead. He knew neither of us would ever betray him while he lived. He was such a fine man, just like my father. That is why they were best friends. And that is why he agreed to marry me, so my fortune would be protected from Eddis Thornton when my father died. My uncle had the title by right of succession, but father's fortune was his to disburse as he chose. My uncle would have run right through it, and sold me to the highest bidder to feed his bad habits."

"If you love me then why do you put yourself in such mortal danger?" the duke wanted to know.

The duchess sighed deeply. "My mother was French, Justin. She was the Duke of Medoro's oldest daughter. Grandfather had no sons, only three daughters: Claire, my mother, Justine, and Louisa. Every summer my mother and I would go to France to stay with my grandfather and his family. The summer I was sixteen my father was not pleased to have us go. He said it was much too dangerous. It was the year after La Bastille. There was much unrest. But Mama assured him it was Normandy, not Paris, and that all would be well, and grandfather was ill. So we went.

"My father was right. On that first anniversary of the revolution a mob came to the chateau. When my grandfather protested this invasion they killed him. Some of the servants fled, but many of them, along with Mama and me, my tante Justine and her little boys, and my tante Louisa, who was just two years older than I, were taken into the cellars of the chateau and imprisoned. Mama's maid, however, had escaped the chateau. She fled directly to the coast, found passage to England, and hurried to Chetwyn to tell Papa what had happened."

His arms tightened about her, and he kissed her brow. "You need not speak of it again if it disturbs you, Caro," he murmured.

"No, Justin, you must understand why I do what I do," she told him. "The servants were terrorized into telling the most awful lies. A footman was made to say he was the father of my tante Justine's sons. They were taken from her. They were only three and five. Several weeks later she was allowed to see them. They spit on her and called her a dirty aristo. She never saw them again. Nor her husband, who had been in Paris with the new government, attempting to make order of chaos.

"But that was not the worst. The men in charge began taking the women servants in the night. Some returned; some didn't. They were being raped, of course. Then one day they came for me. My mother begged the man in charge to take her instead. She told them she was the wife of an Englishman, and that her daughter was English. That my father would pay a goodly ransom for my safe return, but only if I was returned untouched. They took us both, and I was forced to watch while my mother was raped over and over again. And then they brought my tante Justine to be raped. Each time I tried to look away they beat me. My mother and aunt both died, and I was dragged back to the cellars to weep with my tante Louisa. They came for her several days later, and I was again forced to watch their brutality. My youngest aunt was a virgin. When they learned that, nothing was too bestial for them. She too died at the hands of the Revolution.

"Several more days passed, and at last they came for me again. I thought surely this time it would be my turn to be raped until I died. But instead my father was there with the revolutionary captain who held grandfather's chateau. I was a fortunate little aristo, he told me. My father had paid a great deal of money for my safe return, and because I was English-and he spit after the word-I would be permitted to leave. Captain Ar-naud. I will always remember him, and his toady, Citizen Leon. And I will not rest until I have revenged my grandfather, my mother, her sisters, and all our family on these wretches. Rescuing others from them is the only way I can, Justin. You must let me continue! You must! They threw the bodies of those they slew into a common pit. There is not even a marker to remember them. My mother's house was a great and noble one, and now it is gone. They are gone. All gone." And the duchess began to weep bitterly.

"I will help you have your revenge," Justin Trahern promised, "but this must end."