The Color of Love

Chapter Eleven

Emily sat behind her desk, a cup of tea she couldn’t remember making cooling in front of her, an untouched pile of manuscripts on one side and her laptop open and waiting for her by her right hand. She didn’t drink the tea, scan her emails, make a list of the manuscripts she intended to review that afternoon, or schedule the author calls she wanted to make before lunch. She didn’t pull up the latest marketing plans for the fall release schedule from their biggest publishing clients. She didn’t get to the proposals from the rights department on what titles to present at the International Rights Conference.

She didn’t do anything at all except gather her scattered wits and struggle for some kind of perspective. The panic ballooning in her chest, making her breath short and her head light, was totally unwarranted. The last twenty-four hours had shaken her world, but she could fix that—she’d been through far worse. She just needed to be rational and ignore the fear clutching at her throat. She’d survived the phone call that had destroyed life as she’d known it when she was eighteen years old. Of course she could handle a passing disruption now. She had to.

Emily sipped her cooling tea, pleased that her hand was not shaking. There. Better. The constriction in her chest eased and she mentally ticked off what she knew, and what she needed to know. First and most importantly, Donatella Agnelli’s reign would only be temporary. Henrietta would be back soon and everything would return to normal. Even as she thought it, wished it, she knew it wouldn’t be true. Henrietta would be fine, everyone knew that, but she wouldn’t be able to run the agency as she always had, with a finger in everything, working fifteen-, sometimes eighteen-hour days, regularly outpacing many of the younger staff. She’d want to, Emily didn’t doubt that, and any changes in her schedule would have to be subtle ones. Emily and Vonnie would have to wage a stealth campaign to shift some of Henrietta’s workload to senior people without her knowing it, but as long as Henrietta was at the helm, behind that enormous desk that could probably float Manhattan if a second flood of biblical proportions suddenly arrived, business would return to normal.

Until then, where exactly Donatella Agnelli had come from and what her agenda might be were the critical questions. Vonnie might know who she was, and if she didn’t they had to find out. Perhaps she didn’t have the power she seemed to claim. Her proprietary occupation of Henrietta’s private space rankled. So disrespectful, so unfeelingly arrogant. Emily drew a breath. Perspective, she needed perspective, especially now when her emotions were riding roughshod over her reason. She didn’t know the woman, and she was probably being unfair. Usually she was far more methodical and clearheaded when faced with a challenge.

Now she was tired and frightened and a little bit angry. More than a little. Fury simmered so close to the surface her skin itched. Henrietta should not be ill. Some stranger should not be sitting at her desk. Her sister, the one she’d always looked up to, admired, envied for her bravery and reckless joie de vivre, should not be locked inside her own broken body, forever sentenced by a quirk of nature to silence. Emily’s eyes stung.

For the first time in many years, her safe haven no longer felt safe and she wanted—needed—someone to blame. Derian Winfield’s rakish face flashed through her mind and her swirling anger pointed at her. Derian was Henrietta’s niece, one of the Winfield heirs, and where was she in all of this? Betting on cars and cards and, in all likelihood, women. Why wasn’t she here to hold back the storm, to make everything solid and safe again?

Emily drew up short.

Oh. My.

She was not thinking straight. Derian was no more responsible for what happened here at the agency than a hot dog vendor on the corner. She’d chosen not to be part of Henrietta’s world, Emily’s world, and she had every right to do that. Derian and Henrietta obviously had an understanding, and it was none of Emily’s concern. Expecting someone else, especially a woman she didn’t even know, to solve her problems was not her way. She damn well solved her own problems, and she would solve this one. Straightening her shoulders, she reached for her tea, only to discover the cup was empty.

As she started to rise, Ron rushed in, his normally perfectly coiffed brown hair windblown, his cheeks flushed, and his eyes wide and unblinking.

“Who is that?” he stage-whispered, tilting his head almost imperceptibly in the direction of Henrietta’s office two doors down.

Emily motioned him in. “Shut the door.”

He pushed the door closed with one loafered foot, shrugging off the quilted down parka he would wear until daytime temperatures stayed above sixty. His Florida blood, according to him, was too thin to accommodate the Arctic temperatures of New York City.

“She said her name is Donatella Agnelli. I don’t know who she is.”

“Never heard of her, and I would have remembered if I’d seen her.” He mock shivered. “She looks like Maleficent in Versace. Why is she in Henrietta’s office, and she’s going through Henrietta’s papers.”

“I don’t know that either, except she said that she’s in charge now.”

He stopped midway across the room, his mouth agape. “What? In charge as in…WTF?”

Emily shook her ahead, as frustrated as Ron at being in the dark. “I don’t know what that means or what she intends to do, but I suspect we’ll find out soon. Is Vonnie here yet?”

“I didn’t see her.” Ron dispiritedly dragged his coat behind him and slumped into one of the leather-backed guest chairs facing her desk. “How’s Henrietta, really?”

“I don’t know.” Emily closed her eyes and sighed. “God, I don’t seem to know anything.”

When Emily opened them again, she read anxiety and compassion in Ron’s gaze and regretted making him worry. Time to leave the pity party behind. “All the tests weren’t in last night, but the ICU doctors seemed to think her condition is very treatable. The last word I had, she was doing well.” She looked at her watch, even though she knew what time it was. Past time she should have been working. “That was last night about seven. I’m sure if anything had happened since then, Derian—”

Ron pounced. “Derian? The Derian? Derian Winfield?”

“Is there more than one?” Emily asked calmly.

He crossed one leg over his knee and rested his elbow on his bent leg, eyeing her with speculative interest. “Derian. First names already. How did that happen?”

“I met her at the hospital,” Emily said, not at all sure why she felt like she needed to explain. “She and Henrietta are obviously really close. She was very kind and I’m sure she would let me…us…know if there were any worrisome changes.”

“What’s she really like?” Ron asked. “I’ve only met her a couple of times, brief introductions, and she wasn’t exactly friendly.”

“She’s very gracious and very…polite.”

“Polite? What does that mean, polite?”

Emily could feel her cheeks heating. That was a stupid thing to say. Of course, what she’d wanted to say was chivalrous, which would’ve sounded even more inane. “Never mind. I just meant that she was very kind, and very helpful. She was clearly worried about Henrietta and nice enough to recognize that I was too.”

“So you met her at the hospital.”

“I said that.”

“And talked with her.”

“Yes, Ron, I talked with her.”

“And…”

“And nothing.” Emily tried not to bristle. “We were both there because of Henrietta. It was only natural that we talk, and it was a long day and we were both hungry, so we had dinner.”

He straightened, his eyes narrowing. “Dinner. And when were you going to tell me about that?”

Never, and as soon as she thought it, Emily recognized how odd that was for her. She and Ron were good friends. Beyond just their professional bond, they socialized as often as Ron could convince her to. She’d even told him a little bit about Pam, and that was something she never shared. But she hadn’t planned on telling him about Derian. What could she say? Nothing she wanted to put into words, not only because words might not do justice to exactly how unique the evening had been, but perhaps—like the fear of reducing the brilliance of a sunrise to the ordinary in a photograph—she didn’t want to put words to the experience lest she fail in her description and tarnish the memory.

“It must’ve been a very interesting dinner,” Ron said at length.

Emily blinked. “It was pleasant, and like I said, she was very gracious.”

“If you say so. I just hope she’s not too gracious when she comes in and boots Ms. Interloper Agnelli out from behind Henrietta’s desk.”

Emily’s heart plummeted. “I don’t think that’s anything we should wait for.”

*

At eight thirty a.m. Vonnie appeared in Emily’s doorway, arms folded over her chest and thunder in her eyes. “Ms. Agnelli wants all of the senior staff in the conference room now, please.”

She spoke so stiffly her face barely moved with her words.

Emily recognized rage and hurried to her side. Keeping her voice low, she said, “Don’t worry. Whatever’s going on, we’ll handle it until Henrietta returns.”

“I’m not taking orders from her,” Vonnie said through clenched teeth. “I swear, I’ll quit first.”

Emily grasped her arm. “You most certainly will not. None of us can get along without you, and I need you to help me sit on Henrietta when she comes back to work. It’s going to take both of us to get her to slow down without realizing she is.”

Vonnie’s lips curved for an instant and she let out a long breath. “If I didn’t love this place and most everybody in it, I swear…”

“I know, I know. It’s horrible right now, but we’ll get through it.”

“We sure don’t need any help from some outsider to handle things.” Vonnie glanced over her shoulder and huffed. “She’s asking for all sorts of confidential papers.”

“Do you know her?”

Vonnie shook her head. “No, but she got a call from Mr. Winfield. I couldn’t hear what she was saying before she shut the door, but they sounded chummy.”

Emily hadn’t expected Henrietta’s brother to take an active role in the agency, certainly not so soon. She wasn’t at all sure that was a good sign. “I’m sure someone will fill us in soon.”

“Well, you’d best be going. The way she shoots out orders, if you’re late you might not get through the day.”

“As soon as this is done, I’m going over to the hospital. No matter what she has to say.”

“Good enough. I was planning to go by on my lunch hour.”

“We should probably take turns or something.”

“That will work,” Vonnie said. “In the meantime, I’ll do a little more digging on our guest.”

“Don’t worry. Maybe this won’t be as bad as we think.”

She heard Vonnie’s snort of disbelief as she hurried down the hall to the meeting. Like the library, this room retained its classic features, with tall, narrow windows framed with glossy dark woodwork, ornate ceiling moldings and antique light fixtures, and a long narrow oak table with a dozen chairs around it. Donatella Agnelli stood at one end, her back straight, her dark eyes sliding from one individual to the next, assessing in an unsmiling way. Ron and the other acquiring agents sat on one side, with a seat for her open next to Donatella, while Mark Ramsey from business, Brian Rood from marketing, and several interns occupied the other side of the table.

Donatella’s gaze landed on one of the interns. “Who are you?”

The thin young man in the open-collared plaid shirt and khaki Dockers jumped to attention in his seat. “Aloysius Benson. I’m an intern in—”

“Out.” She pointed toward the door with one long finger, the manicured nail sculpted in bloody red. “Is there anyone else in here not of managerial level?”

The other intern shot up and hastened to catch up to Aloysius.

Mark cleared his throat. “We like to have the interns present for these discussions. It helps them learn the workings of—”

“You can save that for the ad in PW. Their role is to get coffee, pull files, and pick up laundry if necessary. Let’s not pretend otherwise.”

Mark’s neck turned purple, and Emily could actually hear his teeth grinding.

“As of today,” Donatella said briskly, “I will be assuming the duties of the CEO. Division heads will report directly to me on all projects. I would like a summary of all ongoing by the end of the day. Who handles contract negotiations?”

Emily glanced at the other agents. “Each acquiring agent handles their own, after discussion with—”

“That accounts for the backlog.” Donatella’s full, scarlet-hued lips thinned. “From this point forward, all contracts in process will be referred to me for review. I will decide which ones are offered and the terms.”

“I’m sorry,” Emily said calmly, “but do you also intend to discuss terms with the authors? Or just—”

“If you have a manuscript you think might have value, bring it to me. I’ll decide who we sign and take over from there.” She waved a hand. “If you want to be the one making the happy phone call, be my guest.”

“Excuse me,” Emily said, proud that her fury didn’t result in a scream. “I’m afraid I don’t understand how you’re going to determine terms when the agents are the ones making the recommendations based on our knowledge of—”

“As we’re all getting to know each other,” Donna said icily, her smile as sharp as a razor blade, “I’ll explain myself. This time. Winfield’s bottom line is barely acceptable, and it’s not difficult to discern why. My cursory review reveals an alarming percentage of titles with slim to no profit margin. The only way to turn this poor performance record around is to be more selective in the works that we take on. While I appreciate that the acquiring agents may have a certain fondness for some works that won’t, shall we say, pay for themselves, we are not a charitable organization. We want books that are guaranteed to sell. I can assure you, I’m quite capable of determining what those might be.”

Ron raised his hand.

Donatella eyed him with an arrowed brow. “Yes, Mister—?”

“Elliott. Ron.” He gave her his best guileless, I-never-make-trouble look. “So what I’m hearing is our expertise as acquisition agents is not going to play a role in deciding which authors we sign. What do you expect us to do, then?”

“I’m sure you’re quite adept at wallowing through the slush pile. Get rid of the flotsam and jetsam. We only want the pearls.” She lasered in on Mark. “I’d like to see the budget projections for the rest of the year in my inbox by eight tomorrow morning. That will be all for now.”

She swiveled on a needle-thin, six-inch heel and shot out the door, sucking most of the air in the room out with her.

Finally Mark sputtered to life. “Who the hell—can she do this?”

Every head swiveled in Emily’s direction, some faces outraged, some shocked.

“I don’t know,” she said for at least the hundredth time that morning, “but I’m going to find out.”