Channel: Forbidden Pleasures Part 1

Channel.

Forbidden Pleasures.

Bertrice Small.

FOREWORD.

The woman in the billing department looked at the record she was typing into the computer, and giggled. "Don't you ever wonder what Emily Shanski uses the Channel for, Gail?" she said to her fellow worker at Suburban Cable.

"Hey, like all the rest of us," Gail answered. "Long, unhurried, incredible s.e.x. I don't know who invented this network or whatever it is, but I'm sure as h.e.l.l glad they did." She looked at her companion. "What do you think it really is, Doreen? I mean there isn't another channel on the television that actually lets you dream up your personal fantasy, and then lets you physically enjoy it. Do you think it's magic? Or something worse? Ah h.e.l.l! Who cares? Well, maybe my old man might if he knew what I was doing when he's on the night shift," she cackled.

Doreen laughed. "Yeah, I guess it's better we don't know," she said. "And I sure as h.e.l.l wouldn't want my husband to find out about it. The men would either try to close the Channel down, or they'd want it for themselves. It's a woman thing." She hit the print b.u.t.ton, and when the bill had rolled out of the printer already folded she put it in the preaddressed stamped envelope. "Lot of women in Egret Pointe using the Channel these days," she noted. "Hey, it's noon. Let's break for lunch, Gail. Too bad the Channel isn't available now."

"Nah," Gail replied. "It's better the way it is. If we could get it all the time instead of just between eight p.m. and four a.m. no one would get anything done. Where do you want to eat? How about the Chinese buffet down the street?"

"Yeah, Doreen agreed. "I like that place. Get your coat, and let's go."

Chapter 1.

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

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

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

Kirkland Browne appeared like a genie from a bottle. Actually his office was directly next to Aaron's, and they had connecting doors that were usually left open. He was a tall, slender man who seemed to be all angles. He was as well dressed as his partner, and wore both the same ring on his left hand and tie pin in his cravat. "What?" he demanded impatiently, his light blue eyes peering myopically over his gold-rimmed reading gla.s.ses. "I'm working on the Scofield contracts, and they're a b.i.t.c.h."

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

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

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

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

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

"Then you gotta write s.e.xier," he replied implacably.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Michael Devlin is one of the good guys," Aaron attempted to rea.s.sure her.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"h.e.l.lo?" Rachel's warm voice came through the wire.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"My G.o.d, how embarra.s.sing for J.R although I never thought I'd feel sorry for the b.i.t.c.h," Emily said. "How did he end up in London?"

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

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

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

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

"Look," she said, "no one I know really likes J.P., including me. But she's d.a.m.ned good at what she does, and what she does is run Stratford. Martin has been easing himself out for the last two years, and the responsibility has fallen on J.P.'s shoulders. She wants the t.i.tle of CEO of Stratford, and all that goes with it. The truth is that she deserves it, Emily. But Martin wants the company to remain strong, and that means he needs a first-rate editor in chief, so he's brought in Michael Devlin from London to take my place. J.P. and Devlin are going to have to learn to get along for the good of the company. And I've heard Martin himself hint that the position of CEO is up for grabs. He will play his little games, and J.P, for all her swagger, is just insecure."

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

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

"No pressure, huh?" Emily said dryly.

Rachel laughed. "You can do this, my dear," she repeated. "You are such a talented author, Emily. I know it's going to be difficult, but you will find your way. And Devlin will be there to help you. What have you t.i.tled the new book?"

"The Defiant d.u.c.h.ess," Emily said. "It's set in the Terror during the French Revolution. It's a Scarlet Pimpernel-in reverse-story."

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

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

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

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

"Finished? How is Rachel?" he asked.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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