Channel: Forbidden Pleasures Part 19

"Madame Scrooge, I presume," he teased her.

"Did you find a real Christmas pudding, Devlin?" she asked.

"At a little shop I know where they make it themselves," he answered. "It's already packed in my suitcase."

"Don't let them confiscate it at customs," she warned him.

"I had them box it, and then wrap it in some rather garish holiday paper complete with a big floppy bow," he told her. "I'm telling them it's a present for my maiden aunt."

"Perfect!" Emily replied. "Every customs agent has at least one maiden aunt."

"Emily? I miss you. These last weeks without you have been lonely for me. And I've missed Egret Pointe. Will they still have the windows up that you told me about by the time I get there?" He sounded almost wistful.

"They don't take them down until the day after New Year's, Devlin," she answered him. He had missed her! He was lonely without her! Now why the h.e.l.l couldn't he get the rest of it out? "I've missed you too," Emily said, "but I've been busy. The house is all decorated inside and out. Garlands and wreaths up. Two trees. The one in the den is all finished. I'm working on the one in the living room. We're having an open house on New Year's Eve, Devlin. Will you still be here, or do you like your city celebrations?"

"Publishing is closed down Christmas week," he told her. "Can I stay the whole week with you? Or maybe you would like to come into town and stay at my place?"

"Stay with me," she said softly, meaningfully. "Besides, you live in a studio apartment, Devlin. You've said yourself there's barely room to swing a cat, and I'm much bigger than a cat."

"What will the neighbors think?" he asked her.

"To h.e.l.l with the neighbors, Devlin," Emily said.

He laughed low. "Can you be a good girl until I get there, angel face?"

"If I can be a bad girl once you're here," she told him mischievously.

"I've got a big present for you," he teased her.

"And I have just the perfect place to put it," she responded.

"You're making me hot," he told her.

"I'm putting my hand in my pants," she said. "Oh! I'm already wet, Devlin. That's what the sound of your voice does to me."

"I'm in bed," he replied. "I've got my d.i.c.k in my hand. It's already getting hard, because that's what the sound of your voice does to me."

"Make yourself come," she murmured seductively. "I'm going to make myself come. I'm already playing with my c.l.i.t. It feels so good, Devlin. Oh! Oh! But I wish it were your tongue there, and not my finger."

"I'm polishing my c.o.c.k to a fine stand," he said. "But I wish it were in your juicy c.u.n.t, angel face. I'm going to f.u.c.k your brains out when I get home." He heard her breathing coming faster in his earpiece.

"Oh! Oh! Oh! Ohhhh!" she exclaimed. "G.o.d, that was good! But not as good as you, Devlin."

She heard him groan. "Jaysus! What a waste of good c.u.m! I've had to use two handkerchiefs. d.a.m.n it, I want you, angel face! I don't want to have any more dirty-talk phone s.e.x with you over the transatlantic cable."

"Then get your cute Irish a.s.s home, Devlin," Emily said.

She heard him chuckle, and then he responded, "As fast as I can, angel face. Just a few more days. Good night, sweetheart."

"Good night, Devlin. Dream of me." She made kissing sounds into the phone.

To her delight he made the same sounds back, and then the line was dead.

Emily flipped her cell shut. Just the sound of his voice, the knowledge that he was coming home soon, made her happy. Home. He had referred to Egret Pointe as home. She felt herself smiling, and then she sneezed. d.a.m.n! Her cold was getting worse, and she still had the big Christmas tree in the living room to finish decorating. Tomorrow, Emily thought. She'd finish it tomorrow. Tonight she would eat some of Rina's chicken soup and just go to bed.

The next day Emily struggled up, and completed decorating her big Christmas tree. Good thing, she considered, that she and Essie had begun it yesterday, and the top half had been finished. She didn't think she could have climbed up on the ladder, but fortunately all she had left had been the bottom half. She took the ornaments carefully from their wrappings. Most of them were antiques that had been in her family for over a hundred years. Her favorite was the skinny Father Christmas that had always been referred to as the seasick Santa.

But she was still feeling lousy. She had the tree finished by early afternoon, and considering that she had to go into the city tomorrow, she decided to rest. She was coughing now, but as much as she disliked having to make the trip, it was business, and it was important she be at Stratford's Christmas party. Aaron would be there. Devlin would be there. That would be the hard part: pretending they were just editor and author.

Her appet.i.te was finicky. She finished Rina's soup and made herself a peanut-b.u.t.ter-and-jelly sandwich with a gla.s.s of warm milk. When she had eaten she went upstairs and swallowed some cold tablets. Looking outside, she saw it had begun to snow. Maybe it would snow so much she wouldn't have to go into the city, Emily thought. Crawling into bed she fell into a deep sleep. It wasn't even eight o'clock.

It was still snowing when she awoke the following morning. She felt a little better, and so she took some more twelve-hour cold medicine to get her through the day. Looking at the clock she thought, In another twelve hours I'll be home. It made the day ahead of her just a little bit less onerous. She showered, washing her hair, then drying herself and her hair thoroughly before stepping out into the bedroom. Even so, a chill swept over her. The chime from the hall announced nine o'clock. She had plenty of time. Wrapping herself in her pink fleece robe, she went downstairs, and made herself a bowl of apple-and-cinnamon oatmeal. The heavy cream she poured on it made it taste even better, along with the hot tea she drank.

Having eaten, Emily trudged back upstairs and got back into bed. She didn't feel great, but she felt better. Aaron called to make sure she remembered the car would be there for her at noon. She had at least two and a half hours before she had to get dressed. She set her clock for eleven fifteen, and when it rang Emily awoke to bright sunshine. The storm had blown itself out. Looking out the window, she saw the street was already plowed, which meant the parkway would be plowed too- worse luck.

With a sigh she turned to get dressed, slipping on a pair of pure silk cream panties and a matching lace bra. She was not going to the Stratford Christmas party without her underwear, and Devlin was just going to have to live with it. She couldn't decide whether she should wear a wrap dress or slacks, but given the snow she decided on her cream-colored wool slacks and a matching cashmere turtleneck. She pulled thin cashmere socks over her feet and slid into a pair of ankle-high Ferragamo boots in a rich chocolate-brown leather. Simple makeup: a little periwinkle-blue eye shadow, mascara, blush, and lipstick. Good, tasteful jewelry: an elegant gold-and-silver pin on the left side of her sweater, matching earrings in her ears, and Emily O's beautiful silver repousse bangle on her right wrist, her own gold Seiko on her left wrist.

She took a small clutch in cream leather. In it she fit a little brush, a lipstick, a tiny spritzer of her favorite scent, sungla.s.ses, tissues, a single credit card, a packet of vitamin C drops, and her cell. Looking in the mirror, she fluffed her hair with her brush. She had seen it look better, but she had a cold, and it would probably look fine for the day. Hurrying downstairs, Emily took her long camel-hair wrap coat from the closet, checked the pocket for a pair of gloves, and, reaching up onto the shelf, pulled down an Irish wool tam-o'-shanter. She had a cold, she rationalized again. She needed to keep a hat on until she got there. Didn't everyone say you lost most of your body heat through your head?

As if on cue the doorbell rang and, opening it, she greeted the chauffeur. "Morning! Hope the drive wasn't too bad."

"Nah," he answered her. "Parkway is clear, and so are your roads. You got a good little highway department out here in the boonies. I'm Frankie. You ready to go, Miss Shann?"

"Did they send lunch in the car, or should I make a sandwich quickly?" she asked.

"You must be somebody real special," Frankie said. "There's a little hamper in the back for you. You just tell me when you want to stop and eat."

"I'm used to eating on the run," Emily said. "You don't have to stop for me, but thanks." She put on her coat, cinching the sash to close it.

He helped her into the car, set a thick fleece lap robe over her knees, and, gaining the driver's seat, pulled out from the curb. A sudden wave of weariness swept over her. Emily closed her eyes and dozed. When she opened them again they were on the parkway, and she realized they were almost into the city. Glancing at her watch she saw it was one thirty. She had slept for an hour and a half. She felt better for it. Opening up the hamper, she pulled out a thermos. A label on it said, Chicken Soup. She opened it and poured some into the self-contained cup. It was delicious, and still quite hot. There were two miniature croissants wrapped in clear wrap. They were filled with thin slices of Havarti cheese and ham. She wolfed them down, wondering why, when you were sick, someone else's food always tasted better. Closing the hamper, she wiped her mouth, pulled out her lipstick, and put on fresh.

Around them the traffic was horrendous. Of course-it was two days before Christmas. Only an idiot brought his car into the city two days before Christmas. The world was obviously full of idiots, Emily decided as the cars around her honked noisily.

"Jerks!" Frankie the chauffeur said. "Whatta they think? Honking's gonna make the rest of the traffic disappear in a puff of smoke?" He swore under his breath as a black limo with black windows tried to cut him off, gunning the town car to keep his own place in the line of trucks, buses, and cars. "I got orders to pick up a Mr. Fischer," he said to her. "You know him?"

"He's my agent," Emily answered. Good. They would have a few minutes alone to talk before they got to Stratford.

Aaron was waiting at the curb in front of his building as they pulled up. He got into the town car and went to kiss her cheek, but Emily pulled away, putting up a cautionary hand as she did so.

"I've got an awful cold," she told him.

"You shouldn't have come," he exclaimed. He put a hand on her forehead. "I think you have a fever. What did Sam say?"

"I didn't call him, Aaron, and don't fuss at me. I will when I get home. But you know as well as I do that this is a command performance. I took some cold pills last night, and again this morning to get me through. J.P. called me herself to issue the invitation. The good news is that she's ecstatic about the book."

"I know," he replied, sitting back. "She wants you to sign the contracts today."

"No. Not today. After the New Year," Emily told him. "After Martin has made his announcement, and I am sure that Devlin will stay. He wants to remain editor in chief, and J.P. will be named Martin's successor under those circ.u.mstances. I have to be sure she isn't holding any grudges. I know every editor at Stratford. There isn't one I'd be comfortable working with except Devlin."

"So this is love," Aaron said dryly.

"No. It's business, pure and simple," Emily told him.

"But you love him," Aaron remarked.

"Yes, I do. But one has nothing to do with the other," Emily insisted.

"If you say so," Aaron said with a small smile. "Can Kirk and I hitch a ride to Egret Pointe with you tonight? Hanukkah at Rina's. Then we're going to stay a few days at the cottage. I called your Essie to open it up, but she didn't call back. Is she all right?"

"She's in Florida with her son and his family for Christmas," Emily explained. "Better call Rina before we get to the party, and she'll arrange it." She settled back in her seat and closed her eyes again, listening as Aaron made the call, imagining Rina's sharp comments to her brother for waiting until the last minute.

"Did you know Emily is sick?" Aaron asked his sister.

Emily's eyes flew open, and she shook her finger at her agent.

"What do you mean, sick?" Rina was demanding to know.

"Sounds like a pretty bad cold to me," Aaron replied. "Sam should look at her tomorrow. She'll call him."

"If she's sick she shouldn't be in the city," Rina said.

Emily, knowing what Rina would be saying, grabbed Aaron's phone from him. "I had to come. I took cold medicine. I finished your soup, and I'll be home and will go to bed in a few hours. Okay? Don't scold Aaron. He didn't know." She handed the phone back.

"She looks beautiful for someone at death's door," Aaron teased his sister.

"The pair of you are impossible," Rina muttered. "I'll call my gal and see if she can get over to the cottage. You did have an oil delivery made, didn't you? Never mind. I'll call. Really, Aaron, you and Kirk need a keeper. I'll see you both tonight."

Aaron Fischer closed his elegant little cell and slipped it back into his pants pocket. "My sister, Rina, the boss of the world- but I did forget to call for oil," he admitted sheepishly. "I would think there would have been enough to heat the place tonight, though."

"All the businesses except the IGA close at noon on Christmas Eve in Egret Pointe," Emily told him. "Oh, here we are, Aaron. Showtime! Smiles, everyone!"

The town car glided smoothly to a stop, and Frankie got out, hurried around the vehicle to the pa.s.senger-side door, and opened it up. Aaron climbed out, and the chauffeur extended a hand to Emily to help her alight. "I'll be here when you're through," he told them. "Mr. Stratford arranged it so I can wait for you right where I am. He's got some pull, I'd say."

"He's a generous man," Aaron replied meaningfully.

"Yeah, he'd have to be to have pulled this off at Christmas," Frankie agreed, nodding.

Stratford Publishing occupied three floors of the office building in which it was located. Martin Stratford paid the building management an extra stipend to have one elevator among the bank of them exclusive to his publishing house. He didn't like to wait, and he didn't want his employees or authors having to wait. And he paid a uniformed elevator man to run his private elevator.

"Merry Christmas, Miss Shann, Mr. Fischer," Bill said. "You'll be coming for the party, I'm thinking." The elevator man was a small Irishman of indeterminate age with the face of a leprechaun, who had somehow, after fifty years in the United States, still managed to retain his Irish brogue. He knew everyone who did business regularly with Stratford Publishing, as well as all its employees. He was a holdover from another era, but Martin Stratford felt that the private elevator and its uniformed operator gave him a certain kind of cache he was loath to do without. And the truth was, it did. "I'm hearing wonderful things about the new book, Miss Shann," Bill volunteered as the elevator sped up its cables to the twentieth floor.

"Thanks, Bill," Emily told him.

The elevator had been discreetly hung with an elegant, fragrant green garland. There was a wreath with a red plaid bow hung over the mirror in the rear of the car. They reached their destination quickly, the doors opened, and they stepped out into the foyer of the executive floor. More fragrant green garlands. Wreaths had been placed discreetly here and there. A large Christmas tree was set up to one side of the receptionist's desk decorated with faux Victorian ornaments and strands of both popcorn and cranberries, and complete with a blue-and-silver Star of David topping it.

"Oy vay," Aaron murmured under his breath.

Emily giggled. "I think they're trying to be ec.u.menical," she said.

"I wonder where the solstice and the Kwanzaa displays are set up," he answered her. "h.e.l.lo, Denise," Aaron greeted the receptionist.

"Happy holidays, Mr. Fischer, Miss Shann. The party has already started down in the boardroom. Can I take your coats?" She came from behind her desk to accept their outdoor garments. "I didn't let them block the closet with the tree," she confided. "Oh, Miss Shann, that's a great outfit. I love the sweater. Is it cashmere?"

"Yes, a friend knitted it for me," Emily told the receptionist.

"Gee, I wish I had friends like that," Denise remarked.

"You don't get to come to the party?" Aaron asked the girl.

"Not until four o'clock, Mr. Fischer. Ms. Woods says everyone should have arrived by four o'clock. I don't mind. I'm reading the ARC for the new Savannah Banning book. It is so hot!" She grinned.

They laughed and made their way to the boardroom, which was located on a corner of the building and had a skyline view on two sides. J. R Woods spotted them immediately as they walked in, and came forward. She was smiling toothily, and Emily thought she had never in twelve years seen J. P. Woods smile quite like that. It was a little frightening. J.P. had grown her hair long. It was still red, and fixed into an elegant chignon. She was wearing a Tudor-green silk wrap dress that outlined every inch of her figure, which Emily had to admit was d.a.m.ned good, wondering at the same time whether J.P. had had her b.r.e.a.s.t.s done. They were pretty perfect-looking t.i.ts for a woman in her late forties. She had to work out too, Emily decided.

"Emily! Aaron!" J. P. Woods had reached them, and they all air-kissed. "Happy holidays to us all," J.P. purred. "We are so pleased with The Defiant d.u.c.h.ess, as I told you the other night. It's going to be very big. We have your new contracts all ready and waiting for you to sign today."

"Oh, not today, J.P." Emily said.

"Not today?" J.P.'s colorless eyes narrowed. "Why not today?"

"Mercury is in retrograde," Emily said with a perfectly straight face. "I never sign any doc.u.ments when Mercury is in retrograde, J.P. It would be disastrous."

"I wasn't aware you were into astrology," J.P. said sharply.

"Well, I don't check my chart before I get up every day," Emily answered her, "but I do have it done each year, and Mercury retrogrades four times a year. It's always a time of Murphy's Law. Things just go wrong. We'll take the contracts with us, and I'll sign them when the stars are aligned properly-right after the first of the year."

J. P. Woods looked somewhat chagrined by Emily's explanation, but she also knew it wouldn't look particularly good to get into a quarrel with the author over what was really a trivial matter. But she had hoped to make a big show of Emily's signing today, and she was disappointed.

"Now, where are these important distributors you wanted me to meet?" Emily said brightly, turning J.P.'s thoughts back to business.

"They should be here any minute," J.P. said. "One is from the Midwest, the other out of Atlanta, and the third from California. He's the one you want to really schmooze," she advised. "But come along now, the two of you. Martin is sitting on his throne over there just waiting for you two to pay him homage." J.P. t.i.ttered.

They made their way across the large boardroom, which had been emptied of its conference table and chairs which had been replaced by a few smaller round tables and folding chairs. There was a deejay playing at one end of the room, but the music was merely for ambience. Young waiters and waitresses in black pants and white shirts pa.s.sed around trays of canapes. There was a bar set up at the other end of the room. As they moved across the s.p.a.ce people parted for them, and Emily smiled to herself. Everyone, it seemed, had an eye out for J.P.

Martin Stratford, seeing them approaching, arose from his comfortable chair and came forward, hands outstretched. "Aaron." He nodded to the agent, but it was Emily's small hands he took in his own. "My dear, beautiful as ever. And you are truly a wonder. We are all very, very pleased with The Defiant d.u.c.h.ess. Thank you." Still holding her hands in his, he raised them to his lips and kissed them giving her a courtly bow as he did so. He was a tall, handsome man in his late sixties, with beautifully styled silver hair and piercing blue eyes. He was dressed impeccably in a dark suit, white shirt, and silk tie with a military stripe, which was held neatly in place with a gold tie pin. There were gold oval cuff links in his shirt cuffs, and just the barest hint of expensive men's cologne about him. Martin Stratford had the elegance of an old-time movie star, and the same sort of charm as well. But he was a very smart man.

Emily retrieved her hands, smiling. "Your blessing is very important to me, Martin, and J.P. called me the other night to tell me how much she had enjoyed the book. Knowing that I have the approval of both of you is wonderful."

"It was Rachel who was holding you back," J. P. Woods said. "I just knew with the right guidance you could do a more sensual book for us, and do it well. Didn't I say that, Martin?" J.P. smiled brightly.

"Your faith in Emily has always been something of a wonder to me, J.P." Martin Stratford said smoothly. He wondered if Emily knew the truth, and hoped she didn't. He didn't want to see this lovely young woman hurt. "Will you be signing your new contracts for us today?"

J. P. Woods beamed, pleased at what she thought would be Emily's agreement.

"Not today, Martin. Right after the holidays, though," Emily told him.