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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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


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

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

Chapter 3

He wasn't sure if it was the smell of the coffee or the cinnamon rolls baking that had awakened him first. He had been lying on his belly. Turning lazily over onto his back, he sniffed appreciatively. The big tall clock in the upstairs hall began to chime. Nine o'clock. He looked across the room toward the window, and saw the day was fair. And for some reason he found that, unlike most Saturdays, he wasn't the least bit sleepy. He had slept like a damned log the entire night through. Michael Devlin climbed out of bed, peed, brushed his teeth, shaved, and got dressed. Then he headed directly downstairs toward the delicious smells coming from Emily Shanski's kitchen.

"Damnation!" Emily dropped the pan she was taking from the oven quickly onto the counter, and flung the towel in her hand into the sink.

He was at her side before she even realized he was there, taking her hand and sticking it under cold running water. "It's not bad. What happened?"

"I almost forgot the rolls, and instead of taking an oven mitt I grabbed a towel," Emily replied. She turned her head to say thank you, and found herself nose-to-nose with him. Her blue eyes widened with surprise, and then he kissed her.

Her lips were incredibly soft, and she smelled of sweet rolls and lilacs. He slid an arm about her waist, and his kiss deepened as he felt her yielding against him. What was happening? He groaned and let her go. "I'm sorry. I shouldn't have done that," he said, stepping back a pace.

"Why not?" she asked him, suddenly knowing she had to take the initiative. For all his reputation Devlin was a gentleman. His kiss had been wonderful! She had never before been kissed quite like that. It was fierce and tender all rolled into one.