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."