“On it,” Terry said.

“Already talking to them about it,” Ron echoed.

“Good. Any author issues we need to know about?” Acquiring books and promoting them was only part of their job. Once the manuscripts were contracted and handed off to the publishers, a great deal of hand-holding was required to get their authors, especially the new ones, through the long, arduous process of editing, cover design, and advance promotion before the books went to press.

“All my chickens are happy,” Terry said.

“Race Evans doesn’t like his cover,” Ron said. “I can’t say I really blame him, but it’s right for the market and we got Sellers and Saylor’s art department to come as close as we could to what he was hoping for.”

“Hopefully he’ll be happier when he sees the sales.” Emily cast one more look around. Everyone seemed satisfied and on point. “All right, then. I’ll see you all Wednesday for production.”

She stayed seated while the others left, adding a few more notes. She had fifteen minutes before a phone call to a client about acquiring their manuscript, her favorite kind of call. The author was usually excited, and she was happy to be adding another new title to their list.

When her cell rang, she checked the number and answered immediately. “Hi, Vonnie.”

“Hi, Emily,” Vonnie Hall, the president’s personal secretary, replied. “Can you come on by? She wants to talk to you for a few minutes.”

Emily frowned and checked her watch. “Is it urgent? I have a phone conference in five.”

“I’ll let her know you’ll be half an hour.”

“Thanks.”

Thirty minutes and one about-to-be-signed contract later, Emily tucked her phone and tablet into her shoulder bag and climbed the winding wooden staircase to the fourth floor and made her way down the plush carpeted hall to the office at the far end. The top floor housed the senior agents’ offices and looked as Emily imagined it had a century before with its vaulted tin ceilings, ornate hanging light fixtures, and recessed alcoves framed in dark, carved wood. Above the gleaming walnut wainscoting, framed portraits of generations of Winfields adorned the pale green, floral-patterned wallpaper. In the muted light, the eyes of the men and one woman followed her. With each step, she felt as if she moved back in time, although there was nothing outdated or antiquated about the woman she was about to see. Like Emily, Henrietta Winfield simply appreciated history.

Vonnie Hall, a trim, flawlessly presented woman in a red suit with thin ribbons of black along the collar and cuffs, guarded the door to Henrietta Winfield’s inner sanctum with the ferocity of a she-wolf and the smile of an angel. She greeted Emily with genuine pleasure. “She’ll just be a minute. She’s finishing a phone call.”

“Sure,” Emily said. “How are you? Is Tom on his way home yet?”

Vonnie’s smile blazed at the mention of her husband, still deployed with the National Guard. “He’s in Germany, thank the Lord. He ought to be home in about ten days.”

“I’m so glad.”

A light on Vonnie’s phone blinked and she gestured toward the closed door behind her. “Go on in.”

“Thanks.” Emily shifted her shoulder bag a little higher, skirted Vonnie’s desk, and stepped into Henrietta Winfield’s domain. The room was twice the size of the library she’d just left but resembled it with its filled-to-capacity bookshelves on two walls, the comfortable leather sofa and chair in the seating area, and the big wooden library table that served as a desk. The president of the Winfield Agency sat behind it now in a dark brown leather swivel chair.

At five-four and a hundred and ten pounds, Henrietta should have been dwarfed by the size of the table and the expansiveness of the room, but she filled the space—any space—with a palpable energy. When Emily had first met her seven years before, she’d been twenty-two and fresh out of school, and had felt as if she’d walked into the path of a hurricane. Despite being five inches taller and nearly forty years younger than Henrietta—HW, as everyone called her in casual conversation—she still sometimes had to run to keep up with her. Henrietta was energetic, trim, and formidable. She was also Emily’s mentor, role model, and closest friend.

Henrietta, her shining black hair cut casually short, without any gray and naturally so, nodded hello. As was always the case, she wore a business suit, this one a gray pinstripe with a white open-collared shirt and a plain gold necklace showing at the throat.

“Hi,” Emily said. “Sorry I couldn’t make it sooner, but I just finished a call with a client.”

“That was the fantasy you were telling me about the other night at dinner?”

Emily shook her head, although she shouldn’t be surprised. HW’s memory was prodigious and enviable. “That’s the one.”

“Is the author signing?”

“She is.”

“Excellent. I agree with you—we’re going to see a resurgence in high fantasy in the next year. Can you get this one positioned with one of the brand divisions?”

“I think so.” Emily doubted Henrietta had called her in to discuss a relatively straightforward contract, but she waited patiently.

“Sit down. This will take a minute.”

Emily’s heart jumped. Something about the way Henrietta was looking at her sent a chill down her spine. When she’d been a young intern working directly for HW, she’d been the recipient of a few hard stares, an occasional quiet but unforgettable admonishment, and a thousand more words of encouragement. Henrietta Winfield was the best at what she did, and she’d held the reins of her company in a firm grasp through economic and industry upheavals that had decimated other agencies. If she was unhappy, Emily couldn’t fathom what might be the cause. She sat, feeling the pulse beat in her throat.

“I’ve just been on the phone with our attorneys,” Henrietta said without preamble. “There’s a better than even chance we’re going to lose our H-1B approval at the end of the year.”

Emily caught her breath. If that happened, her application for permanent residence would be in limbo—or terminated. “Why?”

“Because the idiots who make the laws, or listen to the people who elect them, are hysterical about immigration issues right now and they’re cutting all the quotas. We are not tech, and that’s where most of the allocations go.”

Emily knew that, but she’d been in the United States since she’d enrolled at Harvard as an undergraduate. Singapore had a very good working relationship with educational institutions in the United States and obtaining a student visa had been easy. Then when she’d been accepted as an intern after a year of graduate school, she’d moved into H-1B status. Other than being a supreme hassle in terms of paperwork and documentation, her visa had never really been a problem.

“But if—” Emily swallowed. “Am I going to lose my job?”

“Not if I can help it,” Henrietta said, a fierce light in her eyes. “The entire thing is ridiculous, and we’re working on it, but I wanted you to know.”

“Of course, yes.” Emily’s mind reeled. She couldn’t lose this job—this was more than a job, it was her passion, her future, and if she had to return to Singapore…she couldn’t. She’d never find the kind of job there she had here, and even if she could, she’d never earn the same. The cost of living was even worse than New York City, and with Pam’s expenses…she’d never manage.

“I don’t want you to worry.” Henrietta laughed shortly, her voice catching as she coughed. She drank from a glass on her desk and grimaced impatiently. “I know that’s a ridiculous thing to say, but we’ve worked our way through miles of red tape more than once. Unfortunately, this time we have to deal with multiple agencies, federal at that, and it might take some time.”

“I—” Emily cleared her throat. “I’ll do anything necessary. I love this job, you know that.”

Henrietta’s expression softened. “Of course I do. You also happen to be very good at it. We’ve never really talked about it, but someday, I expect you’ll have a much larger role in the company.”

“I can’t imagine being anywhere else, doing anything else.”

“Well, I don’t plan on retiring anytime soon,” Henrietta said, “and there’s time for us to talk about that when this visa business is straightened out. We need to get you that green card and be done with it.”

Emily sighed. “Believe me, I know.”

“Well, I’ve set up a meeting with our attorneys for the end of the week. We’ll talk about all of it then.”

“Thank you.” Emily swallowed around the lump in her throat. She wouldn’t panic. They had time to straighten it all out. She’d keep her job, she’d be able to take care of Pam. Her plans would all be fine.

“Emily,” Henrietta said, rising from behind her desk and starting toward her. “You don’t need to worry. I’m not going to let—” She stopped abruptly, one hand reaching for the side of her desk. Her expression registered surprise and then she gasped, “Oh.”

“I’m sorry? What?” Emily said. “Henrietta? Henrietta!”

Emily jumped up as Henrietta Winfield slumped to the floor.

Chapter Two

Derian tossed the keys to the Maserati to the uniformed attendant who raced from beneath the portico of the Hôtel de Paris to intercept her before she had even turned off the engine. With a wave of thanks she strode up the wide red-carpeted stairs and into the lobby of the grand hotel. Despite the enormity of the space with its polished marble floors, high decorative arched ceilings, plush carpets, and many seating areas carefully designed for privacy as well as comfort, the decibel level was higher than usual. Early crowds already filled the streets, cafés, and hotels for the upcoming race. She cut her way rapidly through the milling people to the single bank of elevators in the rear that led to the exclusive racecourse suites. She punched in the security code and within seconds was whisked to her level and the doors to the elevator slid silently open. The hallway was a stark contrast to the bustling lobby—quietly proclaiming confidentiality and discretion even though all of the suites along the wide hallway were undoubtedly in use. Grand Prix time was synonymous with party time in Monte Carlo, and the race was only three days away.