"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 titled the new book?"
"The Defiant Duchess," 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 manuscripts 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-bitch, 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 damned 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 sexier. 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 anticipated. 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 hell 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 bloody 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 God'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."