A Novel Seduction Read Free Page A

girth department. Lark & Ives was the most literary-minded magazine publisher around, and all that remained was for them to review each candidate’s body of work and get final approval from the board, an effort they said they would finish in a matter of weeks—just long enough for an article on romance novels to sink her helium-fueled dreams like a shot from Cupid’s BB gun.
    “My reputation’s on the line here.”
    Peck inclined his head sadly toward Black’s office. “So might your job.”
    She weighed her choices: potential unemployment versus a potential job offer. Peck had been a great boss and had taught her a lot. She owed him the truth. She got up, closed the door, and turned to face him. “There’s something I should tell you.”
    He gazed at her over his reading glasses. “You’re in line to launch your own magazine at Lark & Ives?” He smiled.
    “But—”
    “Don’t be surprised. Who do you think they called after you interviewed. You’ll be great, and you’re ready.”
    “Thank you.” His approval meant everything to her.
    “Who are you up against?”
    “Barry Steinberg.”
    Peck made a quiet whistle. “Tough one.”
    “Tell me about it.”
    “But you’re better.”
    “Phil, this article will sink me. John Irving was going to be my blaze of glory.”
    “I know. It’s a bad time to have gotten your foot caught in a clandestine affair.”
    Getting any part of her body caught in a clandestine affair would have been a nice change of pace, had the affair been hers. Too bad the only spank she’d be getting out of this one was to her professional ego. The whole thing was infuriating. She bit her lip. “I’m not sure I can write that article, Phil—at least, not the way Black wants me to. The last thing I want to do is go down in history as the Pied Piper of Romance.”
    He nodded. “I know. Write it the best way you can. I’ll fight for you.”
    She hoped she wouldn’t be congratulating herself on her impeccable principles in the unemployment line.

C HAPTER F OUR

     
    Bettina answered after the first ring. “Buhl,” she said in her pouty British voice, setting his heart to race, “your Wittle Sprout is very unhappy. I hope you have some good news for her.”
    Bettina had christened herself Wittle Sprout after their first fevered dinner—as she’d said, the natural complement to the delightful giant she’d found nestled in his green boxers after she’d unzipped his trousers during the raspberry flan.
    “Yes,” he said under his breath, not trusting his locked office door or the disposable cell phone. It was hard keeping a lover happy. Especially one an ocean away. “I’ve taken care of it.”
    “Taken care of it? How? Your Wittle Sprout wants to know.”
    Black switched the phone to his other ear and daubed his forehead. He sometimes wished his Wittle Sprout were more “ho-ho-ho” and less poisonous nightshade.
    “She’ll be writing an article.”
    “An
article
? That’s not much of a punishment.”
    Moisture poured down his back like condensation down the side of a Palm Beach gin and tonic. What had she expected? That he’d have Ellery put before a firing squad?
    “Yes, an article. For next month’s issue.”
    “On what?”
    He could hear the disapproval seeping into her voice. Disapproval would mean no more of that glorious hand wrenching him into a nirvana so profound, it made his thirty-year-old marital bed look like a bowl of off-brand cornflakes. “On romance novels, of course. Their impact on women.”
    “Oh, for God’s sake!” she cried, all horticultural tendencies gone. “She’ll eviscerate us!”
    “She won’t,” he said firmly. “She has her marching orders. She doesn’t like them, but she knows it’s either fall in line or fall out—permanently.”
    Bettina made a sprouty sniff. “I’m not sure I like it. How will it fix what she’s done to me? She was very mean about my memoir.”
    “By building awareness of the inspiration romance