Forbidden Pleasures Read Free Page A

get you to write that sexier novel, you both lose. Your career could tank, at least temporarily, and you know it’s tough to get going again in this business. Devlin’s reputation would certainly suffer, and since Martin will appoint J.P. to succeed him, she will make life so difficult for him that he’ll leave. He’s a proud guy. So both of you have to succeed.”
    “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