“Of course you have. You created him. He is your fantasy,” Mr. Nicholas replied. “All humans create fantasies to help them get through their lives.”
“He loves me,” she responded. “He seeks nothing from me other than my love.”
“And he will be here for you when you return to the Channel tonight, my dear.”
“I am not going,” J. P. Woods said quietly. “And even you cannot make me give up my fantasy to return to the world of my reality.”
How does she know that? Mr. Nicholas wondered angrily. But it was true. If someone held tightly to a fantasy of true love, it was impossible to detach them from it. He sighed irritably. “Ms.Woods, I cannot allow you to remain here. I need you where you are as head of Stratford Publishing. You have a certain value to me in that place. I am, however, in a position to make a deal with you in exchange for your returning to your reality.”
“What kind of a deal?” J.P. asked, intrigued in spite of herself. “And just who are you?”
Mr. Nicholas looked directly at J.P., his black eyes engaging her eyes in a hard gaze. “Is it really necessary for me to say it, my dear?” he asked her pointedly. “In this persona, however, I am the CEO of the Channel Corp.”
An icy shiver raced down J.P.’s spine as a new and rather frightening reality assailed her. “N-no. It isn’t necessary for you to elaborate further,” she replied. “I understand.” Then, regaining her equilibrium, she inquired, “What kind of a deal, sir?”
He smiled at her. “I will put Charles Pell into your reality, Ms. Woods. He will come to you from London as an author you very much want to sign. And while he will exist in your reality, I will also allow him to continue to exist in your Channel fantasy. He will need no period of readjustment, for he will remember you quite well. Indeed, you may take up exactly from where you left off tonight.”
“It is a very generous offer, Mr. Nicholas,” J.P. said slowly. “Too generous, I fear.”
“Why so?” Mr. Nicholas asked her, smiling again. He admired her astuteness.
“What else do you want of me?” J.P. asked him.
“If I do this for you, my dear, you will belong to me from the moment of our agreement,” he told her frankly.
“But I could remain here in the Channel,” J.P. responded quietly.
“You could if you forced the issue,” he agreed. “But that should anger me. You don’t want to cross me, my dear. I know you well. You are a woman who needs to be in charge of her life and everything around it. Stay here and your Charles might become rather engaged by one of those young women he has suggested that you train together. I could see that you grew old rather than remaining the nubile and delicious creature that you are here in the Channel until you repulse him, for he will always remain young.”
“I will grow old in my reality,” J.P. reminded Mr. Nicholas.
“But very slowly, my dear,” he promised her. “You will be one of those women who ages gracefully because of your rather excellent bone structure. The same will happen to your Charles. I can guarantee that your libidos will never age. You will always want each other.”
“I can’t become one of those women who allows love and sex to control her,” J.P. said. “I should lose my authority if people thought I was weak. That is why my passions are released only within the Channel. I am thought to be cold and heartless. It is better that way.”
Mr. Nicholas laughed heartily. “You shall remain as hard as iron, and cold as ice publicly,” he promised her. “Such is your nature, my dear, and it will never change. Charles will appear smitten by you. People will talk, but they will not laugh. He will be profitable for Stratford. Your influence in the publishing world will be increased by the belief that you discovered him. Every book he writes for you will be a bestseller. And all you must do to gain this, my dear Ms. Woods, is to leave the Channel now.”
“I could leave, and you might forget your promises to me,” J.P. said.
“I might,” he agreed, “but I will not. I never forget either a promise or a fault. As I have said, Ms. Woods, you are important to me.”
“When will I see Charles again?” she asked.
“You have an appointment for lunch with him and his agent, Aaron Fischer, today,” Mr. Nicholas told her.
J.P. considered everything Mr. Nicholas had said. If she refused to leave the Channel, he could make her life hell. Then she laughed softly at her thought. But if he kept his promise . . . if he kept it . . . she would be happy, and her career would flourish. Talk about having your fudge cake and eating it too. She turned to her lover, who had remained silent through all of her conversation with Mr. Nicholas. “Charles?”
“Do it!” he said without a moment’s hesitation.
J.P. looked at Mr. Nicholas. She held out her hand to him. “I agree,” she said as they shook.
Mr. Nicholas nodded. “You will not regret your decision, my dear,” he said.
“I hope not,” J.P. replied.
Ping. Ping. Ping. The Channel is now closed.
Monday morning dawned sunny with just the hint of possible spring in the late February air. J.P. arose, showered, and dressed, pulling a tweedy winter white-and-beige silk-and-cashmere skirt up over a sexy cream silk garter belt and stockings. The push-up silk bra matched and was so flawlessly made that not a seam showed when she had donned the cream cashmere turtleneck sweater. She slid her feet into a pair of beige four-inch pumps. Standing before her mirror, she pinned a large gold monogrammed pin onto the sweater and clipped a pair of gold lion’s-head earrings onto her lobes. The lions had ruby eyes.
“You’re looking perky this morning,” her assistant, Gloria, said as J.P. came into her office. She took her boss’s soft wool wrap coat and hung it in the closet.
“I’m having lunch with Aaron Fischer and that new English author today,” J.P. said. “I have a really good feeling about it. What’s his name?”
“Charles Pell. He’s some sort of lord, I hear. Do you want me to Google him?”
“Might be a good idea,” J.P. agreed. “You know I always like to know what to expect with a new writer. What’s the name of the book?”
“The Regency Gentleman’s Guide to Twenty-First-Century City Living,” Gloria said. “You’re forgetful today.”
“I thought I was coming down with something,” J.P. lied. “I slept most of the weekend. I’m still a bit groggy. Get me a caramel latte and I’ll wake up.” She hurried into her private office. Just a few more hours. She and Charles would be together again forever, or whatever it was that passed as forever in this day and age. She could hardly wait, but she had to stop acting like a kid with her first boyfriend. Suddenly she was nervous. Maybe this hadn’t been such a good idea. No! Yes, it was!
At eleven forty-five Gloria ’s voice came over the intercom. “Aaron Fischer for you, J.P.”
Oh, my God! Why was Aaron calling? Their lunch date was at twelve thirty. She picked up the phone. “Aaron, good morning.”
She was greeted by a deep cough, and then Aaron’s hoarse voice said, “J.P., I’m sorry. I’ve come down with bronchitis. All this damned crap about flu shots and pneumonia shots, but can anyone do anything for bronchitis? No. Rest, the doctor says. Chicken soup, my sister says. I can’t make lunch, but Charles can. I’ve made a reservation at his hotel, the Park Leicester. That okay with you?” He coughed again.
“Perfect,” J.P. almost purred. Lunch be damned. She was going to show Charles just what a nooner was. She grinned. Then, remembering the agent on the line, she said, “You do sound dreadful, Aaron. Please take care of yourself, and get well very soon, Aaron,” J.P. told him sincerely. Then she hung up.
“Gloria,” she called through the open door between their offices, “have the company car ready to take me over to the Park Leicester Hotel at twelve ten.”
“Will do,” Gloria responded.
“I think I’ll go home after my luncheon,” J.P. said to her assistant. “Mick works from home on Mondays, and I’m still feeling a bit
under the weather. Are there any impending emergencies?”
“All’s quiet on the literary front,” Gloria replied. “You get some rest, J.P. Stratford couldn’t do without you. You’re our rock.”
J.P. smiled to herself at Gloria’s words. She was hardly a warm-and-fuzzy boss. She knew she was feared, but she was also respected. And they just might have had to do without her if she had remained in the Channel. She didn’t know why it had happened, and she wasn’t even certain of when, but she suddenly realized she needed someone. Husband? Mate? Lover? Friend? It didn’t really matter which. It was just so damned hard to be strong all the time. Being strong for yourself was one thing. But having to be strong for everyone around you was too damned difficult.
Her sister Marybeth, despite having a good husband with a decent job and two nice kids who gave her no trouble, couldn’t pull herself together enough to get a responsible caregiver for their mother, keep J.P. informed, and send her the bills. No. Marybeth dumped everything on J.P., and with no respect for her older sister or her position, she expected J.P. her to drop everything and come running up to Bug Light, Maine, to make everything all right again. Well, screw that!
Their younger sister, Julie, who was down in Boston with her dream job—and probably, knowing Julie, several boyfriends—couldn’t take the time to drive up home to see their mother or to phone J.P. with an up-to-date report. And their two brothers—mom’s broken hip wasn’t going to get them emergency leave from the military. Besides, they were on the other side of the world.
Why did everything have to fall into her lap? Wasn’t looking after Stratford now that Martin was easing his way into retirement enough? Not that Martin would ever really let go until he was dead and buried.
I’m tired, J.P. Woods thought. Not that I’ll ever show it. The weak get eaten alive. She looked up as a couple of pages were laid before her.
“I Googled Charles Pell,” Gloria said. “The car is downstairs waiting.”
“I’ll be there in a minute,” J.P. told her assistant, and scanned the two pages. Basic stuff. Charles Pell had been born in 1962.
She was younger by half a year. Eighth Earl of Pelton, his younger brother and his nephews his heirs. Never married. The usual English public schools; degrees from both Oxford and Cambridge. Man about town. Still considered eligible. Old title, but little visible wealth. Brother was a professor at Oxford. J.P. got up from her desk, took her coat from the closet, and put it on. She cinched the belt, picked up her purse, and left her office. “See you tomorrow,” she told Gloria.
Her heart was beating rapidly as the car pulled up to the Park Leicester Hotel. The doorman opened the door to help her out, and there he was, smiling at her. J. P. Woods had to restrain herself from running into his arms. This was, after all, suppose to be the very first time they had ever met.
“Ms. Woods,” he said, “how delightful to meet you. I am Charles Pell.” Then, taking her arm, he led her into the hotel lobby and toward a bank of elevators. “I thought rather than eating in the restaurant, we’d have lunch in my suite. It’s lovely, by the way. Do you treat all your authors so well?” Without waiting for a reply, he drew her into the elevator.
It was automated. He pushed the CLOSE button first, and then the floor button. The doors snapped shut, and the elevator shot up as Charles Pell pulled J.P. into his arms and began to kiss her hungrily. “I can’t wait to fuck you,” he groaned into her ear. Then he let her loose as the elevator came to a smooth stop. The doors opened. They stepped out. An elegant matron who had been waiting smiled a frosty impersonal smile at them as she stepped into the transport.
Charles led J.P. down the carpeted, papered, chandeliered corridor, finally stopping at a door at the far end of the hallway. He swiped the key card and practically pushed her into the foyer of the suite as the door closed behind them. Her coat and purse were quickly on the floor. Her skirt, sweater, and bra swiftly followed. She yanked his jacket from him, almost tore the buttons from his shirt, and unzipped his fly. His eyes swept over her, appreciating the garter belt and stockings.
“Why, you naughty slut,” he said and chuckled, noting the absence of panties. He backed her up against the foyer wall, his hands sliding beneath her buttocks to lift her up. “You are all ready to fuck, aren’t you, my Lady Jane? Well, we may not have the trappings of your Regency town house, darling, and I am indeed going to give you a good fucking right now, but afterward prepare for a most thorough spanking. You are obviously in this reality a very bad girl.” Then he thrust deep and hard into her.
She gasped with delight as his penis penetrated her, her legs wrapped tightly about him, her arms about him, their mouths mashing together in a hot kiss.
Afterward he followed through with his threat, spanking her until her buttocks were pink and her cunt was tingling. Then he took her to bed, and they spent the next few hours fucking. J.P. was amazed. A fantasy lover who couldn’t be tired was one thing. But a real live man who couldn’t be tired. It was absolute bliss, although she was shortly going to have to go home and get some serious rest or she would be a mess at the weekly editorial meeting in the morning.
“You’re behaving as if we had been separated for weeks instead of just a few hours,” she finally said. “And I’m starved to boot.” Then she smiled a rare smile. “You’re here! You’re really here! I don’t know how Mr. Nicholas did it, and I don’t care. You’re here!”
“You have a final opportunity, dearest Jane, to change your mind,” he told her. “You do understand that you’ve sold your soul for me. Do you really love me that much?” His big hand stroked her face as their eyes met.
“I love you even more now than I did last night, Charles,” J.P. said softly. “Now we can have a life together in my reality.”
“We can have double the pleasure since the Channel is still available to you, darling,” he said. “We are going to have such fun now that you have renovated Pell Hall. We shall school recalcitrant wives and naughty young misses who tease without giving back in return. We shall take a pupil a month. Six gentlemen, six females, in alternating months.”
“I don’t know if I need or want such entertainment now that you are here with me in my own reality,” J.P. said. “In this reality you are about to become a bestselling author. There are talk shows on television, podcasts, and radio for you to do. I’ll have to explain all of that to you so you understand. We’ll have to open a Twitter account, a Facebook page, and a MySpace page. You’ll need to learn all about computers to do that. There is much more to selling books these days than just printing them and putting them into the stores, Charles.”
“I will leave all of that in your capable hands, my darling, but I must have some amusement for myself,” he told her.
“You have me,” J.P. murmured, fondling his genitalia as her lustful nature began to rise up again.
“But I need more, Jane,” he told her candidly. “I crave excitement.”
“This is a dangerous century, Charles,” she warned him. “There are diseases that didn’t exist in your time. The pox can be cured now, but there are worse diseases that cannot and cause death.”
“I will find us a female lover who is clean that we may share,” he said. “Then I shall be satisfied. You do love me, Jane, don’t you?”
He smiled his devastating smile at her, and hard once again, he put her on her back. “Think what fun we will have with a pretty young creature to play with, darling.” Then he fucked her until she was barely conscious and actually sore.
Be careful what you wish for. She suddenly remembered the old saying. But she did love him.
A year later she did not. Even Mr. Nicholas, with all of his power—Mr. Nicholas who had promised her so much—was unable to keep Charles Pell under control. “You lied to me,” she accused him, having managed to get an audience with him. Mr. Nicholas shrugged, fatalistically reminding her that Charles was her creation. Taking him from his Regency world and placing him two hundred years into the future was obvi
ously responsible for the change. He was a creature made to absorb the world around him, and the twenty-first century was a world of excess. “Even my opposite cannot control humanity successfully,” Mr. Nicholas said.
With his initial success the Charles Pell who existed in the twenty-first century had swiftly gained the reputation of a serious playboy. Publicly he had exquisite manners, endearing himself to hostesses on the highest rung of society. He was charming and solicitous to his publisher, J. P. Woods, a difficult woman, it was said. Once he had attained the rank of a literary lion, J.P. had had a very difficult time keeping him under control. Charles Pell was quickly becoming tabloid fodder, and he was as great a burden as the rest of her family was. She was exhausted keeping up with him. He was not the man she had fallen in love with in the Channel.
The sex was becoming boring and even a little dangerous. Charles was constantly looking for new excitement. Discovering that even young women in this new century were not innocents, he began to bring other men into their bedroom at the Park Leicester, where he had taken up permanent residence. There was a vacuous young blonde about twenty who was both outrageously handsome and tireless, a light-skinned black man, and an arrogant Hispanic who spanked her before putting her on her knees to service him. The final straw for J.P. was a young Asian boy of seventeen whom Charles actually bought from a Snakehead he had met in Chinatown. The boy was to service them both. He spoke no English, but readily understood was what required of him. But J.P. drew the line at sex and drugs. It just wasn’t her thing. Charles became very nasty when she wouldn’t do coke with him.
J.P. was beginning to fear for her reputation as her lover’s behavior became more dangerous. Worse, he was late with his next book, The Regency Gentleman’s Guide to Twenty-First-Century Country Living. J.P. wasn’t even certain that he had begun it or that there was a manuscript. He refused to allow her access to his work, saying it wasn’t ready yet for her critique. After two due dates had passed, J.P. appealed to Aaron Fischer, only to learn that Charles had fired him. When she questioned him about it, Charles told her he didn’t need an agent since he had her.
Guilty Pleasures Page 19
