"When I came through the village I didn't see any serious shopping facilities," he replied, "and that wonderful beef had to have come from a real butcher. Let's sit. It's lovely out here on your big porch."
"The dishes," she protested.
"I'll bet you and Rina have everything in the dishwasher but for the dessert things," he said softly. "It's twilight, and I hear a robin singing. They have the sweetest song, and you hear them only at dusk and at dawn in the spring. Spring is already half-gone, Emily. You won't hear the robins until next year if you miss them now." He sat in a large wicker rocker, motioning her into a nearby chair.
She sat. "I never knew a man who recognized a robin's song, or knew when they sang," she told him quietly.
"I grew up in the country," he said. "Actually, I prefer it to the city."
"I couldn't live in the city," Emily admitted. "My father does, and my mother lives just outside of D.C. But I'm not a city girl at all. I have lived in Egret Pointe my whole life, and I never want to live anywhere else. I suppose that makes me a world class stick-in-the-mud." She laughed. "Did you like living in London? It's a wonderful city."
"I was very fortunate," he said. "I lived in an elegant little row house directly across from a lovely park. Actually, I own it. I've let it out for a year to a wealthy American widow, complete with my butler, Mr. Harrington, until I see how things go now that I'm back. I'm not certain I want to stay here."
"Oh." She sounded disappointed. "Why not?" she asked him. Then, "It's J.P., isn't it? She really is a dreadful creature, but she has made Stratford exceedingly profitable, and in publishing today profit is the name of the game. Martin couldn't do without her."
"You know what's happening then?" he said quietly.
"Yes, I know," Emily answered him candidly. Then she stood up. "I really want to get the table cleared and those dishes started, Mick."
"I'll help," he said, escorting her into the house.
They hardly spoke another word as together they cleared the rest of the dishes and glasses from the table. When everything was in the dishwasher and Emily had started it, she told him to take off the lovely Irish linen cloth that had covered her Duncan Phyfe dining table, and gather up the napkins.
"Essie, my housekeeper, will do them on Monday," she said, putting them in a basket in the laundry room off the big kitchen.
"Is that a laundry tub?" he asked her.
"One of the benefits of living in an old house," she replied as she set up the coffeemaker for the morning. "First one down turns it on," she told him.
"I'm not usually an early riser on Saturdays," he admitted with a grin.
"I thought we were going to work tomorrow," Emily said. "I have so much to tell you, and I've already fleshed out the story, Mick."
"It's still early," he responded. "I thought we might work a little tonight."
"Oh," she replied.
"Or we could sit out on your porch for a while longer, and get to know each other better," he quickly suggested, seeing her dismay. "You aren't a night person, are you, Emily?"
"Not really. My brain functions better when the sun's up," she confessed.
It was almost dark when they came out again to sit on the porch. They watched the night envelop everything about them, and they couldn't even see each other's faces, just their silhouettes. The stars came out to twinkle brightly in the blackness of the firmament. They talked about themselves, learning to become more comfortable with each other as the time slipped by.
"What's that?" he said, suddenly hearing a chiming coming from the village.
"The Episcopal church, St. Luke's, has a clock tower. Didn't you notice it before?" Emily wondered. She had gotten so used to it she rarely ever heard it.
"No, I was too interested in listening to you," he told her. "God, it's eleven o'clock, isn't it? I hadn't realized it was so late."
"Do you turn into a pumpkin at midnight?" she asked mischievously.
He laughed. "Did you leave any lights on in the house?" he asked her.
"I'll go put some on so you don't break your neck coming in," she replied, getting up to do exactly that.
Able to see his way in he thanked her for a lovely evening.
"You have your own bathroom," she told him as he made his way upstairs. "The house may be an antique, but I've modernized all the electric and wiring. And I am the proud possessor of three and a half bathrooms. Get up whenever you want, Mick. Good night," she called to him as he reached the landing.
He looked back, but she was gone. Gone to do what? Lock up? Put away the clean dishes in the dishwasher? Prepare a pan of sweet rolls for the morning? He had enjoyed this evening. Enjoyed the food, the Seligmanns, Emily. Closing the door of his bedroom he looked about him. The furniture was American Empire, large and mahogany. The dresser had carved feet. The big bed was a sleigh bed. He turned on the bedside lamp and, taking down the simple heavy white cotton coverlet, he folded it neatly and placed it on the spread rack at the foot of the bed. He stripped off his clothing and hung it up and, after walking into the bathroom, showered. Dried off, he opened one of the bedroom windows and climbed into the bed naked. He always slept naked. The bed was made European style, with just a bottom sheet and a down coverlet. It all smelled of lavender, and was surprisingly comfortable. He turned off the bedside lamp.
He wasn't yet sleepy. He heard Emily come upstairs, and listened to hear where she would go. He heard a bath running, and imagined her naked amid a tub of bubbles. She had little round breasts. He could tell that from the way her blouse clung. Were her nipples small or large? Dusky or a perky, pinker flesh? Her slacks had revealed by their fit a deliciously round little bottom. He imagined smacking that tempting little butt until she was wet with her desire, and ready to be mounted. He groaned softly and reached down to rub his dick, which was distended and hard with his lascivious thoughts. What the hell was the matter with him? He barely knew the girl, and if she was thirty-one, with no husband or visible male friend, it might be that men weren't her preference. Which, of course, didn't stop him from desiring her. She couldn't be gay. But there was an innocence, an untouched quality about her that just begged to be explored. And that was so damned unprofessional.
Martin Stratford had brought him back to the States for a reason. He couldn't disappoint him by losing his reason and fucking the ears off of Martin's prize writer. He had to get Emily to write a more sexually involved novel. The days of Georgette Heyer and Barbara Cartland were long over. Oh, there was a small, loyal market for those books, but it wasn't enough to generate the kind of profit a publishing house had to generate these days. Every book had to be an instant hit. A moneymaker.
Stratford did have the benefit of being a family-owned company-one of two left in the business. It allowed them the advantage of patience that the big conglomerate-owned publishing houses no longer had. Michael Devlin knew he could bring out more in Emily Shanski than she ever imagined she had in her. Make her books more profitable, which, of course, was a double-edged sword. If The Defiant Duchess turned out to be a really big hit among the readers-so much so that they bought it new rather than secondhand-one of the bigger companies might try to snap Emily up. She had a good track record. Her agent was no fool. He would want the best deal for his client.
Rachel had let Emily continue to write basically the same books. Maybe she hadn't seen it. Maybe her age finally caught up with her, and she was glad to get a clean, well-written manuscript that she didn't have to fuss with a whole lot, or request rewrites with all those deadlines looming. Emily's reputation was one of a writer who turned her work in on time and did her few rewrites, her line and copy editing, her galleys when requested, if not a bit before. She was reliable. There was no temperament involved with Emily Shanski, according to everything he had managed to learn about his new author. He was growing sleepy at last. His hard-on was fading with more sensible thoughts, but he wondered what she was doing as he finally fell asleep.
There had been no light un
der his door when she came up, Emily had noted. But she had heard the shower running when she was finishing up in the kitchen. He was a well-made man, and didn't appear to have any excess fat on him. No beer belly for Michael Devlin, although he certainly ate like he was starving, she remembered with a smile. She liked a man who enjoyed his food. And he hadn't sat back and let her do all the cleaning up. He had pitched right in to help her. His Irish grandma's influence, no doubt, Emily thought with another smile.
Then her thoughts turned, and she wondered what he looked like beneath those tailored slacks and that obviously custom-made shirt. One button had been open at the top of that shirt. She had seen no chest hair poking out. The bit of skin revealed had been smooth. She thought about what it would be like to run the palms of her hands over that skin. Was it soft? Was he hard beneath? He looked like he might be fit and hard.
The water in her tub was cooling. She quickly washed and stepped out, damp-drying herself with her washcloth, then using her towel to finish the job. Naked, Emily walked into her bedroom and looked critically at herself in the large mirror that stood on the floor. She certainly wasn't skinny, like his model friend must have been. She had inherited her Irish family's delicate bone structure, but she had meat on those bones like her Polish relations, and she wore a size twelve. Twelve was considered a larger size in this day and age. Would he think she was fat? Was she pretty enough to seduce a man who had been bedding English nobility?
She stared hard into the mirror. Her breasts were nice. Small, but perfectly rounded. Her hips were a little wide, but they were nicely curved, and her thighs, thanks to her regimen at the Awesome Woman gym, were slender. She peered over her shoulder at her butt. Fleshy, but firm and shapely. Okay, so she wasn't a model, but she had a nice body. He'd either like it or he wouldn't. But it didn't make any difference as long as she could get him to seduce her so she could then write about sexual encounters, and know what the hell she was really talking about.
She wondered how many times she would have to do it with him. Would once be enough? What if they had to do it more than once, and he didn't like the way she did it, and he wouldn't continue? Well, then she would simply go to her duke. Hadn't he implied that once she lost her virginity he was there to take over for Devlin? Maybe not exactly, but she had understood that once she had experienced passion in her own reality, it could also be there for her in the reality of the Channel.
But how was she ever going to seduce Michael Devlin? He was very sophisticated, and his reputation was that of a man who chose his own women, made his own decisions. All the books she had showing in copious and colorful detail the sexual encounter, the positions, and how they could be done offered nothing on how to get a man to do them. What had Savannah said? "Throw yourself on his mercy"? "You're just his type"? Emily wouldn't have thought an urbane guy like Devlin would look seriously at her twice. But then, maybe he was bored with his elegant and worldly women. Maybe. Just maybe a little country girl who needed his help would appeal to him. Could she pull it off without making a complete fool of herself? Well, she was going to find out soon enough. Picking up her sleep shirt from the chair where she had put it earlier, Emily slipped it on, wondering if she should maybe go down to Lacy Nothings in the village tomorrow and pick out something sexier in which to be seduced. Or would that be much too patent? A soft old cotton sleep shirt was hardly the garment in which to be seduced. She'd wager his women all wore elegant silk-and-lace lingerie when they bedded Mick Devlin. But wouldn't it look obvious if she did? As if she were expecting him to make love to her? Undecided, Emily climbed into her bed. She was in a dreamless sleep before she even knew it. It had been a long, hard day. And it was surely going to get harder before it got easier.
Chapter 3
He wasn't sure if it was the smell of the coffee or the cinnamon rolls baking that had awakened him first. He had been lying on his belly. Turning lazily over onto his back, he sniffed appreciatively. The big tall clock in the upstairs hall began to chime. Nine o'clock. He looked across the room toward the window, and saw the day was fair. And for some reason he found that, unlike most Saturdays, he wasn't the least bit sleepy. He had slept like a damned log the entire night through. Michael Devlin climbed out of bed, peed, brushed his teeth, shaved, and got dressed. Then he headed directly downstairs toward the delicious smells coming from Emily Shanski's kitchen.
"Damnation!" Emily dropped the pan she was taking from the oven quickly onto the counter, and flung the towel in her hand into the sink.
He was at her side before she even realized he was there, taking her hand and sticking it under cold running water. "It's not bad. What happened?"
"I almost forgot the rolls, and instead of taking an oven mitt I grabbed a towel," Emily replied. She turned her head to say thank you, and found herself nose-to-nose with him. Her blue eyes widened with surprise, and then he kissed her.
Her lips were incredibly soft, and she smelled of sweet rolls and lilacs. He slid an arm about her waist, and his kiss deepened as he felt her yielding against him. What was happening? He groaned and let her go. "I'm sorry. I shouldn't have done that," he said, stepping back a pace.
"Why not?" she asked him, suddenly knowing she had to take the initiative. For all his reputation Devlin was a gentleman. His kiss had been wonderful! She had never before been kissed quite like that. It was fierce and tender all rolled into one.
"I think we both know the answer to that, Emily," he replied stiffly.
"Sit down, Devlin," she told him, already pouring him a mug of coffee, and gestured toward the kitchen table. "Have a sweet roll, and let's discuss the fact that we seem to be attracted to each other." God in His heaven! Had she really said that? The look of surprise on his face told her she had.
"I'm your editor," he replied.
"And Savannah Banning tells me you're a very good one," Emily answered him. "Why should the fact that we're being drawn to each other change that?"
"You know Lady Palmer?" he asked her.
"We go way back," Emily said. "I was her witness when she and Sir Reginald went to the registry office seven years ago. I'm the Honorable William's godmother."
He nodded, surprised. It had never occurred to him that Emily Shanski would know the beautiful and flamboyant Savannah Banning. And God knew what the gossipy Lady Palmer had said about him. "More than a business relationship between us would be inappropriate," he tried to explain, but he sensed she knew that.
"Oh, piffle!" Emily responded. She plunked a roll on his plate and pushed it and the butter toward him. "Do you want to sleep with me?" In for a penny, in for a pound, she decided. She didn't have a whole lot of time, after all, and a sexy, hot Defiant Duchess was due to Stratford at the end of December.
He choked on the bit of roll in his mouth, his face growing red, coughing. "Water!" he gasped, jumping up. She got it for him. Swallowing it, he managed to regain what he hoped would pass for composure. "You're joking, of course," he said.
"Are you amused?" she countered dryly. Her blue eyes were actually dancing with merriment, and her lips twitched, as if she wanted to burst into laughter at him.
The little witch was enjoying his discomfiture quite thoroughly, he thought. What would happen if he called her bluff? he wondered. Would she fall into his arms, or run shrieking from her sunny kitchen? Michael Devlin didn't liked being played for a fool, and he always made it a point to be the one who initiated any sexual encounter. But this was just too good to resist. If he was ever going to have any credibility with his writer, he had to make damned certain from the start that Emily knew who was the boss.
"As a matter of fact," he told her, looking down into those big cornflower-blue eyes, "I don't want to sleep with you, Emily Shanski. Let's tell it like it really is. I want to fuck you. I've wanted to since I first saw you. It is totally inappropriate for us to get involved, but I've never been a man to play entirely by the rules. If you're game, so am I," Devlin said wickedly. He almost laughed aloud at the look of surpr
ise on her face. He had shocked the adorable Miss Shanski with his rather blunt and crude language.
Emily swallowed hard, and worked to feign an imperturbability she was far from feeling. "All right," she finally said. "Then we'll do it tonight." Her pulse pounded.
"Oh, no, angel face," he responded, surprised, but not about to let her get the upper hand. "I don't play that way. No appointments for you and me. I like spontaneity. I think now is as good a time as any to begin our little adventure, don't you?" Standing away from the table, he moved toward her, his mouth twitching with his amusement.
"It's morning!" Emily protested, taking a step back.
"Haven't you ever done it in the daylight, angel face? It's just as much fun. Sometimes even better, because there is always the chance someone will come in and discover you getting your ears fucked off on your well-scrubbed oak kitchen table." His green eyes glittered as he moved closer and closer to where she now stood.
Emily backed away again, eyes wide. People made love on kitchen tables? She didn't know whether she should be shocked or intrigued. She swallowed hard once more and said coolly, "I far prefer the comfort of a bed, Devlin, and I'm not interested in voyeurism. It's vulgar, and speaks badly of the couple involved." There! That should set him back on his heels-she hoped. What was she getting herself into? she suddenly wondered. Was this a good idea? Maybe she should just rent some X-rated videos.
"Very well," he drawled. "Your room or mine? And yes, now!"
"Now is not the best time," Emily said, gasping as he suddenly reached out and pulled her into his arms. God, he smelled so good!
"Are you a cock tease, Emily?" he asked her softly, taking her hand and pressing it against his groin. "That's not nice, you know."
Her fingers moved involuntarily against the hard ridge pressing against his jeans. "Oh," she half whispered. His penis was very hard beneath her hand.
Forbidden Pleasure Page 5
