Winter Bride (9780345546197)

by Johansen, Iris

  Julie’s sleeveless Kate Spade turtleneck dress suddenly felt a little tight around her throat.

  “If not Grace, Riley could write it,” Julie said, grasping at straws. “You know, I actually think she’s been looking for a way to broaden her focus and take a break from the sex stuff for a while. Can’t you just see it? ‘Outside the Bedroom’ or something like that.”

  “Julie,” Camille said with a sigh, “Grace and Riley have their stories figured out for the next few issues. I’ve already okayed them.”

  “If you want a schedule of my future story ideas, I’d be happy to—”

  “My mind’s made up.”

  Okay, so Camille wasn’t going to be persuaded with reason. Time to go for the editor’s soft spot: Stiletto itself.

  “I’m not sure this is what’s best for the magazine,” Julie said demurely. “I just don’t have any experience with the … you know … long-term stuff.”

  But Camille wasn’t biting. “So? You think every writer in this office has personal experience with everything they write about?”

  I do, Julie thought. Or at least I did.

  “Julie, look around. What does this look like to you?”

  “Um, an office?” More accurately, a high-tech, state-of-the-art, killer corner office with a view of Central Park South.

  “Exactly. It’s an office of a magazine company. This is journalism, not your pink fuzzy diary,” Camille snapped. “If you haven’t been there yourself, talk to women who are going through that stage. Do what you always do—dive into our readers’ heads and answer the hard stuff for them.”

  Julie bit back a sigh, knowing the battle was lost. Temporarily. Camille was one of those scary women who had made her way to the top of the food chain by having steel ovaries and a penchant for making people cry. Julie had always figured that if they’d made a movie about Camille’s life she’d be played by either a stern Katharine Hepburn type or an intensely scary Robert De Niro on crack. She was about as soft as a hammerhead shark and half as friendly.

  Still, Camille was right about one thing: this article could be done with a little bit of strategic networking. A major in journalism from the University of Southern California had taught Julie that media was more about whom you knew than what you knew. But Julie had developed her own type of journalism over the years, one that involved a distinctly personal voice. And she hated the idea that she couldn’t speak personally to a topic.

  “So we’re good?” Camille asked, standing to indicate that the conversation was over.

  Not even close. “Definitely,” Julie replied with a confident smile.

  Camille had already picked up her cellphone and was yelling at her dry cleaner. Something about white stains on a black dress. Awwwwwwk-ward.

  Julie slipped out the door and was immediately surrounded by the sounds of Stiletto on a Friday afternoon. The mood in the Manhattan office was crackling even on a slow day, but by the end of the week the vibe was positively electric.

  The office staff was made up almost entirely of women, with a handful of fashion-forward men. Everywhere she looked, there were skinny hips perched on a colleague’s desk, gossip about evening plans, and lip gloss exchanges over cubicle walls as office makeup transitioned to happy-hour makeup.

  Normally Julie would be making the rounds, figuring out if anyone had heard of something happening that she hadn’t. It was more of a habit than anything else; Julie couldn’t think of a time when she’d been the last to hear about a party. Being at the top of Stiletto’s ladder also meant you were at the top of New York’s social ladder. The girls of the Dating, Love, and Sex department didn’t have to fish for an invitation.

  Julie made a detour into the kitchen, where Camille kept a few bottles of champagne stocked for celebrations and promotions.

  Today Julie had another need for it—therapy.

  If she had to write about taking things to the next level, she at least needed a drink first. And Riley and Grace were always game for a little in-office happy hour.

  “Oh, Julie, I’m glad you stopped by.”

  Julie made a silent gagging motion at the fridge. Kelli with a freaking i. Julie should have hit the bottle sooner. Much sooner.

  Julie had often marveled that fate had blessed her with a nemesis-free childhood. There was no schoolyard bully, no junior high rival, no high school drama. But all fate had really done was help her preserve her energy to deal with her adult nemesis: Kelli Kearns.

  Although Julie and Kelli’s sordid history belonged in the tabloids, for the most part they tried to keep it out of the office and ignore each other at all costs. But every now and then Kelli’s size negative-two body seemed incapable of containing all of its venom, and some spewed out — usually in Julie’s direction.

  “What’s up, Kelli?”

  “First of all,” Kelli said, holding up a skinny finger, “is that company wine? I was always under the impression that consumption had to be authorized by Camille.”

  Julie glanced down at the bottle in sham regret. “A valid point, Kelli. How about this: you go tell Camille my secrets, and I’ll tell her yours. Sound good?”

  Kelli’s lips pressed together in disdain, and Julie resisted the urge to gloat. Kelli wouldn’t breathe a peep about the champagne. Not that Camille would care, anyway. All she wanted from her employees was that they meet deadlines and keep their columns sassy and snappy, all while fitting the stylish Stiletto mold. Camille didn’t care if they needed a little wine to get there.

  “Was there something else?” Julie asked. “Other than your concern over my liver and company funds?”

  “Actually, yes,” Kelli said, flicking her long blond ponytail over one bony shoulder. “I’ve been asked to clean out the fridge—”

  “You know that you’d be a lot less on edge if you actually ate the food, right?”

  “—and as I was cleaning I noticed this funny-looking sandwich. It has your name on it.”

  Julie glanced down at the plastic-wrapped sandwich in Kelli’s hand. “Yup, mine from last week. I ate half and forgot about it.”

  Kelli shook her head in condescension. “It’s wasteful, Julie. And I think I speak for the entire office when I say we’re tired of you abusing your power.”

  “My power? What is it that I’m out to destroy with a half-eaten turkey sandwich? Thanksgiving?”

  Kelli sighed. “I’m not trying to be difficult.”

  My ass, you’re not.

  “I’m just saying we all have to share a kitchen space, and it would be nice if even the senior columnists could clean up after themselves,” Kelli said.

  “Okay,” Julie said, shoving the champagne bottle under her arm and snatching the sandwich from Kelli. She took a half step to the side and dropped it in the garbage. “We good? Is there a coffee mug I didn’t position just right, or a pen I left somewhere?” Maybe up your ass?

  Kelli snapped her fingers. “You know, I just thought of something else. I was wondering if maybe you could keep me updated on your notes for August’s article.”

  Julie snorted. “And why would I do that?” And why bother asking? We both know you just steal my notes when it suits you.

  Kelli’s eyes went wide. “Camille didn’t tell you?”

  Julie stilled. “Tell me what?”

  “Your assignment for August? The relationship story? Camille’s worried you might not be up for it.”

  “And this is your business because …?”

  Kelli gave a sweet smile. “I’m your alternate. If your story doesn’t cut it, Camille will print mine instead.” Oh, hell no.

  With a violent twist of her hands, Julie uncorked the champagne and took a long swig as she marched out of the kitchen, her head reeling from Kelli’s bomb.

  There was only one thing worse than having to write this story.

  And that was having Kelli-with-an-i write it for her.

  Movie night, here I come.

  Read on for an excerpt from Sharon Cullen’s

/>   The Notorious Lady Anne

  Chapter One

  London, 1749

  Nicholas Addison tossed back a mouthful of flat champagne and watched the swirling mass of people on the dance floor with a jaded eye. If he didn’t have an important meeting in a few moments he would have left already. Hell, he wouldn’t have attended in the first place.

  “We’ve only just arrived. You can’t leave yet.”

  Nicholas switched his gaze from the dizzying dancers to his brother, Sebastian, Earl of Claybrook.

  Sebastian grinned but the amusement didn’t reach his tired eyes. “So what did Kenmar have to say?” he asked, referring to Nicholas’s earlier appointment with the marquess.

  Nicholas shrugged and looked around one more time. You never knew who could be lurking in the shadows. Listening. And he wasn’t taking chances. Not tonight.

  He took another swig of champagne and frowned when the alcohol hit his stomach like a round from a twenty-two-pounder. “He’s offering me a captain’s position on one of Hamilton’s ships. I haven’t given him an answer yet.”

  “So will you do it?” Sebastian asked quietly, looking around as well. If someone was lurking, Sebastian and Nicholas’s strange behavior would surely tip him off.

  Nicholas swirled another swallow of champagne around in his mouth but it didn’t wash away the indecision. The anxiety. “I’m to give him my answer in a few minutes.” He looked around for the marquess but the crush of people made it impossible to see even a few feet beyond him.

  “Don’t leave a chap in suspense, Nicholas. What will you tell him?”

  “I haven’t made my decision yet.”

  When the summons arrived to report to the marquess’s residence, Nicholas’s curiosity had been piqued. Bored, he accepted the somewhat terse invitation even though he knew he couldn’t not accept it. What Kenmar had proposed was the last thing Nicholas had expected and the one thing he wanted most—to command his own ship, to be out on the ocean where he belonged.

  But, as with anything in life that seemed too good to be true, it came with provisions. The shipping company had recently been under attack. Some suspected pirates. But not Kenmar. Kenmar suspected the owner of the company, a man named Daniel Blackwell, was purposely sabotaging the ships to gain the insurance money.

  Nicholas had inwardly winced when he read the insurance papers. The names scrawled at the bottom were some of the most highly placed noblemen in the country. A few even had the advantage of the king’s ear. If Blackwell was fleecing them of their money, the man was an imbecile.

  Nicholas leaned against the wall, desperate to escape the cloying perfume of the ladies, the boisterous boasts of the gentlemen, and the swirling couples on the dance floor. He’d never been a decent dancer, not even an adequate dancer, and with his barely healed leg, adequacy wasn’t a possibility. Not that he wanted to dance. No, what he wanted was to climb those stairs and exit the stifling house. But first he had to speak to Kenmar. First he had to make a decision.

  Sebastian slapped Nicholas on the back. “I’m certain you’ll make the right decision, brother.” He made to move away, hailing a friend across the room.

  “Sebastian.”

  His brother turned and raised a brow in inquiry. Nicholas was taken aback by the fatigue on Sebastian’s face. Small lines etched the corners of his eyes and deep grooves creased the sides of his mouth. A mouth that smiled little lately.

  “Thank you,” Nicholas said quietly.

  Sebastian smiled, erasing the serious expression that seemed to be a constant lately. “That’s what families are for, Nick.” His gaze flickered behind Nicholas. “Kenmar’s approaching.” Then he disappeared into the crowd, giving Nicholas only a few moments to prepare himself.

  “Addison.” Kenmar stopped beside him. An older gentleman who clung to the tradition of wearing a white wig in public, the man was well respected and a close acquaintance of the king.

  Nicholas nodded. “Kenmar.”

  “Have you given my proposal any thought?”

  “I have.”

  Kenmar took a sip from his glass. “Before you give me your answer, I’ll have you know I received more information after you left this afternoon. Inside sources tell me Blackwell is launching a shipment of gold that’s to leave the colonies in a month or so. If you choose to accept this mission, I’ll need you to discover more about the gold. Where it’s headed and what it’s being used for.”

  “You don’t believe Lady Anne is behind the attacks?” According to Blackwell, the notorious female pirate, Lady Anne, was behind them.

  “I don’t believe Lady Anne exists.” Kenmar swirled the wine in his glass.

  The London papers were full of the lady pirate’s exploits. Young girls wanted to be like her. Men claimed to have bedded her. The elite whispered about her in their ballrooms and she was the major source of entertainment in what would otherwise have been an ordinary season of soirees and balls.

  Nicholas didn’t know anyone who’d actually seen Lady Anne, let alone met her. Whether she existed or not had been little concern to him. Until now.

  The prospect of the gold fascinated him. Hell, who was he kidding? The entire proposal intrigued him. He’d been away from the sea for two long years. It was time he regained his sea legs and this was the perfect opportunity.

  “I will do it,” he said. And the weight that had settled on his shoulders after his injury shifted.

  Kenmar nodded, his expression unchanging, as if he’d expected no other answer. “Be ready to sail in five days.” He put his glass on the tray of a passing waiter. “Now I’m off to the club. Have a good evening, Addison.” And he disappeared into the crowd, leaving Nicholas alone with his newfound trepidation and anxiety. But also with anticipation.

  “Do you find these things as boring as I?”

  His gaze collided with eyes the color of the sea on a clear day, a combination of blue and green. They smiled at him, those eyes. Crinkling at the corners and dancing with merriment.

  Slowly his startled gaze swept over her, taking in shiny black hair piled high. One curled, ebony lock rested seductively on the top of a firm, golden breast encased in an off-white gown.

  With all that dark hair and glowing skin, she reminded him of a Gypsy.

  But what fascinated him the most, what caught his attention more than the curve of her breasts and the bewitching color of her eyes, were the dimples peeking out at him when she smiled.

  The stunning vision held out her hand. “Emmaline Sutherland. And you are?”

  He hesitated. He might disdain society, preferring the open ocean to a stuffy ballroom, but he knew the rules, and one of the biggest was that a lady did not introduce herself to a gentleman. Intrigued, he smiled, bowed over her hand and kissed it.

  “Captain Nicholas Addison.”

  “Well, Captain Addison, why don’t you ask me to dance? Maybe a sarabande will alleviate our boredom.”

  If women didn’t introduce themselves to men, they certainly didn’t ask men to dance. Who was this woman? The fear of making a fool of himself kept his feet rooted to the gleaming wood floor. Would his leg withstand the complicated dance moves? If it didn’t, did he deserve the captain’s position just offered to him?

  He held out his arm for her to take. “Would you prefer a stroll instead?”

  She tilted her head, studying him while his elbow remained crooked for her hand.

  Finally she took his arm. “I’d be delighted.”

  As he guided her through the crush of people, he recalled his brother mentioning something about this ball being held for an Emmaline Sutherland. “So, Miss Sutherland, to what do we owe the honor of this route?”

  She grimaced, her gaze glancing over the dancers. “No honor. Aunt Dorothy will take any excuse to give a ball. I happened to be in town at the moment.”

  “You are not from London?”

  Her hand felt nearly weightless on his arm, yet he was well aware of its warmth beneath her glove.
/>   “Originally, yes. But I live abroad now and return infrequently. And you, sir? Are you from London?”

  “Yes, but like you, I am rarely here. I’m a sea captain and will set sail in a few days for Boston.” Not completely the truth. He was rarely in town because he preferred the family’s country home, where he didn’t have to encounter pitiful stares and whispers behind his back. If not for Kenmar’s summons, and Sebastian’s plea to attend this ball, Nicholas wouldn’t be here now.

  Miss Sutherland raised an ebony eyebrow. “Boston. How exciting.” Her tone lacked the aforementioned excitement, as if her mind was far away. “And who do you sail for?”

  “Blackwell Shipping.” Pride welled in his chest. Pride that he was once again doing something. Sailing instead of rusticating, as his brother called it. Sailing instead of recuperating. Sailing instead of feeling sorry for himself. “Where do you live, if not in London?” he asked.

  “Barbados.”

  “Barbados?” He turned to look at her.

  Amusement lurked in those curiously colored eyes. “Does that shock you?”

  More like fascinated. While Nicholas was well traveled, he didn’t know many women who were. In fact, he didn’t know any women who were. “No,” he lied.

  “My husband and I own a sugar plantation on the island.”

  Disappointment washed through him at the mention of a husband even though he had no right to his disappointment. It wasn’t as if he was able to pursue a courtship with Miss, or rather, Mrs. Sutherland. He was leaving in five days, after all.

  “And is your husband present tonight?” He glanced around the room, searching for an angry gentleman staring holes in his back.

  “He’s in Barbados overseeing the plantation. He never travels to London.”

  “I see.” But he didn’t see. If he had a wife as beautiful and charming as Emmaline Sutherland, he wouldn’t let her out of his sight. Definitely not to travel from Barbados to London alone. “Are you frightened traveling alone?”