Made in Heaven

by McGoldrick, May

  Charging the door like a bear, Evan practically yanked the thing off its hinges. Meg stood outside, one eyebrow registering her surprise at the suddenness with which the door opened.

  “You’re not nervous or anything, are you?”

  Evan cursed. Dressed in a soft, shape molding sundress, she looked breathtakingly beautiful. Eyeing the ringlets of hair that framed her pretty face and exquisite neck, he tried to imagine her as Robert’s wife.

  He couldn’t. This was Meg. The woman whom he had gone crazy over from the first moment they’d met. And he could remember very clearly how good her body had felt sprawled on top of his only couple of hours ago.

  Dammit, he just had to push the fact that she was a widow right out of his mind. Evan was certain that Robert would give him his blessing if he knew what he was planning for his lonely, unemployed wife. Well, pretty certain.

  “So, do I stay out here, or do I come in?”

  He frowned at the pretty smile. “Come in, before I change my mind.”

  She breezed past him. He couldn’t help but admire the silky smooth skin showing above the low dip in the back of the dress.

  “I thought you were coming to work, and here you are trying to seduce me.”

  She turned around and gave him a heart-melting smile. “I am here to work, and I don’t know what you mean.”

  Evan struggled to keep from reaching out and taking her into his arms, fought to keep from showing her exactly how dangerous it was to come to his apartment dressed like that.

  “Just don’t come too close to me.” He started walking toward the kitchen. “And don’t stand in front of the window.”

  “Whatever you say.”

  “Want some coffee?”

  She sat on a high stool and looked at him across the divider into the kitchen. “Do you think I need it?”

  “How the hell do I know what you need?”

  She was an editor, for chrissake, Evan reminded himself. He should be tougher, more ruthless, just plain mean--the way he always behaved toward the whole bunch of them. But he just couldn’t bring himself to do it. This was a whole new deal.

  “I’d just like to start, if you don’t mind.”

  He poured himself a cup and came around the divider. “I printed out fifty pages or so. They’re on that table. I also have it on the laptop. I didn’t know which way you’d prefer to read.”

  “What are you going to do while I am reading?”

  “Sit back on the sofa and sulk?”

  She smiled. “That’d be kind of distracting, don’t you think? How about if you work too? You can write on the laptop, and I’ll read the printed pages. Then we could talk and just keep going like that.”

  Sounded reasonable, Evan thought. Too reasonable, he chided himself.

  “That sounds like work!”

  “It is!” Meg got up and took him by the arm, pushing him toward the computer. “Let’s put in a good solid evening of work. Come on, you can do it. It’d be exciting. Fun.”

  Evan let her lead him across the room, but with every step he continued to grumble, enjoying her amused reaction.

  “Saturday night! Everybody in this town is partying, and here I am stuck in front of a goddamn computer.”

  “Save your energy.” She pushed him down in his chair. “Save it, since whatever you don’t use writing, you’ll need fighting me later on.”

  He sat down at his desk, and Meg curled up in a corner of the sofa not too far away with his manuscript on her lap and a pad of paper beside her.

  Trying to stare at his computer and pick up where he’d left off, Evan’s eyes kept drifting to Meg. He wished he could read her mind. He wanted her to tell him after each paragraph how she felt. But she went on reading, ignoring him, so he finally gave up and started to write.

  Amazingly, he was somehow able to pick up where he’d left off before. The story engulfed him, its action surging forward like a runaway train. Some time later, he heard her laugh, and he lifted his head for a moment to see her smiling down at the page in her hand. She, too, seemed lost to everything around her. He went back to work.

  The long, golden beams of the sun moved across the room and up the far wall, the light gradually giving way to dusk and then to night. Somehow, his coffee cup refilled. And the words kept rushing onto the page. When he finally found himself at a sticking point in the chapter he was writing, he lifted his head again, only to find the corner of the sofa empty.

  Turning sharply around, he found Meg leaning against the divider to the kitchen. There was something haunting in her expression. Something magical.

  She’d liked it.

  “So? What do you think?”

  “What do I think?” she repeated, lifting her head for an instant, obviously searching for the right words. “I think you are wasting your time driving that cab around this town. I think you have incredible talent. A very expressive voice. And you have a story with a lot of heart.” She looked at him directly. “I think you are on your way to stardom, to bestseller land, to the world of fame and fortune and publishers who will extend a red carpet for you to spit on...if that’s what you want.”

  He had millions of adoring fans. He’d had a whole slew of editors willing to dance to his every whim. The critics loved him in spite of his ability to sell a lot of books. But none of the praises had ever affected him like these words.

  “But I also think there is arrogance in the way you write. You know you have talent, so you sometimes get lazy. You take shortcuts. You bring the reader within one step of the moon, but then leave them there.”

  He found the muscles in his face tightening. She had praised him so she could dump on him. He started stalking across the room toward her.

  “But this is minor stuff, Evan. Little things,” she added quickly, scurrying into the kitchen and putting the divider between them. “Little details that you fail to put in. Most readers won’t even notice it, but the smart ones will. And the final effect will blow them away.”

  “This is a first draft.”

  “It’s not a first draft. I’ve never read any first draft that was this good.”

  “And with your job as a janitor...cleaning engineer...or whatever the hell you called it, how many first drafts of unpublished novels do you get to read?”

  He saw her face redden. “That’s beside the point. Do you want to hear my comments or not?”

  He considered it for a moment. This was the same way Robert had started with him years ago. Praising him to the sky and then cutting his legs from under him. But then, in the process, Robert had taught Evan how to walk...and how to write a damn good book.

  “I do want to hear your comments.”

  “Then stop acting like such an immature jerk and go and sit at that table. I’ve marked some of my comments on the margins, but we’d better go through it together.”

  And that they did. He argued vehemently against some of her observations, but reluctantly gave in to others. She was a master negotiator, much more difficult and brutal than any he’d ever faced. But he had something over her. He was Drew King, and she didn’t know it. He knew damn well how to write. And he knew his first drafts were better than the finished work of most of the other authors she was used to.

  She didn’t want to show it, but he knew he’d impressed her. A few times she would try to drive a point home and then he would twist it, give it back to her, argue it; and he would see the spark ignite in her dark eyes. A lightning flash of challenge, intelligence, excitement. She was made for this type of work. He could tell--it was in her blood!

  When they finished with her comments, she forced him to go and make the changes. And then she sat next to him, and together they read the work through again.

  To his absolute and utter dismay, it was better. In fact, it was damn good.

  But then she wouldn’t let him call it a night. She wanted to read more. Demanded it. Dared him to let her. So, realizing it was already half past ten, he turned the laptop over to her, and calle
d in for pizza.

  This time she didn’t let him get too far away from her. In fact, she forced him to sit beside her. He watched her, gauging her response from the animated expressions that were flickering across her face. At times, he read along with her as she paged downed the screen.

  She was almost caught up with everything he’d written thus far when the pizza arrived at the door. Going to the kitchen to get plates and drinks for them, Evan realized that he was actually disappointed that he didn’t have any more of the novel to share with her. Despite all their bickering and all the heavy-handed attacks on one another, these past few hours had been the most exciting and productive he could recall.

  “Have you thought about shopping what you have so far, to some agents or publishers?”

  He placed the pizza in the middle of the table, watching her fold some paper napkins before putting them beside the plates. He was tempted to tell her who he was, but then he found himself thinking of the evening that they’d shared. Being a bestselling author had one troubling disadvantage. Loneliness. The self-imposed need to produce something readable without the kind of collaboration that had taken place between the two of them tonight.

  “Yeah.” He finally met her gaze. “I could see doing that.”

  He went to the kitchen and returned with their drinks, but she hesitated a moment before sitting down. “And do you know how to go about the whole thing--about finding an agent and contacting publishers?”

  “Do you?”

  Evan helped himself to a slice of the pizza and took a bite out of it, his eyes all the while continuously studying her troubled face. He knew she was trying to help him, but at the same time he wondered how long she would keep up trying to hide the truth of her profession. Probably as long as he kept hiding his identity.

  “I’m an editor, Evan. I mean, I was until yesterday, before I lost my job.”

  Evan choked on the food in his mouth. Dammit! She had him making one wrong assumption after the other about her.

  “I know. And you have every right to be mad at me for not telling you earlier. But then, I’ve learned from experience not to talk about my job.” Her fingers nervously played with the napkin as her gaze slowly lifted to his. “By the time I thought I could tell you what I did for living, you’d already told me about your writing. And so...so I didn’t want to intimidate you. I figured it’d be best if I just shut my mouth. I really did hope you’d let me read your work.”

  “I...” Evan searched for the words as she placed her elbows on the table and leaned toward him.

  “When I said you are really good, I meant it. That wasn’t just a general observation, but a professional opinion. It’s always a risky business, but if you let me, I can put you in contact with some savvy agents. And even some big publishers who will start you on your way.”

  Feeling like the town idiot, he just continued to stare.

  “I know. You must be asking yourself, what the heck does she want? Why is she telling me all this? Why now?”

  This was frigging unbelievable. But she was doing great, carrying both sides of the conversation.

  “You just have to accept what I'm telling you, because there’s no way I can explain how I feel.” She let out a long, shaky breath. “I want to help you...just help you. I think you are a great writer, and someday I will love standing and admiring a bookstore window filled with your books, and thinking, I knew you when! And I can help. Even if a writer has a world of talent and lifelong habit of hard work, there is still a lot of luck involved in getting your work read by the right people.”

  Meg was really rolling now, and Evan knew he couldn’t have gotten in a word if he wanted to.

  “And I know some of those people. I’ve been in the business for a while now. I can put you in contact with the editors at Morgan Publishing in New York. I’ve had a few of my authors sign with them. So I could pull some strings. They’d be a perfect publishing house for someone with your talent. They’ll push you, and they’ll promote you. They can take you where you should be headed.”

  Evan couldn’t believe it. She was going to introduce him to his own publisher.

  She looked up into his face. “So what do you think?”

  Shit! And what could he say to that offer? Thanks, but no thanks, honey! You see, I’m already there! I’m Drew King!

  “I’m...I’m speechless,” he said, starting to feel miserable.

  He watched her look at him for another long moment. She reached over for a piece of pizza.

  “Are you mad at me for not telling you sooner?”

  Yes, he was mad at her...for telling him sooner than he had told the truth about himself. “No! I’m not mad.”

  “And you won’t treat me any differently?”

  “Of course not!”

  She paused before taking another bite. “Will you still let me read your work?”

  “Yes, I’m counting on you to continue looking at my work.”

  Finally. It felt good to be able to speak the truth for a change. And he nearly smiled, seeing the happy expression his last words brought to her face.

  As they continued to eat, Evan’s mind kept working through a tactful approach to bring up the truth. But for the first time in his life, he felt helpless--inept even-- at something as simple as speaking his own mind.

  Hi, I’m Drew King! Meg, please...please, you have got to understand! Having you read my work and give me your input was not a joke! I really needed help. I still do! Would you consider working for me? Staying with me? Meg I have an offer...

  “For someone who kept whining for the past couple of hours about being so starved, you sure haven’t made much of a dent in this pizza.”

  He looked at the half-eaten slice on his plate. Damn! His appetite had sure managed to disappear in a hurry.

  Meg, I have something to tell you. I want you to know that you’ve already made a difference in my writing. In my life! Don’t get upset at this, but I’m really Drew King. All those stories...

  “I was afraid of that,” she said softly, pushing her own plate to the side. “Perhaps it would have been much better if I’d just shut my mouth and not said all that about my job. I told you myself, didn’t I? People...writers... somehow get intimidated when they’re faced with an editor for the first time. You see them clam up. It’s as if they suddenly feel like they have to run a grammar-check on everything they say.”

  “Now, that’s a crock of shit, if I ever heard one.”

  She beamed a smile. “Yes! This is more like it. For a moment I was afraid you were going to turn polite on me.”

  “I thought you don’t like vulgarity.”

  “That was before I met you. I want you to be you.” She leaned her chin on her palm and looked into his eyes.

  He felt the fire igniting in his loins. “Are you flirting with me?”

  “I’m sorry, I didn’t know I was so obvious.”

  He wanted her. But first, he had to tell the truth and be done with it. “Meg, there is something...”

  “How about if I make us a fresh pot of coffee.”

  He watched her quickly come to her feet, taking their plates into the kitchen. He picked up the rest of the dinner and followed her.

  “Meg! Let me get this out while I can. I...”

  “No!” She put everything in the sink and turned toward him. “I know what you’re going to say.”

  “You do?” he said, suddenly dumbfounded.

  “Yes, I do. So don’t say it!”

  He reached out, grabbed her by the shoulders, and looked straight into her eyes. “And what is it exactly that you don’t want me to say.”

  “That you won’t need my help. That your ego is bruised. That your feelings are hurt. That it’s you who is always the giver. That you can manage perfectly well all by yourself, and...”

  “I do need your help!” he interrupted. “And I have tried, but somehow I can’t seem to manage any longer by myself. Meg, I...”

  Pushing herself onto her toes,
she kissed him hard on the mouth, and suddenly Evan lost his desire to be talking. He kissed her back with all the stormy passions that were raging within him.

  “Make love to me, Evan!” she said softly against his ear when he buried his lips in her neck. “Now.”

  He felt his heart leap. “But what about our date?”

  “We can still have our date.” She ran her hands down his chest, over his stomach. “We can just think of this as something to hold us over until then!”

  Before he could answer, she was again ravaging his mouth, her arms around his neck.

  The hell with it, he thought. The hell with reason. The hell with telling her the truth first. The hell with knowing that he was falling in love for the first time in his life.

  He swept her up in his arms and started toward the bedroom. He felt her smile into the crook of his neck.

  “Should I grab the sugar bowl as we go by?”

  “No need! I have a brand new, five-hundred package, economy size box tucked right under the bed. Just for you.”

  “I knew you’d be economy size.”

  As they burst into the bedroom, she worked herself out of his arms. Pushing his hands away, she started undressing him. Evan reached for her, but again she stopped him, smiling. With her lips and mouth scorching every newly exposed inch of hard flesh, Meg stripped him out of every stitch of clothing he had on. Then, just as he thought he'd burst if he didn’t put his hands on her soon, Meg pushed herself back and--with a warning hand up--lay back on the bed.

  “Okay,” she said with a mischievous smile. “I want you to march naked around the bed.”