He opened his mouth to say something but closed it, choosing to glare at me instead. Annoyance surged through me. Did Alfred really think we had a scrap of hope of landing Seton? If he did, then Jeremy was right—he had been drinking too much of the Bookends-will-be-big-one-day Kool-Aid.
A twinge of guilt stirred within me when I saw his weatherworn face go pale. I shouldn’t have spoken to him that way. As bosses went, Alfred was so damn sweet and easygoing that it was easy to forget that he was the big cheese and therefore could fire my ass if he saw fit.
Alfred’s eyebrows creased into a frown as he looked thoughtfully at me. Then he closed his eyes briefly, grunting as he plopped down next to me and squeezed the tiny cigarette butt into an ashtray.
“Listen,” he said, suddenly looking very old and weary. “Nobody knows about this, so I’m counting on your discretion. The truth is that the company is in trouble.”
My eyes widened. I was momentarily speechless. The company was in trouble? Bookends AtoZ—a thirty-something-year-old publisher—was in danger of going under? I stared at Alfred, then realized my mouth was hanging open. I closed it and refilled my glass with water, downing it in one gulp.
“Now you see why I’m desperate,” Alfred continued, voice bleak. “Bookends AtoZ has been catering to unique, high-quality literature for over three decades and we’ve enjoyed some moderate success over the years, but the problem is that literary fiction is now practically obsolete. No one buys poetry or deep literature anymore. No one cares about discovering the next T.S. Eliot or Charles Dickens. A bookstore stocks about twenty copies of one of our books, sells five of them, and the others are either sent back or are tossed over to the half-off bin. So the company’s suffered losses as a result. Moderate success is simply not enough anymore. We will all be without jobs within two years if nothing is done about it. We have to make money—big money—or we’re screwed. Getting a phone call from David J. Seton, an international bestselling author, and a brilliant one at that, was like a fucking miracle. That’s why I need him to sign with us, Marjorie. It’s a quicker fix than changing our publishing strategy or, God forbid, selling the company. I need my best foot forward.”
“Which is why you gave the editing job to a rookie,” I countered tonelessly.
He gave me a slanted look. “Look, Marjorie, Seton wanted you to court him. Not me, not one of the senior editors, but you specifically. He was pretty darn adamant about it too. What the hell was I supposed to do? This was a chance in a lifetime, and if he wanted to work with you, if that was all it took, then damn it, I was more than happy to oblige him.” He turned inquisitive eyes back to me, hazel eyes roving over my blouse and skirt in a way that made me squirm uncomfortably in my chair. “Marjorie, has Seton…he hasn’t done or said anything inappropriate to you, has he?”
I squirmed in my seat again, wishing this conversation hadn’t shifted to such an unsettling subject. “Define inappropriate.”
“Has he made any sexual advances to you?”
I chewed on my lower lip and smoothed down my skirt with sweaty palms. How nice it would be to tell Alfred everything! Not only would it shock the hell out of him, he would definitely not insist on my continuing to court Seton. But I couldn’t tell him. Alfred was like a father to me, and his respect meant everything to me.
“I already knew Seton had singled me out as his potential editor. He told me so during our first meeting.” A rueful smile teased my lips. “You told me you gave me the job because I was perfect for it. You lied to me.”
“I didn’t meant to—”
“I know you didn’t,” I cut him off, “and that’s fine. You didn’t believe in me, that wasn’t the reason. You just had no choice. I understand now why you did it, so don’t worry about it.”
Alfred stared at me in silence for several seconds, then he flashed me a toothy grin and said, “I do believe you’re right for the job, kiddo. I didn’t lie to you about that.”
I smiled back at him, relieved that he hadn’t noticed that I avoided his question about Seton harassing me.
“As for this courting business,” he continued, “well, let’s just play it by ear for the time being. If Seton is at all interested in signing with us, then he’ll accept to work with one of the other guys. Bookends AtoZ is courting him, not just you. But after hearing about his potential book deal with LBP, I think we’re screwed anyway, so…” He didn’t finish the sentence, just gave me a helpless, watcha-gonna-do shrug.
Alfred’s doleful expression when he uttered that last sentence made me feel all daughterly and protective of him. I smiled sympathetically as I leaned forward and pressed my lips against his leathery cheek. He threw a grateful grin my way as he reached into his shirt pocket and drew out a pack of cigarettes.
“By the way, are you joining the softball league this year?” he asked.
I blinked twice at the sudden change of subject and the much lighter tone in Alfred’s croaky voice. I shook my head. “No, not this year.”
He looked relieved. I couldn’t blame him—I sucked at softball. I did nothing but strike out and cause the other team to score. I joined their team last year and had a blast doing casual stuff with my otherwise stuffy co-workers, until all of my colleagues-slash-teammates turned against me and blamed me for losing the division.
“You’re welcome to watch us play. Our first practice game is this Friday at Look Memorial.”
I nodded and asked Alfred if I was free to go. He lit a cigarette and waved me away in a way that reminded me of someone swatting away a fly. I flashed him a grin before pushing to my feet and rushing out of the conference room.
Even though I was shocked and saddened by the news that Bookends AtoZ was in trouble, I was relieved that I no longer had to court Seton. Besides, Alfred would find a way to keep Bookends afloat. He always had a Plan B up his sleeve. Why, he was already coming up with ways to revamp Bookends’ image! We didn’t need Seton. We would be fine without him. It might take us longer to get back on our feet, but we would make it—at least I hoped we would. But—book deal or no book deal—Seton and I were no more. I would try to break up our arrangement as soon as possible.
No sooner had I closed the door to my office than I heard a knock. Rosie opened the door a crack and said, “There’s someone here to see you, Miss Fordham.”
I was rifling through some file folders when George stepped in. He stood with his hands behind his back, smiling down at me as if we shared a private joke.
Wariness surged through me. He wasn’t here to deliver a black glossy carrier bag, was he? Seton wouldn’t set up another tryst so soon after the last one, would he?
“Mr. Seton has asked me to deliver this to you, ma’am,” George said, flashing me a smirk that stretched from ear to ear as his hands lunged forward to reveal a glossy black bag.
Heat rushed up to my cheeks. The man was being insolent. He clearly knew the bag contained something naughty. He’d seen me wearing slutty outfits and engaging in lewd acts with Seton, after all. I glared at the bag in his hands, debating over whether to accept it or reject it. Hmm. I wondered what was in it though. Was it something as exotic and creative as the faux-Edwardian prostitute outfit, or was it as tacky and slutty as the black leather dress with all the zippers? I sighed inwardly. Curiosity won. I had to see what other sleazy getup Seton had concocted for me.
“Uh, go wait outside. I’ll be right back,” I murmured, grabbing the bag. Then I practically slammed the door in George’s face and headed straight to my private bathroom.
I went to the counter by the sink and emptied the bag. A big, shiny black box with a pink satin ribbon slipped out. I stared at the box with some trepidation. What other outlandish scenario had Seton devised for us? Did it involve another sleepless night? Even though I’d stayed in bed all day yesterday, I was still exhausted, and Seton hadn’t given me enough time to catch my breath, let alone prepare myself, mentally as well as physically, for another sexy tryst. The man was going to be the death of m
e if this carried on, which, as it happened, wouldn’t carry on. Still, I was curious about what was inside the box. So, after mulling it over for a few seconds, I pulled at the pink ribbon and untied the rather appealing package.
Swallowing back a lump of nerves that suddenly formed in my throat, I cautiously unfolded back some white tissue paper and pulled out a neon-pink micro-mini skirt that, from what I could see, would barely cover up my ass and a white crop top with a pink Playboy logo emblazoned on it. Frowning, I set the top and skirt aside and removed the other contents from the box. There was a white leather belt with little silver buttons and holes on it and a pair of seven-inch, neon-pink plastic pumps. A bright pink wig and a tube of bubble gum pink lipstick completed the rather bizarre package. Huh.
A little keen on pink, are we?
Bile rose as I stared at the ensemble. It was another hooker outfit—another painful reminder that I was nothing but a whore to Seton.
Without another thought, I grabbed the note taped to the bottom of the box and read its message.
Dear Marjorie,
I hope you’re feeling better and that you’re well rested.
I want you to do the following:
Wait for everyone at work to go home and then don all of the items you see inside the bag. (Remember, if it’s not in the bag, then I don’t want you to wear it.) Call me on my mobile before you leave the office. Go stand at the corner between Main Street and Old South Street and wait for me there. Prance around the street and show yourself off to the passersby. That’s how I want to find you.
I hope you’ll follow these simple instructions. I look forward to seeing you, my pet.
Yours,
D.J.S. xxx
I gaped at the note, my stomach churning. He expected me to walk out of my office wearing that? He wanted me to wait for him at a street corner like some common prostitute? But of course he does, I thought bitterly. He sees me as nothing more than a whore, someone who’s selling her body in exchange for his manuscript, so he might as well get a kick out of seeing me acting like a genuine streetwalker.
Anger and indignation jerked inside of me as I clutched the tassels of the satin ribbon and twisted them into a tight knot. He had no intentions of joining Bookends AtoZ, yet he expected me to do this for him. He wanted me to humiliate and degrade myself for…for what? What was the point of all this?
“For my amusement.”
Those words—the words he’d uttered during our first meeting—came back to me.
“I thought it would amuse me to see exactly what you’d do and how far you’d go just to get me to write for you.”
I bunched up the pink satin ribbon and flung it across the room. Picturing him laughing about my capitulation made my skin boil with indignation. I ran shaky fingers through my hair and leaned against the counter. I knew I had no right to be angry. He’d been forthright with me since the very beginning. And I had agreed to become his plaything. I’d agreed to play along in his disgusting little schemes. I gave him carte blanche to do with me whatever he damn well pleased. Well, not anymore. To hell with him! It was just as well I had already decided he was history. The timing couldn’t be better.
I blinked back tears as I placed all of the items back into the box and then dumped the box inside the bag. I dashed over to my desk, bag in hand, grabbed a piece of paper and a pen and wrote him a note.
Mr. Seton,
I am returning these items to you. I no longer wish to carry on with our agreement. I have also decided not to court you. If you’re at all serious about joining Bookends AtoZ, you may reach Mr. Alfred Williams directly. I wish you all the best in your future endeavors.
Regards,
Marjorie Fordham
There. Short, sweet, to the point. No use in going into a tirade. It was over. I would get my life back. That, in the end, was what I wanted—wasn’t it? I tossed the note into the bag and sent out a silent prayer that this would be the end of my ordeal with Seton.
I opened my office door to find George waiting patiently on the other side. I offered him the bag, but he didn’t take it. He stared at it, frowning, then turned surprised eyes to me. “But ma’am—”
“Please, take it,” I said irritably as I cast a worried glance across the office, hoping no one saw me arguing with David J. Seton’s chauffeur-slash-gopher. Fortunately, everyone was too busy to care either way about us. “There’s a note inside that explains everything.”
He said nothing, just stared alarmingly at the bag.
I clucked my tongue. “Oh, for crying out loud, just take the damn thing!” When he made no move, I gritted my teeth and silently counted to ten. “Look,” I snarled. “I have a lot of work to do, George, so if you don’t mind…”
I didn’t finish the sentence, just threw the bag at him and slammed the door in his face. I didn’t care if I had been rude. I didn’t care about anything anymore. All I cared about as I plopped into my seat, kicked off my shoes and leaned back in the soft leather chair was that it was finally over. I was free. My obsessions would come to a peaceful end.
Chapter Eight
The afternoon crawled by, and the relief I felt for having broken up with Seton had neither magnified nor waned. A feeling of peace took over me at the thought that I’d have my life back, and the sheer depth of it made me all the more determined that I was never going to see him again. No more Seton. No more obsessions.
Hmm. I wondered if he’d gotten my note. And how would he react? He would probably just shrug, smile that smug smile of his, and move on. Whatever. I didn’t care.
I glanced at the time, saw that it was almost six o’clock, and scooted out of the office, digging around in my black Balenciaga bag until I found a partial manuscript with some notes I planned to go over later that night. Yup, I thought, my life is back to normal already. Seton is nothing more than a soon-to-be distant memory.
I flicked through the file folder as I headed to a nearby sandwich shop for a quick bite. Once I’d reached the main entrance to the shop, I swept my gaze across the street and recognized the familiar sheen of a black Mercedes parked at the curb. I turned, checking to see if George was there. But I didn’t see George. Seton was there, leaning back against the back door, his arms crossed over his chest, staring at me.
Swearing under my breath, I shoved the file folder into my bag and crossed the rather busy street over to him. “I take it you got my note?” I asked sharply.
He had the audacity to look angry. “Yes, I got your bloody note! What the hell do you think you’re doing, disobeying orders like that?”
I gritted my teeth and stood before him, close enough that I could feel the warmth of him, but not too close that we were touching. “It’s not disobedience when I’m no longer playing your game. Sorry, Sir, but it’s over. Time to move on now.”
He tightened his jaw. “This isn’t a game and it’s not over, Marjorie. You and I have pressing matters we need to discuss.”
“Such as?”
“Such as your strange behavior at the party last Saturday. One minute you wanted me, the next you pushed me away. Why?”
I should be asking you the same question!
“I guess I don’t like to be treated as if I don’t exist.”
“Did you want me to flaunt our relationship in front of your colleagues?”
“No,” I huffed. “But you weren’t subtle in some occasions.” Like when we were dancing.
“No, I wasn’t,” he countered. “Which is why I had to act natural at the banquet table. I didn’t mean to ignore you. I was just trying to be careful.”
But what about the other times? You’re always cold to me after we sleep together, always treat me like a nuisance, like you’re eager to be rid of me, like… like a scratch to an itch. You treat me the same way I treated Mitch.
I crossed my arms over my chest and fought the urge to shiver. The late afternoon chill was seeping through my bones, but it was Seton who had made my skin prickle.
He’d got
ten a haircut. His hair was shorter at the back and more neatly cut at the front—tiny wisps of wavy black hair spilled over his forehead. The faint stubble that shadowed across his handsome face gave him a sexier, more dangerous look. He wasn’t wearing a suit today. He’d actually donned regular clothes. His dark red turtleneck sweater hugged his broad shoulders, strong chest and lean waist to perfection and the blue jeans brought out his athletic thighs to full advantage. Expensive-looking sneakers covered his large feet. He was gorgeous in his immaculate tailored suits, but in casual wear he was…damn.
A slight smile tugged at the corners of his mouth. “See something you like?”
I blushed and looked away, which made him laugh.
“Explain to me your strange behavior that night,” he insisted. “There was more to it than my ignoring you.”
“Look,” I said, annoyed, turning my gaze back to him. “I was drunk for most of that night. It’s all a big blur. I don’t remember much of anything.” That was a lie, for I remembered—though vaguely—everything that had to do with Seton, but I’d rather be burned alive than talk about the weird stuff that passed between us that night.
“Well, I remember everything,” he said, his silky-rich tones dripping with sensuality. “I especially remember thinking how lovely you looked in that red dress, and I remember slow dancing with you.” His gaze glided downward, stopping where my nipples poked through my blouse. “I remember how wonderful your body felt against mine. I’m quite certain you remember that bit.”
I crossed my arms tighter against my chest and said nothing. Yes, I remembered that bit, but I wished I hadn’t. It would have been a whole lot easier if I’d forgotten that night altogether. I especially wished I’d forgotten about meeting Karen York. I wished I’d forgotten how beautiful she was and how much it hurt to see her flirting with Seton. Speaking of which…
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