Raoul feels my tension. He kisses me as he withdraws and tries again, sinking a little deeper the second time.
Erik won’t be so gentle. He’ll take me however he wants, and it will hurt.
Clutching Raoul to my breast, I try to focus on his distinctive smells. I pull the tie from his hair and let it fall loose around his shoulders. I’m veiled in his russet locks and bathed in his musky, masculine scent.
He moves inside of me. The pain vanishes quickly, unfolding into blossoms of pleasure, like little fireworks in my lower belly. He’s incredible—everything I’ve ever wanted.
Yet my mind remains confused.
I see Erik even as I feel Raoul.
And when the press of Raoul’s hips against mine drives me to climax, I’m not certain which man has brought me there.
Five
Waking up in Raoul’s bed is the truest definition of bliss.
I am wrapped in white silk sheets, almost the same color as the rose from the night before, a twin to the moonlight that bathed our bodies as we slept together in his bed. The rising sun gifts his bedroom with a warm glow that is only matched by what I feel in my heart.
In the daylight, standing before the sunny windows clad in nothing but Raoul’s bedsheets, Erik is a distant memory.
For the moment, I feel warm.
I am safe.
We have breakfast and go into the office together.
Arriving at Durand-Price quenches that warmth immediately.
I’m certain I’m not imagining the attention I receive as soon as I enter the lobby. By now, everyone has seen the news. Most people were at the party the night before. Everyone has seen my name attached to Erik Duke’s.
Raoul’s arm around me should be reassuring, as should his confidence as he strides across the lobby floor. He is smiling at everyone, head held high, his suit crisp and well-tailored. He is every inch the lead editor and in control of his surroundings.
But I don’t feel good at his side. Not today. Instead, my skin itches all over, and I want to distance myself from him before we are seen. The urge is ridiculous. Worse, it is traitorous. But it’s one thing to thumb my nose at Erik Duke in the privacy of Raoul’s penthouse, and another to do it while walking through the publishing company that both of us work for.
It’s as though Erik has possessed my mind, haunting my every thought and motion. He sees all that I do. He knows all that I know.
And he’s angry.
Grosvenor Lateen is waiting for us at the elevator doors when we arrive on the top floor. He looks grim.
“Time for the meeting?” Raoul asks. His tone is light, but there is a hardness in his eyes that says he’s ready for a fight.
Grosvenor Lateen nods. “Time for the meeting.”
Sylvia Stone is already in the room when we arrive. She sits at one side of the table with her lawyer. Raoul and I sit on the other side. Grosvenor takes the head.
I can’t help but notice two conspicuous absences: Erik Duke and, perhaps more strangely, Mario Stone, Sylvia’s husband and literary agent. Sylvia is bothered by this as well. She keeps checking her watch, glancing at her cell phone, and fidgeting in her chair. Her usual bravado is nowhere in sight.
“Ten more minutes,” Sylvia says. “Give him ten more minutes.”
Grosvenor Lateen glances at the clock on the wall. “I can’t guarantee ten minutes. I can only guarantee that we will wait until Mr. Duke calls in.”
Raoul stiffens beside me. “He’s attending?” he growls, fists clenched on top of the table.
“Theoretically,” says Grosvenor. He unbuttons his suit jacket and takes his seat. “A week ago I would have said that we couldn’t count on his attendance, even via phone call. But a week ago, Mr. Duke was happy to only speak to us to announce his next project and accept contracts.”
Grosvenor doesn’t look at me, but my presence hangs unspoken in the negative space around his words. I wonder what he thinks of me. I wonder what he thinks of my relationship with Erik.
It’s probably best that I don’t know.
Sylvia isn’t hiding her feelings, so there’s no need for me to wonder what she thinks. She is glaring with every ounce of hatred she possesses within her rotund body, as though wishing that she could set me on fire with her brain.
The fact that she is not verbally ridiculing me is probably due entirely to the presence of the lawyer at her side. He’s young, attractive, and new; he might not yet know he works for a monster, and she’ll keep it that way as long as possible. At least until she has him coiled around her finger.
The conference room’s phone rings. I jump in my seat.
“Five more minutes,” Sylvia says, a little more desperate than before.
Grosvenor looks sympathetic but reaches for the phone anyway. “I’m sorry Sylvia. I’ll do my best to catch Mario up when he arrives.”
He activates the speaker phone.
The other end of the line is filled with silence. The only sound is a very faint breathing, but I recognize it. That is Erik Duke’s breathing. It’s strange and kind of shameful that I should know the sound so well, but I’ve spent so many hours working in companionable silence with him that his breathing is as recognizable to me as his face.
Other people don’t know him as well as I do. Grosvenor looks uncertain. “Mr. Duke?”
After a long pause: “Yes.”
Oh, but a single syllable should never have such power over a woman. I’m transported to his basement again. He is leaning over his phone, I know, with his typewriter and laptop beside him, the most recent page of his unfinished novel dripping with our words.
It is dark down there—dark and cold. He’s dirty from a day in his forest. Sweat makes his shirt cling to him.
Grosvenor rubs his hands together. “Glad to have you here, Mr. Duke.” That’s a lie, and we all know it’s a lie, but a necessary one. “Everyone here is busy, and nobody more than our star authors, so I’ll keep this brief. As you all know, we’re facing an interesting dilemma after the developments at last night’s launch party.”
I turn to Sylvia, fully expecting her to make some kind of snide remark. She will make no bones about her hatred for Erik Duke.
But she is quiet. Her face is pale underneath its layers of makeup.
Carlos Chance glides into the room silently, taking a seat at the far end of the table. He has his laptop with him.
“Both Mr. Duke and Ms. Stone are highly valued members of the Durand-Price family,” Grosvenor says as he moves to stand behind Carlos’s shoulder. “Unfortunately, the recent contract negotiations between each of you and our company have created conflicts which aren’t simple at all to resolve.”
He pauses as he leans down to look at Carlos’s laptop.
Grosvenor’s eyes widen.
The glance the men exchange is interesting. I think they’ve come to a decision now—and the fact that they hadn’t come to that decision before the meeting is even more interesting.
Carlos pushes his laptop toward Raoul.
It’s an article about developments on the stock market. Specifically, developments surrounding our publishing company.
Our stock has risen.
Cold surprise washes over me, though I suppose it shouldn’t be all that surprising. The media loves drama. A squabble between two famous figures like Erik and Sylvia means ratings, and ratings mean money.
Apparently that money is flowing toward us as well.
Carlos is showing his phone to Grosvenor now, and they’re whispering urgently to each other. I can’t hear the details of the argument.
“I thought you were going to make this fast,” says Sylvia’s lawyer.
Grosvenor pushes Carlos’s phone away. He straightens, tugging on his jacket to smooth the wrinkles out.
“Ms. Stone, I’m afraid to say that our lawyers have decided that your demands on your assistant—your former assistant—are unreasonable. The contract you’ve proposed is unlikely to be upheld in a court of law. Fur
thermore, public opinion of ghostwriting isn’t favorable, so we’re removing Ms. Durand as your assistant.”
I’m not sure if I’m relieved by that or not.
The idea that I will no longer be subject to Sylvia’s whims is certainly a relief. But our strange agreement has also given me a creative outlet. This is the only way I’ve published books.
Sylvia’s face is reddening. She’s working up to an argument now. But Grosvenor continues speaking before she can squeeze a word out.
“On the other hand, Mr. Duke, it’s also unreasonable to make demands that impact Sylvia Stone’s contract,” Grosvenor says. “We’ll be continuing her series indefinitely with full creative control in Sylvia’s hands.”
And then he turns to me.
My heart skips a beat.
“As for you, Christine…” Grosvenor’s voice is softer. He looks apologetic. I know before he finishes his sentence that something terrible has happened. “We’re letting you go as an executive assistant for Durand-Price, Miss Durand. I’m sorry. You’ll have a great severance package.”
Triumph flashes over Sylvia’s face, but only for a moment.
Then that deep, frightening voice pipes over the speakerphone again.
“You’ll regret defying me,” Erik says.
And he hangs up.
-
Ten minutes later, I’m fretting in Raoul’s office, struggling in vain not to cry. The tears track hot paths down my cheeks.
“It’s okay,” Raoul says, again and again. “It’s okay.”
“No, it’s not okay.” I swipe my hand over my cheeks. “My father’s company… And all this time…”
It feels like I’ve lost a loved one all over again.
Raoul opens his arms to me, and I sink against him, resting my cheek against the comforting beat of his heart. His hands smooth over my back.
Indeed, I should be relieved to no longer work for Durand-Price. It means there’s no conflict of interest in our relationship, so Raoul and I can be together. I’ll also never have to go to Sylvia’s house at ten to midnight to work on “her” books while she messes around with shirtless young men.
And I will never return to Erik’s basement.
It hurts to think that, and I’m not sure why.
Grosvenor enters. Reflexively, I release Raoul and step back, even though it doesn’t matter now. Grosvenor is by my side immediately, taking my hand in his. “Miss Durand, please… Calm yourself.”
I try. I really do.
“I understand,” I tell him. I feel so pathetic, trying to talk through the tears. My voice is squeezed and tiny. I keep hiccuping. “I know that I’ve made—oh, just such a mess of things, and it’s really my fault, so you didn’t—”
“This decision is meant to help you,” Grosvenor says. “It’s become clear that putting anyone between Sylvia Stone and Erik Duke is inhumane. I wanted to spare you their drama.”
Whatever he says will only be meant to soothe my tears—pretty words to keep me from going to the press, or trying to sue. He needn’t worry. I understand that I’m paying my dues.
“You’ve done what you had to do,” I say.
Grosvenor pats my shoulder. “You’re a good girl, Miss Durand. It’s been a pleasure getting to work with you.” I am braced to return his goodbye, but he keeps speaking. “So much that I hope we can continue to work together. How would you feel about publishing a book with Moonlight Sonata under your real name?”
My tears stop as though a faucet has been turned off.
Blinking my eyes clear, I ask, “Excuse me? Raoul, do you know about this?”
“This is news to me,” Raoul says. “Which is interesting, given that I’m the editor in chief of the imprint.”
“Well, you’ll obviously not be able to work with Miss Durand directly,” Grosvenor says. “At least, you won’t be able to negotiate her contract terms.” His strained smile says that he’s fully aware of my relationship with Raoul. The expression is a little knowing and a lot exhausted.
My grief is replaced with a flutter of excitement.
A book for Moonlight Sonata.
With my name on the cover.
I clutch my hands to my breast, trying not to let the possibility drive away rational thought.
This offer isn’t because Grosvenor wants to work with me, nor is it about my talent as an author. There are thousands of talented, amiable authors the company could hire if that were the case. Writers who don’t have a name as big as Sylvia’s are, unfortunately, a disposable commodity.
“This is a media thing,” I say. “Isn’t it?”
Grosvenor releases my hand. “Carlos Chance had the social media response from the last twelve hours aggregated and analyzed, and the result is clear: You are incredibly popular. Everyone wants more Christine Durand.”
Everyone.
I have to sit down. It’s too much for me.
There is such white noise buzzing through my mind that it sounds like Grosvenor is speaking from another room.
“Naturally, we’ll have to strike while the iron is hot. Our lawyers have determined that the last book you wrote for Sylvia’s series belongs to you, as there’s no contract, so we’ll package it as yours. We’ll need you to deliver it for edits within the week. Violetta Kilshaw’s already arranging the marketing.”
I am numb.
“This is wonderful news,” Raoul says. “When will you have the contract?”
“The lawyers should have it ready by lunch. I assume you’ll have your lawyer look over it, too.”
“Of course.”
The conversation is fading away from me. The room is dimming around the edges.
“Negotiation shouldn’t be too difficult…just want to get it out fast…probably do a sequel, space it out in six months…”
My own series.
Freedom from Sylvia.
A legacy of my own.
But my joy is muted, and I’m not alone in my mind.
Erik is there. He’s always there.
You’ll regret defying me.
Six
I dream of Erik that night.
I’m on Raoul’s balcony and he’s on the roof. I can’t see him, but I can feel him looking down upon me. Under his gaze, I’m naked, skinless, without any of the pretenses I use to shield myself.
He’s furious that I’m no longer his assistant, furious that Sylvia still has a career, furious that Durand-Price hasn’t kowtowed to his demands.
By every metric, we’ve won against him.
It doesn’t feel like it.
“I’ll have you soon, Christine,” he says.
There’s a sense of inevitability in those words.
He’s right. He’ll have me soon enough.
I’m not sure how it will happen, but I know that it will.
Though I stand in the warmth of Raoul’s company now, Erik is looming like a storm on the horizon. There is a cold wind blowing through my curls. The breeze feels like icy fingers on my scalp, caressing my back, drawing me toward those clouds.
“No,” I say. “I want to stay with Raoul.”
“You only think you do,” Erik says. “We both know the truth.”
That storm creeps over the sun.
It’s devouring the light, blotting out the glow that keeps me warm, and threatening to freeze me in endless winter.
And I’ll be happy for it.
-
Sylvia Stone requests my presence at her house for a private meeting the next day.
“Request” is a cute word for it, though hardly the most accurate one. The message she’s left on my answering machine is certainly syrupy sweet. But I’ve known her too long to fall for her pretense, even if I don’t understand why she’s putting on a good face for me again.
“Christine, dear, I need your assistance at my house this afternoon. Be a doll and show up around two? Thanks a million, you’re great.”
I don’t think I’m imagining the quiver in her tone.
Sylv
ia is afraid.
Were it not for that fear, I would ignore her call. I’m officially no longer her assistant, or even an employee of Durand-Price. That means I’m also no longer subject to her cries for help, no matter how much she begs and pleads with me about it, even if she pretends we haven’t barely tolerated each other for years.
Yet that tone is there. I recognize it because I’ve heard it in my own voice too many times.
“I’m going to visit Sylvia,” I tell Raoul when I retrieve my purse from his office. I came into Durand-Price to empty my old desk. There’s nowhere else to leave my belongings now but his office.
He was picking up the phone to make a call when I entered, but now he sets it down slowly and looks worried. “I don’t think that’s a good idea.”
“You’re probably right. She asked nicely, though.”
“Sylvia? Asked nicely?”
“I’m as baffled as you are, Raoul.”
He stands and buttons his jacket. His smooth motions take my breath away. I have seen him only minutes earlier, yet it’s as though we’ve been apart for months, judging by my body’s reaction to the sight of him.
We spent the night together again, and it was as blissful a second time as it was the first. I feel safer at his condo than I do in mine. There are no cracked windows, no magically reappearing laptops, no authors scaling the fire escape to reach me. At least not physically.
“Don’t go,” Raoul says. “My lawyer will advise against it.”
“Then don’t tell your lawyer.” I lean up to give him a kiss, which I intend to be no more than a brief peck. But once our lips make contact, I can’t help but melt into him.
He’s so warm, setting alight a slow burn inside of me. I know it would become a wildfire if I allowed it.
Sylvia’s the last reason I want to leave him.
“Don’t,” Raoul says when he pulls away, brushing his thumb over my chin.
“I’ll be back before dinner,” I promise.
He must need to make that phone call urgently. He looks torn between returning to his desk and tying me to his chair so I can’t leave.
All He Asks 3 Page 4
