“I like today’s now better than yesterday’s now,” she told him.
His heart beat a little faster. “Do you? What were you doing yesterday?”
Emily told him, including seeing Reg with Gillian Brecknock, and what Sava had told her about the woman. “I can tell she’s a perfect bitch,” Emily remarked. “But do you think there’s enough there for a book, Devlin? Born in Liverpool poverty, claws her way up to be a film and stage actress, now a dominatrix to the rich and discreet.”
He chuckled. “Possibly. I’ll Google her and see what else there is, and if it’s worth making an offer. I’d probably have to go to London myself to do it,” he teased Emily. “Do you think she’d dominate me if I asked nicely?”
Emily butted her head into his shoulder. “Villain!” she accused. “If you want your bottom smacked I’ll be happy to oblige.”
He burst out laughing. “Would you now?” he said. “Do you want to make me your sex slave with a leather collar and leash, angel face?”
Suddenly the memory of Sir William, and the bordello came into Emily’s head, and she felt her cheeks growing warm. “No,” she said. “I think I can make you behave without resorting to that, Devlin.” Lord! Was it only three nights back that she and Sava had been Pretty Polly and Miss Molly? It would show up in one of Savannah’s books eventually, she knew, and she giggled into his shoulder.
He turned her so he could kiss her, and one kiss blended into another as he cradled her in his arms. Oh, she had missed him! She wanted him here every night. Snuggling in his embrace while the smell of potatoes baking filled the air was hardly the most romantic picture in the world, but recently thoughts of domesticity with Michael Devlin were overwhelming her. Why wouldn’t he say he loved her? Rina said he did; she sensed he did. And yet what if Rina was just a romantic, and Emily’s instincts just wishful thinking? She didn’t want to ruin a good author-editor relationship and get stuck with some bright-eyed, eager twenty-something for an editor. She was beginning to understand why this kind of a relationship was forbidden. Emily pulled away from her lover. “The potatoes are almost done,” she said. “I’ve got to get the chops on. Do you mind if we eat in here on trays with the fire?”
“No. What can I do?”
“You can toss the salad, fetch and carry,” she told him.
When the lamb chops were done Emily turned off the oven and slipped the apple Betty in to warm. Together they carried the food and a bottle of wine into the den and ate while Frank Sinatra played on a CD Devlin put into the player. The fire crackled, and it was all very cozy. And after dinner they put a DVD in and watched Casablanca. Emily cried when Bogart intoned, “Here’s looking at you, kid,” and sent Ingrid Bergman off with Paul Henreid. Devlin chuckled as Bogart and Claude Raines, who played the French police inspector, strolled off together into the mist, planning their own war against the Nazis.
“Time for bed, Devlin,” Emily said, stretching as she stood up. “If you’re going to be a commuter tomorrow you’ll need to start early.”
“How early?” he asked her.
“You should probably roll out of here no later than seven. I know you don’t have to be in at nine on the dot,” Emily told him. “I’m going to take a bath before I go to bed.”
“Can I join you?” he asked softly, a single finger running down the bridge of her nose. “Then I won’t have to shower in the morning.”
“Yes, you will,” she told him with a smile. “And yes, you can join me.”
He scrubbed her back with a large sponge as they sat together in a tub filled with bubbles. They lay back together, his hands cupping her breasts as he murmured lascivious suggestions into her ear and kissed the side of her neck, which suddenly smelled of lilacs. He sniffed. He smelled of lilacs. Michael Devlin began to laugh. “Did you put scent in this water?” he asked her.
“Bubble bath doesn’t come unscented,” she told him dryly. She could suddenly feel his penis beneath her, and she drew a slow, deep breath, turning herself about so that she was now facing him. The palms of her hands slid up his smooth chest to rest lightly on his broad shoulders. “I like it when you smell like a flower, Devlin,” she said, her mouth brushing teasingly over his.
“Do you now?” he answered softly, his green eyes narrowing, his hands slipping about her waist.
“It but adds to your charm,” Emily said. “Oh, yes, Devlin! Yes!”
He was lifting her up and then lowering her onto his penis. He leaned forward, pressing her against one of the curved ends of the large oval tub. Her legs came up and fastened about his torso. He fucked her slowly, deliberately, in a leisurely manner, until her eyes were closed and she was moaning with her pleasure, her nails digging into his back. When she had attained a small orgasm he pulled away from her, and, in answer to her puzzled look, he said, “I want to have enough left for when we get into bed.”
They got out of the bathtub, drying each other off with thick towels. His erection remained, and Emily found she was almost weak with her anticipation, she wanted him inside her again so badly. What was the matter with her? Was she turning into one of those sex addicts the gossip shows were always promoting? He didn’t ask if she wanted to go to his room. He just led her to her own bed and they got into it.
He kissed her slowly, and Emily sighed with happiness as she kissed him back. She loved the feel of his mouth on hers. His tongue ran teasingly along her lips, and then slipped into her mouth. She played with it, her own tongue brushing against his. Her hands caressed his lean, hard body. His fingers brushed over her breasts, and then his tongue was tracing the outline of her nipples and dipping into the valley between her breasts. His dark head rested on her as he began to suckle on one of her nipples.
Emily made little murmuring noises of obvious contentment. One of his hands slipped between her thighs, playing with her pubic curls, fingers pressing between her nether lips to find her clitoris, which was already swelling with rising excitement. He teased her until she was squirming with her eagerness, and he was satisfied she was moist enough to take him easily. Then he mounted her and slid his thick penis into her wet vagina.
“Oh, God, yes!” Emily cried out unabashedly. “Oh, Devlin, that feels so good.”
“Look at me,” he said softly. “Open your eyes and look at me, angel face. I want to see the look in your eyes when you come.”
“I can’t,” she whispered.
“Yes, you can,” he told her. “And I want you to see the look in my eyes when I come. I want you to see everything you do to me. Any woman can give you a hard-on, Emily. But you can find paradise with only one woman. Now open your beautiful big blue eyes for me, angel face.”
Look at him while he was fucking her? It had never occurred to her. She had just let herself get swept away. Could this be better? Emily opened her eyes and looked into his. He began to move on her, slowly at first, then with increasing rapidity. To her surprise the sensations were even greater. They were incredible. She could feel his thickness and the length of him more acutely. And then she was getting lost in his intense green gaze. She gasped with surprise and struggled to pull herself back, but she couldn’t. She saw in his eyes what he couldn’t say to her, and her heart was near to bursting. Did he see the same thing in her eyes? How could he not? And then the passion threatening to overwhelm her did. Eyes locked on his she reached orgasm, the shudders racking her body until she almost fainted with the pleasure they were gaining from each other, and that she saw in his own eyes. And when it was finally over they lay silent in each other’s arms. There were no words left except the few neither of them could say. The three words that both Emily Shanski and Michael Devlin each wanted to hear from each other: I love you. They slept.
In the darkness just before dawn he brought them tea, and as the sun slipped over the horizon he kissed her lips and left her. She heard the distinctive roar of the Healy as it pulled out of her drive and went down Founders Way turning onto Colonial Avenue. Gradually it died away, and Emily fell ba
ck to sleep, only to be awakened by the ringing phone.
“It’s after nine a.m., angel face,” his voice sounded in her ear. “You’ve got work to do. Get going. I miss you.”
“This is the second time this morning that you’ve wakened me, Devlin,” she said.
“I liked the first time better,” he replied. “I’ve got a full day, so I’ll call you tonight when I get home.”
“I don’t suppose you’d like to commute back to Egret Pointe?” she suggested.
“Yes, I would, but I won’t. I’ve got early meetings Tuesday and Friday, and a breakfast meeting with a group of distributors on Wednesday. I’ll see you Friday night, angel face. Now get your pretty ass up and start writing.”
“Okay, okay,” she responded. “Geez, I’ve never had an editor who was such a slave driver,” Emily pretended to complain. “Or such a good lay.”
Michael Devlin burst out laughing. “Get to work!” he told her, and rang off.
Smiling, Emily got out of bed, her fingers brushing the faint indent still in the pillow that his head had been upon. Then, dressing, she called down to Essie, “I’m up! Breakfast, please!”
“Up or down?” Essie called back.
“Up,” Emily decided as she headed for her office. Just two more chapters to go. She ate the scrambled eggs with cheese that Essie produced, and drank her morning juice. Then she started to work. The last two chapters would almost cost Caroline Trahern her life, but her husband, the duke, would not only save her, but help her to attain the revenge she needed in order that the tragedy darkening her life could come to its final end. So that the duke and his defiant duchess could live happily ever after. It was not going to be an easy transition. And there would need to be one more very hot love scene at the conclusion in which both Justin and Caro would finally admit their love for each other. If it were only that simple, Emily thought wryly.
The passion that she and Devlin had shared last night had been different from any they had shared before. She knew it. And she knew he knew it too. From the moment he had picked her up at Kennedy there had been a new intimacy between them. The quiet time together they had shared. Fixing dinner. Eating before the fire, and watching an old movie afterward. He had been like a kid while she loaded the dishwasher, scraping the last crumbs from the glass pan that had held the apple Betty, and eating them with a grin on his face. And in bed afterward he had made love to her so tenderly. She had felt like a woman very cherished. And yet he still had not once uttered the word love. It was the only thing wrong with the picture.
Devlin returned that weekend for the Harvest Festival, which was set up in a farmer’s field just outside of the village itself. They walked among the booths, and she bought him a knitted scarf, and he bought her a birdhouse. They ate corn dogs and drank cider, and he discovered that Emily had a fancy for pink cotton candy. He stood watching as she sat at a card table beneath an awning and signed books. They had spent so much time alone that he had never realized how charming she was with other people. She seemed to know everyone in the town, and they her.
He chuckled as a woman, obviously not a local, stood watching Emily for several minutes. Finally she walked up to the table. She put on her glasses and read the sign on the table that said, Best-selling Author Emilie Shann Will Sign Your Book for You. ALL PROCEEDS OF THE SALES GO TO EGRET POINTE GENERAL HOSPITAL.” The woman picked up a book and turned it over, reading the back cover copy.
“You write this?” she asked.
“Yes, I did,” Emily said.
“I don’t read these kinds of books,” the woman remarked, replacing the book on its pile. “You write all of these?” She gestured at the other titles in their neat piles.
Emily nodded. “If you don’t read romance,” she said, “you might buy a copy for a friend or your local library. All the proceeds from the book sale are going to our local hospital. I live here. It’s one of the ways I help the hospital.”
“So it would be like a charity donation?” the woman asked.
“Yes, it would.” Emily smiled.
“Could I get a receipt?” the woman wanted to know.
If he had been sitting there, Devlin thought, he would have strangled this bitch, but Emily just smiled again.
“Of course you can,” she said. “I’ll write it myself. Who would you like the book inscribed to, ma’am?”
“I’ll think about it,” the woman said. “You here all day?”
“No. Just a few more minutes,” Emily murmured as the woman walked away.
“How do you keep so calm?” Devlin wanted to know. “I’d have killed the cow!”
Emily laughed. “All part and parcel of being an author who writes popular commercial fiction. There’s no glory in it, Devlin. Look how well I did though. I got rid of all my copies of Vanessa and the Viscount, A Special Season, Marrying Miss Moneypenny, and The Vicar’s Daughters. I imagine next year we’ll do even better, as I have turned to the dark side,” she teased him, and now it was his turn to laugh.
They ate dinner under the large tent set up for the meal. There was country ham, sweet potato casserole, creamed corn, cut green beans, rolls, and butter. For dessert, dishes of baked apples were brought to each place by the various church ladies and teenagers who helped. The apples swam in heavy cream, and were rich with brown sugar and cinnamon. There was coffee or tea.
“Decaf’s in the pot with the green edge,” Emily told him. “There’s hot water if you want tea. But it’s only Lipton’s.”
They sat with Dr. Sam and Rina, who introduced Michael Devlin to their neighbors on Ansley Court. And afterward Emily and Devlin drove home in the Healy with the top down beneath a large, almost-full moon.
“Is that the harvest moon?” he asked her.
“Nope. Harvest was September. This full moon will be the Hunter’s Moon,” she explained.
“But it was a Harvest festival,” he said, puzzled.
“The Indians didn’t celebrate until after the harvest was all in and everything set for the winter months to come,” Emily said. “Then in October they hunted meat to be butchered, hung, or salted for the winter. Life was one long round of hard work back then. Still is, but, of course, the work is different. Did you like Rina’s neighbors?”
“Yes,” he said. “They’re very nice. I thought Mrs. Buckley a bit mysterious, though. Pleasant, but standoffish.”
“Oh, Nora Buckley. She’s a widow. Her husband was divorcing her and taking everything. He had a hot girlfriend, but then Nora got sick. Long story short, he beat up the girlfriend, she filed charges, he was nasty with the judge, who denied bail, and he died of a coronary in jail that same night. Nora and her two children were saved from disaster. She works in a very elegant little antique shop on Main Street. The owner is extremely hunky too, and it’s rumored he likes the ladies.”
Devlin felt a bolt of jealousy shoot through him. “Would you like to fuck him now that you know how?” he asked her bluntly.
“Nope,” Emily said calmly, but her heart was thumping with excitement. Yes, he loved her! Damn! Why couldn’t he just say it, and be done with it? “He’s not really my type, but I can appreciate that he’s good-looking, just like you can appreciate a beautiful woman when you see her, Devlin.” She smiled softly in the darkness.
He made love to her that night with a fierceness he had never before displayed. It was as if he were branding her with some mark that could be seen only by another man. They ate brunch at the inn with Rina and Sam the next day, and then Devlin drove back to the city. He called her later in the week to tell her he had to fly to Europe on business.
“You’re still coming for Thanksgiving, aren’t you?” she asked him.
“Yes, but I’m not certain I’ll get out to see you before then,” he answered her. “Everyone is excited about the sea change you’ve made. I know you don’t like anyone looking at your work before it’s finished, but I’ve shown the first three chapters to a couple of people. J.P. is suddenly ecstatic with what’s
she’s read, and crowing that it was all her idea, and she just knew you could do it.”
“You’re why I can do it,” Emily said softly.
“Let the bitch revel in her own glory, angel face,” he replied. “You were a good writer to start with, and you’re just getting better with new direction. They’ve decided to release The Defiant Duchess in April both here and in England. It’s short notice. April was your pub date here, but we’ll have to scramble to get it out in England at the same time with less than six months’ lead time. And you know the English editions have different covers.”
“I think the American cover would do nicely for both editions,” Emily said to him. “It’s beautiful, and other than the barest glimpse of bosom it’s tasteful enough for England. Caro in her green riding outfit standing, with the duke in the background and the sea behind them. It’s elegant. They could change the lettering to make it look different.”
“It’s a good idea. I’ll see what they say,” he told her. “Emily ...” he hesitated.
He was going to say it! He was going to say it! Her heartbeat accelerated. “Yes, Devlin?” Say it! Hurry up and say it!
“Take care of yourself while I’m away, angel face. I’ll call you when I can,” Michael Devlin said. What the hell was the matter with him? He had wanted to tell her he loved her and he would miss her.
“Okay,” she responded, disappointed. Why couldn’t he say it?
“I’ll miss you,” he managed to get out.
“Me too,” she said. “Good-bye, Devlin.” No use dragging it out.
“Bye, angel face,” he replied softly, and hung up.
Emily put down the phone with a sigh. This was getting ridiculous. Suddenly she started to cry, and when she finally stopped she picked up the phone again, called her cable company, and ordered the Channel. She needed a friend. Not Rina, who loved her like a mother. Or Savannah, who was far too wrapped up in her own life right now. She needed someone who would sympathize with her and comfort her. And maybe even help her to decide what she was going to do next. She wanted Michael Devlin for a husband, and she was getting damned tired of waiting for him to come around and say what she saw in his eyes every time he made love to her these past few weeks. Words she sensed on the tip of his tongue. Until he could say them she was going to be driven crazy wondering why. Sometimes love stank, Emily thought.
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