Forbidden Pleasures

by Bertrice Small

  Some authors celebrated the successful completion of a manuscript by going out to dinner. Some went off on little vacations planned weeks before. Emily Shanski cracked open a bottle of her favorite wine and opened a double box of Mallomars. Then, sitting in her den before a roaring fire, she listened to Mozart and unwound. Christmas was coming, and she had a great number of things to do. There were Christmas cards, both personal and business, to write. There were presents to buy. There was a very special Christmas dinner to plan for, as Devlin had missed Thanksgiving.

  Already the village of Egret Pointe was in the holiday spirit. There were little pine trees with white lights in round red wooden tubs along Main Street. And all the shop windows were beautifully decorated. This year each had a miniature scene of a country Christmas in a past era. Egret Pointe’s shop windows all followed a single theme each year in imitation of the store windows on Fifth Avenue in New York.

  The weather was cold, but so far there was no snow, and for that Emily was grateful. She far preferred a green Christmas. She thought the composer of “White Christmas” should have been boiled with his own Christmas pudding, as Mr. Scrooge had once declared regarding the whole holiday. Emily loved Christmas, however. She just didn’t like snow. For some reason it depressed her and always had. No one understood it, least of all Emily. Sure, snow was magical when it was falling. And the next day, when it sparkled on all the eaves and roofs in the bright sunshine, it was pretty. But the day after, when it wasn’t gone and it sometimes stayed for weeks—oh, how she hated that! So every year Emily hoped for an El Niño and a mild winter that would lead into an early spring. Nothing was nicer than daffodils in bloom on St. Patrick’s Day.

  Several days after she had sent off the manuscripts, her office phone rang. As she was writing Christmas cards at her desk, she answered it.

  “Ms. Shann? One moment for J. P. Woods,” a young voice said.

  There was a click. Another click.

  “Emily? Sweetie, I was up all night reading! It’s a triumph,” J. P. Woods crowed. “Mick said it was, but we’ve invested so much into promoting this book I couldn’t rest easy until I had read it myself. You’ve outdone yourself! I am so pleased.” Emphasis on the last sentence. “And Aaron has probably told you that we’ve worked out a wonderful contract. Stratford isn’t about to lose its brightest star.”

  “Thank you, J.P.” Emily said. She really didn’t like the woman, but this wasn’t personal, after all. It was, to quote a certain megamillionaire, business.

  “And you’re happy working with Mick Devlin? We want you one hundred percent happy, Emily.”

  “He’s a wonderful editor, J.P. I will admit to being upset when Rachel retired, but even I have to admit Devlin is a better editor. Yes. I am happy working with him. I hope to do many more good books for Stratford with him,” Emily replied. “I want to thank you for putting me with him.” Even if you did have an ulterior motive, you bitch. You didn’t care whose career you destroyed in your pitiful attempt to get even with Devlin for turning you down all those years ago. I wonder what you would think, bitch, if you knew I’ve been fucking him for months. And he is good!

  “I thought long about it,” J.P. said. “But editors like Mick Devlin are few and far between. Martin and I felt you deserved the absolute best. And I was right,” she crowed. “I just knew you could change your direction and produce a hotter book.”

  Emily gritted her teeth listening to J. P. Woods. Then she said, “Savannah Banning is willing to give me a quote, J.P.”

  “Wonderful! I was thinking of asking her. You’re friends, aren’t you?”

  “Yes,” Emily answered.

  “And did she give you some advice on how to do a sexier novel?” J.P. tittered.

  “As a matter of fact, she did,” Emily said. She suggested I seduce my editor, and I did, and we all see how well that worked out.

  “I don’t suppose you’d share her secrets with me?” J.P. said coyly.

  Emily forced a laugh. “Now, now, J.P. Trade secrets have to remain secret.”

  “Of course they do, and as long as they produce the results they did, Emily, I am more than satisfied,” J.P. replied, all business once again. “Now, Emily, Stratford is having its Christmas party on December twenty-third, and we want you to come. The heads of several important book distributors will be here. We want you to present them with some rather special ARCs we’re putting together now. Martin is sending a car for you. Sally or my girl will e-mail you all the details.”

  She didn’t want to go into New York, especially two days before Christmas. The traffic would be horrendous. But this was a command performance, and Emily knew it. “I’ll look forward to it,” she told J. P. Woods. “And thank you for calling me. I’m so glad you enjoyed the book, J.P.”

  “I did, Emily. Good work! I’m now looking forward to what you’ll do next for us. Good-bye.” There was a click, and J. P. Woods was gone.

  Emily set the phone back in its charger. Damn, and double damn. Now she would have to have everything done before the twenty-third. It was going to be a push. But it would be her first Christmas with Devlin, and she wanted it to be perfect. She had pretty much decided that if he didn’t tell her he loved her, she was going to break the cardinal rule of dating women: She was going to tell him that she loved him. What could happen? He’d bolt and run? Well, that was always a possibility, but maybe, just maybe, if Rina was right, it would give him the balls to tell her that he loved her. And once they were over that hurdle there would be a future for them. And Emily Shanski wanted that future with all her heart and soul. She had two weeks to go.

  She managed to finish the Christmas cards by the ninth. They were in the mail by the tenth.

  “Right on time, Em,” Bud Cranston down at the post office said as she handed him the shopping bag of Christmas cards over the counter. “You’re like clockwork—December tenth, every year. Pat wants to know if you’ve got another book coming out soon. She says she’s ready for one with the long winter ahead.”

  “Tell her next spring. Sorry,” Emily said with a smile. “Merry Christmas, Bud, to you and the family. The kids okay?”

  “Off the wall waiting for Santa.” He grinned back at her, giving her a wave as she stepped aside to allow the next customer up to his window. Bud Cranston had gone to high school with Emily Shanski. Who knew she’d turn out to be a best-selling author? But Em never changed, he thought with a smile. She was still a nice small-town girl who always had a friendly word for you.

  Now it was time to Christmas shop, and Emily did as much of her shopping locally as she could. The rest she purchased from catalogs. Now, as the gifts began to pile up in the den, she set about wrapping everything. Rina and Dr. Sam came by on the weekend, and they all drove out together to the Christmas tree farm to buy their trees, picking from among those already cut. Emily had never, since she was a little girl, had the heart to go out into the field, point at a living tree, and have it cut down. If it was already cut, that was a different thing. Her grandmothers had always laughed and said she was too softhearted, and she always agreed she was. Sam grumbled as he and the farmer’s helper tied the three trees to the top of the car. Emily always bought two: a great big eight-footer for her living room, and a small table tree for the den window.

  The trees were stored outside the kitchen door in buckets of water and sugar. On the twenty-first Emily and Essie set them up in their stands. Emily would spend the next few days decorating the two trees. She had come down with a cold that day at the tree farm. It had been cloudy and drizzly, but at least it wasn’t snow, she thought thankfully. Despite the romantic song, white Christmases were very rare in Egret Pointe. But the beautiful blond weather forecaster in the city was predicting a seventy percent chance of snow late on the twenty-second, curse him.

  “Good thing we’re getting out of here in the morning,” Essie said to Emily. “But I hate to leave you when you’re sick, Miss Emily. And especially at Christmas.”

  “Yo
u’ve had this Florida trip with your son and his family planned for close to a year, Essie. I’ll be fine. Mr. Devlin is coming,” Emily reassured her housekeeper.

  “Well, if you’re sure then,” Essie said, knowing even as she spoke that Emily would never ask her to cancel her plans, “I’ll be going now. The car service is picking us up at six o’clock in the morning. By this time tomorrow I’ll be lying by the hotel pool,” she finished with a grin.

  “Do a lap for me,” Emily told her, and hugged the older woman. “Merry Christmas, Essie. I’ll see you January second.”

  “Thanks for my Christmas gift, Miss Emily,” Essie said, pulling on her gloves.

  “I thought a little cash would be more appreciated than a flannel nightie this year, considering your trip,” Emily replied with a grin.

  “It is,” Essie agreed. “Merry Christmas to you, Miss Emily. I hope you get just what you really want. And say hello to that handsome Mr. Devlin for me,” she finished with a broad wink as she hurried out the door.

  Emily closed the front door, the large green pine wreath on it rustling faintly as it shut. Her cell phone began to ring. Emily pulled it from her pocket and flipped it open. “Hello?”

  “Hello, angel face!” Michael Devlin’s voice purred into her ear.

  “Devlin! Where are you? Are you home yet?” she asked.

  “London still. Something has come up. I’ll tell you all about it when I get home, but I’ll be with you for Christmas, angel face, come hell or high water. I should be back just in time for Stratford’s Christmas party Friday. Is it snowing yet?”

  “God, no!” she said. “I’m dreaming of a sunny green Christmas, but they are predicting snow late tomorrow and into Thursday. Hopefully the AccuTracks, the Dopplers, or their Ouija boards don’t know anything, and we’ll get rain.”

  “Madame Scrooge, I presume,” he teased her.

  “Did you find a real Christmas pudding, Devlin?” she asked.

  “At a little shop I know where they make it themselves,” he answered. “It’s already packed in my suitcase.”

  “Don’t let them confiscate it at customs,” she warned him.

  “I had them box it, and then wrap it in some rather garish holiday paper complete with a big floppy bow,” he told her. “I’m telling them it’s a present for my maiden aunt.”

  “Perfect!” Emily replied. “Every customs agent has at least one maiden aunt.”

  “Emily? I miss you. These last weeks without you have been lonely for me. And I’ve missed Egret Pointe. Will they still have the windows up that you told me about by the time I get there?” He sounded almost wistful.

  “They don’t take them down until the day after New Year’s, Devlin,” she answered him. He had missed her! He was lonely without her! Now why the hell couldn’t he get the rest of it out? “I’ve missed you too,” Emily said, “but I’ve been busy. The house is all decorated inside and out. Garlands and wreaths up. Two trees. The one in the den is all finished. I’m working on the one in the living room. We’re having an open house on New Year’s Eve, Devlin. Will you still be here, or do you like your city celebrations?”

  “Publishing is closed down Christmas week,” he told her. “Can I stay the whole week with you? Or maybe you would like to come into town and stay at my place?”

  “Stay with me,” she said softly, meaningfully. “Besides, you live in a studio apartment, Devlin. You’ve said yourself there’s barely room to swing a cat, and I’m much bigger than a cat.”

  “What will the neighbors think?” he asked her.

  “To hell with the neighbors, Devlin,” Emily said.

  He laughed low. “Can you be a good girl until I get there, angel face?”

  “If I can be a bad girl once you’re here,” she told him mischievously.

  “I’ve got a big present for you,” he teased her.

  “And I have just the perfect place to put it,” she responded.

  “You’re making me hot,” he told her.

  “I’m putting my hand in my pants,” she said. “Oh! I’m already wet, Devlin. That’s what the sound of your voice does to me.”

  “I’m in bed,” he replied. “I’ve got my dick in my hand. It’s already getting hard, because that’s what the sound of your voice does to me.”

  “Make yourself come,” she murmured seductively. “I’m going to make myself come. I’m already playing with my clit. It feels so good, Devlin. Oh! Oh! But I wish it were your tongue there, and not my finger.”

  “I’m polishing my cock to a fine stand,” he said. “But I wish it were in your juicy cunt, angel face. I’m going to fuck your brains out when I get home.” He heard her breathing coming faster in his earpiece.

  “Oh! Oh! Oh! Ohhhh!” she exclaimed. “God, that was good! But not as good as you, Devlin.”

  She heard him groan. “Jaysus! What a waste of good cum! I’ve had to use two handkerchiefs. Damn it, I want you, angel face! I don’t want to have any more dirty-talk phone sex with you over the transatlantic cable.”

  “Then get your cute Irish ass home, Devlin,” Emily said.

  She heard him chuckle, and then he responded, “As fast as I can, angel face. Just a few more days. Good night, sweetheart.”

  “Good night, Devlin. Dream of me.” She made kissing sounds into the phone.

  To her delight he made the same sounds back, and then the line was dead.

  Emily flipped her cell shut. Just the sound of his voice, the knowledge that he was coming home soon, made her happy. Home. He had referred to Egret Pointe as home. She felt herself smiling, and then she sneezed. Damn! Her cold was getting worse, and she still had the big Christmas tree in the living room to finish decorating. Tomorrow, Emily thought. She’d finish it tomorrow. Tonight she would eat some of Rina’s chicken soup and just go to bed.

  The next day Emily struggled up, and completed decorating her big Christmas tree. Good thing, she considered, that she and Essie had begun it yesterday, and the top half had been finished. She didn’t think she could have climbed up on the ladder, but fortunately all she had left had been the bottom half. She took the ornaments carefully from their wrappings. Most of them were antiques that had been in her family for over a hundred years. Her favorite was the skinny Father Christmas that had always been referred to as the seasick Santa.

  But she was still feeling lousy. She had the tree finished by early afternoon, and considering that she had to go into the city tomorrow, she decided to rest. She was coughing now, but as much as she disliked having to make the trip, it was business, and it was important she be at Stratford’s Christmas party. Aaron would be there. Devlin would be there. That would be the hard part: pretending they were just editor and author.

  Her appetite was finicky. She finished Rina’s soup and made herself a peanut-butter-and-jelly sandwich with a glass of warm milk. When she had eaten she went upstairs and swallowed some cold tablets. Looking outside, she saw it had begun to snow. Maybe it would snow so much she wouldn’t have to go into the city, Emily thought. Crawling into bed she fell into a deep sleep. It wasn’t even eight o’clock.

  It was still snowing when she awoke the following morning. She felt a little better, and so she took some more twelve-hour cold medicine to get her through the day. Looking at the clock she thought, In another twelve hours I’ll be home. It made the day ahead of her just a little bit less onerous. She showered, washing her hair, then drying herself and her hair thoroughly before stepping out into the bedroom. Even so, a chill swept over her. The chime from the hall announced nine o’clock. She had plenty of time. Wrapping herself in her pink fleece robe, she went downstairs, and made herself a bowl of apple-and-cinnamon oatmeal. The heavy cream she poured on it made it taste even better, along with the hot tea she drank.

  Having eaten, Emily trudged back upstairs and got back into bed. She didn’t feel great, but she felt better. Aaron called to make sure she remembered the car would be there for her at noon. She had at least two and a half hours befo
re she had to get dressed. She set her clock for eleven fifteen, and when it rang Emily awoke to bright sunshine. The storm had blown itself out. Looking out the window, she saw the street was already plowed, which meant the parkway would be plowed too—worse luck.

  With a sigh she turned to get dressed, slipping on a pair of pure silk cream panties and a matching lace bra. She was not going to the Stratford Christmas party without her underwear, and Devlin was just going to have to live with it. She couldn’t decide whether she should wear a wrap dress or slacks, but given the snow she decided on her cream-colored wool slacks and a matching cashmere turtleneck. She pulled thin cashmere socks over her feet and slid into a pair of ankle-high Ferragamo boots in a rich chocolate-brown leather. Simple makeup: a little periwinkle-blue eye shadow, mascara, blush, and lipstick. Good, tasteful jewelry: an elegant gold-and-silver pin on the left side of her sweater, matching earrings in her ears, and Emily O’s beautiful silver repoussé bangle on her right wrist, her own gold Seiko on her left wrist.

  She took a small clutch in cream leather. In it she fit a little brush, a lipstick, a tiny spritzer of her favorite scent, sunglasses, tissues, a single credit card, a packet of vitamin C drops, and her cell. Looking in the mirror, she fluffed her hair with her brush. She had seen it look better, but she had a cold, and it would probably look fine for the day. Hurrying downstairs, Emily took her long camel-hair wrap coat from the closet, checked the pocket for a pair of gloves, and, reaching up onto the shelf, pulled down an Irish wool tam-o’-shanter. She had a cold, she rationalized again. She needed to keep a hat on until she got there. Didn’t everyone say you lost most of your body heat through your head?