“You need to stop working on her books. They’re commercial. Vapid. They’re holding you back.”
I don’t disagree, yet the criticism stings. I take pride in ghostwriting Sylvia Stone books. Aside from Erik’s strange workshops, they are my only creative outlet.
“It’s my job,” I say gently. I try to tug the pages toward me. I’m afraid that if I release them, I will be relinquishing the opportunity to slip into Erik’s mind.
Instead, Erik Duke uses my grip to pull me closer to him. Just one shuffling step.
His narrow eyes are not quite brown, not quite blue. They are the color of Lake Symphony when the sun sets behind the clouds, when there is no wind to blow the algae away, when the mud between the reeds is at its murkiest. Anything could be hiding within those depths.
“Christine,” he says again.
This time, he is not testing the sound of the name. He is breaking ground on something frightening.
The doorbell chimes.
I have never heard it before, so the sound gushes ice over my nerves. The bell is akin to a warning klaxon. My hand slips from the pages, I take a step back, and my heart remembers how to beat.
The doorbell chimes again.
Erik presses a button on the monitor beside his door, which reveals security video on a monitor that was previously dark. Even through the grainy starkness of the black and white image, I recognize the car that had pulled up behind me at Sylvia Stone’s house.
Raoul Chance must have left mere minutes after me in order to catch up so quickly.
The realization leaves me trembling.
My publishing company’s new editor followed me to Erik Duke’s house.
“Who is he?” Erik asks.
It doesn’t escape me that his fists are clenched on either side of the door as he glares into the security monitor. The muscles in his forearms are bulging, his knuckles white, his shoulders drawn into hard lines of tension.
His smoldering hatred is a shocking contrast to Raoul on the monitor, who has stepped from his car and gazes up at the security monitors, shielding his eyes from the sun. Light glints off of his hair. He is a ray of brilliant daylight against the shadows of the forests.
Raoul’s calm only seems to make Erik angrier.
Someone has violated the sanctity of his private property. An uninvited visitor. Someone from the publishing company.
Anyone else would have known not to risk it—not for any reason. Erik Duke is worth as much money to Durand-Price as Sylvia Stone, and equally unpredictable in his own way.
Erik has accrued enough wealth to quit publishing and spend the rest of his life in solitude. And his pride is a mercurial beast. Many days, it seems like he only allows the company to have his books because he has no reason not to.
Having an editor show up at his doorstep when Erik has made it explicitly clear that he wants to be left alone could be the trigger he needs to never publish again.
I lick my lips, try to remember how to speak. Dangerous as Raoul’s presence is, I can’t lie to Erik any more than I could dream of disobeying him.
“That’s a new editor for Durand-Price. His name is, um, Raoul—Raoul Chance.” Erik’s gaze slices over to me and I feel like I’m an inch tall. Like I’ve done something wrong. I want to drop to my knees and apologize, beg him for forgiveness. “He wanted to talk to me after the meeting with Ms. Stone, but I left. He must have followed me. I didn’t think—I never would have—”
“I don’t want him here.”
Oh no, Erik really is angry at me. He’s still glaring at the monitor but it feels like I’m cornered.
“I’ll make him leave.” I force a smile that I don’t feel in my heart. “Don’t worry about it.”
My hand is on the knob for the front door when I feel the heat of Erik’s presence over my shoulder. Now I am cornered—he has me all but pinned against the door, his chest bare inches from my back, so close that he must feel the pounding of my pulse.
“We’re going to write tonight,” Erik says, breath warm against the back of my neck. “You and me, we’re going to make a story together. As soon as you make this editor leave. We have a lot of work to do.”
The way he says “work” evokes the heroes of his books. The tortured souls that populate the small towns of Maine, with all the twisted blackness rotting at the core of their hearts.
“I can’t stay too long,” I say in that firm but polite tone I employ with Sylvia. “It’s a long drive back to the city for me. I’ll be happy to Skype with you tonight, but—”
“No,” Erik interrupts. “You’re working with me tonight. In my office.”
Now I really can’t breathe.
He’s left no room to argue. And frankly…I don’t want to.
“Your office?” It comes out as little more than a squeak.
I’ve never been in his office. It’s the stuff of myth. If you search the internet for rumors—which I do, occasionally, because the gossip surrounding my clients is endlessly entertaining and endlessly wrong—then you’ll find many stories about what horrors Erik Duke has hidden in his basement office.
They say that he has torture devices down there. That he has an iron maiden with the barest millimeters of clearance so that he can plan his stories from the embrace of the metal casket.
I’m sure it’s all silliness, but who knows? Nobody has ever seen the room.
I could be the first.
More than that, he wants me to write with him…down there.
The prospect is equal parts frightening and exhilarating.
“Okay,” I whisper hoarsely.
He lets me open the door to step outside.
It should be easier to breathe once I’m not sharing space in his house with him anymore.
It isn’t.
Three
I have to take my Kia to reach the gate. The distance is too great to walk. I feel vulnerable in the driver’s seat, as though Erik’s cameras are capable of piercing the doors and my skin to see into my very bones.
The gate opens when I approach it. Raoul stands on the other side. He seems to consider passing through, but I block him with my car.
If Erik was that angry to see Raoul on the road to his house, I can only imagine how he would react to the editor letting himself in.
Once I’m on the other side of the fence, the gate closes behind me.
I turn off my car and step out, trying to mask my nerves with the professional smile I’ve developed in response to Sylvia’s endless parade of egotistical crap.
What if Raoul recognizes me? What if he doesn’t recognize me? I’m not sure which would be worse. Raoul meant so much to me when I was a girl. All those long summer nights in the countryside, exploring my father’s property with our hands joined, escaping tennis lessons to climb trees and get dirty.
The secrets we whispered to one another under the stars. The elaborate fantasies we made up.
Our first kiss.
My fears are in vain. His face brightens when he sees me emerge from the car.
“Little Christy.” Raoul’s lazy grin that sends heat shooting from the tips of my hair to the tips of my toes.
He does remember.
He remembers everything.
A genuine smile spreads over my mouth in response, and I bite my lip to try to hold it back. I don’t want to seem too familiar. He’s the new lead editor for Moonlight Sonata. No matter what our history is like, we were children then—we aren’t the friends we used to be.
Stolen childhood kisses mean nothing now. We are adults. Professionals. We need to be able to work together.
“Raoul Chance.” I clear my throat, offer him my hand. “I’m sorry we didn’t have a chance to be introduced properly at the meeting. I’m not Little Christy anymore, I’m—”
“You’re an executive author assistant. I’ve heard.”
Executive. The title is laughable on an ordinary day. Hearing it fall from Raoul’s lips is outright humiliating.
M
y cheeks heat. “I’m an assistant to a couple of authors, yes.”
“Don’t be so humble,” Raoul says. “From what I hear, you’re the glue holding our two biggest bestsellers to the publishing company. You’re the only reason Sylvia Stone has put out a book in the last five years.”
So it seems I’m not to be fired.
Still, I know better than to take credit for Sylvia’s books. “Talent such as hers only needs a little bit of occasional steering to keep it on track,” I say. “Artists can have a difficult time with deadlines, you know…”
“Deadlines, productivity, sanity,” Raoul says.
A surprised laugh escapes me. I try to catch it behind my hand.
It’s so refreshing to see someone being less than obsequious in regards to Sylvia Stone.
Raoul’s eyes heat. “I like the sound of your laugh. It’s been too long since I last heard it.”
“Almost ten years,” I say.
“Has it been so long?” His gaze rakes over my body. My slacks and blouse are professional, my curls as orderly as I can make them. “That’s almost ten years too long.”
I couldn’t agree more. “How’s your brother?”
“Good. Still making trouble, but that’s the way we like him. I moved to the city to be closer to him and his new wife. That’s why I got a job at Durand-Price.” Raoul’s eyebrow quirks. “That, and my familiarity with the company.”
“You’ve been working in publishing?”
“In various ways.” He waves the question off. “I didn’t come here to talk business. I came here to talk to you. The way you ran away from Sylvia’s house—you got me curious.”
My knees wobble. I lock them to keep from falling over.
“I’m busy right now.” It’s hard to make myself speak calmly instead of falling into his arms and running away into the forest like we used to. “I’m working with my other author.”
“I have to confess, I’m curious about that, too. What’s he like?” Raoul asks. “Erik Duke, I mean.”
I have so many adjectives to describe him, I don’t know where to begin.
Intimidating. Exhilarating. Mysterious. Frightening.
Magnetic.
“He’s easier to work with than Ms. Stone,” I say lightly. That much is true. I don’t have to write books for him; I don’t have to deal with shrill diva tantrums from him. But the emotions he evokes in me are so much more intense, I’m not certain I can really call it “easy.”
My response must not be convincing because Raoul’s gaze sharpens. “Do you feel safe working with him out here?” His gesture indicates the dense forest, the towering fence, the remote lake that I can smell just out of sight.
No. Not at all safe. Never safe.
My tongue darts out to wet my lips. Raoul’s eyes drop to the motion, as though fixated by the way my skin glistens.
“Of course.” It comes out a little rasping and not at all convincing. “He’s an author, Raoul. I know how to handle myself around authors.”
“And editors, it seems.” There is mirth in his eyes. I can’t tell if he’s teasing me or not. “I bet you have the entire publishing company eating out of your palm, don’t you? Author assistant. It’s funny to see Fletcher Durand’s daughter lowering herself to that.”
Lowering myself? It stings to hear it.
“My father sold his stake in the company before he died. I don’t have anything to do with its ownership or operation—you should already know that. The fact I have a job with the company at all is mostly because of the good will of people like Violetta Kilshaw.”
“That’s not what I hear. Grosvenor finds you very impressive.” The editor leans toward me, and I am surprised to realize how tall he has become as an adult. No longer the lanky young man I remember at all. He could easily toss me over his shoulder and carry me away.
The thought is much too appealing.
“I find you very impressive, too,” Raoul whispers, like it’s a secret between us.
How have I managed not to spontaneously combs yet? “You just started working for Durand-Price. You can’t tell me you’ve had time to be impressed by much of anything with us.”
“I’ve read the books you ghosted for Sylvia,” Raoul said. “It’s part of the reason I took the job.” He’s stepped closer to me, and I’m acutely aware of the eyes that Erik has watching us.
He is surely glued to the monitor, waiting to see if I will obey him and make Raoul leave.
Oh, but I don’t want Raoul to leave. He’s even more handsome than I remember. He smells like freshly-cut grass and sunshine. His suit is tailored in such a way that it makes his waist look narrower, his shoulders broader. It conceals his arms but I can tell that he’s been working out.
I have to blurt it out. “I’m working with Mr. Duke today. I need to get back. Is there something I can help you with?”
He checks his watch. Frustration creases his eyebrows. “I have an upcoming video conference and reception out here is nonexistent. I’ll have to go back into town. Find an internet café.” He doesn’t move for his car, though. His hand settles on my wrist and my whole body longs to press itself against him, traitorous thing that it is. “You’re going to have dinner with me.”
“Yes,” I say immediately. Just as quickly, I change it to, “I don’t think I can. As I said, I have to work here. Erik—Mr. Duke—has an important deadline approaching, and he needs my help here.”
“Then I’ll pick you up after my meeting,” Raoul said. “Get your work done and I’ll be back for you as quickly as I can. Three hours. No, two hours. I’ll take you back to New York with me. I can get reservations at any restaurant you want.”
Oh, he’s so tempting. I want to join him in the city for dinner. I want to find out what he’s been doing in the years since our summers on the ocean. I want to bask in that smile of his.
But I have work to do.
With Erik, I can’t imagine that the work will be simple or quick.
“I won’t be done in two hours,” I say. “I’m sorry.”
He spreads his hands wide. “I’m the lead editor now. Your contract is mine, and if I say you’re done in two hours, who can argue with me? Don’t worry about it, Little Christy. I’ll be back for you soon.” He opens the door to his car, slips into the seat, rolls down his window.
A cracking of twigs in the forest draws my attention back beyond the gate. My head whips around. It feels like someone is watching us, but I don’t see anyone among the trees.
Even so, I know Erik is watching.
He’s always watching.
“I can’t tonight, Raoul,” I say. “I can’t.”
I’m not sure I can ever have dinner with this handsome editor. Erik’s disapproval radiates from the darkness, and I don’t think it’s just my imagination. He doesn’t like Raoul. Doesn’t like the way that Raoul so freely touched my arm, broaching the physical barrier between us.
When I get back to the house, he will be angry with me.
“I won’t hear a no,” Raoul said. “Two hours.”
He turns on his BMW. The headlights flash over me.
“No, Raoul, please—”
But he’s gunning his engine and backing down the driveway, obviously leaving in a hurry so that he can return in a hurry. He’s decided we’re going to dinner. There is nothing that will change his mind now.
Raoul was always determined like that, even as a young man. It’s the reason he’s reached such lofty heights in the publishing industry before he’s even thirty years old, I’m sure.
“But things have changed,” I whisper at the retreating bumper of his BMW.
The gate groans as it opens again.
Erik is waiting for me at the end of the road.
*
I remember the day that Raoul came into my life just as clearly as the day that he left it.
The former is far more pleasant to dwell upon than the latter.
He was eleven years old the first time that he came to my f
ather’s house. A very serious boy, I recall, who had not hit his adolescent growth spurt. He was lanky but only a little taller than me.
I was nine years old—a child—so Raoul wasn’t very interested in me at first.
That changed quickly.
Though Raoul’s brother had also been brought to stay with us for the summer, Carlos was sixteen years old and practically a man. Carlos had as little interest in Raoul as Raoul had in me. He was always running around with girls from the nearby town, taking them to the beach in his convertible, returning to the house late at night.
That left me alone with Raoul. We were two children in a house filled with adults who were too absorbed in conducting business to pay any attention to us.
We became reluctant playmates within days.
And in a few more days, we became friends.
I have always been mature for my age, and I suppose Raoul must have found my company tolerable enough once I started showing him all the secrets around the Durand house. It was a very old property; there were secret passages that servants used to use, and tunnels leading from the house to the stables.
So many secret places for children to lose themselves.
We listened in on the meetings that my father shared with authors and staff from his publishing company. When we grew bored of that, we sneaked into the kitchens and stole food for impromptu picnics.
I don’t think we were actually as sneaky as we felt, but we were entertained, we were quiet, and nobody wanted to be responsible for us. We were allowed free reign of the property.
That first summer was mostly spent exploring. It was the best summer of my young life up until that point.
When the Chance brothers returned the next summer, it was even better.
Raoul and I started horseback riding. We explored caves around the beach. When the tide came in, we played in the pools and got our clothing soaked. We hiked until late at night, when it was too dark to find our way back down the trails, and slept under the stars.
If poor weather confined us to the house, we’d stay up in the attic, playing with the dusty, forgotten artifacts belonging to my family. We dressed in antique clothing. We fabricated ridiculous stories and put on plays without an audience.
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