Contents
Episode 2
About
One
Two
Three
Four
Five
Six
All He Asks
Episode Two
Felicity Sparrow
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All He Asks - Episode Two
Christine has made a mistake becoming tangled in Erik Duke’s life. As an assistant to bestselling authors, it’s a professional problem to get physically involved with her world-famous client. Worse than that, it might be dangerous. Erik’s life is a web of secrets she can’t begin to unravel.
But now that he has her, Erik won’t let her leave. He’s sneaking around, making demands at the publishing company in her favor, and watching her every move. She’s afraid…but entranced.
Raoul Chance, lead editor, wants a piece of Christine too. She’s wanted him since they were children. Yet there’s a wall between them—a wall that he’s desperately trying to breach even as Christine falls tighter into Erik’s grip…
One
I wake up in bed at my apartment.
The fact that I wake up at all shocks me.
Morning is not a gentle creature. Memories crash over me the instant my eyes open, forcing me to relive every agonizing moment of the previous day in a breathless, twisting heartbeat: my conversation with Raoul Chance, the glimpse of sunshine he brought into my life, and then the long descent into Erik Duke’s basement…and into his arms.
No. That’s much too generous a way to think about it.
I wasn’t in Erik’s arms. I was in silk ropes, bound to the hooks on his wall, with my legs wrapped around his waist as he drove me toward ecstasy with nothing more than the friction of our bodies.
My heart’s racing just to remember it.
I feel sick.
He’s one of my authors. My job. Someone I’m meant to assist in any way he wants because he’s a valuable asset to the company.
My involvement means I’ve done a lot more than endanger my standing with Erik. I’ve endangered more than my job, too. I’ve endangered Durand-Price Publishing and my father’s legacy.
Great job, Christine.
Now I’m tangled in sweaty sheets that feel like the clammy grip of tentacles, wearing nothing but a lacy white nightgown that I save for the hottest summer evenings. I don’t remember getting into the nightgown. I don’t remember climbing into bed. In fact, I don’t even remember getting home—yet here I am, flushed with heat and yet shivering in my sparsely-decorated bedroom.
I must have driven myself home. There’s no other way I could have gotten there.
Unless…
“No,” I murmur.
Erik couldn’t have taken me home. It’s not merely the fact that he has no idea where I live. He simply never leaves his house.
I can’t deal with the idea that a possible murderer might have taken me home.
That’s what the article had said, wasn’t it? “Man accused of murdering bride on wedding night.” Erik Duke had once been married—in a time long before he was a world-famous author—and he’d been arrested for the murder of his new wife.
Accusations didn’t mean anything. I trusted Erik. I had never felt like my life was at risk with him.
No. The part of the article that had bothered me was the photo that went along with it.
Erik’s late wife looked just like me.
Or I looked just like her. I wasn’t sure which was more accurate.
It was easy to imagine why he’d never told me that he’d been married. We hadn’t had many conversations about life outside of work. Logically, it followed that he would have never had the opportunity to tell me that he’d been married, nor would he have had a chance to tell me about a false murder accusation.
But he had let me into his life where he’d never let another human being before.
No wonder. I reminded Erik of his wife.
Anything that happened between us must have been a consequence of that. It’s a little perverse, a tiny bit frightening in its intensity, and incredibly tragic.
I can’t completely convince myself that the murder accusations were unsubstantiated, though. Which means I also prefer to think that Erik didn’t take me home as I was sleeping, especially since he shouldn’t even know where I live.
My car keys rest on the edge of my desk, where I always set them when I get home. The cracked window permits the sounds of the street far below to enter my home, carried on a warm breeze.
I stagger to the vanity, which I affectionately call my “battle station.” All the makeup I wear to work on an average day is neatly organized across its surface. The mirror is angled to give me the best view with natural lighting.
The view is not flattering today. Snarled yellow curls frame my face like I’ve teased them into a rat’s nest for the worst eighties party ever. I’m pale, my eyes look bruised, my lower lip is trembling.
It is seven o’clock in the morning on a Monday. I’m due at the Durand-Price offices in an hour.
“Get it together, Christine,” I whisper to my reflection, trying to rub color into my cheeks.
It doesn’t work.
My gaze focuses on the desk over my shoulder where I usually do all my work—specifically, the ghostwriting for Sylvia Stone. The workstation is missing a very critical piece of equipment: the stand where I usually plug in my laptop is empty, the mouse and keyboard unplugged, my speakers buzzing softly without input.
As if it’s not bad enough that I’ve messed up with a critical client, I’ve lost my most critical piece of work equipment.
Any chance I have at finding calm within myself vanishes.
“Oh God.” It comes out as a whimper, trapped underneath the hands I’ve clapped over my mouth.
I have messed up in a really, really big way.
What am I going to find when I go into the office? Will Grosvenor be waiting for me with a resignation letter I’m expected to sign?
Frankly, that would be the more generous response. He could very well be waiting to meet me with a coterie of lawyers because Erik Duke has terminated his contract, and I would deserve every inch of legal punishment those lawyers rained upon me.
No wonder I’m shaking.
Not only did I cross a major professional boundary with Erik Duke, but it was…incredible. Absolutely incredible.
Our interlude was a sinful violation of boundaries and I thirst for more of it. I can’t just forget what we’ve done, can’t find some professional way to walk away from the job before I blow this, can’t go on with a life without Erik Duke.
Now that I know what his touch does to my body—and the fact that it’s as easily as powerful as what his poetry does to my mind—I need more of it.
“Get it together,” I say again, vision blurring as I gaze at my empty desk, chin trembling.
The words don’t help.
-
Grosvenor Lateen is waiting for me at my desk at Durand-Price.
He stands there, arms folded, looking incredibly square and old in his paisley suit. The colors haven’t been selected to appease Sylvia Stone today. There’s something mournful about the desaturated colors, as though he couldn’t bear to bring color to a grievous situation.
The expression on his saggy face tells me everything I need to know.
It’s the worst I could have asked for.
Clutching my shoulder bag with both hands, I consider turning around and getting back onto the elevator I’ve just left. I’m three rows of desks away from Grosvenor. He hasn’t noticed that I’ve entered yet. I could go back to the lobby, get on the train, return to my apartment.
Hiding from what’s happening isn’t goin
g to change anything. I will have to deal with the consequences sooner or later.
If I deal with them sooner, I’ll have more time to search for a job. I do make a fantastic espresso, after all. I’m sure there’s a coffee shop that will have me. Maybe even the Starbucks in the lobby of the Durand-Price tower.
I’ve twisted my hands on the strap of my purse so hard that the leather is threatening to burst its seams.
No more debating with myself.
Taking a deep inhale, I brace myself and approach my desk.
“Christine,” Grosvenor says, giving me a sweeping look from head to toe, as though searching for some obvious flaw. There should be plenty for him to find. My makeup is sparse, my curls have barely been tamed by a short shower, and I’m only half-certain that my skirt suit isn’t stained. His mouth presses into a thin line. “We need to talk. My office.”
It feels like everyone’s watching me as I follow him down the aisles of desks. My square heels make a thumping noise against the carpet that might as well be the banging of mallets on drums. I have to look down at my chest to see if a blazing letter A has appeared on my blouse, marking me as the harlot that I am.
Could it be any more obvious that I fraternized with one of our bestselling authors and put the whole publishing company at risk?
We enter his office. He shuts the door.
“Explain yourself,” Grosvenor says.
I can’t even speak. The room is swimming around me.
Does he really expect me to explain the details of my private life to him? Yes, I’ve earned every ounce of punishment they lay upon me, but I prefer to bear it in silence.
There’s nothing to explain. I made a terrible mistake, and I’m simply going to have to live with that.
I stutter. I shiver. I manage to say something like, “I’m so sorry.”
“Erik Duke called me this morning.” I see Grosvenor’s mouth moving but can’t seem to connect the words to the motion. His voice drives straight into my throbbing skull. “Do you know how often that man willingly contacts us?”
“Not often,” I say, or at least, that’s what I mean to say. I’m not sure that it actually comes out.
“He never calls us. We have to practically send out the National Guard to reach Erik Duke for contract negotiations. But he called us today, completely of his own volition.” Grosvenor shakes his head. Gestures at the chair in front of his desk. “Please sit down, Miss Durand.”
It’s good that he’s asked me to sit because I wouldn’t be able to continue standing another minute.
I fall into the chair. I’m still mangling my purse with both hands.
“What are we going to do?” Grosvenor has paced to the windows—tall panes of glass overlooking the city, the kind of view that people pay billions to enjoy.
I’m not sure if he intends that question to be rhetorical. I try to answer anyway.
“Whatever you feel is necessary, I’ll—I mean, I understand completely, sir.”
Grosvenor’s eyes sweep over me. He’s reached his position in the company for good reason; there is great intelligence in the calculating way that he studies me. He’s weighing numbers in his mind, asking questions, coming to conclusions.
“Why you?” he muses.
Well, that’s just too personal.
My cheeks flame. I focus on the desk in front of me rather than having to look at Grosvenor.
Why me?
Because he thinks I write well? Because I’m the only person who’s managed to get past his defenses to enter his house, much less his life?
Because I look like the wife he may have killed?
“I can be out of here by lunch,” I mumble.
Apparently, I’m speaking too quietly for Grosvenor to be able to hear me. He doesn’t react. He comes back to the desk, sits down, steeples his hands over the blotter. “Your own line for the Moonlight Sonata imprint,” Grosvenor says. “You understand why that demand simply isn’t reasonable.”
It’s like one of those moments in a comedy movie where everyone at a party stops dancing and the record screeches against the needle.
“Excuse me?” I ask.
“Mr. Duke has demanded that you be removed from your position assisting Sylvia Stone immediately. He wants you to have your own series for the Moonlight Sonata imprint.”
“But—I don’t—”
The door opens. Violetta Kilshaw enters with a blast of icy air, leaning on a cane with a silver serpent’s head at the top. Its ruby eyes glimmer as she limps across the office.
I’ve never seen her with such a cane before. It’s strange to see such a show of weakness from the head of the marketing department, who I was becoming convinced may have been forged from iron rather than born as most human beings are.
She stands beside my chair, folding both hands over the cane. “So you’ve told her, Grosvenor?”
“We were just beginning to discuss it,” he says.
Violetta’s gaze is as cold as the serpent’s. “Mr. Duke’s call comes at an interesting time. He contacted us not five minutes after Sylvia Stone did, making a few demands of her own. You’re a polarizing character, Ms. Durand.”
“What did Sylvia want?” That’s slightly more normal territory. She always wants something.
“She’s refusing to write this book unless we give her total control,” Violetta says. “Her lawyers have gotten involved.”
“She’s not bluffing for once,” Grosvenor says.
“I thought we had this worked out. I was going to…” I swallow hard. “I mean, we were reworking the book anyway, without needing her…involvement.” I’m still too hesitant to say what we all know—that Sylvia wasn’t going to write the book in the first place.
“If we don’t surrender to her demands, she wants the imprint shut down completely.” Violetta says it so calmly, rather than with the air of impending apocalypse that the announcement deserves.
“She can’t do that,” I say with total confidence. It’s obviously just another one of Sylvia’s dramatic episodes. But Grosvenor and Violetta exchange a look that has somewhat less than vehement agreement. My confidence falters. “She can’t do that…can she?”
“There are some obscure clauses in her contract—some unusual items negotiated by her literary agent—”
“Mario?” His name bursts from me as a laugh.
I find it hard to believe that Sylvia’s husband could have actually done real damage negotiating her contract.
Grosvenor lifts a hand to stay my mockery. “We’ve made terrible concessions to keep Sylvia Stone on board. That’s the long and the short of it. Nothing’s decided, however, and that’s none of your concern. The fact is, Sylvia’s making our business difficult. Nothing new, though the threat she poses is unusual. We could handle it.” He leans on his desk to stare at me intently. “Until Erik Duke’s phone call.”
Hearing his name again makes my stomach lurch and my thighs clench.
Talk of Sylvia—normal business for me—almost made me forget what had happened. Why I thought we were really having this meeting.
“My own series,” I say.
“Your own series.” Violetta seems more thoughtful than angry.
Grosvenor pounds his fist into the desk. “That’s not the problem. It’s the level of marketing commitment he expects. Christine Durand isn’t enough of a household name to spend that much money on her.” He gives me an apologetic shrug. It’s not necessary—he’s right.
“Mr. Duke has great faith in your abilities,” Violetta says.
I hadn’t thought it possible to feel worse than I already did. Now I feel like I’m sinking below rock bottom, knowing that Erik responded to the previous night’s encounter by requesting special treatment for me.
Would I like to write my own series and be given the Sylvia Stone treatment? Of course. It’s the stuff of dreams. There’s no writer who wouldn’t like that.
But not like this.
“He’s not, um…” I’m not sure
how to say it, so I just say it. “He’s not making this an ultimatum, is he?”
“Not yet,” Grosvenor says grimly.
I can tell by his tone how long he thinks that will last.
“I’m sorry,” I whisper.
Violetta rests a hand on my shoulder. “Don’t apologize. You’ve been well-taught. You’re a skilled author. Erik Duke recognizes that, and he wants to foster it. Who are we to question him?”
“We’re the ones in charge, that’s who we are, and I don’t appreciate being bullied by our authors.” Grosvenor sits on the edge of his desk, unbuttoning his suit jacket. “Intentionally or not, Christine, you’re at the center of a very troubling scenario for our publishing company.”
I stutter a little bit when I try to interject. “It’s not intentional.”
He goes on as though I haven’t spoken. “Sylvia Stone doesn’t like you. If we give you a series in her imprint while she’s threatening to blow the entire thing up…” He shudders. “Yet that’s exactly what Erik Duke wants us to do.”
I’m feeling dizzy.
They can’t fire me if the entire publishing company explodes.
“I don’t want to make trouble, sir,” I say. “Just tell me what I have to do to make this blow over. I’ll cooperate with anything.”
Grosvenor looks fractionally relieved. Only fractionally.
“At least that’s one thing we don’t have to worry about,” he says to Violetta with a snort. It looks like Violetta is about to say something, but she doesn’t get a chance to speak.
A sharp knock rings out on Grosvenor’s office door.
“Lateen! Have you seen Christine?”
It’s Raoul. He’s on the other side of that wall.
I feel guilty just hearing his voice. I’d missed our date the night before, and that has been barely an afterthought to all the other considerations.
“Damn,” Grosvenor mutters. “He must have heard.”
The door jiggles. Violetta locked the handle when she entered, so he can’t get in, but he makes an impressive effort.
All He Asks 2 Page 1
