Forbidden Pleasure Read online

  Forbidden Pleasure

  Bertrice Small

  Unattached romance novelist Emily Shann has gotten by on a vivid imagination, but now her publishers are demanding something sexier, more explicit, and true-to-life. Emily has nowhere to turn for advice except her new editor-tall, dark, and handsome Michael Devlin-who's already stirring her fantasies. So is The Channel-a secret network designed to tutor women in the art of sensual delight. Now, more willing than ever before, she must convince Devlin to teach her everything he knows-if her literary fantasies are to finally become an unedited flesh and blood reality…

  Bertrice Small

  Forbidden Pleasure

  The second book in the Channel series, 2002

  FOREWORD

  The woman in the billing department looked at the record she was typing into the computer, and giggled. "Don't you ever wonder what Emily Shanski uses the Channel for, Gail?" she said to her fellow worker at Suburban Cable.

  "Hey, like all the rest of us," Gail answered. "Long, unhurried, incredible sex. I don't know who invented this network or whatever it is, but I'm sure as hell glad they did." She looked at her companion. "What do you think it really is, Doreen? I mean there isn't another channel on the television that actually lets you dream up your personal fantasy, and then lets you physically enjoy it. Do you think it's magic? Or something worse? Ah hell! Who cares? Well, maybe my old man might if he knew what I was doing when he's on the night shift," she cackled.

  Doreen laughed. "Yeah, I guess it's better we don't know," she said. "And I sure as hell wouldn't want my husband to find out about it. The men would either try to close the Channel down, or they'd want it for themselves. It's a woman thing." She hit the print button, and when the bill had rolled out of the printer already folded she put it in the preaddressed stamped envelope. "Lot of women in Egret Pointe using the Channel these days," she noted. "Hey, it's noon. Let's break for lunch, Gail. Too bad the Channel isn't available now."

  "Nah," Gail replied. "It's better the way it is. If we could get it all the time instead of just between eight p.m. and four a.m. no one would get anything done. Where do you want to eat? How about the Chinese buffet down the street?"

  "Yeah, Doreen agreed. "I like that place. Get your coat, and let's go."

  Chapter 1

  "I've got bad news and bad news. Whadaya want first?" Aaron Fischer looked across the large mahogany desk at Emily Shanski, a.k.a. Emilie Shann. He was a stocky man in his sixties who wore impeccably tailored Armani suits, and had beautifully manicured hands. His gray hair, what was left of it, was nicely barbered around his balding pink pate. On the third finger of his left hand he wore a gold band engraved with a Celtic knot. The gold tie pin in his silk tie echoed the same design.

  "You dragged me in from Egret Pointe for bad news?" Emily grumbled. She didn't like the look in Aaron's usually warm brown eyes. Those eyes were serious today. It did not bode well. "Okay," she sighed dramatically. "Gimme the worst of it first. Then the not so worst."

  "I'm not sure which you'll consider the worst," he said slowly. "Kirk!" he called to his business and life partner. "Come in here a moment, will you?"

  Kirkland Browne appeared like a genie from a bottle. Actually his office was directly next to Aaron's, and they had connecting doors that were usually left open. He was a tall, slender man who seemed to be all angles. He was as well dressed as his partner, and wore both the same ring on his left hand and tie pin in his cravat. "What?" he demanded impatiently, his light blue eyes peering myopically over his gold-rimmed reading glasses. "I'm working on the Scofield contracts, and they're a bitch."

  "Emily wants to know which news is worse," Aaron said with a little shrug.

  "Stratford won't renew your contract after this last book unless you write sexier," Kirkland Browne said bluntly. "Now, Aaron, you tell her the rest." He turned and was gone back into his office before Emily's surprised gasp died.

  "What? What does he mean, they won't re-up? I've written for them for eleven years, Aaron. My books don't lose money. My returns are modest, and I have a very large and loyal fan base," Emily protested.

  "They want sexier. Sexy is in. Kick-ass heroines are in. What can I tell you, Em? It's the nature of the business now. You've got to go with the flow, or retire," he told her with a little shrug. "You've made a lot of money these last years."

  "I'm thirty-one years old," Emily said. "I'm too young to retire, damn it!"

  "Then you gotta write sexier," he replied implacably.

  Emily's brow furrowed, and she wrinkled her straight little nose. Write sexier? Impossible! Maybe not for some writers, but for her. "Aaron, I have written for Stratford my whole career. I get great reviews. The readers love me. I have a reputation to uphold. Shit! I'm called the American Barbara Cartland. I fill a niche."

  "Cartland's dead, and so are her sales," he said sanguinely. "Besides you're a much, much better writer than Cartland ever was, Emily. And you write bigger books with better plots, more textured prose, and interesting characters. But you gotta write sexier on this book you're starting or I can't guarantee another contract. I wish it weren't so, and I don't disagree with anything you've said, but there it is, sweetheart. You write first for Stratford, and Stratford wants sexier."

  "So much for loyalty," Emily muttered darkly. Then she remembered: bad news, and bad news. "What else?" she asked him nervously. Could there possibly be anything worse than what he had just told her?

  "Rachel Wainwright has retired," he said, bracing for the outburst that was going to come with this news, and wondering if he should get out the smelling salts in his desk.

  "I talked to Rachel late on Friday morning, Aaron. This is Tuesday. She said nothing about retiring. I think my editor would have mentioned that little fact," Emily responded in measured tones. "They pushed her out, didn't they? J. P. Woods pushed her out. She's never liked Rachel, the bitch."

  "She retired," Aaron answered stubbornly. "There is no plot here. For God's sake, Emily, Rachel's seventy-five. It was time she enjoyed that house up in Connecticut, and her longtime friend is going to be your new editor. You'll like him."

  "Him?" Emily's voice rose several octaves. "Him? I can't work with a man!"

  "Michael Devlin is one of the good guys," Aaron attempted to reassure her.

  "You want me to write sexier, and work with a man while doing it?" Emily's heart was pounding now. Her perfect, orderly little world was being destroyed, and she couldn't see any way to stop it. Of course, she could write her book, hand it in, and be finished with publishing forever. She didn't lack for money. But what would she do with the rest of her life if she didn't write novels? It was all she knew. Her passion. Her raison d'etre. She sighed. She didn't want to stop writing, and she wasn't going to, damn it! There had to be a way around this edict from Stratford.

  "I've arranged for us to have lunch with Michael Devlin at that little English tea shop you like over on Madison. Then you can catch the train out to Egret Pointe."

  "Today? I have to meet this guy today? And I didn't take the train," Emily said. "I came into town with your sister. She wanted a day at Georgette Klinger. Then she'll do some shopping until I call her cell." God! If she had known she was having lunch with a new editor she would have dressed a bit more appropriately, worn one of her best-selling-author power suits. She felt tougher in a suit.

  "Rina's in town?" He was surprised. His sister rarely came into town. "She didn't tell me she was coming." He loved Rina, but she made him nervous.

  "She didn't want to go to lunch with us," Emily said with a small smile. "Sam says she's getting too plump and needs to take off a few pounds for her health. She's eating spa nibbles at Klinger's. You know how she gets on rabbit food."

  "I
f she'd lay off the doughnuts she could drop her avoirdupois easily," Aaron replied, "but don't tell her I said so."

  Emily laughed. "I won't, but jelly sticks are her downfall, I'll admit." Then she grew serious again. "I want to talk to Rachel before we go to lunch, Aaron."

  He got up from his desk and, walking around it, said, "Use my phone. Don't waste your cell minutes, sweetheart. Rachel's Connecticut house is seven on my speed dial." At her surprised look he added, "Kirk and I go up for weekends." Then he left the room.

  Emily stood up, walked around the desk, and settled herself in Aaron's comfortable big black leather chair. She heard a small click, and turned to see that the connecting door between his office and Kirk's had been discreetly closed. Picking up the telephone she hit seven, and listened to the electronic beeps as the number dialed itself. One ring. Two rings. Three rings. Please be there, Rachel, she thought desperately.

  "Hello?" Rachel's warm voice came through the wire.

  "Rachel, it's Emily. What happened? And why am I getting a male editor?"

  Rachel Wainwright's grandmotherly chuckle greeted her query. "Have you met him yet? He's quite a hunk, Emily," she said. "If I were forty years younger I'd jump his bones. Honey, it was time I retired. Actually past time. Getting up and going to work at Stratford every day was just a habit. A bad habit."

  "Will you stay in Connecticut?" Emily asked her.

  "Yep. I'm putting the co-op on the market shortly, and retiring to the country for good and all," Rachel Wainwright said in a no-nonsense voice.

  "Rachel…" Emily hesitated. "Will you be all right?"

  "Oh, you sweet child! Yes, I will be all right. Martin has seen to it that I have a rather outrageous pension. Loyalty to Stratford paid off in the long run for me. Not like a lot of old editors in chief. I bought the co-op almost fifty years back. My father always said real estate was the best investment. It was paid off aeons ago, and in this market it is going to bring me a fortune. And with no one but myself to look after I won't suffer financially, my dear. And I've done pretty well in the investment market. I'm going to England in June, and I've rented a villa in Tuscany for August. Want to come visit?"

  "They want me to write sexier, Rachel. I don't think I can," Emily said. "Aaron and Kirk said they won't renew my contract if I don't. I don't think a trip to Tuscany is in the cards for me this year, but it sounds heavenly."

  "Aaron and Kirk are right," Rachel replied quietly, "but not to panic, Emily. You are a wonderful writer, and you can do this. I know you can. And you will have a marvelous editor in Michael Devlin. I've worked with him myself, and he knows how to bring out the best in his writers, my dear."

  "His name is familiar," Emily said, "but I can't quite place him."

  Rachel chuckled. "Okay, I'm going to tell you the story, but you have to promise me that you won't repeat it. Oh, Aaron and Kirk know it, but it's pretty hot stuff."

  "Ohh, tell, tell!" Emily replied. "You know I love good gossip."

  "Seven years ago Michael Devlin came to Stratford from Random House. He was already becoming well-known as an excellent editor, and Martin Stratford lured him over with the promise of his own imprint eventually. J.P. noticed him almost immediately. She had just become company president. I know you've heard the rumors about her, and they are all true." Rachel laughed. "She's Stratford's resident man-eater. She uses 'em and abuses 'em, and then moves on to her next victim. And because the lovers she chose were below her on the corporate scale, no one who valued his job ever caused a scandal or complained about her.

  "Her mouth practically watered at the sight of Michael Devlin. She began to stalk him, but he ignored her and dodged all her attempts at seduction. J.P. was pretty surprised initially. No one had ever avoided her or said no. At first she thought he was playing hard to get. It tickled her because usually her lovers came meekly when chosen. She was intrigued that he appeared to be fighting his fate. This went on for well over a year, and then it all came to a head at the Christmas party six years ago.

  "J.P. was wearing her usual winter-white outfit. I remember it well: a thigh-high light wool wrap dress with a deep vee neckline. It was around the time when she got that short cut and dyed her hair red. Flaming Mame, I remember Martin calling her. Well lubricated with a couple of margaritas, she managed to corner Michael Devlin, and I do mean corner." Rachel chuckled. "She started putting her hands all over him, and those hands of hers were everywhere. He tried to politely fend her off, but her inhibitions were long gone, and she was listening to her cunt and not her brain."

  "Rachel!" Emily squealed at the use of the word.

  "Sorry, dear, but there just isn't any other way to put it. J.P. wouldn't have minded if he stuck it to her right there in front of everyone, she was so hot for him. But of course he didn't. He rook her by her upper arms and set her back from him, holding her there. Then he said in the coldest voice I have ever heard him use, 'I choose my own women, J.P., and I don't choose you.' Releasing her, he turned away, walked over to Martin, and after wishing him a Merry Christmas, left the party."

  "My God, how embarrassing for J.R although I never thought I'd feel sorry for the bitch," Emily said. "How did he end up in London?"

  "Well, Michael had no sooner departed the party than J.R was buttonholing Martin, and demanding he be fired. She claimed he had come on to her and it was all she could do to fight him off. She couldn't work with someone like that, she told Martin. Martin, of course, had been privy to the whole incident, as had a number of other people. He had no intention of losing Michael Devlin, but he also wanted to have his cake and eat it too. J.R is a very good president for Stratford Publishing. So he transferred Michael Devlin to our London office, which suited Michael fine. He was born and raised in Dublin. You'll love his Anglo-Irish accent."

  "Why is he back now?" Emily wanted to know. "J.P. isn't a woman to forget an insult. She holds grudges, Rachel. You know she does."

  Rachel paused a long moment, and then she said, "You might as well know, but this is also something that can't be bruited about, Emily. Martin is going to semiretire within the year. He and Anita want to travel. Neither of his daughters is interested in the publishing business. Both are married to doctors. But Martin isn't of a mind to sell. At least not yet. J.P. may be the company president, and Michael Devlin now the editor in chief, but Stratford is going to need a new CEO. J.P. thought she had it all sewn up, but she didn't. Martin is undecided, which is why he called Devlin back from the London office to take my job. Now J.P. is using you to get that CEO position while at the same time trying to get rid of Michael Devlin for good. You're right: She holds grudges, and she hasn't forgotten he publicly refused her. The tension between them is palpable."

  "I don't understand, Rachel," Emily said, shifting nervously in Aaron's big leather chair. "What have I got to do with it?"

  "Look," she said, "no one I know really likes J.P., including me. But she's damned good at what she does, and what she does is run Stratford. Martin has been easing himself out for the last two years, and the responsibility has fallen on J.P.'s shoulders. She wants the title of CEO of Stratford, and all that goes with it. The truth is that she deserves it, Emily. But Martin wants the company to remain strong, and that means he needs a first-rate editor in chief, so he's brought in Michael Devlin from London to take my place. J.P. and Devlin are going to have to learn to get along for the good of the company. And I've heard Martin himself hint that the position of CEO is up for grabs. He will play his little games, and J.P, for all her swagger, is just insecure."

  Rachel sighed deeply. "J.P. has never been a fan of your books, but you know that. The company makes a tidy little profit off of you, but it's a sure bet that with your name and track record they can make an even bigger profit if you write sexier. But J.P. doesn't think you can do it. She thinks you're a prude and won't be able to make the transition from sweet to sensual. She also believes she can fill the hole you leave in Stratford's bottom line with half a dozen newbies who do write
sexy. And one of them might well turn out to be very successful. You know publishing's a crapshoot.

  "So she told Martin that it was up to Michael Devlin to edit you, as you were an editor in chief's writer, and to give you to just a senior editor would be a demotion for you. Martin agreed. He likes you, but you know that too. And he has great faith in Devlin. He knows how ruthless J.P. can be, but he's the type of man who wouldn't believe she'd ruin your career and endanger his company just to get back at a man who refused her lustful overtures years ago. You're a pawn on the chessboard, Emily. If Devlin can get you to write sexier novels, he wins. Right now, that is a threat to J.P. After all, the editor with the big-name writer has a certain amount of power. He could leave and take you with him. But if he can't get you to write that sexier novel, you both lose. Your career could tank, at least temporarily, and you know it's tough to get going again in this business. Devlin's reputation would certainly suffer, and since Martin will appoint J.P. to succeed him, she will make life so difficult for him that he'll leave. He's a proud guy. So both of you have to succeed."

  "No pressure, huh?" Emily said dryly.

  Rachel laughed. "You can do this, my dear," she repeated. "You are such a talented author, Emily. I know it's going to be difficult, but you will find your way. And Devlin will be there to help you. What have you titled the new book?"

  "The Defiant Duchess," Emily said. "It's set in the Terror during the French Revolution. It's a Scarlet Pimpernel-in reverse-story."

  "Clever," Rachel said. "And rife with possibilities for a couple of hot love scenes," she noted. "Well, I've got to go, my dear. I have an appointment with a garden designer, and she seems to actually be on time. Call me if you need me. But, Emily, you can depend on Michael Devlin. Trust me."

  "I always have," Emily responded. "But a male editor… I just don't know."