Forbidden Pleasure

_{Chapter 9}

Emily came through customs to find Michael Devlin waiting, and her heart skipped a beat. "You're supposed to be at work," she said to him as he kissed her mouth.

"I took the day off," he said with a grin. "Give me your bags. I'm taking you home, angel face. I called Rina yesterday and told her to cancel your car service."

"I'd much rather ride with you," Emily replied with a smile.

"How was the flight?" he asked.

"I slept most of it," she admitted. "Remember, I left at eight their time. Sava and I had tea at Claridge's, and then she took me to the airport. I bought you something at Harrod's. I hope you don't mind," Emily said. "It's just a sweater, but it had your name written all over it."

He helped her into the car. "You don't know my size," he said.

Emily laughed. "I've figured out all of your sizes by this point, Devlin," she teased him. "It's a sweater, for heaven's sake, not a pair of trousers or silk boxers. You don't have to take it, you know. I can give it to my oldest half brother for Christmas."

"I didn't say I didn't want it," he began.

"Oh, shut up and drive," Emily told him. "I've had it with traveling, and I want to go home. We've got two hours ahead of us, given the traffic. My flight was full of business people who want to get into the city for a full working day, and it's rush hour."

"We're going in a different direction," he reminded her, and put the Healy into gear, pulling out of the arrivals parking lot.

They escaped the airport congestion and swung onto the parkway. It was closing in on the end of October, and the leaves were almost at peak. It would be a glorious weekend, and with luck the weather would hold. It had been a perfect day coming in. The sky was a clear blue and the sun bright. It didn't seem possible she had been gone just over a week. They were both quiet as he drove. He seemed to sense her need for it.

Emily brightened, however, as they came off the parkway onto the local country road that meandered into Egret Pointe. The village was decorated for autumn. The tall trees along Main Street where the old-fashioned shops were located were surrounded by cornstalks tied with bright orange ribbons. At their feet were piles of pumpkins and gourds, along with small baskets of apples. A banner was hung across the street announcing the Egret Pointe Harvest Festival, which was being held the coming weekend.

"Wanna come?" she asked him. "We raise money for the hospital at the festival."

"Yes," he replied. "How?"

"The proceeds from it all go to it. We've got booths selling handiwork, jams and jellies, baked goods, knitted goods, bird-houses," she explained. "I even have a table selling my author copies, personally inscribed, of course. And there's a big harvest supper in a tent. And, of course, the Dr. Sam Dunk. That always raises a pretty penny."

"What's the Dr. Sam Dunk?" he asked her, smiling at her enthusiasm. He turned onto Colonial Avenue, and then Founders Way.

"Dr. Sam sits over a tank of Jell-O," she said. "You get three balls for two bucks. If you hit the mark right, Dr. Sam goes into the Jell-O. At this time of year the gelatin is a bit warmer than water, but he usually gets the sniffles anyway. He's an awfully good sport about it. His great-grandfather started the hospital, you know. There's always been a Dr. Seligmann in Egret Pointe."

He pulled the Healy into her driveway. "You love this town, don't you?"

Emily nodded. "I gain my strength from living here," she said. "When do you have to go back? Not right away, I hope."

"I'll drive in tomorrow morning," he said, leaning over to kiss her. "I missed you, Emily." His big hand cupped her face, and he kissed her again, this time lingeringly, longingly. "I didn't like having you on the other side of the pond."

"I missed you too," she told him. "As nice as it was to be with Sava, I missed you, Devlin. Maybe we shouldn't be apart again."

"Maybe not," he agreed. Then he got out of the car. "I'll get the bags. I hope you bought something outrageous for Essie in London. I think she's expecting it."

"I never forget my friends," Emily told him. "And I bought a lovely teddy bear for her new grandchild, and two sets of old-fashioned wooden soldiers for her grandsons. They don't make tin ones anymore. Something about the lead content. I asked."

He took her bags in and up to her room. Emily wanted a quick nap before lunch, and so Michael Devlin went upstairs to her office in the widow's-walk room to make some calls while she napped. He made a point of saying that was where he would be, for Essie's benefit, and sure enough the housekeeper trudged up at one point to see if he needed anything. He thanked her and said he was just fine, grinning at her retreating form. He knew from having been raised in his own small Irish village that people were probably talking at this point, but no one here-except Rina and Dr. Sam, of course-really knew what was happening between Emily Shanski and her editor from New York.

What was happening? Michael Devlin asked himself for the thousandth time. He was in love with her, and he knew now that he had never really been in love before. He was going to have to make a decision sooner rather than later. Was forty too old to get married for the first time? He had never lived with a female except his grandmother, although there had been several invitations over the years from women whom he had dated. But it hadn't felt right to him. They hadn't felt right. This was different, however. Picking Emily up at Virgin Atlantic this morning, driving her home, planning to spend the night, and driving into town in the morning-that felt right. But was he ready for a lifetime of moments like that? Yeah, he finally thought he was, but he'd give it a few more weeks before making a final decision. Forty wasn't the end of the world for a man.

They ate lunch out on the side porch: bowls of Essie's thick corn chowder, home-baked bread and butter, warm apple Betty with heavy cream.

"I'm going to get fat eating like this," he said with a smile.

"No, you aren't," she assured him. "You're too active. We'll go for a walk after lunch down by the beach."

"I thought we'd take a nap." He leered at her, waggling his bushy black eyebrows.

Emily laughed. "Not until Essie goes home, Devlin. I'd like to keep the town guessing awhile longer, if you don't mind."

He laughed aloud. "Agreed."

Essie came out to collect the dishes. "You want me to get something out of the freezer for supper?" she asked.

"Lamb chops," Emily told her.

"Chops?" Essie cocked her head to one side.

"Mr. Devlin is remaining the night. I've been away a week and missed our working weekend, Essie. We have to catch up if the manuscript is going to be in on time. You know I've never missed a deadline."

"And you ain't ever had an editor working with you on weekends either," Essie observed. "I think you should know people are talking, Miss Emily."

"Oh, I'm sure they are, Essie," Emily agreed, "but no matter the talk, I still have to get my work in on time. This book is a little different, and I needed my editor's help."

"Mrs. Seligmann says it's going to be sexier, like Miss Savannah's books," Essie noted, a faint hint of disapproval in her voice.

"Yes, Essie, it will be sexier," Michael Devlin spoke up. "It's what the reading public wants, and Emily has got to go with the flow if she wants to keep working. But it's nothing like Savannah Banning's novels, I promise you. I edit both women."

Essie nodded, obviously satisfied. "I'll get the chops out," she said, taking the dishes and departing the porch.

"She's very protective of you," he noted.

"She was Gran O'Malley's last housekeeper," Emily replied. "I couldn't do without her. Not with my lifestyle, Devlin. I'm amazed how well Savannah manages, especially with children. She's a wonder."

"She manages because she's Lady Palmer," he said. "She's got a cook who has a kitchen maid, a housekeeper, two maids, a chauffeur, and a nanny for Wills and Selena. She's just like you in that her work is her rationale, and she has the time for it. A lot of writers don't, you know. They have to balance everything in their lives-house, husband, kids, maybe a second job, and their writing. You know as well as I do that to be successful in this business you need a strong work ethic, the luck of the devil, the hide of a rhino, and a devoted and detail-oriented guardian angel."

Emily laughed aloud. "I don't think, Devlin, that I've ever heard it described so aptly. Now I know why you are such a good editor, other than your talent at it. You've put yourself in a writer's shoes. That's pretty terrific."

"Yoo-hoo!" Rina Seligmann came out onto the porch.

"I didn't hear you drive up," Emily said, getting up and hugging the older woman.

"I wanted to make certain you got home all right," Rina said. "Hello, Mick. Have you called Aaron? He worries like an old woman." She chuckled, sitting down in a wicker rocker. "I told Essie to bring me an iced tea. It still isn't that cold outside."

"I'll go in and call him right now," Emily answered her. "Then Devlin and I are going for a walk. Want to come?"

Rina Seligmann looked as if Emily had just asked her to take a stroll over a bed of hot coals. "No," she said. "I'll leave the exercise to you two."

Emily grinned and hurried into the house. Essie arrived with the glass of iced tea and returned inside. Rina Seligmann looked at Michael Devlin.

"So?" she said.

He laughed. "If anything happens I don't doubt you'll be the first to know, Rina," he told her.

"If? So you're thinking about it?" she returned.

Michael Devlin sighed. "Rina, I'm forty."

"Mick, you're scared," she answered him.

"I suppose I am," he agreed.

"Don't you dare hurt her," Rina said.

"How do I avoid it at this point?" he asked her.

Rina nodded. "Maybe you shouldn't have let it get this far, Mick. But then again, maybe you should have. I can see you love her, and I know she loves you."

"She hasn't said it," he remarked.

Rina Seligmann laughed helplessly. "Mick, women usually don't say 'I love you' first. They wait until the man has said it. They don't want to be rejected or act too soon or feel they've made fools of themselves." She sighed. "Same thing with men, I suppose. Well, what's going to happen is going to happen, as my Russian grandmother said when the Cossacks razed her village. Just keep in mind you love her, and she loves you, Mick. It would be a shame to waste all that love because of pride."

Emily came back onto the porch. She was practically bouncing. "I spoke to Aaron, and wow! J. P. Woods must really think The Defiant Duchess is going to be good. She's made us a marvelous offer. She wants to read the manuscript, though, before anyone signs on the dotted line."

Michael Devlin nodded. "That's fair," he agreed. "How about if you print me out what you've got tonight, and then I'll bring it in with me in the morning?"

"No," Emily said. "I've got two more chapters to write, and I never allow a partial manuscript to be read. Most people don't have the imagination to know what's coming next, Devlin. They get ideas in their heads, and then when it doesn't turn out the way they thought it would, they don't like what you've done. No. Whole manuscript or nothing. I can have it done by Thanksgiving. You're coming for dinner, aren't you?"

"Am I invited?" he teased her with a smile.

"Uh-huh," she said with a smile.

"If you two are going to take a walk," Rina remarked, "you'd better get going. Sun sets early this time of year. I've gotta get home myself." She stood up. "I'll take my own glass in to Essie. Go on now."

Hand in hand they followed the trail beyond Emily's back lawn and through the woods down to the beach. The trees above them were ablaze with color, but unlike New England hues these had the muted tone of a Degas canvas. The reds had an almost pink shading to them, the yellows were clear, and the gold more of a tobacco hue. Squirrels rummaged over the woodland floor, seeking out nuts. At one point she and Devlin spotted a red fox going about his business. Reaching the beach, they walked for a short distance. The beach plums had been pretty much picked clean by those with a preference for jam, or by the deer and raccoons. The waters of the bay lapped gently against the sand. They spoke little, just enjoying the beauty of the late afternoon, and each other's company. Finally they turned back and, reaching the house, found Essie preparing to depart for the day. She waved at them as she trotted off down the sidewalk.

Inside the house they found a fire going in the den next to the kitchen. The chops were defrosted, and set neatly upon the broiling pan. From the smell the baking potatoes were already in the oven. The remainder of the apple Betty was covered and on the counter. Emily opened the fridge and saw a bowl of salad waiting.

"When the potatoes are almost cooked I'll do the chops," she said.

"Come and sit down," he called to her from the den, and she joined him, crawling onto his lap and kissing him gently. His arms slipped about her, and she laid her head on his shoulder happily. This was where she belonged. In her house. In Egret Pointe. In Devlin's embrace. It was a perfect moment. Air travel was always so amazing, she thought. This time yesterday she and Sava had been having tea at Claridge's in London.

"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 back 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.

She finished up her work for the day, went downstairs, and had the supper that Essie had left for her. She took a bath, smiling at the lilac fragrance that perfumed the room. Then, sliding into a sleep shirt, she climbed into bed. When the clock in the hall struck nine p.m. Emily picked up the channel changer, pressed the on button, and then programmed in the Channel. Almost at once the duke's library came into view. She hit enter, and there he was waiting for her.

"Caro, my love!" he said, coming forward to take her into his embrace. Then he stopped. "What on earth are you wearing?"

"No, Trahern," she said firmly. "No Caro tonight, damn it! Emily tonight. It's a sleep shirt. I need a friend, and you are elected."

The Duke of Malincourt looked somewhat horrified by her words. "A friend? My dear girl, men are not friends with women," he told her.

"Maybe not in your century, but in mine it happens all the time. My mother and father were best friends. You know what almost ruined that friendship? Sex. Me. But Mama went on to become a gonzo lawyer who married a man who became a senator, and together they produced two children. As for dear old Dad, he became a pediatrician with a nice Irish wife and three kids. I was raised by my grandmothers."

"Dear girl, I don't understand half of what you are saying to me, but I can see you are wretchedly unhappy. How can I help you?" He motioned her to a chair by the blazing fire, sat down, and drew her onto his lap.

"It's your doppelganger," Emily said with a sigh.

"My what?"

"The guy in my reality who looks just like you, Trahern," she explained.

"What is his name?" the duke wanted to know.

"Michael Devlin," Emily answered him.

"Irish. The Irish are always trouble, dear girl. Dispense with whatever services he provides for you. 'Tis the best advice I can offer you."

"I'm in love with him, Trahern! I want to get married!" Emily wailed.

"Ahhh," the duke said as understanding dawned in his green eyes. "Has he said that he loves you, dear girl?"

"Not in so many words. Sometimes I think he's going to say it, and then he can't seem to get it out," Emily said. "What the hell is the matter with him? Everyone says he loves me. And I sure as hell love him!"

"Have you told him so, dear girl?" the duke asked her.

"Of course not," Emily replied. "Women don't tell men that they love them until men tell women that they love them."

"Well," the duke said wryly with a small smile, "at least that much hasn't changed in the centuries separating our worlds. What does he do, this Michael Devlin?"

"He's my editor," Emily replied. "And he's a really good one."

"So you have something in common," the duke noted.

"Yes," she agreed.

"And he is your lover?" the duke inquired.

"Yes," Emily said softly.

"Is he as good in bed with you as I am, or have you endowed me with his qualities?" the duke wanted to know.

"Trahern! This is not just about sex. It's more for both of us, but I just can't seem to bring him up to scratch," Emily complained.

"Well, oddly I'm not particularly surprised by that," the duke remarked.

"You aren't?" This was interesting. "Why not?"

"You're too independent a woman, dear girl," the duke told her candidly. "Other than making love to you, is there anything else this man can do for you?"

"I don't understand," Emily said, puzzled.

"You earn your own keep, do you not? You own your own house. You manage your own funds, I would assume, as you are close to neither your father nor your stepfather, and you are certainly of a legal age to do it. What is there that Michael Devlin can do for you that you do not do for yourself? Men do not always think only with their cocks, dear girl, and a man has his pride, y'know."

"If it were this century I would agree with you, Trahern, but in the twenty-first century women in my country, even here in England, take care of themselves. We don't need to be cosseted and wrapped in cotton wool," Emily told the duke.

"More's the pity, dear girl," the duke murmured softly. "Perhaps if you were not so formidable a young lady, your Mr. Devlin would act upon his instincts and sweep you off to the parson. Even in your century the men surely want to be needed."

"In my century men sell their seed for pocket money at universities," she told him.

The duke actually paled at her words. "Tell me no more," he said.

"You're a man, Trahern. Surely men haven't changed that much in the past three centuries. Tell me what I can do so that Devlin will tell me he loves me. After that I can handle it just fine," Emily said.

"I have not a doubt that you can, dear girl. I honestly don't know what to tell you except to tell him how you feel and that you need him. A man who avoids declaring himself to the woman he loves is often as skittish as a colt in a pasture. He needs to be reassured, for one of the two things a man fears most is rejection by the woman he loves," the duke explained.

"What's the other thing?" she asked him mischievously.

The duke chuckled. "I believe you already know the answer to that, you minx, although it has certainly never happened to me."

"Perhaps I should make it so," she teased him.

"Dear girl!" he exclaimed shocked.

Emily slipped out of his lap. "I feel better now," she said. "I'm going back."

"You don't want to remain?" he asked her softly.

"Not really, Trahern. I don't honestly feel like stepping into the duchess's slippers tonight. I need to think."

"Don't think too much, dear girl," he said to her, rising to take her hand in his and kiss it. "Too much thinking could lead to disaster."

"Good night, Trahern," Emily said to him, and suddenly she was in her bed again, staring into the duke's library, which was still visible on her television.

"Good night, Emily, my sweet," he called to her from the other side of the television screen, and Emily clicked the off button, watching as the glass darkened.

In the days that followed Emily worked as she had never worked before. Although the book was not due in until year's end, she had promised Devlin it would be there right after Thanksgiving. While Aaron Fischer had worked out the terms of her new contract with Stratford, J. P. Woods wanted to read The Defiant Duchess herself before she signed off on the money involved, which was almost double what Emily had been getting. Carol Stacy, the publisher of Romantic Times BOOKclub Magazine, had been pressing Emily on those terms and the advance to be paid in the new agreement, but Emily never discussed such things, even with friends like Savannah.

Thanksgiving was coming, and Emily always had a dinner party as her grandmother Emily O had had before her. There were a few more pages and an epilogue to write, but Emily put her work aside to prepare for the holiday. She went out to the local farm with Essie, and together they picked several pumpkins for pies, a half bushel of Mcintosh apples, another of mixed pears, both white and sweet potatoes, broccoli, two stalks of Brussels sprouts, carrots, beets, parsnips, a large bag of onions, and a couple of heads of cauliflower. Emily had a small root cellar where she would store the cold crops over the winter. She liked her veggies fresh, even if she did appear to be like Bree on Desperate Housewives sometimes.

Together she and Essie prepared the pumpkin filling for the pies. They cut up the apples for the apple pie. Emily made her Irish grandmother's poultry stuffing, using homemade bread crumbs, Bell's poultry seasoning, and onions and celery sauteed in butter. The turkey, all twenty-two pounds of it, was fresh from another local farm. Emily made the sweet-potato casserole with lots of butter, brown sugar, cinnamon, and maple syrup. She cut the broccoli into individual florets, and sliced the parsnips into small rounds. While she put the pies together Essie made up two guest rooms: one for Devlin and the other for Rachel Wainwright, who was coming from Connecticut. Rachel had come for Thanksgiving for over ten years now.

Devlin called, but not as often as she had hoped. She thought he sounded tired, and even distant. When he called two days before Thanksgiving to announce he would be in London for the next few days, Emily felt the tears coming. She hadn't seen him in several weeks, and it was not just the incredible sex she missed; it was Michael Devlin.

"Why not? What happened?" she asked, her voice choking.

"The woman who's been renting my house had a fire in the kitchen. It was Harrington's day off, and instead of using the electric kettle for her tea she turned on the gas. Then she got a phone call, forgot the kettle, the water boiled off, and the kitchen caught fire, the damned stupid cow!" He sighed. "Jaysus, I miss you, angel face! What's for dinner besides the traditional Yankee turkey?"

"Parsnips." Emily sniffed. "I was making you parsnips."

"Turkey and parsnips, huh? Is that strictly traditional?" he teased her. Oh, God, she was crying. Why was she crying?

"Turkey, stuffing, sweet-potato casserole, broccoli with Hollandaise, parsnips, apple and pumpkin pies," she recited. "Oh. Gravy, cranberry, rolls, butter."

"I wish I were going to be there," he said, genuine regret in his voice.

"Will you be home for Christmas, Devlin?" She was struggling not to sound weepy, but she did.

"I promise you that whatever happens, I will be home for Christmas, angel face," he told her. "And we will spend it together."

"Will I see you before then?" Why did she sound so needy? Men didn't like needy women. Well, Trahern thought they did, but not in this time and place they didn't, she was sure. "When will you be back, Devlin?" There, her voice was stronger.

"Probably not until just before Christmas," he said. "Martin wants the London office reorganized, and he's decided that since I ran it for five years, and I was here, now was as good a time as any. He's going to announce his semiretirement before the year's end."

"Will you get his position?" she wondered aloud.

"I don't want it, and I've told him that in no uncertain terms. I'm an editor first and foremost, angel face. I like working with writers. Martin will still hover in the background enough to keep J.P. in line, but the truth is, she really deserves the post, and I've told her so. Haven't you noticed lately that her attitude toward me-toward you-has changed?"

"I haven't talked to J.P. in a couple of years," Emily said. "I hide behind Aaron."

He chuckled. "I'm going to go, Emily. It's past midnight here, and I'm exhausted. I just got into London yesterday. I apologize again for missing Thanksgiving."

"It's your loss, Devlin," she told him. "Night."

"Good night, angel face," he said.

She cried after he hung up. Damn! Damn! Damn! Well, it wasn't as though she weren't going to have a tableful on Thanksgiving Day. And Rachel was arriving tomorrow. It would be fun seeing her old editor and catching up. Emily suddenly realized she hadn't spoken with Rachel since April, until two weeks ago, when she had called her and reminded her she was expected for Thanksgiving as usual.

Essie came Thanksgiving morning to help Emily get everything started. They had set the table together the day before. Now the turkey went into one oven, the apple and pumpkin pies into the other. The sweet-potato casserole came out of the freezer to defrost. By afternoon it would be ready to be heated. The broccoli was in the steamer waiting to be cooked, the parsnips in their pot.

"I'll be going now," Essie said. "Have a good day, Miss Emily."

"You too, Essie. Happy Thanksgiving. I'll see you on Monday."

"You don't need me tomorrow?" Essie asked.

"Go shopping like all the other crazy people," Emily said with a smile.

The door closed behind Essie, and hearing Rachel Wainwright coming down the stairs, Emily pulled a pan of her sweet rolls from the warming oven. "Morning, Rachel," she said. "I've got your sweet rolls and coffee."

The two women sat down at the kitchen table and gossiped. Rachel's main concern was whether Emily was working well with Michael Devlin. She assured her former editor that she was. At four o'clock that afternoon Emily's other guests arrived: Rina and Dr. Sam, Aaron Fischer, and Kirkland Browne. They came in from the cold late afternoon sniffing appreciatively, greeting their hostess and Rachel Wainwright.

"Where's Mick?" Aaron immediately asked as Emily settled them in the living room before the roaring fire.

"Stuck in London," Emily explained, and then told them of the conversation she had had with Devlin two nights ago.

"He always did enjoy London," Rachel said. "I doubt he's lonely. I have friends in the London office, and the stories they told me…!" She laughed. "He's probably looked up a few of his birds, as he always called them. And no doubt they're happy to see him."

Emily looked slightly stricken, but then, recovering, she said, "Savannah told me a story of some girl who thought she had him roped and tied, and then he showed up at her birthday party with some model. There was a fight, and someone got shoved into the birthday cake."

"Oh, yes, I recall that story. The model was Lady Soledad Gordon Brumell. She goes just by her first name. You've seen her. She's the model for Helena Cosmetics. Tall. Fair. Black hair and very blue eyes. And the disdainful look. Attitude, they call it today. In my day it was just plain sulkiness. They all seem to have that look nowadays."

"Emily's new novel is going to be very big, Rachel," Aaron Fischer said in an attempt to change the subject. "They're going to release it simultaneously in England and the United States. And such promotion they've arranged for it. I haven't seen promotion like this since the early days of romance literature."

"Like what?" Rachel wanted to know. She seemed pleased for Emily.

"Posters of the cover as giveaways. Floor and counter dumps with headers. Emily will be at BookExpo in New York in June for a big signing. They've got radio and television interviews scheduled. And Stratford is holding a raffle in all the big chains. Ten winners get flown to New York during BookExpo, all expenses paid, to have lunch with Emily at her favorite restaurant. And the grand-prize winner gets ten days in England, all expenses, etcetera, etcetera, etcetera. No one's done anything like that for a romance author in years. Oy! I'm forgetting. She's going to do breakfast with several distributors, at least those who are left, in February. Valentine's Day, I think."

"My goodness," Rachel exclaimed. "Do I get an ARC to read soon?"

"I just have a few pages to go," Emily said. "It will be in to New York next week." She stood up. "I've got to go and check on the turkey. It should be almost done. Rina, come and give me a hand, will you, please?"

When the two women had left the room, Aaron Fischer looked to Rachel Wainwright and said, "Rachel, I think there is something you ought to know."

And Rachel's eyes grew wide with a mixture of shock and surprise as Emily's agent explained what was happening between Mick Devlin and Emily.

"But he's a ladies' man," Rachel said when he had finished. "Mick never struck me as a man who was going to marry and settle down. But then, I never saw a man in Emily's life either. She's too much of a writer."

Dr. Sam chuckled at this observation. "She can't be a writer and a wife too?" he asked quietly. "She's in love."

"But what about Mick?" Rachel asked.

"According to my Rina, he's in love with Emily," Dr. Sam replied.

"From your lips to God's ears," Aaron Fischer said. "I wouldn't admit this in Rina's hearing, because I would never hear the end of it, but she does have an instinct for these things. The problem is, he's been a bachelor for forty years. Can he find the chutzpah to propose?"

"Christmas is coming," Dr. Sam said. "Hanukkah's coming. It's a season of miracles, my friends."

"It's going to take a miracle," Rachel Wainwright said. "But why not?"

And the three men in the room nodded in agreement.