Bertrice Small - Forbidden Pleasure

The second book in the Channel series, 2002

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."

"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."

"If 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."