“Okay, I’ll have the lemon pork chops,” Michael said, closing the menu. “Skip the salad. Oh, and a glass of Chardonnay.”
“I’ve had a hard day,” Taylor said. “I want the shrimp pa-ella and a Cuervo Gold margarita.”
Michael smiled as the waitress scribbled their orders and turned to walk away. Then his smile faded as he turned back to her.
“Taylor …” he said. He looked down at the table, his eyes flicking back and forth nervously.
“Yes.” Taylor felt a knot beginning to form in her stomach.
“There’s something I want to talk to you about.”
Taylor studied his face for a moment. “Okay.”
Michael crossed his arms and leaned forward, his elbows on the table, then looked up at her. “About the other night,”
he said. “I feel really bad about that.”
Taylor stared at him a moment, confused. “What?”
“The girl,” he said. “The blond.”
Taylor sighed. It was her turn to look away. “Yes, the blond,” she said.
“I don’t usually behave like that,” Michael said, his voice low. “It’s not something I make a habit of.”
“Michael, you don’t have to explain-”
“This isn’t an explanation,” he said. “It’s an apology. I’m not making any excuses. I behaved badly, and in the home of someone I happen to respect very much. Someone I owe a lot to.”
“Look, we’re both adults,” Taylor said, looking up at him.
“And our relationship is a professional one.”
“It’s more than that,” he snapped. “It’s more than that to me. You saved my life, Taylor. I was sinking fast and you rescued me.”
Taylor felt her skin flush. “C’mon, Michael. You’re a talented guy. You were going to make it no matter what.”
“Bull. Lots of talented writers never get anywhere. You know that as well as I do. Talent’s about fifth on the list of things you need to have to make it in this business. Number one on the list is the right person to work with. The right person and the right place and the right time. You gave me that and I’m grateful to you. More than grateful …”
“You’re blushing,” Michael said, grinning.
She held up her hands, palms out. “I know. I know.”
“I am sorry,” he said. “That’s all I wanted you to know.
And it won’t happen again.”
“Consider it forgotten,” Taylor said as the waitress brought their drinks.
“I think it’s just the pressure of the last few months,” Michael said. He took a long sip of the wine and closed his eyes. “Being on the road,” he continued. “Always moving, then working seven days a week when I’m not on the road.”
Taylor felt the Cuervo Gold warm her stomach as she set her glass back down. “I thought you said no excuses.”
He smiled. “Touche.”
Taylor smiled back and then unsuccessfully tried to stifle a yawn. “Excuse me,” she said.
“You are tired. So why the hard day?”
Taylor leaned back in her chair, pulled her hat off, and ran her fingers through her hair, shaking it loose and back over her shoulders. “I swear, prosperity’s going to be the death of me yet.”
“We should have those kinds of problems,” he said.
“I’m serious,” she shot back. “I need a vacation.”
Michael stared thoughtfully at her. “Maybe you’ll get one soon.”
She sighed, shook her head. “Not any time soon.” Then she leaned across the table and lowered her voice. “Well?”
she asked.
“Well what?”
“Don’t you want to see them?” She raised an eyebrow.
“You mean you’ve got them here?”
“Why not? There’s no time like the present.”
“If I’d known I was going to sign an eight-million-dollar contract over dinner, I’d have taken us someplace nicer.”
Michael’s large blue eyes were clear, shiny and bright like those of a boy on Christmas morning. Taylor felt suddenly warm again, flushed all over.
“Want to see?” she asked. He nodded.
She reached down and pulled her briefcase into her lap, extracted a sheaf of papers, and handed them across the table to him.
“There are three sets there,” she said. “An original for you, one for my files, and one for their contracts department.”
Michael Schiftmann looked down at the bundle of paper in his hand, the stack of contracts that virtually guaranteed him everything he’d always desired: wealth, fame, the freedom to do what he wanted both creatively and personally.
For a few moments, he stared at them silently with a blank look on his face.
“I still can’t believe it,” he murmured.
Taylor leaned across the table and laid her right hand over his left. “Believe it,” she said. “It’s quite real.”
Then she sat up straight and pulled a small rectangular box out of her purse. The box was tied with a red ribbon. She handed it across the table to him.
“A little congratulatory gift,” she said. “I thought it might come in handy right about now.”
Stunned, Michael took the box, slowly untied the ribbon, then opened it. Inside lay a brand new Montblanc fountain pen.
“My God,” he said. “You remembered.”
“That first day in my office,” she said. “The day we met.
You said someday you wanted to be the kind of writer that signed books and contracts with a very expensive fountain pen. Well, buster, now you’ve got one. Let’s see what you can do with it.”
He grinned. “Has it got any ink-”
“It’s locked and loaded,” Taylor said. “Go for it.”
Michael pulled the cap off the pen. He folded back the sheets of the contract until he came to the last page, where a blank line awaited his signature. With a flourish, he signed his name to first one contract, then the second, and finally the third.
He lifted up his wineglass and clinked her offered margarita.
“You know,” he said. “I think we’re going to like being rich.”
Taylor smiled and took a long sip of the drink.
Taylor stood in the back of the packed store and found herself suppressing the urge to shout. She’d done a quick, down-and-dirty head count of the crowd at the Barnes amp; Noble superstore at Eighty-second and Broadway and figured that Michael had to have drawn upward of two hundred and fifty people to his signing.
It was all she could do to keep from squealing. Not only were the numbers good, but Michael was as relaxed and as charming and as appealing as she had ever seen him at a book signing. He had bantered playfully with the audience and then, after reading one of the darker, more violent pas-sages from
