She sat. 'I never knew a man who recognized a robin's song, or knew when they sang,' she told him quietly.
'I grew up in the country,' he said. 'Actually, I prefer it to the city.'
'I couldn't live in the city,' Emily admitted. 'My father does, and my mother lives just outside of D.C. But I'm not a city girl at all. I have lived in Egret Pointe my whole life, and I never want to live anywhere else. I suppose that makes me a world class stick-in-the-mud.' She laughed. 'Did you like living in London? It's a wonderful city.'
'I was very fortunate,' he said. 'I lived in an elegant little row house directly across from a lovely park. Actually, I own it. I've let it out for a year to a wealthy American widow, complete with my butler, Mr. Harrington, until I see how things go now that I'm back. I'm not certain I want to stay here.'
'Oh.' She sounded disappointed. 'Why not?' she asked him. Then, 'It's J.P., isn't it? She really is a dreadful creature, but she has made Stratford exceedingly profitable, and in publishing today profit is the name of the game. Martin couldn't do without her.'
'You know what's happening then?' he said quietly.
'Yes, I know,' Emily answered him candidly. Then she stood up. 'I really want to get the table cleared and those dishes started, Mick.'
'I'll help,' he said, escorting her into the house.
They hardly spoke another word as together they cleared the rest of the dishes and glasses from the table. When everything was in the dishwasher and Emily had started it, she told him to take off the lovely Irish linen cloth that had covered her Duncan Phyfe dining table, and gather up the napkins.
'Essie, my housekeeper, will do them on Monday,' she said, putting them in a basket in the laundry room off the big kitchen.
'Is that a laundry tub?' he asked her.
'One of the benefits of living in an old house,' she replied as she set up the coffeemaker for the morning. 'First one down turns it on,' she told him.
'I'm not usually an early riser on Saturdays,' he admitted with a grin.
'I thought we were going to work tomorrow,' Emily said. 'I have so much to tell you, and I've already fleshed out the story, Mick.'
'It's still early,' he responded. 'I thought we might work a little tonight.'
'Oh,' she replied.
'Or we could sit out on your porch for a while longer, and get to know each other better,' he quickly suggested, seeing her dismay. 'You aren't a night person, are you, Emily?'
'Not really. My brain functions better when the sun's up,' she confessed.
It was almost dark when they came out again to sit on the porch. They watched the night envelop everything about them, and they couldn't even see each other's faces, just their silhouettes. The stars came out to twinkle brightly in the blackness of the firmament. They talked about themselves, learning to become more comfortable with each other as the time slipped by.
'What's that?' he said, suddenly hearing a chiming coming from the village.
'The Episcopal church, St. Luke's, has a clock tower. Didn't you notice it before?' Emily wondered. She had gotten so used to it she rarely ever heard it.
'No, I was too interested in listening to you,' he told her. 'God, it's eleven o'clock, isn't it? I hadn't realized it was so late.'
'Do you turn into a pumpkin at midnight?' she asked mischievously.
He laughed. 'Did you leave any lights on in the house?' he asked her.
'I'll go put some on so you don't break your neck coming in,' she replied, getting up to do exactly that.
Able to see his way in he thanked her for a lovely evening.
'You have your own bathroom,' she told him as he made his way upstairs. 'The house may be an antique, but I've modernized all the electric and wiring. And I am the proud possessor of three and a half bathrooms. Get up whenever you want, Mick. Good night,' she called to him as he reached the landing.
He looked back, but she was gone. Gone to do what? Lock up? Put away the clean dishes in the dishwasher? Prepare a pan of sweet rolls for the morning? He had enjoyed this evening. Enjoyed the food, the Seligmanns, Emily. Closing the door of his bedroom he looked about him. The furniture was American Empire, large and mahogany. The dresser had carved feet. The big bed was a sleigh bed. He turned on the bedside lamp and, taking down the simple heavy white cotton coverlet, he folded it neatly and placed it on the spread rack at the foot of the bed. He stripped off his clothing and hung it up and, after walking into the bathroom, showered. Dried off, he opened one of the bedroom windows and climbed into the bed naked. He always slept naked. The bed was made European style, with just a bottom sheet and a down coverlet. It all smelled of lavender, and was surprisingly comfortable. He turned off the bedside lamp.
He wasn't yet sleepy. He heard Emily come upstairs, and listened to hear where she would go. He heard a bath running, and imagined her naked amid a tub of bubbles. She had little round breasts. He could tell that from the way her blouse clung. Were her nipples small or large? Dusky or a perky, pinker flesh? Her slacks had revealed by their fit a deliciously round little bottom. He imagined smacking that tempting little butt until she was wet with her desire, and ready to be mounted. He groaned softly and reached down to rub his dick, which was distended and hard with his lascivious thoughts. What the hell was the matter with him? He barely knew the girl, and if she was thirty-one, with no husband or visible male friend, it might be that men weren't her preference. Which, of course, didn't stop him from desiring her. She couldn't be gay. But there was an innocence, an untouched quality about her that just begged to be explored. And that was so damned unprofessional.
Martin Stratford had brought him back to the States for a reason. He couldn't disappoint him by losing his reason and fucking the ears off of Martin's prize writer. He had to get Emily to write a more sexually involved novel. The days of Georgette Heyer and Barbara Cartland were long over. Oh, there was a small, loyal market for those books, but it wasn't enough to generate the kind of profit a publishing house had to generate these days. Every book had to be an instant hit. A moneymaker.
Stratford did have the benefit of being a family-owned company-one of two left in the business. It allowed them the advantage of patience that the big conglomerate-owned publishing houses no longer had. Michael Devlin knew he could bring out more in Emily Shanski than she ever imagined she had in her. Make her books more profitable, which, of course, was a double-edged sword. If
Rachel had let Emily continue to write basically the same books. Maybe she hadn't seen it. Maybe her age finally caught up with her, and she was glad to get a clean, well-written manuscript that she didn't have to fuss with a whole lot, or request rewrites with all those deadlines looming. Emily's reputation was one of a writer who turned her work in on time and did her few rewrites, her line and copy editing, her galleys when requested, if not a bit before. She was reliable. There was no temperament involved with Emily Shanski, according to everything he had managed to learn about his new author. He was growing sleepy at last. His hard-on was fading with more sensible thoughts, but he wondered what she was doing as he finally fell asleep.
There had been no light under his door when she came up, Emily had noted. But she had heard the shower running when she was finishing up in the kitchen. He was a well-made man, and didn't appear to have any excess fat on him. No beer belly for Michael Devlin, although he certainly ate like he was starving, she remembered with a smile. She liked a man who enjoyed his food. And he hadn't sat back and let her do all the cleaning up. He had pitched right in to help her. His Irish grandma's influence, no doubt, Emily thought with another smile.
Then her thoughts turned, and she wondered what he looked like beneath those tailored slacks and that obviously custom-made shirt. One button had been open at the top of that shirt. She had seen no chest hair poking out. The bit of skin revealed had been smooth. She thought about what it would be like to run the palms of her hands over that skin. Was it soft? Was he hard beneath? He looked like he might be fit and hard.
The water in her tub was cooling. She quickly washed and stepped out, damp-drying herself with her washcloth, then using her towel to finish the job. Naked, Emily walked into her bedroom and looked critically at herself in the large mirror that stood on the floor. She certainly wasn't skinny, like his model friend must have been.
