For All the Wrong Reasons (19 page)

*   *   *

Michael looked down at Iris's sleeping form. Her skin was still mottled from the way he had left her earlier, gasping and bucking underneath him. She was responsive, sure, but then, Michael thought all women were responsive—once they found the right man.

Thank God she had rolled away out of his arms in her sleep. He couldn't stand to be crowded, but he hadn't wanted to wake her up and tell her that. Sometimes he liked the warmth of her body, when she rubbed that curvy butt up against him and got him hard, and he would nudge up her leg and take her just there like that. Iris had nice breasts, too, surgically enhanced, maybe, but firm and nice. She was skinny, but she refused to eat, although she sure did love to fuck. He remembered the night before, when she'd booked the restaurant and turned up in that short little purple number, the fringed dress, and underneath it, nothing but skin, nothing but her neatly trimmed little bush, already all slick and fired up for him.…

He glanced over her sleeping form. Her tits stood up like hard melons when she lay on her back, but he didn't knock her for that. The girl took care of herself. A good sign. That dress was slightly cheap, though it had turned him on … maybe he could get her some more suitable stuff to wear for eating out.

He swung his thick legs out of bed and walked over to his dressing area. Definitely the worst part about having a girlfriend was that he couldn't bundle her out of the apartment in the mornings. Iris slept the sleep of the dead unless his cock was nudging at her. Maybe she was the perfect woman: she never got in the way.

He bent down and picked up a couple of forty-pound free weights and did a few sets of curls. The blood and lactic acid sang through his biceps and rushed around his skin. He felt the cobwebs lift from his head. Outside, TriBeCa was barely stirring yet. He thought he could shower, shave and get into the office by seven thirty today. It was an important week for the company. He wanted to be able to think.

Ernie Foxton was an obnoxious little limey fuck, Michael thought, then grunted and hefted his iron weights and told himself not to be biased. As long as the business was good, who cared? Let the Blakely's guy run around in his dandified suits and fake tan. He had provided Michael with an amazing distribution chain, and professional, cheap printing works. Their sales force was eager to go with new products, too. Cicero thought maybe they had the sleekest sales force in the business, possibly because Ernie had upped the quota and was firing the men who didn't produce.

Jean Fellows was the Blakely's head of children's fiction. She was a fat, hairy woman who didn't seem bothered by the sprouting mole on her chin or the dark mustache nestling above her upper lip. Gossip in the publishing world about Jean wasn't too good. Six secretaries had resigned in eight months. But again, she's not my problem, Michael thought.

He had a mission for Green Eggs, and Blakely's was going to help him get to it. Yeah, it was truly aggravating having to go up to the sixteenth floor every Monday morning and give an accounting of his plan, but what the hell, there was no getting anything for free. Michael was about to execute his first serious line of books. Seth had been working overtime on them and had drafted in a couple of friends, as well. Michael had a line on a guy with a new font that looked like easy-to-read handwriting, and an old woman from Queens, who specialized in intricate initial letters that reminded Michael of the ones he'd seen in medieval manuscripts. He'd investigated paperweights, covers, photographic processes and he'd investigated every aspect of producing a series of stories that would look like nothing kids had seen before—not unless they'd been born around the turn of the century.

He laid down the weights, stretched for a second and jumped in the shower. Five minutes later he was washed and shaved. His suit and notes for the bookseller presentation were laid on the chair. Michael dressed, and debated whether he should stop for a pot of coffee. He thought not, on the whole. The warm scent of it might wake Iris, and he couldn't wait this morning, not even for the wet sensation of her lips sliding up and down his cock.
Stop that, Michael.
He grinned at his reflection and ran a hand across the newly smooth surface of his chin. It would be stubbly again by mid-afternoon, but now he was dapper and ready to go.

He felt the adrenaline in the pit of his stomach. He left the apartment quietly and walked across the street to the subway, hardly seeing all the other commuters as he shoved his way onto the crowded train.

He could no longer think of these books in the way that he'd dreamed them up with Seth, crammed in Seth's tiny walk-up studio in Alphabet City, eating pizza and attempting to ignore the roaches, deciding if
Cinderella
was the way to go or whether to choose more out-of-the-way stories, like the
Billy Goats Gruff,
getting blasted on German beer and trying to remember what it was like being a kid.

“People think kids are stupid, is what it is.” Seth was cramming pizza into his mouth and gazing lovingly at a picture of his recently departed boyfriend, which used to freak Cicero out, but he'd gotten used to it. Seth was unapologetic, and you had to respect that. As long as he didn't kiss any guys in front of Michael. He didn't take tolerance that far. Fuck that.

“Yeah. They do. Kids will pretty much perform as well as you set their expectations.”

“The Lion King.”
Seth made a face. “Can't we do any better than that? Barney? Is that what it is?”

“Did you hear,” Michael said seriously, taking the time to pronounce his letters because the beer wasn't going to affect him, dammit, “about that school down in Alabama? This new teacher got her classes mixed up, and she thought the remedial string was the advanced string. She ditched all her stuff and started hitting them with Shakespeare.”

“What happened?”

“They all started making As.”

“See? We give kids the early texts. Smart stories. Actual adjectives. Multisyllabic words.”

“What are you, the writer? You just draw the pictures.”

“Scary pictures. Dark forests.”

“Looming mountains. Give me some pizza, you greedy jerk. Monsters. With teeth. Height. Tall castles that look like castles.”

“Not Mickey's Magic Kingdom.”

“We're going to make a fortune.” Michael had grinned.

Now he wasn't thinking about the kids anymore. Maybe it made him a bad person, just another greedy suit, but today it was all about the sales. Getting the line out to the booksellers was just the first step. Covers had to be presented, reviewers courted, press obtained, and then there was space. What good did it do him if bookstores stocked the line if they didn't rack it out front? Getting the thing in the front of the stores where the casually shopping mom would buy it—that was vital.

A new line had a shot, it always had a shot. But if the books didn't make it in the first month, they'd be shoved aside, replaced with the latest cheap horror story for teenagers or
Sweet Valley High
kids' soap opera. And his little company would never get another chance, at least, not for years.

He had an opportunity here, Michael thought, and it made his blood pound as he stepped off the train. Midtown was still mostly empty. He could get into his office and practice his presentation. First the Blakely's people needed convincing, then the booksellers and then the public. Life for him was nothing but meetings. His presentation today would really determine Green Eggs' future.

Harry was on reception today. Michael wished him good morning and asked for his keys, but he told him the lady already had them. That was a surprise; Susan was enthusiastic, but he didn't expect her in at this hour.

Michael stepped off the elevator and shoved open the doors to his offices, and stopped dead in his tracks. The shapeliest ass he'd ever seen, swathed in tight, demure, amazingly sexy dark-green cotton, was pointing at him, bent over from a waspish waist. He breathed in sharply and felt an unwelcome tightness in his groin. He knew he should say something, but he was rooted to the spot.

She lifted herself and turned around.

“You're staring at me,” Diana Foxton said.

EIGHTEEN

Felicity flipped open the note from Diana and read the few brief, gracious lines. Yes, she had definitely gone. She was going to check in at the Paramount tonight, and would find a furnished apartment from there.

Felicity tapped the crisp paper against her bronzed skin. Excitement zipped through her veins. Humming a little tune to herself, she sauntered into her master bathroom and started to prepare herself for the day ahead.

As Felicity washed her golden hair with the rich jasmine-scented conditioner they made up for her specially at Frederic Fekkai, she found it easy to convince herself that she was doing Diana a favor. Ernie Foxton would never change and if Diana was that bothered about a little fucking, a little standard extracurricular activity, well—he wasn't the right man for her. You needed to be open about new things. Diana could stand to lose a few pounds, and fit in with the New York crowd. Felicity stepped out of the shower and blasted her hair with her sleek professional dryer, mentally rehearsing her wardrobe and make-up choices for the important day ahead.

First she'd have to run this entire situation by Natty and Jodie. It was important to spread the word, to put the Foxtons' rocky union out there into the realm of gossip, speculation and nasty items in the press. Ruminatively, Felicity selected a buttercup-yellow pair of slim jersey pants with a knitted, off-the-shoulder silken top. The sensual fabric poured over her like melted butter, clinging to her thin frame and emphasising her tan. No, Diana wasn't suited to New York society, Felicity decided with a wonderful glow of self-righteousness. Perhaps they did things differently across the pond. Such a fuss about nothing! It was kinder to help both her and Ernie see the light.

There was no denying, she thought, as she brushed out her blond hair and finished it with a gleaming spritz, that Diana had made a success of her first months here. But how quickly she'd fallen from grace; being foolish about little, inconsequential Mira Chen, and going to the wives with the news; as well as busting in on Ernie, and then—unbelievably—moving out. Felicity stared approvingly at her fine cheekbones in the mirror as she dusted blusher across them. Why hadn't Diana simply backed out of the room, pretended not to have seen it? No harm done … She was practically
asking
for somebody to interfere. Perhaps that's what she wanted, subconsciously, Felicity thought. Yes, Dr. Modal, Felicity's therapist, would definitely say so.

Felicity wandered into her eat-in kitchen and set her Krups machine to grinding her Mocha Walnut Decaf. She had a small fruit salad, all she would eat, prepared in the fridge. So important to keep the weight under control.

Married barely six months! Why, even in America, how much money would a first wife walk away with? Surely not that much. Of course, there were outrageously good divorce lawyers in New York. But both Foxtons were Brits, even if Ernie did have dual citizenship. Felicity applied her fire-engine-red lipstick with grim purpose, lining and blotting like a pro. Hadn't she read someplace that the English had crazy divorce laws that gave the wife little more than support? She'd need to investigate.

She poured out her coffee and gazed at her reflection in the long mirrors of her closet. Delightful. She looked fresh, American, a rich Manhattan lady. The kind for whom it was just a sacrilege to be divorced. Felicity had done her time in the horrible outer reaches of society, frozen out of every important party unless a spare woman was needed, seated at the lowest tables at the charity balls, completely left off certain ladies' dinner lists and, finally, placed in Siberia at all the important restaurants.

Felicity shuddered. Never again. She had done penance and learned her lesson, and it seemed as though, miraculously, the universe was offering her a second chance. This time, she would do it right.

Once word got out about Diana Foxton's hysterical behavior, every unattached twenty-something in town would know that Ernie Foxton was fair game. It was moving fast that would secure her the prize.

She felt a thrill of gratitude toward Diana. By coming to her, the silly little English girl had given Felicity a head start on everybody else, and if her prey got away, it would not be for any lack of trying.

She dialed up Natasha and Jodie and arranged a small, intimate lunch at the Four Seasons. They both accepted right away, which meant they must realize she had some important gossip to share. Next, she dialed Ernie's number, but the machine picked up, so she replaced the receiver. She tried his office, and Marcia told her that Ernie was in a meeting, but would call her back. She left her number, and then paced about the room, eagerly awaiting his call.

Felicity Foxton. It had
such
a ring to it.

*   *   *

“I'm not staring at you.” Cicero recovered his composure. “I was rather surprised to see you in so early.”

“No need to be.” Diana straightened, and looked at him with icy hauteur. Michael took in how she was dressed, with the schoolgirl black flat penny loafers, and some tight, neat little green suit. Her face had half the cosmetics that were on it yesterday, her hair was swept back, and he couldn't help thinking she was the most stunning creature he had ever laid eyes on. “You said yesterday I was late. I didn't want that to happen again.”

“I see.” Michael repressed the impulse to scratch his head. “That's good. Maybe you can brew me a pot of coffee.”

“Already done,” Diana said. The words were polite, but the tone was clipped, sarcastic, almost insulting. Her blue eyes were ice as she looked at him. He guessed she was saying in no uncertain terms that a girl like her was out of his league.

Well, he didn't have time for battles. If she wanted to try and put him down today she was going to need to do better than a cold look. Michael had his own problems, and he didn't have time for Diana's.