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‘No, Bonzer, no!’ cried Jennifer ineffectually as cat and dog careered around the room, barking and yowling.
‘Catch him!’ she yelled to Rafe as Bonzer shot past him for the third time, but he was laughing too much, for it was obvious the nimble cat was taunting her clumsy pursuer by sticking to the high points of furniture while the dog dashed a parallel course at floor level.
Finally Milo made a mistake, leaping onto the top of the woven laundry basket, which looked stable enough for a doggy brain to figure it would support a more substantial weight.
Cat, dog and laundry basket went flying, and the last Jennifer saw of the two guilty animals they were racing down the stairs, Bonzer trailing a shocking-pink lace demi-bra from the buckle on his collar and with a transparent stocking flying like a flag on his tail.
‘Anyone who sees him is going to think he’s a decadent dog who’s come off a hard night on the tiles,’ chuckled Rafe as he crouched to pick up the overturned basket. ‘Hello...what’s this? Do you usually wash books along with your sexy under—’
He stopped, rocking on his haunches as he picked up one of the slim paperbacks and recognised the familiar black-edged cover.
‘Well, well, well...’ His stunned eyes rose speculatively to her appalled face. ‘I see you’re a fan of Velvet Books...apparently a big fan,’ he added, stirring the betraying pile.
‘I—I—’
‘Why keep them in with your dirty laundry? Is that supposed to be an ironic commentary on their contents?’
Thank God he didn’t realise that the books were her dirty laundry!
‘Or were they hidden away for my benefit?’ he guessed shrewdly. ‘I noticed a few gaps on your bookcase. You don’t have to be ashamed that you enjoy erotic stories, Jennifer... nobody should have to apologise for their leisure reading. And I can attest to the fact that Velvet Books are well crafted and well written, and they’re specifically written by women for women. I’m the one who developed the line from a small, understaffed, under-invested part of the company into a major publishing success.’
‘I—I’m not ashamed,’ she lied.
‘Then why care whether I see them or not?’ he said. He began to stack the slender books in a pile, noting the titles. ‘I see Lacey Graham is your favourite. I guess you’ve realised from the setting of her books that she’s a New Zealander? We have two Kiwis writing for us and five Australians—about two hundred and forty regular writers worldwide, and more unsolicited manuscripts than we can handle since we moved up-market and began establishing a mainstream readership. Lacey’s one of our hottest sellers, and I’m grooming her to be number one...’
‘You’re grooming her?’ Jennifer grabbed the oak slats of the curving bed-end, her legs feeling like wet noodles as she watched Rafe carry the books over to the bookcase and begin plugging the gaps.
‘I’ve been her editor ever since I took over Velvet Books and started revitalising the line.’
‘Sariel?’ All oxygen had vanished from the room, leaving her lungs only a breathy wheeze.
He looked up sharply. ‘What did you say?’
‘I said, seriously? Are you really?’ Jennifer improvised shrilly, slurring the words.
There was only one way she could possibly know that the name of Lacey Graham’s editor was Sariel.
He tapped one of the books against his chin, studying her wilting figure thoughtfully. She hated that look; it seemed to reach deep down inside her and plunder her mysteries.
‘What’s she like?’ she asked, hoping to throw him off the track. ‘Is she attractive?’
‘Her mind certainly is; I don’t know about the rest of her.’ He slotted the book into place and watched her nervous smile flutter as she tried to act like an eager fan.
‘Why not?’
‘Because we’ve never met. All our dealings with each other are by letter, via a firm of lawyers in Auckland.’
Her legs began to regain some
of their strength. ‘What about her voice? Haven’t you ever spoken to her on the telephone?’
‘She prefers the written word. She lives somewhere fairly isolated and says she resents the encroachment of modern technology on her privacy. If I ever need to communicate with her urgently I send a fax or an E-mail to the lawyer.’
Who then promptly faxed or E-mailed it on to Jennifer!
She had never meant her writing to be taken seriously. It had just been a secret pleasure, a stimulating hobby with which to relieve the boredom and tension of everyday life when she had been struggling to support her slowly convalescing mother. Abandoned by her fiancé, missing dreadfully the brother to whom she had been so close and coping with several emotionally demanding jobs, as well as constantly presenting a cheerful front to Paula’s frightening fits of depression, Jennifer had desperately needed a harmless way to let off steam.
Her mother had probably believed her young daughter was going to the altar as a virgin, but Jennifer and Michael had been unable to restrain their ardour, and after their engagement had been broken Jennifer had found herself missing those private lovemaking sessions at his flat, where she had been able to give her passionate nature free rein, secure in the knowledge of their loving relationship. She had been shocked when her physical desires didn’t fade away after she relinquished her love. Not wanting to risk going through the same agony of rejection with another man, she had thrown herself into creating safe fantasies about wildly passionate heroines and impossibly sexy heroes who never rejected each other.
