"Will you carve the roast beast?" she asked him, and he saw she had placed the platter with the meat before him. Before it was a carving knife and fork with bone handles. They were obviously very old.

The meat had been done perfectly. As he carved, he saw the medium-rare pieces fall from his knife from the outside, and the very rare bit of the meat was farther inside. He asked for preferences, and placed the appropriate slices upon the plates. The platter was then taken from him by Emily to be set upon the sideboard. A bowl of exquisitely roasted potatoes was pa.s.sed. Then a smaller platter of fresh asparagus. There were two gravy boats: one with the au jus, and the other with a flawless Hollandaise sauce for the vegetable. There were dainty hot rolls, a silver dish of sweet b.u.t.ter, and tomato aspic salad on separate plates to each diner's left.

As they ate he learned that Dr. Sam's family had been early settlers of Egret Pointe. He was surprised until Dr. Sam explained that his ancestors had come to the Americas in 1709. It wasn't, Dr. Sam said, a well-known fact of American history, but there had been a number of Jewish families who had emigrated then. "We fought in the Revolution," he said proudly. "On the winning side, of course."

"And then he went and married a girl from the Upper West Side whose family was chased out of Russia by a troop of Cossacks," Rina said.

"But that's what makes our country so great," Emily spoke up. "We're such a wonderful mixture of peoples and cultures." She was glad she had asked the Seligmanns to help her defuse what might have been an awkward evening.

When they had finished almost everything Emily had prepared, she and Rina cleared the table for the dessert while the two men sat talking.

"G.o.d, he has such charm," Rina said, sc.r.a.ping the plates for the dishwasher. "He looks like a Celtic prince, and that delicious hint of Ireland in his voice." She sighed.

"He's very nice," Emily murmured.

"Huh?" Rina replied, looking closely at her younger companion. "Oh, my! You're attracted to him, aren't you, Emily Shanski? Well, why not, says I?"

"I don't even know him," Emily protested. "We just met on Tuesday. We've spoken once on the phone, and today is Friday."

"You've got an itch for him," Rina accused her with a grin. "I've known you most of your life, Em, and I've never known you to be attracted to any man. There have been times I've wondered if you weren't gay, like Aaron."

"I haven't got an itch, Rina, and I'm not a lesbian," Emily responded. "I just haven't had time for men, and I sure as h.e.l.l didn't want to be like Katy and Joe. Have you any idea how hard it was for me in high school, with most of the same teachers they had had always watching, always waiting for me to fall from grace?"

"They never knew your mother had fallen from grace, as you so dramatically put it, until she was graduated, and at Wellesley," Rina said. "Thanks to your grandmothers your impending arrival was quite the surprise to everyone in Egret Pointe."

"That's what made it so hard for me," Emily replied. "Katy fooled them. Was I fooling them? Why do you think I worked so hard to get out of here, and into college?"

"Water under the bridge," Rina said. "You're a best-selling author now with a hot new editor. He isn't married. You're both fancy-free. h.e.l.l, if I were you I'd lay him!"

"Why does everyone keep saying that to me?" Emily wanted to know.

"Who else said it?" Rina asked.

"Savannah. I talked to her the other day. He was her editor in London, and I wanted to know more about him," Emily answered.

"And?" Rina's look of curiosity was so blatant that Emily had to laugh.

"To quote Savannah, the women flock to him like flies to jam, but he likes to pick his own friends," Emily said. "I doubt I'm his type."

"I think you're just his type. He's Irish, for heaven's sake. They like their women intelligent, good cooks, and just a little helpless at the right moments. You can play helpless, can't you, sweetie? Where's the dessert?"

"Fridge," Emily said. "I am not helpless, Rina."

Rina Seligmann opened the refrigerator door and pulled out a large gla.s.s bowl. "Don't tell me you haven't thought of having him between your legs, because I won't believe you. A woman would have to be made of stone to look at that man and not want him. What is this?" She looked suspiciously at the bowl she was holding.

"Chocolate trifle," Emily answered. "I couldn't make up my mind between mousse and trifle. So I made chocolate lady fingers, and mousse for filling with the sliced strawberries."

Rina began to laugh. "Yep, you're hot for him."

"How can you say that?" Emily wanted to know. It was embarra.s.sing to be so d.a.m.ned transparent. Did Michael Devlin see what Rina saw?

"The double chocolate is a dead giveaway," Rina replied.

Emily blushed furiously. "Do you think he'll notice?" she asked nervously.

"Nah," Rina rea.s.sured her. "But you do know he likes you, don't you?"

"Rina, we've just met," Emily said exasperated.

"Look, sweetie, if there is one thing I understand, it's men. I know, I know. I've been married to Sam since I turned twenty, but I still know human nature. It isn't how long you've known someone. If there's chemistry it's there from the start. And there is definitely chemistry between you two. Enjoy it! You've worked hard all your life trying to make up for what you consider Katy and Joe's mistake. You weren't a mistake, Emily. Oh, I know. Your parents weren't lovers, and their coming together was a onetime thing. But they were best friends from the time they were in diapers. You were created from that loving friendship. You don't have to be a saint to make up for them. They created you, had you, and moved on with their lives. Time for you to move on, sweetie. Is there any whipped cream to go with this devilish creation?"

Emily didn't know whether to laugh or to cry. "I don't know what I'd do without you, Rina Seligmann," she said. "Since the grans died, you have been my rock."

"Of course I have," Rina replied calmly, brushing away the single tear that had slipped down Emily's cheek. "You could be my daughter, sweetie. And I could never have enough daughters. Sam will tell you that. 'A son's a son till he takes a wife. But a daughter's a daughter all of her life.' My mother always said that, but if truth be known my brother was a better daughter to our mother than I ever was." She chuckled.

"I'll make the whipped cream," Emily said. "It won't take long. Check to see if the men want coffee or tea. And would you take that bottle of ice wine in? The gla.s.ses are here on the tray." She pulled out the dark, slender bottle of the sweet dessert wine and handed it to Rina. Then she set about whipping the heavy cream, transferring the finished product into a cut-gla.s.s bowl with a scalloped silver spoon to serve it.

They had all decided upon tea, and Rina brewed a large pot of American black-leaf tea from the only tea plantation in the United States that was located outside of Charleston, South Carolina. Emily's friend Savannah Banning had introduced them to it. Emily spooned out the dark-chocolate trifle, adding a lavish dollop of the freshly whipped cream to each serving, and pa.s.sing the plates around. There was virtual silence as the diners devoured it. Rina was in charge of the teapot and the ice wine.

Finally Michael Devlin pushed back his chair and sighed deeply. "I do not know when I last ate such a grand meal," he said, his green eyes on Emily.

"I'm glad you enjoyed it," she said almost shyly.

Rina saw Devlin's eyes soften. Hoo, boy, she thought. He wants her, all right. I wonder how long it will take for them both to realize it. She looked at her husband and saw that Sam was finally noticing the attraction between Emily and Michael Devlin too. Rina's eyes met her husband's in silent understanding, and Dr. Sam stood up.

"I hate to eat and run," he said, "but I've got rounds at the hospital early. Rina, come! Emily, as always, a wonderful dinner. Thank you, darling, for asking us. Mick, delighted to meet a fellow rare-roast-beef lover. I hope we'll see you again."

"I hope so too, Dr. Sam," Devlin replied.

"I'll see you to the door," Emily said, and she did, waving her two friends off as their car pulled away from in front of her house.

"Where do they live?" Devlin asked. He was standing next to her, she realized.

"A subdivision nearby. It's called Ansley at Egret Pointe," Emily said. "It's the only one in town, and has been there for years."

"When I came through the village I didn't see any serious shopping facilities," he replied, "and that wonderful beef had to have come from a real butcher. Let's sit. It's lovely out here on your big porch."

"The dishes," she protested.

"I'll bet you and Rina have everything in the dishwasher but for the dessert things," he said softly. "It's twilight, and I hear a robin singing. They have the sweetest song, and you hear them only at dusk and at dawn in the spring. Spring is already half-gone, Emily. You won't hear the robins until next year if you miss them now." He sat in a large wicker rocker, motioning her into a nearby chair.

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 cla.s.s 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 gla.s.ses 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 Sat.u.r.days," 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. "G.o.d, 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 b.r.e.a.s.t.s. 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 b.u.t.t until she was wet with her desire, and ready to be mounted. He groaned softly and reached down to rub his d.i.c.k, which was distended and hard with his lascivious thoughts. What the h.e.l.l 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 d.a.m.ned unprofessional.

Martin Stratford had brought him back to the States for a reason. He couldn't disappoint him by losing his reason and f.u.c.king the ears off of Martin's prize writer. He had to get Emily to write a more s.e.xually 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 The Defiant d.u.c.h.ess turned out to be a really big hit among the readers-so much so that they bought it new rather than secondhand-one of the bigger companies might try to snap Emily up. She had a good track record. Her agent was no fool. He would want the best deal for his client.

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 ma.n.u.script 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 b.u.t.ton 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. She had inherited her Irish family's delicate bone structure, but she had meat on those bones like her Polish relations, and she wore a size twelve. Twelve was considered a larger size in this day and age. Would he think she was fat? Was she pretty enough to seduce a man who had been bedding English n.o.bility?

She stared hard into the mirror. Her b.r.e.a.s.t.s were nice. Small, but perfectly rounded. Her hips were a little wide, but they were nicely curved, and her thighs, thanks to her regimen at the Awesome Woman gym, were slender. She peered over her shoulder at her b.u.t.t. Fleshy, but firm and shapely. Okay, so she wasn't a model, but she had a nice body. He'd either like it or he wouldn't. But it didn't make any difference as long as she could get him to seduce her so she could then write about s.e.xual encounters, and know what the h.e.l.l she was really talking about.

She wondered how many times she would have to do it with him. Would once be enough? What if they had to do it more than once, and he didn't like the way she did it, and he wouldn't continue? Well, then she would simply go to her duke. Hadn't he implied that once she lost her virginity he was there to take over for Devlin? Maybe not exactly, but she had understood that once she had experienced pa.s.sion in her own reality, it could also be there for her in the reality of the Channel.

But how was she ever going to seduce Michael Devlin? He was very sophisticated, and his reputation was that of a man who chose his own women, made his own decisions. All the books she had showing in copious and colorful detail the s.e.xual encounter, the positions, and how they could be done offered nothing on how to get a man to do them. What had Savannah said? "Throw yourself on his mercy"? "You're just his type"? Emily wouldn't have thought an urbane guy like Devlin would look seriously at her twice. But then, maybe he was bored with his elegant and worldly women. Maybe. Just maybe a little country girl who needed his help would appeal to him. Could she pull it off without making a complete fool of herself? Well, she was going to find out soon enough. Picking up her sleep shirt from the chair where she had put it earlier, Emily slipped it on, wondering if she should maybe go down to Lacy Nothings in the village tomorrow and pick out something s.e.xier in which to be seduced. Or would that be much too patent? A soft old cotton sleep shirt was hardly the garment in which to be seduced. She'd wager his women all wore elegant silk-and-lace lingerie when they bedded Mick Devlin. But wouldn't it look obvious if she did? As if she were expecting him to make love to her? Undecided, Emily climbed into her bed. She was in a dreamless sleep before she even knew it. It had been a long, hard day. And it was surely going to get harder before it got easier.

Chapter 3.

He wasn't sure if it was the smell of the coffee or the cinnamon rolls baking that had awakened him first. He had been lying on his belly. Turning lazily over onto his back, he sniffed appreciatively. The big tall clock in the upstairs hall began to chime. Nine o'clock. He looked across the room toward the window, and saw the day was fair. And for some reason he found that, unlike most Sat.u.r.days, he wasn't the least bit sleepy. He had slept like a d.a.m.ned log the entire night through. Michael Devlin climbed out of bed, peed, brushed his teeth, shaved, and got dressed. Then he headed directly downstairs toward the delicious smells coming from Emily Shanski's kitchen.

"d.a.m.nation!" Emily dropped the pan she was taking from the oven quickly onto the counter, and flung the towel in her hand into the sink.

He was at her side before she even realized he was there, taking her hand and sticking it under cold running water. "It's not bad. What happened?"

"I almost forgot the rolls, and instead of taking an oven mitt I grabbed a towel," Emily replied. She turned her head to say thank you, and found herself nose-to-nose with him. Her blue eyes widened with surprise, and then he kissed her.

Her lips were incredibly soft, and she smelled of sweet rolls and lilacs. He slid an arm about her waist, and his kiss deepened as he felt her yielding against him. What was happening? He groaned and let her go. "I'm sorry. I shouldn't have done that," he said, stepping back a pace.

"Why not?" she asked him, suddenly knowing she had to take the initiative. For all his reputation Devlin was a gentleman. His kiss had been wonderful! She had never before been kissed quite like that. It was fierce and tender all rolled into one.

"I think we both know the answer to that, Emily," he replied stiffly.

"Sit down, Devlin," she told him, already pouring him a mug of coffee, and gestured toward the kitchen table. "Have a sweet roll, and let's discuss the fact that we seem to be attracted to each other." G.o.d in His heaven! Had she really said that? The look of surprise on his face told her she had.

"I'm your editor," he replied.

"And Savannah Banning tells me you're a very good one," Emily answered him. "Why should the fact that we're being drawn to each other change that?"

"You know Lady Palmer?" he asked her.

"We go way back," Emily said. "I was her witness when she and Sir Reginald went to the registry office seven years ago. I'm the Honorable William's G.o.dmother."