Envy(6)

“You’ve been reading the stuff in your slush pile? Maris, really,” he chided lightly. “Why bother? It’s a Matherly Press policy not to buy anything that isn’t submitted by an agent.”

“That’s the official company line, but since I’m a Matherly, I can bend the rules if I wish.”

“I’m married to an anarchist,” he teased, bending down to kiss the side of her neck. “But if you’re planning an insurrection, couldn’t your cause be something that streamlines our operation, instead of one that consumes the valuable time of our publisher and senior vice president?”

“What an off-putting title,” she remarked with a slight shudder. “Makes me sound like a frump who smells of throat lozenges and wears sensible shoes.”

Noah laughed. “It makes you sound powerful, which you are. And awfully busy, which you are.”

“You failed to mention smart and sexy.”

“Those are givens. Stop trying to change the subject. Why bother with the slush pile when even our most junior editors don’t?”

“Because my father taught me to honor anyone who attempted to write. Even if the individual’s talent is limited, his effort alone deserves some consideration.”

“Far be it from me to dispute the venerable Daniel Matherly.”

Despite Noah’s mild reproof, Maris intended to continue the practice of going through the slush pile. Even if it was a time-consuming and unproductive task, it was one of the principles upon which a Matherly had founded the publishing house over a century ago. Noah could mock their archaic traditions because he hadn’t been born a Matherly. He was a member of the family by marriage, not blood, and that was a significant difference that explained his more relaxed attitude toward tradition.

A Matherly’s blood was tinted with ink. An appreciation for it seemed to flow through the family’s veins. Maris firmly believed that her family’s admiration and respect for the written word and for writers had been fundamental to their success and longevity as publishers.

“I got an advance copy of the article,” Noah said.

She picked up the magazine he’d carried in with him. A Post-It marked a specific page. Turning to it, she said, “Ah, great photo.”

“Good photographer.”

“Good subject.”

“Thank you.”

“ ‘Noah Reed is forty, but could pass for much younger,’ ” she read aloud from the article. Angling her head back, she gave him a critical look. “I agree. You don’t look a day over thirty-nine.”

“Ha-ha.”

“ ‘Daily workouts in the Matherly Press gym on the sixth floor—one of Reed’s innovations when he joined the firm three years ago—keeps all six feet of him lean and supple.’ Well, this writer is certainly enamored. Did you ever have a thing with her?”

He chuckled. “Absolutely not.”

“She’s one of the few.”

On their wedding day, Maris had teasingly remarked to him that so many single women were mourning the loss of one of the city’s most eligible bachelors, she was surprised that the doors of St. Patrick’s Cathedral weren’t draped in black crepe. “Does she get around to mentioning your business acumen and the contributions you’ve made to Matherly Press?”

“Farther down.”

“Let’s see… ‘graying at the temples, which adds to his distinguished good looks’… So on and so forth about your commanding demeanor and charm. Are you sure—Oh, here’s something. ‘He shares the helm at Matherly Press with his father-in-law, publishing legend Daniel Matherly, who serves as chairman and CEO, and Reed’s wife, Maris Matherly-Reed, whom he claims has perfect selection and editorial skills. He modestly credits her with the company’s reputation for publishing bestsellers.’ ” Pleased, she smiled up at him. “Did you say that?”

“And more that she didn’t include.”

“Then thank you very much.”

“I only said what I know to be true.”

Maris read the remainder of the flattering article, then set the magazine aside. “Very nice. But for all her ga-ga-ness she overlooked two major biographical points.”

“And they are?”

“That you’re also an excellent writer.”

“The Vanquished is old news.”

“But it should be mentioned anytime your name appears in print.”

“What’s the second thing?” he asked in the brusque tone he used whenever she brought up his one and only published novel.

“She said nothing about your marvelous massage techniques.”

“Happy to oblige.”

Closing her eyes, Maris tilted her head to one side. “A little lower on your… Ahh. There.” He dug his strong thumb into a spot between her scapulas, and the tension began to dissolve.

“You’re in knots,” he said. “Serves you right for scavenging through that heap of garbage all day.”

“As it turns out, it might not have been time wasted. I actually found something that sparked my interest.”

“You’re joking.”

“No.”

“Fiction or non?”

“Fiction. Only a prologue, but it’s intriguing. It starts—”