Envy(70)

“Terrifying.”

“That wasn’t the word I was going to use.”

“But it’s the correct one. When I put that prologue in the mail, I was scared shitless.”

“Of what? Rejection?”

“Big time. You could have sent me a curt letter. Said no thanks. Said I stunk. Said I should give up writing and try stringing beads or basket weaving instead. I’d have probably bought a package of razor blades and locked myself in the bathroom.”

“That isn’t funny.”

“You’re right, it isn’t.”

“Besides, you’re too egotistical for suicide.”

How little she knew. There had been times during those darkest days when his soul had been as twisted as his legs and his emotions were as raw as the flesh that defied healing, when, had he been able to move, he would have taken the path of least resistance and ended it there.

But while he was in that pit of despair, he had been imbued with a will to live. Determination had been breathed into him by some omnipotent power or cosmic authority greater than his paltry human spirit.

Not an angel, though. Not an angel as angels are typically portrayed. There was nothing benevolent, God-blessed, or holy about his plans for Noah Reed.

He reached for Maris’s hand and squeezed it hard. “Don’t underestimate how important this is to me.”

She didn’t squeeze back but searched his eyes. “Why did you send Envy to me, Parker? I know your editor for the Mackensie Roone books. He’s very capable.”

“He is,” he agreed solemnly.

“My question stands. There are hundreds of editors in a dozen major publishing houses. What set me apart? Why’d you choose me?”

“The article in the magazine.” He hoped she wouldn’t detect that he was lying. The answer seemed plausible enough to him, but she was looking at him with an intensity that was unnerving. “The things you were quoted as saying convinced me you were the editor for Envy.

“I liked what you said about commerce versus quality, and how the balance in publishing is in danger of shifting in favor of the former. I’m not writing this book for the money. I’ve got more money than I’ll ever need. Deck Cayton has seen to that.

“I’m writing Envy for me. If it finds an audience, I’ll be pleased. If it doesn’t, you still saw something worthwhile in it, and to me that’s damn good confirmation of my talent.”

“It’ll find an audience.” She pulled her hand free of his. “I’ll see to that. I have too much invested in it not to.”

“A measly fifteen grand?”

“I wasn’t referring to the advance.”

His silly smile collapsed and he matched her gravity. “I know.”

“I was referring to…”

He thought he saw the start of tears, but it might have been a tricky reflection off the lenses of her glasses. “I know what you were talking about, Maris.”

They exchanged a long and meaningful look. He was consumed with the desire to touch her. “I don’t want you to leave.”

He hadn’t known he was going to say that until he heard his own gruff voice filling the heavy silence. He hadn’t made a conscious decision to speak the words, but he meant them. And he meant them for reasons that had absolutely nothing to do with his revenge on Noah Reed.

“Write your book, Parker.”

“Stay.”

“I’ll be in touch.” She backed up several steps before turning and walking away from him.

“Maris!”

But she didn’t stop or even slow down, and she didn’t look back, not even when he called her name again.





Chapter 16


“This visit is long overdue. I’m glad you were free.” Nadia Schuller sent a smile across the table to her luncheon guest.

As the setting for this intimate get-together, Nadia had chosen a small, cozy restaurant on Park Avenue. Its menu was unaffected; the decor was country French. Nadia thought the lace panels in the windows were a bit precious for Manhattan, but they contributed to the restaurant’s friendly ambience.

And that was the note she was trying to strike with this lunch—friendliness.

Which was somewhat of a challenge when you were screwing your guest’s husband.

“Thank you for the invitation.” Maris offered a strained little smile and opened her menu, a not so subtle hint that she was ready to get lunch under way and over with as quickly as etiquette permitted.

A waiter in a long white apron approached their table. “What would you like to drink, Maris?” Nadia asked.

“Iced tea, please.”

“I’m having white wine. Would you rather have that?” She made it sound as though she were granting Maris permission to have an alcoholic beverage if she preferred.

Addressing the waiter this time, Maris repeated, “Iced tea, please. Lots of ice and a fresh wedge of lemon.” Turning back to Nadia, she said, “I formed the habit when I was in the South.”

“They drink it year-’round down there, don’t they? That and moonshine.” Nadia ordered her wine and the waiter withdrew. “I heard all about your trip to Dixie.”

“Oh?”

“From your secretary. When I called to invite you to lunch.”