Chapter 4
Bettina answered after the first ring. “Buhl,” she said in her pouty British voice, setting his heart to race, “your Wittle Sprout is very unhappy. I hope you have some good news for her.”
Bettina had christened herself Wittle Sprout after their first fevered dinner—as she’d said, the natural complement to the delightful giant she’d found nestled in his green boxers during the raspberry flan.
“Yes,” he said under his breath, not trusting his locked office door or the burner cell phone. It was hard keeping a lover happy. Especially one an ocean away. “I’ve taken care of it.”
“Taken care of it? How? Your Wittle Sprout wants to know.”
Black switched the phone to his other ear and daubed his forehead. He sometimes wished his Wittle Sprout were more “ho-ho-ho” and less poisonous nightshade.
“She’ll be writing an article.”
“An article? That’s not much of a punishment.”
Moisture poured down his back like condensation down the side of a Palm Beach gin and tonic. What had she expected? That he’d have Ellery put before a firing squad?
“Yes, an article. For next month’s issue.”
“On what?”
He could hear the disapproval seeping into her voice. Disapproval would mean no more of that glorious hand wrenching him into a nirvana so profound, it made his thirty-year-old marital bed look like a bowl of off-brand cornflakes. “On romance novels, of course. Their impact on women.”
“Oh, for God’s sake!” she cried, all horticultural tendencies gone. “She’ll eviscerate us!”
“She won’t,” he said firmly. “She has her marching orders. She doesn’t like them, but she knows it’s either fall in line or fall out—permanently.”
Bettina made a sprouty sniff. “I’m not sure I like it. How will it fix what she’s done to me? She was very mean about my memoir.”
“By building awareness of the inspiration romance novels bring to women’s lives, Vanity Place will open the floodgates.
” He thought of the inspiration those warm, confident fingers had brought him under the table that night, and—like a bear roused from a long winter’s hibernation—his pecker slowly stretched to life.
“What are you saying? That every woman will want to get their hands on one?”
“God, I hope so,” he said, closing his eyes and remembering. “It would certainly make American men happy.”
“Hm.”
She was softening, unlike Martin, who would now have to cancel his nine o’clock meeting with the women’s health editor or risk an HR complaint.
“The only problem is,” Bettina said, “a story like that would help every romance novel publisher.”
“You’re sixty percent of the market, my dear.
It might help every publisher, but you’ll be carrying the biggest bag of money to the bank.
Just think of what it could do for Vamp.
” He held his breath. Vamp, the love story of a vampirette who worked in a Pittsburgh steel mill during the day but danced at night to win the heart of an ancient vampire, had been the biggest book by far ever put out by Pierrot.
The book had been a huge crossover hit, drawing in women readers of all ages and reading preferences.
It had been sitting atop the bestseller list for months.
“She’ll write about Vamp?” Bettina said in a small, hopeful voice.
“Of course. Highlight of the story.”
“Will there be pictures?”
Black had been thinking more of a puff piece than a photo spread, but what the hell? “You bet.”
“And are you absolutely certain she doesn’t want to do it?”
“Yes, but you don’t need to worry. I’m making her.”
Bettina made an “mmm-mmm” of such length and satisfaction, Martin felt his balls begin to tingle.
“Then it sounds perfect,” she said.