Nora looked at Wesley and smiled.

“Forever.”

She dropped the phone on the floor. With one quick stomp she smashed the cell phone with the heel of her shoe.

Wesley hugged her so hard he lifted her off the ground.

“Down boy. I don’t have a lot of time and I’ve got a helluva lot to write. Brew coffee and turn off all the phones, unplug the internet, don’t answer the door. For the next week, it’s nothing but all-nighters.”

“I thought you said Zach said—”

“Fuck Zach. I’m writing it for me.”

29

One week left…

Zach sipped his coffee and grimaced.

“You know, you should really let me make the coffee, boss.” Mary entered his office holding a Starbucks cup. She passed it to him, and he took it with gratitude. “Yours is disgusting.”

“You’d think with a doctorate from Oxford I’d have learned how to make a proper cup of coffee somewhere along the way.”

“Some of us have the gift. Some don’t. Poor you, swilling gross coffee all your life.”

Zach grinned at her as she sat in the chair across his desk. “Grace always made our coffee. She had the gift apparently,” Zach said. “American coffee is vastly superior to English coffee anyway. She knew some little shop in London that carried the real beans. She got up early to brew it every morning.”

“She sounds like a keeper.” Mary smiled and then seemed to realize she’d said something she shouldn’t. “I’m sorry, Zach.”

“It’s all right. It’s apparently no secret that Grace and I fell apart. Even that arse Finley knows.”

Mary shuddered with revulsion. “I can’t believe he went to all that trouble, leaving all those dirty little presents, just to get under your skin. And then all that stuff he said about Nora…I never told you this, but I really like Nora’s books.”

“Mary, I had no idea you were of that persuasion.”

“I wouldn’t say I was of that persuasion, but I do love a good story. And she writes some torrid ones.”

“Her life is her most torrid story,” Zach said.

“You say that like it’s a bad thing.”

“Mary, her books aren’t the only thing she sells.”

“Yeah, I heard she was the real thing. I can’t believe I’ve been working for someone who was working with a real live Dominatrix.”

“Not simply a Dominatrix. The Dominatrix apparently. I can’t have it. She’s just supposed to write about it. She’s not supposed to live it.”

“She doesn’t write murder stories, boss. She doesn’t kill people on paper and in real life. She just…”

“Beats them on paper and in real life,” Zach finished for her.

“But they like it. Slightly lower rung on the ladder of horror than murder and rape, don’t you think?”

“Mary, you don’t mind your husband had other lovers before he met you, do you?”

“Of course not. I had my fair share, too.”

“Now, would you mind if you found out these other lovers had paid him for sex?”

Mary laughed at the idea. “I see your point. But still—”

“I can accept it as a private practice between consenting adults. But to do it with strangers for money?”

Mary exhaled and rolled her eyes.

“Boss, do you really think her personal life means she doesn’t deserve to be published? That’s a little harsh, don’t you think? Is this really about her book?”

Zach looked at Mary.

“Please don’t share this with anyone—”

“Jesus, Zach, I’m not J.P. You can tell me anything.”

“Nora and I… It wasn’t strictly business.”

She nodded her head. “Well, obviously. Your mood definitely improved when you started working with her. Is that why you’re so pissed?”

“She lied to me. That’s what I can’t get over. I cared about her. For the first time since Grace and I separated I could vaguely imagine myself happy again. Or at least not miserable anymore.”

“Maybe she was imagining the same thing with you. Maybe that’s why she was afraid to tell you. Or maybe she just wanted you to see her as a writer and not as, I don’t know, a character.”

Zach sighed. He knew Mary had a point. He just didn’t want to admit it yet.

“Tell me something, boss. What do you think is the highest form of art?”

“Literature,” he answered without hesitation. “Painters and sculptors require elaborate supplies and tools. Dancers must have music. Musicians must have instruments. Literature needs nothing but a voice to speak it or sand to scrawl it in.”

Mary walked to his office bookshelf and pulled down three Royal House titles. She laid them facedown on top of his desk. She pointed one by one at the UPC barcodes on the back.

“Even the highest form of art is for sale, Zach. And you, editor extraordinaire, help up the price.”

Zach met her eyes. “You think I’m a prude.”

“Prude…ish. Poor J.P. was heartbroken when you told him it wasn’t going to work out with Nora.”

“I know. He looked like a boy whose puppy just died. But he kept his promise.”

“He trusts you. If you say the book shouldn’t be published, he won’t publish the book. Do you really think the book shouldn’t be published?”