Haunted (16 page)

"Did you see something?"

"No. I just got this rush." His eyes strayed downward and David noticed the erection straining against Conan's pants before the young man dropped his hands to hide it.

The jasmine scent strengthened, became edged with decay.

"Man, get another air freshener. Whatever you're using up here is foul." He stopped talking and, momentarily, a blank expression came over his face. "Whoa. I gotta get out of here." With that, Conan left the room.

David followed, pulling the door securely closed behind him. "What's wrong?" he asked the phone man as ingenuously as he could.

"Man, I don't know. I got cold and, you know, hot." He shook his head, but didn't stop walking. "It felt like somebody was stroking me off." They were on the stairs now. "I'm sorry--you won't tell my supervisor I said that?"

"Don't worry. You thought somebody was touching you?"

"Yeah. For a second there, I thought I was gonna spew, man." They reached the second-floor landing. "God, I'm rattled, Mr. Masters, I wouldn't talk like that if I wasn't. Please don't--"

"I won't tell." He smiled, leading Conan down to the first floor. "I'd noticed something like that myself, but not so strongly."

"Well, you're kind of an old dude," Conan said sympathetically.

"It's harder to get it up when you're so old."

"I'm forty-one," David said defensively.

"Yeah, an old dude."

"Let's get that kitchen connection in," David told him. Fifteen minutes later, it was done. Conan had tested the line by phoning his girlfriend and making a date for "the sooner the better."

As David saw him out the front door, Amber pulled up behind the moving van. She got out and David watched the book-hating phone dude as he took in her dark blond hair, glistening in the afternoon sun, her long legs encased in stretch jeans, and her well-proportioned torso, covered by a white shirt tied just above the waist so that when she moved, a flash of skin showed.

"Wow," said the phone dude.

"That's my daughter," David growled in his ear.

Conan went rigid. "Gotta go." He strode purposefully toward his truck, turning his head away as he passed Amber, who stared curiously after him.

"What's the matter with him?" she asked, coming through the door. She fixed David with a look, her hand on her hip.

"Daddy, did you tell him I'm your daughter?"

"Well, you are." He grinned at her. "Aren't you?"

"Daddy, I'm going to be forty years old and still living with you because of the way you tell guys you're my father."

"Did you pack a phone in the Bronco like you were going to, kiddo?" David didn't feel like being chewed out right this minute.

She nodded.

"Well, go get it and you can call your friends and tell them you're still alive." Bad choice of words, Masters. But she didn't seem to notice, just turned and ran for the truck. Leaving the movers to Minnie and the repairs to the taciturn Mr. Willard and Eric Swenson, David went to his room and turned on his laptop computer. By the time he finished entering everything pertinent that had happened since their arrival at Ferd Cox's store twenty-four hours ago, two hours had gone by and Amber had given the phone the workout of its life.

New York City: 7:46P.M.

Melanie Lord was trying her damnedest to get Harry Rosenberg drunk, but the Dorner Books editor seemed to be a bottomless pit. He'd had three scotch-rocks and showed no signs of melting down. As the waiter passed, she signaled him. "Two more, please." Then she cocked her head coquettishly, so that her short auburn pageboy shimmered around her face. Batting her lashes, she said, "Harry, I hope you don't mind my ordering more drinks--"

"No, no. Not at all." He drained his glass and sat forward.

"So, let's talk about someone besides Meat Blaisdell. He's just not what I'm looking for."

Melanie studied Rosenberg. This guy was very high up in the publishing feeding chain and she'd been pleased as hell when he'd accepted her invitation for drinks after she'd sent over Ray's latest proposal. She thought that maybe she was going to get over that last hurdle and hit the big time if Rosenberg went for Ray.

Ray "Meat" Blaisdell was a science fiction writer trying to go straight, or as he put it, he wanted to "pull a Masters." More than half the genre writers she represented, no matter what their specialty, talked like that. "Masters writes horror," one would say. "No, he writes science fiction," another would argue, and a third would insist he wrote thrillers. They argued on and on about why he was so lucky and how they themselves could get that way.

Melanie thought that Ray had a chance because he actually understood that genre trappings had little to do with that bastard Masters' success: it was the scope and humanity of said bastard's work that had taken him, along with a handful of other authors, over the top. Melanie wanted to help Ray get there, first because he was the best writer she represented; second, because he was her current lover. He didn't quite have that prick Masters' natural talent for either activity, but he was young and had stamina. With luck, he'd learn.

"...just not quite our kind of writer," Harry was saying.

"When you accepted my invitation, I assumed you wanted to talk about Ray's proposal," she said as the drinks arrived. She sipped her wine spritzer, then ran her finger around the rim of the glass and waited expectantly.

"Melanie, Meat's a good writer, but it's too generic for Dorner. Too much science fiction razzle dazzle." His lip curled up as if he smelled something bad. "Too techy. But, if you could get him to write something set here, on earth, and in the present, I'd very much like to see it. I'd especially like to see a UFO proposal." He smiled thinly. "Lots of sex and humiliation. That's very hot now, you know."

"I know." Melanie sipped her drink slowly. That was all the editors were talking about this year. Last year it was serial killers, next year they'd probably have hard-ons for medical thrillers. The disgusting truth was that having a feel for coming editorial hard-ons--"trends" was just too nice a word was what could make your name as an agent if you didn't already have a best-selling author to help you fly. And since that best-selling S.O.B. David Masters would fall into her bed but not her agency, she'd decided she'd have to make it the hard way.

Besides, she had to admit, Harry had a good idea with the UFO thing. "Ray might go for it," she told him truthfully. "I'll call him first thing tomorrow." She lifted one eyebrow. "So, Harry, who else can I sell you?"

"You can sell me David Masters."

"I wish I could," she said sourly. "You'll have to talk to Georgie Gordon about him."

"So steal him. I thought you and Masters were... "His voice trailed off suggestively.

"We were." Tempted to spew invective about that she-snob Gordon, she decided to take the high road instead. "You have to understand how David thinks. Georgie discovered him and stuck with him while he was slogging around in mid-list. He's very devoted to her. Very loyal." She heard the sneer in her voice and tried to force it away. "I suppose that if I had discovered him and he left me for an agent he had a personal relationship with, I'd feel very used." Whenever she said that, usually silently and to herself, she understood David better, which made it harder to feel hurt and angry, which was how she preferred to feel.

"My dear Melanie," Harry purred. "You're a charming woman. Seduce him away from Georgie and Randall House, bring him to me, and you'll have million dollar clients dripping from the diamonds you'll wear on your fingers. I guarantee it."

Christ, she thought, when the booze finally hits him, it really hits. She reached across the small round table and patted his hand. "Darling," she said, falling into perfect Manhattan Bitch, "I'd love to hand him to you, but David has these annoying scruples. He doesn't like to mix business and pleasure."

"Scruples? Who needs them?" Harry rose, a little unsteadily.

"Please excuse me. I'll be back in a moment." He walked carefully in the direction of the restrooms and Melanie took the opportunity to pour her spritzer into a potted plant she'd sat by for that very purpose. She should have poured out more of the first two drinks, but Rosenberg had proven himself to have the bladder of a large, ocean-going mammal and she never had a chance. She waved at the waiter, who was taking another order and as soon as he approached, ordered another round.

A moment later, watching Harry lumber back, she regretted not telling the waiter to leave the booze out of her spritzer.

The bearlike Rosenberg still walked with the confidence of a nearly sober man. This could be a long, long night. "So, how can you get me David Masters?" he said as he slid into his seat.

"If Georgie falls off a cliff, I might have a shot at him." She hesitated, then asked the question she really wanted an answer to. "Why aren't you talking to Georgie?"

"Simple. Masters won't move, and Georgie's in too tight with Randall House to want to pressure him. Besides Masters, she's got Hall and Cory over there."

"That's only three biggies," Melanie said doubtfully. Normally, she'd recall exactly who Georgie had at Randall, high and low, but the wine had clouded her mind.

"Three constant bestsellers. Three who bring down more than a million a book," Harry said. "Then she's got a raft of occasional bestsellers, the six-figure crowd."

Melanie nodded. "If I could get him, what can you offer that Randall House can't?"

"More money. A guaranteed promotion and publicity budget. Higher royalties--"

"Unfortunately, David's world doesn't revolve around money. Don't get me wrong, he likes it, but he's perfectly content with two or three mil a book." She took a sip of wine. "He'd be content with less than that, to be honest. And, as for the other things, well, I'm afraid he's probably quite content with what they do for him at Randall House."

"Well, what does he want?"

She snorted. "David already has exactly what he wants. He has Joanna." That was his editor. "He's as loyal to her as he is to Georgie." Melanie made a face. "He always points out that she bought his first book and stood by him through the thin times."

"God, spare me the loyalty shtick." Harry looked at the ceiling.

"The agent's loyal to Randall for her own ambitiously greedy reasons--" he smiled smarmily "--not that I don't have the greatest respect for that sort of thing, mind you. And the writer is blindly loyal to his editor." He finished his drink. "Masters should give me a chance. I'll wager I can outdo Joanna Scanlon's best author-coddling any day of the week."

"He likes the way she edits, too, Harry," Melanie said dryly.

He nodded. "Because he doesn't know any better."

"She's good, Harry." Melanie had writers with Scanlon, too, and her own loyalties to keep.

"I know. I trained her." He sat back. "That sounded terribly arrogant. Forgive me."

"I know you're a hell of an editor, Harry, you don't have to sell me. I saw the unedited Tarnmeyer manuscript. I know you practically rewrote the thing. It was brilliant."

"Thank you." Harry's smile slid across his face like a slow-moving snake. "However did you get a copy of that, my dear?"

"Tarn sent it to David for a quote."

"He did?" Genuine surprise showed in Harry's eyes. "Why would he do that before the galleys? He knows we'd send it to Masters at that point."

She chuckled, low in her throat. "Exactly. His cover letter said that he wanted David to see it in its original form before, and I quote, his 'editor gets hold of it and tries to rewrite it because all he is is a frustrated writer.' " What the hell do you think you’re doing, telling him this? Mortified at her own lack of discretion, she felt her face heat up. "My turn to apologize, Harry. That was a bitchy thing for me to say." She let out a throaty little laugh. "I've had a little too much to drink."

This time, Harry reached for her hand. He didn't pat it, he took it and held it. "Don't apologize. I can outdrink most any agent. And, believe me, I already know Tarn's a prima donna. So, let's get back to David Masters. I want him. You need him. I think we should work together to meet the challenge."

She stared at his hand on hers. Half the male editors in town were gay and here she was, stuck dealing with a drunken hetero who could do wonders for her career. His finger moved lightly over one knuckle, then he became aware of her gaze and withdrew his hand. "Sorry, I'm a little smashed myself."

Melanie felt one of those proverbial lightbulbs go off over her head. "Harry, let's talk about Joanna Scanlon."

"Shoot."

"Joanna started at Dorner as a junior editor. David was one of her very
first buys."

The right side of Harry's mouth crooked up expectantly.

"David left Dorner for Randall House because he wanted to stick with Scanlon." She sat back and looked him in the eye. "Your house didn't know what they had. You let him get away."

"I believe I heard something to that effect," Harry said, his smile growing.

"So if Dorner were to hire Scanlon away from Randall, your house would have a much better chance at acquiring David."