The Accidental Bestseller (36 page)

Lacy cautioned herself not to rush through the onerous task. It was bad enough running into rejected writers at a conference or writers’ meeting—she’d discovered that many editors were very careful not to mail out rejections until
after
they’d come back from these events. Rejecting aspiring prisoners seemed even more terrifying; one had to believe they were at least a little more volatile than the average writer. And they had a lot more time on their hands to commit that rejection letter to memory and plot their revenge.

Lacy made a note to find out whether the prisoner’s ID number gave any clue as to the severity of their crime or their possible release date and then downloaded and opened Kendall Aims’s manuscript.

Her eyes skimmed the first line then went back and read it again. More slowly she read the first page on screen then scrolled down to the next. A chill ran up her spine.

“Holy shit!” she whispered, unable to drag her gaze from the screen. “Ho-ly shit!”

In a matter of minutes she inhaled the first chapter, all eleven pages of it, and felt a mad rush of excitement. It was like stumbling on a gold mine completely by accident. Or discovering a website that sold designer shoes for $9.99. That no one else knew about.

“OK,” she said to herself. “Calm down. It can’t be this good all the way through.”

She read the second chapter, trying to tamp down her excitement, looking for flaws, and then the third. But they were even better than the first.

Lacy sat in her chair staring at the screen trying to come to terms with the treasure before her. Even if the rest of the manuscript was only half as good as the first few chapters, Kendall Aims had created something undeniably special. Something that deserved to be read. Something that could make both their careers.

Lacy wasn’t sure how she was going to fall asleep, given the way her heart was pounding and her brain was racing, but she nonetheless set her alarm for two hours earlier than usual and slid into bed. She wanted to get into the office early so that she could print out the full manuscript before Jane got in.

By the time Jane buzzed to demand her first cup of coffee, Lacy had already printed out a full copy of
Sticks and Stones
and stashed it in the bottom drawer of her desk.

All day, in between answering phones, fetching coffee, going floor to floor to deliver and pick up items that could easily have been sent via interoffice mail, running out for Jane’s tuna on wheat bread and then once again for her dry cleaning, Lacy scurried back to her desk, pulled out the next chapter and read. And was stunned anew by how good it was.

The characters were both unique and complex, their voices entirely different. Kennedy Andrews was clearly the main point-of-view character and the one the reader would most readily identify with. Her pain and devastation were achingly real, the language used to paint her skillfully textured. But Miranda and Faith and Tina were also richly drawn. Their stories received a little less page time but were equally compelling.

As an industry insider Lacy was intrigued by the writers’ view of the business and the brutality of the industry as a whole that emerged in the story. But she sensed that others, whose only contact with publishing might be the purchase of a book or membership in a book club, would absolutely love this inside peek. It spoke not only to the vagaries of the industry but to the act of writing and the often uncontrollable desire to create that could both nourish and destroy.

When the character of editorial assistant Lucy Simmons appeared, Lacy got her first vision of herself through Kendall’s eyes. She winced at the reference to the naïve assistant’s breathy voice and the depiction of her assignment to the book as an insult, but had to laugh at the tattoo and nose ring Kendall gave her. Kendall’s portrayal of evil editor June Jankowitz was scathingly funny, but Lacy doubted that Jane Jensen would appreciate the humor. Assuming she ever actually read the manuscript.

With each chapter Lacy’s excitement grew. Because instead of falling off after the first establishing chapters as Lacy’d expected,
Sticks and Stones
just got better and better. Even as she raced through her work so that she could get back to the manuscript, Lacy was completely enthralled by the women’s friendship and the lengths they went to for the friend in need. She caught herself wondering what would happen to the book the four of them labored over; whether Miranda would overcome her writer’s block; if Faith would tell her husband her secret; how Tina might tear down walls to open herself to the cook at the diner.

Lacy did what work she absolutely had to, and kept a wary eye out for Jane, but mostly she read. Not because she wanted to, but because she simply couldn’t stop.

At 5:30 she looked up from the manuscript and realized that the office had grown quiet. Tiptoeing out of her cubicle toward Jane’s office, she was relieved to see that her boss had already gone. Lacy had agreed to meet Cash at six for drinks near Grand Central Station and she hurried now to stuff the manuscript into her briefcase and clear her desk.

Even in the darkness of the bar Cash Simpson was the best-looking man there. Lacy could feel the stares from other women and even some men and she imagined they were trying to fathom what it was about her that had merited his attention.

Lacy still hadn’t figured it out herself, but not too long after the flirtation began she’d decided she didn’t have to understand it; she just had to enjoy it for however long it might last.

Cash Simpson was not prone to delving into thoughts and feelings, but he was fun to be with and the sexual tension building between them made her feel like the heroine in a really great romance novel. So far she’d managed to avoid doing the actual “deed,” which she suspected would be highly enjoyable, but would most likely signal the beginning of the end of his unflagging pursuit.

“You look about a million miles away,” he said as the waitress brought their drinks and took her time setting them down on the table. The woman made a point of leaning over as she served, giving both of them a look at the benefits of investing one’s tips in plastic surgery.

Lacy dropped her gaze and took a sip of her martini, her lips puckering at its dryness. She’d started drinking them in an effort to raise her sophistication quotient and had discovered that they allowed her to be in Cash’s presence without turning tongue-tied and pathetic.

“Hmmm?” She looked up and into his inquiring gaze, realizing he was right. The real subject of her thoughts was tucked into the briefcase sitting at her feet. What did it say about you when the allure of a book was greater than that of a hunky and interested flesh-and-blood man?

“Just thinking about work,” she admitted, though she was reluctant to say too much about
Sticks and Stones
. She had no idea if it was normal for an assistant to be given the job of editing a manuscript and she didn’t want to say or do anything that might take the manuscript currently in her briefcase out of her hands. Especially not before she’d finished reading it. Which she should be doing right now.

“Tough day with Jane, huh?” He gave her a sympathetic look and signaled the waitress to bring them another round. “How many convict manuscripts have you read now?”

Lacy sighed. “I lost count somewhere after thirty and I haven’t even made a dent in the stacks.” She raised an eyebrow at him and took on an injured air. “I think it’s a pretty steep penalty for the offense of a small flirtation with the infamous Cash Simpson.”

“Well, I hope you’re finding me worth the price.” He took her hand in his and lifted it to his lips. The move was incredibly corny; anybody with an ounce less looks and charm—or without such a sexy first name—could never have pulled it off.

“I don’t know,” she teased, as a ripple of lust shot through her. “I have personally pissed off a boatload of felons. Depending on their release dates, I may have only a short time to live.”

“Well then,” he said, taking her other hand in his so that both of their hands were joined across the table, a move that was undeniably sappy but that he somehow managed to make unbelievably cool. “That would make you like a soldier going off to war not knowing when he might fall in battle.” He smiled wickedly, aiming the even white teeth and sparkling blue eyes at her. “Or to a maddened aspiring author with criminal tendencies.”

She smiled, enjoying the joke. Then he leaned in closer, burying her senses in a hint of lemony aftershave and warm skin. “I’m betting you need what every soldier headed off to war needs,” he murmured. “I can send you off with a smile on your face.” An eyebrow cocked upward. “And a song in your heart.”

Their drinks arrived, but this time neither of them looked at the waitress.

“You didn’t really just say that.” She wanted to laugh out loud, but she knew that despite the humorous come-on, Cash wasn’t joking about making their relationship physical. “I know you didn’t just offer to put a smile on my face and a song in my heart.”

She was smiling as she took a sip of her drink and let the gin-vermouth combo swirl down her throat.

“Ah, but I did. I can pretty much guarantee you a trip to the moon and back.”

She could see all the other women in the bar straining to hear what Cash was whispering to her. Their envy was almost as big a turn-on as Cash’s attention. But despite the martini haze, his lines were a tad too rehearsed and she caught herself wondering if he carried a list of satisfied partners in his pocket. Or had testimonials recorded on his cell phone.

He leaned forward to brush his lips across her cheek and nibble on her earlobe. Her breathing grew shallow and her body actually tingled in response. But her brain pointed out, yet again, that nobody got as polished as Cash Simpson without massive amounts of experience. She’d been playing at this since the day in the elevator, dancing closer and closer to having sex with him, but she was way out of her depth here. Could she handle having sex with Cash Simpson? Did she really want to?

“I don’t live far from here,” he whispered against the ear he had just nibbled. “Let’s skip dinner and get right to dessert.”

She realized with some surprise that part of her would be just as happy if people just thought she’d slept with him. Actually doing it seemed fraught with potential embarrassment and unnecessary complications. She’d had two brief college affairs—barely more than an introduction to what went where. The childish phrase, “Let’s not and say we did,” floated through her subconscious.

Lacy eased back in her chair, pulling away from him. Her foot grazed her briefcase.

The alcohol haze began to dissipate as Lacy stole a quick peek at her wristwatch. She had intended to stay for one drink and then go home to finish reading
Sticks and Stones
. It was already almost eight o’clock.

“I’m sorry,” Lacy said. “I really have to get home.” She pulled the weighted briefcase from the floor and set it in her lap where he could see it. “I have a manuscript to read. One from a writer not incarcerated or mentally incapacitated.”

A look of surprise crossed Cash’s face at her refusal; Lacy suspected he had little experience with rejection of any kind and so didn’t know quite how to handle it.

She hadn’t ruled out sleeping with Cash Simpson, but it wasn’t going to happen tonight. Cash’s blue eyes, even filled with all kinds of physical promises, were no contest for the manuscript that was once again calling out to her.

“I hope you’ll forgive me,” she said as she stood, the briefcase now clutched to her chest. “I really appreciate the drinks. And the, um, offer.”

He was watching her intently now, with an odd kind of smile on his lips, like a benevolent spider watching a fly that had somehow managed to wiggle free from its web.

“But I really have to get home and get this thing read.” She hefted the briefcase in front of her, exhibit A. And then she scampered out of the bar as gracefully as she could. Cash Simpson, and all the lovely women now getting ready to pounce on him, watched her go.

Lacy finished reading
Sticks and Stones
at 3:00 A.M. When she was done, she lay in bed staring up at the pockmarked ceiling of her bedroom, stunned by how the manuscript had made her feel. As she’d read, turning the pages faster and faster as the story progressed, she’d waited for it to fall off, for her interest in the characters to flag. But it never happened. Nor did she feel the urge to skim so much as a line of dialogue or a paragraph of description.

Sleep completely eluded her as she sought a solution to the problem she faced. The manuscript was simply too good to be left in her hands. It needed to be edited by someone who knew what they were doing and then nursed through the publishing process by someone who could make sure it got what it deserved: a standout cover, prime positioning in bookstores, and a serious publicity campaign. She didn’t have the experience or the clout to achieve any of these things.