“I promise you’ll like him, Dove; he’s the best in the house.”

Nora DeBayard was staring across her wreckage of a desk at Dove, with that look that was all too familiar: the “c’mon, this is best for the work” expression -- a mix of pleading blue eyes and raised chin that promised she’d be right. Dove couldn’t argue with that expression, or the facts: her last book had done reasonably well, for an unknown midlist southern author. She’d trusted her editor -- her friend, or so she’d thought -- with this newest work, something she’d just finished in a whirlwind of unexpressed sexual frustration.

And her thanks?

“But I don’t know him, Nora. Xavier Pierce? Who cares if he’s an erotica editor? You’re my editor. And what does a man know about erotic romance anyway?”

“Andsaca-Pierce,” Nora corrected. “And like I said, he’s the best.”  She sighed and tried another tack. Dove was practically slumping in the chair, the office view of the Charleston waterfront framing her cloud of spirals. A twistout, she’d called it. Dove was a talented woman, and this book was too good not to put in the right hands. And though Andsaca-Pierce had a reputation, his were unquestionably the right ones. Dove wasn’t his type, besides; industry gossip paired him with models and socialites slumming as authors; at least that was one thing she needn’t worry about.

“Dove, you’ve got to trust me on this. This is a major departure from what you’ve done before. And frankly, we’re strictly romance here -- the Erato imprint is far more equipped to handle this kind of manuscript.”

“Nora, I --  I don’t know how much I can trust someone else with this. You’ve been with me from the start. I feel...” Dove shook her head, sighed, and squared her shoulders. “I feel safe giving this to you. You know my style, you know my work. This is a really personal thing I’ve written here, and...”

Ah, Nora thought. The heart of the matter. “..And it’s too good to let it languish in some regional press where it won’t get the attention it deserves. New York is interested, honey. The Big Leagues. Yes, it’s personal, but that’s what makes it so good.” The editor arose, moved to the other side of the desk, shoved a few papers from a spot near Dove, and sat on the edge.

“Dove Wharton Morgan,” she said, quietly lightly covering her client of five years’ caramel brown hand with her own pale one. Dove’s espresso-dark eyes met hers with a mixture of sadness and trepidation. “Don’t let fear keep you from following this thing all the way to its end,” Nora smiled, using a line from the manuscript.

Dove’s smile started slowly, appearing first at the left corner of her mouth, and widening across her lips, transforming her average face into a visage unexpectedly arresting. She was an attractive woman, though not necessarily conventionally pretty; her face was round and her almond-shaped eyes too small and close set to be exotic-looking or sexy. She wore some kind of neutral lipstick - she never wore red for some reason; Nora thought if she had the kind of pillowy lips Dove did, she’d have spent a fortune in red lipstick – something that didn't hide the wattage of her smile.

“Dirty pool, Nora,” Dove answered, softly. Her voice was unexpected too; looking at her, the throaty warmth she spoke with seemed far more apropos for a woman of the world than a suburban drone from North Charleston who’d never been north of Raleigh. But on second thought, perhaps that was her voice after all; this last manuscript had been as far from her usual happily-ever-after with tasteful fadeouts during-intimate-moments than she’d thought. And kicking it up to the House in Manhattan hadn’t been anything but a moral (and financial) imperative.

“You’re serious, aren’t you,” Dove said, her voice a breath of disbelief.

Nora squeezed her friend’s hand affectionately. “Absolutely.” And from the sound of it, so are they.”  If she didn’t know better, the curt nod Dove gave before rising seemed far more resigned than overjoyed.

“Tell Mr. Andsaca-Pierce I look forward to meeting him,” she said, clutching the envelope containing the itinerary and details. That smile returned again, playing around the edges of her mouth as if she were fighting to keep herself from letting it turn into another grin. Nora gave her hand a final reassuring squeeze, then closed her office door.

“My lord,” Dove sighed, almost soft enough where someone else could imagine nothing had been said. She pressed the button for the elevator, but feeling the restless energy coursing through her, the stairs seemed a much better choice. A trip to New York, expenses paid, and a meeting with a respected erotic works editor. All that was left to do was tell Shon. She smiled to herself and tried not to think about his reaction. Something for myself, she thought. It’s about time I had something for myself.

After her client had left to contemplate the broadcasting of her news, Nora made a phone call.

“Yes?” came a clipped, almost British voice.

“It’s De Bayard; Dove is coming.”

“Of course she is; she’d be a fool not to.”

Nora could almost feel the arrogance oozing from the other end of the line. “Did you tell her about the possible tie-ins? The publicity? The extent of my involvement?”

“I thought I would leave it you to tell her, in your usually charming way.” Nora looked out at the water, a passing boat edging across the silver of the midday river. And for the first time, felt a bit of trepidation. Xavier, for all his charm, talent as an editor and connections, could be pushy.

“Why, Miss DeBayard,” he answered silkily. “Was that a note of sarcasm I detect in your usual southern gentility? I thought such crassness was beyond your gardenia-rarefied airs...”

“Look, Xavier,” Nora snapped, letting her age and position as senior editor of this imprint give her leave to use the man’s first name, “She’s a talented woman--”

“I know,” he replied, testily. “I read the manuscript. Personally,” he added. As if that were enough to close the matter of any reservations she might have, ending any further discussion.

For a woman less personally involved in this enterprise, it might have been. But truth be told, she liked Dove. And though neither of them were young, she had about thirty years on her latest client, and had seen her talent grow and blossom. Handing her over to a wolf like Andsaca-Pierce, even if it was the best thing, wouldn’t do without some kind of notice that said wolf could expect a rap on that cold nose of his for bad behavior. “I am quite aware of that, Xavier,” Damned Yankees had no respect for elders. “Just remember that --”

“Remember what, Miss DeBayard?” his tone was as smooth and cold as ice. “That she was first your client? That she’s a married mouse of a woman ? That she’s salt of the earth, steel magnolia, butter wouldn’t melt in her mouth, a pearl-clutching -- when she’s not polishing it -- wonder?”

Nora’s intake of breath was audible, but he continued with an exasperated huff. “You needn’t worry about me corrupting your precious darling of a writer. I wouldn’t dream of offending her delicate sensibilities. Although, given the bent of her material, I’d say she doesn’t have nearly as many of those as you’re inclined to believe. I’ll take good care of her up here at Erato, it’s why you convinced her to come, after all.”

The unspoken question hung between them. “As for what is no doubt rattling around in that antebellum-notioned mind of yours,” This was spoken in a scathing imitation of a southern drawl, “ The book is reason enough to not let business overlap with pleasure. And besides, Miss DeBayard,  I don’t bother with middle-aged, frustrated housewives. There’s simply no sport in it.”

It took Nora a few seconds to realize that she was still sitting, openmouthed, holding a receiver with nothing but a dial tone on the other end. She thought of Dove’s smile, and the mild that had written such an erotic tale that the infamous Andsaca-Pierce had taken an interest at her suggestion of editing it.

Personally.

“She might surprise you, Xavier,” she thought.