Editorial Indiscretion

Janice Owens, romance novels editor for Pink Beach Publications, pulled her little blue Toyota Corolla to a stop half a block away from the house of a man she had never met, a man she knew only by his words. She told herself she only needed a glimpse of him. She was no stalker. One glimpse, and then she would go back home. She would leave this fancy Coral Gables neighborhood and retreat two hours north to her little apartment in Boca Raton, and that would be that.

She leaned back in the driver's seat, preparing to wait all day and all night if necessary. Yesterday this man's latest manuscript had kept her up late into the night, immersing her in a dazzling world of pirates and passions, dastardly evildoers and heaving bosoms, where the good guys won, the bad guys died, and the powerful heroine got her hero. She had reached the end of the novel with her pulse still racing. There was no doubt that Steve Granger, aka Steve Valentine, had written another best-seller. She had thought of calling him then, using the excuse of congratulating him on his ninth novel as a chance to hear his voice, but she had talked herself out of it even as her hand hovered near the phone. After all, it was Friday night. Someone who loved life as much as Steve Valentine probably wasn't even at home, and if he were, he wouldn't be alone.

She knew Steve was single because she had helped him with his income tax. So what would his companion look like? Certainly not like the woman staring back at her from the car mirror. A woman whose too-large sunglasses concealed bloodshot eyes in puffy cheeks, whose limp brown hair refused the authority of any brush, whose best friends Jolly and Molly purred her to sleep every night and stepped on her face every morning. She sighed and pinched her belly. Hours at the gym barely kept her waistline in check, and did nothing at all to reduce it.

She waited in silence in the shade of a sprawling palm tree, too nervous even to turn on the radio. Her Diet Pepsi sat untouched and lukewarm at her side. There was light traffic on this residential street but no cars stopped at the address of Pink Beach Publishing's most famous author, an address Janice knew well since she was the one who mailed his checks. It was a nice house, ranch-style with yellow exterior, curved coral tiling on the roof and a two-car garage with the door pulled down. It was impossible to know if anyone was even home.

A small red car appeared in her rearview mirror, creeping down the street as if the driver were unsure of his destination. No, make that her destination. The driver was a woman, with blonde hair and a beautiful oval face with high cheekbones. She held a piece of paper in her slender fingers and glanced back and forth from it to the mailboxes on the side of the street. She was looking for an address.

The car passed her. Brake lights flared as she approached Steve's house. She pulled into the rust-red brick driveway and got out.

Janice turned her key in the ignition and moved in for a closer look. "Who are you?" she wondered aloud. She kept her voice down, as she had all her life. Her fingers clenched on the steering wheel. There's no need for jealousy, she told herself. You don't even know the guy. You've only ever exchanged emails with him. He probably thinks you're some bookish nerd, and he's not that far off.

The woman wore dangling turquoise earrings and bracelets to match. Her batik sun dress exposed flawless shoulders and firm cleavage, with upward-pointing, perky breasts that strained to be let free. The hemline stopped just above a pair of shapely knees and tanned legs with tight calf muscles. She was in her early twenties, probably a few years younger than Janice. She glanced at the house with what could only be a smile of happy anticipation. There was no ring on her finger.

Her heart sinking, Janice put her foot down on the gas pedal and raced off, abandoning all thoughts of seeing the great Steve Valentine in person. "Stupid, stupid, stupid," she told herself. Staking out this man's house was a dumb idea. Just one more dumb idea in a lifetime filled with dumb ideas.

***

A few days later, Janice got another email from Steve. In his usual formal business prose, he explained that the enclosure was his submission to Pink Beach Publishing's annual Outer Space Erotica anthology. In the story, an alien spy comes to Earth in the shape of a man, scouting the planet for a planned invasion. He meets an Earth girl and falls in love, causing him to betray his own species. Passages that once made Janice's heart flutter now made her eyes sting:

Her face, a delicate oval adorned with silky blonde hair, flushed with excitement as her blouse fell away under my hands. Two soft temptations revealed themselves to me, tipped with rose that pointed at the sky in eagerness and anticipation. Her areole were larger than I had expected, delicate dark pink that flowered out from the center, unfurling lightening pigmentation that came to an abrupt end in a perfect circle. I put my mouth to an erect nipple, caressing its stiffness with my tongue, exploring every bump and smoothness of its marvelous pink halo with my eager lips. I slid one hand down her firm stomach, caressing fine golden hairs that lengthened as my fingers descended....

There could be no doubt whom Steve was describing. The author had found a new muse, a new inspiration in a batik sun dress and a little red car. He had gotten to know her very well and very fast, and had no trouble finding words for all the intimate details of her body.

As Janice spooned canned cat food into Jolly's and Molly's dishes that night, she tried to shake all thoughts of Steve Valentine from her head. But his books stared back at her from her bookshelf and his stories lived on in her mind. She told herself it was stupid to be jealous; she didn't even know what the guy looked like. He could be an ugly old man or a sloppy fat pig for all she knew.

There was only one way to rid him from her thoughts. She would go back to Coral Gables and complete her original mission. She would get a look at this famous author, and if he were unattractive, that would be the end of it. And if he were gorgeous, that would also be the end of it, because then she would know for sure that he was out of her reach.

***

Late Saturday afternoon, Janice arrived on Steve's street and parked in her familiar place under the palm tree. This time instead of a Diet Pepsi at her side, she brought a pair of new binoculars. She used them to examine the blue four-door parked in the driveway. Steve had another visitor.

"It's only serious if she spends the night," Janice murmured to herself. She settled back and crossed her arms, hoping her wait would be brief.

Less than an hour later, Steve's front door opened. A tall, dark-haired woman stepped through without a backward glance. Janice was so busy fumbling for her binoculars that she never got a good look at the shadowy figure closing the door behind his guest. She zoomed in on the woman heading for the car and saw big green eyes and wide cheekbones to support them. She wore elegant silver jewelry and tight leather pants. Her hair was disheveled and the top button of her sleeveless cotton blouse was undone.

Her heart racing with jealousy and guilt, Janice ducked her head out of the glare of the other car's headlights. She waited for the blue sedan to make a left at the corner, then started her Toyota and did a frantic U-turn in the middle of the road. She made a left at the corner.

The blue car was just ahead, stopped at the streetlight, left turn signal flashing. Janice placed a finger on her own turn signal lever and stopped herself.

"What am I doing?" she whispered to her empty car. "What kind of a person am I?"

The kind of person who follows other people's girlfriends. Without signaling, she fell in behind the dark-haired beauty, following her onto US1, six lanes of Saturday night congestion, and then south to Coconut Grove. The green-eyed woman paid an attendant to park her car and went into a bar. The ear-thrashing sounds of live rock and roll poured out into the street. Janice followed her in, keeping her head low and staying a few steps back, sure that the woman would spot her any minute now and mortified at the thought of what she would say if caught.

Janice took a table in the corner shadows while the other woman headed straight for the bar and ordered a drink. A man in a conservative suit sat down next to her, then leaned in close enough for the two of them to touch heads. A minute later, the brunette nodded. The man paid the bill. They walked right past Janice and out the door.

Janice waved away a waitress and left the bar. Her knees trembled as she found her way back to her car. The great romantic novelist Steve Valentine used prostitutes for his inspiration. She drove back to Boca stunned and disappointed. This was one can of worms she should have left unopened.

***

A month of chocolate chip ice cream, messy feline hairballs, and a little crying into her pillow at night went by before another email from Steve -- Mr. Granger -- dinged its way into her mailbox. Janice's index finger paused over the mouse as if afraid of what she might see if it double-clicked.

She forced herself to open the email, and then the enclosure. She wouldn't be doing her job if she didn't review the best-selling author's manuscript. She sent the document to the high-speed printer.

In minutes, she lost herself in a story about a female secret agent from South America who has come to the US to steal military secrets with her beauty and guile. She falls in love with a handsome, gentle scientific genius and before long they are both running for their lives, chased by agents from both sides. They have nowhere to turn but to each other.

He caught her big green eyes with his own, and reached for the strap on her shoulder. She tilted her head, acquiescing, and he pulled down first one, then the other. Strands of her long auburn hair fell forward to grace her round breasts with their shiny softness. One strand stuck on a dark brown nipple that stood tense with anticipation and excitement. He brushed it away with one gentle touch.

Janice put the manuscript down on her desk, the spell broken. She knew whose green eyes she was reading about, and she knew whose erect nipples were all over the printed page in front of her too. Steve Granger was describing his one-night stand -- make that one-hour stand -- with the brown-haired prostitute.

The other cubicles were empty by now. Janice picked up the manuscript and headed for the exit, dodging the night janitorial staff with their brooms and trash cans. She finished the rest of the novel at home, in the early hours of the morning, secure in the company of her cats. She closed her eyes, still trapped in the drama of the story despite herself. I wonder what he would write about me, she thought.

Her eyes snapped back open. That was a very good question.

***

Janice pulled up in the rust-red brick driveway and, despite her suddenly weakened knees, managed to step out of her little Toyota Corolla without falling over. It was Thursday afternoon, and she had called in sick to work. Hopefully Steve did not have any other visits scheduled for today. Her stomach did nervous little flip-flops as she approached Steve's front door. She thought about turning back, but she was determined to go through with this.

She took a deep breath to calm herself and rang the bell. She was dressed in her stylish best, or at least the best she could afford on an editor's pitiful salary. Her make-up was on as sexy as she could get it, and her heels were about as high as she could stand. Her one-piece dress was yellow and cheerful, and thanks to the zipper in the back it would come off easy and fast. She didn't know what kind of underwear prostitutes favored, so she wasn't wearing any. She had loaded her purse with a fresh supply of condoms; she figured that was a standard tool of the trade.

Her stomach tensed at the metal-on-metal tumble of a deadbolt opening up. She took a step backward. It wasn't too late to change her mind. She could still run back to her car if she didn't like the guy.

The door swung open with a slow creaking sound, and Janice finally got her first look at her star writer.

He was the most ordinary-looking man she had ever seen. If she passed him in the street, she wouldn't look twice at this thirty-something guy with the hint of a paunch and the gray at his temples. His unremarkable black hair was cut short, above his ears, and his plain green eyes stared at her in obvious incomprehension.

"Yes? What can I do for you?" Even his voice was bland, lacking any agitation or excitement.

"I -- I'm from the Agency," was all she could think of to say.

The full lips twitched with ambiguous emotion. "The Agency? Did I have an appointment scheduled for today?"

"Yes, sir. You are Mr. Granger, right?" If she was going to offer herself to a stranger, it should at least be the right stranger.

"Yes, that's me. I probably should check my calendar, but on the other hand it's usually wrong anyway."

Janice smiled in response, unsure what to say.

"Well, come on in." He stepped aside to let her pass.

Janice nodded, hesitated, and stepped inside. Steve Granger closed the door behind her. She was committed now.

"Excuse me for mentioning this, but you seem a little nervous. Is this your first time?"

Janice blushed. She could feel the bright crimson spread from the top of her head to the tips of her nipples. "You're very perceptive."

"I have to be, for my profession. If you're at all uncomfortable with this, you don't have to stay. You're under no obligation as far as I'm concerned. I won't even tell your boss, and I'll pay for the session anyway. Although you might want to think twice before accepting another assignment."

Janice swallowed. "I'll be all right. I want to stay." Surely Steve Granger was not the kind of man who hired prostitutes. His eyes were too kind, his words were too considerate.

"Great. Come this way." He led her from the foyer through a comfortable living room furnished with a plush sofa, two armchairs, and a plasma TV on the far wall. He followed her gaze and shrugged. "I admit, I do love my creature comforts."

Janice smiled back. "Your house is very nice, Mr. Granger."

"Steve. Just call me Steve. And what can I call you?"

"Janice," she said without thinking. Her hand flew to her mouth. "I mean ... " It was too late to change now. The hand came back down. "Yes, Janice. Call me Janice."

He arched one quizzical eyebrow at her. "I know someone named Janice. Just through email. You're not from Boca Raton, are you?"

Janice just smiled. She couldn't bring herself to lie again to this nice man.

"Well, she seems nice enough by email but you never really know about someone until you meet them in person."

"Have you ever ... tried? Gone to Boca to see her?"

Steve shook his head. "I've thought about it. But no. I'm afraid of what I might find. I'll settle for the relationship just the way it is." He turned toward the kitchen. "Can I get you a drink before we start? No hard liquor, though. You young ladies are always in such a hurry to leave when your time is up, with your active social lives and your parties and your dates. I don't want you driving under the influence. How about a glass of red wine? I have a bottle already open."

In a hurry to leave? Why? What was so terrible about this cozy house and this darling man? "Red wine would be nice."

Steve pulled two glasses out of a cupboard and half-filled each of them. He handed one to her and raised his own in salute. "To a productive evening."

"To a productive evening," Janice repeated, thinking that was a funny way to refer to it. She took a sip, found that she liked the taste, and took another. She swirled it around and looked at the gleaming wineglass. It was spotless. For a bachelor, Steve kept a pretty neat house.

"You can bring the glass into the office if you want."

"We're going to your office?" Her empty stomach and her nervousness worked together to exacerbate the effect of the alcohol. She had never been much of a drinker anyway. She felt light-headed, woozy, but she didn't mind too much. Maybe that was the alcohol too.

"Yes. It's all set up." Steve motioned for her to follow him into a short corridor that opened up into three bedrooms, a bathroom and a closet. She studied the back of his jeans, imagining what she would find under there.

The office was one of the bedrooms. Bookshelves covered two walls, while a desk and a sofa occupied the other two. The desk was turned to face the sofa.

"The sofa's for you, of course," Steve said.

Janice stood in the center of the room with the wineglass still in her hand. She gulped from it to cover her unease. What now? she wondered. Who starts this? She fidgeted from one foot to the other, too anxious to look Steve in the eye, too tipsy to make polite conversation.

Steve sat on the edge of the desk and chewed on his lower lip as he studied her. "If it helps, I'm glad they sent someone like you this time."

"Like me? What does that mean?" Was he insulting her? She was too far gone to tell.

Steve nodded. "I was getting tired of the glamour queens. You know, the perfect bodies, the perfect hair. It's like they're not real characters. Nobody would want to read about them because they are too perfect. They're just not real."

"But I am?" Janice said, stupidly. "Real?"

"Oh yes. Yes. You're perfect. Not in the way that they are, but perfect for what I need. I could do a lot with you."

Janice took a deep breath and set the glass down on the desk.

"You know how this works, right?" Steve asked. "We start by you taking off all your clothes. I require full nudity. Are you OK with that?"

It was why she had come here. "Can you help me with my zipper?"

He stepped behind her and pulled the zipper all the way down. The cheerful yellow dress collapsed on the floor. She kicked off her shoes. There was nothing else left to take off.

She turned to face him, her heart pounding. Her belly moved in and out with nervous little breaths. She started to fold her arms but she fought the urge to cover her breasts. Her hands fidgeted at her side. The light in the room, so warm and friendly a moment ago, had transmuted into the penetrating glare of a showroom spotlight. Every inch of her naked body was exposed to Sam Valentine's critical gaze.

He sat back down on his desk to study her. He focused on her breasts, firm and pointy she liked to think, but maybe they drooped just a little. And there could be no doubt that one was slightly larger than the other. He focused on her belly, which quivered at being the center of attention. He barely glanced at her appendectomy scar. He lingered over the stretch marks on her thighs, and stared openly at the irregular patch of darkness at her crotch, penetrating it with his magical heat vision. Every spot he focused on tingled with desire.

She quivered to have him. She wanted him the way the morning wants the sun, the way the night wants the stars. The heat between her legs became unbearable. She couldn't wait any longer for what was about to happen anyway.

She grabbed him by his shoulders and pulled him to her. He opened his mouth to say something but she covered it with her own, forcing her lips onto his, her tongue against his. She pressed him backward and toppled him onto the sofa, clawing at his chest, his wonderful average chest, yanking off his shirt and letting the buttons fly where they may. She pushed her breasts against him and nibbled on his ear while she fumbled in his pants with one hand. There it was, huge and ready for her. She grabbed his pants with both hands, unfastened them, yanked on the zipper and pulled. The boxer briefs were amusing but hardly worth her time. She threw them on the floor, and his manhood saluted her.