“He is a proud boy who knows the value of hard work.” Moran glanced up at me between furrowed eyebrows. “Many people down on their luck just need the dignity of work.”
My heart went out to Timmy and to Moran for his generous spirit. I would have never expected this from the guarded man I first met. “I can understand that. You wish to do good by him but not let him know it was you?”
“Exactly. He should be delivering a manuscript today. I recommend you offer to hire him. I will reimburse you. I will be out of the office for most of the rest of this week. Please feel free to lock the door when I am not here with you.” With a tip of his head, he indicated that I should begin taking notes. “I have a list of things for you to do.”
Pencil poised, I began to write what he dictated in shorthand, each symbol reflecting a word or phrase. He told me what he wanted to pay Timmy, and although I still had reservations about having an escort, I understood that I would be helping someone out. Truth be told, I would feel safer not being by myself, especially after seeing the man in the alley. A part of me hoped Ash would take on the task, but I couldn’t depend on him if I shunned his attention. It wasn’t fair to string him along when I did not intend to allow him to court me.
I resisted the urge to lift my fingers to my mouth, my lips tingling with the memory of his kiss. He had said he wanted to continue to see me, and perhaps I might change my mind. What would an affair with him look like? I barely had time between work and raising the girls to have any time to myself. Even if I wanted to have an affair, I wasn’t sure where to begin.
“Read that back to me,” Moran said.
The unexpected request caught me off guard, and I gripped the pencil, praying I hadn’t missed anything while woolgathering. I read my writing, eyeing him to see if I had committed the cardinal sin of not paying attention.
“Excellent. I have something for you.” Moran lifted a handwritten sheet of paper and scooted it across the only part of the desk that wasn’t cluttered.
I inspected the sheet, skimming the bold script. Several author names were scrawled across the page, a few I recognized. A smile tilted my mouth. “These are some rather famous authors.”
“Indeed. Every quarter, I meet with them to discuss upcoming projects or review my notes for their pieces. I need you to schedule appointments with each of them. There are seven names, and we sometimes talk for hours, so don’t schedule more than one meeting a day.” He steepled his fingers across his flat belly, the chair behaving itself for the moment. “Today is Tuesday, so schedule the first one for Monday next.”
“Very good.” I tried to keep the eagerness from my voice. Fate had placed me in the perfect position. I loved reading, and would get the opportunity to meet MH Roth, my favorite gothic novelist. Up until recently, everyone had thought a man had written her books. “I will send a letter forthwith.”
“That will be all for now.” Moran sat upright once more. Long lashes framed his amber eyes, and I lowered my gaze, unable to hold his regard for too long.
I clutched the notepad to my chest and exited into the reception area. Thus far, my second morning with Moran was nothing like the first. He was properly clothed, which was a bit disappointing, to be sure. I chortled under my breath at the memory of his naked chest. Would Ash have an equally impressive frame? The heat in my cheeks increased with theraciness of my thoughts. My pussy flared to life, and I tried to scrub the lusty notions from my mind. I had a job to do, and lusting after my employer wasn’t conducive to my end goal, which was to open my own agency and be my own woman, independent of anyone but myself.
Chapter Fifteen
Lord Tobias Moran
I threaded my fingers into my hair and stared at the manuscript on my desk. Eight days had passed since my night with Ash. The passions we shared had only temporarily slaked my physical hunger. He’d found another lead in his case and was noticeably absent. Time sped past for me as well. The end of the year was my busiest time, and I was rushing from appointment to appointment.
Mrs. Worth proved invaluable by taking care of the office while I was out. Every time I returned to the office between engagements, I looked forward to seeing her—a dangerous precedent. The steady click of the typewriter keys from her office set a comforting cadence. She was an efficient typist, unlike my previous secretary. Yet I was so far behind I wasn’t sure if I would be even fifty percent caught up by the time the author interviews began. With my mainstream books, I hired a typesetter at a local bookbinding shop to produce one serial per quarter per author. Then, like with the Ambrosia line, the first three serials of each individual's works were bound into a sixpence novel.
Perhaps she was right. I needed to hire somebody. Or perhaps I just needed to go to the reception area to find my new editor.
It had been my experience that secretaries were hard to come by, and if I truly was serious and took her advice, I would hire an outside editor with knowhow. I hated the thought of giving up any control, but my Ambrosia line was taking up most of my time, and the rest of my authors were being ignored.
A hint of dread hit me, and I willed myself to breathe. I had wrestled MH Roth—a well-known gothic author—away from her previous publisher because of creative differences. A silent partner, her residuals from her works had put the T.J. Moran Publishing House on the map. I owed her my undivided attention, but I also owed it to Mr. Lillian, another prolific writer with a massive following in my Ambrosia line. Ash had also contributed and if he was of a mind, could easily be a successful writer. Yet his family obligations kept him on the force.
I sat back in the seat, nearly fell over, and grabbed the edge of my desk. In addition to obsessing over Mrs. Worth, I had been waging a battle with my chair. When I purchased it, it seemed comfortable enough. However, it had a mind of its own, and I kept expecting it to tip over, taking me with it.
Perhaps it would knock some sense into me.
I tapped my pen on the ink blotter and stared at the pile. I had edited everything on my desk. But MH Roth’s manuscripts were very clean and would only require a copy edit to check grammar and punctuation, something Mrs. Worth excelled at. Or so she claimed. I had no reason to think otherwise. The sound of the typewriter ended, the silence in its wake deafening. Either I could persevere or ask for help.
