Chapter 2

I crammed the note into my purse and took off up the street at a quick jog, running up four flights of stairs to Linda's office. She looked surprised to see me back so soon.

"Who have you spoken to about me lately?" I asked with a gasp.

She stared blankly at me for a moment. "A few people; it's my job to talk about you, Imogen. Is something wrong?"

I waved the note in front of her, but wouldn't let her read it. "Do you know someone with dark, shaggy hair who doesn't like to shave?"

"My eighteen year-old son?" Linda looked as confused as she sounded.

I shook my head. "No, someone older, someone in publishing maybe. Did you talk to anyone like that about me this week?"

"Well..." Linda paused, thinking. Every cell in my body strained, desperate for her to think faster. "Simeon Forster over at Logan, Richardson, and Monk has dark hair and the last time I saw him he had a goatee. I spoke to him the other day and I might have mentioned you."

"Did he ask about me first? Is he cute?" I must have sounded like a crazy woman, but I was determined to find out.

Linda hummed and hawed. "Yeah, he might have asked if I was editing you. In fact," her face lit up, "he did ask if I knew who was publishing a writer named Imogen Wallis. He sounded surprised to hear it was me."

"Is he cute?"

Linda looked askance. "What is this about, Imogen?"

"Is he cute?"

"Yeah, he's freakin' gorgeous. A little young for me maybe, but I wouldn't kick him out of bed for eating crackers if that's what you're asking." Linda was starting to look worried.

"Where's Logan, Richardson, and Monk?" I asked.

"Fourth and Finch," Linda said slowly. "You're not leaving me for the competition are you? 'Cause they don't do erotica."

"No, it's not business," I reassured her. "Thanks. I'll have the final chapters for you by the end of the month. And I owe you one." I tore from her office as quickly as I'd entered. There was sure to be a confused voice mail from her on my machine when I got back to my apartment, but I'd deal with that later.

It was only a few blocks to the corner of Fourth Street and Finch Avenue and I walked them unseeingly. My mind was reeling. I was half excited and half so pissed off I couldn't see straight. I had no idea what I would say or do when I was face-to-face with Mr. Simeon Forster, but I was sure I'd think of something.

Logan, Richardson, and Monk is the largest publishing firm in the city and part of a much larger international publishing house, but I'd never bothered myself with them before; mostly because they didn't print smut, Pulitzer Prize winners are more their style. Their office building was a gleaming monolith of glass and steel, and as I stood outside on the sidewalk with my stomach a swirling mass of knots, I realized it was only a few blocks from the café where all this had started.

I took several deep breaths, patted uselessly at my messy curls, and slipped nervously into the lobby. The security guard didn't look at me twice but the receptionist smiled coldly as I greeted her.

"I'd like to see Simeon Forster, please," I asked as calmly and politely as I could.

The perfectly dressed and coiffed blonde looked me over blatantly. "Do you have an appointment?"

I smiled as sweetly as possible considering the roiling state of my insides. "No, but we're old friends. I'm surprising him and taking him out to lunch."

She arched an eyebrow. "You're not a writer with a manuscript are you?"

"No," I lied smoothly, "we're just friends." I laced the word with as much innuendo as I could muster.

The haughty expression cracked slightly but I couldn't tell if she was amused or disgusted. "Fine. I'll just call up and tell him you're here."

"Oh no," I interrupted quickly, watching with trepidation as her perfectly manicured fingers hovered over the phone. "I'd really like to surprise him, if that's okay."

There were chattering voices and the click of high heels behind me, a line was forming and the receptionist pasted on her bored expression once more. "Fine," she waved at me dismissively. "Fifth floor."

"Thanks," I smiled widely and my cheeks hurt with the effort, but she'd already turned to the next lady in line and I made my way to the elevators unnoticed.

I half expected to have to run another gauntlet of secretaries or receptionists when I hit the fifth floor, but apparently Blondie and the lax security guard were my only obstacles, because when the elevator slid open on the no one even looked at me twice, which is how I found myself wandering aimlessly among the cubicles, undeniably lost.

Finally, after ten minutes of going in endless circles looking for non-existent nameplates I stopped a harassed-looking young man holding a stack of manuscripts who breathlessly directed me down a short hallway. He nodded silently at the dark mahogany door which stood closed before us, but before I could open my mouth to thank him he'd scuttled back the way we'd come.

I knocked on the door before I got too nervous and entered when the deep voice within bade me to, only to realize my mistake instantly. The man behind the desk wasn't my shaggy-haired nemesis; he was much older, tall and dark with a distinguished dusting of grey hair, an expensive suit, and a suave smile.

"Oh!" I cried, trying to back out of the door as quickly as possible. "I'm sorry; I've got the wrong office."

The handsome older man behind the desk stood and shot me a cocky grin. "Nonsense, that isn't possible. I'm quite sure I put in an order for a pretty redhead. Come in."

I laughed. "I'm sorry to have bothered you, I was just looking for Simeon Forster and someone pointed me in this direction."

The dark-haired man spread his arms welcomingly, his smile mega-watt bright. "Well you found him, so please come in."

I stood frozen in the doorway. "You... you're Simeon Forster?"

He nodded, eyeing me up and down. "And I'm going to guess and say you're a writer."

"H-how'd you know?" I sputtered unthinkingly.

Mr. Forster chuckled lowly. "I see a lot of writers in the course of a day, Miss... ?"

"Wallis. Imogen Wallis," I supplied automatically.

"Miss Wallis; although I must say the lost, innocent little girl trick is a new one for me."

"I beg your pardon?" I asked feeling very lost indeed.

His smile dimmed considerably. "Why don't you just pull your manuscript out from under that little sundress of yours and tell me all about the next Great Canadian Novel you've written, and I'll pretend to listen; and then when you've gone your merry way I'll pass said manuscript on to one of my junior editors so he can pretend to read it and you'll never hear from us again. That's how this works, Miss Wallis, although I do applaud your approach."

"Excuse me?" I was confused.

"I don't know how you got up here, or how you found out my name, but we generally don't accept unsolicited manuscripts. If you really want me to consider publishing you, send us a proper cover letter and plot synopsis along with some sample chapters, and have your agent give us a call." Simeon Forster had lost the handsome, charming expression and instead just looked weary and bored.

"I- I have a publisher already," I said. "I'm not here about my book."

Mr. Forster looked uncertain. "You're not? Then what are you here about?"

"I- I'm not entirely sure," I confessed, blushing. "There was a letter, and Linda said you'd asked about me..."

"Linda? Who the hell is Linda?" He sat down again behind the desk with a scowl; it didn't take a genius to notice he'd become considerably less welcoming as time passed.

"Linda Swartz; she's my editor," I said with a growing sense of panic. Maybe Linda had been wrong.

"Swartz? Over at Prurient Press?" Understanding dawned on his handsome face. "Oh, you're one of those writers..."

"Yes, Mr. Forster," I replied hotly, "I'm one of those writers. Now I'm very sorry if I've taken up your precious time, but there's been a mistake and now I'm leaving."

"Wait please," he said smoothly, turning on his considerable charm once more. "Won't you sit down? If you want to talk about your book, I'd be more than happy to hear the details."

I saw red. "Yeah, now you want details!"

The response to my indignation was deep chuckle which I heard in stereo. Behind his desk Mr. Forster was laughing at me and from the doorway behind me...

I turned about only to find myself face-to-face with the dark-haired stranger I'd been itching to find. He's shaved since I had seen him last, but his shaggy hair still fell in his chocolate brown eyes and he still wore the confident smile I remembered. He was wearing a pair of beautifully tailored dress pants and a crisp shirt and tie; it was completely different from the grubby chinos and t-shirt of our previous encounter, yet he looked no more out-of-place for it and no less handsome.

"Careful, Old Man," he said teasingly, glancing over my shoulder in to the room beyond. "She's got quite the temper. Don't let her size fool you, she'll chew you up and spit you out before you even know what's hit you."

"Voice of experience?" Mr. Forster asked, not even trying to hide the amusement in his tone. "I should have known she was one of yours."

I whirled back, incensed. "I beg your pardon? One of his?"

My cocky stranger brushed deliberately past me and into the room. I tried to ignore the brief jolt of heat as his arm touched my own. He settled into a chair across the desk from the older man and smiled brightly. Seeing the two closely together shocked me; same cocky smile, same amazing brown eyes, same wavy brown hair.

"He's your father?" I asked incredulously; I couldn't believe I didn't see the resemblance earlier.

The younger of the two chuckled. "Simeon Forster, Junior, at your service," he said mockingly, with a small, seated bow.

I could feel my temper peak, but when I opened my mouth nothing came out. I'd never been so mad in my life.

"Careful Sim," Forster Sr. said warningly but not without a gleam of amusement in his handsome eyes. "She looks like she'd like to castrate you on the spot."

Sim chuckled again, the noise an echo of his father's.

"You... you... asshole," I spit out, too furious to find another more appropriate word. I wasn't sure the English language had one. I also wasn't sure which Simeon Forster I was addressing; at the moment, it didn't really matter

"Is this about the letter, Imogen? Because I was just trying to help you with your punctuation... and your fellatio." Sim smiled slyly; from behind the desk Forster Sr. looked shocked and amused.

I took the letter from my purse, crumpled it up, and threw it at him. It bounced harmlessly of Sim's broad chest. "I'll tell you what you can do with your fucking fellatio!"

"Have you two... ?" Forster Sr. asked with a laugh, raising both eyebrows skyward.

Sim shook his dark head. "Not yet." His smile was slow and sexy.

I ignored the rush of sensation flooding my stomach and scowled as menacingly as humanly possible. "Not yet?" I shouted, wishing I had something else to throw at him, something much heavier. "Not ever!" I spun about and stormed from the office, all too aware of my over-heated face and the curious glances I was getting as I wound my way back through the maze of cubicles towards the elevators.

"Wait, Imogen!" Simeon Jr. was not far behind me and his much longer stride caught him up before the elevator could open. "Please wait!"

"This again?" I asked acerbically as I waited for the elevator. If I knew where the stairs were I would have taken those, anything to get as far away from both Simeon Forsters as possible.

"Yeah, we always end up back here, huh? Me running after you." Sim replied flippantly; I glowered at him.

"How'd you find me?" I enquired.

Sim shrugged. "Made a few phone calls; wasn't that hard, really. There aren't many publishers in this city who handle erotica. Actually, Linda was only the second person I called."

"Why?"

He sighed heavily, running a tanned hand through his dark, tousled hair. "I don't know, I felt bad about the way I left things the last time, I suppose."

"You felt bad?" I snapped, happy to hear the elevator come to a stop; the doors slid open and I stepped inside. "Geez, that note was a funny way of apologizing."

Sim got on the elevator too and before I could protest the doors closed and we lurched into motion.

"Okay," he admitted, actually looking sheepish. "It was a mean thing to do, but I was pissed off at you too. I couldn't get you out of my head and I wanted to make sure you didn't just forget me. I wanted to see you again."

I stood in silence, afraid to look at him, afraid of what my rapidly beating heart meant.

"Look Imogen, I'm sorry. How many more times are you going to make me apologize?"

I shook my head, relieved when the elevators doors opened to reveal the lobby. "None, I'm done with you."