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Frowning, Delaney nodded her thanks, scooped up the tote and squared her shoulders.
She strode through the heavy doors, lifted her chin and took a deep breath. She’d originally intended to hint around that she’d appreciate his backing on her application. Now she’d have to be more direct. For once, she had to stand up for herself.
Of course, it would help if her father actually looked at her. Delaney cleared her throat, but he still didn’t glance up from the papers he was signing.
“I need your help,” Delaney stated quietly.
He lifted a finger, gesturing for her to wait. Preferably in silence.
She clutched the strap of her bag so hard the canvas hurt her fingers. She wished she had the nerve to throw it across the room, but years of lectures on why losing control never paid off flashed through her head. Temper, temper. Maybe if she recited that often enough, she’d stop imagining how good it might be to let loose and let him know exactly how she felt. But, as with most things nonacademic, imagining was the only way she’d experience the pleasure. Her mother had always been able to soothe away her temper, but once she’d gone, Delaney was on her own. Once, only once, she’d let her temper fly with her father. She’d been ten. He’d sent her away to boarding school as a result.
She glared at the top of his balding head. Tufts of red hair stuck out like chicken fluff. Didn’t it just figure that along with his brilliant mind, she’d inherited the man’s long, lanky body and god-awful hair? Where he came across as scholarly and authoritative, Delaney just looked like a carrot-topped Olive Oyl. Except given her miserable luck with men, instead of fighting over her, Popeye and Bluto would probably run off with each other.
“What kind of help?” Randolph Conner, Dean of Rosewood College and Delaney’s only living relative, asked in a distracted tone when he finally glanced at her.
“Support,” she informed him. “You know I applied for the assistant’s position. Apparently Professor Belkin is changing the job requirements.”
“He’s merely expanding the job description,” Dean Conner—as he preferred everyone, including his only daughter, to address him—said. He still didn’t bother looking at her, so Delaney didn’t bother hiding her angry expression. “Professor Belkin, as head of the English department, feels we need a strong, dynamic person in the position.”
Frustration surged through her. For all the faculty noticed—her father included—she really was invisible. Delaney thrust out her chin and did the unthinkable—she questioned his motives.
“Is it because she’s so attractive?” she asked.
“Wha…?” Dean Conner shot her a frown, his brows drawn together like a pair of bright red caterpillars. Finally, a reaction. “Who? Professor Tate? How does her appearance factor into anything? Who cares about all that physical fluff?”
And he meant it. A single parent, Randolph Conner had raised Delaney to value intelligence. Intellect, he deemed, was much more meaningful than something as fleeting and nebulous as society’s current definition of beauty.
Of course, since most of the rest of society hadn’t been raised with the same standard, that left Delaney at a slight disadvantage. She ground her teeth in frustration. And now it looked like brains weren’t enough, either.
“Professor Tate is the woman who was just here, right?” Delaney took a deep breath and, despite the clenching in her gut, confronted him. “My qualifications, to say nothing of my seniority, are stronger.”
Her father sighed, his deep, put-upon sigh that let her know she was wasting his valuable time. He used the same sigh when she’d wanted to learn how to ride a bike, had asked permission to go to school activities or wanted to get a pet. That sigh was so effective she still couldn’t ride a bike and had the social skills of a pimply-faced twelve-year-old girl who’d been deprived of the love of a puppy.
“Delaney, you’re missing the point. We need fresh blood in the English department. New ideas and a strong program.”
She just stared. He obviously wasn’t going to back her proposal. But she needed to hear it from him.
“Will you support my application?” she asked, her throat tight.
“As I said, we need fresh blood. Bright, energetic people who will bring excitement to the program. You’re one of our most brilliant professors, Delaney. A strong benefit to the department.” He fiddled with some papers on his desk, then met her eyes. He had that irritated “it’s for your own good” look on his face. Her stomach did a somersault. “As a matter of fact, at Professor Belkin’s recommendation, this next semester we’re going to experiment with taking some of the classes to the Internet. We’d like you to handle them.”
He handed her a course outline for the summer semester. She didn’t have a single nonvirtual class.
Her breath caught in her chest and she abruptly sank into a chair. Tears, rarely allowed to surface, filled her eyes. She took the few seconds needed to gather control, knowing her father would prefer she delay her response rather than show any form of emotion he might have to acknowledge.
“If I’m such a benefit, why’d I just get demoted?” Not what she’d intended to say, but she found she didn’t regret her outburst. After all, maybe if she spoke up for once, he’d listen to her.
Before he could put into words the irritation clear on his face, she jumped up to pace the room, the paper clenched in her fist. “Oh, sure, you can claim it’s not an official demotion. But what the hell would you call it when my classes are suddenly all via cyberspace?”
If not for her brains, nobody would ever notice her. And now they’d found a way to get her brains without her actual physical presence. She resisted the urge to sniff to see if she smelled bad. Apparently that was her life’s theme: Delaney Conner, the Invisible Woman.
She sucked in a shuddering breath and shoved a hand through her hair. Her fingers tangled in the knot she’d forgot she’d anchored in place with a pencil. With a wince, she untangled herself and tossed the pencil—along with a few carroty-red hairs she’d yanked out as well—on her father’s desk.
He glanced at the pencil, then back at her. Then he sighed.
“I don’t have time to debate this, Delaney. I’m due in a meeting in a few minutes and would like to review my notes. Please—” he waved toward the door “—we’ll discuss it another time.”
Her fists clenched at her sides, she watched him turn back to his papers. And just like that, he’d dismissed her. As usual. Delaney opened her mouth to tell him just where he could shove his meeting, to demand that he address her questions and really actually listen to her. Those damned tears welled up again, this time out of frustration that he couldn’t—wouldn’t—understand her. Value her. For once. She blinked the tears—and words—back, though. What was the point?
He’d never paid any attention to her before. Her intellectual achievements were expected, not celebrated. And to Randolph Conner, intellect was the only thing that mattered.
Her vision now blurred with anger, Delaney grabbed her purse and stormed out of the office.
She caught a glimpse of herself in the plateglass window. Long, skinny and…brown. She was a baggy mess. The heavy tweed of her ill-fitting suit sagged, her shoulder pads drooped. Just because the Conner family put no value on physical appeal didn’t mean the rest of the world didn’t. With a considering frown, she yanked at the waistband of her suit jacket to mimic a better fit. She captured the strands of hair flying around her face, then tucked them behind her ear. Her shoulders drooped. Still a mess. Definitely not what Belkin had in mind as a more visually appealing assistant.
Delaney ground her teeth. So what did she do? Give up? Go teach at a different school? Resign herself to invisibility?
Hell, no.
She stomped down the hall and planted herself in front of Mindy’s desk.
“Makeover, huh?” she asked.
Mindy’s blue eyes bugged out so much she looked like a squished Barbie doll.
“Really?” The girl scrambled to hand over the magazine, pages tearing in her haste to get it into Delaney’s hands.
The glossy image promising a sexy, sophisticated change made Delaney pause. Then she lifted her chin. It was time she stopped letting her father decide what had value and what didn’t. After all, that was probably the only way she’d ever learn to put any stock in herself. His assessment definitely wasn’t working in her favor.
“Instead of a well-earned promotion, I’ve been invited to teach from the comfort of my own home,” Delaney said with a sneer.
“Huh?”
“I’m taking over the Internet English curriculum.”
“I didn’t know we had an Internet English curriculum.”
“We do now. And it’s all mine. All the better to keep me invisible.”
Delaney knew she sounded bitter, but she couldn’t help it. She was bitter. And angry. And, not that she wanted to admit it, just a little desperate. After all, her career defined her and that definition had just taken a turn for the worse.
She glanced at the magazine again. Risqué. That was so not her. What chance did she have of winning? And would it really help? Belkin wanted visually appealing and charismatic. A few swipes of mascara and blush wouldn’t give her that.
“Did I mention the hiring committee won’t even look at the applications until the fall semester?” Mindy asked. “Even though Belkin’s made his choice, it still has to go before the rest of the committee.”
Delaney pursed her lips. That would give her six months. She considered for all of three seconds. Change? Or invisibility? Bottom line…invisibility sucked.
“I’m in,” she declared, ignoring the warning blaring in her head, screaming that decisions made in anger never paid off. “How do I become visible?”
2
“YOU HAVE TO ADMIT, sex sells,” Nick Angel declared, leaning back in the butter-soft leather chair and folding his hands behind his head. “And I sell it better than most.”
“Sure, sure,” Gary Masters, Nick’s literary agent, agreed with a slow nod. “Nobody is saying you don’t do great sex, Nicky. The thing is, this new editor wants more.”
Nick puffed out a breath. This was the third meeting he’d had in two months over editorial changes. Nick wanted a solid relationship with this new editor. After all, he credited a great deal of his career success to his previous editor. Damned if he didn’t wish she hadn’t retired.
“More sex?” He frowned, then shrugged. As long as it didn’t compromise the ratio of suspense in his books, he didn’t mind more sex. He’d just cut back on that foreplay crap, hit them hard and fast with the hot-and-wild kink. “I can do that.”
“Not more sex,” Gary said, his voice a low rumble at odds with the sophisticated gloss of the office. “More emotion.”
Nick dropped his feet to the floor and frowned. He’d come to New York to meet with Gary, sign his next round of publishing contracts and take in some R&R before heading back to San Francisco. From the way Gary was tapping his pen against the stack of contracts on his desk, there was a little problem or five buried in those papers.
“He’s suggesting more emotion?”
“More like demanding.”
Son of a bitch. “Three books on the New York Times bestseller list and he wants to change the core of my work? You’re kidding, right?”
“Look, you don’t have to take the demand. We can counter the contract clause. Or we can shop you around. But…”
“But what?”
“Well, he’s really pushing the point. He’s backed it with plenty of industry facts, data and even some fan requests. You’re starting to lose your female fan base, which composes over thirty percent of your sales, according to data.”
Nick gave a bad-tempered grimace. He wrote erotic suspense, not romantic suspense. The only emotions in his books were fear, excitement and lust. Jaw clenched, he bounced his fist on his knee.
“Look, those numbers came from the publisher. How do you know they aren’t skewed to their advantage?”
Gary raised a bushy brow. “In the first place, I’m not some green newbie without a clue—I checked with my own sources. In the second place, I’ve had even more mail here requesting you tone down the meaningless sex and give John Savage a softer side. The female fans want emotions. Even your reviewers are starting to band together about this. One just slammed your writing in a national magazine.”
Nick shrugged his disinterest. Reviewers had their place, but it wasn’t behind his computer keyboard. He wrote for himself first and foremost. If he’d caved to all the people who wanted him to write differently—hell, to be different—he’d have quit long ago.
“Don’t scoff,” Gary warned. “I know reviews don’t mean anything to you, but this one has become a hot topic on the Internet. And your editor is freaking out. He’s sure your next release will tank. In fact, he even messengered me a copy of the magazine with the reviewer’s comments highlighted.”
Nick frowned. “Who the hell is this guy?”
“Gal.”
He rolled his eyes. Figured. Female reviewer, female fans. Leave it to women to demand more emotion. What was with them and their need to talk about, hell, to even believe in the fairy tale of love?
Nick sneered. He’d watched enough manipulation, pain and drama played out in the name of that nebulous love thing to know the reality. Emotions were simply a label for choices made in the moment. They were what people used to justify whatever it was they wanted to do.
Nick prided himself on his honesty, brutal though others might find it; he always stated in the beginning of any physical relationship that he didn’t play the emotion game. And yet, like his character, John Savage, women always figured they could change him. The only ones not interested in changing him were the ones interested in using him.
Just like this damned reviewer. Probably thought she’d make a name for herself by slamming his work, thinking if he caved to her review, she’d be set.
“So some mouthy reviewer wants to use my books as a platform,” Nick summed up with a shrug. “Let her try. It doesn’t matter to me, I’m not changing. John Savage is a solid character. He’s intense, he’s a man’s man. The last thing his stories need are foofy love stuff slopping around to mess him up.”
“Actually, she has a solid reputation in publishing circles. She’s gained quite a bit of notoriety over the last couple months, though.”
“Based on trashing my books,” Nick scoffed.
“Nah, trashing you was incidental. Her rise to fame is from a contest she just won. Risqué magazine ran the interview last month.”
When he raised a brow, Gary lifted a file off the corner of his desk and handed it over. Nick flipped through the contents.
Risqué. One of the top women’s periodicals in the country, it touted everything from sexual adventure to health and fashion. Huge doe eyes framed by a silky sweep of russet hair caught his attention. There was something in those carefully made-up eyes, a vulnerability, that tugged at him. Rather than dwelling on it, Nick ignored the glossy images and went straight for the text.
“Ms. Madison, don’t you feel modern fiction leaves quite a bit to be desired?”
“Oh, no. There is so much fabulous writing in the bookstores today. New authors are to today’s reader what Brontë was to her readers. Inspired, entertaining, talented.”
“Brontë could be termed romance?”
“Definitely. But the other genres hold just as true.”
“What about oh, say, erotica or suspense?”
“If those are your cup of tea, one of the best authors to read is Nick Angel. He’s done a commendable job of combining both eroticism and suspense. You can’t read his books without having a physical reaction. Definitely a pulse raiser.”
Nick grinned. He wondered how often he’d raised her pulse.
“Then as a literary expert, you recommend Nick Angel?”
“If you want a commitment-free read, definitely.”
Nick frowned.
“Commitment-free?”
“Well, his books are great, but not the kind you become emotionally invested in. The sex, while some of the hottest out there, is always distanced. There is very little empathy or reader involvement. It’s like watching a fast-paced television program. A lot of impact in a short amount of space, but not enough depth to make the reader care much about the characters. It’s similar to well-done pornography. Hot and sexy, yes—I’ll be the first to say it totally draws you in for the sexual payoff. But that’s all it is. Sex for the sake of titillation. It’s too bad Angel is afraid of emotion. If he brought in some depth, his books would be amazing.”
Afraid? Nick sneered. Who was afraid? Just because opening the door to emotions was the equivalent to being shoved into a pit of flesh-eating piranha…
“She compared my work to porn?” he asked, not wanting to think about the other irritating—if blatantly untrue—accusation. It wasn’t the first time someone had made the comparison to porn. But it was the first time it’d bothered him. It was probably those big brown eyes of hers.
“That’s the part everyone latched on to.” Gary’s narrow fingers tapped a rhythm on the stack of contracts. Nick scanned the man’s face. Angular, almost scholarly, the gray-haired agent looked like a wise monk. He had the heart of a shark and the industry knowledge of a wizard. It was thanks to him that Nick was where he was, career-wise. The guy knew his business.
He also barbequed a mean steak, kept Nick’s mother off his back and had pulled Nick out of the nightmarish hell that had been his life after his wife had publicly humiliated him during their divorce. Nick owed him. Even more important, he trusted him.
“Look, I know you avoid emotions. And you have good reason, given your past,” Gary said in a carefully measured tone. Nick just glared. He didn’t want to talk about Angelina. The woman had lured him in, then ripped his life apart. Even after finding out about her affair, he’d been willing to work things out. She hadn’t, though, as she’d proved when she’d hit the interview circuit to share with the world the deep, dark secrets of their marriage. And more to the point, their sex life. Thanks to her, his sales had skyrocketed in equal measure to his ego deflating. Her point, he was sure, since she’d snagged a tidy share of his royalties. That’d been all Nick had needed to assure him that giving in to emotion was a one-way ticket to being screwed over.
“I don’t avoid anything,” he denied adamantly. “I just think this publicity stunt is a bunch of bullshit.”
“Nick, just consider it. You know, give Savage a love interest. Make your editor happy. Appease some female fans. Head this off before it gets any bigger.”
“My character is already established, Gary. I’ve already done eight books. It’s obvious he’s not an emotional kind of guy. He works, the stories work. You can’t just go in, midseries, and rewrite his entire history and motivation. I’d lose my core readership.”
