Page 81 of Jane Deyre

“You have a book tour ahead of you. Two dozen back-to-back cities, and then we will be traveling abroad to promote the book. It’s being translated into every language. The first stop will be London, then—”

I cut her off. “We?”

“Yes,us.Youandme... and the old biddy, too, since it is her memoir. It’s going to be hectic. You’ll have no time on your hands to take care of your daughter.”

“I’ll bring along her nanny. Jane.”She won’t even need her own room if I have my way.

Her face puckers. “That uneducated, whey-faced child-woman?”

My blood bubbles. “Don’t you insult her intelligence or beauty.” Still simmering mad, I feel like a weight has been lifted from my chest. I defended Jane... something I should have done during dinner. Instead, I let the insults roll off Blanche’s barbed-wire tongue.

Her thinly plucked brows lift to her forehead. She huffs. “You call that plain Jane—that waif—beautiful?”

“Yes.”

Blanche’s beauty is distant. The kind you have to chase after. And when you catch it, flits away just to spite you.

Jane’s beauty is accessible. The kind you can hold in your hand. And stare at all day.

And she’s warm and tender. Altruistic and caring. Sincere and earthy. Everything you’re not.And she loves my daughter.

“What is it between you and her?”

“I fuck—”

I fucking love her.I’m about to confess my true feelings about my daughter’s nanny, but Blanche cuts me off. “What!? You fuck her? She’s hardly out of diapers. I’d call that child molestation!”

My stomach roils. I’m reaching the boiling point. I’m about to implode or do something I’ll regret. “Blanche, this conversation has gone far enough.”

“I haven’t begun. I’m sick and tired of waiting for you. Playing your games. I let you go to Paris to clear your head. But what do you do? You sow your wild oats... come back... fall into my arms again... and then abandon me by moving to Coos Bay, wherever the hell that is. Siberia? Then you go into hibernation and leave me high and dry. And I’m not just talking about not writing a stinking word for five years. We could have become the power couple of the literary world. It’s not too late, Ward. I made you. You owe me.”

“I owe you nothing, Blanche. Without me, you would have been just another dime-a-dozen ingénue prancing around the Four Seasons, and there would be no Ingram Literary Agency.”

“Fuck you!” On my next breath, she slaps my face hard. The crack of her hand against my cheek reverberates in my ears as the sting sinks in.

Madness swimming in her eyes, she straddles me. Lifting her dress to her hips and squeezing her powerful-from-working-out-her-whole-life thighs around my haunches. Her rock-hard ass on my cock, squashing it, she takes my face between her hands like a vise. Her long, razor-sharp nails dig into my scalp and I’m sure she’s drawn blood.

“Jesus, Blanche!”

She silences me with her mouth. Biting down on my lips. I press mine tightly together so she can’t penetrate them. So tightly I taste blood. While I writhe beneath her, she tears at my hair like a wild animal.

Behind me I hear footsteps.Click-clack. They come to an abrupt halt. A glass shatters on the floor. The footsteps resume, this time rapid, louder, and fade quickly.

I struggle to free myself from Blanche. Trying to push her away. Bounce her off me. The lioness she is, she won’t give up her prey. Yes, I could call on all the force I have (and I have a lot), but in this #MeToo world, it would do me more harm than good to hurt her.

From the corner of my eye, I see her still full glass of champagne on the tray table. It’s within my reach. Worth a shot. Leaning forward, I grab it, and in one swift move, dump it over her head.

Taken by surprise, she breaks away from me and shrieks. With one hand, she brushes off the liquid that’s pouring down her face. Her other hand goes straight to my face and she slaps me again. Harder than the first time. Not a wince from me. Not a flinch.

She leaps up and glowers at me while blinking back the Clicquot. “You fucking asshole.” Her hair soaking wet, the champagne trickles onto her silk dress. “And you’ve ruined my Versace gown. The cost to replace it will come out of your first royalty payment.”

“Be my guest,” I say hotly and then storm out of the library while she scours it in search of something to dry herself off.

I’m done with the psycho bitch.

As of tomorrow, Blanche Ingram is going to be out of my life for good. She will no longer represent me. I will no longer be her client.

I’m firing her sorry ass.