Sincerely,

Abelard H. Pritchard

Executive Assistant to the Director

Palmer Publications

*****

Despite every delaying tactic she could devise, Auden was still fifteen minutes early. When the brass-plated doors of the double wide elevator slid silently open on the top floor of the Palmer Building, she found herself in the reception area of the executive suite. A perfectly coiffed redhead looked up from behind the adjoing desk with a practiced smile.

"Good morning," the receptionist purred. "May I help you?"

"Yes, I have an appointment with Mr. Pritchard."

"Your name?"

"Auden Frost."

"Just a moment." A half-swivel on the leather chair, a flash of fingers flying across a keyboard, a series of entries scrolling down the computer monitor. Another pleasant smile. "I’m sorry. I don’t see your name. Perhaps it’s with another division? I doubt that Mr. Pritchard—"

"I have the appointment here." Auden passed the letter across the wide surface.

A phone call later and yet another smile. "Please come this way, Ms. Frost."

"Thank you." Auden followed through a paneled walnut door into a labyrinth of hallways with smaller rooms opening on either side to yet another set of double doors.

The redhead pressed an intercom discreetly set into the wall. "I have Ms. Frost, Mr. Pritchard."

"Send her in, please, Alana."

Once inside, Auden found herself facing a tall, thin man who looked to be about fifty, with a full head of dark hair and steel blue eyes. She held out her hand.

"Mr. Pritchard? Auden Frost."

"Ms. Frost," he said in a well-modulated baritone. "Please sit down. Our records indicate that you were initially scheduled to interview for a position in the non-fiction division."

"That’s correct." Perplexed, Auden raised an eyebrow. "And I take it there’s a problem?"

"An embarrassing one—for me." He folded his hands and leaned forward. "It seems that the positi—"

A door on the far side of his office opened and a woman walked in. "Abel, have you got—"

Both Auden and Abelard Pritchard turned in the direction of the woman who stood in the open doorway. She was taller than average, with unruly jet black hair and obsidian eyes that appeared fathomless in contrast to her pale complexion. Her gaze locked with Auden’s, and without moving her eyes from Auden’s face, she murmured in a throaty tenor, "I’m sorry, I didn’t realize you had an appointment."

"Neither, apparently, did I," Pritchard said. "I’m afraid I failed to inform Ms. Frost that the position for which she was scheduled to interview had already been filled."

"What position?"

Auden cleared her throat. "An editor in the non-fiction division."

"Editor?" The newcomer leaned a shoulder gracefully against the highly polished woodwork of the doorframe. "Have you experience?"

The scrutiny from the penetrating eyes was as tangible as a touch, and Auden found her throat suddenly tight as she replied. "Yes."

"Perhaps we should talk."

"I’m sorry?" Auden gave a visible start. Who is this woman?

"Abel, can you please assemble the necessary paperwork and show Ms. Frost into my office?"

"Hays, I’m not certain—"

The woman turned away. "Thank you, Mr. Pritchard."

Pritchard rose stiffly, then indicated the doorway through which the dark-haired woman had disappeared. "If you please, Ms. Frost."

Auden had no choice but to follow and soon found herself looking once again into dark eyes flecked with bits of silver and gold. Lovely, hypnotically beautiful. Like the woman.

"I’m Haydon Palmer, Ms. Frost."

Auden blinked, and the spell was broken. Once again she held out her hand, and the returned grip this time was just as firm as Mr. Pritchard’s, but the skin cooler, and the skin very soft. "I’m happy to meet you."

"Please, have a seat," Hays said as she gently released Auden’s hand.

Auden tried not to look as shell-shocked as she felt. She hadn’t expected an interview with the president of the publishing company, nor had she expected Haydon Palmer to be quite so…well, so… Young? Commanding? Stunning?

While Haydon flipped pages, Auden took advantage of the opportunity to study her. She didn’t look much older than Auden’s twenty-five, although her pale flawless skin, draped elegantly over chiseled cheekbones and sculpted jaw, made it difficult to delve beneath the beauty for the usual clues. From where she sat, Auden could make out a few faint lines at the corners of deep-set eyes, but these could have been from laughter as well as years. Only the barest hint of shadows bruising nearly translucent lower lids marred the otherwise perfect face. The hands that held the sheet of paper were long fingered and finely boned. Oddly, Auden could discern a faint tremor in them. For some reason, that unwitting confession of physical vulnerability caused Auden to catch her breath sharply. She found Haydon Palmer infinitely more attractive in the face of this slight hint of human frailty.

Hays glanced up to find Auden’s blue-green eyes riveted on her face. The gently searching look was soft and soothing on her skin. As silence descended once again, Hays allowed her gaze to roam over the woman who watched her with a faint question in her green eyes.

Reddish highlights glinted in thick golden hair, full red lips parted faintly, and the delicately drawn features, coupled with the glow of honey-tinged complexion, created a visage worthy of a portrait gallery. The suggestion of a strong body tempered by gentle curves completed the picture of an extraordinarily attractive woman.

"What exactly did you edit?" Hays asked, her tone low, almost seductive.

Auden dragged her eyes away from Haydon Palmer’s face, hoping to dispel the disquieting distraction the woman’s presence created. She cleared her throat and replied in a steady voice. "Miller’s was a scholarly press. I started out editing the art and literature publications, and for the last year, was the education division manager."

"Have you ever edited fiction?"

"No," Auden answered carefully. "I won’t pretend there are no differences, but the mechanics must surely be the same."

Hays leaned back in the dark leather chair and crossed her ankle over her knee. "Who’s your favorite romance writer?"

"I’m sorry?"

"You do read fiction?"

"Uh…occasionally. Well, rarely, actually."

"What do you read for pleasure?"

"Why not fiction?"