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CHAPTER 1

But there's got to be." Maris Matherly-Reed impatiently tapped her
pencil against the notepad upon which she had doodled a series of
triangles and a chain of loops. Below those she'd roughsketched an
idea for a book jacket.

"P.M.E., correct?"

"Correct."

"I'm sorry, ma'am, there's no such listing. I doublechecked." The
idea for the book jacket–an autobiographical account of the
author's murky relationship with her stepsibling–had come to
Maris while she was waiting for the directory assistance operator
to locate the telephone number. A call that should have taken no
more than a few seconds had stretched into several minutes.

"You don't have a listing for P.M.E. in this area
code?"

"In any area code," the operator replied. "I've accessed the entire
U.S."

"Maybe it's a business listing, not a residential."

"I checked both."

"Could it be an unlisted number?"

"It would appear with that designation. I don't have anything under
those initials, period. If you had a last name–"

"But I don't."

"Then I'm sorry."

"Thank you for trying."

Frustrated, Maris reconsidered her sketch, then scribbled over it.
She wasn't going to like that book no matter what the jacket looked
like. The incestuous overtones made her uncomfortable, and she was
afraid a large number of readers would share her uneasiness.

But the editor to whom the manuscript had been submitted felt
strongly about buying it. The subject matter guaranteed author
appearances on TV and radio talk shows, writeups in magazines,
probably a movie-of-the-week option. Even if the reviews were poor,
the book's subject matter was titillating enough to generate sales
in large numbers. The other decision makers in the hardcover
division of Matherly Press had agreed with the editor when she pled
her case, so Maris had deferred to the majority. They owed her
one.

Which brought her back to the prologue of Envy she had read
that afternoon. She had discovered it among a stack of unsolicited
manuscripts. They had been occupying a shelf in her office for
months, collecting dust until that unspecified day when her
schedule permitted her to scan them before sending the anxious
authors the standard rejection letter. Imagining their crushing
disappointment when they read that impersonal and transparent
kiss-off, she felt that each writer deserved at least a few minutes
of her time.

And there was always that outside, one-in-a-million, once-in-a
blue-moon chance that the next Steinbeck or Faulkner or Hemingway
would be mined from the slush pile. That, of course, was every book
editor's pipe dream.

Maris would settle for finding a bestseller. These twelve pages of
prologue had definite promise. They had excited Maris more than
anything she had read recently, even material from her portfolio of
published authors, and certainly more than anything she'd read from
fledgling novelists.

It had piqued her curiosity, as a prologue or first chapter should.
She was hooked, eager to know more, anxious to read the rest of the
story. Had the rest of the story been written? she wondered. Or at
least outlined? Was this the author's first attempt at fiction
writing? Had he or she written in another genre? What were his/her
credentials? Did he/she have any credentials?

There was nothing to indicate the writer's gender, although her gut
feeling said male. Hatch Walker's internal dialogue rang true to
his salty character and read like the language in which a man would
think. The narrative was in keeping with the old sailor's poetic,
though warped, soul.

But the pages had been sent by someone totally inexperienced and
untutored on how to submit a manuscript to a prospective publisher.
All the standard rules had been broken. An SASE for return mailing
hadn't been enclosed. It lacked a cover letter of introduction.
There was no phone number, street address, post office box, or
e-mail address. Only those three initials and the name of an island
that Maris had never heard of. How did the writer hope to sell his
manuscript if he couldn't be contacted?

She noticed that the postmark on the mailing envelope was four
months old. If the author had submitted the prologue to several
publishers simultaneously, it might have already been bought. All
the more reason to locate the writer as soon as possible. She was
either wasting her time or she was on to something with potential.
Whichever, she needed to know sooner rather than later.

"You're not ready?"

Noah appeared in her open office door wearing his Armani tuxedo.
Maris said, "My, don't you look handsome." Glancing at her desk
clock, she realized she had lost all track of time and that she
was, indeed, running late. Raking her fingers through her hair, she
gave a short, self-deprecating laugh. "I, on the other hand, am
going to require some major renovation."

Her husband of twenty-two months closed the door behind him and
advanced into her corner office. He tossed a trade magazine onto
her desk, then moved behind her chair and began massaging her neck
and shoulders, which he knew were the gathering spots for her
tension and fatigue. "Tough day?"

"Not all that bad, actually. Only one meeting this afternoon.
Mostly I've used today to clear some space in here." She gestured
toward the pile of rejected manuscripts awaiting removal.

"You've been reading the stuff in your slush pile? Maris, really,"
he chided lightly. "Why bother? It's a Matherly Press policy not to
buy anything that isn't submitted by an agent."

"That's the official company line, but since I'm a Matherly, I can
bend the rules if I wish."

"I'm married to an anarchist," he teased, bending down to kiss the
side of her neck. "But if you're planning an insurrection, couldn't
your cause be something that streamlines our operation, instead of
one that consumes the valuable time of our publisher and senior
vice president?"

"What an off-putting title," she remarked with a slight shudder.
"Makes me sound like a frump who smells of throat lozenges and
wears sensible shoes."

Noah laughed. "It makes you sound powerful, which you are. And
awfully busy, which you are."

"You failed to mention smart and sexy."

"Those are givens. Stop trying to change the subject. Why bother
with the slush pile when even our most junior editors don't?"

"Because my father taught me to honor anyone who attempted to
write. Even if the individual's talent is limited, his effort alone
deserves some consideration."

"Far be it from me to dispute the venerable Daniel Matherly."

Despite Noah's mild reproof, Maris intended to continue the
practice of going through the slush pile. Even if it was a time
consuming and unproductive task, it was one of the principles upon
which a Matherly had founded the publishing house over a century
ago. Noah could mock their archaic traditions be cause he hadn't
been born a Matherly. He was a member of the family by marriage,
not blood, and that was a significant difference that explained his
more relaxed attitude toward tradition.

A Matherly's blood was tinted with ink. An appreciation for it
seemed to flow through the family's veins. Maris firmly believed
that her family's admiration and respect for the written word and
for writers had been fundamental to their success and longevity as
publishers.

"I got an advance copy of the article," Noah said.

She picked up the magazine he'd carried in with him. A Post-It
marked a specific page. Turning to it, she said, "Ah, great
photo."

"Good photographer."

"Good subject."

"Thank you."

"'Noah Reed is forty, but could pass for much younger,' " she read
aloud from the article. Angling her head back, she gave him a
critical look. "I agree. You don't look a day over
thirty-nine."

"Haha."

"'Daily workouts in the Matherly Press gym on the sixth
floor–one of Reed's innovations when he joined the firm three
years ago–keeps all six feet of him lean and supple.' Well,
this writer is certainly enamored. Did you ever have a thing with
her?"

He chuckled. "Absolutely not."

"She's one of the few."

On their wedding day, Maris had teasingly remarked to him that so
many single women were mourning the loss of one of the city's most
eligible bachelors, she was surprised that the doors of St.
Patrick's Cathedral weren't draped in black crepe. "Does she get
around to mentioning your business acumen and the contributions
you've made to Matherly Press?"

"Farther down."

"Let's see...'graying at the temples, which adds to his
distinguished good looks'... So on and so forth about your
commanding demeanor and charm. Are you sure– Oh, here's
something. 'He shares the helm at Matherly Press with his
father-in-law, publishing legend Daniel Matherly, who serves as
chairman and CEO, and Reed's wife, Maris Matherly-Reed, whom he
claims has perfect selection and editorial skills. He modestly
credits her with the company's reputation for publishing
bestsellers.'" Pleased, she smiled up at him. "Did you say
that?"

"And more that she didn't include."

"Then thank you very much."

"I only said what I know to be true."

Maris read the remainder of the flattering article, then set the
magazine aside. "Very nice. But for all her gaganess she overlooked
two major biographical points."

"And they are?"

"That you're also an excellent writer."

"The Vanquished is old news."

"But it should be mentioned anytime your name appears in
print."

"What's the second thing?" he asked in the brusque tone he used
whenever she brought up his one and only published novel.

"She said nothing about your marvelous massage techniques."

"Happy to oblige."

Closing her eyes, Maris tilted her head to one side. "A little
lower on your... Ahh. There." He dug his strong thumb into a spot
between her scapulas, and the tension began to dissolve.

"You're in knots," he said. "Serves you right for scavenging
through that heap of garbage all day."

"As it turns out, it might not have been time wasted. I actually
found something that sparked my interest."

"You're joking."

"No."

"Fiction or non?"

"Fiction. Only a prologue, but it's intriguing. It
starts–"

"I want to hear all about it, darling. But you really should shake
a leg if we're going to get there in time."

He dropped a kiss on the top of her head, then tried to withdraw.
But Maris reached for his hands and pulled them over her shoulders,
holding them flattened against her chest. "Is tonight
mandatory?"

"More or less."

"We could miss one function, couldn't we? Dad begged off
tonight."

"That's why we should be there. Matherly Press bought a table. Two
empty seats would be noticeable. One of our authors is receiving an
award."

"His agent and editor are attending with him. He won't be without a
cheering section." She pulled his hands down onto her breasts.
"Let's call in sick. Go home and shut out the world. Open a bottle
of wine, the cheaper the better. Get in the Jacuzzi and feed each
other a pizza. Make love in some room other than the bedroom. Maybe
even two rooms."

Laughing, he squeezed her breasts affectionately. "What did you say
this prologue was about?" He pulled his hands from beneath hers and
headed for the door.

Maris groaned with disappointment. "I thought I was making you an
offer you couldn't refuse."

"Tempting. Very. But if we're not at this dinner, it'll arouse
suspicion."

"You're right. I'd hate for people to think that we're still acting
like newlyweds who crave evenings alone."

"Which is true."

"But....?"

"But we also have professional responsibilities, Maris. As you are
well aware. It's important for industry insiders to know that when
they refer to Matherly Press, it damn well better be in either the
present or future tense, not the past tense."

"And that's why we attend nearly every publishing event held in New
York," she said as though it were part of a memorized
catechism.

"Precisely."

Their calendars were filled with breakfasts, luncheons, dinners,
receptions, and cocktail parties. Noah believed it was extremely
important, virtually compulsory, that they be seen as active
participants within literary circles, especially since her father
could no longer be involved to the extent he once had been.

Recently Daniel Matherly had slowed down. He didn't attend as many
insider gatherings. He was no longer accepting speaking
engagements, although the requests still poured in. The Four
Seasons was calling daily now to inquire if Daniel would be using
his reserved table for lunch or if they were free to seat another
party there.

For almost five decades, Daniel had been a force to be reckoned
with. Under his leadership, Matherly Press had set the industry
standards, dictated trends, dominated the bestseller lists. His
name had become synonymous with book publishing both domestically
and in foreign markets. He had been a juggernaut who, over a period
of months, had voluntarily been decreasing his momentum.

However, his semi-retirement did not spell the end, or even a
weakening, of the publishing house's viability. Noah thought it was
vitally important that the book publishing community understand
that. If that meant going to award dinners several times a month,
that's what they would do.

He checked his wristwatch. "How much time do you need? I should let
the driver know when we'll be downstairs."

Maris sighed with resignation. "Give me twenty minutes." "I'll be
generous. Take thirty." He blew her a kiss before leaving.

But Maris didn't plunge into her overhaul right away. Instead, she
asked her assistant to place a call. She'd had another idea on how
she might track down the author of ENVY.

While waiting for the requested call to be placed, she gazed out
her office windows. Extending nearly from floor to ceiling, they
formed a corner of the room, providing her a southeastern exposure.
Midtown Manhattan was experiencing a mild summer evening. The sun
had slipped behind the skyscrapers, casting a premature twilight on
the streets below. Already lights were coming on inside buildings,
making the brick and granite structures appear to twinkle. Through
the windows of neighboring buildings, Maris could see other
professionals wrapping up for the day.

The avenues were jammed with competing after-work and pretheater
traffic. Taxies vied for inches of space, nosing themselves into
impossibly small channels between buses and delivery trucks.
Couriers on bicycles, seemingly with death wishes, perilously
played chicken with motor traffic. Revolving doors disgorged
pedestrians onto the crowded sidewalks, where they jostled for
space and wielded briefcases and shopping bags like weapons.

Across Avenue of the Americas, a queue was forming outside Radio
City Music Hall, where Tony Bennett was performing this evening.
She, Noah, and her father had been offered complimentary VIP
tickets, but they'd had to decline them because of the literary
award banquet.

Which she should be dressing for, she reminded herself, just as her
telephone beeped. "He's on line one," her assistant informed
her.

"Thanks. You don't need to wait. See you tomorrow." Maris depressed
the blinking button. "Hello?"

"Yeah. Deputy Dwight Harris here."

"Hello, Deputy Harris. Thank you for taking my call. My name is
Maris MatherlyReed."

"Say again?"

She did.

"Uhhuh."

Maris paused, giving him time to comment or ask a question, but he
didn't, so she went straight to the reason for the call. "I'm
trying to reach someone, an individual who I believe lives on St.
Anne Island."

"That's in our county."

"Georgia, correct?"

"Yes, ma'am," he proudly replied.

"Is St. Anne actually an island?"

"Not much o' one. What I mean is, it's small. But it's an island,
awright. Little less than two miles out from the mainland. Who're
you looking for?"

"Someone with the initials P.M.E."

"Did you say P.M.E.?"

"Have you ever heard of anyone who goes by those initials?"

"Can't say that I have, ma'am. We talking about a man or
woman?"

"Unfortunately, I don't know."

"You don't know. Huh." After a beat or two, the deputy asked, "If
you don't even know if it's a man or woman, what do you want with
'em?"

"It's business."

"Business."

"That's right."

"Huh."

Dead end. Maris tried again. "I thought you might know, or might
have heard of someone who–"

"Nope."

This was going nowhere and her allotted time was running out.
"Well, thank you for your time, Deputy Harris. I'm sorry to have
bothered you."

"No bother."

"Would you mind taking down my name and numbers? Then if you think
of something or hear of someone with these initials, I would
appreciate being notified."

After she gave him her telephone numbers, he said, "Say, ma'am? If
it's back child support or an outstanding arrest warrant or
something like 'at, I'd be happy to see if–"

"No, no. It's not a legal matter in any sense."

"Business."

"That's right."

"Well, okay, then," he said with noticeable disappointment. "Sorry
I couldn't he'p you."

She thanked him again, then closed her office and hurried down the
hallway to the ladies' room, where her cocktail dress had been
hanging since she'd arrived for work early that morning. Because
she frequently changed from business to evening attire before
leaving the building, she kept a full complement of toiletries and
cosmetics in a locker. She put them to use now.

When she joined Noah at the elevator fifteen minutes later, he gave
a long wolf whistle, then kissed her cheek. "Nice turnaround. A
miracle, actually. You look fantastic."

As they descended to street level, she assessed her reflection in
the metal elevator door and realized that her efforts hadn't been
in vain. "Fantastic," was a slight exaggeration, but considering
the dishevelment she'd started with, she looked better than she had
any right to expect.

She'd chosen to wear a cranberrycolored silk sheath with narrow
straps and a scooped neckline. Her nod toward evening glitter came
in the form of diamond studs in her ears and a crystal-encrusted
Judith Leiber handbag in the shape of a butterfly, a Christmas gift
from her father. She was carrying a pashmina shawl purchased in
Paris during a side trip there following the international book
fair in Frankfurt.

She had gathered her shoulder-length hair into a sleek, low
ponytail. The hairdo looked chic and sophisticated rather than
desperate, which had been the case. She had retouched her eye
makeup, outlined her lips with a pencil, and filled them in with
gloss. To give color to her fluorescent-light pallor, she had
applied powdered bronzer to her cheeks, chin, forehead, and
décolletage. Her push-up bra, an engineering marvel, had
created a flattering cleavage that filled up the neckline of her
dress.

"'Her tan and tits were store-bought.'"

The elevator doors opened onto the ground floor. Noah looked at her
curiously as he stepped aside to let her exit ahead of him.

"I beg your pardon?"

She laughed softly. "Nothing. Just quoting something I read
today."

Excerpted from ENVY © Copyright 2001 by Sandra Brown.
Reprinted with permission by Warner Books. All rights
reserved.

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