Excerpt of Envy by Sandra Brown

Chapter One

"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."