From the Heart

her full on the mouth. Betsy managed one muffled shriek. Her lips tingled for the first time in ten years.
    “Put me down and behave yourself,” she ordered, clinging to her dignity.
    “Betsy, I’m crazy about you.”
    “Crazy, period,” she corrected, refusing to be charmed by the gleam in his eye. “Just like a writer to be nipping at the brandy before breakfast. Put me down and I’ll fix you some nice black coffee.”
    “I’m a writer,” he told her with something like wonder in his voice.
    “Yes, indeed,” she said soothingly. “Put me down like a good boy.”
    Jessica stopped halfway down the steps to stare. Was that Slade grinning like a madman and holding her housekeeper two feet off the ground? Her mouth dropped open as he planted another kiss on Betsy’s staunch, unpainted lips.
    “Slade?”
    Taking Betsy with him, he turned. It flashed through Jessica’s mind that it was the first time she had seen him fully, completely happy. “You’re next,” he announced as he set Betsy back on her feet.
    “Pixilated,” Betsy told Jessica with a knowing nod. “Before breakfast.”
    “Published,” Slade corrected as he swung Jessica from the stairs. “Before breakfast.” His mouth crushed hers before she had a chance to speak. She felt the emotion coming from him in sparks; hard, clean emotion without eddies or undercurrents. The joy transferred into her so that she was laughing even as her mouth was freed.
    “Published? Your novel? When? How?”
    “Yes. Yes.” He kissed her again before continuing to answer her questions in turn. “I just got a call. Fullbright and Company accepted my manuscript and want to see the oneI’m working on.” Something changed in his eyes as he drew her back against him. She saw it only briefly. It wasn’t a loss of happiness, but a full dawning of realization. “My life’s my own,” he murmured. “It’s finally mine.”
    “Oh, Slade.” Jessica clung to him, needing to share the moment. “I’m so happy for you.” Lifting her face, she framed his in her hands. “It’s just the beginning. Nothing will stop you now, I can feel it. Betsy, we need champagne,” she said as she wrapped her arms around Slade’s neck again.
    “At nine o’clock in the morning?” The sentence trembled with righteous shock.
    “We need champagne at nine o’clock on this morning,” Jessica told her. “Right away in the parlor. We’re celebrating.”
    With her tongue clucking rapidly, Betsy moved down the hall. Writers, she reminded herself, were hardly better than artists. And everyone knew the sort of lives they led. Still, he was a charming devil. She allowed herself one undignified chuckle before she went into the kitchen to report the goings-on to the cook.
    “Come inside,” Jessica ordered. “Tell me everything.”
    “That’s everything,” Slade told her as she pulled him into the parlor. “They want the book, that’s the important thing. I’ll have to get the details from my agent.” The figure of fifty thousand finally registered fully. “I’ll get an advance,” he added with a half laugh. “Enough to keep me going until I sell the second one.”
    “That won’t be long—I read it, remember?” On a sudden burst of energy, she grabbed his hand. “What a movie it would make! Think of it, Slade, you could do the screenplay. You’ll have to be careful with the film rights, make sure you don’t sign away something you shouldn’t. Or a miniseries,” she decided. “Yes, that’s better, then you could—”
    “Ever thought about giving up antiques and opening an agency?” he asked mildly.
    “Negotiating’s negotiating,” she countered, then smiled. “And I’m an artist.”
    With her face set in lines of disapproval, Betsy entered carrying a tray. “Will there be anything else, Miss Winslow?”
    When Betsy used such formal address, Jessica knew shehad sunk beyond reproach. “No, nothing, thank you, Betsy.” She waited until the housekeeper had disappeared before casting Slade a baleful glance. “That’s your fault really,” she informed him. “She’ll be polite and long-suffering all day now because you molested her and I joined you in champagne depravity before breakfast.”
    “We could ask her to have a glass,” he suggested as he worked the cork from the bottle.
    “You really do want me to be in trouble.” Jessica lifted both glasses as the cork popped out. “To writing ‘James Sladerman’ on one of those necessary cards