Randall #03 - Sherwood Ltd. by Anne R. Allen Page A

identified it as Damsels in the Dungeon by Rodd Whippington.
    I shuddered and pulled the duvet tighter.
    Peter laughed. “Pervy rubbish, but Dominion titles are what pay the bills.”
    I couldn’t laugh with him, even to be polite. Here, the smutty books didn’t seem as harmless as they had in Felix’s store. And it would be awful if Peter liked that sort of thing himself.
    The desk phone rang. As Peter picked it up, I stuck my feet into my Nikes and made a dash for the loo. The outer office was empty, and I found the corridor that led to the bathrooms. On my way out, I nearly bumped into Tom Mowbray, still in his paint-spattered hoodie, exiting the Gents.
    He blinked as if trying to dispel a hallucination. I realized how absurd I must look in my duvet-and-unlaced shoes ensemble.
    “I love the cover you designed for my book, Mr. Mowbray,” I said, trying to make the situation less awkward. “It’s perfect. I like your oak tree painting too.”
    He grunted, but said nothing as he scurried down the hallway to what I presumed was the “burrow” wing of the factory.
    When I returned, Peter sat at his desk, still on the phone, looking like any executive in his office—except for the bits of my clothing draped over his furniture. Embarrassed, I quickly gathered them. He was talking about Trask’s defection again. Apparently quantities of the books had been ordered; a launch party planned; and an article on Mr. Trask planned for the local paper.
    I wondered what could drive a writer to walk out on his own book. I’d fallen in love with mine, even with blank pages. Leaving it would feel like abandoning a child.
    Peter motioned at his watch to suggest he’d be on the phone a few more minutes, so I decided to haul my suitcase back to the ladies’ room.
    I felt a little better after the dribbly shower, although I hadn’t brought a towel, so I had to dry myself with a couple of tee-shirts. I hadn’t brought a hair dryer, either, because of the differences in electrical current. I dressed in a sweatshirt and jeans as my teeth chattered and my hair dripped icy rivulets down my back.
    I tried to cheer myself by remembering the pastoral scene out the office window. I could take advantage of the dry weather and explore—look for a more suitable place to stay, maybe. Or buy ear plugs. The pub might not be so awful if I could block the noise.
    When I got back, Peter was still muttering things like “bloody” and “Yank” into his phone, but he grinned at me.
    “I must go. There’s a freshly showered girl in my office.” He returned the receiver to its cradle. “Sorry. I didn’t think I’d need the office this weekend, but with this bloody Trask mess…” He walked to where I stood, my hair dripping on the parquet floor “Camilla Randall, you may be the most beautiful damp girl I’ve ever seen. In front of that painting, you might be Maid Marian, after a swim, waiting for Robin Hood to bring home a nice joint of venison.”
    He moved closer. Maybe it was the mention of Robin Hood—or maybe it was his lopsided, childish grin, but this time, I rather hoped he would kiss me. In fact, if he came any closer, I might start the kissing myself.
    But at the last moment, he turned away and picked up my book.
    “Do you like it?”
    I took a quick breath. “I’d prefer it with words inside.”
    He laughed as if I’d told a joke and flipped the pages.
    “Indeed. Just a mock-up Davey printed for the art department. You like it?”
    I nodded, feeling stupid again.
    “Good. We’ll go with it. I’ve just been on the horn with the Professor. He’s suggested some edits, but I don’t think many will be required. Your market isn’t Oxbridge; it’s working class housewives who want to feel a bit posh. I want Davey to get it in print as soon as possible. We’ve pushed up your publication to May first.”
    “May first?” Did he really mean that? Only two weeks away.
    “No point in wasting time. We have a launch scheduled