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Clay curled his lip. Eighteen pages of numbers followed, a demented outburst of someone's spreadsheet program. Title by title Brussels had gone through Gaudy's list, with projections of sales based on changing the number of copies in Wal-Mart, the amount of bus-side advertising, the weight of paper used in dust jackets, the number of trips each sales rep made to key accounts. And Clay was expected-ordered, really-to give a written response to all these projections by the end of the month.
"The curse of modern business is not tight capital, bad management, low productivity, or poor education, but the personal computer," he snarled.
His secretary poked her head through the door. "Did you say something, Clay?"
"Yes. Idiotic boys-and girls-who've never held a book think they can run the book industry from three thousand miles away because they have a microchip that lets them conjure up scenarios. If they'd ever ridden a truck from a warehouse into Wal-Mart they'd know you can't even tell how many copies the store took, let alone-oh, well. What's the use. Send a note down to Amy that she ca
Isabella trembled in his arms. "I must not. You know I must not. Tour mama, if she saw me-"
Her raven hair, enhancing the milky purity of her skin, cascaded over his shoulders as Albion pulled her to him more tightly. "She will learn to love you as I do, my beautiful Mexican flower. Ah, how could I ever have thought I was in love before?"
Albion Whittley thought distastefully of all the spoiled debutantes he'd squired around New York City. He wasn't just Albion Whittley-there was that damned "IV" after his name, meaning his parents expected him to marry someone in their set. How could he expect them to believe that the gardener's daughter stood head and shoulders above all the Be
"Albion, darling, are you enjoying your little holiday? Isabella, I left my gloves on my dressing table. Fetch them for me while my son and I have a talk."
Mrs. Albion Whittley the Third had appeared on the terrace. Her tinkling laugh and light sarcastic ma
"Beautiful," Amy gushed, marveling at her own acting ability. "They triumph over every obstacle in the end? Or is it like Natasha, only able to experience happiness through her granddaughter?"
Roxa
"Wonderful," Amy said. "Only I don't think we can call it The Trail of Tears."
She tried explaining how disrespectful this might seem to the American Indian community, but gave up when her star's eyes flashed fury.
"Everyone knows how good I am to the Indians who live on my estate in Taos. I'm not having them wreck my book because of some hundred-year-old battle they can't forget. And after the way Gerardo treated me-he was half Indian, and always bragging about it-I think they owe me some consideration for a change."
"It's the libraries," Amy said hastily. "So ignorant. But we don't want your book shelved with Indian literature, do we? Your loyal fans will want to see it prominently displayed with new fiction."
They agreed in the end on Fool's Gold, with a Central American pyramid to be shown in jagged pieces around a single rose. Roxa
Amy, alert to the quiver in Roxa
Roxa
"This whole discussion overwhelms me with memories of Gerardo. People said he only wanted me for my money. And to get a green card. But it's not impossible for love to flourish between a man of twenty-four and a woman my age. Just think of Cher. And despite all those ridiculous exercise videos she isn't any better looking than I am."
That much was true. Adolescent passion kept Roxa
"When I found him in bed with my maid I believed Gerardo, that she was homesick and he was comforting her. My mother ridiculed me, but how can you possibly live so cynically and ever be happy?"
Roxa
"But then, the night I got back from Ca
"You poor child," Amy said, patting her hand. "You're far too trusting."
Roxa
"Someone in Santa Fe suggested I talk to a psychiatrist. As if I were sick!"
"How dreadful." Amy sounded shocked. "And yet, the right psychiatrist-a sympathetic woman, perhaps-could listen to you impartially. Unlike your mother, or your friends, who are always judging you and scolding you."
"Is that what psychiatrists do?" Roxa
"The good ones do," Amy said.
"You did what?" Clay Rossiter screamed. "You're the one who needs a psychiatrist. We can't have her getting over her neuroses. They're what drive her books. Look, fifteen weeks after finding Raoul in bed with her maid she produces a bestseller for us. We can do an initial run of a million five. That's our paychecks for the entire year, Amy."
"Raoul was the hero of Broken Covenant. Gerardo was her gardener. You're not the one who has to feed her tea and bolster her after the cad has been found out. Not to mention take her to Lutèce and listen to the storm of passion while it's at gale force."