One Bad Apple

by P. M. Freeman

Genres: Erotic & Steamy Romance

Synopsis

Mark Dean: the consummate English gentleman; refined, restrained, a trifle aloof. His life is an open book, or so it seems, but still waters run deep and there's something about tough, sassy literary agent Jo MacLean that threatens to bring out the worst in him, which is exactly what she wants, a good, hard, bare bottom spanking. Then there's Charlotte Montgomery, Mark's sassy, imperious business colleague, and the idle but attractive Stephen Dean, who add to the mix of a plot that's both sexy and funny. Definitely one to be read in bed, and not on the train, or you might end up in trouble too!

Release date: October 24, 2013

Publisher: Headline

Print pages: 233

Sample

Chapter One

‘Mark, you had better be the one to take Miss MacLean to lunch, I imagine.’

‘Sorry, Father?’ Mark Dean asked as he was snapped out of a fantasy in which the beautiful but aloof junior partner, Charlotte Montgomery, had been begging him for sex in one of the store cupboards.

His father sighed. ‘I was saying that you had better be the one to take Miss MacLean to lunch. Apparently she is in negotiations with both A&W and Paxton Press for C.E. Haynes, so naturally we …’

‘The woman wants pampering, that’s all,’ Charlotte Montgomery interrupted. ‘Butter her up over a bottle of cheap Chardonnay, make her feel good about herself, and she’ll sign.’

‘This is a serious matter,’ Charles Dean emphasised. ‘We cannot afford to lose C.E. Haynes from our list, and Miss MacLean has intimated that …’

Mark sat back in his chair as his father continued. It was a familiar argument between his father’s cautious, old fashioned style and Charlotte Montgomery’s fiery, high-handed approach. Charlotte’s father had been very different, a gentleman of the old school, in publishing since the 50s and the fourth Montgomery to head the firm since its foundation in 1873. Few other publishing firms could boast such a long family tenure, and most of those whose names still appeared on book jackets had long since been swallowed by the big corporations. Montgomery and Dean was an exception, but without the income for C.E. Haynes’s best-selling crime novels it might not stay that way for long. Jo MacLean, the author’s agent, was fully aware of the situation and no doubt pushing for a bigger advance.

‘How much can I offer her?’ he asked. ‘Five hundred thousand?’

His father winced.

‘Try a million for three books,’ Charlotte suggested. ‘That should put the pound signs in her eyes.’

‘Try to keep it down,’ Charles advised, ‘but we must have that contract.’

‘I tell you,’ Charlotte insisted. ‘All she wants it to have Mark take her to lunch, and perhaps make him squirm a little before she signs up. It’s just an ego thing, common little brat that she is.’

Charles raised his eyebrows but said nothing. Mark found himself reflecting that if anybody deserved the term “brat” it was Charlotte, with her marked sense of entitlement and absolute conviction of her own worth, but kept his opinion to himself. Her stake in the company was smaller than his own, but her mother’s holding meant she had the potential for control. She had been brought up into the business just as he had himself, but had only joined the board the year before, during which her delicate beauty and fastidious, disdainful attitude had been a growing irritation, hence his desire to have her on her knees as she begged for the honour of taking his penis into her mouth.

Unfortunately she was also right, as literary agent Jo MacLean plainly enjoyed exercising the power she’d built up as the representative of several of the country’s most successful authors. As with Charlotte, there was a great deal about Jo MacLean that made Mark wish he was in a position to exert his masculinity, but there the resemblance ended. Where Charlotte was tall, dark, almost unnaturally slender, and came from a background of unthinking privilege, Jo was small, blonde, compact, and had fought her way to her position through sheer determination and hard work, although admittedly coupled with a knack of making men melt with a single glance. Lunch with her promised to be a frustrating experience, if not altogether an unpleasant one, as having to pander to her whims did at least offer the opportunity of some decent food and wine.

‘Shall I take her to the club?’ he suggested.

‘Yes,’ his father agreed, ‘a much better choice than some noisy restaurant.’

‘If they’ll let her in,’ Charlotte added.

As he walked down Piccadilly in the fresh spring sunshine, Mark couldn’t help but cast his mind back to his student days, an easy, carefree time when he’d been able to live comfortably on the allowance paid him by his father with no worries beyond gaining the degree that was expected of him. He’d frequently visited London, and often dined with his father at the Royal Folio Club or taken a room there after a night on the town. Yet even than he’d suffered from what he’d come to think of as the pall of respectability, with the expectations of his family holding him back from enjoying himself to the full. Time and again he’d considered following the same course as his younger brother, Stephen, and rebelling against the authority imposed by their seniors, and time and again he’d rejected the idea. Stephen was happy running a surf shack in the Algarve and seemed completely indifferent to his pointed exclusion from their grandmother’s will, but Mark enjoyed the lifestyle too much, from the tailored, Savile Row suits to the comfortable sense of security that came from knowing he belonged.

His mouth twitched up into a smile once more as he recalled Stephen’s crime, a drunken double date at Oxford which had ended with him and a friend indulging in what amounted to an orgy with a pair of flame-haired twins who’d been studying at Brookes. It had been quite a night, by Stephen’s account, with a game of dares that grew gradually more outrageous, and loud, culminating in the arrival of the praelector of the college, who had opened the door with his pass key to find one man giving the other oral sex while the two naked girls provided visual stimulation and manual encouragement. In a college always keen to avoid scandal it might have been hushed up, but even Stephen had been forced to admit that stripping the praelector and dumping him in a fountain with nothing on but a pair of baby-blue, see-through knickers had been going too far.

Mark’s smile grew wry as he remembered the recriminations of the event, with Stephen first sent down from Oxford and then formally disinherited. It was a fate Mark had no intention of sharing, but his private reaction to his brother’s behaviour had been compounded of shock, a hint of envy, and carefully suppressed approval. Despite his grandmother’s fury, Mark had taken care to see that Stephen managed to get over the first few, difficult months, looking after his wayward little brother as he had done since early childhood. Matters had settled down since, but their grandmother’s resolve showed no signs of weakening, and the size of her holding in Montgomery and Dean meant that both he and his father had little choice but to respect her wishes.

As he turned into Duke Street, Mark saw a figure approaching from the opposite direction: Jo MacLean, in a blue-grey suit cut to enhance her figure, with her fine blonde hair turned up onto her head in a style both formal and elegant. The clack of her heels on the paving stones was audible before he’d come close enough to greet her. She was five minutes early, as he’d anticipated, knowing that she liked to keep publishers off balance by arriving at appointments before they did.

‘Miss MacLean,’ he greeted her, extending his hand in an affable gesture as he stopped by the portico of the Royal Folio.

She took his hand and shook; formal, confidant, professional, and accepted the gesture he made to allow her to enter the club first. The staccato click of her heels was louder still as they crossed the marble floor of the foyer, and as Mark glanced quickly down he realised that they were tipped with steel. A commissionaire stepped out from the reception area as they approached, nodding to Mark as he spoke.

‘You are in the Eric Gill Room, sir.’

‘Thank you, Adamson,’ Mark replied and turned to Jo MacLean as he started up the stairs.

‘I’ve taken a private room for us,’ he explained as they ascended. ‘That’s one of the advantages of being a member: one can get peace and quiet when it’s needed. The food is passable too. I suggest the Truite au Bleu, which is excellent, and perhaps a bottle of Valmur?’

‘I’m sure it will be delicious, but I have no idea what you’re talking about,’ she answered.

‘Truite au Bleu is the freshest possible trout served in such a way that the skin turns blue, although I have no idea why. Valmur is one of the Grand Cru vineyards in Chablis; dry and steely but rich enough to match the sauce, unless you’d rather …’

‘I’m an old-fashioned girl,’ she broke in. ‘When a man takes me to lunch I let him order, as long as he has some taste.’

Mark nodded, surprised, and it took him a moment to respond when she stopped at the door of the room to allow him to open it for her. On the two occasions they’d met before other people had been present, and while she’d shown the same easy confidence she had been cool and efficient. Now she seemed flirtatious but in the most unexpected way. Knowing her reputation, Mark decided that she was probably playing some clever psychological game and decided to respond in kind, holding her chair out for her as she seated herself. The table was in the exact centre of the room, already laid out with linen and crockery, cutlery and fine crystal, with a silver vase containing an arrangement of delicate yellow flowers placed slightly to one side. A waiter had appeared in the doorway and Mark gave their order before taking his own seat.

‘C.E. Haynes,’ Jo MacLean stated flatly, ‘is an author whose work is guaranteed to shift upwards of a quarter of a million copies in paperback alone. What sort of advance do you think would keep him happy?’

‘For a man in his position?’ Mark countered. ‘I don’t suppose he is particularly concerned. I believe he has now written 27 books, several of which have been turned into television series, so he must be doing very well for himself indeed, while he has always struck me as a man of rather modest tastes, severe even.’

Jo MacLean seemed to wince ever so slightly before her expression shifted to a knowing smile.

‘He’s not an extravagant man, it’s true,’ she went on, ‘but he does like to feel he’s getting his due. Did you know that A&W have agreed a three-book deal with William Prentice for two and a half million?’

‘In dollars, I believe,’ Mark replied, ‘while William Prentice has a much stronger presence in the US market. Nevertheless, we …’

‘Can’t really afford what Haynes is worth,’ she broke in, ‘especially as I’ve just sold the film rights to Say it with Scarlet.’

‘Ah …,’ Mark replied, taken aback and desperately trying to calculate the implications of what she was saying.

Jo was plainly enjoying herself, her expression now showing a touch of cruel amusement as she went on.

‘Not only that, but A&W seem to be keen on cornering the crime fiction market. They’re offering a million for two books. Can you do better than that?’

‘Possibly,’ Mark answered, ‘although I would have to …’

‘Put it to the board, I know,’ she interrupted, suddenly friendly, even conspiratorial. ‘Haynes would prefer to be with a British firm, but Paxton Press also have quite a generous offer on the table. Still, I can probably persuade him to stay with you, even to take the same terms as before, but on one condition.’

‘Which is?’

‘You also take this, for an advance of one pound, but to be offered under the Montgomery and Dean name.’

As she spoke she had extended a tablet, the screen showing the title page of a novel.

‘We’ll certainly give anything you have to offer consideration,’ Mark assured her as he took the tablet. ‘Let me see, One Bad Apple, by Josephine Young …’

‘I’ll want 15 per cent on paperback and 50 for ebooks,’ she was saying, but Mark barely heard, his attention fixed to the text on the screen in front of him.

‘And now, Lydia, I am going to spank your bottom.’

Lydia was fully aware of the indignity to which she was about to be subjected, but that did nothing to reduce the burning shame inflicted by Ted Emerson’s words. Already the American tennis coach had put the hapless Lydia through the long and humiliating routine which invariably preceded a spanking. First …’

‘Why not read it aloud, Mark, if it’s so absorbing?’ Jo MacLean suggested, her voice tinged with mockery.

Mark bit back his angry reaction to her tone. Determined not to seem prudish or self-conscious about sex, he cleared his throat and began to read.

‘First, she had been obliged to dress up in her tennis whites and parade herself in front of him, before lifting her pleated white skirt to turn a slow circle as she showed off the tight, frilly knickers beneath, snug on the well-formed curves of her thighs, bottom, and worst of all, the softly bulging triangle at the front. Having contented himself with the view, Ted had made her tuck up the rear of her skirt to leave her vulnerable behind, with the seat of her knickers on show to anybody who happened to pass the clubhouse window. Next, she had been obliged to unfasten her blouse and lift her bra to free her breasts to his amused and patronising gaze, a detail she always found exceptionally mortifying as it was so plainly unnecessary when it was her bottom that would be receiving attention. Then, after a seemingly endless five minutes spent with her hands on her head, she had been turned across his knee and her full, white tennis knickers turned slowly down, thus ensuring that she suffered the full agony of having her bottom laid bare and had been reduced to blushes and trembling before her punishment even began. ’

He broke off, forced to swallow. Jo MacLean was grinning, plainly amused.

‘Go on,’ she urged.

‘I think that gives me a pretty good idea of the type of book it is,’ he stated, ‘and as you must know, it’s not really the sort of thing we do.’

‘Why not?’ she asked with false innocence.

Again Mark was forced to bite down his irritation before he could reply, and to push away an impossible, inappropriate thought, of how Jo MacLean would react to being given the same treatment as the girl in the story, taken across his knee, her bottom laid bare and soundly spanked for her insolence. Unfortunately his cock had never been able to appreciate what was and was not socially acceptable and had begun to stiffen, making him very glad indeed that he’d pulled his chair close into the table as he finally managed to find what he hoped were the right words.

‘Montgomery and Dean doesn’t have an erotica imprint, unfortunately …’

‘Which is why I want it offered under the company name and not as part of an imprint,’ she said.

‘But Miss MacLean,’ he insisted, ‘I’m sure it’s … it’s very interesting, but it’s not at all our sort of book. We have a reputation as a literary house, after all …’

‘Don’t give me that,’ she interrupted. ‘Montgomery and Dean survives on your crime and thriller imprints. When did one of your literary novels last make a significant profit?’

‘That’s not the point …,’ Mark began, only to be cut off once more.

‘It’s the mass market stuff that keeps you in blue trout or whatever you call it, and in Chablis, so if crime and thrillers, why not erotica?’

‘Because of my father, for one thing,’ Mark admitted. ‘We’d only be producing leather-bound hardbacks if he had his way, preferably from authors who’ve been dead at least a hundred years. We can’t publish this, Jo, it’s … it’s pornographic!’

‘It’s no more explicit than a lot of the books you’ve published, just more honest in its intent. Besides, it’s not just smut. Let me explain. Lydia takes pleasure in what’s being done to her, but she can’t admit it, not even to herself, so instead of seeking out a suitable partner to give her what she needs, she’s obliged to get it for real. Or at least, she thinks she’s getting it for real, because Ted Emerson is in the same situation, eager to spank Lydia but not daring to admit to his need, or rather, that he gets a sexual thrill from spanking her, although he’s pretty forthright about the appeal of having her bare and reacting to that. You see, it’s designed to make the reader question their assumptions about sex and how things may not be what they seem, also how society forces us to adopt acceptable sexual roles even though we think of ourselves as liberated.’

Mark nodded in instinctive sympathy but quickly caught himself.

‘No doubt there’s something in what you’re saying, but …’

He stopped as Jo MacLean lifted a hand, her voice suddenly icy as she spoke once more.

‘Publish One Bad Apple or you lose C.E. Haynes, it’s as simple as that.’

‘She means it,’ Mark stated as his father gazed in horror at the computer screen on which the opening of One Bad Apple was displayed.

‘But this is … this is …,’ Charles Dean spluttered.

‘Pornographic filth,’ Charlotte Montgomery supplied.

‘I was going to say blackmail,’ Charles responded. ‘We can’t allow this!’

‘I made that point to Miss MacLean,’ Mark went on. ‘She pointed out all business negotiation is essentially blackmail, which is true enough. If we don’t agree to her terms we don’t get what we want, and C.E. Haynes comes part and parcel with Josephine Young.’

Charles Dean sat back, apparently stunned, allowing Charlotte to bend closer to the screen in such a way that Mark found himself presented with the rounded seat of her skirt as she began to read aloud.

‘“ Lydia’s lower lip had pushed out into a sulky pout as Ted Emerson’s hand settled across the succulent flesh of her bottom, pressing in to hint at what was to come before lifting, pausing a moment, then striking down with a single, firm smack that made Lydia gasp …” She’s being spanked! This Josephine Young woman’s a pervert! Still, it might sell. I say we take it, especially if she only wants an advance of one pound.’

‘We can’t!’ Charles insisted. ‘Think of our reputation. Think what the press would say!’

‘Think what Grandmother would say,’ Mark added.

His father shot him a hard look, but Charlotte gave a tut of contempt and carried on.

‘Why would she ever find out, and what if she did? We outvote her, between us, and even if she leaves everything to the church or a cat’s home the company will still be under our control.’

‘It’s not the shares, Charlotte,’ Charles Dean sighed. ‘I grew up at Ashclere. It’s home to me, in a way you probably wouldn’t understand. I couldn’t bear to lose it.’

‘That’s all very touching,’ Charlotte responded, ‘but this is business, and we can’t let some tyrannical old battle axe call the shots. And it’s about time somebody stood up to her.’

‘Like Stephen,’ Mark put in.

‘Why does it have to go out under our own name?’ Charlotte demanded. ‘Why has she offered it to us, for that matter? With her influence she ought to be able to place it easily enough.’

‘The Montgomery and Dean name lends gravitas,’ Mark explained. ‘Josephine Young is concerned that her work will be di. . .