Romance: Catching Helena Handbasket (6 page)

     Helena nodded.

     “That’s cool,” she allowed.  “I’ve met most of the other editors that work in the office, and most of them are lovely people.”

     Trey grinned.

     “Indeed they are,” he nodded with pride.  “And with that in mind, I plan to assign your preliminary edits to Irving Birnbaum, our senior editor.”

     Helena gritted her teeth.

     “Irving is a lovely person,” she allowed, adding under her breath, “When he takes his meds, that is.  He failed to take his meds the other day, and he kept stealing into my office to look over my shoulder and double check my work.  When he realized that I had failed to unite the words ‘paper clip’ into a single cohesive phrase, he grabbed up my Wonder Woman paper weight and threatened to bludgeon me to death with my own sentimental and very meaningful and empowering super heroine collectible.”

     Trey gasped.

     “Helena!” he exclaimed, adding as he made a broad gesture between them, “Why on earth didn’t you report this to me, the moment it happened?”

     Helena shrugged.

     “He took his meds right before lunch, went to Sal’s Bakery and brought me back a dozen fudge brownies—along with a three page letter of apology affixed with a paperclip,” she smirked.

     Trey sighed.

     “Well, for someone who just might be clinically insane,” he shook his head in what seemed to be a show of sheer disbelief, “Irving does have downright excellent editing skills.  And I’ll make sure that he takes each and every one of his medications, and in the proper dosages, before beginning work on your book.  And now onto a more cheerful subject,” he rushed on, seeming for some reason particularly eager to change the subject, “We also have to plan the design and production of your book cover.”

     Helena grinned.

     “Do you still want me on the cover?” she asked, adding as she reclined easily in her plush azure chair, “That is, if my agent at Wilhelmina can find time in my schedule, in all likelihood between the Vogue cover shoot and the tasteful but very sexy Playboy centerfold shoot.”  She paused here, adding more seriously, “I’d very much like to wear a blue satin dress on the cover, Trey.  The kind of dress that I dreamed of wearing that night I fell asleep in my office and dreamed of you—and us.  And I’d like even more for you to join me on the cover, in the role of my leading man.”

     Trey shook his head.

     “Helena, dear, if you ever want me between your covers—well my darling that is one wish I would very much love to grant,” he lowered his tone to a sultry purr.  “I’m afraid, though, that I have to say no to the concept of being on your cover.  I’m afraid if they put my photo on the cover, the book would automatically get shelved in the horror section at Barnes and Noble—or maybe in whatever section they stick the educational texts about unexplained freaks of nature….”

     Helena snorted.

     “Oh I know Trey,” she rolled her eyes heavenward.  “Your flawless body, sculpted cheekbones, cleft chin, dreamy blue eyes and flawless skin are clearly the stuff of nightmares.  You’d probably break at least three top quality cameras before they could snap a decent picture.”

     Trey guffawed.

     “OK OK, so I did do some modeling to work my way through school,” he admitted, adding more seriously, “Now, however, I’m a respectable publisher that can’t go around ripping my shirt off, heaving my man bosom or stuffing my quaint leather pantaloons with old oats canisters or three day old sausages to enhance the effect, so to speak.  I’m so sorry, Helena, but I’m afraid I’ll have to decline your offer.”

     Helena nodded.

     “Oh, OK,” she relented, trying to hide her disappointment as she ducked her head behind her contract papers.  “I understand.  Completely and totally.” 
Jerk.

     Trey regarded Helena for a long moment, mumbling his apologies as he shifted uncomfortably in his desk chair.

     “I really am sorry to disappoint you, love,” he offered, adding as he pursed his lips apologetically in her direction, “but if it’s any consolation, I would like to offer up one of our close associates here at Elmhurst Publishing as a possible replacement.”

     Helena arched her eyebrows.

     “Are we talking about Irving Birnbaum?” she queried with a cringe, picturing in her mind the short, balding, downright rotund man that shared her workspace.

     Trey laughed.

     “Well I guess we could fit good ol’ Irving for a G-string, slap some Vaseline on the lens and test the earthly limits of our photo shopping capabilities,” he cringed in kind return.  “Or we could just call up Blaine Bennington.”

     Sitting up straight in her chair, Helena’s eyes flew wide as she heard the name of the man she was determined to marry.  Or so she told her college sorority sisters on numerous nights, after a few beers.

     Yet a gal didn’t even need beer goggles to appreciate the beautiful, dashing Blaine Bennington; a tall, blond muscle hunk with reams of flowing golden hair and pure bronze tinted skin.

     Although not a big fan of modern romance novels, Helena had been known to purchase a couple of steamy tomes that featured Blaine Bennington on the cover; quickly explaining to the cashier that the books were gifts for a sister, a cousin, a seriously ill friend who potentially could be saved by the vision of his beauty; she always stopped just short of revealing the truth, which was of course that Blaine was an evil—but wicked hawt—sex demon placed on book covers to tempt and torment mortal women until they broke down and bought his blasted books.

     “Helena?  Helena?  Are you quite all right dear?”

     Her troubled meditation was disrupted by the voice of another disturbingly handsome man; this one leaning across his desk in an evident attempt to assess the state of her current well-being.

     “I’m fine,” she sputtered out, shaking her head to clear it of its aroused, frustrated haze.  “Why would you think otherwise?”

     Trey shrugged.

     “Oh I dunno,” he deadpanned.  “Between the dazed eyes and the excessive drool, I feared you might be suffering a stroke.”

     An abashed Helena looked at the floor, suddenly wishing that it would very conveniently open up and swallow her whole.  Right.  About.  Now.

     “Um, well, that always happens when I’m contemplating the suitability of an associate for any given job position.  That’s just how intense Helena Vance is about her work,” she offered, adding as she pursed her lips in a show of keen contemplation, “As it happens, though, I do believe I’ve taken a gander at a few of Mr. Bennington’s covers—roughly 44 of them, just because they had this bitchin’ sale one time at Reams of Romance—and, although he doesn’t fit the exact physical description of my hero, I do believe he’ll suit our project just fine.”

     Trey looked at her a long moment, then nodded.

     “O-kay, well,” he mumbled, “I’m glad you approve.  I’ll call Blaine in for a meeting early next week.”

     “What day?”  Helena asked immediately, pondering if she could fit in a makeover, a hair appointment, and a sensible diet between now and then.

     Standing from his desk, Trey planted his hands firmly on his hips as he said, “Probably Monday—if, that is, you can’t wait that long.”

     Letting loose with an apologetic sigh (which actually felt good, considering that she hadn’t technically breathed since hearing Blaine Bennington’s name some 10 minutes ago), Helena also rose to her feet and rounded Trey’s desk; encompassing him in a loving embrace as she held his hard, muscular body to hers.

     “I can’t tell you how much I appreciate all this, Trey,” she pulled back to plant a firm kiss on his newly smiling lips.  “And you.  These last few weeks have been so wonderful for me—and believe me, I’d still much rather have you as my leading man on the cover of my book.”

     Trey sighed.

     “I’m so sorry I can’t make that happen, Princess,” he whispered, cupping her round chin in a warm, tender hand.  “If I went around posing for romance covers, even yours, I’d be the laughing stock of the publishing industry.”

     He paused here, kissing away with purposeful lips the frown that erupted on Helena’s lips.

     “If possible, though,” he whispered against her lips, “I’d still like to be the leading man of your life.”

     Helena turned that frown upside down—and in a hurry.

     “Oh Trey,” she sighed, staring dreamily into her lover’s eyes.  “Only someone as outright hawt as you could get away with such a corny line.”

     Trey guffawed outright.

     “Well in that case let me also add,” he waggled his eyebrows to comic effect, all the while swinging her back and forth in his arms, “Love means never having to say you’re sorry.  Frankly my dear, I DO indeed give a damn—because, in all honesty, you had me at hello.”

     Helena nodded, scrunching her nose in thought.

     “Didn’t that last one come from Jerry Maguire?” she queried.  “I just love Renee Zellweger—though I don’t believe I ever got around to seeing Bridget Jones’s Diary—and for some reason, everyone tells me I should…”

     Silencing her with a heated kiss, Trey rubbed his full, smooth lips against hers as their tongues intertwined.

     Leaning into his kiss, Helena wrapped her arms around his muscled shoulders as she kissed her lover senseless.

     “Here’s hoping for a happy ending to this particular story,” Trey whispered against her lips.

     Helena nodded, adding as she ran her fingers through his thick, dark hair, “Well whatever the ending is—it sure is fun getting there, doncha think?”

Chapter Nine

     When Helena arrived at work the next morning, she was surprised—and, truth be told, somewhat disturbed—to find her co-worker Irving Birnbaum seated at the edge of her desk; watching her with intent eyes as she stooped low to maneuver her way into her cubbyhole.

     “Good morning, Helena,” his voice low and intense.

     “Hey, Irving!”  She forced a smile, all the while feeling around in the depths of her purse for the pepper spray she just knew she’d placed there several weeks before.  “How are you today?”

     “I was fine, Helena,” Irving began, adding with a firm shake of his balding head, “Until I started reading your submitted manuscript.”

     Helena froze.

     “And now that you’ve read this stunning, peerless manuscript, you’re no doubt beyond fine,” she declared, gracing him with a spirited thumbs up sign, “You’re now elated, inspired, and downright transformed by the many marvelous facets of my divine literary gift!”

     Irving was not amused.

     “OK, Helena, so you are a good author,” he admitted, scrunching his pug nose as though it sublimely pained him to do so, “I’m afraid to report, however, that—on the third line of the fourth page of the third chapter—you managed to misspell the word ‘corset.’  In the context of a Victorian romance, Helena, do you realize what a grave and grievous error that is?  Also, your description of the precise way that said corset is untied left a little something lacking.  A lot, in fact—I’m afraid that you, in drafting such irresponsible prose, have done a grievous injustice to the foundations industry.”

     Helena shrugged, laughing nervously as she tried to gauge the exact distance between her co-worker’s hand and her infamous Wonder Woman paperweight.

     “Well I’m sorry about that, Irving, but it was probably just a typo,” she offered, adding as she inclined her head archly in his direction, “Anyway, just how do you know so much about the tying and untying of a woman’s corset?  Do you have any particular experience in this area?  Do you by any chance have a really hot girlfriend with a Victorian fetish?”  She broke off on a chuckle, considering the probable absurdity of this concept.

     Irving shook his head.

     “No, Helena,” he assured her, “but I do upon occasion wear a corset myself—along with a long, cinnamon brown wig and some sleek, sheer raspberry stain lipstick and stiletto heels.  Then I slip on a dress that would make Madonna look like a Mormon by comparison and I head to the nearest night club—where I take over their karaoke machine under subtle threat of violence and proceed to lead an entire room in a rousing chorus of “I Gotta Be Me”—followed, if time allows, by a sentimental medley of hardcore punk songs from the late ‘70s….”

     Helena had heard enough.

     “Irving.  Meds.  Now,” she commanded, pointing an authoritative finger in the direction of his cubbyhole.

     “Oh, yes,” he nodded, jumping promptly from the surface of his desk and ambling casually in the direction of his office.  “I did forget to take those this morning.  Thanks for the reminder, my friend.”

     “Anytime,” Helena ground out, plopping down into her office chair as she flipped the ‘start’ button on her computer.

     Yet before she could open her first assignment of the day, she found herself joined by a second, substantially less creepy colleague.

    
And not to be shallow
, she added with a broad grin in the direction of her second, substantially more welcome guest, but this one is quite a bit hawter than the first. 
Substantially so, as a matter of fact.

     “Mornin’ Darlin,” she greeted Trey, her grin broadening as he knelt down to engage her in a soft, sweet kiss.

     “Morning, beautiful,” Trey replied, adding with his head inclined in the direction of their retreating co-worker, “So how did your first editorial meeting go with Irving?”

     Helena yawned.

     “Well, let’s just say I’m withholding judgment—and the restraining order—until he takes his meds for the day,” she announced, stretching her arms high above her in a casual gesture.

     The laughter she expected at this comment was replaced by a dark, angry scowl—one that seemed to deepen as Trey balled his sturdy fists and turned with a fury toward her office door—then making a beeline into the hallway as Helena followed in close suit.

     “Trey, don’t!” she cried, watching as her raging beau stormed headfirst into Irving’s office.  “Or, as an alternate option, do.  The little creep probably deserves it.  Your choice.”

     She jumped seconds later as Trey slammed the door behind him; launching into a heated but decidedly muffled dialogue that seemed to include the words, “Don’t,” “Stop,” “30 day suspension,” and “imminent broken jaw in your future”—along with a sharp admonition to “Just stop being so damned weird!”

     Within moments he was back in her office, grinning brightly as he proclaimed, “Irving has agreed to take his morning meds during his first break—which, as a side note, I’ve strongly encouraged him to take sometime during the next, oh, 3.5 minutes or so.  Give or take.”

     Issuing forth with an enthused cheer, Helena ran forward to throw her arms around the broad shoulders of a smiling Trey; raining his face with sweet baby kisses as she told him, “Thanks, babe—I mean, I can take care of myself and everything, but it’s still blasted sexy when a man stands up for a woman like that.  Want to make out?”

     Gifting Helena with a light but affectionate squeeze, Trey touched her lips with a soft kiss before turning away from her.

     “As much as I would love to, babe, I’m afraid that duty calls for both of us,” he revealed, adding with a broad gesture in the direction of her computer, “You have a story edit that needs to be completed by noon today.  And, for my part, I have a teleconference with none other than Mr. Blaine Bennington.  I’m going to ask him to come into the office at about 10 a.m. Monday.  I’ve also asked Claire Crawley, the executive director of the Sunshine domestic violence shelter, to be here at the same time—in that way we can make plans for the book’s cover shoot and release party, all in one morning.”

     “Sounds wonderful,” Helena beamed, turning now toward her office computer.  “And in the meantime, babe, I’ll go ahead and get started on the latest Elmhurst Publishing masterpiece,” she paused here, looking down at the file folder on the surface of her desk, “12 Shades of Lime Green, part deux.  Trey, seriously, you’ve got to be kidding me.  Please tell me you’re kidding me….”

     Trey chuckled.

     “No joke here hon—the first book was an incredible success,” he told her, adding as he turned for the door, “And as much as I love to print up and release certified modern literary masterpieces, such as yours for example, we have to pay the light bills here as well.  Capiche?”

     “Capiche,” Helena sighed in agreement.  “It would be kind of tough to edit by candlelight.”

     Trey nodded.

     “It is rather cool, though, to eat by candlelight,” he offered, “which is why I’d quite like to take you to Sardi’s on 44
th
Street this weekend—it’s one of New York’s finest restaurants, and I’d love to take you there Saturday evening; right after, that is, I treat you to a grand tour of the Statue of Liberty.”

     Letting loose with a girlish whoop at this unexpected news, Helena surged upward from her chair and launched into an impromptu rendition of the Can Can; one that looked mighty funny when performed in a grey pant suit and sensible brown pumps.

     Moments later she landed square in her seat; regarding her howling lover with a brief nod of affirmation as she turned for her computer.

     “Yeah, that sounds nice,” she assented finally.  “Sounds like a plan.”