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the rack; their fragile stems shiver in her delicate fingers.
    I brought her to this moment by design. I could have tortured her with tasks, with arduous acts of service. Instead, I chose to torture her with boredom, curious to see what the devil would do with her idle hands. Interesting that in my home it is the objects most easily broken that draw her attention first. With a soft, clean cloth she polishes every glass. She holds the bowl like a bird, strokes the stem like the back of a cat, wipes every old whisper off the lip. I see her eyes count the glasses. I count them with her. Thirteen. Last night I showed her the lash but did not use it on her. Thirteen…one lash for every glass she touched without my permission.
    Thirteen…tonight I think I’ll whip her first and tell her why after.
    Zach closed the manuscript and waited for J.P.’s reaction. J.P. whistled, and Zach raised his eyebrow at him.
    “I think that rather turned me on. Should that worry me?” J.P. asked with a rakish grin.
    “Since I’m the only other person in the room, I think it should probably worry me a great deal more,” Zach said. “It’s rather good, isn’t it? The content is slightly unsettling but the writing…”
    “She’s got talent. I told you. I hope this means you are no longer planning on killing me.”
    “Killing you?”
    J.P. grinned. “Yes, for twisting your arm over Sutherlin.”
    Zach laughed a little. “No, I’m not going to kill you anymore. But tell me—was I really the only editor who could or would work with her?”
    “I suppose I could have dug up someone else. No one near as good as you, though. Anyway, Sutherlin requested you.”
    Zach looked up in surprise.
    “She did?”
    “Well, not by name.” J.P. looked slightly sheepish. “She told me to give her to whichever editor would flog her the hardest. Yours was the first and quite honestly the only name that came to mind.”
    “I’m hardly flogging her.”
    “What would you call it?” J.P. had a dark twinkle in his eyes.
    “I don’t believe I will justify that insinuating tone in your voice with a response. We were discussing the book after all.”
    “Yes, quite a stunning little book you waltzed out of Rose’s party with Monday night.”
    “I’m a professional,” Zach said calmly. “I don’t shag my writers.”
    He omitted mentioning how shamefully close he’d come to asking Nora up after the cab ride to his building. He still couldn’t believe she’d gotten to him that fast. In ten years of marriage he’d never once been unfaithful to Grace, never even wanted to be. And then in one day Nora Sutherlin was putting thoughts in his head he hadn’t let himself have in years.
    “I’ve seen her. I wouldn’t blame you if you did. But it’s just a shock. I’m surrounded by postfeminists and neo-Freudians. Whatever happened to that ‘forgot the author, only the book matters’ philosophy?”
    “One cab ride and one good conversation hardly makes me a Freudian. I’ll admit I was a bit of a prig about her. She is a good writer and the book has potential. If I’m warming up to her it’s only because I’m warming up to the book. But she is starkers. That I was right about.”
    “She’s a writer. She’s supposed to be mad.”
    “At least she’s also a mad worker. She’s already sent me a full synopsis of every chapter and the new outline I ordered.”
    “How’s the new outline?”
    “Better,” Zach said and glanced at his notes. “But still, more sex than substance. I think she’s capable of substance. Just afraid of it.”
    “She does seem fairly married to her bad-girl writer persona,” J.P. said, and Zach nodded his agreement. “It lends her credibility if she makes people think that she practices what she preaches. Getting her to retire her proverbial whip and take up the pen full-time won’t be easy.”
    “But if she did…” Zach glanced down at the manuscript and remembered his reaction Tuesday morning when he’d