laughed in disbelief. Too romantics ‘Oh, yes?’
‘He’s a wild, impetuous Hungarian with a vile temper——’
‘Fighting over a woman?’ she hazarded, seeing the possibility instantly.
‘Women,’ answered Lionel scathingly.
She wasn’t surprised. He had a mouth to make bones liquefy and a jaw…She smiled. That jaw told everything: his ruthlessness, the tenacity, the way he’d swept through the publishing world like a scourge. He’d been the talk of the Frankfurt Book Fair.
Her dart flew arrow-straight and lodged between a pair of wickedly sculptured lips. ‘Will that do?’ she said, giving a small laugh to clear the effect of Vigadó’s dynamic eroticism on her.
‘Till you skewer him in person,’ said Lionel bitterly.
‘I’m your new editor, not your hit-man,’ she grinned.
Entirely against her will, she found herself looking at the photograph again. Two-dimensional or not, Vigadó looked ready to leap out from his glossy paper prison at any moment and tear his many enemies apart with his teeth.
‘I think it’s time someone made a stand against him.’ Lionel slumped in his chair. ‘He’s devoured half the publishers in Europe. What do you know of him?’
Mariann considered. ‘Gossip, mostly. I know he’s a street-fighter and not a gentleman by any means. He head-hunts authors. He’s taken some of yours—and he has an agent in Hungary, like you.’
‘He’s trying to ruin me,’ said Lionel quietly.
Her sympathetic eyes noted the despair in every line of his body even while her own apprehension made her heart beat faster. This was her first editing job. Her first step on the ladder. If Lionel went under, so would she. More interviews. More lecherous bosses. She sighed.
‘He can’t want a small publishing house,’ she began.
‘It’s a matter of vindictiveness!’ Lionel raised a face consumed with hatred. ‘I could kill him! He’s threatening the existence of this precious company I’ve built up from nothing—nothing!’
‘You still have Mary O’Brien,’ Mariann soothed hastily.
‘Not any more!’
‘What?’ she cried in dismay.
Her boss poured out a large whisky and Mariann realised with concern that it was about to follow the route of several others. ‘Last week I went to Cork,’ grated Lionel, ‘to discuss the editing of Mary’s final six chapters. She’d vanished—gone into hiding, God knows where. Her letter said it all. Vigadó’s poached her!’
‘That’s unethical! Outrageous!’ gasped Mariann. ‘Mary’s your best-selling author—’
‘And without her I’m finished,’ her boss said grimly, hurling the last dart wildly at Vigadó’s merciless face.
‘Why?’ asked Mariann, appalled.
‘Let me spell it out for you. The bank knows Mary’s done a bunk. That swine must have told them. They’re reluctant to continue my overdraft and I can kiss goodbye to any hope of venture capital loans. This business eats money! I might as well slit my throat and be done with it!’ he yelled.
And he looked as though he might, given any more blows to his professional pride. ‘You can’t throw in the towel! Don’t let him win!’ she cried hotly. ‘I’ll stand by you, I’ll do anything I can.’ Her voice softened with sympathy and became coaxing. ‘OK, Vigadó’s stolen your authors—so what? He doesn’t have the one thing that made this company successful: you. If you built up your publishing house before, you can do so again.’
Lionel gave a mirthless laugh, looking more haggard than ever. ‘You don’t understand! I need Mary,’ he insisted. ‘She’s one blockbuster author that even the banks have heard of. She guaranteed our loan merely by being on our list. Mary can make a fortune for us. We nursed her, encouraged her, saw her through all her crises and published her first book, then the rest…’
‘What about her contract?’ said Mariann quickly. ‘She must be in breach of it. We can—’
‘No.’ He shook his head. ‘She was in between contracts. We’d been…discussing fresh terms.’
Mariann groaned. ‘What awful luck! But…perhaps one of those manuscripts on my desk will turn up another Mary—’
‘You know the odds!’ he said, impatiently dismissive. ‘I can’t afford to wait for the unlikely. Mariann, you’re my only hope!’
‘Me? I’ll read till the words blur for you, but I’ve been an editor’s secretary for the last two years. You only interviewed me for this job a few days ago! I’m not exactly your most experienced member of staff!’ she protested.
‘You’re the most beautiful, though.’ He clamped a sweating hand on hers, his expression that of a desperate man.
Her mind whirled uncomprehendingly and she drew back, her eyes narrowed. ‘What did you say?’ she asked coldly.
‘I have a job for you. A very important one. Get Mary back.’
She blinked, not seeing the connection. ‘How—?’
‘You speak a little Hungarian. You’ve not long come back from Hungary.’ He looked at her for confirmation.
‘Yes. I went for my brother’s wedding. John works there,’ she said, frowning—and omitting to say that the wedding never took place. ‘My sister Tanya is marrying a Hungarian—István Huszár.’
Suddenly she picked up his drift. Vigadó worked for Dieter Ringel, the vast, international publishing house. He’d risen sky-high in that organisation via his wife’s bed, marrying Dieter Ringel’s only daughter. But Vigadó was Hungarian by birth.
She slid her hand away. ‘I suppose you’ve heard somewhere that István is a pretty influential guy,’ she said slowly. ‘I want to help, but I won’t use him to—’
‘It’s your own talents I want!’ broke in Lionel. ‘Vigadó’s moving the fiction department of Dieter Ringel from London to Hungary. That means the records will be on their way to Budapest. Mary O’Brien’s hideaway address will be in his office files. Charm your way into the office. Make tea, service the drains, anything! My agent will give you every assistance. He knows his job is at stake too. When you’re alone, search for that address. Mary has always liked the intimacy of our small company and scorned conglomerates. If I can get to her, I can persuade her to return, I’m sure.’
Drains? He was raving! ‘Everyone knows that Vigadó works all night like a vampire,’ she pointed out. ‘Even if I did gain access, I’d never be alone long enough—’
“The Bookseller says he’s not leaving London himself till the end of the month. That gives you three weeks.’
‘Good grief! You’re serious! Commercial espionage!’ Gracefully she lowered herself into a
