His mother met them at the door and inquired of her son in German what was going on. Brad replied in her native language that they were to converse in English and introduced her by his father’s name, Mrs. Thomas Hudson, as he always did when unavoidable circumstances required him to present her to his male clients. As usual, Brad did not bother to state his customer’s name. His mother, who had been preparing the evening meal, wiped her hand on her apron before accepting the one Alistair Renault offered. She lifted her eyes to his, and a small, perplexed frown appeared between her brows. “How do you do?” she said in the slow voice of one struggling to place a face.

It might have been Brad’s imagination, but he thought Alistair Renault’s height increased by two inches when he squared his shoulders and took his mother’s hand in a way that made Brad think he meant to kiss it, and he could have sworn he heard the heels of his brogans click together. “Mir geht es gut, danke. Wie geht es dir, hoffe ich, Joanna.” (I am well, thank you, as are you, I hope, Joanna.)

His mother emitted a small cry. “Alistair!” she exclaimed.

CHAPTER ELEVEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

Victoria / Liverwort

New York City

The editor in chief at G. P. Putnam’s Sons dipped his head to peer over his glasses at the publishing house’s French translator sitting before his desk. He stifled a sigh of frustration. This dilemma was what came of hiring inordinately attractive young women. How to present this knotty situation to Victoria without appearing as…well, Beaumont Fournier’s pimp? There was no other word for it. However, if only an hour or so to sit with Victoria Grayson over a glass of champagne was sufficient to get the illustrious author’s name on a contract, then it was his duty as editor in chief to see to it.

“I’m afraid the author has insisted, Victoria. He wishes to spend a little time with the translator of his book before he will agree to the contract,” Willard Mason said.

“But I thought the deal was made, that he’d already agreed to let us publish.”

“He’s…changed his mind. Now Monsieur Fournier has decided that he wants to be sure you are the one for the job.”

“I would think my translations of former works would assure him of that.”

“You would think so, yes,” the editor agreed, feeling his forehead grow damp.

“So what’s the problem? What else can be gained by my meeting him for cocktails?”