The Siren
In the world of kink authors, she’s the top.
Notorious Nora Sutherlin is famous for her delicious works of erotica, each one more popular with readers than the last. But her latest manuscript is different—more serious, more personal—and she’s sure it’ll be her breakout book…if it ever sees the light of day.
Zachary Easton holds Nora’s fate in his well-manicured hands. The demanding British editor agrees to handle the book on one condition: he wants complete control. Nora must rewrite the entire novel to his exacting standards—in six weeks—or it’s no deal.
Nora’s grueling writing sessions with Zach are draining…and shockingly arousing. And a dangerous former lover has her wondering which is more torturous—staying away from him…or returning to his bed?
Nora thought she knew everything about being pushed to your limits. But in a world where passion is pain, nothing is ever that simple.
Advance Praise for The Siren
“Tiffany Reisz is a smart, artful, and masterful new voice in erotic fiction! An erotica star on the rise!”
—Award-winning author Lacey Alexander
“The best erotica either leaves slut-marks on your back or a bruise on your heart.
The Siren
does both and I wish I’d written it.”
—Scarlett Parrish, author of
By the Book
“Provocative, smart and downright cheeky.
The Siren
put me through my paces and had me begging for more.”
—Emma Petersen, author of
Reign of Pleasure
“Dazzling, devastating and sinfully erotic, Reisz writes unforgettable characters you’ll either want to know or want to be.
The Siren
is an alluring book-within-a-book, a story that will leave you breathless and bruised, aching for another chapter with Nora Sutherlin and her men.”
—Miranda Baker, author of
Bottoms Up
and
Soloplay
“
The Siren
is a powerful, evocative tale of discovering who you truly are. Tiffany Reisz nails the complicated person inside all of us.”
—Cassandra Carr, author of
Talk to Me
“Daring, sophisticated, and literary…exactly what good erotica should be.”
—Kitty Thomas, author of
Tender Mercies
TIFFANY REISZ
To Jason Isaacs—
otherwise known as The Most Beautiful Man Alive.
Thank you for being my Zachary and my Muse.
To Alyssa Palmer—
mon Canard
—if yours were the only eyes that read my books, I would still write for you alone.
And to B.
Contents
1
T
here was no such thing as London fog—never had been. The London Fog of legend was only that. In reality London fog was London smog, and at the height of the Industrial Revolution it had killed thousands, choking the city with its poisonous hands. Zach Easton knew that in the offices of Royal House Publishing, he was known as the London Fog, the disparaging nickname coined by a fellow editor who disapproved of Zach’s dour demeanor. Zach had no love of his nickname or the editor who’d coined it. But today he was eager to earn his epithet.
As he knew he would, Zach found John-Paul Bonner, the chief managing editor of Royal House Publishing, still hard at work even after hours. J.P. sat on the floor of his office, piles of manuscripts stacked about him like a paper Stonehenge in miniature.
Zach stopped in J.P.’s doorway and leaned against the frame. He stared his chief editor down and did not speak. He didn’t have to tell J.P. why he was here. They both knew.
“Death—she comes to me on an Easton fog,” J.P. said from the floor as he sorted through another stack of books. “A poetic enough way to die. You are here to kill me, I presume.”
At sixty-four and with his gray beard and spectacles, J.P. was literature personified. Usually Zach enjoyed playing word games with him, but he was in no mood for repartee today.
“Yes.”
“‘Yes’?” J.P. repeated. “Just ‘yes’? Well, brevity is the soul of wit after all. Help an old man off the floor, will you, Easton? If I’m going to die, might as well die on my feet.”
Sighing, Zach stepped into the office, reached down and helped J.P. stand. J.P. patted Zach gratefully on the shoulder and collapsed into his chair behind his desk.
“I’m a dead man anyway. Can’t find that damn
Hamlet
galley for John Warren. Should have had it in the mail yesterday. But happiness is good health and a bad memory they say, and I am a happy, happy man.”
Zach studied J.P. for a moment and silently cursed him for being so endearing. His affection for his boss made this conversation far less pleasant. Zach walked over to J.P.’s bookshelves and ran his hand along the top of the case. He knew J.P.’s habit of stashing important papers where even he couldn’t reach them. Zach found a manuscript and pulled it down. He threw it on J.P.’s desk and watched it kick up a small cloud of dust.
“Bless you,” J.P. said, coughing as he put his hand over his heart. “You have saved my life.”
“Now I get to be the one who kills you.”
J.P. eyed Zach and pointed at the chair across from the desk. Zach reluctantly sat down, pulling his gray coat around him like a suit of armor.
“Easton, look,” J.P. began but it was as far as Zach let him get.
“Nora Sutherlin?” Zach infused the name with as much disgust as he could muster, a considerable amount at the moment. “You must be joking.”
“Yes, Nora
Sutherlin.
I’ve thought about it, looked at the sales projections. I think we should acquire her. I want you to work with her.”
“I will do no such thing. It’s pornography.”
“It’s not pornography.” J.P. peered at Zach over the top of his glasses. “It’s erotica. Very good erotica.”
“I had no idea there was such a thing.”
“Two words—Anaïs Nin,” J.P. retorted.
“Two more words—Booker Prize.”
J.P. exhaled noisily and leaned back in his chair.
“Easton, I know your track record. You’re one of the top talents in the industry by far. I wouldn’t have paid to import you here to New York if you weren’t. Yes, your writers have won Booker Prizes.”
“And Whitbreads, Silver Daggers—”
“And Sutherlin’s last book outsold your Whitbread and Silver Dagger combined. We’re in a recession, if you hadn’t noticed. Books are a luxury. If it can’t be eaten, no one is buying it right now.”
“So Nora Sutherlin’s the answer?” Zach challenged.
J.P. grinned. “Janie Burke at the
Times
called her last book ‘highly edible.’”
Zach shook his head and looked up at the ceiling in disgust.
“She’s a guttersnipe writer at best,” Zach said. “Her mind’s in the gutter, her books are in the gutter. I wouldn’t be surprised if her last publishing house kept its offices in the gutter.”
“She might be a guttersnipe, but she’s our guttersnipe. Well, your guttersnipe now.”
“This isn’t
My Fair Lady
. I’m not Professor Henry Higgins, and she is no Eliza bloody Doolittle.”
“Whoever she is she’s a damn fine writer. You would know this if you’d bothered to read one of her books.”
“I left England for this job,” Zach reminded him. “I left one of the most respected publishers in Europe because I wanted to work with the best young American writers.”
“She’s young. She’s American.”
“I did not leave England, my life…” Zach stopped himself before he said,
“and my wife.”
After all, it was his wife who’d left him first.
“This book has real potential. She brought it to us because she’s ready to make a change.”
“Give her twenty shillings for a pound if she wants change. I leave for L.A. in six weeks. I can’t believe you want me to set everything aside and give my last six weeks to Nora Sutherlin. Not a chance.”
“I’ve seen your in-box, Easton. It’s not so full you can’t work with Sutherlin while you tie up loose ends around here. Don’t tell me you don’t have the time when we both know you just don’t have the inclination.”
“Fine. I don’t have the time or the inclination to edit erotica, even good erotica, if there is such an animal. I’m not the only editor here. Give it to Thomas Finley.” Zach named his least favorite coworker, the one who’d given him his nickname. “Or Angie Clark even.”
“Finley? That pansy? He’d make a pass at Sutherlin, and she’d eat him alive. If you punched him in the face, he wouldn’t even know how to bleed right.”
Zach nearly laughed in agreement before remembering he was fighting with J.P.
“Then what about Angie Clark?”
“She’s too busy right now. Besides…”
“Besides what?” Zach demanded.
“Clark’s afraid of her.”
“Can’t say I blame her,” Zach said. “I’ve heard grown men practically whisper her name at parties. The rumor is she slept her way to her first book deal.”
“I’ve heard that rumor, too. But she hasn’t slept her way to this one. Unfortunately,” J.P. said with a playful grin.
“I read on Rachel Bell’s blog that she never leaves the house in any other color than red. She said Sutherlin’s got a sixteen-year-old boy working as her personal assistant.”
J.P. smiled at him. “I believe she prefers ‘intern’ to ‘personal assistant.’”
Zach nearly choked on his own frustration. He’d been ready to leave for the evening, even had his coat on, when some demon voice in his head told him to check his work email one more time. He had a note from J.P. telling him that he was considering acquiring erotica writer Nora Sutherlin and her latest book for their big fall/winter release. And since Zach didn’t have much to occupy him until he left for L.A. in a few weeks…