“If you have a manuscript you think might
have value, bring it to me. I’ll decide who we sign and take over from there.”
She waved a hand. “If you want to be the one making the happy phone call, be my
guest.”
“Excuse me,” Emily said, proud that her fury
didn’t result in a scream. “I’m afraid I don’t understand how you’re going to
determine terms when the agents are the ones making the recommendations based
on our knowledge of—”
“As we’re all getting to know each other,”
Donna said icily, her smile as sharp as a razor blade, “I’ll explain myself.
This time. Winfield’s bottom line is barely acceptable, and it’s not difficult
to discern why. My cursory review reveals an alarming percentage of titles with
slim to no profit margin. The only way to turn this poor performance record
around is to be more selective in the works that we take on. While I appreciate
that the acquiring agents may have a certain fondness for some works that
won’t, shall we say, pay for themselves, we are not a charitable organization.
We want books that are guaranteed to sell. I can assure you, I’m quite capable
of determining what those might be.”
Ron raised his hand.
Donatella eyed him with an arrowed brow.
“Yes, Mister—?”
“Elliott. Ron.” He gave her his best
guileless, I-never-make-trouble look. “So what I’m hearing is our expertise as
acquisition agents is not going to play a role in deciding which authors we
sign. What do you expect us to do, then?”
“I’m sure you’re quite adept at wallowing
through the slush pile. Get rid of the flotsam and jetsam. We only want the
pearls.” She lasered in on Mark. “I’d like to see the budget projections for
the rest of the year in my inbox by eight tomorrow morning. That will be all
for now.”
She swiveled on a needle-thin, six-inch heel
and shot out the door, sucking most of the air in the room out with her.
Finally Mark sputtered to life. “Who the
hell—can she do this?”
Every head swiveled in Emily’s direction,
some faces outraged, some shocked.
“I don’t know,” she said for at least the
hundredth time that morning, “but I’m going to find out.”
Chapter Twelve
Derian’s phone rang as she was reaching for her
wallet to pay the Lindy’s bill. They’d managed to work their way through
multiple refills of coffee and a second round of toast while staying away from the
incendiary topics of Winfield Enterprises, Derian’s relationships or lack
thereof, and Aud’s career. Derian checked the readout and her breath caught.
“It’s the hospital.”
“I’ve got this,” Aud said, grabbing the bill
from Dere’s other hand. “Go ahead—get that.”