Jonas, present patriarch, had brought some of the old spark back in his younger days but, as he neared his seventy-fifth birthday, he found he cared more for fishing than business and had started to entertain the idea of selling his controlling interest to his late son Steven's wife, Kathy, but she had about as much of a head for business as that brainless brood of hers. Still, at the next shareholder's meeting he broached the subject. His daughter-in-law and her offspring seemed more interested in how much they would receive from an outright sale than what could be done to help keep the business open and in the family.

After a heated debate, Jonas wearily bowed to the majority vote and promised to look into prospective buyers.

After dinner, as he struggled into his overcoat, a soft voice sounded near his left shoulder. "Papa?"

He looked down at his daughter, so much like her dead mother that he blinked away bittersweet memories. Always shy and soft spoken, Sarah seldom participated in family meetings and Jonas most times forgot she was even present.

He fondly patted her head as she handed him his hat. "How's my baby girl?"

"Fine, papa." She hesitated, chewing on her lower lip.

Jonas waited, giving Sarah time to build up enough courage to speak her peace. Finally, his patience thinning, he prodded her. "You wanted something, sweetheart?"

"Do you really want to sell, papa?"

Jonas thought a moment. "No. I want the business to stay in the family, but nobody wants the bother, Sarah, and I'm getting too old to shoulder it alone." He waited. "Are you volunteering?" He barely kept the amusement from his voice.

"No, I've no business sense, but Michael does."

Jonas' face turned red. Michael was Sarah's son, born out of wedlock, his father had been Steven's roommate in college. After Sarah chose not to marry him, he'd disappeared from their lives.

After Michael grew up, he could never seem to settle at any thing. A gypsy at heart, he'd done a tour in the Peace Corps, spent a year in a commune, still spent his summers as a construction worker, taught junior high school as a substitute when the mood struck, and spent nearly three years studying both pre-med and pre-law.

"Michael? What makes you think I'd turn the business over to Michael? How old is he now? Thirty-five? Forty? He's never held on to anything more than two years in a row, has he?"

"He's never been a follower, papa."

"Sarah. . . "

"Michael's never really failed in anything, papa, just given up. All he needs is to be in charge of something of his own.

"Spoken like a true and loyal mother."

"I know you never liked his father, but I never thought you'd hate Michael because of him."

"That's not fair, Sarah. I don't hate Michael."

She smiled. "Then you'll give him a chance?"

"Not with the business, honey, with his track record. . . " He paused, considering. Sarah's face fell just when his lit up. "Wait! I'll tell you what, you say Mike needs to be in charge of something?"

"He prefers Michael, papa." Sarah corrected.

"You tell Michael to report to the office first thing Monday morning, I have a job for him. If he can pull this off, he's won my vote and my interest in the business. Then he can fight off his money-grubbing relatives."

On the folded sheet of paper had been a name "C. C. Webster" and an address on the top floor of an old, renovated warehouse in the city along with a short paragraph that read:

"C. C. Webster is one of our top moneymakers. Contract states at least four new books a year. Now a year in arrears. Get the deal back on track and we'll talk."
J.

If you believed trouble came in threes: the first thing to go wrong was the elevator was out of order, next, the stairwell was like a blast furnace, and, now no one was answering the bell. Michael, finally losing what little patience he had left, pounded on the door.

After a moment, an angry female voice bellowed: "WHAT!"

"I'm looking for C.C. Webster."

"Why?"

"I'm from Donovan Publishing." He yelled back.

The door was abruptly snatched open. A dark-haired, sloe-eyed beauty stared up at him. The creamy-smooth skin and classic sculpture of her face marred by the belligerent frown she wore. "You an attorney?"

"No, not really."

"One of their executives?"

"Not exactly."

"Just a messenger?"

"Well, not that either."

"Then what exactly are you then?"

"My name is Michael Donovan. . ."

"I didn't ask you who," she snapped, "I asked you what!"

Michael was becoming annoyed with her attitude. "I'm a representative of Donovan Publishing. If you could just tell Mr. Webster I would like to talk to him concerning his contractual obligations. . . "

She gave a hoot of laughter. "Well, this is new! Old Jonas really must hate you, flunky-man."

"Excuse me?"

"You're some relative aren't you?"

"Yes, if it's any of your business."

She snorted. "Figures. Nobody else in their right mind would've taken this job. You just trot your butt back up to the glass tower of that joke of a publishing company and tell that old bastard I want out! Tell him he's not getting another page out of me!" The door slammed shut - BANG.

The tide of anger rose level by level through his veins until it was a bright flush on his face as the dawn of understanding brought a primordial gleam to his eye. Damn his grandfather and this ill-mannered, irritating slip of a female. He brought up his fist and pounded on the door again.

"Ms. Webster, if you want this matter resolved at all you'll have to talk to me."

"I don't have to do anything, flunky-man."

"Talk to me, or to our attorneys."

"Get away from my door, or I'll call the police."

"Fine! It'll save me the trouble."

There was a pause and the door opened a crack. "What're you talking about?"

"Having you arrested, then suing."

"For what?"

"Aggravated assault, for starters. You nearly broke my nose with that door. Then I sue you for breach of contract. Give me a minute. I'm sure I can come up with more." He paused. "Now do we conduct business in a civilized manner, or, do I have to go to the trouble of taking you to court?"

The door slammed again as she released the chain, then jerked open wide.

Michael was afforded his first good look at C.C. Webster, who, barely five six in her bare feet, was trying to look intimidating, a scowl on her face and both arms folded across her chest. The stance only accentuated her long, brown legs complemented by a pair of extremely short shorts; full breasts straining at a tight blue T-shirt; thick, dark lashes surrounding almond shaped eyes and full, pouty lips.

"Well? You coming in or not?"

Michael stepped inside.

"Your attitude could use some work, Webster." Michael said dryly as he watched C.C. pad over to a wet bar and fixed herself a drink. She raised the glass to her lips and took a long swallow.

"Your manners, too."

"Oh, who gives a shit, flunky-man!" She snapped as she slammed the drink down on the bar. "I let you in here to discuss my contract not make social!"

Michael put his briefcase on the floor by her couch and shrugged out of his coat before sitting. "Your contract with Donovan Publishing gives you plenty of literary freedom, it. . . "

"Donovan's idea of freedom!"

"The contract was for five years, Ms. Webster, you only have two and a half more to go. Are you unhappy with some aspect of the company?"

"You're not listening!"

"I assume you read it before you signed, but now you find the contractual demands burdensome?" He waited, "This is about money, isn't it?"

"NO! How many times do I have to say it? I want out!"

Michael took a deep, calming breath. "Just tell me why."

She bristled. "I don't have to explain myself to you, flunky-man!"

"Before we negotiate anything, Ms. Webster, I want an explanation."

She snorted derisively, then smiled a Cheshire cat smile.

Michael thought suddenly, she's pretty. She'd be almost beautiful if she would smile more.

"You look like a reasonable guy." She said, smiling while she thought he was a sucker for a pretty face. She could wrap this chump around her little finger. She started to go to work. "The truth?"

Michael'd seen the play of emotions on her face. She was up to something. Probably no good, he braced himself. "Nothing but."

She rested a hip on the edge of the bar and stretched out her legs. "Donovan Publishing just signed contracts with two other authors."

Michael admired the long, beautiful limbs while he waited for her to continue. "And?" He promoted, swinging his gaze back to her face.

"And?! I'm the star! I won't share my spotlight, flunky-man! I thought that was understood."

Michael stared at her momentarily speechless. She was playing him. "Let me get this straight. You want out of your contract because the company brought in competition?"

"I don't think of them as competitors, only minor inconveniences."

"Where in your contract does it say you're exclusive?"

"It doesn't, but only because I didn't think of it then!"

"Can't take the opposition, Webster?"

"Donovan Publishing doesn't need anybody else!"

Michael's mouth closed with a snap. "You are certifiable, lady." He said in disbelief when he found his voice again.

"I beg your pardon?"

Michael stood. "I came here expecting a legitimate complaint, something negotiable at least. What I get is an adult-sized tantrum." He took a step toward her, making her back up. "My grandfather signed a contract with you in good faith. You've reneged on that contract which gives us grounds for legal action. Unless you want me to sue your butt off, Ms. Webster, I strongly suggest you have at least two manuscripts in my office within the next thirty days." He grabbed his coat and briefcase and headed toward the door. After opening it, he turned. "On second thought, make that the next fifteen. Good day, Ms. Webster."

"Michael has a little prick
A microscopic gem
And since it will not satisfy
The girls all laugh at him."

Michael felt the heat of anger rush to his face as he reached for the second bundle. Its verse was also repeated over and over for a thousand sheets, was pornographic, and eluded to his perverse preference for dogs and little boys.

He left his office breathing smoke and fire.

C.C. had been expecting the pounding on her door, but its intensity startled her. She hesitated a moment, gathering courage, then opened it with a huge smile.

The look Michael gave her could kill.

"You got my manuscripts?" She said innocently.

He stalked into the room and threw them on the table.

"You don't like them?"

"You're a clever duck, what do you think?"

"You said two manuscripts." She giggled. "I gave you two."

"You've had your fun. Now where's the real copy?"

"I don't know what your talking about."

"Look, Webster, cut the crap, I reviewed your profile a week ago. Sales of your last book were less than spectacular. The next script you gave my grandfather was pure tripe. He told you as much and you got pissed. You refused to rewrite or revise so he held up your royalties. You sued and lost, that's what this tantrum's about. I'm leaving here with three legitimate, saleable manuscripts or a long piece of your hide."

C.C.'s eyes widened. "A threat, flunky-man?"

"A fact, Webster." He shrugged out of his jacket and began rolling up his sleeves. "I think you're afraid story number one was a flash in the pan. Then, when Ol' Jonas signed on new talent, the circle of your paranoia was complete."

"You missed your calling, flunky-man." She sneered. "You should've been a shrink."

"If you're trying to antagonize me, Ms. Webster, you're succeeding. If you're hoping I'll become so enraged I'll rip your contract to shreds and free you, you're mistaken. What I will do is flip you face down across my knees and whale my manuscripts out of you."

"A novel approach." She said with calm she didn't feel. "Where'd you learn that technique? Neanderthal 101?"

"It's crude, but effective. Care for a demo?"

"You touch me and I'll sue!"

"I bet my lawyer's bigger than your lawyer." He took a step towards her. "What's it gonna be? Manuscript or malevolence?"

"You're crazy!"

"Something to think about while making your decision." He took another step.

"I'm calling the police!" She made a dash for the phone only to be intercepted just inches from her goal and spun around to face an angry Michael.

"Didn't make it." He began dragging her towards the couch. "Its safe to guess this is gonna be the hard way, right?"

Michael sat down on the edge of the cushions and yanked her unceremoniously across his lap. As he wrapped an arm around her waist to hold her still he gave her one last chance. "Give up the manuscripts, Webster, and save yourself a whole world of hurt."

"I don't have your damn manuscripts, flunky-man!"

He caught the tail of the gauzy peasant skirt she wore and calmly flipped it up and out of the way. He made a tsking noise. "You must want this spanking bad." He caught the lacy waistband of her briefs. "And I never deny a lady her heart's desire." Michael allowed himself a moment to admire the luscious roundness of her twin lobes before bringing his hand down smartly on both of them.

She screeched and nearly bucked out of his grasp.

"Have you lost your mind?"

"I see I have to demonstrate you of my conviction."

He brought his hand down harder.

"I told you I don't have your manuscripts!"

WHACK! WHACK! WHACK!

"Why don't I believe you?"

She yelped as he peppered her behind with several sharp slaps to the center. "Let me up! NO!" She struggled harder. "STOP!"

"You know what'll make me stop." He said calmly as he made her butt jump and quiver.

WHACK! WHACK! WHACK! WHACK!

"You don't understand!"

"You're wrong!"

WHACK! WHACK!

"I understand better than you think!"

"My work's important!"

"What about your reputation?"

WHACK! WHACK! WHACK!

"Your integrity?"

WHACK! WHACK!

"I don't have to listen to your pompous preaching!"

WHACK! WHACK! WHACK! WHACK! WHACK!

"Here's where I teach you disadvantages of being a captive audience."

Michael ignored her squeals and insults and didn't reply to any of her threats or comments until he'd changed the golden tan of her backside to a fire-engine red and lost count of the licks he'd given her.

"Wait!" Her wails had taken on a teary quality.

WHACK!

"Michael!"

"Who gave you permission to use my first name?" He accented each word with a vehement thwack. "It's Mr. Donovan until I say otherwise."

WHACK!

"Not flunky-man or any other pet name from your cute little repertoire." He emphasized each syllable with a sharp swat.

C.C.'s tearful pleadings were inaudible by now and her sobs ending in pitiful hiccuping intakes of breath.

"I can keep this up for as long as it takes, Webster." And to prove his point he renewed his walloping with a vengeance.

WHACK! WHACK! WHACK! WHACK!

C.C. held out for about ten more whacks and then screamed. "Please, Mr. Donovan! STOP!"

WHACK!

"I'll give you the real copy!"

He didn't even slow down. "Too late."

"Three manuscripts!"

He whacked her again, hard. "No deal."

"Alright, four!"

WHACK!

"Sorry."

"I haven't finished the fifth one, I swear!" That sentence ended in a high-pitched squeal.

WHACK!

"Convince me."

"They're on disks in my top desk drawer! Good, high quality stuff! Better than the last! I'll get them for you! Please!"

WHACK!

"I'm still waiting for my explanation."

"You said you knew!"

His answer was five solid whacks fueled by the strength of impatience. "From your lips."

"Blackmail!," she shrieked. "The new talent your grandfather signed on are good!"

WHACK!

"Newsflash!"

WHACK!

"So are you!"

WHACK! WHACK! WHACK!

Michael ended with a hand-numbing cresendo.

He lifted C.C. from his lap and stood the weeping woman in front of him. Pert, puckered, brown nipples bobbed tantalizingly before his eyes. Breasts giggling slightly as she danced lightly from foot to foot trying to massage the pain away.

Michael almost lost his train of thought. "If I hear you downgrade yourself again, we'll have a replay of this chat. Clear?"

She nodded, wiping her face with one hand.

"And no more of that bitch I first met, Webster, from now on we'll be straight with one another about everything."

She nodded again.

"Let me hear you!"

"Yes, Mr. Donovan." She whispered, a lone tear trailing down flushed cheeks.

Michael stood and wiped it away with the pad of his thumb. "It's all right if you call me Michael now."

She nodded again as she reached down to pull her panties back in place before releasing the hem of her skirt.

"And before you get my disks. . . for the record, Michael's never had any complaints about his size or his ability, nor does he have anything sexual for farm animals, pets or little boys. Any more jokes or limericks will be dealt with severely enough to make this little session look like a walk in the park. Is that also clear?"

She smiled a slight, watery smile as she turned and went to retrieving the disks. She'd felt Mr. Donovan's impressive endowments while she'd been over his lap, before her mind went on to more urgent matters.

"You wanted to see me?"

He put the bound copy he was reading aside. "Yes! Yes! Come on in, Michael!" He smiled as he gestured to a chair nearby. "Sit! Sit!"

Michael folded his height into the padded leather chair. "You seem pleased about something."

"Something? Everything!" He gestured. "Did you read this latest copy?"

Michael glanced down at the indicated material. "The stuff from Ken?"

"Ken, C.C., Annabeth, Donal! A publisher's nightmare, every last one of them! I had P.R. working on them, I had the attorneys working on them. Nothing! I give the accounts to you and, poof, in no time at all you have them turning out not just copy, but exceptional copy. You're a magician!"

Michael shrugged noncommittally. "I like doing your shit work, granddad."

"I prefer to call it troubleshooting, and you watch your mouth, you young hoodlum! You're not to old to be taken over my knee!" Jonas blustered, then smoothed his features at Michael's amused look. "Tell me how you do it, son."

"A magician never reveals his secrets, you know that."

"And erotic! All of them guaranteed to raise your blood pressure! Even that murder mystery and vampire tripe Donal writes." He gave him a knowing grin. "This stuff's hot!"

"That's no way to describe your star author's work, granddad."

"I call it like I see it. Donal's pages coulda been used for bait! All of theirs could!"

Michael shrugged nonchalantly. "Just had to relight a pilot light or two."

"Pilot light? These are major brush-fires, son! Why Donal and Annabeth wouldn't even return my calls, now they seem to pick up the phone before I dial the number! And C. C.! I don't know what you did to her! I hated to even hear her name! Now she's like a human being!"

"You never know what you have until you need it."

His assistant knocked lightly on the door before she opened it. "I'm sorry to disturb you two, but a messenger just delivered the package Michael's been waiting for."

"Thanks. Anything else, granddad?"

"Must be important."

"Just something crucial to Donovan Publishing's continued success."

"I have some legal papers we need to sign, but that can wait 'til later. What's in the package? More copy?"

"Paddles." He said, rising calmly.

"Excuse me?"

"Paddles: one wooden, one leather. I charged them off as a business expense." He stopped at the door and turned around with a wide smile on his face. "You think you got good copy now? Just wait."

"But paddles as a business expense?"

"Trust me, granddad, because of them, Donovan Publishing'll be back on top in no time." He paused. "They'll give good incentive."