Pasta Imperfect - By Maddy Hunter Page 0,37

his arms to himself and shivered. "Brrrrr!" Lowering his voice, he said in a more conspiratorial tone, "The problem is, she's been lusting after me for years and has no outlet for all her pent-up sexual frustration."

Philip Blackmore cracked his invisible whip. "That will be quite enough, Gabe."

"Is there anything on this menu besides pizza?" Sylvia griped. "I didn't come all the way to Italy to eat pizza."

"Why did you come to Italy?" Gabriel grazed his knuckles over his fine facial hairs, seeming to enjoy the abrasive rasp against his skin. "For the seafood? You should be in luck, Sylvia. I hear they run daily specials on barracuda."

Sylvia smiled at the comment before removing her reading glasses and skewering him with a cool, patronizing look. "I'm here for the same reason as everyone else. To gather whatever pearls of wisdom the good 'book doctor' will be kind enough to share with us. Because, as we all know, whenever Gabriel Fox speaks, the publishing industry listens, no matter what he says, or whom he destroys."

Was it my imagination, or was I detecting some major undercurrents here?

"Granted, he wields some power," Philip said, favoring Gabriel with an oddly guarded look. "But lest you forget, Sylvia, so do you."

"You're all kidding yourselves," Marla said, laughing. "The person with the real power is Oprah."

"She's right," Gillian agreed. "You become one of her book club selections and pow! You get it all. Mega print runs. Endless publicity. More money than you can spend in six lifetimes. Literary stardom." She straightened her spine and set her clasped hands firmly on the table. "I want to be an Oprah selection."

Gabriel Fox pounded the table with his fist in a howl of laughter. "Why don't you aim for something more realistic? Like...like discovering a vaccine to prevent whooping cough?"

Jackie nudged my arm. "Didn't somebody already do that?"

"You have no chance of ever becoming an Oprah selection," he went on. "Oprah's books are deeply intelligent, complex, multilayered. They refract truth through layers of falsehood. They render prose with subtlety and grace. They're masterpieces of modern-day literature."

Marla looked confused. "I thought they were books about torment, depression, lost children, suicidal characters, and dysfunctional families, in which case, Gillian has a point. Her books would fit in just fine."

"So there!" said Gillian, her glee diminishing suddenly as she paused to reflect on Marla's words.

"Oprah is a cash cow," Sylvia announced flatly, "and if you were smart, Blackie, you'd be waving Gillian's and Marla's upcoming books in front of her nose so you'd have a chance of getting in on the action. So what if her taste doesn't run toward cowboys and barbarians. Her reading habits could change. Think of the quarterly profits. The cash bonuses at Christmas. It's all about the money, and you're blind if you say otherwise."

Philip Blackmore looked decidedly uncomfortable. Uncapping his bottle, he took a long swig of water. "I've always admired your bluntness, Sylvia, but this is neither the time nor the place for a financial analysis of the effect Oprah has had on publishing."

She cackled with laughter. "Woo the lady, Blackie. And if you won't do it for Gillian and Marla, do it for Gabe, who would sell his left nut to be known as the man who edited one of Oprah's anointed literary masters." She sidled a wry look at Gabriel before casting an impatient glance around her. "What do you have to do to get a waiter in this place?"

Considering the escalating tension at the table, I hoped everyone's utensils turned out to be plastic. "Wasn't that sad about the woman who fell last night?" I ventured, hoping to tap into some of their more sympathetic emotions.

"Speaking of that --" Gabriel leaned forward to address Philip. "I'm not judging her entry if she's dead."

"Are you sure you didn't give her a little shove yourself to ensure you wouldn't have to judge her entry?" Sylvia accused.

Gabriel's eyes became hostile slits. "Okay, babe, this time you've gone too far."

"Well, I think this whole tour was a bad idea," Gillian complained. "First, you expect me to give up all my secrets to the wannabes, telling them how to write a romance, then you concoct this idiotic contest, guaranteeing that one of them will be given a free ride. I'm glad the fire destroyed all my lecture materials. Do you know what I had to go through to get my first book published? How many years of rejection I went through? I tell you, Philip, not only