Rupert Murdoch thrusts Harlequin romance books deep inside his company
Though it hated to admit it, it had been years since Harlequin Books had felt desirable. At a still sexy, yet admittedly outdated 65 years old, Harlequin had come to believe its only brushes with new romance would be in the novels it itself published, to be read with the same distant yearning by women its age. Oh sure, it tried to stay vital—maintaining an active imaginary sex life by publishing more than 110 bodice-rippers and other tales of erotically rough copulation every month. But since 1981, it had been locked in a faithful, if somewhat dull marriage to the Torstar Corporation, long ago settling in Toronto. The fires that had once burned deep within its descriptions of loins had been cooled considerably by time. Not even in Harlequin’s wildest fantasies could it remember what it felt like to be with a new partner.
“Well, hello there,” a man’s voice said. It was thick with an Australian accent—how exotic!—and phlegm. “My name is Rupert Murdoch. I couldn’t help but notice you standing over here in Canada. You look cold. And solvent.”
Harlequin’s heart skipped a beat as it turned and faced the deep-set eyes of the stranger before it—murky and brown, like two stagnant pools of sewer water. The roguish twinkle of his eyeglasses sent hot flashes all throughout Harlequin. The soft folds of his jowls rippled sensuously as he gave Harlequin his most dashing frown.
“Has anyone ever told you that you’re attractive to foreign markets?” Murdoch said, as Harlequin felt itself growing flush with embarrassment. Harlequin realized it was staring at his thick, undulating neck skin, straining against the knot of his necktie.
“I… I do generate approximately 40 percent of my profits from foreign-language editions,” Harlequin stammered, adding a girlish laugh that it hoped was coquettish. Don’t blow this! Harlequin said to itself. This is the first man who’s been interested in your assets in… Harlequin couldn’t even remember how long.
Murdoch leaned in, close enough for his aftershave to waft over Harlequin. It was slightly nauseating. “I have a substantial holding company called News Corp. It’s a very strong holding company. I suspect it could hold you all night long,” he whispered. At the corner of his mouth, a string of spittle stretched and flexed teasingly, in and out, in and out.