Not At Eight, Darling
Sherryl Woods
Don’t touch that dial!Barrie MacDonald gave everyone involved with the TV sitcom she produced consistently high ratings–except executive Michael Compton. Charmingly persuasive, Michael was clearly interested in Barrie, but he also wanted to reschedule her show, which would be a disaster.Was Barrie's commitment to the program worth her tuning Michael out completely? She wasn't sure she could deny their attraction. But when she realized the romance of her on-screen heroine was beginning to echo Barrie's real-life dilemmas, she felt that things were getting out of control!
A real-life romance hits the small screen in this acclaimed story from New York Times bestselling author Sherryl Woods
Barrie MacDonald gave everyone involved with the TV sitcom she produced consistently high ratings—except executive Michael Compton. Charmingly persuasive, Michael was clearly interested in Barrie, but he also wanted to reschedule her show, which would be a disaster.
Was Barrie’s commitment to the program worth her tuning Michael out completely? She wasn’t sure she could deny their attraction. But when she realized the romance of her on-screen heroine was beginning to echo Barrie’s real-life dilemmas, she felt that things were getting out of control!
Not at Eight, Darling
Sherryl Woods
www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)
Contents
Cover (#u11b1a9a7-2c42-569a-8bf4-2c41f330e93b)
Back Cover Text (#u31140969-757c-5dee-9e73-8c682f860a49)
Title Page (#ua07fb665-5169-5dfe-b4bd-723c302b7cd0)
Chapter One (#uc9fe87b2-5975-5537-acf1-a54b6f6ca434)
Chapter Two (#u32683845-a1b8-575c-83c7-1bc5fe18c233)
Chapter Three (#ufd1f5ab2-7f21-53b4-89fc-c24b686bffc6)
Chapter Four (#ub0135f48-87b7-5dc8-ac81-c2edc03de7a1)
Chapter Five (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Six (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Seven (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Eight (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Nine (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Ten (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Eleven (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Twelve (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Thirteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Copyright (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter One (#ulink_5b2fb006-90f0-5a15-b583-7728851eb596)
The only sound in the hushed, cavernous television studio was the increasingly rapid, evidently angry tapping of Barrie MacDonald’s pen against the metal top of a makeshift conference table. Then, as a dozen people looked on in anxious and surprisingly silent anticipation, she dropped the memo she’d been reading, peered over the top of her oversized glasses with indignant brown eyes and spoke in a voice that, she noted proudly, was quiet and controlled. It was not at all like the scream of pure frustration she wanted to unleash on poor, unsuspecting Kevin Porterfield.
“Kevin, dear, did you read this?”
The young man gulped nervously. “Of course, Miss MacDonald.”
“Then you know how utterly absurd it is,” she said softly. She actually sounded calm. Amazing. “I will not add a sheepdog to the cast of Goodbye, Again, just because some crazy demographic study shows that kids like sheepdogs.”
Several members of the cast gasped as eyebrows lifted toward the ceiling in a disgusted, what-did-you-expect expression. Others simply giggled. If the memo hadn’t sounded so incredibly serious, Barrie might have laughed herself. Instead she managed an expression she hoped would put the fear of God into this…this Yuppie who was still wet behind the ears and who was staring at her now with a look that teetered between misery and smug satisfaction. It was actually a rather amazing combination, and she wondered for a fleeting second how he managed it. If he could do it on command, he might make a decent actor.
“But Miss MacDonald…” he began again.
“That’s all there is to it, Kevin,” she interrupted firmly. “End of discussion.”
“But Miss MacDonald, I’m afraid Mr. Compton was adamant. The show has to have a dog. The research shows that dogs…”
“I know what the bloody research shows, Kevin,” she said, her voice beginning to rise toward a less-than-serene screech, despite her best efforts to control it. She took a deep, relaxing breath—precisely as she’d learned in her stress reduction class—and added more gently, “If the research showed that viewers liked ax murders, would you expect me to put one of those in each week, too?”
Kevin looked at her indignantly. “Of course not.”
“Then don’t talk to me about research. Have you read the script for this show, Kevin? We are talking adult situation comedy here. We are talking relationships. Funny, sophisticated relationships. We are not talking dog food commercials.”
Poor Kevin turned absolutely pale, but Barrie was not about to relent and let him off the hook. She had created Goodbye, Again. It was her statement about the transitory nature of romance in the 80s, about her values. There was an awful lot of her in the single, independent, fiesty heroine. Each time Karen Devereaux spoke, Barrie felt as though it was an echo of her own thoughts. Goodbye, Again had been born of her beliefs, and she had spent three long, agonizing years trying to get it on the air. She was not about to let these mindless, research-oriented twits destroy it on the first day of production. If she gave in on the dog, next week they’d want to add kids, and the week after that her lead character would be married and pregnant, and there would be a whole disgustingly cheery episode revolving around diapers and baby food. Well, they could take their blasted market research and stuff it!
Aloud, she said none of this. Exercising what she considered to be Emmy-Award-winning restraint, she murmured pleasantly, “Now you run along and explain that to Mr. Compton, dear. I’m sure he’ll understand.”
“Understand what?”
The question, asked in a low, velvet-smooth tone, came from the back of the studio. It was exactly the sort of warm, soothing, sensual voice that radio stations liked to have on the air in the wee hours of the morning to stir the imagination of their female listeners. Despite her instinctive, sinking feeling that the voice belonged to Michael Compton, Barrie’s own heart lurched at the seductive sound. Then it had a far more sensible reaction. It slammed against her ribs in sheer panic.
Michael Compton, the recently appointed network vice president for programming, was a man who reportedly dissected into tiny, insignificant pieces the people who dared to question his orders. Barrie wondered how much of her conversation with Kevin he’d overheard. Not that she’d change a word of it, she thought stoutly. It would just be nice to know exactly how much trouble she was in.
She had to admit that the man’s timing was impeccable. “Just when I’ve got the battle under control, the enemy general has to show up with reinforcements,” she muttered resignedly under her breath.
She should have anticipated something like this. The day had not gone well since the alarm clock had jarred her awake at daybreak. In fact, on a scale of one to ten, it ranked somewhere on the minus side of the ledger. First she had inadvertently washed one of her new soft contact lenses down the drain, leaving her to choose between blinking nearsightedness or the huge old rose-tinted glasses that made her look a bit like an owl. Then her hairdryer had sparked and sizzled to an abrupt halt, leaving her frosted ash-brown hair to dry naturally to a curly tangle, rather than the smoother style she preferred. Her windshield wipers had broken in the middle of a downpour, and she’d had to creep along the L.A. freeway, arriving at the studio an hour late. And finally, she had snagged her new hose as she was getting out of her sporty fire-engine-red Sentra in the parking lot. The run had made its way from her ankle to her thigh in less time than it had taken her to utter a satisfying string of obscenities under her breath.
“Apparently I’m on a roll,” she said dryly as the man whom she assumed to be Michael Compton stepped out of the shadows and strolled confidently to the temporary office set of Goodbye, Again, where Barrie and the cast were assembled. They had been rehearsing the premiere episode when Kevin had wandered in with the latest memo from the network.
“Well, Miss MacDonald,” the man said, a hint of amusement twinkling in his eyes as he perched on the edge of the conference table right next to her. One very solid, very tempting thigh was mere inches from her fingertips. “Exactly what is it you’re so sure I’ll understand?”
Barrie’s gaze shifted reluctantly upward into dazzling blue-green eyes. She studied the square jaw and the determined set to his mouth and gulped. Perhaps a dog wouldn’t be so bad, after all. He could stay in the bedroom and bark occasionally. That ought to keep everyone happy.
What in God’s name am I thinking of? she snapped back mentally. I will not have a dog in this show!
Staring him straight in the eye, she said coolly, “We were just discussing your memo, Mr. Compton.”
“About the sheepdog.”
“Yes. I’m not sure you’ve thought this through,” she began cautiously, wincing as his eyes hardened and bored into her. Mincemeat. This was definitely a man who made mincemeat out of his adversaries. She rushed on, anyway. If she was going to commit professional suicide, she might as well go out fighting. “I mean these people live in a thirty-five story condominium in the middle of Manhattan. What would they be doing with a sheepdog?”
“That’s something else we need to talk about,” he said.
Although he spoke softly, there was no mistaking the authoritative tone. A warning signal flared in Barrie’s brain, and she prepared for the next wave of his absurd, ill-conceived game plan to destroy her show.
“I don’t think a condominium is quite the right environment,” he explained.
“Oh? And what would you suggest? A vine-covered cottage with a white picket fence?”
He grinned, and her own lips defied her by twitching upward in an involuntary response. “That might be a little extreme,” he agreed. “I was thinking more along the lines of a town house.”
Barrie considered the idea thoughtfully. She was not above making some small compromises. “Maybe it would work,” she said slowly. “One of those nice brownstones on the East Side, perhaps.”
“Umm…” He shook his head. “Not exactly.”
“What, then?”
“I was thinking of one of those town house developments. You know, with a swimming pool, tennis courts, sailboats, that sort of thing.”
Barrie’s eyes widened incredulously. The man had obviously come up through the ranks from sales. He had the creative mentality of an accountant.
“In Manhattan?” That distressing screech was back in her voice, though it had been weakened considerably by her absolute dismay.
“Well, we probably would have to move the location of the show. Maybe Marina del Ray or Santa Monica.”
At that, her mouth dropped open, and her glasses slipped to the tip of her pert turned-up nose. “You’ve got to be kidding!”
“What’s wrong with that? It worked for Three’s Company.”
To her thorough astonishment, the man seemed genuinely puzzled. In fact, he looked downright hurt that she hadn’t liked his suggestion.
“That’s what’s wrong with it,” she explained as patiently as she could, considering her desire to deliver a primal scream that would shake the studio. “It’s been done. I don’t want to copy another series. Goodbye, Again is going to be fresh, different, contemporary. It’s going to give viewers something to think about.”
She glared at him defiantly. “It is not going to be an endless parade of bikini-clad bodies jiggling to the Jacuzzi.”
“You think that’s a bit too sexist?” he wondered aloud with apparent innocence. While she held her breath and waited, he seemed to consider her strenuous objection carefully. “Maybe you’re right. Of course, if we put a couple of guys in there…”
“Forget it!” Barrie’s shout echoed as she slammed her fist down emphatically. To her utter chagrin it landed squarely on his thigh. The damn muscle felt like granite. It felt, in fact, wonderful. However, she warned herself dryly, this was no time to get caught up with the feel of the man’s physique. She had an important point to make. Several of them, in fact. “No bikinis! No swimming pools! And no damned sheepdog!”
A deep, rumbling laugh suddenly erupted from Michael Compton’s chest. Barrie’s hand twitched nervously where it had come to rest on his leg, and she yanked it back, looking at him as though he’d suddenly gone mad. The cast tittered uncertainly.
“You’re wonderful, Miss MacDonald. Absolutely priceless,” he said when he’d regained his composure. “I like a producer with spunk. I want my people to stand up for what they believe in.”
His people? Spunk? Barrie’s indignant roar dwindled down to a low growl as she stared at him, first in blinking confusion, then with slowly dawning understanding. “You were teasing me, weren’t you?” she accused.
“Me?” The attempt at innocence failed miserably. There was far too much of a twinkle in his eyes.
“Yes, you.”
He nodded contritely, though his lips continued to twitch with amusement. “I’m afraid so. I couldn’t resist.”
“You don’t want me to move the show to Los Angeles?”
He shook his head.
“You don’t expect me to spend five minutes per episode in a Jacuzzi?”
“Nope.”
“You’re not really asking for a sheepdog?”
“Well…”
“Mr. Compton,” she thundered.
He smiled at her. Slowly. Winningly. It was a smile that belonged on the cover of an album of romantic ballads. “Okay, you win. No sheepdog…if you have dinner with me.”
Despite the flutter in the pit of her stomach, Barrie refused to be won over. “Business conferences usually take place over lunch.”
“I’m booked for lunch for the next month.”
“I’ll wait.”
“I won’t. If this show is going to go on the air in September—three weeks from now, in fact—we need to discuss it.”
Barrie regarded him closely, one eyebrow lifting quizzically. “Mr. Compton,” she began sweetly. “Are you blackmailing me into having dinner with you?”
“Miss MacDonald, do I look like I need to blackmail women into going out with me?” he inquired with entirely too much amusement.
Barrie surveyed him critically from head to toe and decided reluctantly that the amusement didn’t stem from conceit. If anything, the man was probably being modest. Her gaze traveled slowly from the neatly trimmed thick brown hair and twinkling blue-green eyes over broad shoulders and narrow hips that not even a depressingly businesslike navy blue suit could disguise. The Kirk Douglas dimple in his chin and the square jaw only added to his aura of sex appeal. To top it off, he apparently had charm, and he definitely had power, both potent aphrodisiacs.
No, she decided with an unconscious sigh, this man would not need to resort to blackmail. Women probably lined up hoping for a chance to have him as an escort. Her glance swept over the cast of Goodbye, Again. Although they all seemed to be nervously awaiting her decision, disgustingly the women also appeared to be panting. Any one of them would probably kill to trade places with her.
“Well?” he taunted. “Are you going to take me up on this opportunity to discuss your future at the network?”
“Don’t rush me. I’m thinking,” she retorted, deliberately ignoring the ominous overtone of his question.
“If it takes you this long to reach a decision, Miss MacDonald, perhaps you’ve chosen the wrong career. Producers need to think on their feet.”
“Perhaps I could become a network vice president,” she suggested darkly. “They don’t seem to think at all.”
To her absolute amazement—and probable salvation—he laughed again. Her eyes widened as the hearty, unrestrained sound bounced off the studio walls. “Watch it, Miss MacDonald,” he warned with a wink as he headed toward the door with Kevin trailing along behind him like an obedient puppy. “Casting has a huge sheepdog that would be just perfect for this show.”
Barrie winced and took a deep breath. “Pick me up here at seven,” she called after him.
With her glasses clenched tightly in her hand, Barrie couldn’t quite see to the back of the studio, but Michael appeared to nod in satisfaction. “Six-thirty. My office,” he called back as the door slammed shut behind him.
“Smart…” she muttered under her breath.
She hated men who had to have the last word. She especially hated men who had irresistible thighs.
Chapter Two (#ulink_f99241a0-d883-5c70-8a06-e43ade24f576)
The studio was silent for exactly thirty seconds following Michael Compton’s departure. Then all hell broke loose. Though Barrie would have liked to believe they were above it, the women immediately—and probably predictably—began debating the man’s availability amid a chorus of heavy sighs. At the same time, the men’s grumbling remarks about interference in the creative process by self-important pompous jerks contained more than a hint of jealousy. The writer of the opening episode muttered something about cretins under his breath, while he crushed empty Styrofoam coffee cups one by one. And Danielle Lawrence, Barrie’s best friend and the director whom she’d chosen for the series’ premiere, was ignoring all of it and smirking at her.
“What’s your problem?” Barrie snapped.
“Nice looking, isn’t he?”
“Who?” It seemed to be a good time to be deliberately obtuse.
“Who? Attila the programmer, of course.”
“I didn’t notice.”
Danielle regarded her skeptically. “The woman who has taken a personal oath not to marry until she finds the perfect set of male thighs did not notice a man whose legs could have been carved by Michelangelo? I find that difficult to believe.”
Barrie’s eyes flashed dangerously. “There are other directors in Hollywood.”
“But I’m good,” Danielle retorted cheerfully. “I am also available, reasonably inexpensive, and I know all of your character flaws and love you, anyway. You can’t top that.”
Barrie sighed. “You’re probably right, but could we drop the subject of Michael Compton for now? We have to go over this opening scene again. The pacing is all wrong.”
An explosion of sound erupted just behind Barrie’s shoulder. “What do you mean the pacing is all wrong?” Heath Donaldson hissed. “I’ve been writing comedy since before you were born. If you’d hired actors who knew how to deliver a line, the pacing would be just fine.”
Barrie rolled her eyes at Danielle and turned around slowly. She put her arm around the short balding man who’d been huffing and puffing angrily in her ear. “Sweetheart,” she began soothingly. “Your script is just fine. We all know you’re one of the best in the business.”
She lowered her voice to a whisper. “And you’re right about some of the cast being inexperienced. But, love, you know they’re just perfect for the parts. I think if you work with them and make just a few tiny adjustments to help them out, the opening scene will click right along.”
Heath blinked back at her, and the fiery red that had crept up his neck was fading away. He now looked a little less like a coronary waiting to happen. Barrie breathed a sigh of relief as he muttered more calmly, “Well, I suppose I could change a few lines just a little, tighten it up.”
“That’s it,” Barrie said with exaggerated enthusiasm. “I knew you could do it. Why don’t you and Danielle go over the first couple of pages of the script and see what you can come up with?”
For the next few hours Barrie felt like a firefighter who’d been asked to put out an entire county of brush fires with a pail of water. There was one crisis after another, none of them serious, but all of them requiring diplomacy, patience and a serenity she was far from feeling. The only possible advantage to a day like today, she decided, rubbing her throbbing temples, was that it had left her absolutely no time to work herself into a state over her impending dinner with Michael Compton.
At six-fifteen she sent the cast and crew home, touched up her makeup, took another stress-reducing deep breath that didn’t do a bit of good and walked across the studio lot to the nearby network facilities. At precisely six-thirty she presented herself to Michael Compton’s secretary, a cheerful woman with gray hair, rosy cheeks and sparkling, periwinkle blue eyes.
Mrs. Emma Lou Hastings looked as though she’d be perfectly at home in the kitchen making applesauce with an army of grandchildren underfoot. She also seemed like the type you could come to for motherly advice, Barrie decided, suddenly struck by the oddest desire to sit down and tell this perfect stranger that she was a nervous wreck because she was having dinner with a man who held the key to her future, a man who also had incredible thighs. She wondered what Mrs. Hastings would have to say about that.
Since Barrie kept her mouth clamped firmly shut, Mrs. Hastings only said, “You can go in now, Miss MacDonald. Mr. Compton is expecting you.”
Barrie had started toward the door when the secretary added softly, “Don’t worry, dear. He’s really a very nice young man.”
Very nice young man, indeed! Mrs. Hastings obviously didn’t know that Michael Compton had virtually threatened to cancel Barrie’s series unless she agreed to this dinner. What would she say about her nice young man if she found out about that? Barrie looked into her round, honest-looking face with the tiny laugh lines around the eyes and the encouraging smile and didn’t have the heart to tell her. After all, she defended herself, could you tell a mother that her son is rotten to the core? Of course not. No more than she could tell Mrs. Hastings that her obviously well-liked boss was a thoroughly obnoxious louse who indulged in emotional blackmail.
Instead she smiled back. “Thanks,” she said as she turned the brass doorknob and walked into Michael Compton’s office. Grateful for any reprieve, she was delighted to see that he was on the phone. He looked up and grinned at her with that sinfully sensual smile of his and motioned for her to sit down. She selected the chair farthest from his desk and sank down, tucking her legs back in a futile attempt to cover the run that displayed a pale white trail of skin from her ankle up, disappearing at last under the hem of her beige linen skirt. Why the hell hadn’t she remembered the damn run earlier? She couldn’t very well go tearing out of here now to buy new hose. Blast Michael Compton, she thought irrationally. Somehow this was all his fault.
She glanced over to discover that the object of her irritation was paying absolutely no attention to her. His head was bent to one side in order to keep the phone braced against his shoulder. If he did that long enough, he was going to have one heck of a neck ache, Barrie noted. She was torn between a perverse delight at the prospect and an even stranger desire to massage the soon-to-be-knotted muscles. She blinked and looked away, but, as though she’d been hypnotized, her eyes were drawn back time and again.
As Michael listened to his long-winded and apparently irate caller, he tapped a pencil idly on his huge rosewood desk. With his other hand he shuffled through a stack of papers, sorting them into two compulsively neat piles. Periodically he jabbed at another of the lit buttons on the phone, rumbled directives first into the receiver and then into the intercom on his desk. Two assistants scurried in and out, handing him papers to sign, waiting as he jotted notes on them, then rushing back out. A clerk from the mailroom came in with a half-dozen videotapes, piled them up next to his VCR and the bank of television monitors and left. Mrs. Hastings hurried in with several bulging file folders, dropped them into his In basket and picked up one of the stacks he’d just created. On her way out, she smiled sympathetically at Barrie, who’d begun to feel as though she’d fallen into the rabbit hole and wound up in the middle of Alice in Wonderland. Never in her life had she seen such perfectly orchestrated chaos. Never in her life had she felt so blatantly ignored.
“It won’t be long, dear,” Mrs. Hastings promised. “It’s always this way at the end of the day.”
Barrie glanced at her slim gold watch. It was seven-fifteen. She had suggested that Michael meet her at the studio at seven, but he’d refused and insisted instead that she meet him at his office at six-thirty. He was now forty-five minutes late, and Mrs. Hastings’s reassurances to the contrary, he was showing no sign of quitting for the day.
Barrie waited and fumed. Eager to find any excuse for escape, she prepared herself mentally to rise as regally as she could with that blasted run in her hose and walk out of his office in a dignified protest of his imperious rudeness. Just as she started to stand, the phone clicked into place on his desk. He dropped the pencil, stopped shuffling papers, switched off the intercom and leaned back in his chair.
His pale blue tailored-to-fit shirt with his initials embroidered on the cuff emphasized his broad chest, his tapering waistline. His tie was loosened, his collar open at the neck to reveal a provocative amount of tanned skin and a shadowing of dark, tightly curled hairs. Eyes that now seemed more blue than green stared knowingly back at her. Barrie gulped and studied the pictures on the wall. They were modern splashes of bright, formless color. They were awful.
“So…Miss MacDonald,” he said softly, seductively. “What do you think of my—” there was a suggestive hesitation that brought a guilty blush to Barrie’s cheeks “—office?”
“I think the network overpaid the decorator,” she responded tartly.
He grinned at her. “That’s a rather dangerously blunt comment, don’t you think? How do you know I didn’t do it myself?”
“I’ve been in this office before. The pictures preceded you.”
“Very observant,” he noted approvingly, then added with a weary sigh, “I wish more people in this business would develop their powers of observation. It might improve the quality of the stuff that gets brought in here.”
Barrie’s brown eyes sparkled with excitement as she recognized a perfect opportunity. Heath Donaldson couldn’t have scripted a better opening line for her. “That’s what I want to do with Goodbye, Again,” she said enthusiastically. “I want to create characters and situations that people will recognize. Relationships today aren’t what they were when I Love Lucy went on the air. They’re freer, more open. Women are less dependent on the men in their lives, married or not. They stay married out of choice, not necessity. How many families today are like the Andersons on Father Knows Best? We might wish they were, but, as the saying goes, wishing won’t make it so.”
“So you want to force-feed reality, when what the audience wants is fantasy?” he challenged.
“No,” she responded heatedly, so caught up in explaining her show so that he would understand that she once again missed the teasing glint in his eyes. “You’re twisting my words around. You make reality sound like a dirty word.”
As Michael rose and walked slowly around to where she was sitting, her breath suddenly caught in her throat, her argument sputtered to a halt, and she was immediately struck by the strangest sense of heightened anticipation. It was like waiting for a roller coaster to inch over the crest of its highest peak and fly down the other side. One knew something incredible was about to happen but had no idea quite how to prepare for it. Michael’s impressive body towered over hers, sending out little electrical currents that seemed to head straight for her abdomen, flooding it with a pleasant warmth and a tormenting ache. Barrie’s eyes were drawn to his, locked in a fiery awareness, challenging him to defend his statement.
“Actually, I like reality, Miss MacDonald,” he protested softly, the velvet-smooth tone affecting her like warm brandy. It felt soothing and intoxicating. “In fact, I’m liking it more by the minute.”
His charming, roguish grin brought a responding tilt to her lips. The man could obviously sweet-talk his way past Saint Peter at the gates of heaven. What possible chance did she stand, Barrie wondered a trifle desperately. She’d come here to have a serious discussion to assure the integrity of Goodbye, Again, and here she was melting like some damned stick of butter left out in the sun. Spineless. She was absolutely spineless.
“Mr. Compton, I thought you wanted to have dinner and talk about Goodbye, Again.”
“I do.”
“Well?”
“Dinner’s on the way.”
Barrie gulped. “Here?”
“Why not? It’s more private than a restaurant, and despite the lousy artwork, the atmosphere isn’t bad.”
It is also entirely too intimate, Barrie wanted to shout.
So what? a voice shouted back. Intimacy is only threatening if you allow it to be. After all, the man has done absolutely nothing to indicate that he wants to seduce you. That was an idea that popped into your mind sometime between his thorough, unblinking survey and the soft, sensual smile that made your heart flip over.
Okay. So I’ll force that idea right back out of my mind.
Right. The worst thing that could happen would be that he’d make a pass at you, and you’d file a sexual harassment suit.
No, she correctly dryly, the worst thing that could happen would be that he would make a pass, and she would respond. She steeled herself against that embarrassingly distinct possibility.
“Dinner here is just fine,” she said airily, taking off her glasses. Maybe if she couldn’t see the man, his potency would be less dangerous. Of course, she also might miss the first signs of any planned seduction. She put the glasses back on, just in time to see a waiter wheel in a cart laden with covered silver dishes.
In less time than it would normally take her to scan the contents of her virtually empty freezer, the waiter draped a small table with a spotless white damask cloth, added an Oriental-style arrangement of tiny orchids, lit several tapered candles and set two places with heavy silverware and English bone china that Barrie recognized as one of the most expensive patterns on the market.
“I take it you didn’t order from the commissary,” she commented dryly.
He smiled back at her. “Wait until you see the food before making judgments, Miss MacDonald,” he warned. “Isn’t Hollywood known for creating atmosphere without worrying about substance? You could be in for a dinner of ham on rye.”
“You don’t strike me as the ham-on-rye type. Maybe bologna.”
“Careful. That tart tongue of yours is going to get you in trouble yet.”
“It usually gets me back out of it, as well.”
“Perhaps it has…in the past,” he taunted. “But you haven’t come up against a man like me before, Miss MacDonald.”
“How do you know that?”
“I’m one of a kind,” he informed her with a wink as he sipped the wine and nodded approvingly to the waiter. “This is perfect, Henri.”
“Bon appetit, monsieur.”
“Merci.”
The waiter bowed graciously to Barrie and pushed the cart out of the office, leaving them alone.
“Well, Miss MacDonald,” Michael said softly as he held out a chair for her. “Your dinner awaits.”
Barrie sat down to a meal that was expertly planned, perfectly prepared and, despite Michael’s warnings, quite obviously not commissary fare. It began with pâté and ended with fresh strawberries and thick, sweet Devon cream, each course a sensual delight.
Their conversation throughout was surprisingly light and witty. In fact, on several occasions Barrie had the feeling she was caught up in the middle of a briskly paced Noel Coward script. Never had she met anyone who could match wits with her so easily, who could make her feel so much like a woman while at the same time treating her as an equal. It was exactly the sort of relationship she hoped to create on Goodbye, Again, straightforward, intelligent, lively and provocative. Ah, yes, she thought with an unconscious sigh. Most definitely provocative.
As the meal ended at last, she was savoring one of the strawberries, slowly licking the cream from its sweet tip before taking the bright red berry into her mouth, when she noticed that Michael seemed fascinated with her lips. His eyes sparkled as he licked his own lips in unconscious imitation of her actions. Stunned by the obvious sensuality of his response and heady from the fine wine and the unexpected knowledge that she could stir him as he did her, Barrie almost involuntarily prolonged the moment, biting into the juicy strawberry with slow deliberation. A husky moan rumbled deep in Michael’s throat, and at last he blinked and looked away.
My God, what am I doing? The thought ripped into Barrie’s mind, and she practically swallowed the strawberry whole. She had been taunting Michael Compton, practically daring him to respond to her as a woman. He did not strike her as the type to back away from a challenge, and she had just presented him with a practically irresistible one. I must be out of my mind.
“About Goodbye, Again,” she prompted in a voice that had a distressing quiver in it. Damn! All those acting classes, and she still couldn’t hide her nervousness.
“Why don’t we sit over here and talk about it?” he suggested agreeably, leading her to a sofa and then sitting down entirely too near to her.
She studied him closely and promptly projected her wayward thoughts onto him. “Is this the part where you tell me you’ll cooperate with me, if I cooperate with you?” she asked, actually managing a lightly teasing tone, despite the fact that her blood was roaring in her ears like an erupting volcano. In anger? Or anticipation? She wasn’t at all sure and, disgustingly, he only seemed to find her implication amusing.
“No. This is the part where I tell you what’s going to happen to your series.”
“And?”
“And you tell me you’re a professional, and you can handle the changes I’m demanding.”
Changes? Demanding? She had the distinct impression he had deliberately chosen those words just to unnerve her. Well, she was not too proud to admit—to herself—that he’d succeeded. For his benefit, she plastered an interested, calm expression on her face and asked quietly, “What did you have in mind?”
“For one thing, I’ve been taking a look at the fall schedule, and I don’t think it’s as competitive as it could be. In order to make it more effective, I’m going to move your show.”
Barrie eyed him cautiously. “Yes?”
“I think it’ll be perfect for the eight o’clock slot on Saturday.”
All attempts at studied tranquility flew out the window. Barrie’s protest began as a small grumble, but by the time it exploded from her mouth it was a full-blown roar of incredulous frustration. “Michael…I mean, Mr. Compton, no! You can’t do this!”
“Oh, yes, I can,” he said evenly.
Of course he could. She took a very deep breath and decided to appeal to his sense of logic. “I’m not sure you realize what a risk you’re taking. You could kill the show. This program is targeted for young adults. Young adults do not watch television at eight on a Saturday night. Kids watch television at eight on Saturday.”
“That’s right. But I’m betting that the right show can keep some of those young adults hanging around home a little later. If it’s good enough,” he said slowly, throwing down the gauntlet, “they’ll watch it while they get ready to go out.” He paused to let that sink in, then added pointedly, “They watched Mary Tyler Moore on Saturday nights.”
Mary Tyler Moore, indeed! They didn’t even bring her back on Saturday night. Barrie’s eyes were flashing, their usual soft brown shade glinting with sparks like flaming firewood. “Are you challenging me?”
He chuckled at her reaction. “You bet I am. Think you’re up to it?” he asked softly, his eyes meeting hers with a question that had nothing to do with challenges and everything to do with romance and the very real male-female pull that had been playing tug-of-war with them since the moment they met.
A perfectly manicured, very masculine finger reached out to the tear in her hose and slowly traced the path it had taken from ankle to knee.
Barrie gasped softly. “Now we get to the part where you ask for my cooperation,” she murmured shakily, fighting the heat that had swept through her at his touch.
He shook his head. “Not everything in this business comes down to sex.”
She glanced down at his hand, which was still resting lightly, provocatively on her leg. “I wonder where I got the idea that it did?”
He chuckled and removed his hand. “Oh, I want you, Barrie MacDonald. I’m not about to deny it. I’ve wanted you since the first moment I saw you in that studio this afternoon. We’re two of a kind, and I think we’d be very good together.”
He paused to let his words sink in. Barrie gulped, wet her lips and waited breathlessly for what was to come. She couldn’t have managed two sensible words had her life depended on it.
“But I won’t ever ask anything of you that you’re not prepared to offer,” he promised in a voice that tantalized her with its rough huskiness. “And it will never have anything to do with Goodbye, Again.”
He paused again, and his blue-green eyes locked with hers. Finally, after several long seconds in which Barrie could feel each contraction of her pounding heart, he asked softly, “Do you believe me?”
Oddly, despite her thundering heartbeat and the wildfire that blazed through her, heating her blood to a glorious warmth, she did believe him. She believed she could trust him. She certainly believed he wanted her. And she also knew with absolute certainty that she’d better get the hell out of there before she made him that offer he’d just sworn to wait for.
“I think I’d better be going,” she announced firmly.
“Stay.”
She shook her head. “I can’t.”
“Can’t? Or won’t?”
“Does it matter? I’m leaving?”
“Okay, producer lady,” he said quietly, surprising Barrie with his complete lack of anger, his ready capitulation. “If that’s what you have to do. But I’ll be in touch.”
“I’m sure,” Barrie said dryly. “You’ll probably decide you want that sheepdog in the show, after all.”
“Now that you mention it…”
“Forget it, buster,” she said emphatically, unable to prevent the small grin that tugged at her mouth and softened the effect of her vehemence. “Heath Donaldson is going to flip out when he hears about the time change. If I have to tell him to incorporate a sheepdog, as well, he’ll quit faster than you can say demographics.”
“In that case, I’ll hold off on the sheepdog…for a few days,” he said, his eyes taking on the sort of caressing, speculative masculine gleam that usually precedes a kiss.
“Good night, Mr. Compton,” Barrie said firmly, ducking past his descending head.
“Good night, Barrie MacDonald.” The words were softly spoken and tinged with tolerant amusement.
As she walked to the elevator, Barrie wondered idly what it would be like to hear those perfectly innocuous, ordinary words murmured in her ear as she fell asleep each night. Probably wonderful. She pressed the Down button and leaned weakly against the wall while she waited.
MacDonald, you are crazy. Certifiably insane! You are going to get yourself in over your head on this one yet. She shook her head. Going to? Lady, the water’s already up to your eyebrows!
Chapter Three (#ulink_dca2dfbd-e1e3-5f8f-a61b-1e4441ecb9a7)
The door to Barrie’s tiny nondescript office crashed open at barely 8:00 a.m., and Danielle breezed in with a paper bag in one hand and her script in the other. She tossed the script into a chair, took two cups of coffee and two gooey sweetrolls from the bag and arranged them neatly on the desk, then sat down on the sofa with her jeans-clad legs crossed under her and stared at Barrie expectantly.
“Well?”
“Don’t you ever knock?”
“Rarely,” she retorted easily, obviously not the least bit put off by Barrie’s grumpiness. “Why are you in such a snit? Didn’t your dinner with the scrumptious Michael Compton go well?”
“Dinner was just fine,” Barrie admitted honestly. “The problem came after dinner.”
Danielle’s gray eyes immediately narrowed. “Ohhh…” she began softly. Then her voice heated up angrily. “Why, the absolute gall of that man! Did he come on to you? File charges. That’s what you should do. File charges. You can’t let him get away with that.”
“Whoa! You sound like an ambulance chaser. Do you have an attorney someplace who needs a case?” Barrie responded, chuckling at her friend’s immediate rush to her defense. She reassured her, “It was nothing like that.”
“He didn’t come on to you?” Danielle’s tone teetered between disappointment and skepticism.
Barrie’s expression softened as she recalled in precise and blood-stirring detail Michael’s almost casual advances, his seductive promises. “I wouldn’t say that exactly,” she admitted. “But it wasn’t like what you meant.”
“You mean you liked it.”
“No, I didn’t like it,” Barrie said defensively. “I mean, it was okay. Oh, I don’t know what I mean.”
“He got to you, didn’t he?” Danielle said triumphantly. “I knew it. I knew you wouldn’t be able to resist those thighs.”
“Damn it, Dani, it is not what you think!” There was an almost plaintive note in her protest. Michael Compton was the network vice president for programming, her boss, and that was all. It had to be. She was not going to let Danielle or her own skittering pulse rate tell her otherwise.
“Then what was the problem?”
“He’s moving the show to eight o’clock on Saturday,” she said in a rush of words, grateful to change the subject to one she knew would completely distract Danielle from her pursuit of the intimate details of her dinner with Michael.
Her announcement had the desired effect. Danielle was clearly shocked. “You can’t be serious!”
“Oh, but I am. He thinks a really fantastic contemporary show can pull in a young adult audience. He virtually challenged me to prove Goodbye, Again is good enough to do it.”
“And, of course, you fell right into his trap?”
“Trap? You mean did I agree to go along with him to get the series on the air? You’re damn right I did,” Barrie retorted heatedly. “I fought too long for this chance. I wasn’t about to throw it away, just because the network pulled a stupid stunt like this. We can make the show work for eight o’clock.”
“How?” Danielle sounded disgustingly pessimistic.
“By forgetting about the time slot and just doing a good television series. If it’s funny at nine-thirty, it’ll be just as funny at eight.”
“Maybe on Wednesday, sweetie. Not on Saturday. On Saturday it had better be hysterical.”
Barrie sighed. “So get Heath in here and start making it hysterical.”
“That’s your job. I’m only the director.” Barrie glared at her, but before she could respond, the phone rang. When Barrie answered, she was greeted by the low, deep murmur of Michael’s voice.
“Good morning, Barrie MacDonald.” He sounded just as seductive this morning as he had on parting last night. Barrie’s heart thundered loudly in her ears as she realized how easy it would be to become addicted to starting and ending her days like this.
“Good morning,” she said calmly, unaware that her knuckles were turning white from clutching the receiver so tightly.
“Michael?” Danielle mouthed the name silently. At Barrie’s nod, she grinned smugly, rose and tiptoed to the door. “I’ll leave you alone,” she whispered significantly as she waved cheerfully. Barrie had the oddest desire to strangle her.
“Barrie, are you there?”
“What?” she snapped, then softened her tone. “Yes, I’m here.”
“Is everything okay?” He sounded genuinely concerned and somewhat puzzled.
“Everything’s just fine, Mr. Compton. Why shouldn’t it be?”
“You sound funny. And you’re still calling me Mr. Compton. Are you upset about something?”
Barrie took a deep breath. “I am not upset… Michael,” she protested tightly. “What do you want?”
“I want to see you.”
“About what?” she asked cautiously.
He chuckled softly. “The usual,” he taunted. “Do you always cross-examine a man who’s asking you for a date?”
“I didn’t realize that’s what you had in mind,” she said defensively. “We do have a business relationship, too, you know.”
“Yes, I’m aware of that. It does tend to cloud the issue, doesn’t it? Would you prefer it if I limited my professional calls to the workday and made my personal calls after hours?” he offered cheerfully.
Barrie promptly felt foolish and lightened her tone. “That assumes that both of us work predictable, normal hours. When was the last time you came in at nine and left at five?”
He paused for several seconds. “When I had the flu in 1977,” he recalled at last. “I see your point. Where does that leave us?”
“I guess you’d better just state your business more clearly. For instance, you might suggest that we get together one evening for dinner and dancing. That is clearly a date,” she explained.
“What if I ask you to go to a screening? Is that business or pleasure?”
“If you play your cards right, it could be both.” Barrie heard the teasing comment as it came out of her mouth, and she cringed. She was asking for trouble, begging for it, in fact.
“Oh, really?” he said in a voice that suddenly lowered to a husky growl. “That sounds promising.”
“Have any screenings lined up?” she taunted.
“Not for weeks.”
“Too bad.”
“How about dinner, then? I’ll even cook.”
“You’re going to cook?” she retorted skeptically. “Is that the modern day equivalent of an invitation to view etchings?”
“Not in my case,” he objected. “I take my skills as a chef seriously. I even have a food processor and a convection oven. So, how about it?”
“When?”
“Tonight.”
Barrie gulped nervously. This was exactly the sort of contemporary fast-paced plunge-right-in courting she’d always believed in and had built into the concept for her series. No games, no promises, no commitment. Just dinner with a highly charged hint that passion was on the menu. So why did she want to shout that tonight was entirely too soon? Why did she have this persistent, nagging fear that men like this, men who swept you off your feet with a rush of attention, often dropped you in the dust just as quickly. It shouldn’t matter one whit to her if Michael Compton walked into her life today and out tomorrow. In today’s world you were supposed to shrug, say thanks for the memories and goodbye.
Barrie shivered. She’d gotten to be very good at goodbyes. Her father had taken off more frequently than the flights from Los Angeles International Airport. Each time Barrie had watched her mother’s reserves of strength crumble a little more. She had sworn she would never be in that position and that no man would ever matter that much. She had built up defenses that would have made the combined forces of the army, navy and marines proud.
With all that practice at self-protection, she could have dinner again with Michael Compton, she decided resolutely. Tonight or next week. It wouldn’t make any difference. She was perfectly capable of keeping her emotions in check.
“Tonight’s just fine,” she said firmly, then wondered at the little thrill of anticipation that rippled along her spine. It was not the response of a woman who was indifferent. It was another clear-as-a-bell warning signal, and she was paying absolutely no attention to it. She had to be crazy.
In a tone that was suddenly brisk and businesslike, indicating that he was probably no longer alone, Michael gave her his phone number and his address in Beverly Hills. “I’ll see you about eight, then. Call if you get lost.”
Barrie had barely hung up the phone when there was a knock on her door. “Yes?” A messenger entered.
“Miss MacDonald?” Barrie nodded. “I have a package for you.”
When the messenger had deposited the huge, beautifully wrapped box on her desk and left, she took the card out of the envelope.
“Enjoy these and think of me, just as I’ll be remembering last night. Michael.”
She opened the box and found two pounds of huge ripe strawberries, which had been dipped in a rich dark chocolate. Her mouth immediately watered, and her pulse rate fluttered as she recalled Michael’s obvious arousal as he watched her eat those strawberries at dinner. She took one from the box now and bit slowly into it, savoring the sweet taste of the berry and the bittersweet taste of the chocolate. She closed her eyes. It was absolutely heavenly. It was also a provocative indication that Michael was interested in more than her skills as a producer and was determined to tantalize her with reminders of his more personal intentions. He might be a hard-nosed broadcasting executive, but he obviously had the sweetly seductive soul of a romantic.
Before she could linger too long on the dangers of that combination, Danielle and Heath burst into the office in the midst of an already heated argument. Melinda Ashcroft, who’d been cast in the series’s lead role, was right behind them, her hands on her hips, her mouth pursed in her distinctive, sexy pout.
“Barrie, I cannot ask Melinda to play this scene the way it’s written,” Danielle protested, throwing the open script down on Barrie’s desk.
“It just doesn’t feel right,” Melinda agreed in the low, husky voice that could probably lure men to jump off cliffs. “Karen would not do something like that.”
“What do you know about Karen?” Heath snarled. “I wrote this part, and I say she would do exactly that; she would storm into Mason’s office and confront him.”
“In the middle of a business conference?” Danielle said skeptically. “Come on, Heath. Karen is supposed to be a rational, understanding woman. She is not going to jeopardize a big deal for Mason by screeching at him like a banshee in front of total strangers.”
Barrie listened carefully to the raging argument, glanced at the script and then finally decided she’d better intercede before Heath’s blood pressure went through the roof again. Already the color in his neck was working its way from bright red to purple.
“Quiet!” she shouted to make herself heard over the uproar. Danielle, Heath and Melinda promptly fell silent and stared at her, obviously stunned by her emphatic, no-nonsense outburst. “That’s better. Now would everyone please sit down, and let’s discuss this like civilized adults.”
The discussion lasted most of the morning, and much of it was far from civilized. Despite Barrie’s best efforts to mediate, it seemed that her director, writer and the series’s star were far too angry with one another to compromise. Finally she’d had about all of the bickering she intended to take.
“Okay, that’s it,” she announced decisively. “The scene stays. Karen wouldn’t just sit back and suffer in silence.”
Heath smirked triumphantly.
“However, Heath,” she began, watching his smile fade. “I want you to tone it down slightly. Melinda and Dani are right. She might go barging into that office, but she would never blow up like that once she realized she was interrupting a business meeting. Maybe she’d pretend she came in for some other reason, or maybe she’d mutter something under her breath and leave. I don’t know. You’re the writer. Work on it. I want to see the new dialogue after lunch.”
It was midafternoon before the rehearsal was back on track, and Barrie was determined to get one decent run-through before she let any of the cast off for the evening.
“Hon, I think we’re wasting our time,” Danielle told her at last. “Everybody’s worn out. Why don’t we call it quits and get on it again first thing in the morning?”
Barrie sighed and inquired wearily, “What time is it?”
“It’s eight-fifteen.”
“What? It can’t be.” She buried her head in her arms. “How could I do this?”
“Do what? What’s wrong?”
“I was supposed to meet Michael for dinner fifteen minutes ago.”
“And you forgot?” Danielle’s voice was incredulous. “You had a date with the boss, and you’ve been sitting here worrying about props?”
“I haven’t been worrying about props. I’ve been trying to keep you, Heath and Melinda from killing one another.”
“Honey, don’t you know that this was just a healthy disagreement among three rational adults?”
“Rational? Adults? You’ve got to be kidding. The three of you have been behaving like juvenile delinquents.”
“That’s just creative energy being unleashed,” Danielle said airily.
“Well, why don’t you use some of that creative energy to dream up an excuse I can give to Michael for being late?”
“How about the truth?”
“You want me to tell the vice president for programming of this network, who ultimately pays our salaries and decides whether we will be on the air longer than six weeks, you want me to tell him that I forgot about our date? Are you crazy?”
“I’m not the one who forgot the date with one of the most eligible bachelors in Los Angeles,” Danielle reminded her smugly. “You did. You tell me who’s crazy.”
“I don’t have time to stand here debating this with you. I’d better get myself over there before he burns whatever he’s cooking. I have a feeling ruining his dinner would be an even bigger sin than forgetting it.”
“You’re going to his place? My, my!” The smug smirk was back.
“Don’t say it, Dani, or I’ll blame my delay on you. How do you suppose Michael would feel about that?”
“Okay. Okay. Get out of here,” she replied with a laugh. “I’ll send the cast home.”
Barrie grabbed her purse and briefcase and headed for the door.
“See you in the morning,” Danielle called out cheerfully, then added wickedly, “I can hardly wait to hear if those thighs are everything they seem to be.”
“I do not intend to check out the man’s legs,” Barrie retorted indignantly.
“Right,” she replied dryly. “You’re only going over there to sample his favorite recipes.”
“Exactly.”
“Honey, the evening may start out with beef Stroganoff and asparagus vinaigrette, but I’ll lay you odds that you’re on the menu for dessert,” she said with a wink.
“No way,” Barrie insisted stoutly as she slipped out the door. But deep inside, where her stomach fluttered nervously and her blood sizzled, she wondered if she would have the strength to resist if Michael was really determined to have her.
Chapter Four (#ulink_3338d118-4a60-555a-9ef3-04d55a8bebcd)
The drive from the studio into Beverly Hills, difficult under the best of conditions, had never seemed so long or the traffic so heavy. By the time Barrie was finally winding her way through the posh, unfamiliar neighborhood with its sculptured lawns and deceptively modest houses, it was already well after nine, pitch-dark, and virtually impossible for her to see the street signs clearly enough through those damned rose-tinted glasses to figure out where she was.
Terrific, she thought, as she peered vaguely through the windshield, then squinted at the address she’d scribbled down. Now she was completely lost in a tight-knit enclave not known for welcoming strangers. She was also just far enough from the nearest gas station or pay phone to make the idea of backtracking thoroughly unappealing. Assuming that she could even figure out how to backtrack. She sighed and tried to resign herself to the possibility of spending the rest of her life roaming the streets of Beverly Hills. Of course, she’d probably run out of gas or get picked up by the police long before that actually happened.
“Damn,” she muttered in frustration as she pulled to the side of the palm-lined street and fumbled in the glove compartment for her map of L.A. Trying to hold the book so that she could read by the muted reflection of the streetlight, she finally found Michael’s address. She glared at the map.
Of course his street was only one block long! She should have known he’d live somewhere so exclusive that it was barely on the map. However, it was only about a mile away and, barring any unexpected deadends—or restrictive gates—should be easy enough to reach if she just stayed straight about five blocks and turned left, then right, she decided at last.
As she crept along, squinting to read the street signs to locate the first turn, she murmured a silent prayer to the patron saint of lost souls to get her out of this fix, and quickly. Michael was going to be furious and, at this point, she wasn’t any too thrilled about the situation herself. She hated being late almost as much as she abhorred being lost. The former made her feel guilty about her rudeness. The latter made her feel vulnerable, panicky in fact. And the combination was enough to send her fleeing home to burrow under the covers.
To top it off, she knew that this dinner had all sorts of hidden implications and dangers. Dangers best postponed for perhaps five or six years.
“I wonder if he’d believe that I developed a raging migraine that temporarily blocked out my memory and that I forgot all about dinner?” she asked herself aloud.
Not a chance, her conscience replied emphatically. He’d know you were being a coward.
It was probably fortunate, then, that before she could tell her conscience to go to blazes and then retreat to the security of her own bed, she found the street. After that it was an easy enough matter to find the address. There were only three houses on the whole blasted block.
It was nearly nine-thirty by the time she reluctantly walked up the palm-lined driveway and rang Michael’s doorbell. When he opened the door, there was a worried frown on his face that altered into a tight, unwelcoming smile. Barrie shuddered. His mincemeat look was back.
“I’ve heard of being fashionably late, but don’t you think this is overdoing it just a bit?” he asked.
The teasing question was light enough, but there was a hard edge to his voice that told Barrie he was really angry with her, far more angry than she’d anticipated he might be. Cautiously she put her hand on his arm.
“You really are upset with me, aren’t you?” she said penitently. When he didn’t respond, she rattled on nervously, “I don’t blame you. I’m horribly late, but I was tied up at the studio working on the show longer than I expected. The traffic was awful. You know how that is this time of night. And then I got lost.” She paused for breath and gazed at him hopefully. Nothing. Not even a blink of those blue-green eyes. She tried again. “Anyway, I’m sorry. Did I ruin dinner?”
He stood looking down at her for a moment, then shook his head and smiled. This time it was more genuine. At least he didn’t look as though he planned to kick her back out onto the streets anymore. “Sorry. Of course not. I guess I was just afraid you’d changed your mind and decided to back out.”
Конец ознакомительного фрагмента.
Текст предоставлен ООО «ЛитРес».
Прочитайте эту книгу целиком, купив полную легальную версию (https://www.litres.ru/sherryl-woods/not-at-eight-darling/) на ЛитРес.
Безопасно оплатить книгу можно банковской картой Visa, MasterCard, Maestro, со счета мобильного телефона, с платежного терминала, в салоне МТС или Связной, через PayPal, WebMoney, Яндекс.Деньги, QIWI Кошелек, бонусными картами или другим удобным Вам способом.