Not At Eight, Darling

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

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.