Not At Eight, Darling

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

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.”

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