Temptation's Kiss

Blanca had instructed her to never accept a first offer. “You don’t want to appear desperate, chica,” was Blanca’s advice.

“Fair enough,” said T.K. He got to his feet. Mark rose, too. Patrice didn’t move for a moment. The shock of being offered the role had rendered her legs momentarily weak.

She took a deep breath and got to her feet. Offering T.K. her hand, she said, “My sister is going to scream in my ear when I tell her I met you. She adores you.”

T.K. took her hand and covered it with his other one. “Tell her it was I who was impressed with her sister.”

Patrice’s heartbeat doubled when he said that even though she knew he was just being nice. She supposed a man like T. K. McKenna had had plenty of practice charming women. Of course, a star of his stature didn’t have to put forth much effort to entice women. They were probably throwing themselves at him on a daily basis.

“She’s family,” Patrice joked. “She’ll never believe it.”

T.K. laughed. Yes, he was well aware of how truly unimpressed family members could be about your success as an actor. To millions of people, you were an idol. But to your family, you were just the boy who slept with a teddy bear until you were nine.

Family knew where all your skeletons were buried. Heck, they’d helped you bury them.

The three of them walked to the door.

“Thanks for coming, Patrice,” Mark said, smiling warmly. “I hope you decide to sign on. We’re not that bad to work with. As one of the producers, you’ll rarely see me on the set, and T.K. is reportedly now a dream to work with since I convinced him to quit doing the Tarzan yell every time he got a scene right. That was very unsettling.”

“It was also bad for the voice,” T.K. said, playing along.

Patrice laughed. “You guys are crazy.” She reached into her bag and retrieved her cell phone.

“Uh-oh,” said Mark. “We’re so boring she’s going to make a phone call right in the middle of a conversation.”

“I’m phoning for a cab,” she explained. “Hopefully it’ll get here not too long after I get downstairs.”

“A cab?” said T.K. “You don’t drive?”

“Of course I drive,” Patrice explained. “However, my car is in Albuquerque.” She told them how her car happened to be in New Mexico while she was in California.

“Since you went to so much trouble to be here today, the least I can do is give you a lift home,” T.K. gallantly offered.

“That’s very nice of you, but I don’t want you to go out of your way,” Patrice said hurriedly. Here she was about to get out of his presence so that her heart rate could return to some semblance of normal, and he was suggesting they spend more time together?

“How do you know it’s out of my way?” T.K. asked reasonably. “I don’t even know where you live.” He peered down at her with a concerned expression.

“Beverly Hills,” Patrice told him. “Well, not in one of the pricier neighborhoods. I live in a nice bungalow south of Santa Monica Boulevard.”

“That’s not out of my way,” T.K. insisted.

“All right, if you’re sure,” Patrice said reluctantly.

They were in the outer office now. Calvin looked expectantly at Patrice. She smiled at him. “Goodbye, Calvin. It was nice meeting you.”

Beaming with pleasure, he quickly crossed the room and shook her hand again. “It was my pleasure, Ms. Sutton. Please come again soon.”

Mark’s hand was on the small of Patrice’s back, ushering her from the outer office and into T.K.’s capable hands. She wondered if Mark was hoping T.K. would use his considerable charm on the ride to Beverly Hills to persuade her to go ahead and sign on with them. She had felt their disappointment when she had told them she needed time to think.

She and T.K. were alone on the elevator ride downstairs. “Where’s your entourage?” she asked, a teasing glint in her eyes.

“I don’t have one,” T.K. said, smiling at her. “Where’s yours?”

“You’re looking at her,” joked Patrice.

He gave her an intimate perusal, his eyes sweeping over her face. It felt like a caress to her, and she blushed. She also lowered her eyes.

T.K. laughed softly. “You’re not still nervous around me, are you?”

She looked up. “Who said I was nervous around you?”

“I can usually tell when I make someone nervous,” said T.K., the smile never leaving his face. “You look very pretty when you blush.”

Patrice started to ask him how he knew she was blushing when, to her knowledge, her cheeks didn’t change color when she felt embarrassed. However, the elevator doors opened onto the lobby, and there were several people waiting to get on.

A small commotion ensued when T.K. was recognized, and soon he was being asked to sign his name on everything from a laptop to a woman’s smooth, flat belly. Patrice tried not to laugh. It was amazing how shame flew out the window when T. K. McKenna showed up in a lobby of unsuspecting females. T.K. declined to sign the woman’s belly but complimented her on its tone. “You must work out a lot,” he said kindly.

“Every day,” the woman said, producing a piece of paper from her portfolio for T.K. to sign.

After that, T.K. made his apologies, and taking Patrice by the hand, they hurried from the building.

“You can’t go anywhere without that happening, can you?” Patrice asked as they racewalked across the street to the parking garage where T.K. had left his SUV.

“It’s not so bad,” he said nonchalantly. “It’s not a high price to pay for fame and fortune. After all, they’re the ones who go to see my movies. I owe them a certain amount of consideration. But I know where to draw the line. I don’t let the fame control my actions.”

Patrice smiled up at him. The sunlight made his brown eyes appear honey-colored.

She liked his attitude. It’s how she looked at celebrity, too. She didn’t mind meeting the fans; in fact, she loved it. However, there were times when she fiercely guarded her privacy. For example, when she was being interviewed, reporters were free to try to pick her apart, but her family was a forbidden subject.

T.K. still held her hand as they crossed the street. He liked holding her hand. He didn’t know what that meant at this point except that she was very pleasant to be around. He was completely comfortable in her presence, even if he still made her a little nervous.

At the late-model Range Rover, he unlocked the doors and handed Patrice in. When he was behind the wheel and had relocked the doors, he turned to her and asked, “What are you doing for lunch?”

“Lunch?” asked Patrice, sounding startled by his question.

He laughed softly. “Yes, the meal that comes a few hours after breakfast, which I skipped this morning except for a cup of coffee and a swallow of orange juice. Have you been to The Grill? They make great food, really fresh. Good fish if you’re not a red-meat eater. Vegetarian dishes, too.”

“No, I’ve never been there,” Patrice told him. She breathed deeply and slowly released her breath. “Are you sure you don’t have to be anywhere else?”

“Nah, I’m on vacation until we start filming.” He started the SUV, and soon they were turning onto the street and heading toward the San Diego Freeway where he would exit onto Santa Monica Boulevard. From there, it was only three miles to Beverly Hills.

“I’m sorry,” he said suddenly as he wound his way through traffic. “I didn’t even ask if you were free. If you have plans for the afternoon, I can take you directly home.”

“I’m free,” Patrice assured him. She had decided to go with the flow.

He turned and smiled at her before returning his attention to the road. “Good.”

Patrice relaxed against the car’s seat. “You said your parents live in Beverly Hills?”