Mind Over Matter: the classic story from the queen of romance that you won’t be able to put down

3

Preproduction meetings generally left his staff frazzled and out of sorts. David thrived on them. Lists of figures that insisted on being balanced appealed to the practical side of him. Translating those figures into lights, sets and props challenged his creativity. If he hadn’t enjoyed finding ways to merge the two, he never would have chosen to be a producer.

He was a man who had a reputation for knowing his own mind and altering circumstances to suit it. The reputation permeated his professional life and filtered through to the personal. As a producer he was tough and, according to many directors, not always fair. As a man he was generous and, according to many women, not always warm.

David would give a director creative freedom, but only to a point. When the creative freedom tempted the director to veer from David’s overall view of a project, he stopped him dead. He would discuss, listen and at times compromise. An astute director would realize that the compromise hadn’t affected the producer’s wishes in the least.

In a relationship he would give a woman an easy, attentive companion. If a woman preferred roses, there would be roses. If she enjoyed rides in the country, there would be rides in the country. But if she attempted to get beneath the skin, he stopped her dead. He would discuss, listen and at times compromise. An astute woman would realize the compromise hadn’t affected the man in the least.

Directors would call him tough, but would grudgingly admit they would work with him again. Women would call him cool, but would smile when they heard his voice over the phone.

Neither of these things came to him through carefully thought-out strategy, but simply because he was a man who was careful with his private thoughts—and private needs.

By the time the preproduction meetings were over, the location set and the format gelled, David was anxious for results. He’d picked his team individually, down to the last technician. Because he’d developed a personal interest in Clarissa DeBasse, he decided to begin with her. His choice, he was certain, had nothing to do with her agent.

His initial desire to have her interviewed in her own home was cut off quickly by a brief memo from A. J. Fields. Miss DeBasse was entitled to her privacy. Period. Unwilling to be hampered by a technicality, David arranged for the studio to be decorated in precisely the same homey, suburban atmosphere. He’d have her interviewed there by veteran journalist Alex Marshall. David wanted to thread credibility through speculation. A man of Marshall’s reputation could do it for him.

David kept in the background and let his crew take over. He’d had problems with this director before, but both projects they’d collaborated on had won awards. The end product, to David, was the bottom line.

“Put a filter on that light,” the director ordered. “We may have to look like we’re sitting in the furniture department in the mall, but I want atmosphere. Alex, if you’d run through your intro, I’d like to get a fix on the angle.”

“Fine.” Reluctantly Alex tapped out his two-dollar cigar and went to work. David checked his watch. Clarissa was late, but not late enough to cause alarm yet. In another ten minutes he’d have an assistant give her a call. He watched Alex run through the intro flawlessly, then wait while the director fussed with the lights. Deciding he wasn’t needed at the moment, David opted to make the call himself. Only he’d make it to A.J.’s office. No harm in giving her a hard time, he thought as he pushed through the studio doors. She seemed to be the better for it.

“Oh, David, I do apologize.”

He stopped as Clarissa hurried down the hallway. She wasn’t anyone’s aunt today, he thought, as she reached out to take his hands. Her hair was swept dramatically back, making her look both flamboyant and years younger. There was a necklace of silver links around her neck that held an amethyst the size of his thumb. Her makeup was artfully applied to accent clear blue eyes, just as her dress, deep and rich, accented them. This wasn’t the woman who’d fed him meat loaf.

“Clarissa, you look wonderful.”

“Thank you. I’m afraid I didn’t have much time to prepare. I got the days mixed, you see, and was right in the middle of weeding my petunias when Aurora came to pick me up.”

He caught himself looking over her shoulder and down the hall. “She’s here?”

“She’s parking the car.” Clarissa glanced back over her shoulder with a sigh. “I know I’m a trial to her, always have been.”

“She doesn’t seem to feel that way.”

“No, she doesn’t. Aurora’s so generous.”

He’d reserve judgment on that one. “Are you ready, or would you like some coffee or tea first?”

“No, no, I don’t like any stimulants when I’m working. They tend to cloud things.” Their hands were still linked when her gaze fastened on his. “You’re a bit restless, David.”

She said it the moment he’d looked back, and seen A.J. coming down the hall. “I’m always edgy on a shoot,” he said absently. Why was it he hadn’t noticed how she walked before? Fast and fluid.

“That’s not it,” Clarissa commented, and patted his hand. “But I won’t invade your privacy. Ah, here’s Aurora. Should we start?”

“We already have,” he murmured, still watching A.J.

“Good morning, David. I hope we haven’t thrown you off schedule.”

She was as sleek and professional as she’d been the first time he’d seen her. Why was it now that he noticed small details? The collar of her blouse rose high on what he knew was a long, slender neck. Her mouth was unpainted. He wanted to take a step closer to see if she wore the same scent. Instead he took Clarissa’s arm. “Not at all. I take it you want to watch.”

“Of course.”

“Just inside here, Clarissa.” He pushed open the door. “I’d like to introduce you to your director, Sam Cauldwell. Sam.” It didn’t appear to bother David that he was interrupting his director. A.J. noticed that he stood where he was and waited for Cauldwell to come to him. She could hardly censure him for it when she’d have used the same technique herself. “This is Clarissa DeBasse.”

Cauldwell stemmed obvious impatience to take her hand. “A pleasure, Miss DeBasse. I read both your books to give myself a feel for your segment of the program.”

“That’s very kind of you. I hope you enjoyed them.”

“I don’t know if ‘enjoyed’ is the right word.” He gave a quick shake of his head. “They certainly gave me something to think about.”

“Miss DeBasse is ready to start whenever you’re set.”

“Great. Would you mind taking a seat over here. We’ll take a voice test and recheck the lighting.”

As Cauldwell led her away, David saw A.J. watching him like a hawk. “You make a habit of hovering over your clients, A.J.?”

Satisfied that Clarissa was all right for the moment, A.J. turned to him. “Yes. Just the way I imagine you hover over your directors.”

“All in a day’s work, right? You can get a better view from over here.”

“Thanks.” She moved with him to the left of the studio, watching as Clarissa was introduced to Alex Marshall. The veteran newscaster was tall, lean and distinguished. Twenty-five years in the game had etched a few lines on his face, but the gray threading through his hair contrasted nicely with his deep tan. “A wise choice for your narrator,” she commented.

“The face America trusts.”

“There’s that, of course. Also, I can’t imagine him putting up with any nonsense. Bring in a palm reader from Sunset Boulevard and he’ll make her look like a fool regardless of the script.”

“That’s right.” A.J. sent him an even look. “He won’t make a fool out of Clarissa.”

He gave her a slow, acknowledging nod. “That’s what I’m counting on. I called your office last week.”

“Yes, I know.” A.J. saw Clarissa laugh at something Alex said. “Didn’t my assistant get back to you?”

“I didn’t want to talk to your assistant.”

“I’ve been tied up. You’ve very nearly recreated Clarissa’s living room, haven’t you?”

“That’s the idea. You’re trying to avoid me, A.J.” He shifted just enough to block her view, so that she was forced to look at him. Because he’d annoyed her, she made the look thorough, starting at his shoes, worn canvas high-tops, up the casual pleated slacks to the open collar of his shirt before she settled on his face.

“I’d hoped you catch on.”

“And you might succeed at it.” He ran his finger down her lapel, over a pin of a half-moon. “But she’s going to get in the way.” He glanced over his shoulder at Clarissa.

She schooled herself for this, lectured herself and rehearsed the right responses. Somehow it wasn’t as easy as she’d imagined. “David, you don’t seem to be one of those men who are attracted to rejection.”

“No.” His thumb continued to move over the pin as he looked back at her. “You don’t seem to be one of those women who pretend disinterest to attract.”