Not At Eight, Darling

“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.