Temptation

3 (#uc47a5e72-ba83-553d-82f3-722658220266)

“What do you mean she said no?” Jason Kane shouted at Freddie Cramer, who’d opted for a very sober navy suit to deliver his bad news. “What kind of actress says no to a chance to become a television star overnight?”

Freddie swallowed hard but didn’t back up so much as an inch. “She’s not an actress.”

“Then what the devil was she doing in the middle of our soap?”

“It’s a long story. At least, she says it’s a long story,” he added in a rush. “She wouldn’t explain to the producer. She wouldn’t explain to me. In fact, she hung up on me. Twice.” He sounded stunned and a little hurt by her audacity.

Jason felt his blood begin to pump a little faster. The producers at Within Our Reach, despite their admirable award-winning track records, were wimps. He knew that firsthand. They’d been so busy bowing and scraping the last time he’d visited the set, it was a wonder they hadn’t tripped over their own feet.

Freddie was made of tougher stuff, but he was at heart a gentleman. If a lady slammed a phone down in his ear, he would take that as a final answer.

Jason was not so easily intimidated. He had learned long ago to fight fiercely for what he wanted. Nothing had ever come easily. He actually thrived on hard, demanding work. Resigned that this was going to be up to him, he held out his hand.

“Give me the address and the phone number for this—what did you say her name is?”

“Calliope Jane Gunderson Smith, according to the call sheet they finally found for that day’s taping.”

“My God!”

“She prefers Callie,” Freddie said helpfully.

“I imagine she would.” Jason tucked the address into his pocket and buzzed for his secretary. “Call this number and see if anyone answers. If they do, let me know and tell my driver to be down front in ten minutes.”

“You’re going to see her?” Freddie asked, looking a little awed that Jason intended to personally handle what was essentially a casting matter.

“I’m going to see her,” Jason confirmed. Obviously no one else could be trusted to get the job done. And experience had taught him that the element of surprise was a distinct advantage.

Assured that Miss Calliope Jane Gunderson Smith was indeed at home, Jason set out to make her his.

* * *

Forty-five minutes later, after belatedly realizing it would have been faster to walk the twenty blocks than to deal with Manhattan’s midmorning gridlock, he emerged from his limo. In front of him was an elegant old brownstone that had apparently been converted into apartments during the ongoing gentrification of the Upper West Side.

“Should I wait, sir?” Henry asked.

“Please,” Jason said, then added with grim determination, “This won’t take long.”

He stood for a minute and assessed the building, its facade primped up by paint and a recent sandblasting. Living there had to cost a pretty penny. It increased his speculation about Miss Calliope Jane Gunderson Smith, who had dared to turn down the opportunity of a lifetime.

He glanced at the slip of paper in his hand. Naturally the irritating woman lived on the top floor. There was no elevator. He trotted up the four flights of stairs and leaned on the buzzer, already thinking of what a pleasure it was going to be to tame her.

Correction, to hire her, he reminded himself sternly.

“Who is it?” a muffled voice inquired.

That voice had a nasal quality that was worrisome, but an image of that incredible face, which he’d viewed again and again since first discovering it, stopped him from bolting.

“Jason Kane.”

“Who?”

Clearly this woman wasn’t going to do a lot for his ego. Fortunately, it was healthy enough without her adulation, or even her recognition, for that matter. He reminded himself once again that he was here to hire her, not to seduce her. Although in this business the two sometimes seemed a lot alike, he conceded.

“Jason Kane, president of TGN.”

He thought he heard her sigh.

“Miss Smith?”

This time she did sigh. “Yes,” she conceded with unmistakable reluctance.

“I’d like to talk, if you have a moment,” he said, thinking of all the other women in the world who would have had the door open in a millisecond just at the sound of his voice or the mention of his name. The fact that he had to cajole this one into opening it so much as a crack increased his fascination with her. It had been a very long time since a professional or personal challenge had seemed so promising.

“I know why you’re here. I really don’t think there’s anything left to say,” she declared flatly, still from behind that firmly closed door. “I appreciate the offer, really I do, but it’s not for me.”

No was Jason’s least favorite word. He might say it a lot, but he rarely heard it. Rejection wasn’t even in his vocabulary. His determination mounted. “Perhaps I can change your mind,” he suggested with more modesty than his well-tested powers of persuasion called for.

“I don’t think so.”

“I’d like to try.”

“Really, there’s nothing you can say that all those other people haven’t said. That Freddie Cramer person was quite persistent.”

Persistent but unsuccessful, Jason thought derisively. Winning was the only thing he credited with any respect. “Five minutes,” he bargained.

“Will you go away, if I say no?” she inquired rather plaintively.

“Not likely.”

She muttered something decidedly unladylike. “Do you have some ID?”

He chuckled at the display of temper, even as he admired the caution. “Business card or photo ID?”

“Both, if you don’t mind.”

He slid his driver’s license and his embossed business card under the door. He sensed he was being studied through the tiny, round peephole. A minute later, he heard locks clicking and a chain being removed. His adrenaline kicked in as he waited for the door to open.

No stripper had ever been more adept at inspiring a man’s anticipation. His breath snagged in his throat as the door handle turned. His heartbeat escalated more than it had when he’d climbed those four flights of stairs.

And then he saw her.

Sweet heaven, she was a mess, he thought, his spirits sinking. If he’d been anticipating heaven, this was definitely hell. With a cool, practiced eye, he ignored the bizarre leap of his pulse and examined her critically from head to toe to see if the disaster was fixable.

She was wearing a once-red T-shirt that had apparently had an unfortunate encounter with some bleach. Her jeans were practically threadbare, which aroused his masculine curiosity but did little to accentuate her beauty. Her hair had gone way past the tousled look. Seemingly untouched recently by brush or comb, it appeared to have been styled by nervous fingers, or by an electrical jolt.

She looked bone-deep weary, cranky and about as far from sophisticated as it was possible for any woman to get. Crying, which he deduced was responsible for her nasal voice and her red-rimmed eyes, definitely did not become her. It also terrified him. He truly hated coping with a bawling female.