Not At Eight, Darling

He paused for several seconds. “When I had the flu in 1977,” he recalled at last. “I see your point. Where does that leave us?”

“I guess you’d better just state your business more clearly. For instance, you might suggest that we get together one evening for dinner and dancing. That is clearly a date,” she explained.

“What if I ask you to go to a screening? Is that business or pleasure?”

“If you play your cards right, it could be both.” Barrie heard the teasing comment as it came out of her mouth, and she cringed. She was asking for trouble, begging for it, in fact.

“Oh, really?” he said in a voice that suddenly lowered to a husky growl. “That sounds promising.”

“Have any screenings lined up?” she taunted.

“Not for weeks.”

“Too bad.”

“How about dinner, then? I’ll even cook.”

“You’re going to cook?” she retorted skeptically. “Is that the modern day equivalent of an invitation to view etchings?”

“Not in my case,” he objected. “I take my skills as a chef seriously. I even have a food processor and a convection oven. So, how about it?”

“When?”

“Tonight.”

Barrie gulped nervously. This was exactly the sort of contemporary fast-paced plunge-right-in courting she’d always believed in and had built into the concept for her series. No games, no promises, no commitment. Just dinner with a highly charged hint that passion was on the menu. So why did she want to shout that tonight was entirely too soon? Why did she have this persistent, nagging fear that men like this, men who swept you off your feet with a rush of attention, often dropped you in the dust just as quickly. It shouldn’t matter one whit to her if Michael Compton walked into her life today and out tomorrow. In today’s world you were supposed to shrug, say thanks for the memories and goodbye.

Barrie shivered. She’d gotten to be very good at goodbyes. Her father had taken off more frequently than the flights from Los Angeles International Airport. Each time Barrie had watched her mother’s reserves of strength crumble a little more. She had sworn she would never be in that position and that no man would ever matter that much. She had built up defenses that would have made the combined forces of the army, navy and marines proud.

With all that practice at self-protection, she could have dinner again with Michael Compton, she decided resolutely. Tonight or next week. It wouldn’t make any difference. She was perfectly capable of keeping her emotions in check.

“Tonight’s just fine,” she said firmly, then wondered at the little thrill of anticipation that rippled along her spine. It was not the response of a woman who was indifferent. It was another clear-as-a-bell warning signal, and she was paying absolutely no attention to it. She had to be crazy.

In a tone that was suddenly brisk and businesslike, indicating that he was probably no longer alone, Michael gave her his phone number and his address in Beverly Hills. “I’ll see you about eight, then. Call if you get lost.”

Barrie had barely hung up the phone when there was a knock on her door. “Yes?” A messenger entered.

“Miss MacDonald?” Barrie nodded. “I have a package for you.”

When the messenger had deposited the huge, beautifully wrapped box on her desk and left, she took the card out of the envelope.

“Enjoy these and think of me, just as I’ll be remembering last night. Michael.”

She opened the box and found two pounds of huge ripe strawberries, which had been dipped in a rich dark chocolate. Her mouth immediately watered, and her pulse rate fluttered as she recalled Michael’s obvious arousal as he watched her eat those strawberries at dinner. She took one from the box now and bit slowly into it, savoring the sweet taste of the berry and the bittersweet taste of the chocolate. She closed her eyes. It was absolutely heavenly. It was also a provocative indication that Michael was interested in more than her skills as a producer and was determined to tantalize her with reminders of his more personal intentions. He might be a hard-nosed broadcasting executive, but he obviously had the sweetly seductive soul of a romantic.

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.”