by Nora Roberts
be different? That was a question that surfaced often. Destiny was something that couldn’t be outmaneuvered. With a laugh, A.J. rose. Clarissa would love that one, she mused.
Walking around her desk, she let herself sink into the deep, wide-armed chair her mother had given her. The chair, unlike the heavy, clean-lined desk, was extravagant and impractical. Who else would have had a chair made in cornflower-blue leather because it matched her daughter’s eyes?
A.J. realigned her thoughts and picked up the DeBasse contract. It was in the center of a desk that was meticulously in order. There were no photographs, no flowers, no cute paperweights. Everything on or in her desk had a purpose, and the purpose was business.
She had time to give the contract one more thorough going-over before her appointment with David Brady. Before she met with him, she would understand every phrase, every clause and every alternative. She was just making a note on the final clause, when her buzzer rang. Still writing, A.J. cradled the phone at her ear.
“Yes, Diane.”
“Mr. Brady’s here, A.J.”
“Okay. Any fresh coffee?”
“We have sludge at the moment. I can make some.”
“Only if I buzz you. Bring him back, Diane.”
She turned her notepad back to the first page, then rose as the door opened. “Mr. Brady.” A.J. extended her hand, but stayed behind her desk. It was, she’d learned, important to establish certain positions of power right from the start. Besides, the time it took him to cross the office gave her an opportunity to study and judge. He looked more like someone she might have for a client than a producer. Yes, she was certain she could have sold that hard, masculine look and rangy walk. The laconic, hard-boiled detective on a weekly series; the solitary, nomadic cowboy in a feature film. Pity.
David had his own chance for study. He hadn’t expected her to be so young. She was attractive in that streamlined, no-nonsense sort of way he could respect professionally and ignore personally. Her body seemed almost too slim in the sharply tailored suit that was rescued from dullness by a fire-engine-red blouse. Her pale blond hair was cut in a deceptively casual style that shagged around the ears, then angled back to sweep her collar. It suited the honey-toned skin that had been kissed by the sun—or a sunlamp. Her face was oval, her mouth just short of being too wide. Her eyes were a rich blue, accentuated by clever smudges of shadow and framed now with oversize glasses. Their hands met, held and released as hands in business do dozens of times every day.
“Please sit down, Mr. Brady. Would you like some coffee?”
“No, thank you.” He took a chair and waited until she settled behind the desk. He noticed that she folded her hands over the contract. No rings, no bracelets, he mused. Just a slender, black-banded watch. “It seems we have a number of mutual acquaintances, Ms. Fields. Odd that we haven’t met before.”
“Yes, isn’t it?” She gave him a small, noncommittal smile. “But, then, as an agent, I prefer staying in the background. You met Clarissa DeBasse.”
“Yes, I did.” So they’d play stroll around the bush for a while, he decided, and settled back. “She’s charming. I have to admit, I’d expected someone, let’s say, more eccentric.”
This time A.J.’s smile was both spontaneous and generous. If David had been thinking about her on a personal level, his opinion would have changed. “Clarissa is never quite what one expects. Your project sounds interesting, Mr. Brady, but the details I have are sketchy. I’d like you to tell me just what it is you plan to produce.”
“A documentary on psychic phenomena, or psi, as I’m told it’s called in studies, touching on clairvoyance, parapsychology, ESP, palmistry, telepathy and spiritualism.”
“Séances and haunted houses, Mr. Brady?”
He caught the faint disapproval in her tone and wondered about it. “For someone with a psychic for a client, you sound remarkably cynical.”
“My client doesn’t talk to departed souls or read tea leaves.” A.J. sat back in the chair in a way she knew registered confidence and position. “Miss DeBasse has proved herself many times over to be an extraordinarily sensitive woman. She’s never claimed to have supernatural powers.”
“Supernormal.”
She drew in a quiet breath. “You’ve done your homework. Yes, ‘supernormal’ is the correct term. Clarissa doesn’t believe in overstatements.”
“Which is one of the reasons I want Clarissa DeBasse for my program.”
A.J. noted the easy use of the possessive pronoun. Not the program, but my program. David Brady obviously took his work personally. So much the better, she decided. Then he wouldn’t care to look like a fool. “Go on.”
“I’ve talked to mediums, palmists, entertainers, scientists, parapsychologists and carnival gypsies. You’d be amazed at the range of personalities.”
A.J. stuck her tongue in her cheek. “I’m sure I would.”
Though he noticed her amusement, he let it pass. “They run from the obviously fake to the absolutely sincere. I’ve spoken with heads of parapsychology departments in several well-known institutions. Every one of them mentioned Clarissa’s name.”
“Clarissa’s been generous with herself.” Again he thought he detected slight disapproval. “Particularly in the areas of research and testing.”
And there would be no ten percent there. He decided that explained her attitude. “I intend to show possibilities, ask questions. The audience will come up with its own answers. In the five one-hour segments I have, I’ll have room to touch on everything from cold spots to tarot cards.”
In a gesture she’d thought she’d conquered long ago, she drummed her fingers on the desk. “And where does Miss DeBasse fit in?”
She was his ace in the hole. But he wasn’t ready to play her yet. “Clarissa is a recognizable name. A woman who’s ‘proved herself,’ to use your phrase, to be extraordinarily sensitive. Then there’s the Van Camp case.”
Frowning, A.J. picked up a pencil and began to run it through her fingers. “That was ten years ago.”
“The child of a Hollywood star is kidnapped, snatched from his devoted nanny as he plays in the park. The ransom call demands a half a million. The mother’s frantic—the police are baffled. Thirty-six hours pass without a clue as the boy’s parents desperately try to get the cash together. Over the father’s objection, the mother calls a friend, a woman who did her astrological chart and occasionally reads palms. The woman comes, of course, and sits for an hour holding some of the boy’s things—his baseball glove, a stuffed toy, the pajama top he’d worn to bed the night before. At the end of that hour, the woman gives the police a description of the boy’s kidnappers and the exact location of the house where he’s being held. She even describes the room where he’s being held, down to the chipped paint on the ceiling. The boy sleeps in his own bed that night.”
David pulled out a cigarette, lit it and blew out smoke, while A.J. remained silent. “Ten years doesn’t take away that kind of impact, Ms. Fields. The audience will be just as fascinated today as they were then.”
It shouldn’t have made her angry. It was sheer foolishness to respond that way. A.J. continued to sit silently as she worked back the surge of temper. “A great many people call the Van Camp case a fraud. Dredging that up after ten years will only dredge up more criticism.”
“A woman in Clarissa’s position must have to deal with criticism continually.” He saw the flare come into her eyes—fierce and fast.
“That may be, but I have no intention of allowing her to sign a contract that guarantees it. I have no intention of seeing my client on a televised trial.”
“Hold it.” He had a temper of his own and could respect hers—if he understood it. “Clarissa goes on trial every time she’s in the public eye. If her abilities can’t stand up to cameras and questions, she shouldn’t be doing what she does. As her agent, I’d think you’d have a stronger belief in her competence.”
“My beliefs aren’t your concern.” Inten
ding to toss him and his contract out, A.J. started to rise, when the phone interrupted her. With an indistinguishable oath, she lifted the receiver. “No calls, Diane. No—oh.” A.J. set her teeth and composed herself. “Yes, put her on.”
“Oh, I’m so sorry to bother you at work, dear.”
“That’s all right. I’m in a meeting, so—”
“Oh, yes, I know.” Clarissa’s calm, apologetic voice came quietly in her ear. “With that nice David Brady.”
“That’s a matter of opinion.”
“I had a feeling you wouldn’t hit it off the first time.” Clarissa sighed and stroked her cat. “I’ve been giving that contract business a great deal of thought.” She didn’t mention the dream, knowing her agent wouldn’t want to hear it. “I’ve decided I want to sign it right away. Now, now, I know what you’re going to say,” she continued before A.J. could say a word. “You’re the agent—you handle the business. You do whatever you think best about clauses and such, but I want to do this program.”
A.J. recognized the tone. Clarissa had a feeling. There was never any arguing with Clarissa’s feelings. “We need to talk about this.”
“Of course, dear, all you like. You and David iron out the details. You’re so good at that. I’ll leave all the terms up to you, but I will sign the contract.”
With David sitting across from her, A.J. couldn’t take the satisfaction of accepting defeat by kicking her desk. “All right. But I think you should know I have feelings of my own.”
“Of course you do. Come to dinner tonight.”
She nearly smiled. Clarissa loved to feed you to smooth things over. Pity she was such a dreadful cook. “I can’t. I have a dinner appointment.”
“Tomorrow.”
“All right. I’ll see you then.”
After hanging up, A.J. took a deep breath and faced David again. “I’m sorry for the interruption.”
“No problem.”
“As there’s nothing specific in the contract regarding the Van Camp case, including that in the program would be strictly up to Miss DeBasse.”
“Of course. I’ve already spoken to her about it.” A.J. very calmly, very deliberately bit her tongue. “I see. There’s also nothing specific about Miss DeBasse’s position in the documentary. That will have to be altered.”
“I’m sure we can work that out.” So she was going to sign, David mused, and listened to a few other minor changes A.J. requested. Before the phone rang, she’d been ready to pitch him out. He’d seen it in her eyes. He held back a smile as they negotiated another minor point. He was no clairvoyant, but he would bet his grant that Clarissa DeBasse had been on the other end of that phone. A.J. Fields had been caught right in the middle. Best place for agents, he thought, and settled back.
“We’ll redraft the contract and have it to you tomorrow.”
Everybody’s in a hurry, she thought, and settled back herself. “Then I’m sure we can do business, Mr. Brady, if we can settle one more point.”
“Which is?”
“Miss DeBasse’s fee.” A.J. flipped back the contract and adjusted the oversize glasses she wore for reading. “I’m afraid this is much less than Miss DeBasse is accustomed to accepting. We’ll need another twenty percent.”
David lifted a brow. He’d been expecting something along these lines, but he’d expected it sooner. Obviously A.J. Fields hadn’t become one of the top in her profession by doing the expected. “You understand we’re working in public television. Our budget can’t compete with network. As producer, I can offer another five percent, but twenty is out of reach.”
“And five is inadequate.” A.J. slipped off her glasses and dangled them by an earpiece. Her eyes seemed larger, richer, without them. “I understand public television, Mr. Brady, and I understand your grant.” She gave him a charming smile. “Fifteen percent.”
Typical agent, he thought, not so much annoyed as fatalistic. She wanted ten, and ten was precisely what his budget would allow. Still, there was a game to be played. “Miss DeBasse is already being paid more than anyone else on contract.”
“You’re willing to do that because she’ll be your biggest draw. I also understand ratings.”
“Seven.”
“Twelve.”
“Ten.”
“Done.” A.J. rose. Normally the deal would have left her fully satisfied. Because her temper wasn’t completely under control it was difficult to appreciate the fact that she’d gotten exactly what she’d intended to get. “I’ll look for the revised contracts.”
“I’ll send them by messenger tomorrow afternoon. That phone call…” He paused as he rose. “You wouldn’t be dealing with me without it, would you?”
She studied him a moment and cursed him for being sharp, intelligent and intuitive. All the things she needed for her client. “No, I wouldn’t.”
“Be sure to thank Clarissa for me.” With a smile smug enough to bring her temper back to boil he offered his hand.
“Goodbye, Mr….” When their hands met this time, her voice died. Feelings ran into her with the impact of a slap, leaving her weak and breathless. Apprehension, desire, fury and delight rolled through her at the touch of flesh to flesh. She had only a moment to berate herself for allowing temper to open the door.
“Ms. Fields?” She was staring at him, through him, as though he were an apparition just risen from the floorboards. In his, her hand was limp and icy. Automatically David took her arm. If he’d ever seen a woman about to faint, he was seeing one now. “You’d better sit down.”
“What?” Though shaken, A.J. willed herself back. “No, no, I’m fine. I’m sorry, I must have been thinking of something else.” But as she spoke, she broke all contact with him and stepped back. “Too much coffee, too little sleep.” And stay away from me, she said desperately to herself as she leaned back on the desk. Just stay away. “I’m glad we could do business, Mr. Brady. I’ll pass everything along to my client.”
Her color was back, her eyes were clear. Still David hesitated. A moment before she’d looked fragile enough to crumble in his hands. “Sit down.”
“I beg your—”
“Damn it, sit.” He took her by the elbow and nudged her into a chair. “Your hands are shaking.” Before she could do anything about it, he was kneeling in front of her. “I’d advise canceling that dinner appointment and getting a good night’s sleep.”
She curled her hands together on her lap to keep him from touching her again. “There’s no reason for you to be concerned.”
“I generally take a personal interest when a woman all but faints at my feet.”
The sarcastic tone settled the flutters in her stomach. “Oh, I’m sure you do.” But then he took her face in his hand and had her jerking. “Stop that.”
Her skin was as soft as it looked, but he would keep that thought for later. “Purely a clinical touch, Ms. Fields. You’re not my type.”
Her eyes chilled. “Where do I give thanks?”
He wondered why the cool outrage in her eyes made him want to laugh. To laugh, and to taste her. “Very good,” he murmured, and straightened. “Lay off the coffee,” he advised, and left her alone before he did something ridiculous.
And alone, A.J. brought her knees up to her chest and pressed her face to them. What was she going to do now? she demanded as she tried to squeeze herself into a ball. What in God’s name was she going to do?
2
A.J. seriously considered stopping for a hamburger before going on to dinner at Clarissa’s. She didn’t have the heart for it. Besides, if she was hungry enough she would be able to make a decent showing out of actually eating whatever Clarissa prepared.
With the sunroof open, she sat back and tried to enjoy the forty-minute drive from her office to the suburbs. Beside her was a slim leather portfolio that held the contracts David Brady’s office had delivered, as promised. Since the changes she’d requested had been made, she couldn’t grumble. There was absolutely no substantial reason for her t
o object to the deal, or to her client working with Brady. All she had was a feeling. She’d been working on that since the previous afternoon.
It had been overwork, she told herself. She hadn’t felt anything but a quick, momentary dizziness because she’d stood so fast. She hadn’t felt anything for or about David Brady.
But she had. A.J. cursed herself for the next ten miles before she brought herself under control.
She couldn’t afford to be the least bit upset when she arrived in Newport Beach. There was no hiding such things from a woman like Clarissa DeBasse. She would have to be able to discuss not only the contract terms, but David Brady himself with complete objectivity or Clarissa would home in like radar.
For the next ten miles she considered stopping at a phone booth and begging off. She didn’t have the heart for that, either.
Relax, A.J. ordered herself, and tried to imagine she was home in her apartment, doing long, soothing yoga exercises. It helped, and as the tension in her muscles eased, she turned up the radio. She kept it high until she turned the engine off in front of the