“Okay. Okay. Get out of here,” she replied with a laugh. “I’ll send the cast home.”
Barrie grabbed her purse and briefcase and headed for the door.
“See you in the morning,” Danielle called out cheerfully, then added wickedly, “I can hardly wait to hear if those thighs are everything they seem to be.”
“I do not intend to check out the man’s legs,” Barrie retorted indignantly.
“Right,” she replied dryly. “You’re only going over there to sample his favorite recipes.”
“Exactly.”
“Honey, the evening may start out with beef Stroganoff and asparagus vinaigrette, but I’ll lay you odds that you’re on the menu for dessert,” she said with a wink.
“No way,” Barrie insisted stoutly as she slipped out the door. But deep inside, where her stomach fluttered nervously and her blood sizzled, she wondered if she would have the strength to resist if Michael was really determined to have her.
Chapter Four
The drive from the studio into Beverly Hills, difficult under the best of conditions, had never seemed so long or the traffic so heavy. By the time Barrie was finally winding her way through the posh, unfamiliar neighborhood with its sculptured lawns and deceptively modest houses, it was already well after nine, pitch-dark, and virtually impossible for her to see the street signs clearly enough through those damned rose-tinted glasses to figure out where she was.
Terrific, she thought, as she peered vaguely through the windshield, then squinted at the address she’d scribbled down. Now she was completely lost in a tight-knit enclave not known for welcoming strangers. She was also just far enough from the nearest gas station or pay phone to make the idea of backtracking thoroughly unappealing. Assuming that she could even figure out how to backtrack. She sighed and tried to resign herself to the possibility of spending the rest of her life roaming the streets of Beverly Hills. Of course, she’d probably run out of gas or get picked up by the police long before that actually happened.
“Damn,” she muttered in frustration as she pulled to the side of the palm-lined street and fumbled in the glove compartment for her map of L.A. Trying to hold the book so that she could read by the muted reflection of the streetlight, she finally found Michael’s address. She glared at the map.
Of course his street was only one block long! She should have known he’d live somewhere so exclusive that it was barely on the map. However, it was only about a mile away and, barring any unexpected deadends—or restrictive gates—should be easy enough to reach if she just stayed straight about five blocks and turned left, then right, she decided at last.
As she crept along, squinting to read the street signs to locate the first turn, she murmured a silent prayer to the patron saint of lost souls to get her out of this fix, and quickly. Michael was going to be furious and, at this point, she wasn’t any too thrilled about the situation herself. She hated being late almost as much as she abhorred being lost. The former made her feel guilty about her rudeness. The latter made her feel vulnerable, panicky in fact. And the combination was enough to send her fleeing home to burrow under the covers.
To top it off, she knew that this dinner had all sorts of hidden implications and dangers. Dangers best postponed for perhaps five or six years.
“I wonder if he’d believe that I developed a raging migraine that temporarily blocked out my memory and that I forgot all about dinner?” she asked herself aloud.
Not a chance, her conscience replied emphatically. He’d know you were being a coward.
It was probably fortunate, then, that before she could tell her conscience to go to blazes and then retreat to the security of her own bed, she found the street. After that it was an easy enough matter to find the address. There were only three houses on the whole blasted block.
It was nearly nine-thirty by the time she reluctantly walked up the palm-lined driveway and rang Michael’s doorbell. When he opened the door, there was a worried frown on his face that altered into a tight, unwelcoming smile. Barrie shuddered. His mincemeat look was back.
“I’ve heard of being fashionably late, but don’t you think this is overdoing it just a bit?” he asked.
The teasing question was light enough, but there was a hard edge to his voice that told Barrie he was really angry with her, far more angry than she’d anticipated he might be. Cautiously she put her hand on his arm.
“You really are upset with me, aren’t you?” she said penitently. When he didn’t respond, she rattled on nervously, “I don’t blame you. I’m horribly late, but I was tied up at the studio working on the show longer than I expected. The traffic was awful. You know how that is this time of night. And then I got lost.” She paused for breath and gazed at him hopefully. Nothing. Not even a blink of those blue-green eyes. She tried again. “Anyway, I’m sorry. Did I ruin dinner?”
He stood looking down at her for a moment, then shook his head and smiled. This time it was more genuine. At least he didn’t look as though he planned to kick her back out onto the streets anymore. “Sorry. Of course not. I guess I was just afraid you’d changed your mind and decided to back out.”
One eyebrow arched quizzically. That did not sound like the brash, self-confident Michael Compton whom Barrie had seen so far. In fact, there was an appealing vulnerability to the comment that intrigued her. “Are you serious?” she asked, still not quite convinced she had actually heard that insecure note in his voice.
“Well, you were more than an hour late,” he retorted more lightly. He grinned at her then, and the vulnerability vanished, replaced by a more familiar cockiness. “Do you have any idea what it does to a man’s ego to discover that an attractive woman is not nearly as anxious to see him as he is to see her?”
“I suspect your ego is doing just fine, Mr. Compton,” Barrie replied sweetly. “On the other hand, I have been battling trucks on the freeway, lost on the streets of Beverly Hills and starving to death in my Sentra, while you nibbled on…” She looked at him impishly. “On what? Carrot sticks?”
“Mushroom caps stuffed with crabmeat.”
Barrie sighed longingly as her mouth watered. She really was famished. She gazed boldly into his eyes and only barely resisted the urge to bat her long, dark lashes at him flirtatiously. “I don’t suppose that if I apologized profusely for my tardiness I could talk you into sharing one or two of those with me?”
“That sounds like it might have some intriguing possibilities. Try it,” he suggested, finally stepping aside to let her into the house. “I’m always open to an appeal from someone who’s genuinely contrite.”
“Don’t press your luck, Mr. Compton,” she flashed back. “Don’t you know it’s dangerous to tamper with a starving woman? You promised me dinner, and all I’ve gotten so far is static.”
Those blue-green eyes of his roved possessively over her. “There is a certain amount of electricity in the air whenever we get together, isn’t there?” he murmured softly as Barrie flushed under the intensity of his gaze and tried not to notice how well his jeans hugged those muscular thighs of his.
“That wasn’t what I meant,” she countered, but there was a decided lack of conviction in her voice.
“Maybe not,” he said, gazing at her doubtfully, a definite twinkle in his eyes. “But it’s true. Maybe we should explore the idea a bit after dinner.”
Barrie returned his gaze boldly at first but finally blinked and looked away. Dessert, she thought as a nervous excitement rippled along her spine. It was exactly as Danielle had suspected. He thought she was on the menu for dessert. She swallowed and faced him again. Maybe if she kept her mind on the appetizers, she wouldn’t feel quite so panicky about dessert. “What about those mushroom caps?”
He grinned at her knowingly. “Coming right up. Why don’t you go on into the living room, and I’ll be right with you. What would like to drink?”
“A glass of wine.”
“Red or white?”
“White. Are you sure I can�
��t help with something?”
“Nope. I’ve got everything under control.”
I’ll just bet you have, Barrie thought. Men like Michael Compton always did. As she waited, she explored the living room with its comfortably overstuffed sofa and chairs in front of a blazing fire. The mantel and one wall were of a dark wood that gave the room a decidedly masculine feel. The darkness might have been oppressive, but the remaining walls had been papered with a light country French design, and French doors led out onto a brick patio that was softly lit by the moonlight. In the daytime those doors would let in plenty of sunlight, along with the sweet fragrance of the profusion of roses she could see blooming in every imaginable color from pale pink to bright red, from dazzling yellow to warm apricot. The bright turquoise of a free-form pool sparkled just beyond the edge of the terrace. It was simple and luxurious without being the least bit ostentatious, and Barrie had to admit that she was impressed by Michael’s taste. His decor had a personal touch that she suspected was all his. She doubted that a decorator had been allowed near the place.
“Admiring the view?” his low, sensual voice whispered over her shoulder.
“It’s lovely.”
“I fell in love with it the minute I saw it. The previous owner had covered these incredible wood floors with some awful plush mauve carpet. He was also heavily into art deco with lots of pink and black. I practically had to close my eyes while I stripped the wallpaper.”
“With your schedule, when did you find the time?”
“Late at night and on weekends. It took a while, but it was worth every minute. Besides, you have no idea how satisfying it is to rip up carpet and yank down wallpaper after a day of restraining every single urge to shred the imbeciles who parade through your office.”
“If they’re that bad, I’m surprised you bother to control yourself,” she retorted dryly.
“I am, too, sometimes,” he admitted. “But I know one thing about this business. The person who’s trying to sell you some perfectly impossible concept that makes you want to scream one day may develop a unique, innovative series later that could be number one. If you’ve been rude, he may take that idea to another network. I’m not about to take that chance.”
“So you suffer in silence.”
He shook his head. “I prefer to think that I’m diplomatic. I’d also like to believe I can create an environment that encourages their creativity, instead of stifling it. If there’s a shred of talent there, I want to nurture it.”
As he talked, he almost absentmindedly played with a strand of Barrie’s hair, tucking it behind her ear, his fingers soft and gentle against the side of her face. Barrie trembled at the touch, her body so responsive to his nearness that she knew she wouldn’t have a prayer of refusing him anything he asked of her unless she backed out of his reach now. She sighed but didn’t move. She couldn’t.
In Goodbye, Again, with so much potential passion creating a crackling tension between the characters, there would be no hesitation tonight, no regrets tomorrow. But this wasn’t a script, and suddenly Barrie realized Michael Compton was leaping over her well-established defenses in a single bound. The realization that he might actually begin to matter to her was terrifying.
“Hey,” he said softly. “What is it?”
Barrie blinked and gazed into Michael’s eyes. Had he read her mind, sensed the troubling thoughts? “Nothing,” she lied. “Why?”
“You had this far away expression on your face for a minute there, and you seemed so sad.” He shook his head. “No. That wasn’t it. More scared, maybe. Vulnerable.”
Startled by his perceptiveness, she forced a shaky smile and a brave, teasing tone. “You’re imagining things. Were you reading one of those melodramatic soap opera scripts before I got here?”
He studied her closely, as though trying to decide whether to pursue the subject. To Barrie’s relief, he apparently decided to let it drop. “Nope,” he responded lightly. “I was slaving over a hot stove. Are you ready for dinner?”
“Absolutely. I’ve never known a man whose culinary skills went beyond cooking steaks on a backyard grill.”
He regarded her indignantly. “My dear, I’ll have you know that the French Chef is my favorite TV heroine.”
“She’s a little tall for you, isn’t she?’
“Ah, but those recipes! C’est magnifique!” He gravely touched his fingers to his lips and blew a little kiss into the air.
Barrie chuckled. “If she affects you that strongly, I’m surprised you haven’t put her back on the air in prime time.”
“Believe me, I’ve thought about it. Can’t you just imagine a whole situation comedy built around duck à l’orange and truffles?”
She appeared to consider the idea carefully. “Nope. Afraid not.”
“Ah, Miss MacDonald, we must work on opening up your imagination.”
He should only know, she thought dryly. Since meeting him just one short day ago, her imagination had been running wild, though admittedly the thoughts had very little to do with food or television. She’d had to fight to maintain her concentration during today’s rehearsals for Goodbye, Again. Images of Michael had constantly popped into her mind. Images of the fire that blazed in his eyes when he looked at her. Even more disturbing images of the slim, athletic body, the rock-hard muscular thighs. In her mind, she had stripped him of his tailored jacket, his silk tie, his soft shirt and, finally, the slacks that hugged his hips and only barely camouflaged the strength of his legs. Her eyes had feasted on his masculinity, his potency, and she had trembled with a yearning so sharp that she’d thought for a moment the image was real.
And tonight it was. Or could be, if that was what she wanted. Michael was sitting across the table from her, and the shimmering candlelight paled in comparison to the bright flame of desire that burned in his eyes. Those unblinking eyes possessed her, cherished her, seduced her. Even as they dined on the delicious grilled salmon with dill sauce, his eyes told her his thoughts were elsewhere, in some special, intimate place where the two of them had become one.
Barrie’s thoughts followed his, shared the intimacy, thrilled to the magic of his imagined touch. Unconsciously, she took a slow, provocative sip of wine, then ran her tongue over her dampened lips. Michael moaned and looked away, breaking the spell.
“Do you have any idea what you’re doing to me, Barrie MacDonald?” he asked huskily.
If it was anything like what he was doing to her, she knew. But she also realized she had to deny it. To admit the truth would speed their relationship on a course from which there would be no retreat and that could only lead to disaster and pain.
“Barrie, I’ve told you before that I want us to be together,” he said with straightforward honesty. “It was true last night. It’s even more true tonight. You’re an amazing woman. Intelligent, wise, funny, independent. The kind of woman I’ve always looked for but never found. And we’re both mature adults. I understand your reservations, but we can handle this. We can keep our business and personal relationships separated.”
It was a speech Heath Donaldson could have written, and it was spoken with absolute conviction, underlined with an undeniable urgency. If Barrie had read it in one of the scripts, heard it on the air, she would have believed it, would have thought desire and mutual respect were more than enough to justify a sexual relationship. The Karen Devereaux she had created for Goodbye, Again, had been patterned on her own liberated beliefs. So, she thought, why wasn’t the sort of quick and easy intimacy Michael was suggesting enough for her tonight? Why was there this sudden empty feeling in the pit of her stomach?
The answer to that was easy and disturbing. She and Michael would be good together. Too good. A warm ache deep inside told her that with unerring, sizzling accuracy. But, for the first time in her life, she had a feeling it would not be nearly enough and that with Michael she would want much more, perhaps something that could never be.
Don’t forget your promise, she reminded herself sha
rply. She had sworn all her life that she would never be as vulnerable as her mother had been. There would be no painful goodbyes for her, only breezy farewells. And to accomplish that, no one could ever get too close, especially not someone like Michael with whom intimacy would almost inevitably lead to emotional involvement.
To top it off, Michael held far too much potential power over her. Not only could he chop her heart into little pieces, he could control, even destroy, her professional future. The risks were tremendous.
Barrie shook her head. “Not a good idea,” she said firmly, amazed at the strength in her voice, when she was so shaky and unsure inside. “In fact, I think I’d better be leaving.”
“Running away?” he taunted.
“Of course not.” She was merely retreating to get her line of defenses back into place. There was a difference, but she doubted if Michael would see it. She wasn’t sure if she could explain it to him, either, so she didn’t even try.
“Do you have work to do, then?”
“No.”
“Then stay a little longer.” His eyes pleaded with her. His words were softly, persuasively spoken. “Go for a walk with me.”
She sensed his acceptance of her retreat and appreciated it, though she remained skeptical. “A walk?”
His eyes twinkled at her doubtful tone. “You remember walking. It’s one of those quaint old customs that people used to indulge in before the advent of the automobile. It’s very useful in getting from one location to another.”
“Sounds intriguing. Did you have a particular destination in mind?”
“Nope. That’s the wonderful part of walking. You just start out and go wherever your impulses take you.”
Barrie regarded him cautiously. The suggestion seemed innocent enough, and surely his impulses wouldn’t lead her into some sort of romantic trap in the middle of Beverly Hills. And it was a lovely night. The dry heat of midafternoon had given way to a cool, teasing breeze. The clear midnight black of the sky was dusted with silvery sparkles, and a full moon hung low over the mountains.
Not at Eight, Darling Page 4