by Nora Roberts
you, this project or any future ones.”
Sam didn’t give a damn if it was good for him. He rarely did. But the project was important. “When?”
“Two weeks from today, I’ll move the paperwork through. Keep it in perspective, Sam. It’s one day out of your life.”
“Yeah.” One day, he thought, could hardly make much difference. And it wasn’t easy to forget that a decade before he’d have considered an offer to do a game show as much of a miracle as manna from heaven. “Marv . . .” He paused at the door. “If I make an ass out of myself, I’m going to dump Krazy Glue on your hairpiece.”
***
It was strange that two people could have business in the same building, often ride the same elevator, but never cross paths. Sam didn’t make the trip from Malibu to his agent’s office often. Now that his career was on the rise he was usually tied up in rehearsals, script meetings or location shoots. When he had a few weeks, as he did now, he didn’t waste it battling L.A.’s traffic or closing himself up inside Century City’s impressive walls. He preferred the seclusion of his ranch.
Johanna, on the other hand, made the trip to her Century City office daily. She hadn’t taken a personal vacation in two years, and she put in an average of sixty hours a week on her show. If anyone had tagged her as a workaholic she would have shrugged off the label. Work wasn’t an illness, as far as Johanna was concerned; it was a means to an end. The long hours and dedication justified her success. She was determined that no one accuse her of riding on Carl Patterson’s coattails.
The offices maintained by Trivia’s staff were comfortable but understated. Her own was large enough to prevent her from feeling claustrophobic and practical enough to make the statement that this was a place of business. She arrived like clock-work at eight-thirty, broke for lunch only if it included a meeting, then worked straight through until she was finished. Besides her almost maternal devotion to Trivia, she had another concept on the back burner. A word game this time, an idea that was nearly refined enough to take to the network brass.
Now she had her jacket slung over her chair and her nose buried in a week’s worth of potential questions passed on to her by Research. She had to get close to the words because she refused to wear the reading glasses she needed.
“Johanna?”
With little more than a grunt, Johanna continued to read. “Did you know Howdy Doody had a twin brother?”
“We were never close,” Bethany said apologetically.
“Double Doody,” Johanna informed her with a nod. “I think it’s a great one for the speed round. Did you catch today’s show?”
“Most of it.”
“I really think we should try to lure Hank Loman back. Soap stars are a big draw.”
“Speaking of big draws . . .” Bethany set a stack of papers on Johanna’s desk. “Here’s the contract for Sam Weaver. I thought you’d like to look it over before I run it up to his agent.”
“Fine.” She shuffled papers before drawing the contract close enough to focus on it. “Let’s send him a tape of the show.”
“The usual fruit and cheese for the dressing room?”
“Mmm-hmm. Is the coffee machine fixed?”
“Just.”
“Good.” She took a casual glance at her watch. It was a simple affair with a black leather band. The diamond-encrusted one her father’s secretary had picked out for her last birthday was still in its box. “Listen, you go on to lunch. I’ll run these up.”
“Johanna, you’re forgetting how to delegate again.”
“No, I’m just delegating me.” Rising, she shook the creases out of her pale rose jacket. After picking up the remote channel changer from her desk, she aimed it at the television across the room. Both picture and sound winked off. “Are you still seeing that struggling screenwriter?”
“Every chance I get.”
Johanna grinned as she shrugged into her jacket. “Then you’d better hurry. This afternoon we need to brainstorm over the home viewer’s contest. I want that rolling by next month.” She picked up the contracts and slipped them and a cassette into a leather portfolio. “Oh, and make a note for me to slap John Jay’s wrist, will you? He charged a case of champagne to the show again.”
Bethany wrote that down enthusiastically and in capital letters. “Glad to do it.”
Johanna chuckled as she swung out the door. “Results of the contestant screening by three,” she continued. “That tech’s wife—Randy’s wife—she’s in Cedars of Lebanon for minor surgery. Send flowers.” Johanna grinned over her shoulder. “Who says I can’t delegate?”
On the ride up in the elevator, Johanna smiled to herself. She was lucky to have Beth, she thought, though she could already foresee the time when her assistant would be moving up and out. Brains and talent rarely settled for someone else’s dream. She liked to think she’d proved that theory for herself. In any case, Johanna had Beth now, and with the rest of her bright young staff, Johanna was on her way to establishing her own niche in the competitive world of daytime television.
If she could get her new concept as far as a pilot, she had no doubt she could sell it. Then maybe a daytime drama, something with as much action as heartache. That story was already in its beginning stages. In addition to that, she was determined to have a nighttime version of Trivia syndicated to the independents. She was already on the way to achieving her five-year goal of forming her own production company.
As the elevator rose, Johanna automatically smoothed down her hair and straightened the hem of her jacket. Appearances, she knew, were as important as talent.
When the doors opened, she was satisfied that she looked brisk and professional. She passed through the wide glass doors into Jablonski’s offices. He didn’t believe in understatement. There were huge Chinese-red urns filled with feathers and fans. A sculpture of what might have been a human torso gleamed in brushed brass. The carpet was an unrelieved white and, Johanna’s practical mind thought, must be the devil to keep clean.
Wide chairs in black and red leather were arranged beside glass tables. Trade magazines and the day’s papers were set in neat piles. The setup told her Jablonski didn’t mind keeping clients waiting.
The desks in the reception area followed the theme in glossy red and black. Johanna saw an attractive brunette seated at one. Perched on the corner of the desk and leaning close to the brunette was Sam Weaver. Johanna’s brow lifted only slightly.
She wasn’t surprised to see him flirting with one of the staff. Indeed, she expected that kind of thing from him and others like him. After all, her father had had an affair with every secretary, receptionist and assistant who had ever worked for him.
He’d been the tall, dark and handsome type, too, she thought. Still was. Her only real surprise at running into Sam Weaver was that he was one of that rare breed of actor who actually looked better in the flesh than on the screen.
He packed a punch, an immediate one.
Snug jeans suited him, she acknowledged, as did the plain cotton shirt of a working man. No gold flashed, no diamonds winked. He didn’t need them, Johanna decided. A man who could look at the receptionist the way Sam was looking at that brunette didn’t need artifice to draw attention to him.
“She’s beautiful, Gloria.” Sam bent closer to the snapshots the receptionist was showing off. From Johanna’s angle it looked as though he were whispering endearments. “You’re lucky.”
“She’s six months old today.” Gloria smiled down at the photograph of her daughter, then up at Sam. “I was lucky Mr. Jablonski gave me such a liberal maternity leave, and it’s nice to be back at work, but boy, I miss her already.”
“She looks like you.”
The brunette’s cheeks flushed with pride and pleasure. “You think so?”
“Sure. Look at that chin.” Sam tapped a finger on Gloria’s chin. He wasn’t just being kind. The truth was, he’d always gotten a kick out of kids. “I bet she keeps you busy.”
“Yo
u wouldn’t believe—” The still-new mother might have been off and running if she hadn’t glanced up and seen Johanna. Embarrassed, she slid the pictures into her drawer. Mr. Jablonski had been generous and understanding, but she didn’t think he’d care to have her spending her first day back on the job showing off her daughter. “Good afternoon. May I help you?”
With a slight inclination of her head, Johanna crossed the room. As she did, Sam swiveled on the desk and watched her. He didn’t quite do a double take, but damn near.
She was beautiful. He wasn’t immune to beauty, though he was often surrounded by it. At first glance she might have been taken for one of the hordes of slim and leggy California blondes who haunted the beaches and adorned glossy posters. Her skin was gold—not bronzed, but a very pale and lovely gold. It set off the smoky blond hair that fluffed out to tease the shoulders of her jacket. Her face was oval, the classic shape given drama by prominent cheekbones and a full mouth. Her eyes, delicately shaded with rose and violet, were the clear blue of a mountain lake.
She was sexy. Subtly sexy. He was used to that in women as well. Maybe it was the way she moved, the way she carried herself inside the long loose jacket and straight skirt, that made her seem so special. Her shoes were ivory and low-heeled. He found himself noticing even them and the small, narrow feet they covered.
She didn’t even glance at him, and he was glad. It gave him the chance to stare at her, to absorb the sight of her, before she recognized him and spoiled the moment.
“I have a delivery for Mr. Jablonski.”
Even her voice was perfect, Sam decided. Soft, smooth, just edging toward cool.
“I’ll be happy to take it.” Gloria gave her most cooperative smile.
Johanna unzipped her portfolio and took out the contracts and tape. She still didn’t look at Sam, though she was very aware he was staring. “These are the Weaver contracts and a tape of Trivia Alert.”
“Oh, well—”
Sam cut her off neatly. “Why don’t you take them in to him, Gloria? I’ll wait.”
Gloria opened her mouth, then shut it again to clear her throat as she rose. “All right. If you’d just give me a moment,” she said to Johanna, then headed down the corridor.
“Do you work for the show?” Sam asked her.
“Yes.” Johanna gave him a small and purposefully disinterested smile. “Are you a fan, Mr.—?”
She didn’t recognize him. Sam had a moment to be both surprised and disconcerted before he saw the humor of it and grinned. “It’s Sam.” He held out a hand, trapping her into an introduction.
“Johanna,” she told him, and accepted the handshake. His easy reaction made her feel petty. She was on the verge of explaining when she realized he hadn’t released her hand. His was hard and strong. Like his face, like his voice. It was her reaction to them, her quick and intensely personal reaction to them, that drove her to continue the pretense and blame it on him.
“Do you work for Mr. Jablonski?”
Sam grinned again. It was a fast, crooked grin that warned a woman not to trust him. “In a manner of speaking. What do you do on the show?”
“A little of this, a little of that,” she said, truthfully enough. “Don’t let me keep you.”
“I’d rather you did.” But he released her hand because she was tugging at it. “Would you like to have lunch?”
Her brow lifted. Five minutes ago he’d been cuddling up to the brunette; now he was inviting the first woman who came along to lunch. Typical. “Sorry. I’m booked.”
“For how long?”
“Long enough.” Johanna glanced past him to the receptionist.
“Mr. Jablonski will have the contracts signed and returned to Ms. Patterson by tomorrow afternoon.”
“Thank you.” Johanna shifted her portfolio and turned. Sam laid a hand on her arm and waited until she looked back at him.
“See you.”
She smiled at him, again disinterestedly, before she walked away. She was chuckling when she reached the elevators, unaware that she’d tucked the hand he’d held into her pocket.
Sam watched her until she’d turned the corner. “You know, Gloria,” he said, half to himself, “I think I’m going to enjoy playing this game after all.”
2
On the day of a taping, Johanna was always on the set by nine. It wasn’t that she didn’t trust her staff. She did. She simply trusted herself more. Besides, last week they’d had a few mechanical glitches with the moving set that swung the contestants and their counters stage center for play, then off again for the championship round. Small problems like that could delay taping anywhere from five minutes to two hours. By checking everything through personally beforehand, she sweetened the odds.
All the lights on the display board had to be tested, and the dressing rooms had to be primped and fresh coffee and cookies arranged for the prospective contestants.
They weren’t due until one, but experience told Johanna that most would arrive early so they could chew their nails in the studio. Soothing them was one job she gladly delegated. The celebrities were also due at one so they could do a run-through and still have plenty of time for hair, makeup and wardrobe.
John Jay would arrive at two to complain about the suits that had been selected for him. Then he would close himself in his dressing room to sulk before his makeup call. When he was suited up, powdered and sprayed he would emerge, ready to shine for the cameras. Johanna had learned to ignore his artistic temperament—for the most part—and to tolerate the rest. There was no arguing with his popularity quotient. It was largely due to him that the line would form outside the studio for tickets for the day’s taping.
Johanna checked off her duties one by one, then double-checked everyone else’s. Over the years, efficiency had grown from a habit to an obsession. At noon she downed something that resembled a shrimp salad. The taping should start at three and, if God was in his heaven, be over by eight.
Fortunately, the female celebrity was a repeater who had done Trivia at least a dozen times, along with numerous other game shows. That gave Johanna one less headache. She hadn’t given Sam Weaver a thought.
So she told herself.
When he arrived, she would turn him and his entourage over to Bethany. It would give her assistant a thrill and keep God’s gift to women out of her hair.
She only hoped he could handle the game. The questions were fun, for the most part, but they weren’t always easy. More than once she’d had a celebrity grumble and complain because an inability to answer had made him or her look stupid. Johanna made it a policy to see that each show’s batch of questions contained the obvious and amusing, as well as the challenging.
It wouldn’t be her fault if Sam Weaver turned out to have an empty head. He would only have to smile to gain the audience’s forgiveness.
She remembered the way he’d smiled at her when she’d asked if he worked for Jablonski. Yes, that was all it would take to make every woman at home and in the studio turn to putty—except her, of course.
“Check the bell.” Johanna stood in the middle of the set and directed her sound technician. At her signal the bright, cheery beep of the winning bell rang. “And the buzzer.” The flat drone of the loser sounded. “Bring up the lights in the winner’s circle.” She nodded in satisfaction as the bulbs flashed.
“The contestants?”
“Sequestered.” Bethany checked her clipboard. “We have the accountant from Venice returning from last week. He’s a three-game winner. First challenger’s a housewife from Ohio in town visiting her sister. Nervous as hell.”
“Okay, see if you can help Dottie keep them calm. I’ll give the dressing rooms a last check.”
Mentally calculating her time as she went, Johanna scooted down the corridor. Her female celebrity was Marsha Tuckett, a comfortable, motherly type who was part of the ensemble of a family series in its third year. A nice contrast for Sam Weaver, she thought. Johanna made sure there were fresh pink roses
on the dressing table and plenty of club soda on ice. Satisfied the room was in order, she walked across the narrow hall to the next room.
Because she hadn’t thought roses appropriate for Sam Weaver, she’d settled on a nice leafy fern for the corner. As a matter of course she checked the lights, plumped the pillows on the narrow daybed and made certain the towels were fresh and plentiful. A last look showed her nothing he could find fault with. Carelessly she stole a mint from the bowl on the table and popped it into her mouth, then turned.
He was in the doorway.
“Hello again.” He’d already decided to make it his business to find her, but he hadn’t expected to be quite so lucky. He stepped into the room and dropped a garment bag negligently over a chair.
Johanna pushed the candy into the corner of her mouth. The dressing room was small, but she couldn’t recall feeling trapped in it before. “Mr. Weaver.” She put on her best at-your-service smile as she offered a hand.
“It’s Sam. Remember?” He took her hand and stepped just close enough to make her uncomfortable. They both knew it wasn’t an accident.
“Of course. Sam. We’re all delighted you could join us. We’ll have our run-through shortly. In the meantime, you can let me or one of the staff know if you need anything.” She looked past him, puzzled. “Are you alone?”