Compton, the recently appointed network vice president for programming, was a man who reportedly dissected into tiny, insignificant pieces the people who dared to question his orders. Barrie wondered how much of her conversation with Kevin he’d overheard. Not that she’d change a word of it, she thought stoutly. It would just be nice to know exactly how much trouble she was in.
She had to admit that the man’s timing was impeccable. “Just when I’ve got the battle under control, the enemy general has to show up with reinforcements,” she muttered resignedly under her breath.
She should have anticipated something like this. The day had not gone well since the alarm clock had jarred her awake at daybreak. In fact, on a scale of one to ten, it ranked somewhere on the minus side of the ledger. First she had inadvertently washed one of her new soft contact lenses down the drain, leaving her to choose between blinking nearsightedness or the huge old rose-tinted glasses that made her look a bit like an owl. Then her hairdryer had sparked and sizzled to an abrupt halt, leaving her frosted ash-brown hair to dry naturally to a curly tangle, rather than the smoother style she preferred. Her windshield wipers had broken in the middle of a downpour, and she’d had to creep along the L.A. freeway, arriving at the studio an hour late. And finally, she had snagged her new hose as she was getting out of her sporty fire-engine-red Sentra in the parking lot. The run had made its way from her ankle to her thigh in less time than it had taken her to utter a satisfying string of obscenities under her breath.
“Apparently I’m on a roll,” she said dryly as the man whom she assumed to be Michael Compton stepped out of the shadows and strolled confidently to the temporary office set of Goodbye, Again, where Barrie and the cast were assembled. They had been rehearsing the premiere episode when Kevin had wandered in with the latest memo from the network.
“Well, Miss MacDonald,” the man said, a hint of amusement twinkling in his eyes as he perched on the edge of the conference table right next to her. One very solid, very tempting thigh was mere inches from her fingertips. “Exactly what is it you’re so sure I’ll understand?”
Barrie’s gaze shifted reluctantly upward into dazzling blue-green eyes. She studied the square jaw and the determined set to his mouth and gulped. Perhaps a dog wouldn’t be so bad, after all. He could stay in the bedroom and bark occasionally. That ought to keep everyone happy.
What in God’s name am I thinking of? she snapped back mentally. I will not have a dog in this show!
Staring him straight in the eye, she said coolly, “We were just discussing your memo, Mr. Compton.”
“About the sheepdog.”
“Yes. I’m not sure you’ve thought this through,” she began cautiously, wincing as his eyes hardened and bored into her. Mincemeat. This was definitely a man who made mincemeat out of his adversaries. She rushed on, anyway. If she was going to commit professional suicide, she might as well go out fighting. “I mean these people live in a thirty-five story condominium in the middle of Manhattan. What would they be doing with a sheepdog?”
“That’s something else we need to talk about,” he said.
Although he spoke softly, there was no mistaking the authoritative tone. A warning signal flared in Barrie’s brain, and she prepared for the next wave of his absurd, ill-conceived game plan to destroy her show.
“I don’t think a condominium is quite the right environment,” he explained.
“Oh? And what would you suggest? A vine-covered cottage with a white picket fence?”
He grinned, and her own lips defied her by twitching upward in an involuntary response. “That might be a little extreme,” he agreed. “I was thinking more along the lines of a town house.”
Barrie considered the idea thoughtfully. She was not above making some small compromises. “Maybe it would work,” she said slowly. “One of those nice brownstones on the East Side, perhaps.”
“Umm…” He shook his head. “Not exactly.”
“What, then?”
“I was thinking of one of those town house developments. You know, with a swimming pool, tennis courts, sailboats, that sort of thing.”
Barrie’s eyes widened incredulously. The man had obviously come up through the ranks from sales. He had the creative mentality of an accountant.
“In Manhattan?” That distressing screech was back in her voice, though it had been weakened considerably by her absolute dismay.
“Well, we probably would have to move the location of the show. Maybe Marina del Ray or Santa Monica.”
At that, her mouth dropped open, and her glasses slipped to the tip of her pert turned-up nose. “You’ve got to be kidding!”
“What’s wrong with that? It worked for Three’s Company.”
To her thorough astonishment, the man seemed genuinely puzzled. In fact, he looked downright hurt that she hadn’t liked his suggestion.
“That’s what’s wrong with it,” she explained as patiently as she could, considering her desire to deliver a primal scream that would shake the studio. “It’s been done. I don’t want to copy another series. Goodbye, Again is going to be fresh, different, contemporary. It’s going to give viewers something to think about.”
She glared at him defiantly. “It is not going to be an endless parade of bikini-clad bodies jiggling to the Jacuzzi.”
“You think that’s a bit too sexist?” he wondered aloud with apparent innocence. While she held her breath and waited, he seemed to consider her strenuous objection carefully. “Maybe you’re right. Of course, if we put a couple of guys in there…”
“Forget it!” Barrie’s shout echoed as she slammed her fist down emphatically. To her utter chagrin it landed squarely on his thigh. The damn muscle felt like granite. It felt, in fact, wonderful. However, she warned herself dryly, this was no time to get caught up with the feel of the man’s physique. She had an important point to make. Several of them, in fact. “No bikinis! No swimming pools! And no damned sheepdog!”
A deep, rumbling laugh suddenly erupted from Michael Compton’s chest. Barrie’s hand twitched nervously where it had come to rest on his leg, and she yanked it back, looking at him as though he’d suddenly gone mad. The cast tittered uncertainly.
“You’re wonderful, Miss MacDonald. Absolutely priceless,” he said when he’d regained his composure. “I like a producer with spunk. I want my people to stand up for what they believe in.”
His people? Spunk? Barrie’s indignant roar dwindled down to a low growl as she stared at him, first in blinking confusion, then with slowly dawning understanding. “You were teasing me, weren’t you?” she accused.
“Me?” The attempt at innocence failed miserably. There was far too much of a twinkle in his eyes.
“Yes, you.”
He nodded contritely, though his lips continued to twitch with amusement. “I’m afraid so. I couldn’t resist.”
“You don’t want me to move the show to Los Angeles?”
He shook his head.
“You
