time since Mac hadn’t been liked by someone—or at least since someone had stopped sucking up to him long enough to let him know it. He was surprised by how much it annoyed him. To his knowledge, he’d never done anything to merit the dagger-eyes she was currently sending him.
He wondered what her problem was. Was she one of those precious people who resented actors moving into other areas of production? They were out there, he knew— writers and directors and producers who figured actors who were trying to parlay their time in the limelight to time behind the camera were asking for more than their fair share of pie.
He’d already copped a few sideways glances from a few of the other Boulevard directors. He even suspected a couple of the long-term regulars on the cast weren’t too thrilled to see him dabbling with direction. The same thing had happened when he’d been trying to break out of soap acting. People had wanted to keep him in a clearly defined box. But Mac knew now that if he didn’t get out of that box, he’d be buried in it.
“Given the time constraints we’re under, I think the best thing to do is to set a deadline for viewing the two prospective sites,” Grace said briskly, flicking through a diary. “What if we both agree to have looked over the two options by the end of the week? Then we can reconvene and discuss things.”
She glanced up at him, her face set, impassive.
“I was under the impression that Claudia wanted us to go out together. It being a collaborative thing and all,” he said.
She shrugged one shoulder. “I was planning on checking out the vineyard this afternoon since I’m ahead on edits, but that probably won’t suit you.”
She flicked at a piece of invisible lint on her dress. He didn’t have to be a genius to read the subtext of her body language—be gone, pesky man, be gone.
He’d never taken well to being dismissed.
“You know, it must be our lucky day—I’ve got the afternoon free as well,” he said easily. In reality, he had a swathe of lines to learn for tomorrow’s rehearsals—but that was what late nights and strong coffee were for.
She didn’t look pleased. Which only confirmed his suspicions about her. She didn’t think he was up to the job. All his earlier doubts about taking on such an important project evaporated. There was no way he was walking away now. Flashing another one of his red-carpet smiles, he leaned back in his chair and put his feet up on the boardroom table—just because he knew it would piss her off. Her gaze flickered to his legs and back again and she sat a little straighter in her chair.
“Why don’t you go grab your bag and we’ll get going?” he suggested.
Her full lips compressed into a thin, ungenerous line.
“I have some things to take care of first. Why don’t I meet you out there?” she countered.
His moment of amusement faded as he had a sudden vision of how the next few months were going to be if he was fighting against this woman every step of the way—it would be a bloody battle for each square foot gained. He was a straight-up kind of guy at the end of the day. As amusing as it was to egg Grace on, he figured it was better to call her on her attitude now, get whatever it was out of the way and sorted before it affected the show.
Then she stood up.
Hubba hubba.
It was the only coherent thought that came to mind as he took in the rest of the package that was Grace Wellington. He’d been too busy talking to Claudia to get a full head-to-toe on Grace when she walked in, but now his eyes tracked from the fullness of her breasts to her tiny waist and out again to her curvy hips and butt, all of it showcased by a dress that would have looked right at home on Doris Day in her heyday.
She had an old-fashioned pinup girl’s body, that was for sure. And she dressed in an old-fashioned style that accentuated all the good bits in a really, really…good way.
He frowned as she gathered her notes, trying to piece together the different signals he was getting from this woman. She didn’t like him, seemed uptight, but dressed in a fun, flamboyant, sexy style that belied the cool little voice and condemning glances over the top of her ugly glasses.
Realizing she was about to walk off, he dragged his gaze from her va-voom curves and concentrated on winning this first battle of wills.
“I can hang around. Doesn’t make sense to take separate cars all that way,” he said.
She blinked, her back stiffening.
“I might be a while,” she countered.
He shrugged. She stared at him. He stared back. He wasn’t going to back off just because she did a good line in bitch. Finally, after a long, tense silence, she tossed her hair over her shoulder and turned on her heel.
He watched her butt all the way out of the room, only letting out the breath he hadn’t noticed he’d been holding when she stepped out of sight. It was also when he registered the tightness in his jeans. He stared down at his straining boner.
Great. Just what he needed—the return of his libido at the most inappropriate time possible.
GRACE LINGERED. Then she loitered. She even lurked a bit. She went to the bathroom twice. She sorted through her in-tray. She made a couple of pointless phone calls to freelance script writers. She cleared out her junk e-mail folder.
And still Mac sat there. He’d taken up position in one of the random chairs placed throughout the open-plan outer- office and was just waiting her out. She swung between being irritated with him for being such a stubborn bastard and feeling stupidly breathless and dizzy at his proximity.
Every time she glanced up from her “work” and caught sight of his tall, powerful body sitting outside her office, waiting for her, she had to fight the urge to melt into a puddle beneath her desk.
It made her feel so weak and stupid. Which in turn made her angry with herself—and Mac Harrison for having won the genetic sweepstakes that made him so irresistible to her.
Finally, however, she was out of tricks. It was already more than evident that she’d been stalling and, after an hour of time-wasting, she gave in, snatching up her handbag and notepad and stalking out of her office.
“I’m ready. Unless something else has come up…?” she suggested hopefully.
He eyed her steadily and pushed himself to his feet. She suppressed a shiver as he loomed over her. He was so close— just like in her fantasy the other night. If she took a step forward, she’d be able to reach out and run a finger down his chest. She’d need to rip his shirt off first, of course, for it to be an accurate re-enactment of her fantasy, but she had strong hands….
The jangle of car keys snapped her out of the pheromoneinduced daze she’d sunk into.
God, she was so pitiful. Lips pressed together, she marched toward the exit. She could feel him following her, and she felt absurdly conscious of the wiggle of her hips. He probably hadn’t seen real hips for years, living in Hollywood. All the actresses on the show had visible ribs and chicken wings sticking out of their backs from their no-carb, no-fat, no-life diets. He probably thought she was obese by comparison. The thought spurred her to put a little extra sass in her walk.
“Over
