bit of good and walked across the studio lot to the nearby network facilities. At precisely six-thirty she presented herself to Michael Compton’s secretary, a cheerful woman with gray hair, rosy cheeks and sparkling, periwinkle blue eyes.
Mrs. Emma Lou Hastings looked as though she’d be perfectly at home in the kitchen making applesauce with an army of grandchildren underfoot. She also seemed like the type you could come to for motherly advice, Barrie decided, suddenly struck by the oddest desire to sit down and tell this perfect stranger that she was a nervous wreck because she was having dinner with a man who held the key to her future, a man who also had incredible thighs. She wondered what Mrs. Hastings would have to say about that.
Since Barrie kept her mouth clamped firmly shut, Mrs. Hastings only said, “You can go in now, Miss MacDonald. Mr. Compton is expecting you.”
Barrie had started toward the door when the secretary added softly, “Don’t worry, dear. He’s really a very nice young man.”
Very nice young man, indeed! Mrs. Hastings obviously didn’t know that Michael Compton had virtually threatened to cancel Barrie’s series unless she agreed to this dinner. What would she say about her nice young man if she found out about that? Barrie looked into her round, honest-looking face with the tiny laugh lines around the eyes and the encouraging smile and didn’t have the heart to tell her. After all, she defended herself, could you tell a mother that her son is rotten to the core? Of course not. No more than she could tell Mrs. Hastings that her obviously well-liked boss was a thoroughly obnoxious louse who indulged in emotional blackmail.
Instead she smiled back. “Thanks,” she said as she turned the brass doorknob and walked into Michael Compton’s office. Grateful for any reprieve, she was delighted to see that he was on the phone. He looked up and grinned at her with that sinfully sensual smile of his and motioned for her to sit down. She selected the chair farthest from his desk and sank down, tucking her legs back in a futile attempt to cover the run that displayed a pale white trail of skin from her ankle up, disappearing at last under the hem of her beige linen skirt. Why the hell hadn’t she remembered the damn run earlier? She couldn’t very well go tearing out of here now to buy new hose. Blast Michael Compton, she thought irrationally. Somehow this was all his fault.
She glanced over to discover that the object of her irritation was paying absolutely no attention to her. His head was bent to one side in order to keep the phone braced against his shoulder. If he did that long enough, he was going to have one heck of a neck ache, Barrie noted. She was torn between a perverse delight at the prospect and an even stranger desire to massage the soon-to-be-knotted muscles. She blinked and looked away, but, as though she’d been hypnotized, her eyes were drawn back time and again.
As Michael listened to his long-winded and apparently irate caller, he tapped a pencil idly on his huge rosewood desk. With his other hand he shuffled through a stack of papers, sorting them into two compulsively neat piles. Periodically he jabbed at another of the lit buttons on the phone, rumbled directives first into the receiver and then into the intercom on his desk. Two assistants scurried in and out, handing him papers to sign, waiting as he jotted notes on them, then rushing back out. A clerk from the mailroom came in with a half-dozen videotapes, piled them up next to his VCR and the bank of television monitors and left. Mrs. Hastings hurried in with several bulging file folders, dropped them into his In basket and picked up one of the stacks he’d just created. On her way out, she smiled sympathetically at Barrie, who’d begun to feel as though she’d fallen into the rabbit hole and wound up in the middle of Alice in Wonderland. Never in her life had she seen such perfectly orchestrated chaos. Never in her life had she felt so blatantly ignored.
“It won’t be long, dear,” Mrs. Hastings promised. “It’s always this way at the end of the day.”
Barrie glanced at her slim gold watch. It was seven-fifteen. She had suggested that Michael meet her at the studio at seven, but he’d refused and insisted instead that she meet him at his office at six-thirty. He was now forty-five minutes late, and Mrs. Hastings’s reassurances to the contrary, he was showing no sign of quitting for the day.
Barrie waited and fumed. Eager to find any excuse for escape, she prepared herself mentally to rise as regally as she could with that blasted run in her hose and walk out of his office in a dignified protest of his imperious rudeness. Just as she started to stand, the phone clicked into place on his desk. He dropped the pencil, stopped shuffling papers, switched off the intercom and leaned back in his chair.
His pale blue tailored-to-fit shirt with his initials embroidered on the cuff emphasized his broad chest, his tapering waistline. His tie was loosened, his collar open at the neck to reveal a provocative amount of tanned skin and a shadowing of dark, tightly curled hairs. Eyes that now seemed more blue than green stared knowingly back at her. Barrie gulped and studied the pictures on the wall. They were modern splashes of bright, formless color. They were awful.
“So…Miss MacDonald,” he said softly, seductively. “What do you think of my—” there was a suggestive hesitation that brought a guilty blush to Barrie’s cheeks “—office?”
“I think the network overpaid the decorator,” she responded tartly.
He grinned at her. “That’s a rather dangerously blunt comment, don’t you think? How do you know I didn’t do it myself?”
“I’ve been in this office before. The pictures preceded you.”
“Very observant,” he noted approvingly, then added with a weary sigh, “I wish more people in this business would develop their powers of observation. It might improve the quality of the stuff that gets brought in here.”
Barrie’s brown eyes sparkled with excitement as she recognized a perfect opportunity. Heath Donaldson couldn’t have scripted a better opening line for her. “That’s what I want to do with Goodbye, Again,” she said enthusiastically. “I want to create characters and situations that people will recognize. Relationships today aren’t what they were when I Love Lucy went on the air. They’re freer, more open. Women are less dependent on the men in their lives, married or not. They stay married out of choice, not necessity. How many families today are like the Andersons on Father Knows Best? We might wish they were, but, as the saying goes, wishing won’t make it so.”
“So you want to force-feed reality, when what the audience wants is fantasy?” he challenged.
“No,” she responded heatedly, so caught up in explaining her show so that he would understand that she once again missed the teasing glint in his eyes. “You’re twisting my words around. You make reality sound like a dirty word.”
As Michael rose and walked slowly around to where she was sitting, her breath suddenly caught in her throat, her argument sputtered to a halt, and she was immediately struck by the strangest sense of heightened anticipation. It was like waiting for a roller coaster to inch over the crest of its highest peak and fly down the other side. One knew something incredible was about to happen but had no idea quite how to prepare for it. Michael’s impressive body towered over hers, sending out little electrical currents that seemed to head straight for her abdomen, flooding it with a pleasant warmth and a tormenting ache. Barrie’s eyes were drawn to his, locked in a fiery awareness, challenging him to defend his statement.
“Actually, I like reality, Miss MacDonald,” he protested softly, the velvet-smooth tone affecting her like warm brandy. It felt soothing and intoxicating. “In fact, I’m liking it more by the minute.”
His charming, roguish grin brought a responding tilt to her lips. The man could obviously sweet-talk his way past Saint Peter at the gates of heaven. What possible chance did she stand, Barrie wondered a trifle desperately. She’d
