“I do.”
“Well?”
“Dinner’s on the way.”
Barrie gulped. “Here?”
“Why not? It’s more private than a restaurant, and despite the lousy artwork, the atmosphere isn’t bad.”
It is also entirely too intimate, Barrie wanted to shout.
So what? a voice shouted back. Intimacy is only threatening if you allow it to be. After all, the man has done absolutely nothing to indicate that he wants to seduce you. That was an idea that popped into your mind sometime between his thorough, unblinking survey and the soft, sensual smile that made your heart flip over.
Okay. So I’ll force that idea right back out of my mind.
Right. The worst thing that could happen would be that he’d make a pass at you, and you’d file a sexual harassment suit.
No, she correctly dryly, the worst thing that could happen would be that he would make a pass, and she would respond. She steeled herself against that embarrassingly distinct possibility.
“Dinner here is just fine,” she said airily, taking off her glasses. Maybe if she couldn’t see the man, his potency would be less dangerous. Of course, she also might miss the first signs of any planned seduction. She put the glasses back on, just in time to see a waiter wheel in a cart laden with covered silver dishes.
In less time than it would normally take her to scan the contents of her virtually empty freezer, the waiter draped a small table with a spotless white damask cloth, added an Oriental-style arrangement of tiny orchids, lit several tapered candles and set two places with heavy silverware and English bone china that Barrie recognized as one of the most expensive patterns on the market.
“I take it you didn’t order from the commissary,” she commented dryly.
He smiled back at her. “Wait until you see the food before making judgments, Miss MacDonald,” he warned. “Isn’t Hollywood known for creating atmosphere without worrying about substance? You could be in for a dinner of ham on rye.”
“You don’t strike me as the ham-on-rye type. Maybe bologna.”
“Careful. That tart tongue of yours is going to get you in trouble yet.”
“It usually gets me back out of it, as well.”
“Perhaps it has…in the past,” he taunted. “But you haven’t come up against a man like me before, Miss MacDonald.”
“How do you know that?”
“I’m one of a kind,” he informed her with a wink as he sipped the wine and nodded approvingly to the waiter. “This is perfect, Henri.”
“Bon appetit, monsieur.”
“Merci.”
The waiter bowed graciously to Barrie and pushed the cart out of the office, leaving them alone.
“Well, Miss MacDonald,” Michael said softly as he held out a chair for her. “Your dinner awaits.”
Barrie sat down to a meal that was expertly planned, perfectly prepared and, despite Michael’s warnings, quite obviously not commissary fare. It began with pâté and ended with fresh strawberries and thick, sweet Devon cream, each course a sensual delight.
Their conversation throughout was surprisingly light and witty. In fact, on several occasions Barrie had the feeling she was caught up in the middle of a briskly paced Noel Coward script. Never had she met anyone who could match wits with her so easily, who could make her feel so much like a woman while at the same time treating her as an equal. It was exactly the sort of relationship she hoped to create on Goodbye, Again, straightforward, intelligent, lively and provocative. Ah, yes, she thought with an unconscious sigh. Most definitely provocative.
As the meal ended at last, she was savoring one of the strawberries, slowly licking the cream from its sweet tip before taking the bright red berry into her mouth, when she noticed that Michael seemed fascinated with her lips. His eyes sparkled as he licked his own lips in unconscious imitation of her actions. Stunned by the obvious sensuality of his response and heady from the fine wine and the unexpected knowledge that she could stir him as he did her, Barrie almost involuntarily prolonged the moment, biting into the juicy strawberry with slow deliberation. A husky moan rumbled deep in Michael’s throat, and at last he blinked and looked away.
My God, what am I doing? The thought ripped into Barrie’s mind, and she practically swallowed the strawberry whole. She had been taunting Michael Compton, practically daring him to respond to her as a woman. He did not strike her as the type to back away from a challenge, and she had just presented him with a practically irresistible one. I must be out of my mind.
“About Goodbye, Again,” she prompted in a voice that had a distressing quiver in it. Damn! All those acting classes, and she still couldn’t hide her nervousness.
“Why don’t we sit over here and talk about it?” he suggested agreeably, leading her to a sofa and then sitting down entirely too near to her.
She studied him closely and promptly projected her wayward thoughts onto him. “Is this the part where you tell me you’ll cooperate with me, if I cooperate with you?” she asked, actually managing a lightly teasing tone, despite the fact that her blood was roaring in her ears like an erupting volcano. In anger? Or anticipation? She wasn’t at all sure and, disgustingly, he only seemed to find her implication amusing.
“No. This is the part where I tell you what’s going to happen to your series.”
“And?”
“And you tell me you’re a professional, and you can handle the changes I’m demanding.”
Changes? Demanding? She had the distinct impression he had deliberately chosen those words just to unnerve her. Well, she was not too proud to admit—to herself—that he’d succeeded. For his benefit, she plastered an interested, calm expression on her face and asked quietly, “What did you have in mind?”
“For one thing, I’ve been taking a look at the fall schedule, and I don’t think it’s as competitive as it could be. In order to make it more effective, I’m going to move your show.”
Barrie eyed him cautiously. “Yes?”
“I think it’ll be perfect for the eight o’clock slot on Saturday.”
All attempts at studied tranquility flew out the window. Barrie’s protest began as a small grumble, but by the time it exploded from her mouth it was a full-blown roar of incredulous frustration. “Michael…I mean, Mr. Compton, no! You can’t do this!”
“Oh, yes, I can,” he said evenly.
Of course he could. She took a very deep breath and decided to appeal to his sense of logic. “I’m not sure you realize what a risk you’re taking. You could kill the show. This program is targeted for young adults. Young adults do not watch television at eight on a Saturday night. Kids watch television at eight on Saturday.”
“That’s
