she muttered in frustration as she pulled to the side of the palm-lined street and fumbled in the glove compartment for her map of L.A. Trying to hold the book so that she could read by the muted reflection of the streetlight, she finally found Michael’s address. She glared at the map.
Of course his street was only one block long! She should have known he’d live somewhere so exclusive that it was barely on the map. However, it was only about a mile away and, barring any unexpected deadends—or restrictive gates—should be easy enough to reach if she just stayed straight about five blocks and turned left, then right, she decided at last.
As she crept along, squinting to read the street signs to locate the first turn, she murmured a silent prayer to the patron saint of lost souls to get her out of this fix, and quickly. Michael was going to be furious and, at this point, she wasn’t any too thrilled about the situation herself. She hated being late almost as much as she abhorred being lost. The former made her feel guilty about her rudeness. The latter made her feel vulnerable, panicky in fact. And the combination was enough to send her fleeing home to burrow under the covers.
To top it off, she knew that this dinner had all sorts of hidden implications and dangers. Dangers best postponed for perhaps five or six years.
“I wonder if he’d believe that I developed a raging migraine that temporarily blocked out my memory and that I forgot all about dinner?” she asked herself aloud.
Not a chance, her conscience replied emphatically. He’d know you were being a coward.
It was probably fortunate, then, that before she could tell her conscience to go to blazes and then retreat to the security of her own bed, she found the street. After that it was an easy enough matter to find the address. There were only three houses on the whole blasted block.
It was nearly nine-thirty by the time she reluctantly walked up the palm-lined driveway and rang Michael’s doorbell. When he opened the door, there was a worried frown on his face that altered into a tight, unwelcoming smile. Barrie shuddered. His mincemeat look was back.
“I’ve heard of being fashionably late, but don’t you think this is overdoing it just a bit?” he asked.
The teasing question was light enough, but there was a hard edge to his voice that told Barrie he was really angry with her, far more angry than she’d anticipated he might be. Cautiously she put her hand on his arm.
“You really are upset with me, aren’t you?” she said penitently. When he didn’t respond, she rattled on nervously, “I don’t blame you. I’m horribly late, but I was tied up at the studio working on the show longer than I expected. The traffic was awful. You know how that is this time of night. And then I got lost.” She paused for breath and gazed at him hopefully. Nothing. Not even a blink of those blue-green eyes. She tried again. “Anyway, I’m sorry. Did I ruin dinner?”
He stood looking down at her for a moment, then shook his head and smiled. This time it was more genuine. At least he didn’t look as though he planned to kick her back out onto the streets anymore. “Sorry. Of course not. I guess I was just afraid you’d changed your mind and decided to back out.”
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