electricity,” she blurted when Claudia and Mac stared at her.
He frowned and she busied herself with settling into a chair and arranging her notes and pencils in front of her on the glass-topped table.
Where had her game plan gone? What about dignity and coolness and professionalism? She’d never felt less dignified or professional in her life. She felt exactly like a star- struck teenager, complete with a mouth full of braces, bad acne and baby fat.
“Might as well get started, I guess,” Claudia said, shooting Grace a questioning glance. Grace got the distinct feeling she’d be having an intense interrogation session with her friend later. Her toes curled in her shoes at the very thought.
“Grace, you’re still working on the first draft of the script, I know, but I really want this wedding feature to rate off the graph. I’m kicking in extra money for location shoots, whatever it takes. As far as venues go, Mac, the scouts have narrowed it down to two locations—a vineyard in the Santa Clarita valley, just north of L.A., and the Malibu West Beach Club. I want you to take a look at both of them with Grace and see what kind of ideas they suggest. Once we’ve decided on a location, we’ll swing the team into action.”
Grace concentrated on scribbling down Claudia’s words verbatim—it gave her something to do and it meant that she didn’t have to try to comprehend what her friend was saying until afterward. As much as it galled her, while Mac was in the room, she was hard pressed to simply master the whole inhale-exhale thing.
“Any questions, guys?” Claudia asked, looking from Grace to Mac and back again.
“Yeah. It’s for Grace, actually. I’ve gone over the story line for the episode, but is there any chance of getting a look at your script while it’s a work-in-progress? Just so we can start thinking on the same page?” Mac asked.
Grace just managed to stifle the instinctive scoff of rejection that rose in her throat. The thought of him looking at her half-assed, half-finished work was enough to make her break into a sweat again. Writing was her thing, the thing she did better than anything else in her life. There was no way she was letting this man see her at anything less than her best.
“Um… Let me take a look at it, see what kind of shape it’s in,” she hedged. She couldn’t say no outright in front of Claudia, but Mac Harrison would have to pry her half-finished script from her cold, dead hands if she had any say in the matter.
She shot him a quick look to see how he handled her answer, waiting for the inevitable star’s tantrum. But it was impossible to read his expression. Probably because she was too busy staring at his sexy mouth. He was a drug for her and every time she looked at him she took a hit.
“Right, well, I guess there’s not much more for me to do here. I’ll leave it up to you guys to work out a time to do reconnaissance on both locations and anything else that needs to be done before we move forward.”
Claudia was standing, moving toward the door. Grace jerked upright in her seat, panicking. Claudia was leaving her alone with Mac? No way!
But before she could launch herself out of her chair, grab onto one of her friend’s ankles and hold on for dear life, Claudia was gone.
By definition, leaving her alone with Mac Harrison. Her most secret fantasy—and her worst nightmare. Her heart was pumping like mad. Her breasts felt heavy and sensitive in her bra. And she would kill for a glass of water right now. He was sitting opposite her, exuding sex appeal as if he’d bought it in bulk and she didn’t know how to handle the situation or what to say or do to protect herself.
How she resented him for making her feel this way!
She ducked her head, trying to pull herself together. Which was when she caught sight of her reflection in the glass table. Her features were indistinct, distorted by the bad lighting and the angle, but she could see the expression in her own eyes. She looked utterly lost, like a scared child. She had a sudden out-of-body flash of how she must appear, sitting head down, knees pressed together—the shy spinster in front of the golden hunk.
She didn’t like it very much. She didn’t like it at all, in fact.
For four years, she’d built her life alone. And she’d been happy and successful. She didn’t measure her happiness by whether she had a man in her life anymore. Certainly she didn’t measure it by whether a man like Mac Harrison was attracted to her or not. She was her own woman.
Her mind defaulted to her usual touchstone for feminine power and confidence. What would Bette do in this situation, she asked herself?
Instantly she felt her spine straighten. Bette Davis wouldn’t feel intimidated by anyone—especially by someone like Mac. Who the hell was he, after all? A fake-tanned slice of beefcake with a bleached smile and the ability to be insincere on cue. Yes, there was a pleasing symmetry to his features, a certain robust physicality to his body that spoke to some primitive feminine instinct in her. But his appeal was only skin deep. He was an actor, her personal definition of the word vapid. He probably spent more time working out than she spent sleeping or eating. When he wasn’t working out, she bet he accessorized himself with the latest leggy blonde and made sure he was seen in all the right places, because those were the things that mattered to him. He was an empty Christmas- tree bauble of a man.
He was nothing special. And she was determined to treat him that way.
MAC FROWNED over his notes as Claudia exited the room. Was it just him, or was Grace Wellington less-than-thrilled to be working with him?
She’d barely looked at him since she walked into the room. He couldn’t work out if she was shy, embarrassed or angry. She was definitely something—the air around her was practically vibrating with suppressed emotion.
She was nothing like he’d expected. None of his feeble imaginings came even close to the real Grace Wellington. She was…totally original. Her hair was a deep claret, her bangs cut severely straight across her creamy forehead, the rest falling thick and straight down her back. A memory teased at his mind, and he plucked a sepia image from his mental filing cabinet—a voluptuous siren posed provocatively on a beach towel. Bettie Page, the famous 1950s pinup—that was who she reminded him of. Except she wasn’t as traditionally beautiful as Bettie. Grace’s green eyes, almost hidden behind heavy-framed black glasses, had a slight exotic tilt. Her nose was bigger, her mouth wider. Each feature taken alone was perfect, but together the effect was too strong for her ever to be labeled as conventionally beautiful. She was, however, strikingly attractive. Her skin glowed like freshwater pearls, and it was hard to keep his gaze from straying to her full crimson lips or dwelling on her exotically tilted eyes.
Fortunately, there was plenty of action down south to keep him fully occupied. The smooth, creamy skin of her face gave way to an expanse of smooth, creamy neck and chest that finished in a crescendo of bosom—two firm, proud breasts that strained at the confines of the floral sundress she was wearing. Hollywood being Hollywood, there was every chance they were the work of the men at Dow Corning, but his baser self hoped they were the real deal. They looked warm and soft and silky, and he caught himself wondering if her nipples were a dusky pink to match her pale skin tone.
The air in the room shifted, and his tingling man senses told him that not only had Ms Wellington finally decided to make eye contact with him, she’d also busted him ogling her chest like a horny teen.
He met her gaze as openly as he could, reasoning with himself that anyone with such spectacular assets
