Not at Eight, Darling

by Sherryl Woods

  “Okay,” she agreed finally. “Let’s walk.”

  “Do you have a jacket with you?”

  “No.”

  “Then I’ll loan you one of mine.” He pulled a bright blue windbreaker from the closet and draped it around her shoulders.

  Barrie hugged the jacket to her and inhaled the intoxicating, woodsy aroma of his after-shave that lingered in the material. She felt almost as though she were wrapped in his arms, snug and protected. It was a dangerously pleasant feeling, an addictive feeling.

  Prepared to walk briskly along, Barrie was surprised to find that Michael’s pace was leisurely, and he’d meant what he said about exploring. As they passed each house, he told her brief, insightful anecdotes about his neighbors. Within minutes she had a clear image of the aging movie queen who never went out to pick up her morning paper without first dressing up and putting on her makeup, of the real estate tycoon whose legendary deals regularly made the business pages of the newspaper, of the couple whose regular marital spats—and subsequent reunions—were both colorful and noisy.

  “And what do they say about you?” she teased. “I can just hear them, ‘Oh, that Michael Compton is something else. Wild parties every week. A steady stream of starlets parading to the door. Why, goodness me, I don’t know how the poor man does it. He must take megadoses of vitamins.’”

  “Actually, I think they’ve been horribly disappointed. Not one single starlet has entered my front door, and our dinner tonight is the closest I’ve come to throwing a party.”

  “I don’t believe it,” she scoffed. “One of the most powerful men in television, and you paint a sad little scenario of a lonely, isolated existence.”

  “Hey, who said anything about lonely? I’m a very self-contained person. I don’t need to be surrounded by people to have a good time. I don’t need to have my ego stroked regularly just to keep functioning. In this business you can have a whole mob of acquaintances around anytime you want them, but I choose my friends carefully. They’re people who genuinely like me for who I am, not because of the job I hold.”

  How ironic, Barrie thought, listening to Michael’s thoughtful explanation of his chosen life-style. He was right. So many people would have given anything to be drawn into Michael Compton’s inner circle simply because of his position at the network. Other producers—male and female—would have envied this closeness she was sharing with him, this apparent opportunity to further her career. Yet it was precisely because of his network position that she was having so much difficulty accepting him as a friend, much less a lover.

  Suddenly he was tugging on her hand, like a child urging a parent on to sample the possibilities of some wonderful new adventure that had caught his eye. “Over here,” he said, his eyes glittering with pure excitement.

  “Where?” she asked. “All I see is a playground.”

  “Exactly. When was the last time you played on swings?”

  “When I was much younger,” she said dryly. “In fact, well before puberty set in.”

  “Then it’s about time you tried it again. You’re getting jaded. You probably get your thrills from fancy roller coasters and flashy video games. You can’t beat the simple pleasure of flying high into the darkness, trying to touch the stars.”

  Barrie looked at him curiously. What an amazing blend of seemingly contradictory traits had been packaged into Michael Compton’s gorgeous body! A boy’s excitement in innocent pleasures and the strong physical desires of a grown man. The self-assured strength of a natural leader and the gentleness of a lover. The quick, sometimes cynical mind of a hardened realist and the quiet, introspective soul of a romantic.

  “Come on,” he urged her. “Hop up. I’ll push you to get you started. Ready?”

  Barrie nodded and felt his hands firm and possessive on her waist, pulling her back until her body was against his. Just when she felt her nerves come alive with an unbearable tension, he released her, sending her flying forward. The climb high into the sky was exhilarating. The descent into his waiting hands was even more thrilling. With each release, she swung higher and higher until she was laughing at the sheer joy of the feeling, exulting in the rush of air against her cheeks, the breeze rippling through her hair.

  “Having fun?”

  “It’s wonderful,” she admitted, the words flying away on the whoosh of wind created by her arc through the sky. “I feel free, exactly the way a bird must feel when it soars away from the earth. Why aren’t you doing it?”

  “I’d rather watch you,” he said, moving around to stand in front of her, just beyond her reach as her legs pumped to keep up the motion he had created for her. “You look like a little girl, all rosy-cheeked and happy.”

  Barrie caught an odd wistfulness in his voice. “Is there something wrong?”

  He shook his head. “Not really.”

  “Not really means there is. You just don’t want to talk about it.”

  “I just don’t want to spoil the moment.”

  “Is what you were thinking about that serious?”

  “Not serious exactly. I just wish you could relax with me the way you have out here.”

  “But I am with you.”

  “It’s not the same, Barrie MacDonald, and you know it. I have the feeling you’re afraid of me or of yourself. You’re afraid to let yourself go with me, just the way you were before you climbed on that swing. But you did that. You took that risk. Why can’t you take one with us?”

  He stepped closer and caught her as the swing came forward, holding the edge of the seat, his fingers nestled so innocently against her thighs that she couldn’t complain, yet so provocatively close that it was impossible for her to ignore them.

  “Are you afraid of losing control? Is that it?” he asked gently. “Because I’m not trying to destroy your independence, you know. I don’t expect you to yield to me because I’m a man and you’re a woman. We’re equals, Barrie. I respect your creativity, your intelligence, your spunk. Why would I want to change any of that, to make you less than you can be?”

  Barrie sighed heavily. “You might not mean to, but that’s what would happen,” she said, her voice filled with years of pent-up bitterness. “I’ve seen it before. Two people get involved with the best intentions in the world, and pretty soon one of them is doing all of the giving, making all of the compromises. Usually it’s the woman because men have no idea how to go about making concessions. It’s their career that’s important, their needs that must be met.”

  Her eyes flashed at him, filled with fire and challenge. “That’s not for me. I’ve worked hard to get where I am, and no one is going to take it away.”

  Michael was shaking his head, and there was something in his eyes that she couldn’t quite read. Understanding, maybe. Compassion. “I would never try,” he said simply.

  “You can’t say that. You of all people. Not only could you ask it of me as a man, but you could demand it as my boss. Is it any wonder I’m terrified of getting closer to you?”

  He sighed, and a great sorrow seemed to fill his eyes. He didn’t even pretend not to understand. “No. It’s no wonder. I guess it’s just going to take more time for me to prove to you that you have nothing to fear from me.”

  “Michael, don’t even say that. You know that if you want to, you can and will order changes in my show. If it comes to that, you’ll even cancel it. Don’t tell me I have nothing to be afraid of. I have more to fear from you than any other man on earth.”

  Before he could say another word, she ran. Ran until her lungs were filled to bursting and her side ached. Then she walked the remaining blocks back to his house and got into her car. Her head was spinning with the words she had just hurled at him and with the terrifying awareness of their accuracy. She did fear Michael Compton’s power. But more than that, she feared his sensuality and the damnable combination of wit, attractiveness and intelligence that lured her, taunted her body and mind in ways she’d never dreamed possible. She had a feeling there was more dang
er in that pull than she could even begin to imagine.

  Chapter Five

  The next day seemed to prove her point, demonstrating in graphic detail why any personal relationship with Michael would be sheer folly, why it could seriously jeopardize her career and play havoc with not only her emotions, but the very values—her values—that were at the core of Goodbye, Again. Barrie was sitting on the set going over the revised script for the opening episode with Danielle, when Kevin Porterfield came running in, his expression harried, his eyes shining with self-importance.

  “Miss MacDonald, I have a memo for you from Mr. Compton. It’s urgent,” he announced breathlessly as he skidded to a halt in front of them. In his jeans, oxford cloth shirt and hand-knit sweater, he looked exactly like what he was: A very recent graduate of an Ivy League university film program.

  Barrie tried not to show her irritation at the interruption. Ever since Kevin had been assigned to the show as network liaison, she’d had to remind herself she had once been his age and just as eager. She only prayed she hadn’t been quite so pompous.

  “I’m sure it is, Kevin. Put it on my desk. I’ll look at it later.”

  “But you have to look at it now. It’s about the first episode.”

  Barrie peered at him over the top of her glasses. “What about the first episode?” There was a dangerous edge in her voice.

  Kevin avoided her gaze. He’d apparently detected the note of barely restrained antagonism and decided that any further involvement with the message might not be in his own best interests. “I don’t know,” he denied feebly.

  Barrie didn’t believe him for a minute. “Of course you do. I’m sure you read the memo on the way over here. Oh, never mind. Hand it over.”

  Her eyes skimmed over the terse, impersonal note, which was scrawled across a speed memo form: “Scene 3 in act 2 is entirely too suggestive for an eight o’clock show. Clean it up or take it out.”

  When she’d finished reading it, Barrie calmly shredded the memo into tiny pieces and spilled them onto the floor. “Okay, Danielle, let’s get on with it.”

  Danielle eyed her warily. “That’s all? That’s all you’re going to say? What did he want you to do?”

  “It doesn’t matter. I’m not doing it.”

  “But, Miss MacDonald…” Kevin began, a hint of desperation in his voice. He was apparently seeing his career go up in the smoke of Michael Compton’s fiery outrage.

  “Kevin, I am not changing one word of this show. Go tell that to your boss.”

  “But…but,” he sputtered helplessly.

  “You can’t make poor Kevin do your dirty work for you,” Danielle chided her.

  “Why not? Michael sent him over here to do his.”

  “Ahhh. I see. That’s the real problem, isn’t it? You’re mad because he didn’t come over here himself.”

  Barrie glowered at her. “Correction. I am furious because he is trying to tamper with the integrity of my series. I don’t give a hang who delivers the message.”

  “Right,” Danielle said skeptically.

  “Okay, so maybe that does tick me off,” she admitted reluctantly. “But the point is that I have no intention of following his orders when they make absolutely no sense for the show. It’s not my fault he put an adult sitcom in a kiddie time slot.”

  “Don’t you think you ought to be the one to go tell him that? Work out some sort of compromise?”

  Barrie looked at Danielle as though she’d grown two heads. “Do you actually think I should compromise on this?” she asked incredulously.

  “I think you should at least listen to what the man has to say. Maybe he had a point.”

  Barrie’s sigh teetered between disgust and resignation. Ever since college where they’d been roommates, Danielle had always appealed to the more rational side of her mind. Sometimes she hated Dani for it.

  “All right,” she grumbled. “I’ll go over there.” She stared at Danielle defiantly. “But I am not budging on this. He put the show on at eight o’clock. He’s going to have to live with the consequences.”

  “No, sweetie pie. We are.”

  Barrie threw up her hands and stormed out of the studio, mumbling angrily to herself all the way across the parking lot to the executive offices. By the time she reached Michael’s suite, she had worked up a full head of steam and formulated a diatribe that would make Michael’s apparently overly sensitive ears burn. Too suggestive, indeed!

  Marching past a startled Mrs. Hastings, Barrie ignored the secretary’s frantic effort to restrain her and slammed into the inner office.

  “Okay, Michael,” she snapped, her brown eyes flashing sparks. “What’s the meaning of this… this…”

  Her outburst sputtered to a halt as she realized that she was staring into several astonished faces. “Oh, my…”

  “I’m sorry, Mr. Compton,” Mrs. Hastings apologized hastily from behind her. “I tried to stop her.”

  “That’s true. She did. I just didn’t listen. I didn’t know,” she muttered in embarrassment, wondering how the devil Heath had gotten Karen out of this situation in the script. If it hadn’t been for Michael’s ill-timed memo, she would have had a chance to read those new pages of dialogue and would have the words she needed to get out of this room gracefully. No, forget graceful. It was far too late. She just needed something to get her out of this room and into some kind of deep, dark hole.

  Since words—hers and Heath’s—escaped her, she merely backed toward the door, noting that Michael, the louse, seemed to be finding the situation incredibly amusing. At least he was grinning. She had a feeling, though, that there might not be a lot of humor behind that tight smile.

  “Wait, Miss MacDonald,” he said softly, though there was no mistaking the command in his voice. “Did you want something?”

  Torn between embarrassment and still-seething anger, she shook her head mutely.

  “You must have wanted something, Miss MacDonald,” he repeated patiently. “I’m sure we’d all like to hear it.”

  Several faces watched her expectantly. She had to admit Michael was a master. He’d taken this lousy rotten moment and turned it to his complete advantage. “Later,” she ground out between clenched teeth. “We can discuss it later.”

  “Why don’t you wait outside, then? We’ll be through here in just a minute.” She heard the steely tone beneath the innocuous words. It was an order, no doubt about it.

  Although the embarrassing incident had tempered her fury quite a bit, Barrie sat in the outer office and tried to nurse it back to health. It would never do to walk into Michael’s office like some whimpering child, just because she had happened to make an absolute fool of herself.

  “Would you like some coffee while you wait?” Mrs. Hastings asked kindly.

  “No, thank you.” With the state her nerves were in already, if she drank any more caffeine, she’d come completely unglued. She noted Mrs. Hastings’s sympathetic expression and asked, “How furious is he really?”

  “Well, it is an important meeting with some major advertisers,” she began as Barrie moaned and hid her face. “But I wouldn’t worry too much about it, dear.”

  “How can you say that? You said it was important.”

  “Yes, but you didn’t let me finish,” she said, her eyes twinkling. “Mr. Compton absolutely hates meeting with advertisers. I’m sure you provided a very welcome distraction.”

  “Right,” Barrie said skeptically. “One of his producers comes barging in like a madwoman, and it absolutely thrills him to pieces. I’m sure it will do wonders for sales, too.”

  “Think of it this way, dear. It will break up the meeting early,” she offered. Then, lowering her voice, she added with a conspiratorial smile, “I wasn’t supposed to call in with a fake crisis for another half hour.”

  Barrie’s eyebrows rose disbelievingly. So much for her desire to imbue Mrs. Hastings with saintly honesty. She was obviously, first and foremost, a loyal secretary. Barrie’s lips twitched. “
You were actually going to do that?”

  Mrs. Hastings shrugged, but her blue eyes twinkled merrily. “I told you he hates meeting with advertisers.”

  Just then the door swung open, and the three men in their identical gray pin-striped suits were ushered out the door by a beaming Michael. Even without Mrs. Hastings’s comments, Barrie would have known the heartiness toward them was feigned. As soon as they were out the door, his mouth settled into a grim line, and he faced Barrie. She thought she saw his lips twitching, but perhaps that had only been wishful thinking. His words were certainly curt enough.

  “Now, Miss MacDonald, shall we try your entrance again? This time with a little less flamboyance.”

  Inside, he shut the door firmly behind them. Barrie had the oddest desire to ask that it be left open, so that Mrs. Hastings could be a witness when he decided to wring her neck. He walked back to his desk and sat down on the edge, waving her to a chair.

  “I’d rather stand,” she said stiffly.

  “As you like. What’s the problem?”

  “I’m sure you know exactly what the problem is. I received your memo, which you didn’t even have the decency to deliver yourself.”

  Blue-green eyes as hard as glass bored into her. Barrie winced. This was even worse than she’d expected. There was no warmth in those eyes, not even a flicker of the heat that had caressed her last night before she ran out on him. It was as though she were talking to a stranger.

  Or to a boss, she reminded herself sternly. When was she going to learn to be more diplomatic? She sighed and thought probably never. She would always stand up for what she believed in, would always be thoroughly outspoken, and damn the consequences. The consequences right now did not seem to bode well for her future relationship—business or otherwise—with Michael Compton.

  “I do not deliver memos,” he informed her pointedly. “I write them.”

  Inwardly Barrie winced. Of course he did. They might have a personal relationship, but that certainly shouldn’t imply that he should give her preferential treatment. She wouldn’t even want him to. She sounded like a spoiled, petulant child.