Not at Eight, Darling

by Sherryl Woods

  Or yes.

  She gave him a dazzling smile. “It’s a deal,” she agreed.

  For the next three hours the battle lines between them had been drawn. Whenever Michael cheered for the Dodgers, Barrie glared at him. When she screamed for the Reds, he glowered back. On a particularly close call, they nearly came to blows.

  “He was out by a mile,” Michael shouted victoriously.

  “Are you kidding?” Barrie grumbled. “You’re as blind as the umpire. My man was lying across the base, while your guy was still fumbling around in the dirt for the ball.”

  “The umpire was right on it. He called him out.”

  “He needs bifocals.”

  “You’re just a sore loser.”

  “I haven’t lost yet, Compton. The score’s tied.”

  “And the Dodgers are coming to bat.”

  “Big deal. It’s the bottom of the batting order.”

  “They’ll send in a pinch hitter for the pitcher.”

  “Who made you the manager?”

  “It’s the only thing that makes sense, especially in the bottom of the ninth.”

  The first batter walked.

  “So what?” Barrie muttered at Michael’s triumphant expression.

  “I didn’t say a word.”

  The second batter hit a sharp single down the right field line, sending the runner racing around second and into third base. Michael was on his feet, yelling his head off. Barrie was biting her nails.

  “I am not going to get discouraged,” she muttered under her breath. The game was not over yet.

  “Come on, damn it, strike him out!” she shouted at the top of her lungs, her face flushed with excitement. The pitcher complied. “Way to go! Two more! You can do it.”

  She ignored the fiery disapproval in Michael’s eyes and the glares of the fans around them. “Come on, baby. You can do it,” she repeated defiantly. The next player struck out.

  “Okay. You’ve done the worst of it. Only one more.”

  Michael was back in his seat, and now she was on her feet. “Strike him out,” she urged.

  The bat met the ball with a sharp crack that sent a shiver of fear tripping along her spine. She watched as the ball sailed high into center field. “It’s an easy catch,” she murmured softly. “Get it. Get it.” The ball plopped into the centerfielder’s glove, and she waved her banner triumphantly.

  When she glanced down into Michael’s face, she noted the unexpected amusement in his eyes. “What’s so funny?” she asked curiously.

  “You. I have never seen anyone who professes to such sophistication get quite so carried away at a baseball game.”

  She grinned back at him. “You’ve been doing a fair amount of shouting yourself.”

  He nodded sheepishly, as if surprised by the discovery. “That’s true. I think you must bring out my competitive spirit.”

  “Either that, or you just want to win your bet.”

  He grinned at her. “There is that,” he agreed. “We could call it off,” he offered generously.

  “Not on your life. I feel a victory coming on.”

  Cincinnati scored twice in the top of the tenth to Barrie’s absolute delight and Michael’s dismay. The Dodgers managed to put three men on base in the bottom of the inning before a relief pitcher came in and struck out the next three batters to end the game.

  “So,” she said, still waving her banner in triumph. “What night is that gala?”

  “We’ll discuss it later,” Michael groused as they made their way to the car.

  “Don’t be a sore loser,” she taunted him. “Even if I’d come home with you, you wouldn’t have gotten to first base.”

  “No pun intended?”

  “Sorry. No.”

  “Are you so sure?” he wondered, studying her thoughtfully as they stood beside the car.

  “I’m sure,” she said softly.

  He shook his head. “When are you going to admit that you want me as much as I want you?”

  Giddy with her victory and the sheer fun of battling wits with Michael all evening, Barrie gazed up at him provocatively. “Oh, I’m willing to admit that,” she said airily.

  Michael sucked in his breath and stared at her. “You are?”

  “Sure.” She grinned at him. “I’m just not going to do anything about it.”

  Chapter Seven

  As the season premiere week for the network neared, Barrie’s and Michael’s lives became more and more hectic. They were both in heavy demand, she at the studio for rehearsals, he in the executive suite, where last minute programming decisions were being made from before dawn to well after midnight. Their contact seemed to be limited to quick late night or early morning phone calls that should have given Barrie the space she’d claimed to need.

  And yet as the days passed by in a blur of activity, she instead found herself wanting more intimate contact, wanting to discuss the day’s events in more detail, wanting even his most casual touch. Ironically, considering how she’d reacted to his previous comments about the show, she even found herself wanting more of his incisive, clear advice. And to her thorough dismay, just as Danielle had suggested, she also yearned for his enthusiastic approval.

  What she didn’t want anymore were dictatorial memos and, to her relief, there weren’t any. The final script for the first show had zipped through without a murmur of dissent, and the taping was scheduled for the next night, with the premiere episode to air the following week. Her simmering resentment of Michael’s arrogant interference had faded without new edicts to fuel it.

  In the meantime, there was the benefit gala to which he’d promised to escort her as a respite from their frantic schedules. It began to loom as a monumental turning point in their relationship. For the first time at a lavish, highly visible Hollywood function, she and Michael would be seen as a couple. She knew it would be the stuff people would gossip about the following morning and, as she dressed, she worried over her gown, her shoes, her makeup, even her underwear.

  “You’re being ridiculous,” she muttered, as she tried to decide between two pairs of bikini briefs, one creamy white and mostly lace, the other silky champagne…what there was of it. “The paparazzi will not be taking pictures of your underwear.”

  It was a comforting thought, but it didn’t help her make up her mind. When she realized that her choice would be the only garment, other than the sheer nylons, that she would be wearing under her slinky gown, she grew even more nervous and indecisive. She eyed the glittering copper-colored dress skeptically. The neckline was demure enough in front. It was the back that dipped low to the waist. There was also a provocative slit from the hem to just above her knees. The dress was stunningly sexy, enough to draw women’s envy and to turn a man into a lustful beast, according to the saleslady. She humphed at the memory of the woman’s own envious gaze. That should have warned her. This was no dress to be wearing with Michael. The man’s sexual appetite was legendary, and he’d already made it abundantly clear that he’d like to make her his next meal. Why the devil was she tempting him to take the first bite?

  Because some very perverse part of her obviously wanted him to, she told herself dryly. Her body had been sending very clear signals on that point, even when her mind was most vocal in its opposition. Right now her mind was telling her to get out some sedate little black dress, even as she was slipping the coppery designer gown over her head. Another victory for the hormones, she thought with a sigh as she gazed at herself in the mirror.

  Her lips curved upward in a pleased smile. The elegant, glamorous woman who stared back at her was a far cry from the terrified teenager who’d left Ohio determined to break the bonds with her past. On the surface that girl had appeared to be afraid of her own shadow, but an inner resilience had driven her, had made her succeed in a profession in which all too many failed. Her shy smile had hidden a toughness that she’d learned from her mother. She had taken the early knocks in a highly competitive profession and turned them to her a
dvantage, learning everything she could about television from anyone who had something to teach.

  And, she vowed, she would learn from Michael, as well. When this infatuation of his faded, she would be left with something real, something more lasting than ephemeral love. Love was like a will-o’-the-wisp, elusive and fleeting. A career was tangible, something over which she had some control. She was neither cold nor calculating, but she was a realist. She would not let his dazzling, seductive promises distort her priorities.

  For tonight, though, she had every intention of basking in his caressing gaze, of reveling in the warmth of his touch. When she opened the door for him at last and saw his eyes light with a very masculine appreciation, she felt wonderfully special. To be sure, other women in Hollywood were more beautiful than she, but she doubted any of them had ever felt more alluring.

  “You are…gorgeous,” he said softly. “Let me see all of you.”

  As she spun around, he whistled. “I’m not sure I want to share you with the world. I think I’d like to keep you all to myself.”

  Barrie’s laughter sparkled as brightly as the topaz and diamond earrings that glittered on her ears. “Oh, no, you don’t, Mr. Compton. I won the bet fair and square, and we are going out on the town. I’ve never been to one of these fancy shindigs before.”

  “They’re boring.”

  “How can a show that features some of the best actors, musicians, dancers and comedians in the country be boring?”

  He cocked a brow at her. “My dear,” he said as though greatly scandalized by her question, “no one goes to a benefit gala for the show.”

  “Oh?”

  “Of course not. They go to be seen. We are a very generous people out here, but we want to be sure the whole world knows about it.”

  Barrie glowered at him and shook her head. “And you think my show is too cynical.”

  Michael smiled one of his soft romantic-album-cover smiles, and her pulse pounded. “Just watch when we get there,” he suggested dryly. “You will see more jockeying for position than you’ve ever seen on the track at Santa Anita.”

  “You, of course, are just an interested observer of this process?” she retorted lightly. “A sort of self-appointed social commentator?”

  “Absolutely.”

  She grinned up at him and gazed pointedly in the direction of her driveway. “And that’s why you rented the limousine?”

  “I did not rent it,” he responded indignantly. “The network provides it. I just rarely use it.”

  “I see,” she said wryly. “Only on special occasions.”

  “Exactly.”

  She flashed him a dazzling, satisfied smile. “When you want to be seen.”

  He chuckled. “No, you little minx. When I want to have my hands free for the beautiful woman by my side.”

  Barrie’s triumphant smile promptly faded as a flurry of butterfly wings stirred in her abdomen. “Oh.”

  “That’s it? Just oh?” he taunted, mimicking her.

  “I think that’s sufficient. Besides, with my foot in my mouth, it’s difficult to use too many words.”

  “You mean I’ve rendered you speechless? Quick, let’s go while I have this tremendous advantage.”

  As they approached the car, the driver stepped out and opened the door for them. Barrie sank down onto the luxurious cushions and glanced around. “I think I could get used to this. Since you don’t use it, do you suppose you could have someone start picking me up for work?’

  “Sure,” he said agreeably, then added casually, “If you leave from my place.”

  “Never mind.”

  “I had a feeling you’d say that,” he said with exaggerated disappointment. “Too bad. How about a drink?”

  He poured them each a glass of champagne. “To us,” he said softly, tapping his crystal goblet against hers as he gazed unblinkingly into her eyes. It was as though he were willing her to repeat the toast, to vow with him that they were a couple with a future.

  “To us,” she murmured at last, unable to resist the power of that steady gaze, the implication of that simple toast.

  When they had each sipped the bubbling wine, he took the glass from her. “And now, how about a kiss to seal it?”

  “Seal what?”

  “Our deal.”

  “Have we made a deal?” Barrie asked innocently, though her heart thudding against her ribs told her that they had.

  He nodded. “You know we have.”

  He was close, so close she could feel the whisper of his breath against her cheek, feel the heat emanating from his body beneath the tuxedo that made him look even more dashing and desirable than ever. His eyes clung to hers as his hand reached out to skim across her breasts. Beneath the shimmering fabric they peaked into sensitive, aching buds.

  “Do you know how I’ve longed to do that, Barrie MacDonald?” he whispered huskily. His fingers played against the tips, taunted them until a soft moan rumbled in Barrie’s throat. “You like that, don’t you? I can see it in your eyes.”

  Barrie wanted to blink and look away, wanted to shutter her eyes against their apparent betrayal, but she couldn’t. It was as though the softly-spoken, urgent words and his compelling gaze had hypnotized her. She would have done anything he asked of her. And he had asked for only a kiss.

  She leaned toward him, closed the infinitesimal gap and touched his lips gently, praying for nothing more than a sharp tug of heightened awareness. Instead, it was as though a match had been struck and touched to dry tinder. Fiery, all-encompassing, ravishing. She felt herself pulled into his arms, felt his hands skimming down the bare curve of her spine, his touch alternately light and provocative, then rough and possessive. Both of them inflamed her. The innocent kiss he had sought was no longer innocent, had probably never been. He had known—as she should have—that once they were in each other’s arms, the pent-up passion that had teased and taunted them would erupt into a full-fledged conflagration.

  Barrie was pressed back into the cushions with Michael’s body pressed against hers, his weight and warmth welcome rather than oppressive. Her hands had slipped inside the jacket of his tux, seeking bare flesh, but forced to find satisfaction in the muted suggestion of suppleness beneath the fine fabric of his shirt.

  “I knew you would be like this,” he murmured against her lips. “I knew there were fire and ice. So much sensuality.

  “Ahh, Barrie.” His tongue flicked against her lips, circled them, then penetrated the opening she gladly gave him. His hand found the opening slit in her dress, gently caressed her thigh, slowly reached upward. Barrie tensed with anticipation and, perhaps, just a hint of dread. The assault on her senses was already unerringly successful. How much further could she allow him to go before she would fall completely under his spell, give herself up to him and to these wonderful blood-stirring sensations?

  A subtle cough saved her from having to answer that question.

  “Sir, we have arrived.” The disembodied voice came to them over the car’s intercom.

  Reluctantly Michael pulled away from her, his breathing heavy, his face suffused with unfulfilled desire. His hand remained where it had been on her inner thigh, and he caught her gaze and held it.

  “I must be a mess,” Barrie muttered, wanting to look away in embarrassment.

  He grinned at her. “You look like a woman who has just been thoroughly kissed. The photographers will have a field day.”

  He started to climb out the door, which the driver had just opened.

  Barrie grabbed his arm and held him back. “Michael,” she whispered urgently. “I can’t get out of here looking like this.”

  “Of course, you can. You look beautiful.”

  She looked at him oddly. “You really don’t mind what people think, do you?”

  “Why should I? I’m not ashamed of our relationship.”

  He gave her a penetrating look. “Are you?”

  “No. Of course not.”

  “Then let’s get out of h
ere and prove my point about why all these people have come.”

  As they exited the car, flashbulbs popped, and several reporters asked Michael questions about the upcoming television season. He fielded them with absolute aplomb. He didn’t even wince when one of the reporters asked, with a pointed glance at Barrie, if he thought Goodbye, Again would be given more than the usual amount of time to prove itself.

  “I’m expecting great things of Goodbye, Again,” he said coolly. “However, it will have the same chance that any other series has. If it’s not working, I’ll cancel it.”

  “What do you think about that, Miss MacDonald?”

  Although she had flinched inwardly at the succinct reply, with outward calm she said, “I think that Mr. Compton is the vice president of the network. He’ll do his job. I wouldn’t expect any less of him.”

  “Bravo,” he whispered in her ear, so that the reporters couldn’t hear it. He ushered her out of their path and into the lobby of the Dorothy Chandler Pavilion, where a star-studded array of guests was sipping champagne and nibbling hors d’oeuvres at the preshow cocktail party.

  They found a spot to themselves on the edge of the crowd and watched. Just as Michael had predicted, instead of avoiding the glare of the cameras, many of the guests seemed to be vying for an opportunity to be interviewed. It was all very subtle, but there was no mistaking the intensity of the competition. They giggled like a couple of kids as they took bets on who would win each of the battles.

  Their pleasant role as observers didn’t last long. As soon as people began to spot Michael and recognize him, they were caught up in a whirl of conversations. Although little business was discussed, Barrie recognized the participants and their underlying messages clearly enough. They were all using the brief social contact to try to cement their relationships with one of the industry’s most influential men. And she couldn’t blame them. It was a business that demanded that you snatch opportunity whenever or wherever you found it. Judging from their pointed, questioning glances in her direction, they were all envious of her presumed position of influence, all equally certain that she was taking advantage of it to secure the future of her series. She didn’t like their assumption, knew it wasn’t true, but she couldn’t resent them for making it.