Читать книгу All Over You - Sarah Mayberry - Страница 6

1

GRACE WELLINGTON slid into a chair at her favorite Santa Monica café, arranged her shopping bags beside her and glanced at her watch. Sadie Post and Claudia Dostis, her two best friends, were meeting her for lunch but neither of them had arrived yet.

Might as well use the time to gloat over her latest find. Sliding a hand into the brown-paper shopping bag propped against her chair leg, her fingers encountered the sensuous softness of angora. Unable to resist a full gloat, Grace tugged the sweater out and spread it across her lap. A soft cream color, the sweater had embroidered flowers garnished with sequins above one breast and three-quarter sleeves. Best of all, it bore the label of a prestigious 1950s knitware manufacturer. Genuine vintage, and she’d picked it up for a song.

Resisting the urge to purr like a contented cat, she folded the sweater and put it back in its bag. Feeling every inch the satisfied, smug shopper, she glanced at her watch once again and picked up the menu. Would it be terribly wrong to have a cocktail in the middle of a Sunday afternoon? Some people would think so, but Grace had never been too worried about what other people thought.

She ran her finger down the list until she found something fresh and bright to suit her mood. The sun was shining, she’d just cruised all her favorite vintage-clothing boutiques, and she was about to have lunch with her two best friends. Did life get any better?

The sound of a motorcycle engine roaring to a stop drew her attention to the street outside and she smiled, bracing herself for her daily exposure to love’s young dream. Crossing one leg over the other, she sat back and crossed her arms, prepared to indulge her cynical side.

There were two riders on the bike—a male driver and a woman clinging to his back. Only the woman dismounted, unfolding legs that seemed to go on forever as she pulled off her helmet and shook out a mane of honey-blond hair. Having slid his own helmet off, the man watched her appreciatively. He said something, then pulled the woman close and kissed her so thoroughly that Grace actually felt a blush stealing into her cheeks. Feeling distinctly like a voyeur, she glanced away.

Sadie and Dylan were so happy, so in love. So perfect together. If they weren’t her friends, she’d be making gagging noises right now and telling them to get a room. But even though she didn’t believe in monogamy and marriage and all that other hoopla for herself anymore, she absolutely respected Sadie’s joy. Each to her own, right?

She risked another look and saw the coast was clear—they were just talking now, smiling goofily at each other, their fingers intertwined.

Watching their interplay, noting the teasing glint in Dylan’s eyes, the gentleness in their hands as they caressed each other almost unconsciously, an odd yearning sensation spread out from the region of Grace’s heart, sneaking up the back of her throat and triggering the hot sting of tears behind her eyes.

Whoa! What the hell was that about?

Blinking furiously, Grace reached for her sunglasses and sniffed surreptitiously. Trying to shake off the moment, she shifted in her chair and frowned at the tabletop. Maybe she was allergic or something. Maybe the angora sweater would have to go back.

She snorted at her lack of belief in her own excuses and forced herself to look at her friends again. What she saw made her swallow, hard. Dylan had cupped Sadie’s face, and he was talking intently as he stared into her eyes. Grace didn’t need to hear him to know what he was saying—he was telling Sadie he loved her, how important she was to him, how he was going to miss her even though she would only be lunching with her friends for a few measly hours. It was written all over his face and, as his thumb caressed Sadie’s cheekbone, Grace felt such a stab of longing in her belly that she actually pressed her hands to her stomach.

Tearing her eyes away from the scene outside, she stared unseeingly in front of her.

She wasn’t jealous of Sadie and Dylan.

Was she?

It was a ridiculous idea. Absurd. It had been four years since she’d let a man into her bedroom and her life, and they had been the happiest, most productive and content years of her life.

Even discounting her ex-boyfriend, Owen, and his spectacular contribution to her lack of faith in human nature, life had taught Grace plenty of salutary lessons about what to expect from the male of the species—not much, was what it boiled down to. Once she’d accepted that concept, her life had become so much easier. She’d become mistress of her own domain, so to speak.

So what was the whole yearning-pain-in-chest thing about?

Out of the corner of her eye, she saw that Sadie and Dylan were kissing again. She was just marveling at their endurance and the fact that they hadn’t been arrested for indecent happiness or something similar when the penny dropped— it was the sex.

Of course.

It had been a long time since she’d felt the warmth of another body against her own, a long time since she’d found release in a man’s arms. That was all. Who wouldn’t look at Sadie and Dylan’s obvious passion and feel a little…empty?

She shifted uncomfortably as she registered her own choice of words. Empty. Did she really feel empty? Her lips firmed. No, she did not. Definitely, she did not.

“Gracie, sorry I’m late.” It was Claudia, dressed in her signature black, her small frame vibrating with energy as always. Her Greek-American heritage was evident in the sparkle of her near-black eyes, the olive tone of her skin and the take- no-shit attitude in her straight shoulders.

“You’re not late, I was early,” Grace said.

As one, their gazes drifted to the front window where Sadie and Dylan were still kissing each other goodbye.

“How long has that been going on?” Claudia asked.

Grace sighed. “About five minutes. I figure one of them will need oxygen any second now.”

“We could turn a hose on them,” Claudia mused.

“Shame to ruin those nice leather jackets.”

“I guess.”

Claudia met Grace’s gaze across the table and laughed.

“Listen to us—envy dripping from every word.”

Grace shook her head, her claret-colored hair swishing around her shoulders.

“Not guilty, sorry.”

“Really?” Claudia sighed, eyes on Sadie and Dylan again. “Not even a little bit? Even though I’m way too busy to think about men at the moment, I still can’t help looking at them and feeling a little I-want-what-she’s-having.”

“Nope,” Grace said, ignoring the odd feeling she’d experienced mere minutes earlier. “Unless I can stuff a man and turn him into an umbrella stand, there’s no place for one in my home.”

Claudia choked out a laugh.

“Sorry, guys. Dylan and I just had some last-minute things to sort out.” Sadie was pink-faced and faintly breathless as she slid into the last chair at their table.

“Like whose tongue belongs to who, that kind of thing?” Claudia asked wryly.

“Yeah,” Sadie said, grinning unrepentantly.

All three of them smiled at each other and Grace registered how great it was to have some quality time with her friends. It was one thing to see each other every day in the production offices of Ocean Boulevard, the daytime soap where they all worked—Claudia as producer, Sadie as script producer and Grace as script editor—but it wasn’t quite the same as having time to laugh and talk without the pressures of work interfering.

“Cocktail time, ladies,” Grace said, passing around the menu.

“Excellent. I could slaughter something sweet and creamy,” Sadie said, smacking her lips together.

“Martini for me. Dirty,” Claudia said, wiggling her eyebrows suggestively.

“Now there’s a surprise,” Grace said.

Twisting in her seat, Grace made eye contact with the waiter. He shot to their table as though he’d been pulled on a string, his eyes lighting up as his gaze slid from Sadie to Claudia and back again.

That Sadie was many men’s idea of the perfect woman hadn’t escaped Grace’s notice over the years. And if men didn’t go for Sadie’s tall, blond, leggy good looks, they were usually pretty damn partial to Claudia’s petite perfection. Mentally resigning herself to being ignored, Grace adopted her best Bette Davis demeanor. Bette was a take-no-prisoners kind of woman, the type who didn’t give a snap of her fingers if men were attracted to her or not. It helped that Grace was wearing one of her favorite Bette Davis-era dresses, a 1940s dark-green crepe sundress with cap sleeves, a sailor collar and a short white tie.

Arching one eyebrow, she tapped a varnished nail on the menu to get the waiter’s attention. He managed to drag his gaze from Sadie and Claudia’s cleavage, only for his eyes to widen as he took in Grace’s substantial twin endowments. Grace growled low in the back of her throat. Just her luck, their waiter was a breast man. If there was one thing she hated more than being ignored, it was being ogled. Inevitably, his gaze would make it up to her face and she’d see the same old disappointment there as always. She was used to being the odd one out, the ugly duckling among the swans—but for four years now she’d opted to skip the part where men tried to weigh up the relative merits of her stupendous bosom versus her plain-Jane face—she much preferred to cut straight to the bit where she froze them in their tracks. It had become something of a hobby, in fact.

“Hey, up here,” she said, waving her fingers in his sight- line and directing his attention to her face.

He blushed and she tapped the menu again.

“One dirty martini, a Fluffy Duck—that’s right, isn’t it, Sadie?” she asked, checking with her friend even though she knew it was Sadie’s favorite cocktail. Sadie nodded and Grace eyed their waiter steadily as she delivered her own order, daring him to maintain eye contact with her and not check out her breasts again. “And I’ll have a Mojito.”

“Sure. Any meals?”

“We’re not ready yet. We’ll let you know when we are,” she said, waggling her fingers dismissively.

He nodded obediently and shot toward the bar to put their order in.

Claudia was shaking her head when Grace turned her attention back to the table.

“The way you treat men is almost a form of cruelty,” Claudia said. “Almost.”

“I know. I can never decide whether to be appalled or amused,” Sadie agreed.

“He deserved it.” Grace shrugged. “Imagine if women went around staring at men’s packages the way they stare at our boobs.”

“You do have a great rack, Gracie,” Claudia said, eyeing Grace’s chest impartially.

“Then he needs to learn to be more subtle and I’ve just taught him a powerful lesson,” Grace said.

“Sometimes I think you really hate men,” Sadie said sadly.

“Oh, I don’t care enough to hate them,” Grace drawled.

Sadie leaned forward, her expression earnest.

“Not everyone is a rat like Owen.”

“I know that.”

“I wonder if you do,” Sadie mused. “When was the last time you went on a date?”

“I honestly can’t remember. But do I look like a woman who’s pining for a man?” Grace asked, gesturing toward herself.

Sadie’s gaze traveled over Grace, obviously assessing her dead-straight burgundy-colored hairstyle, her severely straight bangs, her lush, full mouth outlined in deep-red lipstick, her ever-present chunky black-framed glasses and the smooth creaminess of her skin—her one acknowledged vanity.

“No. As always, you look fabulous. Except for the glasses.”

“There we go, then. And I love these glasses,” Grace said.

“Those glasses are ugly. And I’m not pining for a man, but I miss the sex. Don’t you miss sex? I miss sex a lot,” Claudia said. “I so need to call Harry or Simon and set up a date.”

Claudia had been so busy working her butt off as the newly installed producer on Ocean Boulevard that she hadn’t had a man in her life for months and months—but Harry and Simon were ex-boyfriends who were happy to provide essential services on demand.

“I have sex.” Grace shrugged.

“I meant with a man,” Claudia said dryly.

“Now why would I ruin something so good by inviting a man along?” Grace asked.

Sadie looked so outraged that Grace ruined the whole Bette Davis thing by laughing. Sadie threw a napkin at her.

“So, what date is the wedding?” Claudia asked, masterfully changing subjects.

Sadie sat up a little straighter. “How did you know we’d set a date?”

Grace snorted with laughter. “Hello! We thought we were going to have to pry you guys apart with a crowbar out there.”

Sadie blushed, then shrugged a shoulder. “End of August. Is two months enough time to get our shit together?” Sadie asked worriedly.

“Hell yeah,” Grace said.

“The dress won’t be a big deal, since I’m going off-the-rack this time. And it’s all going to be very low-key… But I still want you guys to be my bridesmaids. What do you say— are you up for a second shot?” Sadie asked, referring to her first, failed wedding to her former fiancé, Greg.

“Try and keep us away,” Grace said.

“The bridesmaids’ dresses are my shout this time around,” Sadie said. “I don’t want anything to be the same again, but you guys shouldn’t have to pay twice.”

“Forget it,” Grace said firmly. “There’s no way we’re letting you pay for our dresses.”

“Yeah. How are we supposed to argue with you when you’re paying?” Claudia asked.

“And, this time, I get a vote,” Grace said. “Something with straps would be nice for the fuller-figured members of the wedding party.”

“You looked hot in that strapless red sheath and you know it,” Sadie scoffed.

The rest of their lunch slipped quickly away as they hammered out the broad strokes of Sadie and Dylan’s wedding, argued over dress styles and laughingly suggested flowery wedding vows to personalize the ceremony. After two hours, they’d moved from cocktails to coffee and had filled the backs of innumerable napkins.

“Why do writers never have paper on them?” Grace asked as she gathered the napkins together.

“Or pens,” Claudia added, counting out her share of the bill. “What’s with that?”

Sadie shrugged. “Don’t want to take our work home with us?”

As if that particular strategy ever worked.

Later that evening, Grace sat down to a gourmet-meal-for-one at her small drop-leaf dining table. She’d bought a crisp sauvignon blanc to accompany her salmon with baby vegetables and garlic mash, and she slathered her bread roll with proper butter, damning her curvy hips and thighs to hell.

Consigning the washing up to tomorrow—one of the joys of living alone—she slipped into a satin gown she wore to bed and flopped onto the couch. When a quick flick through the offerings on TV drew no interest, she resorted to her movie collection. She was about to dust off an old Indiana Jones DVD when her eye fell on the DVD she’d brought home from work. She hesitated a moment, then gave in to temptation. Sliding the disc into her player, she made a fortress of cushions for herself on the couch and settled in for the evening. The Ocean Boulevard theme song came on and the credits flickered across the screen. Her heartbeat picked up and her body tensed a little in anticipation…. And then Mac Harrison’s tall body filled the screen and every nerve ending in her body went on hyper-alert.

It was part of her job to keep up-to-date with how the scripts she edited translated on-screen—but she’d be kidding herself if she pretended watching the show was anything other than a chance to spend some time with the only man she’d allowed into her life in the past four years.

He was so hot. Six-foot-three-inches of sexy, hard male. Gorgeous. Dynamic. Charismatic. And all hers for the next few hours.

She narrowed her eyes, trying to define exactly what it was about Mac that had captured her imagination and led her to cast him as the star of her most intimate fantasies. It wasn’t as though she’d been looking for a man to play the role. She’d always spread her favors, so to speak, across a broad spectrum of hunks—George Clooney, Jude Law and Johnny Depp. And even if she had been looking for inspiration closer to home, there were plenty of attractive men on the show—eye candy galore, in fact—who could have fit the bill equally well. But none of them had the power to turn her insides to mush the way Mac did.

Of its own accord, her finger pressed the pause button, the better to complete her appraisal.

He was wearing only a pair of worn jeans, exposing most of the good stuff to her roving eye. She scanned his broad shoulders appreciatively—well-muscled but not too Arnold Schwarzenegger chunky, they were just about perfect. Then her eyes dropped to his trim, toned waist. Also pretty damned fine. And his butt—the perkiest, most grabbable, most I-want-to- take-a-bite butt she’d ever seen. As if all of the above wasn’t enough, her gaze slid to his long, strong legs. Firm thigh muscles hinted at speed and strength and stamina and a whole lot of other S words that were making her feel decidedly… warm as she lay stretched on the couch.

God, he was hot. With a capital H.

Biting her lip, Grace pressed the play button and watched as he swung back into action. He had an amazing walk—almost a swagger, really. Like a modern-day cowboy. It screamed masculinity and confidence, and combined with his sans-shirt condition, was almost enough to make her hyperventilate.

“Oh, yeah,” she groaned as he turned toward camera, revealing superbly toned abdominal muscles and a chest covered with exactly the right amount of darkened caramel curls.

The camera zoomed in tight for a close-up and she was treated to the full force of his cerulean-blue gaze as he stared down the barrel. He had a strong brow, cheekbones and jaw line, with a straight, very masculine nose. His lips were chiseled and generous, and his dirty-blond hair flopped over his forehead enticingly. The preferred media comparison was to Paul Newman as a young man. Personally, Grace thought his face was all his own.

“I trusted you,” his character, Kirk, said on-screen, his voice a low, gravely husk. “I believed every word you said.”

“I didn’t know how to tell you,” his on-screen wife, Loni, said.

“Haven’t we always been honest with each other?” he asked.

“Too honest sometimes,” Loni admitted.

A long silence as they eyed each other. Mac lifted a hand, running it through his already tousled hair. Grace squeezed her knees together as she watched his muscles ripple.

On-screen, Loni crossed the space between them and laid a hand on his bare chest.

You lucky witch, Grace thought, imagining how hot and hard his skin must feel.

“I’ve ruined everything, haven’t I?” Loni asked in a small voice.

As though he couldn’t stand her pain, Mac ducked his head to press a quick kiss to her cheek. Loni started to cry. Mac groaned and cupped her face.

“Don’t,” Mac said, torn.

Loni shook her head, inarticulate, and he ducked his head again to kiss her tears away. This time their noses bumped and within seconds their lips had found each other. Loni clutched at him, desperately trying to hold onto him. Mac hesitated a moment, then angled her head back, deepening the kiss. Her hands splayed down over his neck, across his back. He pulled her closer, absolutely intent on getting what he wanted.

Heart banging against her rib cage, Grace reached for the pause button on the remote.

She was turned on. There was no denying it. She’d been fantasizing about Mac for so long now that all she had to do was look at him and her body responded. Briefly she considered inviting Mr. Buzzy out from her bedroom drawer to join the party, but she was too far gone already. Closing her eyes and giving herself over to the desire pulsing through her veins, she slid a hand over her breasts and down her belly to between her thighs. She knew the sets on the show like her own home and the scene she’d just watched sprang to life behind her closed eyelids in full Technicolor. Only, instead of Loni standing in front of a half-naked Mac, it was her.

He was so close she could smell his aftershave—something dark and spicy, hinting at open fires and warm bodies and sex. In the bedroom of her mind, she stepped closer to him. He was staring at her, his expression unreadable, but she could see the banked passion in his eyes.

“What are you doing?” he asked.

“What we both want,” she replied. She reached out and ran her finger down his chest, sliding over the hardened nub of one nipple before tracing her way down into the tidy arrow of curls that disappeared beneath his waistband. He swallowed, hard, and she licked her lips.

“Tell me to stop and I will,” she said. She dropped her gaze for half a second, just long enough to take in the rigid length of the erection straining against his jeans.

He remained silent, although she could see a battle going on inside him. She wanted him to resist a little—enough for her to prove to him how pointless it was to deny the attraction between them. Flattening her hand, she slid her palm down along the hard bar of his erection, then curled her fingers around it through his jeans.

He shivered and she smiled a secretive, confident smile. Her hand slid back up, and she grasped the stud at the top of his fly. Still he didn’t say anything, and she popped the stud free with a deft twist of her hand. Her fingers found the tab of his zipper and she opened it with one smooth move. Then she stepped close and pressed a kiss to his hard, hot chest even as she slid a hand inside his boxers and grabbed a handful of rock-hard masculinity.

“Grace,” he groaned. Then his hands were all over her, smoothing down her back, cupping her butt, sliding up and around her rib cage to massage her breasts. She panted and continued to work his hard shaft, unable to let go, as he pushed her top down over her breasts and sucked a nipple into his mouth. Her knees went weak as he tongued each hardened tip in turn, his mouth rough, his hands gentle, the combination sending her spiraling toward her climax.

As though he sensed how close she was, Mac pushed her back against the wall. A hand shoved her skirt up and she moaned low in her throat as his fingers slid between her thighs. He murmured his approval as he discovered her panty-less state, his knowing hands dipping between her folds to find her slick and ready for him. Whispering words of praise and promise in her ear, he slid a finger inside her. She clenched around him, so close, so close—but she wanted more, she wanted it all, and she pushed his hands away and worked feverishly on his jeans.

He knew exactly what she needed. Lifting one of her legs up and hooking it around his hip, he slid his hands up the backs of her thighs until he cupped her backside. Then he hoisted her up and slid inside her with one powerful stroke.

She came instantly, her head falling back, her cries echoing in the room. Sensation rippled through her body, a tsunami of pleasure that swamped her entire being.

For a long beat, she simply existed as she floated on the afterglow of her orgasm.

Then, as always, she forced herself back to reality. She was in her apartment, alone, the TV screen frozen on an image of Mac Harrison, bare-chested and gorgeous.

With a press of her finger, the screen went to black and the DVD player shut down. It was time to go to bed. She made her way to the bathroom, frowning as she squeezed toothpaste onto her toothbrush. She couldn’t help wondering how Sadie and Claudia would react if she confessed her little secret to them: that ever since Mac Harrison had returned to reprise his role on Ocean Boulevard after a six-year absence, she’d had a lust crush on him a mile wide.

Claudia would fall about laughing. Probably Sadie would, as well. Not at her, but at the irony of the situation—Grace Wellington, founding member of the Nothing But Contempt For Men Club, had a soft spot for the show’s biggest horn-dog.

It was too, too ironic. And faintly embarrassing, really. She should know better, she really should. The man was a known womanizer, he was paid to play make-believe and he lived a frivolous, pointless life. In short, he represented about a million of the things she liked least in men. There really wasn’t anything admirable about him at all, in fact, apart from his superb body and gorgeous face. Her crush was absolutely a manifestation of lust. But, somehow, some way, no matter how many times she chastised herself for her bad taste in virtual lovers, he kept on sliding into her fantasy bed and taking her in his arms. Which was why she’d never confided in her friends. And, after all, it wasn’t as though she knew everything about Sadie and Claudia’s sex lives, right? It was nobody’s business but her own. It was utterly harmless, a private indulgence that affected no one save herself.

It helped that she’d never met the man. Sure, she’d passed him in the corridors when she’d been across town at the studios for meetings, but she’d never exchanged actual words with him. There was an unspoken divide between the writing team and the cast and crew—it wasn’t just about being in different locations, it had been the same on every show Grace had worked on—so it wasn’t particularly notable that they’d never been introduced. But she didn’t need to meet him to know what he was like—she knew his type.

Yep, Sadie and Claudia would definitely lose a lung laughing if they knew.

Sliding between the sheets, Grace set the alarm and switched the light off. Her body was humming with satisfaction. As usual, virtual Mac had been the perfect lover: flawless technique, intuitive, voracious. Best of all, he came with absolutely no strings attached and she didn’t have to wonder when he’d call again or listen to his lame-ass excuses for why he couldn’t stay the night.

And he would never, ever cheat on her.

The perfect man, indeed.

Smiling smugly, she fell asleep.

MAC HARRISON GRUNTED with disgust as he threw the script he’d been reading across the room.

Drivel, absolute drivel. How anyone expected him to say those lines of dialogue with any sincerity was beyond him. Reaching for his beer bottle, he realized it was empty. He was about to push himself off the couch to grab another brewski from the fridge when he registered that there were another three empty bottles lined up on his coffee table. Four beers. And he was alone. And it was midnight on a Sunday evening. Not quite time to check into the Betty Ford center, but still… Perhaps it was time to switch to soda water.

He sank back onto the couch and ran a hand through his hair. He felt like crap. He’d been sleeping way too much lately and spending too much time on his own—probably because his libido was nonexistent. Depression tended to do that to a guy. His gym routine was about the only thing keeping him sane at the moment.

He stared at the discarded script where it lay crumpled on the ground a few feet away. He had five scenes he needed to memorize for tomorrow’s shoot, but he couldn’t make himself pick it up again.

Jesus, he needed another beer. Which was a pretty good reason not to have one. Mac had seen his fair share of actors succumb to drug and alcohol addictions over the years. He didn’t plan on becoming one of them. But he also knew he had to do something because he couldn’t continue living his life the way he was.

It had been a mistake coming back to Ocean Boulevard. The moment he’d gotten over his relief at having a regular paycheck again he’d known it. He’d been greeted like a returning king by the producers when he walked back on set twelve months ago and the show’s loyal fan base had gone wild. The soap magazines had splashed him across covers and he’d smiled, answered all their questions and basically acted his butt off to look as though he was exactly where he wanted to be.

But he so wasn’t.

He’d come to Hollywood from Seattle as a determined eighteen-year-old and hadn’t been able to believe his luck when he’d scored a role on a new soap. He’d only intended to stay with the show a year, two max. But each year his paycheck got fatter as the show’s ratings rose and his character became more and more popular. At the same time, the older actors on the show were constantly telling him how good he had it, how lean it was Out There, how he’d never have it better. By the time he’d been with the show for eight years, he’d crossed the line from complacency to boredom and frustration. Finally, he made the leap.

And failed spectacularly.

Hollywood had swallowed him in one easy gulp, with barely a ripple to mark his passing. He’d been on the soap for too long, his agent had told him, he was tainted by the association.

On a good day, he didn’t hate Boulevard. It had bought his house, his car, fed him, clothed him, got him laid for many of the past fifteen years. It was a fun, entertaining, sometimes even moving show. It just didn’t feed his soul. And how pretentious was that, anyway, wanting a career that made you proud, made you want to jump out of bed in the morning? Most people settled for three square meals and a roof over their heads, smiles on their kids’ faces and backyard barbecues. He was a spoiled bastard. He knew it, but it didn’t stop him from feeling as though a giant hand was slowly grinding him into the ground.

The reality was, he should have had the courage to walk away altogether, to pursue something completely outside of the industry. Instead, he’d succumbed to the lure of money and security. And it was slowly killing him.

“Boo-goddamn-hoo,” he sneered at himself, launching himself to his feet.

The only thing worse than a worn-out has-been was a self- pitying worn-out has-been. Prowling around the house, he picked up books and put them down again, shuffled through his CD collection looking for something—anything—he could bear to listen to, and generally behaved like a lost soul.

Inevitably, he wound up in his study, staring at the calendar on his wall. Tomorrow’s date was circled in red, and he shook his head as he acknowledged his own desperation. Tomorrow he found out if the Boulevard’s new producer was willing to continue what her predecessor had started and hand over a block of the show for him to direct.

Originally, he’d floated the idea of directing some blocks of the show to his agent half as a joke—he’d figured the producers would say no, or that if they said yes it would be an entertaining diversion from the usual. To his surprise, they’d given him the nod. Twice now he’d been allowed to step behind the camera and direct the show. It had been challenging work both times, but it had also been the most alive he’d felt in a long time.

Then there had been a regime change, a fairly regular occurrence in television. Heads had rolled and new heads had taken their places. He’d been waiting for nearly two months since then to find out if the new producer, Claudia Dostis, was willing to continue what her predecessor had started. There was a high chance she wouldn’t—many producers would have said no simply because he’d been a pet project of the guy whose seat they were now warming. But tomorrow was the day of truth, the day she was handing out the newdirectors’ roster.

And he wanted his name to be on it, bad. He needed his name to be on it, if he was being honest with himself.

There had to be something more out there. Didn’t there?

IT WAS MID-MORNING when Claudia called Grace into her office the next day.

“I wanted to talk to you about Mac Harrison,” Claudia said by way of kicking off the conversation.

Grace started in her seat and tried to will away the blush that she could feel rising into her cheeks. There was no way that Claudia was about to tell her to stop using him as her convenient virtual stud. No one could know what she’d been doing in the privacy of her apartment last night. No one.

It didn’t stop her from blushing, however. Ducking her head, she pretended to have an itchy nose.

“Right, Mac Harrison. The actor who plays Kirk on the show,” she said, fumbling for time.

Claudia gave her an odd look and Grace winced mentally. Probably pretending to not be familiar with one of the show’s biggest stars was not the smartest way to appear natural.

“Yes. That Mac Harrison,” Claudia said dryly. “What did you think of the blocks he directed recently?”

Grace blinked a few times, trying to work out where this conversation was going. Mac had directed two five-episode blocks since he’d put up his hand to step behind the camera. Both had been good—inventive, interesting, tight.

“Does he want to do more?” she hedged.

“His agent has approached me. You still haven’t answered my question.”

Grace fiddled with the hem of her 1950s-era sundress. “They were good, strong. He brought a lot of energy to it,” she said honestly.

Claudia smiled. “I’m glad you liked his work. He’s a big fan of your scripts, too. It’ll make the whole process much smoother.”

Grace frowned, feeling as though she’d just missed something very important.

“Um, what process?” she asked hesitantly.

“Well, you’re writing the script for our feature-length wedding episode,” Claudia explained.

“Yessss,” Grace said slowly, beginning to see the yawning chasm that loomed before her.

“And he’s going to direct it.”

Grace’s whole body went hot, then cold.

“You’ll have to work closely with each other—he’ll be on light duties on-set and we’ll get in an extra body to take over some of your usual workload so you can do reconnaissance with him for location shoots and anything else that’s necessary. I want this to be the best wedding the Boulevard has ever done,” Claudia said with determination.

“Right. The best,” Grace repeated numbly.

She felt blindsided. For twelve months, she’d used Mac Harrison as the personification of all her sexual desires. She’d had sex with him in her mind a hundred different ways, cried his name out as she climaxed, gone to sleep with his image in her mind. All despite never having met the man.

And now they were about to become each other’s shadows.

Why did she feel as though she’d set herself up for the fall of a lifetime?