Читать книгу All Over You - Sarah Mayberry - Страница 8

2

MAC PULLED INTO the visitors parking slot at the Boulevard’s Santa Monica office and switched his ignition off. Instead of getting out of his car, however, he sat for a moment listening to the tick-tick-tick of his engine cooling.

He was nervous. He felt like an idiot as soon as he admitted it to himself. It had been a long time since he’d felt the peculiar mix of adrenaline and expectation that was pumping its way around his body right now. He’d stopped being nervous about auditions roughly three years after he’d left his cushy, high- paying role on the show—that was about how long it had taken Hollywood to suck his hopes and dreams out of him. It was hard to feel nervous about something when you knew you didn’t have a snowball’s chance in hell of achieving it.

He forced himself to acknowledge his feelings. Claudia Dostis was entrusting him with the most important episode of the year—a feature-length, stand-alone wedding episode that was supposed to knock everyone’s socks off. And she’d chosen him, a still-wet-behind-the-ears novice to direct it. When she’d called to tell him her decision a week ago, he’d thanked her, written down the appropriate details and discussed his studio schedule with the production manager to ensure they could work his shooting schedule around these new directing commitments.

He’d read through the story line they sent him, made notes, come up with some ideas of his own. But it was only now that he was sitting here, about to commit himself wholly to the project, that he could admit to himself there was a very real chance he wasn’t up to the challenge she’d offered him.

He was a novice. He’d directed ten episodes, and now they wanted him to make their big special shine. Frankly, he thought they were crazy handing their baby to him.

Of course, he could always say no. He could tell Claudia that he didn’t want or need the hassle. This whole directing thing had only ever been a diversion, after all, something to stop him from banging his head against the wall in frustration.

He could start the car up and drive away from it all. If that was what he wanted.

The door of his ’57 Corvette complained with a metallic squeal as he stepped out. If he sat around contemplating his navel much longer, he was going to be late. Grabbing his notebook, he headed toward the building entrance.

With the decision made, some of his nervousness dropped away and he realized that underneath his uncharacteristic adolescent self-doubt there was a buzz of anticipation, the yin to the yang of his nervousness. He didn’t have to look far for the source—he was about to meet Grace Wellington.

He’d been reading Grace’s work for the past year and every time he picked up a script with her name on it his curiosity and his respect for her had grown. She was the best writer on the show, hands down. She only penned one every now and then—she was obviously absorbed with her duties as script editor—but when she did, it was like a beacon in the night. The dialogue sparkled, emotions ran deep, laughs were sincere. She could write.

He’d whiled away a lot of long, boring hours in his dressing room wondering what she was like, the woman who put down words with so much energy and life and power. It was hard to get a bead on her, since there were so many different facets to her writing.

For starters, there was the sexy, sizzling, witty banter that delighted an actor. That Grace Wellington struck him as savvy and confident, a man-eater in red silk garters and stilettos.

Then there was the wry humor that she managed to inject into every episode. When he dwelt on that aspect of her writing, he thought of messy hair, big smiles, hot cocoa and woolly sweaters.

Then there was the wrenching emotional content of her scenes. She always managed to strike a chord, helping him dig deep to find the humanity in any story, no matter how soapy or silly. That woman he imagined as razor sharp, dressed in minimalist black with a bent for double-shot espressos and books by dead Russian authors.

He was looking forward to meeting her, to satisfying his curiosity about the mystery woman behind the scripts. He also figured that if he was going to have to jump headfirst into the unknown on this project, it would help to have the show’s best writer by his side.

For the first time in a long time, he was looking forward to something. He wasn’t sure if that was a good thing or not. In his experience, wanting something only made failure more painful.

He smiled grimly as he stepped over the threshold. Ready or not, he was already free-falling.

GRACE WIPED her sweaty palms on the sides of her dress, angry with herself for being nervous. Mac Harrison was just a person.

No, he was less than that—he was an actor. A man who traded on his good looks and sex appeal to live in the lap of luxury. All his life, doors had opened for him, women had thrown themselves at his feet and he’d sat back and lapped it all up because he’d been lucky enough to be born with a body and face that the world worshipped.

He was like her sisters. Just as he was the epitome of male good looks, her sisters were stunning, each in her own way a different version of perfection. Felicity, Serena and Hope had also parlayed their looks into careers—Felicity as a weather girl, Serena as an actress and Hope as a model. Growing up as the ugly sister among three beauties had given Grace a front-row appreciation of how the other half lived. She loved her sisters, but she wouldn’t have been human if she hadn’t resented the number of boyfriends she’d had over the years who’d looked distinctly ripped off when they walked into her family home and saw Felicity, Serena and Hope lounging around. Their expressions said it all: How come I got the dud sister? It was no fun being the booby prize, so she’d opted to fight on her own terms. She dressed differently, lived her life differently, had separate dreams from her sisters. And it had worked for her, it really had. She had a great career. And until Owen had betrayed her, she’d thought she’d found the one man who valued her heart and soul more than he valued long legs, perfect features and shampoo-commercial hair.

Ha.

He’d sure shown her. But in doing so he’d shattered her last illusion. She lived in L.A., possibly the most appearance- obsessed city in the world, and she worked in the television industry. Perhaps that distorted her perception, but she knew that for many, many people, what was outside a person was more important than what was inside them.

Her lust-crush on Mac Harrison was a perfect example. All those times she’d pleasured herself and imagined it was him touching her, licking her, tasting her, had she once thought about what kind of man he was? Had she fantasized that he cared for animals, was nice to old people, that he stopped to give money to the homeless? No. She’d fixated on his amazing eyes and his hot body and how hard and ready he’d be.

She was as bad as everyone else. Absolutely guilty as charged.

And when she had more time to chastise herself for her superficial values and blatant hypocrisy, she’d do it.

But right now, she was concentrating on surviving the next hour or so. Very foolishly, she had eroticized Mac to the point where the mere sound of his voice turned her on. She’d practically made him her fetish—and she was about to step into an intimate meeting with him that would lead to an intimate working relationship for the next few months.

She’d set herself up to be vulnerable. And she didn’t do vulnerable, not any more.

Put simply, she would rather shave her head than let him know in any way, shape or form that she was attracted to him. He had women falling all over him all the time, she knew that. Probably he expected her to do the same. But he was so wrong. She would never, ever let him laugh at her or give him the opportunity to reject her. She’d had enough of that, thank you very much.

She checked her watch. He was late for their first meeting— a brilliant start and typical actor behavior. Brick by brick she built a wall of disdain around herself.

He’d probably had a Pilates session or a pedicure that he simply couldn’t miss, and had neglected to pass on this vital information to Claudia or herself. She pictured him swaggering in a couple of hours late, all shiny teeth and bronzed skin. Claudia would lose it, and that would be the end of Mr. Harrison’s short-lived dalliance with directing.

She basked in the surge of relief this vision inspired, but her hope died a quick death when she heard a hush fall over the outer office, closely followed by the excited murmur of feminine speculation.

Mac Harrison had entered the building. There was no other explanation for it.

She gathered her notes together, shaking her head over the secretarial staff’s behavior. It wasn’t as though they were all greenhorns—they should be beyond gushing over one of their own actors by now. The man played dress-up for a living— it wasn’t as if he was a Nobel Prize winner or anything.

You screaming hypocrite, she chastised herself.

If Mac Harrison was so contemptuous, why was sweat prickling her underarms, and why was she flicking her hair over her shoulder and rubbing a finger over her teeth to ensure none of her crimson-warrior lipstick had transferred itself?

She gave herself a stern talking to as she marched toward the conference room. She had been thinking about this moment ever since Claudia had handed down her sentence last week. A whole seven days of dwelling on this scenario, shooting it from every angle with her mental camera, playing both leads, considering all possibilities.

She was not going to gush or simper or blush or ogle or flirt. She was simply going to walk into that meeting room and greet him coolly and professionally. Not by the flicker of an eyelid was she going to reveal that just a week ago she had imagined him pressed against her, his body buried deep inside hers. Hell no. They were going to discuss the upcoming project intelligently, then they would go their separate ways. All very business-like and orderly. All very dignified.

Then she entered the room and lost the power to think.

Claudia was sitting to one side, a smile on her face as she talked to Mac. But all Grace could register was him: his scent, his presence, his height, his breadth, his charisma. She felt as though someone had just driven over her with a silk and velvet steamroller, then punched her in the stomach for good measure.

Then he actually looked at her and it was like standing under a million-watt klieg light. Her knees literally gave out on her—fortunately she was close enough to grab the back of one of the chairs and she held on with a white-knuckled grip as her body went up in flames.

He was, quite simply, too good-looking to be fully human.

Everything was perfect—the small screen didn’t do him justice. He was taller. His eyes were clearer, bluer. His jaw was stronger, his nose prouder. He was more graceful, as well as more powerful-looking. He was simply…more.

“Mac, you and Grace have met before, right?” Claudia said.

He extended his hand, his smile broadening. “Actually, believe it not, we haven’t,” he said.

Grace stared stupidly at his outstretched hand for a full, agonizing ten seconds. He wanted her to actually touch him? To lay her skin against his and not expire on the spot?

Swallowing, she slowly extended her own hand. There was no choice, right? Claudia was already staring at her as though she was an escapee from planet loopy and the smile on his face had lost most of its spontaneity. Gritting her teeth, she clasped his hand in hers.

Sensation skittered up her nerve endings and danced around her body. His hand was large and warm, strong. His skin was smooth but firm. She stared at his well-tended nails and perfectly shaped fingers, remembering how many times she’d imagined him cupping her breasts, thumbing her nipples, sliding her underwear down….

She snatched her hand away and took a jerky step backward.

“S-static 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 was used to having them admired. She stared back at him coldly.

“Look, sorry if I stepped on your toes before, asking to see the script before it’s finished. Guess I must have broken some secret writer’s rule, huh?” he asked lightly.

He was used to making people like him. It was his stock in trade. He threw in a smile for good measure.

Her lips pursed slightly, and she leaned back in her chair, looking over her glasses at him like a disapproving librarian. The schoolmarm effect was dissipated somewhat, however, by those red, red lips and those amazing— Well, he’d already gotten in enough trouble in that direction already.

“There’s no rule, as such. It’s just that handing over a rough draft for a writer is the equivalent of you leaving the house without your massage, wax and facial. No one wants to be caught with pillow-face, do they?” she said.

His back stiffened. Where the hell had that come from?

It had been a long time since Mac hadn’t been liked by someone—or at least since someone had stopped sucking up to him long enough to let him know it. He was surprised by how much it annoyed him. To his knowledge, he’d never done anything to merit the dagger-eyes she was currently sending him.

He wondered what her problem was. Was she one of those precious people who resented actors moving into other areas of production? They were out there, he knew— writers and directors and producers who figured actors who were trying to parlay their time in the limelight to time behind the camera were asking for more than their fair share of pie.

He’d already copped a few sideways glances from a few of the other Boulevard directors. He even suspected a couple of the long-term regulars on the cast weren’t too thrilled to see him dabbling with direction. The same thing had happened when he’d been trying to break out of soap acting. People had wanted to keep him in a clearly defined box. But Mac knew now that if he didn’t get out of that box, he’d be buried in it.

“Given the time constraints we’re under, I think the best thing to do is to set a deadline for viewing the two prospective sites,” Grace said briskly, flicking through a diary. “What if we both agree to have looked over the two options by the end of the week? Then we can reconvene and discuss things.”

She glanced up at him, her face set, impassive.

“I was under the impression that Claudia wanted us to go out together. It being a collaborative thing and all,” he said.

She shrugged one shoulder. “I was planning on checking out the vineyard this afternoon since I’m ahead on edits, but that probably won’t suit you.”

She flicked at a piece of invisible lint on her dress. He didn’t have to be a genius to read the subtext of her body language—be gone, pesky man, be gone.

He’d never taken well to being dismissed.

“You know, it must be our lucky day—I’ve got the afternoon free as well,” he said easily. In reality, he had a swathe of lines to learn for tomorrow’s rehearsals—but that was what late nights and strong coffee were for.

She didn’t look pleased. Which only confirmed his suspicions about her. She didn’t think he was up to the job. All his earlier doubts about taking on such an important project evaporated. There was no way he was walking away now. Flashing another one of his red-carpet smiles, he leaned back in his chair and put his feet up on the boardroom table—just because he knew it would piss her off. Her gaze flickered to his legs and back again and she sat a little straighter in her chair.

“Why don’t you go grab your bag and we’ll get going?” he suggested.

Her full lips compressed into a thin, ungenerous line.

“I have some things to take care of first. Why don’t I meet you out there?” she countered.

His moment of amusement faded as he had a sudden vision of how the next few months were going to be if he was fighting against this woman every step of the way—it would be a bloody battle for each square foot gained. He was a straight-up kind of guy at the end of the day. As amusing as it was to egg Grace on, he figured it was better to call her on her attitude now, get whatever it was out of the way and sorted before it affected the show.

Then she stood up.

Hubba hubba.

It was the only coherent thought that came to mind as he took in the rest of the package that was Grace Wellington. He’d been too busy talking to Claudia to get a full head-to-toe on Grace when she walked in, but now his eyes tracked from the fullness of her breasts to her tiny waist and out again to her curvy hips and butt, all of it showcased by a dress that would have looked right at home on Doris Day in her heyday.

She had an old-fashioned pinup girl’s body, that was for sure. And she dressed in an old-fashioned style that accentuated all the good bits in a really, really…good way.

He frowned as she gathered her notes, trying to piece together the different signals he was getting from this woman. She didn’t like him, seemed uptight, but dressed in a fun, flamboyant, sexy style that belied the cool little voice and condemning glances over the top of her ugly glasses.

Realizing she was about to walk off, he dragged his gaze from her va-voom curves and concentrated on winning this first battle of wills.

“I can hang around. Doesn’t make sense to take separate cars all that way,” he said.

She blinked, her back stiffening.

“I might be a while,” she countered.

He shrugged. She stared at him. He stared back. He wasn’t going to back off just because she did a good line in bitch. Finally, after a long, tense silence, she tossed her hair over her shoulder and turned on her heel.

He watched her butt all the way out of the room, only letting out the breath he hadn’t noticed he’d been holding when she stepped out of sight. It was also when he registered the tightness in his jeans. He stared down at his straining boner.

Great. Just what he needed—the return of his libido at the most inappropriate time possible.

GRACE LINGERED. Then she loitered. She even lurked a bit. She went to the bathroom twice. She sorted through her in-tray. She made a couple of pointless phone calls to freelance script writers. She cleared out her junk e-mail folder.

And still Mac sat there. He’d taken up position in one of the random chairs placed throughout the open-plan outer- office and was just waiting her out. She swung between being irritated with him for being such a stubborn bastard and feeling stupidly breathless and dizzy at his proximity.

Every time she glanced up from her “work” and caught sight of his tall, powerful body sitting outside her office, waiting for her, she had to fight the urge to melt into a puddle beneath her desk.

It made her feel so weak and stupid. Which in turn made her angry with herself—and Mac Harrison for having won the genetic sweepstakes that made him so irresistible to her.

Finally, however, she was out of tricks. It was already more than evident that she’d been stalling and, after an hour of time-wasting, she gave in, snatching up her handbag and notepad and stalking out of her office.

“I’m ready. Unless something else has come up…?” she suggested hopefully.

He eyed her steadily and pushed himself to his feet. She suppressed a shiver as he loomed over her. He was so close— just like in her fantasy the other night. If she took a step forward, she’d be able to reach out and run a finger down his chest. She’d need to rip his shirt off first, of course, for it to be an accurate re-enactment of her fantasy, but she had strong hands….

The jangle of car keys snapped her out of the pheromoneinduced daze she’d sunk into.

God, she was so pitiful. Lips pressed together, she marched toward the exit. She could feel him following her, and she felt absurdly conscious of the wiggle of her hips. He probably hadn’t seen real hips for years, living in Hollywood. All the actresses on the show had visible ribs and chicken wings sticking out of their backs from their no-carb, no-fat, no-life diets. He probably thought she was obese by comparison. The thought spurred her to put a little extra sass in her walk.

“Over here,” Mac directed as they exited the building, and she turned toward the guest parking. And stopped abruptly.

“That is not your car,” she said disbelievingly, her eyes caressing the pristine curves of a Venetian-red-and-white 1957 Corvette soft-top with whitewall tires and red leather upholstery.

He shrugged. “We can put the roof up if you’re worried about your hair.”

She stared at him, then resolutely resisted the urge to glance toward the far corner of the lot where her own parking space was located. The last—the very, very last—thing she needed was for him to see her car. She’d been restoring her own ’57 Corvette for nearly two years, but it was a long, slow process. Compared to his shiny, showroom-condition dream machine, her baby looked like a very tired, very ugly duckling.

The story of her life.

It was almost enough to make her hate his car, too. But that would be taking things too far.

Wordless, she slid into the passenger seat and reached for the scarf and sunglasses she habitually carried in the side pocket of her handbag.

“The seat-belt catch is a little tricky…” Mac began to explain, but Grace had already snapped hers shut.

While he occupied himself with starting the car, Grace deftly tied the scarf over her hair and swapped her office frames for the cat’s-eye sunglasses she’d inherited from her grandmother.

Then she turned her face away from him, signaling her absolute lack of interest in any conversational gambits he might choose to throw her way.

For the hour and a half it took them to drive to Santa Clarita, it appeared he didn’t choose to throw anything her way at all. After the first five minutes of silence, he simply reached across and flicked on the stereo. She noted out of the corner of her eye that he’d had a suitably low-key CD player installed so as not to destroy the original dash. It was the same model she’d been eyeing for herself for the past six months, trying to justify the expenditure when there were other, more mundane things to fix on her car.

Damn him.

Her irritation only grew when she recognized the track he’d put on. Nina Simone’s “Sinner Man.” One of her favorites.

It was no wonder that she was feeling particularly snippy by the time she stepped out of the car at the winery. So far, he’d managed to subvert all of her preconceptions about him, and she was finding it very disconcerting. She was also quiveringly aware of him. Every breath he took, every shift of his hands or body—she was blindsided by how attractive she found him…and how vulnerable that made her.

Shedding her scarf but keeping her sunglasses, she didn’t bother looking behind herself to see if he was following as she headed for the front doors of the winery. Let him keep up, if he could.

She realized instantly that he wasn’t—she’d become so damned attuned to him so quickly that the absence of his presence behind her was like the sun disappearing behind a cloud. She paused in the shadows of the entranceway to check on him discreetly and saw that he had stopped to take shots of the location with a small camera.

Humph. A good idea, she supposed. Maybe he was more than just a life-support system for a whole lot of muscle.

Determined to get the inspection over and done with, she stepped into the coolness of the interior and began to look around. The entrance hall was attractive but small. She couldn’t help but wonder how it would translate on-camera. Following the signs, she walked through to the main tasting room and gift shop. Again, it was pleasant, but she wondered whether the art department would be able to dress it to the level of glamour required for the special.

She knew the moment Mac joined her and watched him survey the space out of the corners of her eyes. He snapped off a couple of shots, and she tensed as he moved toward her.

“What do you think?” he asked.

“It’s nice. Homey and cozy,” she said.

He nodded neutrally and looked around some more. He had such a great profile. She wanted to reach out and run her finger along his nose, rub her palm against his five o’clock shadow, run her tongue along the full curve of his lower lip.

“What’s wrong—not enough bling for your liking?” she asked coolly, furious at herself for staring at him.

He took his time answering, his blue gaze pinning her for a long beat. She had no idea what he was thinking.

“It’s cozy, like you said. But Gabe comes from money. The wedding needs to be lavish, over the top,” he said, turning to study the room again.

Even though she agreed with everything he was saying— or perhaps, because of it—Grace found herself defending the location.

“I know it’s probably not up to your own personal high standards, but I’m sure we can get a hot tub installed and borrow some of the bunnies from the Playboy mansion,” she said sweetly.

He raised an eyebrow, then shot her a slow, appraising look.

“I’m going to go look at the grounds,” he said, “and then you’re going to tell me exactly what stick you have up your ass.”

Grace spluttered angrily but he just walked away. She glared after him, unable to resist the lure of that perfect butt, even though he’d spoken so rudely to her.

Kind of the same way she’d been speaking to him. She was painfully aware of the fact that she’d regressed to elementary-school sexual politics to cope with her stupid awareness of this man: be mean to the handsome boy and he wouldn’t guess that she liked him. It was petty and immature.

But it was all she had—and by God, she was clinging to it.

MAC TOOK DEEP BREATHS of the fresh, earth-scented air. It had taken all his willpower not to tear into her back there. He’d hoped to disarm her, befriend her, find some common ground during their drive. Instead, she’d given him the silent treatment. And now she was taking shots at him again.

He didn’t consider himself a hot-tempered kind of a guy, but he had his limits. And she was straining at them.

What really pissed him off was the fact that he still found her attractive. He didn’t kid himself—while his face was on national TV, he was never going to have a problem getting laid. But it had been a long time since he’d gotten any buzz out of that aspect of his fame. He’d had his share of relationships and flings with women in the business—mostly actresses, although his only long-term relationship had been with a makeup artist, Kerry, with whom he’d lived for several years. Keeping a relationship alive was tough enough at the best of times, but when the shifting sands of Hollywood vagaries were added into the mix, Mac figured it was pretty much impossible. Most of the women he met were beautiful, with tanned, sculpted bodies. They all wanted fame in some way—be it through notoriety, association or their own achievements. Why live in L.A. otherwise? Not even a dyed-in- the-wool L.A.-lover would claim it was a beautiful city. Nope, L.A. was a city where dreams and ambition came first and love a pale, sickly second.

He didn’t even know if he believed in love any more. He’d seen so much greed and ugliness over the past few years that cynicism was practically a religion for him. He had a couple of regular lovers who he saw on and off—more off than on lately, if he was being honest with himself. His sex-drive was at an all-time low. Yet, here he was, faced with the obvious disdain and contempt of a rude, sharp-tongued shrew and his gonads were trying to get in on the action. How goddamned contrary was that?

Running a hand through his hair, Mac squinted off into the distance and forced his mind to the matter at hand. Pulling his slim-line digital camera from his pocket, he fired off a few shots, but his heart wasn’t in it. His gut told him this was not the location to make the episode sing. He might not be the most experienced director in the world, but as an actor he’d played his part in innumerable soap weddings. This place just wasn’t right.

The sound of full-throated feminine laughter cut through the silence, and he looked over his shoulder to see Grace approaching, arm in arm with a gray-haired guy who looked to be in his late fifties. Grace was laughing up into his face, her cheeks rosy, hips wiggling as she walked with him.

It was like getting a peek behind the curtain during an audience with the Great and Powerful Oz. The hard-nosed witch he’d been dealing with all day was gone and in her place was a sparkling eyed, fun-loving woman who radiated charm.

So why was he getting the Alexis Carrington treatment?

As though on cue, Grace’s smile slid from her face as she spotted him and her body stiffened.

Mac grit his teeth. He was getting a little sick of feeling as though he had a personal-hygiene problem.

“I’ve just been talking to your lady friend,” the older man said. “Name’s Rusty. I’m the winemaker here.”

“Rusty took me on a tour of the winemaking shed,” Grace said coolly.

“Great,” Mac said. “You’ve got a lovely place here.”

“Oh, I’m not the owner. I just work here,” Rusty explained.

Grace patted Rusty’s arm confidingly.

“Don’t worry about Mac—he figures that because his life is like a game of Monopoly, the rest of us are all land barons and heiresses.”

Mac’s nostrils flared and he shot her a hard look. She gazed off over the marching rows of vines as though she’d done nothing more contentious than comment on the weather.

“Actually, the wife’s a big fan, Mr. Harrison,” Rusty said, ruddy color staining his cheeks. “Do you think you’d mind…?”

Mac smiled, ignoring the hyena on Rusty’s arm. It wasn’t the winemaker’s fault that Grace was a bitch.

“Not a problem, it’d be my pleasure.”

Rusty pulled a small diary from his pocket and offered up an empty page.

“What’s your wife’s name?” he asked.

“Alison,” Rusty said, craning his head to see what Mac was writing.

Finishing his inscription, Mac signed his name neatly.

“There you go.”

“And, also…?” Rusty asked, producing his cell phone with built-in camera.

Signaling his agreement, Mac waited while Rusty handed the phone over to Grace so he could pose with Mac. A smile, a click and Rusty was offering up his sheepish thanks before heading back to his work.

As one, he and Grace began walking back toward the car. They hadn’t taken two steps before she tilted her head slightly as though she was contemplating a difficult riddle.

“I’m surprised you don’t keep head shots on you,” she drawled. “You’re taking an awful risk—what if someone snaps you on a bad-hair day?”

The sunlight glinted off her dark cat’s-eye sunglasses and the last shreds of Mac’s patience evaporated.

“Right, that’s it,” he said tightly, grabbing her arm and hauling her the last few feet to the Corvette.

“Do you mind? Get your hands off me!” Grace said, outraged. She twisted her arm in his grasp, trying to escape.

He just tightened his grip.

“You’re not going anywhere until you tell me why you’re being such a grade-A bitch. And before you say ‘bite me,’ you might want to think about how long a walk it is back to L.A.”

Finally she succeeded in pulling her arm loose.

“Would you like me to shine your shoes after I’ve finished kissing them? That’s what you’re used to, isn’t it?” she sniped.

“Have it your way.”

Without another word, Mac got into his car, gunned the engine and left her for dust.