Читать книгу Temptation - Sherryl Woods, Sherryl Woods - Страница 11
ОглавлениеJason stared at the latest dismal ratings for Within Our Reach and muttered a string of expletives that had his junior executives turning pale. He scowled at Freddie.
“Is that new story line sketched out yet? The one for Ms. Smith?”
“Actually...”
He sensed he was about to hear a litany of excuses. “Is it or isn’t it?” he demanded.
Freddie drew in a deep breath. “The writers are a little concerned that they might be wasting time since Ms. Smith hasn’t even agreed to take the part yet.” His brow knit worriedly. “She hasn’t, has she?”
“Not yet,” Jason conceded irritably. “But she will. It’s only a matter of time.”
He thought of the evening he had spent with her just the night before. She was definitely weakening. Her startled expression when he’d kissed her, then the fleeting glimpse of wistfulness he’d caught in her eyes, had told him quite a bit about her current state of mind.
Of course, her resistance to him wasn’t exactly the issue. If he were being entirely truthful, he would have to admit that she was still pretty adamant about not taking the job. It occurred to him that she might be viewing it as some sort of windfall, perhaps even charity. Maybe he hadn’t explained the stakes for the network clearly enough.
The sponsors were already getting restless. He doubted if he could hold them off with promises for much longer. Another week or two of ratings like the ones he had before him and they’d be yanking their ads in droves or demanding price cuts that wouldn’t sustain the show’s costs.
Maybe he hadn’t fully expressed the bind he was in, the favor she would be doing him and her friend Terry, who stood to lose a job along with a lot of other people if Jason had to cancel the long-running series.
A smile slowly worked its way across his face as he considered this last. He’d seen for himself how tight Callie and Walker were. She was definitely the kind of compassionate, loyal woman who would do anything for a friend, maybe even take a job she claimed not to want.
“A few more days,” he told Freddie, exuding more confidence than he had felt only moments earlier. “Tell those writers by the time they deliver that outline, I’ll deliver Callie Smith.”
“Can you be a little more specific?” Freddie pleaded. “I think a firm date would reassure them.”
It was Thursday now. He glanced at his calendar and saw that he was tied up for the rest of the day, that evening and most of Friday. He didn’t bother checking Saturday or Sunday. Anything he had scheduled for the weekend could be canceled.
“Monday morning,” he said, his expression every bit as grim as if he were setting a deadline for a major military maneuver, which, in a manner of speaking, he was. He was about to launch a full-scale assault on Callie, the likes of which she’d never seen before.
He hadn’t looked forward to anything with more enthusiasm since he’d single-mindedly gone after the presidency of TGN. There were a lot of doubters at the network who’d said he couldn’t get that, either. Some of the most vocal were now working for very small independent stations in cities it was very difficult to find on a map.
* * *
When no flowers arrived on her doorstep on Thursday, Callie considered it a reprieve. When none turned up on Friday, she had to acknowledge the tiniest hint of disappointment. Apparently Jason Kane’s attention span was even shorter than she’d hoped. She indulged in half a bag of Hershey’s Nuggets to console herself. To her deep regret, the chocolate didn’t vastly improve her mood. All that sugar and caffeine just made her jittery.
What she really needed to boost her self-esteem was a job. Not a job as an actress but one in her chosen profession. It was time to aggressively go about getting one. She prayed that this wouldn’t be one more futile attempt like all the others she had made with compulsive urgency in the first forty-eight hours after being fired. She had driven herself into an exhausted frenzy trying to find something new, only to be left feeling like even more of a failure. A month later she had tried, and failed, again. Maybe the third time would be the charm.
Filled with renewed determination, she flipped open her address book to the listings for brokerage firms and began making calls to various friends she’d made in the business.
As it turned out, two more had been fired. One had taken a transfer to Cleveland. And the others were all too nervous about their own shaky futures to be of much help to anyone who might ultimately be competing with them for the last remaining broker’s job in the universe.
Callie finished the bag of candy, which did nothing for her mood and made her feel physically crummy to boot. At least her inability to find so much as a lead on a job took a backseat to her now-queasy stomach.
Then images of acre upon acre of corn flashed before her eyes as she envisioned the rest of her life. She really was a dismal failure, just as her parents had always predicted she would be. She had failed at marriage and failed at her career. Eunice had already seen it. Soon everyone in Iowa would know it, as well.
“Too many grandiose ideas,” her mother had said with her lips pursed tightly as Callie had waited at the train station nearly ten years earlier. “They’ll be your downfall, you mark my words.”
“You’ll be back with your tail tucked between your legs,” her father had added.
They’d been no more supportive of her marriage. Maybe they had seen what she hadn’t, that she could never fulfill the expectations of a man like Chad Smith, who’d grown up with wealth and power and class. Discovering that her replacement’s credentials had more to do with her swimsuit size and her pedigree than her wit or intelligence had left her bitter and disillusioned, a reaction that admittedly was out of proportion to his actual worth, net or otherwise.
Maybe she was doomed to live out her days all alone on a farm in the middle of nowhere. Her skin would burn in the unrelenting summer sun, wrinkling up until she looked like a raisin. She’d be reduced to chopping off her own hair with a pair of kitchen shears or letting it grow until she could wind it into a tight little bun like the one her mother had worn as far back as she could remember. She was doomed to wind up her life right where she’d started it, in the middle of a cornfield.
It didn’t take long for misery and defeat to spread through her like an eager virus. Tears trickled down her cheeks. The last remaining bit of spunk that had gotten her out of Iowa in the first place drained away in another soggy bout of uncharacteristic self-pity.
Naturally, that was when Jason Kane chose to make yet another of his unannounced entrances into her life. Callie stared at the door as he continued to pound on it and call out her name.
“Go away,” she shouted back in a voice that was husky from crying.
To her shock and outrage, she heard a key turn in the lock. Blast Terry to hell! she thought. The lousy traitor had given the man his key.
“If you open that door, I am dialing 9-1-1,” she threatened.
The door swung open. She picked up the phone. Jason smiled. It was a terrific smile, crooked, endearing. She forced herself to look away, focusing on the phone’s keypad as she determinedly punched the nine.
“You don’t want to do that,” he said softly, plucking the phone from her hand.
“Yes, I do,” she said stubbornly, trying to snatch it back. He lifted it beyond her reach.
“You won’t when you see what I’ve brought for dinner,” he promised.
“I’m not hungry,” she said with absolute sincerity. The very thought of food on top of all that chocolate was enough to make her stomach flip over.
Or perhaps that was its indignant response to the sight of Jason strolling straight past her into the kitchen, two plastic bags of groceries in his hands. She noticed he’d tucked her portable phone into his back pocket as a safety precaution.
Thoroughly disgruntled, she followed him. “You really are an arrogant son of a gun, aren’t you?” She didn’t wait for a reply before adding, “Has it ever occurred to you that I might have plans on a Friday night? Didn’t it cross your mind that you should call before dropping by with dinner?”
“No,” he said. “Where are your pots and pans?”
“No what?”
“No, I don’t think I’m arrogant. Just confident. No, it didn’t occur to me you had plans. You haven’t been out on a date since your divorce.”
“Let me guess, Terry filled you in on the sorry state of my social life,” she said irritably. She was going to strangle the blabbermouth. She really was.
“He’s a very accommodating man,” Jason said approvingly.
“Especially to the man who controls his paycheck.”
“It didn’t require blackmail, sweetie. He’s worried about you. He thinks I’m the answer to your prayers.”
“So he’s said.”
“In more ways than one,” Jason added.
“Terry is a hopeless romantic,” she acknowledged, then scowled. “I’m not.”
“That’s understandable,” he soothed, “especially given your recent difficulties in the marriage department.”
He made it sound as if she had an irritating malady that could be fixed right up with a couple of exposures to the right medicine—namely, him. Although she wouldn’t have admitted it for anything, he might just possibly be right. She was feeling marginally better even though the aroma of the garlic he was sautéing was enough to cause her to seriously regret following him into the kitchen.
“What you need is a distraction,” he added, as if he’d read her mind. “A little taste of success. Take me, for example. With a little effort, you could probably win my heart. I’ll play hard to get, of course. I wouldn’t want you to think I’m easy. The challenge and the ultimate victory will do wonders for your self-esteem.”
Callie shook her head at the glib nonsense. “Maybe you’d better let me worry about my self-esteem. Your methods seem a little self-serving.”
“Isn’t that what you’ve been doing for the past few months? Sitting around here worrying about your self-esteem? Where has it gotten you?”
She had no ready response for that. Nor was she willing to tell him it had actually been six months, ever since she’d found out about the bimbo in spandex, as Terry had rather inaccurately dubbed her. Women like that wore cotton or very expensive silk. And dumb as they might be, they would almost never be described by anyone as bimbos, no matter how outrageously they behaved. Avoiding such a label was one of the privileges of class, she supposed.
“See, even you can’t deny that I’m right about this,” he said triumphantly when she remained silent. “I think you need an expert.”
“And you’re willing to sacrifice yourself on that particular altar?”
He deftly chopped up an onion and tossed it into the skillet. Only then did he glance her way. The heated, wicked gleam in his eyes could have melted steel, turned it right into a little puddle of molten metal.
“It would be my pleasure,” he said softly.
Callie’s already tremulous insides did yet another nervous little flip. Why in God’s name did brash, bold men like Jason Kane turn her otherwise intelligent brain to mush?
“And what do you get out of this bargain?” she asked.
“Sweetheart, I should think that’s obvious.”
Her chin set stubbornly. She was determined to have him spell it out for her. “Not to me.”
His gaze heated another ten degrees. “Satisfaction,” he said in a slow, lazy way that gave the word more interpretations than Webster had ever dreamed of.
Callie sank onto the closest chair and tried to keep from reaching for a towel to fan her suddenly overheated skin. Her reaction to Jason Kane was disturbing. Very disturbing. She was actually tempted to go along with this bargain of his—her ingrained Middle American moral fiber be damned.
“Bad idea,” she muttered under her breath.
Jason chuckled. “But you are thinking about it, aren’t you?” He tucked a finger under her chin and forced her to meet his gaze. “Tell the truth.”
“No,” she lied very firmly, looking straight into those challenging eyes. “Never in a million years.”
He laughed. “Sweetheart, you are seriously overestimating your willpower or underestimating my powers of persuasion.”
It was quite possible, Callie thought with a sigh of heartfelt regret, that he was right.
* * *
Dinner wasn’t nearly the disaster it might have been, Callie decided as she sipped a glass of wine a couple of hours later. Jason definitely knew his way around a kitchen, even hers. He should have looked a little silly with one of her ruffled aprons tied around his middle, but he was far too masculine for that. The pink gingham had merely shrouded one of the more fascinating parts of his anatomy, a part Callie had no business looking at, anyway.
She jerked her gaze away only to encounter a pair of gray eyes dancing with amusement.
“See anything you like?” he inquired.
“I was just wondering whether that tomato sauce would come out in the wash,” she retorted.
“Should I strip down so you can find out?”
“You wish. Besides, it’s only on the apron.”
“Oh, I’ll bet if I looked hard enough I could find a splash or two on my shirt, maybe a little dab on my pants,” he said with a wicked glint in his eyes. “I’m a messy cook.”
He sounded proud of the fact. “Is that the technique you always use to get out of your clothes right after dinner?” Callie asked.
“You have to admit it’s more original than saying I’m going to slip into something more comfortable. Women have been saying that for eons.”
“Maybe the women in your circle. When they’re not at work, my friends are almost always wearing the most comfortable clothes they own.”
He surveyed her denim cutoffs and oversize T-shirt. “So I’ve noticed. Is that the full extent of your wardrobe?”
“Actually, I was once one of Bloomingdale’s best customers. I have an entire closet filled with outrageously expensive power suits. However, I almost never wear them when sitting around the house, especially when I am not expecting company,” she added pointedly.
“Does that mean if I plan to take you to the theater tomorrow night, I should tell you now?”
“Unless you don’t mind being totally embarrassed by your date’s attire,” she said without thinking. When the implication of his question sank in, she promptly tensed. “Are you asking me to go to the theater?”
He paused as if to give the matter some thought, then nodded. “Sounded that way to me.”
“Why?”
“To see a play?” he suggested, as if he, too, were struggling to understand what had motivated the invitation.
Callie scowled at him. “I meant, why you and me?”
“Gee, that’s a tough one,” he taunted. “How about because I have tickets, I don’t have a date and you seem to be presentable enough.”
Disappointed despite herself by the mundane response, she muttered irritably, “That sort of flattery will win a girl’s heart every time.”
He grinned unrepentantly. “I told you I was going to play hard to get.”
Two could play at that game, Callie decided as a matter of self-preservation. Jason Kane clearly had ulterior motives up the wazoo, but there was no point in missing out on the theater because of them. She was confident she could hold her own in any battle of wits with him if she concentrated very hard on not falling prey to his charms.
“Comedy, drama or musical?” she demanded as if it truly mattered. The truth was, she loved it all. Broadway, off-Broadway, off-off-Broadway. She would have squandered half her income on tickets if she’d had the time to use them. She hadn’t been inside a theater, though, since she’d lost her job.
He tilted his head consideringly. “You strike me as a musical kind of gal.”
“Drama,” she retorted, to be perverse.
He plucked two tickets from his shirt pocket and held them out. They were for the Tony Award−winning drama currently on Broadway.
“Why did you get tickets for a drama if you thought I was a musical kind of girl?”
“Maybe I didn’t buy them for you,” he suggested mildly. “Or maybe I just knew you’d be perverse, say drama to spite me and I’d be able to catch you in your own trap.”
“Has anyone ever suggested to you that you have a devious mind?”
“Hourly,” he said with a note of pride. “And in most media reports describing my talents.”
“It’s not something I’d brag about if I were you,” she commented drily.
“So, do you want to have dinner before the theater or after?”
“Have I said I was going?”
“That’s a given. We’re talking about dinner.”
“After,” she said.
He grinned.
“Let me guess. You already have reservations for six.”
“Wrong. Reservations at Tavern on the Green for ten-thirty.”
Her expression brightened despite her attempts to control her reaction. “How did you know—”
“That it’s your favorite?”
“Never mind. Terry, of course.”
“In my business, it pays to do research,” he retorted, neither confirming nor denying his source.
“I thought you dealt with Nielsen and Arbitron, not the FBI.”
He chuckled. “Does the FBI have a file on your restaurant preferences?”
“If they’ve met Terry, they probably do,” she grumbled as Jason stood and held out his hand.
“Come on. Walk me out. I’d better let you get your beauty sleep.”
“Are you implying it will take eighteen hours or so of rest for me to look decent enough to be seen with you?”
“Actually, I was offering a polite excuse for my departure, even though I know you’d rather I stay here and ravage your body all night long.”
Indignation promptly roared through her. “Why you egotistical—”
“Tsk-tsk, is that any way to talk about the man who’s going to make you a star?”
“You’re not going to make me anything,” she shot right back in a determined effort to keep the game alive, even though she sensed it was all but over.
“We’ll see,” he murmured, leaving her still sputtering on the fourth-floor landing.
She leaned over the railing and shouted after him. “I’m a stockbroker, dammit!”
“You were a stockbroker,” he called from right outside Terry’s door, which immediately popped open.
“A lovers’ tiff?” Terry inquired.
“The first of many, I’m sure,” Jason agreed in a stage whisper designed to be heard in the rafters.
Callie wondered how much damage one of those many vases of flowers Jason had sent would do if she sent it crashing down on his head. Probably none. His head was clearly made of concrete.
It was a little late to change her mind and tell him not to bother showing up tomorrow night. Besides, why should she turn down a chance to see a play and to have an outrageously expensive meal at one of her favorite restaurants just to make a point? If he wanted to waste his money trying to bribe her into becoming an actress, so be it. It was probably all on his expense account, anyway. After the turnaround he’d accomplished at TGN, the network could afford it.
“Callie?”
At the sound of his voice, she peered over the railing once more. “What?”
“We’re out the door at seven-fifteen. I really hate to be late when the seats are front row center.”
“I am never late.”
“No last-minute primping.”
“I never primp.”
He grinned at that. “Can’t blame a man for hoping,” he said.
She would have grabbed the vase after that, but it was too late. He was already gone.
“Whew!” Terry murmured, moving into full view in the hall and gazing up at her. “Darling, if he weren’t so blatantly heterosexual, I might fall for him myself.”
“Maybe you should be ready at seven-fifteen tomorrow night, instead of me.”
Neil stuck his head out at that. “I don’t think so,” he said quietly. “If Terry spends any more time with people in television, his few remaining brain cells will rot. You go on your own date.”
“It’s not a date,” Callie declared.
“It sounded like a date to me,” Terry taunted. “Neil, what did it sound like to you?”
“Let’s see, you’re getting dressed up, going to the theater and then out to eat. Definitely a date,” he confirmed.
“A date is social, this is business,” Callie argued.
“Business is lunch at the Four Seasons,” Terry corrected. “A date is an attractive man asking an attractive woman to spend Saturday night with him.” He leered. “Al-l-l night long.”
Callie trembled despite herself. What worried her was the fact that Terry’s interpretation of Jason’s wicked intentions didn’t frighten her nearly as much as it should have. Somewhere deep inside she was apparently hoping that he was right.
