Sherryl Woods - Not At Eight, Darling

“Well?”

“Don’t you ever knock?”

“Rarely,” she retorted easily, obviously not the least bit put off by Barrie’s grumpiness. “Why are you in such a snit? Didn’t your dinner with the scrumptious Michael Compton go well?”

“Dinner was just fine,” Barrie admitted honestly. “The problem came after dinner.”

Danielle’s gray eyes immediately narrowed. “Ohhh…” she began softly. Then her voice heated up angrily. “Why, the absolute gall of that man! Did he come on to you? File charges. That’s what you should do. File charges. You can’t let him get away with that.”

“Whoa! You sound like an ambulance chaser. Do you have an attorney someplace who needs a case?” Barrie responded, chuckling at her friend’s immediate rush to her defense. She reassured her, “It was nothing like that.”

“He didn’t come on to you?” Danielle’s tone teetered between disappointment and skepticism.

Barrie’s expression softened as she recalled in precise and blood-stirring detail Michael’s almost casual advances, his seductive promises. “I wouldn’t say that exactly,” she admitted. “But it wasn’t like what you meant.”

“You mean you liked it.”

“No, I didn’t like it,” Barrie said defensively. “I mean, it was okay. Oh, I don’t know what I mean.”

“He got to you, didn’t he?” Danielle said triumphantly. “I knew it. I knew you wouldn’t be able to resist those thighs.”

“Damn it, Dani, it is not what you think!” There was an almost plaintive note in her protest. Michael Compton was the network vice president for programming, her boss, and that was all. It had to be. She was not going to let Danielle or her own skittering pulse rate tell her otherwise.

“Then what was the problem?”

“He’s moving the show to eight o’clock on Saturday,” she said in a rush of words, grateful to change the subject to one she knew would completely distract Danielle from her pursuit of the intimate details of her dinner with Michael.

Her announcement had the desired effect. Danielle was clearly shocked. “You can’t be serious!”

“Oh, but I am. He thinks a really fantastic contemporary show can pull in a young adult audience. He virtually challenged me to prove Goodbye, Again is good enough to do it.”

“And, of course, you fell right into his trap?”

“Trap? You mean did I agree to go along with him to get the series on the air? You’re damn right I did,” Barrie retorted heatedly. “I fought too long for this chance. I wasn’t about to throw it away, just because the network pulled a stupid stunt like this. We can make the show work for eight o’clock.”

“How?” Danielle sounded disgustingly pessimistic.

“By forgetting about the time slot and just doing a good television series. If it’s funny at nine-thirty, it’ll be just as funny at eight.”

“Maybe on Wednesday, sweetie. Not on Saturday. On Saturday it had better be hysterical.”

Barrie sighed. “So get Heath in here and start making it hysterical.”

“That’s your job. I’m only the director.” Barrie glared at her, but before she could respond, the phone rang. When Barrie answered, she was greeted by the low, deep murmur of Michael’s voice.

“Good morning, Barrie MacDonald.” He sounded just as seductive this morning as he had on parting last night. Barrie’s heart thundered loudly in her ears as she realized how easy it would be to become addicted to starting and ending her days like this.

“Good morning,” she said calmly, unaware that her knuckles were turning white from clutching the receiver so tightly.

“Michael?” Danielle mouthed the name silently. At Barrie’s nod, she grinned smugly, rose and tiptoed to the door. “I’ll leave you alone,” she whispered significantly as she waved cheerfully. Barrie had the oddest desire to strangle her.

“Barrie, are you there?”

“What?” she snapped, then softened her tone. “Yes, I’m here.”

“Is everything okay?” He sounded genuinely concerned and somewhat puzzled.

“Everything’s just fine, Mr. Compton. Why shouldn’t it be?”

“You sound funny. And you’re still calling me Mr. Compton. Are you upset about something?”

Barrie took a deep breath. “I am not upset… Michael,” she protested tightly. “What do you want?”

“I want to see you.”

“About what?” she asked cautiously.

He chuckled softly. “The usual,” he taunted. “Do you always cross-examine a man who’s asking you for a date?”

“I didn’t realize that’s what you had in mind,” she said defensively. “We do have a business relationship, too, you know.”

“Yes, I’m aware of that. It does tend to cloud the issue, doesn’t it? Would you prefer it if I limited my professional calls to the workday and made my personal calls after hours?” he offered cheerfully.

Barrie promptly felt foolish and lightened her tone. “That assumes that both of us work predictable, normal hours. When was the last time you came in at nine and left at five?”

He paused for several seconds. “When I had the flu in 1977,” he recalled at last. “I see your point. Where does that leave us?”

“I guess you’d better just state your business more clearly. For instance, you might suggest that we get together one evening for dinner and dancing. That is clearly a date,” she explained.

“What if I ask you to go to a screening? Is that business or pleasure?”

“If you play your cards right, it could be both.” Barrie heard the teasing comment as it came out of her mouth, and she cringed. She was asking for trouble, begging for it, in fact.

“Oh, really?” he said in a voice that suddenly lowered to a husky growl. “That sounds promising.”

“Have any screenings lined up?” she taunted.

“Not for weeks.”

“Too bad.”

“How about dinner, then? I’ll even cook.”

“You’re going to cook?” she retorted skeptically. “Is that the modern day equivalent of an invitation to view etchings?”

“Not in my case,” he objected. “I take my skills as a chef seriously. I even have a food processor and a convection oven. So, how about it?”

“When?”

“Tonight.”

Barrie gulped nervously. This was exactly the sort of contemporary fast-paced plunge-right-in courting she’d always believed in and had built into the concept for her series. No games, no promises, no commitment. Just dinner with a highly charged hint that passion was on the menu. So why did she want to shout that tonight was entirely too soon? Why did she have this persistent, nagging fear that men like this, men who swept you off your feet with a rush of attention, often dropped you in the dust just as quickly. It shouldn’t matter one whit to her if Michael Compton walked into her life today and out tomorrow. In today’s world you were supposed to shrug, say thanks for the memories and goodbye.

Barrie shivered. She’d gotten to be very good at goodbyes. Her father had taken off more frequently than the flights from Los Angeles International Airport. Each time Barrie had watched her mother’s reserves of strength crumble a little more. She had sworn she would never be in that position and that no man would ever matter that much. She had built up defenses that would have made the combined forces of the army, navy and marines proud.

With all that practice at self-protection, she could have dinner again with Michael Compton, she decided resolutely. Tonight or next week. It wouldn’t make any difference. She was perfectly capable of keeping her emotions in check.

“Tonight’s just fine,” she said firmly, then wondered at the little thrill of anticipation that rippled along her spine. It was not the response of a woman who was indifferent. It was another clear-as-a-bell warning signal, and she was paying absolutely no attention to it. She had to be crazy.