Sherryl Woods - Not At Eight, Darling

A real-life romance hits the small screen in this acclaimed story from New York Times bestselling author Sherryl Woods

Barrie MacDonald gave everyone involved with the TV sitcom she produced consistently high ratings—except executive Michael Compton. Charmingly persuasive, Michael was clearly interested in Barrie, but he also wanted to reschedule her show, which would be a disaster.

Was Barrie’s commitment to the program worth her tuning Michael out completely? She wasn’t sure she could deny their attraction. But when she realized the romance of her on-screen heroine was beginning to echo Barrie’s real-life dilemmas, she felt that things were getting out of control!

Not at Eight, Darling

Sherryl Woods

www.millsandboon.co.uk

Cover

Back Cover Text A real-life romance hits the small screen in this acclaimed story from New York Times bestselling author Sherryl Woods Barrie MacDonald gave everyone involved with the TV sitcom she produced consistently high ratings—except executive Michael Compton. Charmingly persuasive, Michael was clearly interested in Barrie, but he also wanted to reschedule her show, which would be a disaster. Was Barrie’s commitment to the program worth her tuning Michael out completely? She wasn’t sure she could deny their attraction. But when she realized the romance of her on-screen heroine was beginning to echo Barrie’s real-life dilemmas, she felt that things were getting out of control!

Title Page Not at Eight, Darling Sherryl Woods www.millsandboon.co.uk

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Copyright

The only sound in the hushed, cavernous television studio was the increasingly rapid, evidently angry tapping of Barrie MacDonald’s pen against the metal top of a makeshift conference table. Then, as a dozen people looked on in anxious and surprisingly silent anticipation, she dropped the memo she’d been reading, peered over the top of her oversized glasses with indignant brown eyes and spoke in a voice that, she noted proudly, was quiet and controlled. It was not at all like the scream of pure frustration she wanted to unleash on poor, unsuspecting Kevin Porterfield.

“Kevin, dear, did you read this?”

The young man gulped nervously. “Of course, Miss MacDonald.”

“Then you know how utterly absurd it is,” she said softly. She actually sounded calm. Amazing. “I will not add a sheepdog to the cast of Goodbye, Again , just because some crazy demographic study shows that kids like sheepdogs.”

Several members of the cast gasped as eyebrows lifted toward the ceiling in a disgusted, what-did-you-expect expression. Others simply giggled. If the memo hadn’t sounded so incredibly serious, Barrie might have laughed herself. Instead she managed an expression she hoped would put the fear of God into this…this Yuppie who was still wet behind the ears and who was staring at her now with a look that teetered between misery and smug satisfaction. It was actually a rather amazing combination, and she wondered for a fleeting second how he managed it. If he could do it on command, he might make a decent actor.

“But Miss MacDonald…” he began again.

“That’s all there is to it, Kevin,” she interrupted firmly. “End of discussion.”

“But Miss MacDonald, I’m afraid Mr. Compton was adamant. The show has to have a dog. The research shows that dogs…”

“I know what the bloody research shows, Kevin,” she said, her voice beginning to rise toward a less-than-serene screech, despite her best efforts to control it. She took a deep, relaxing breath—precisely as she’d learned in her stress reduction class—and added more gently, “If the research showed that viewers liked ax murders, would you expect me to put one of those in each week, too?”

Kevin looked at her indignantly. “Of course not.”

“Then don’t talk to me about research. Have you read the script for this show, Kevin? We are talking adult situation comedy here. We are talking relationships. Funny, sophisticated relationships. We are not talking dog food commercials.”

Poor Kevin turned absolutely pale, but Barrie was not about to relent and let him off the hook. She had created Goodbye, Again . It was her statement about the transitory nature of romance in the 80s, about her values. There was an awful lot of her in the single, independent, fiesty heroine. Each time Karen Devereaux spoke, Barrie felt as though it was an echo of her own thoughts. Goodbye, Again had been born of her beliefs, and she had spent three long, agonizing years trying to get it on the air. She was not about to let these mindless, research-oriented twits destroy it on the first day of production. If she gave in on the dog, next week they’d want to add kids, and the week after that her lead character would be married and pregnant, and there would be a whole disgustingly cheery episode revolving around diapers and baby food. Well, they could take their blasted market research and stuff it!

Aloud, she said none of this. Exercising what she considered to be Emmy-Award-winning restraint, she murmured pleasantly, “Now you run along and explain that to Mr. Compton, dear. I’m sure he’ll understand.”

“Understand what?”

The question, asked in a low, velvet-smooth tone, came from the back of the studio. It was exactly the sort of warm, soothing, sensual voice that radio stations liked to have on the air in the wee hours of the morning to stir the imagination of their female listeners. Despite her instinctive, sinking feeling that the voice belonged to Michael Compton, Barrie’s own heart lurched at the seductive sound. Then it had a far more sensible reaction. It slammed against her ribs in sheer panic.

Michael Compton, the recently appointed network vice president for programming, was a man who reportedly dissected into tiny, insignificant pieces the people who dared to question his orders. Barrie wondered how much of her conversation with Kevin he’d overheard. Not that she’d change a word of it, she thought stoutly. It would just be nice to know exactly how much trouble she was in.

She had to admit that the man’s timing was impeccable. “Just when I’ve got the battle under control, the enemy general has to show up with reinforcements,” she muttered resignedly under her breath.

She should have anticipated something like this. The day had not gone well since the alarm clock had jarred her awake at daybreak. In fact, on a scale of one to ten, it ranked somewhere on the minus side of the ledger. First she had inadvertently washed one of her new soft contact lenses down the drain, leaving her to choose between blinking nearsightedness or the huge old rose-tinted glasses that made her look a bit like an owl. Then her hairdryer had sparked and sizzled to an abrupt halt, leaving her frosted ash-brown hair to dry naturally to a curly tangle, rather than the smoother style she preferred. Her windshield wipers had broken in the middle of a downpour, and she’d had to creep along the L.A. freeway, arriving at the studio an hour late. And finally, she had snagged her new hose as she was getting out of her sporty fire-engine-red Sentra in the parking lot. The run had made its way from her ankle to her thigh in less time than it had taken her to utter a satisfying string of obscenities under her breath.