Temptation. Sherryl Woods
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why you’re here. I really don’t think there’s anything left to say,” she declared flatly, still from behind that firmly closed door. “I appreciate the offer, really I do, but it’s not for me.”
No was Jason’s least favorite word. He might say it a lot, but he rarely heard it. Rejection wasn’t even in his vocabulary. His determination mounted. “Perhaps I can change your mind,” he suggested with more modesty than his well-tested powers of persuasion called for.
“I don’t think so.”
“I’d like to try.”
“Really, there’s nothing you can say that all those other people haven’t said. That Freddie Cramer person was quite persistent.”
Persistent but unsuccessful, Jason thought derisively. Winning was the only thing he credited with any respect. “Five minutes,” he bargained.
“Will you go away, if I say no?” she inquired rather plaintively.
“Not likely.”
She muttered something decidedly unladylike. “Do you have some ID?”
He chuckled at the display of temper, even as he admired the caution. “Business card or photo ID?”
“Both, if you don’t mind.”
He slid his driver’s license and his embossed business card under the door. He sensed he was being studied through the tiny, round peephole. A minute later, he heard locks clicking and a chain being removed. His adrenaline kicked in as he waited for the door to open.
No stripper had ever been more adept at inspiring a man’s anticipation. His breath snagged in his throat as the door handle turned. His heartbeat escalated more than it had when he’d climbed those four flights of stairs.
And then he saw her.
Sweet heaven, she was a mess, he thought, his spirits sinking. If he’d been anticipating heaven, this was definitely hell. With a cool, practiced eye, he ignored the bizarre leap of his pulse and examined her critically from head to toe to see if the disaster was fixable.
She was wearing a once-red T-shirt that had apparently had an unfortunate encounter with some bleach. Her jeans were practically threadbare, which aroused his masculine curiosity but did little to accentuate her beauty. Her hair had gone way past the tousled look. Seemingly untouched recently by brush or comb, it appeared to have been styled by nervous fingers, or by an electrical jolt.
She looked bone-deep weary, cranky and about as far from sophisticated as it was possible for any woman to get. Crying, which he deduced was responsible for her nasal voice and her red-rimmed eyes, definitely did not become her. It also terrified him. He truly hated coping with a bawling female.
Worse, though, he couldn’t imagine a single, solitary viewer envying Calliope Jane Gunderson Smith.
Nor could he envision anyone wanting desperately for her to find true love in the arms of the soap’s hottest hunk—that Terence Walker. Walker looked a little muscle-bound to him, but the ratings among women eighteen to forty-nine suggested he was alone in his opinion.
At any rate, based on the raw material in front of him, it seemed unlikely that this woebegone waif, barely five feet two and unlikely to be more than a hundred pounds soaking wet, could be transformed into a femme fatale. What on earth had he seen when he’d viewed that video? For the first time in a very long time, Jason was forced to question his instincts. He was thoroughly unaccustomed to self-doubt. He didn’t like it.
Then he took a look into those cornflower-blue eyes. Even red-rimmed and puffy, they still sparkled, most likely with irritation. He lowered his glance to pursed lips so generous it was all he could do to tear his gaze away. Hope—and that something indefinable deep inside him—rebounded. He hadn’t been mistaken, after all. Fixing her up would definitely be a challenge of monumental proportions, the very kind he loved.
It was a good thing, too. He really hated being wrong. He’d always figured the day that golden gut of his failed him would be the day he needed to get out of the television industry and into something safe, maybe reopen his father’s plumbing business back in Virginia in memory of the man he’d loved and watched being destroyed by his mother. Given how he felt about the tedium of fixing leaks and installing copper pipes, he prayed daily that his instincts would last forever.
Before he could begin his persuasive sales pitch, Callie Smith crossed her arms over her meager chest and announced, “You’re wasting your time. I’m not an actress.”
“You were on Within Our Reach, though. Was that some sort of lark?” he asked, an unmistakable note of derision in his voice.
“Not exactly. Terry, that’s Terence Walker,” she added helpfully, as if he might be unfamiliar with his own show’s star. “He lives downstairs.”
Jason felt an odd surge of envy for the fortunate Terry. He couldn’t help wondering just how close the two of them were. Women all over the country were clamoring for more of the sexy actor. Were they after something on which Callie Smith already had a claim?
“Anyway,” she continued, “Terry thought it would give me something to focus on besides my unfortunate lack of employment and my divorce.”
Jason seized on the revelations. They didn’t answer his questions about her relationship with Terry Walker, but a woman with no income and no husband was a prime candidate for a contract with a couple of extra zeros tacked on to the offer. He promptly felt as if he were back on familiar turf. Negotiating a deal was right up there with good sex when it came to setting his adrenaline flowing.
“I’ve changed my mind,” he announced, noting the sudden dull flush that climbed into her cheeks.
She hugged her arms a little more tightly around her middle. “I’m not surprised. As I’m sure you can see, I’m really not star material.”
There was a note of defeat in her voice that made him feel like a heel for giving her a moment’s doubt about the future he envisioned for her. She might claim not to want the career he was offering, but she unmistakably needed the hope he was holding out.
“Not about hiring you,” he reassured her. “It’s just that negotiations this delicate, this promising, should take place over lunch.”
She drew herself up stiffly, pride radiating from every tiny pore. “I’m not starving, Mr. Kane. I can afford to buy food.”
“You may not be starving, Miss Smith, but I am. Talking money always makes me work up a big appetite.” He gestured toward the door. “Shall we?”
Her gaze went from his expensive, charcoal-gray suit to the white monogrammed cuffs just peeking out from the sleeves. She lingered on his Italian silk tie, then dropped her glance to the tips of his pricey leather loafers. The survey was so slow, so thorough, that Jason felt his blood heat, despite the fact that he knew its intent was more fashion assessment than seduction.
When she was done with her survey, she met his gaze. Her lips curved ever so slightly. “I really don’t think I’m dressed for lunch, do you?”
He grinned at the massive understatement and decided at once it was meant as a challenge. “You’ll do,” he said briskly.
She shook her head. “I don’t think so. People will think you took pity on some stray, homeless woman.”
“It will be good for my image,” he assured her. “Too many people think I’m coldhearted.”
She considered that, then nodded. “I suppose we could go to the place on the corner. The pizza’s not bad, though you don’t look much like a pizza kind of person.”
“Actually, I was thinking the Plaza,” he countered on sheer impulse. “The Oak Room, perhaps.”
“They’d throw me out on my ear,” she said with certainty.
“Not if you’re with me. Care to test it?”
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