Главная страница | Эзотерика, оккультизм | Mind Over Matter: the classic story from the queen of romance that you won’t be able to put down

Mind Over Matter: the classic story from the queen of romance that you won’t be able to put down
Nora Roberts


THE INTERNATIONAL BESTSELLING AUTHOR‘The most successful novelist on Planet Earth’ Washington PostTheatrical agent Aurora Fields has always kept her personal life separate from her professional one, but that changes the moment she meets David Brady.David can tell that Aurora’s icy exterior is just a front, and he’s determined to discover what secrets she’s hiding. Men like David have never been an issue for Aurora before; she’s usually immune to their charms. So what is it about David that leaves her heart reeling?Nora Roberts is a publishing phenomenon; this New York Times bestselling author of over 200 novels has more than 450 million of her books in print worldwide.Praise for Nora Roberts‘A storyteller of immeasurable diversity and talent’ Publisher’s Weekly‘You can’t bottle wish fulfilment, but Nora Roberts certainly knows how to put it on the page.’ New York Times‘Everything Nora Roberts writes turns to gold.’Romantic Times.‘Roberts’ bestselling novels are… thoughtfully plotted, well-written stories featuring fascinating characters.’ USA Today









Mind Over Matter

Nora Roberts







www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)


Theatrical agent Aurora Fields kept her personal life strictly separate from her professional one, but lines were crossed the moment she met David Brady. He had asked her client to participate in his documentary on paranormal phenomena. Aurora agreed, but she stayed on hand to protect the woman from exploitation as fiercely as a mother tigress.

Somehow David saw that Aurora's tough self-image was a little soft around the edges, and he was determined to discover what she was trying to hide. He'd always considered himself a good judge of people, so why did each moment he spent with Aurora leave her as enigmatic—and enticing—as before?




Contents


Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12




1


He’d expected a crystal ball, pentagrams and a few tea leaves. Burning candles and incense wouldn’t have surprised him. Though he wouldn’t admit it to anyone, he’d actually looked forward to it. As a producer of documentaries for public television, David Brady dealt in hard facts and meticulous research. Anything and everything that went into one of his productions was checked and rechecked, most often personally. The truth was, he’d thought an afternoon with a fortune teller would bring him a refreshing, even comic, relief from the daily pressure of scripts, storyboards and budgets. She didn’t even wear a turban.

The woman who opened the door of the comfortable suburban home in Newport Beach looked as though she would more likely be found at a bridge table than a séance. She smelled of lilacs and dusting powder, not musk and mystery. David’s impression that she was housekeeper or companion to the renowned psychic was immediately disabused.

“Hello.” She offered a small, attractive hand and a smile. “I’m Clarissa DeBasse. Please come in, Mr. Brady. You’re right on time.”

“Miss DeBasse.” David adjusted his thinking and accepted her hand. He’d done enough research so far to be prepared for the normalcy of people involved in the paranormal. “I appreciate your seeing me. Should I wonder how you know who I am?”

As their hands linked, she let impressions of him come and go, to be sorted out later. Intuitively she felt he was a man she could trust and rely on. It was enough for the moment. “I could claim precognition, but I’m afraid it’s simple logic. You were expected at one-thirty.” Her agent had called to remind her, or Clarissa would still be knee-deep in her vegetable garden. “I suppose it’s possible you’re carrying brushes and samples in that briefcase, but I have the feeling it’s papers and contracts. Now I’m sure you’d like some coffee after your drive down from L.A.”

“Right again.” He stepped into a cozy living room with pretty blue curtains and a wide couch that sagged noticeably in the middle.

“Sit down, Mr. Brady. I just brought the tray out, so the coffee’s hot.”

Deciding the couch was unreliable, David chose a chair and waited while Clarissa sat across from him and poured coffee into two mismatched cups and saucers. It took him only a moment to study and analyze. He was a man who leaned heavily on first impressions. She looked, as she offered cream and sugar, like anyone’s favorite aunt—rounded without being really plump, neat without being stiff. Her face was soft and pretty and had lined little in fifty-odd years. Her pale blond hair was cut stylishly and showed no gray, which David attributed to her hairdresser. She was entitled to her vanity, he thought. When she offered the cup, he noted the symphony of rings on her hands. That, at least, was in keeping with the image he had projected.

“Thank you. Miss DeBasse, I have to tell you, you’re not at all what I expected.”

Comfortable with herself, she settled back. “You were expecting me to greet you at the door with a crystal ball in my hands and a raven on my shoulder.”

The amusement in her eyes would have had some men shifting in their chairs. David only lifted a brow. “Something like that.” He sipped his coffee. The fact that it was hot was the only thing going for it. “I’ve read quite a bit about you in the past few weeks. I also saw a tape of your appearance on The Barrow Show.” He probed gently for the right phrasing. “You have a different image on camera.”

“That’s showbiz,” she said so casually he wondered if she was being sarcastic. Her eyes remained clear and friendly. “I don’t generally discuss business, particularly at home, but since it seemed important that you see me, I thought we’d be more comfortable this way.” She smiled again, showing the faintest of dimples in her cheeks. “I’ve disappointed you.”

“No.” And he meant it. “No, you haven’t.” Because his manners went only so far, he put the coffee down. “Miss DeBasse—”

“Clarissa.” She beamed such a bright smile at him he had no trouble returning it.

“Clarissa, I want to be honest with you.”

“Oh, that’s always best.” Her voice was soft and sincere as she folded her hands on her lap.

“Yeah.” The childlike trust in her eyes threw him for a moment. If she was a hard-edged, money-oriented con, she was doing a good job disguising it. “I’m a very practical man. Psychic phenomena, clairvoyance, telepathy and that sort of thing, don’t fit into my day-to-day life.”

She only smiled at him, understanding. Whatever thoughts came into her head remained there. This time David did shift in his chair.

“I decided to do this series on parapsychology mainly for its entertainment value.”

“You don’t have to apologize.” She lifted her hand just as a large black cat leaped into her lap. Without looking at it, Clarissa stroked it from head to tail. “You see, David, someone in my position understands perfectly the doubts and the fascination people have for…such things. I’m not a radical.” As the cat curled up in her lap, she continued to pet it, looking calm and content. “I’m simply a person who’s been given a gift, and a certain responsibility.”

“A responsibility?” He started to reach in his pocket for his cigarettes, then noticed there were no ashtrays.

“Oh, yes.” As she spoke, Clarissa opened the drawer of the coffee table and took out a small blue dish. “You can use this,” she said in passing, then settled back again. “A young boy might receive a toolbox for his birthday. It’s a gift. He has choices to make. He can use his new tools to learn, to build, to repair. He can also use them to saw the legs off tables. He could also put the toolbox in his closet and forget about it. A great many of us do the last, because the tools are too complicated or simply too overwhelming. Have you ever had a psychic experience, David?”

He lit a cigarette. “No.”

“No?” There weren’t many people who would give such a definitive no. “Never a sense of déjà vu, perhaps?”

He paused a moment, interested. “I suppose everyone’s had a sense of doing something before, being somewhere before. A feeling of mixed signals.”

“Perhaps. Intuition, then.”

“You consider intuition a psychic gift?”

“Oh, yes.” Enthusiasm lit her face and made her eyes young. “Of course it depends entirely on how it’s developed, how it’s channeled, how it’s used. Most of us use only a fraction of what we have because our minds are so crowded with other things.”

“Was it impulse that led you to Matthew Van Camp?”

A shutter seemed to come down over her eyes. “No.”

Again he found her puzzling. The Van Camp case was the one that had brought her prominently into the public eye. He would have thought she would have been anxious to speak of it, elaborate, yet she seemed to close down at the mention of the name. David blew out smoke and noticed that the cat was watching him with bored but steady eyes. “Clarissa, the Van Camp case is ten years old, but it’s still one of the most celebrated and controversial of your successes.”

“That’s true. Matthew is twenty now. A very handsome young man.”

“There are some who believe he’d be dead if Mrs. Van Camp hadn’t fought both her husband and the police to have you brought in on the kidnapping.”

“And there are some who believe the entire thing was staged for publicity,” she said so calmly as she sipped from her cup. “Alice Van Camp’s next movie was quite a box-office success. Did you see the film? It was wonderful.”

He wasn’t a man to be eased off-track when he’d already decided on a destination. “Clarissa, if you agree to be part of this documentary, I’d like you to talk about the Van Camp case.”

She frowned a bit, pouted almost, as she petted her cat. “I don’t know if I can help you there, David. It was a very traumatic experience for the Van Camps, very traumatic. Bringing it all up again could be painful for them.”

He hadn’t reached his level of success without knowing how and when to negotiate. “If the Van Camps agreed?”

“Oh, then that’s entirely different.” While she considered, the cat stirred in her lap, then began to purr loudly. “Yes, entirely different. You know, David, I admire your work. I saw your documentary on child abuse. It was gripping and very upsetting.”

“It was meant to be.”

“Yes, exactly.” She could have told him a great deal of the world was upsetting, but didn’t think he was ready to understand how she knew, and how she dealt with it. “What is it you’re looking for with this?”

“A good show.” When she smiled he was sure he’d been right not to try to con her. “One that’ll make people think and question.”

“Will you?”

He tapped out his cigarette. “I produce. How much I question I suppose depends on you.”

It seemed like not only the proper answer, but the truest one. “I like you, David. I think I’d like to help you.”

“I’m glad to hear that. You’ll want to look over the contract and—”

“No.” She cut him off as he reached for his briefcase. “Details.” She explained them away with a gesture of her hand. “I let my agent bother with those things.”

“Fine.” He’d feel more comfortable discussing terms with an agent. “I’ll send them over if you give me a name.”

“The Fields Agency in Los Angeles.”

She’d surprised him again. The comfortable auntlike lady had one of the most influential and prestigious agencies on the Coast. “I’ll have them sent over this afternoon. I’d enjoy working with you, Clarissa.”

“May I see your palm?”

Every time he thought he had her cataloged, she shifted on him. Still, humoring her was easy. David offered his hand. “Am I going to take an ocean voyage?”

She was neither amused nor offended. Though she took his hand, palm up, she barely glanced at it. Instead she studied him with eyes that seemed abruptly cool. She saw a man in his early thirties, attractive in a dark, almost brooding way despite the well-styled black hair and casually elegant clothes. The bones in his face were strong, angular enough to warrant a second glance. His brows were thick, as black as his hair, and dominated surprisingly quiet eyes. Or their cool, pale green appeared quiet at first glance. She saw a mouth that was firm, full enough to gain a woman’s attention. The hand in hers was wide, long fingered, artistic. It vied with a rangy, athletic build. But she saw beyond that.

“You’re a very strong man, physically, emotionally, intellectually.”

“Thank you.”

“Oh, I don’t flatter, David.” It was a gentle, almost maternal reproof. “You haven’t yet learned how to temper this strength with tenderness in your relationships. I suppose that’s why you’ve never married.”

She had his attention now, reluctantly. But he wasn’t wearing a ring, he reminded himself. And anyone who cared to find out about his marital status had only to make a few inquiries. “The standard response is I’ve never met the right woman.”

“In this case it’s perfectly true. You need to find someone every bit as strong as you are. You will, sooner than you think. It won’t be easy, of course, and it will only work between you if you both remember the tenderness I just spoke of.”

“So I’m going to meet the right woman, marry and live happily ever after?”

“I don’t tell the future, ever.” Her expression changed again, becoming placid. “And I only read palms of people who interest me. Shall I tell you what my intuition tells me, David?”

“Please.”

“That you and I are going to have an interesting and long-term relationship.” She patted his hand before she released it. “I’m going to enjoy that.”

“So am I.” He rose. “I’ll see you again, Clarissa.”

“Yes. Yes, of course.” She rose and nudged the cat onto the floor. “Run along now, Mordred.”

“Mordred?” David repeated as the cat jumped up to settle himself on the sagging sofa cushion.

“Such a sad figure in folklore,” Clarissa explained. “I always felt he got a bad deal. After all, we can’t escape our destiny, can we?”

For the second time David felt her cool, oddly intimate gaze on him. “I suppose not,” he murmured, and let her lead him to the door.

“I’ve so enjoyed our chat, David. Please come back again.”

David stepped out into the warm spring air and wondered why he felt certain he would.



“Of course he’s an excellent producer, Abe. I’m just not sure he’s right for Clarissa.”

A. J. Fields paced around her office in the long, fluid gait that always masked an overflow of nervous energy. She stopped to straighten a picture that was slightly tilted before she turned back to her associate. Abe Ebbitt was sitting with his hands folded on his round belly, as was his habit. He didn’t bother to push back the glasses that had fallen down his nose. He watched A.J. patiently before he reached up to scratch one of the two clumps of hair on either side of his head.

“A.J., the offer is very generous.”

“She doesn’t need the money.”

His agent’s blood shivered at the phrase, but he continued to speak calmly. “The exposure.”

“Is it the right kind of exposure?”

“You’re too protective of Clarissa, A.J.”

“That’s what I’m here for,” she countered. Abruptly she stopped, and sat on the corner of her desk. When Abe saw her brows draw together, he fell silent. He might speak to her when she was in this mood, but she wouldn’t answer. He respected and admired her. Those were the reasons he, a veteran Hollywood agent, was working for the Fields Agency, instead of carving up the town on his own. He was old enough to be her father, and realized that a decade before their roles would have been reversed. The fact that he worked for her didn’t bother him in the least. The best, he was fond of saying, never minded answering to the best. A minute passed, then two.

“She’s made up her mind to do it,” A.J. muttered, but again Abe remained silent. “I just—” Have a feeling, she thought. She hated to use that phrase. “I just hope it isn’t a mistake. The wrong director, the wrong format, and she could be made to look like a fool. I won’t have that, Abe.”

“You’re not giving Clarissa enough credit. You know better than to let your emotions color a business deal, A.J.”

“Yeah, I know better.” That’s why she was the best. A.J. folded her arms and reminded herself of it. She’d learned at a very young age how to channel emotion. It had been more than necessary; it had been vital. When you grew up in a house where your widowed mother often forgot little details like the mortgage payment, you learned how to deal with business in a businesslike way or you went under. She was an agent because she enjoyed the wheeling and dealing. And because she was damn good at it. Her Century City office with its lofty view of Los Angeles was proof of just how good. Still, she hadn’t gotten there by making deals blindly.

“I’ll decide after I meet with Brady this afternoon.”

Abe grinned at her, recognizing the look. “How much more are you going to ask for?”

“I think another ten percent.” She picked up a pencil and tapped it against her palm. “But first I intend to find out exactly what’s going into this documentary and what angles he’s going for.”

“Word is Brady’s tough.”

She sent him a deceptively sweet smile that had fire around the edges. “Word is so am I.”

“He hasn’t got a prayer.” He rose, tugging at his belt. “I’ve got a meeting. Let me know how it goes.”

“Sure.” She was already frowning at the wall when he closed the door.

David Brady. The fact that she personally admired his work would naturally influence her decision. Still, at the right time and for the right fee, she would sign a client to play a tea bag in a thirty-second local commercial. Clarissa was a different matter. Clarissa DeBasse had been her first client. Her only client, A.J. remembered, during those first lean years. If she was protective of her, as Abe had said, A.J. felt she had a right to be. David Brady might be a successful producer of quality documentaries for public television, but he had to prove himself to A. J. Fields before Clarissa signed on the dotted line.

There’d been a time when A.J. had had to prove herself. She hadn’t started out with a staff of fifteen in an exclusive suite of offices. Ten years before, she’d been scrambling for clients and hustling deals from an office that had consisted of a phone booth outside a corner deli. She’d lied about her age. Not too many people had been willing to trust their careers to an eighteen-year-old. Clarissa had.

A.J. gave a little sigh as she worked out a kink in her shoulder. Clarissa didn’t really consider what she did, or what she had, a career as much as a calling. It was up to A.J. to haggle over the details.

She was used to it. Her mother had always been such a warm, generous woman. But details had never been her strong point. As a child, it had been up to A.J. to remember when the bills were due. She’d balanced the checkbook, discouraged door-to-door salesmen and juggled her schoolwork with the household budget. Not that her mother was a fool, or neglectful of her daughter. There had always been love, conversation and interest. But their roles had so often been reversed. It was the mother who would claim the stray puppy had followed her home and the daughter who had worried how to feed it.

Still, if her mother had been different, wouldn’t A.J. herself be different? That was a question that surfaced often. Destiny was something that couldn’t be outmaneuvered. With a laugh, A.J. rose. Clarissa would love that one, she mused.

Walking around her desk, she let herself sink into the deep, wide-armed chair her mother had given her. The chair, unlike the heavy, clean-lined desk, was extravagant and impractical. Who else would have had a chair made in cornflower-blue leather because it matched her daughter’s eyes?

A.J. realigned her thoughts and picked up the DeBasse contract. It was in the center of a desk that was meticulously in order. There were no photographs, no flowers, no cute paperweights. Everything on or in her desk had a purpose, and the purpose was business.

She had time to give the contract one more thorough going-over before her appointment with David Brady. Before she met with him, she would understand every phrase, every clause and every alternative. She was just making a note on the final clause, when her buzzer rang. Still writing, A.J. cradled the phone at her ear.

“Yes, Diane.”

“Mr. Brady’s here, A.J.”

“Okay. Any fresh coffee?”

“We have sludge at the moment. I can make some.”

“Only if I buzz you. Bring him back, Diane.”

She turned her notepad back to the first page, then rose as the door opened. “Mr. Brady.” A.J. extended her hand, but stayed behind her desk. It was, she’d learned, important to establish certain positions of power right from the start. Besides, the time it took him to cross the office gave her an opportunity to study and judge. He looked more like someone she might have for a client than a producer. Yes, she was certain she could have sold that hard, masculine look and rangy walk. The laconic, hard-boiled detective on a weekly series; the solitary, nomadic cowboy in a feature film. Pity.

David had his own chance for study. He hadn’t expected her to be so young. She was attractive in that streamlined, no-nonsense sort of way he could respect professionally and ignore personally. Her body seemed almost too slim in the sharply tailored suit that was rescued from dullness by a fire-engine-red blouse. Her pale blond hair was cut in a deceptively casual style that shagged around the ears, then angled back to sweep her collar. It suited the honey-toned skin that had been kissed by the sun—or a sunlamp. Her face was oval, her mouth just short of being too wide. Her eyes were a rich blue, accentuated by clever smudges of shadow and framed now with oversize glasses. Their hands met, held and released as hands in business do dozens of times every day.

“Please sit down, Mr. Brady. Would you like some coffee?”

“No, thank you.” He took a chair and waited until she settled behind the desk. He noticed that she folded her hands over the contract. No rings, no bracelets, he mused. Just a slender, black-banded watch. “It seems we have a number of mutual acquaintances, Ms. Fields. Odd that we haven’t met before.”

“Yes, isn’t it?” She gave him a small, noncommittal smile. “But, then, as an agent, I prefer staying in the background. You met Clarissa DeBasse.”

“Yes, I did.” So they’d play stroll around the bush for a while, he decided, and settled back. “She’s charming. I have to admit, I’d expected someone, let’s say, more eccentric.”

This time A.J.’s smile was both spontaneous and generous. If David had been thinking about her on a personal level, his opinion would have changed. “Clarissa is never quite what one expects. Your project sounds interesting, Mr. Brady, but the details I have are sketchy. I’d like you to tell me just what it is you plan to produce.”

“A documentary on psychic phenomena, or psi, as I’m told it’s called in studies, touching on clairvoyance, parapsychology, ESP, palmistry, telepathy and spiritualism.”

“Séances and haunted houses, Mr. Brady?”

He caught the faint disapproval in her tone and wondered about it. “For someone with a psychic for a client, you sound remarkably cynical.”

“My client doesn’t talk to departed souls or read tea leaves.” A.J. sat back in the chair in a way she knew registered confidence and position. “Miss DeBasse has proved herself many times over to be an extraordinarily sensitive woman. She’s never claimed to have supernatural powers.”

“Supernormal.”

She drew in a quiet breath. “You’ve done your homework. Yes, ‘supernormal’ is the correct term. Clarissa doesn’t believe in overstatements.”

“Which is one of the reasons I want Clarissa DeBasse for my program.”

A.J. noted the easy use of the possessive pronoun. Not the program, but my program. David Brady obviously took his work personally. So much the better, she decided. Then he wouldn’t care to look like a fool. “Go on.”

“I’ve talked to mediums, palmists, entertainers, scientists, parapsychologists and carnival gypsies. You’d be amazed at the range of personalities.”

A.J. stuck her tongue in her cheek. “I’m sure I would.”

Though he noticed her amusement, he let it pass. “They run from the obviously fake to the absolutely sincere. I’ve spoken with heads of parapsychology departments in several well-known institutions. Every one of them mentioned Clarissa’s name.”

“Clarissa’s been generous with herself.” Again he thought he detected slight disapproval. “Particularly in the areas of research and testing.”

And there would be no ten percent there. He decided that explained her attitude. “I intend to show possibilities, ask questions. The audience will come up with its own answers. In the five one-hour segments I have, I’ll have room to touch on everything from cold spots to tarot cards.”

In a gesture she’d thought she’d conquered long ago, she drummed her fingers on the desk. “And where does Miss DeBasse fit in?”

She was his ace in the hole. But he wasn’t ready to play her yet. “Clarissa is a recognizable name. A woman who’s ‘proved herself,’ to use your phrase, to be extraordinarily sensitive. Then there’s the Van Camp case.”

Frowning, A.J. picked up a pencil and began to run it through her fingers. “That was ten years ago.”

“The child of a Hollywood star is kidnapped, snatched from his devoted nanny as he plays in the park. The ransom call demands a half a million. The mother’s frantic—the police are baffled. Thirty-six hours pass without a clue as the boy’s parents desperately try to get the cash together. Over the father’s objection, the mother calls a friend, a woman who did her astrological chart and occasionally reads palms. The woman comes, of course, and sits for an hour holding some of the boy’s things—his baseball glove, a stuffed toy, the pajama top he’d worn to bed the night before. At the end of that hour, the woman gives the police a description of the boy’s kidnappers and the exact location of the house where he’s being held. She even describes the room where he’s being held, down to the chipped paint on the ceiling. The boy sleeps in his own bed that night.”

David pulled out a cigarette, lit it and blew out smoke, while A.J. remained silent. “Ten years doesn’t take away that kind of impact, Ms. Fields. The audience will be just as fascinated today as they were then.”

It shouldn’t have made her angry. It was sheer foolishness to respond that way. A.J. continued to sit silently as she worked back the surge of temper. “A great many people call the Van Camp case a fraud. Dredging that up after ten years will only dredge up more criticism.”

“A woman in Clarissa’s position must have to deal with criticism continually.” He saw the flare come into her eyes—fierce and fast.

“That may be, but I have no intention of allowing her to sign a contract that guarantees it. I have no intention of seeing my client on a televised trial.”

“Hold it.” He had a temper of his own and could respect hers—if he understood it. “Clarissa goes on trial every time she’s in the public eye. If her abilities can’t stand up to cameras and questions, she shouldn’t be doing what she does. As her agent, I’d think you’d have a stronger belief in her competence.”

“My beliefs aren’t your concern.” Intending to toss him and his contract out, A.J. started to rise, when the phone interrupted her. With an indistinguishable oath, she lifted the receiver. “No calls, Diane. No—oh.” A.J. set her teeth and composed herself. “Yes, put her on.”

“Oh, I’m so sorry to bother you at work, dear.”

“That’s all right. I’m in a meeting, so—”

“Oh, yes, I know.” Clarissa’s calm, apologetic voice came quietly in her ear. “With that nice David Brady.”

“That’s a matter of opinion.”

“I had a feeling you wouldn’t hit it off the first time.” Clarissa sighed and stroked her cat. “I’ve been giving that contract business a great deal of thought.” She didn’t mention the dream, knowing her agent wouldn’t want to hear it. “I’ve decided I want to sign it right away. Now, now, I know what you’re going to say,” she continued before A.J. could say a word. “You’re the agent—you handle the business. You do whatever you think best about clauses and such, but I want to do this program.”

A.J. recognized the tone. Clarissa had a feeling. There was never any arguing with Clarissa’s feelings. “We need to talk about this.”

“Of course, dear, all you like. You and David iron out the details. You’re so good at that. I’ll leave all the terms up to you, but I will sign the contract.”

With David sitting across from her, A.J. couldn’t take the satisfaction of accepting defeat by kicking her desk. “All right. But I think you should know I have feelings of my own.”

“Of course you do. Come to dinner tonight.”

She nearly smiled. Clarissa loved to feed you to smooth things over. Pity she was such a dreadful cook. “I can’t. I have a dinner appointment.”

“Tomorrow.”

“All right. I’ll see you then.”

After hanging up, A.J. took a deep breath and faced David again. “I’m sorry for the interruption.”

“No problem.”

“As there’s nothing specific in the contract regarding the Van Camp case, including that in the program would be strictly up to Miss DeBasse.”

“Of course. I’ve already spoken to her about it.” A.J. very calmly, very deliberately bit her tongue. “I see. There’s also nothing specific about Miss DeBasse’s position in the documentary. That will have to be altered.”

“I’m sure we can work that out.” So she was going to sign, David mused, and listened to a few other minor changes A.J. requested. Before the phone rang, she’d been ready to pitch him out. He’d seen it in her eyes. He held back a smile as they negotiated another minor point. He was no clairvoyant, but he would bet his grant that Clarissa DeBasse had been on the other end of that phone. A.J. Fields had been caught right in the middle. Best place for agents, he thought, and settled back.

“We’ll redraft the contract and have it to you tomorrow.”

Everybody’s in a hurry, she thought, and settled back herself. “Then I’m sure we can do business, Mr. Brady, if we can settle one more point.”

“Which is?”

“Miss DeBasse’s fee.” A.J. flipped back the contract and adjusted the oversize glasses she wore for reading. “I’m afraid this is much less than Miss DeBasse is accustomed to accepting. We’ll need another twenty percent.”

David lifted a brow. He’d been expecting something along these lines, but he’d expected it sooner. Obviously A.J. Fields hadn’t become one of the top in her profession by doing the expected. “You understand we’re working in public television. Our budget can’t compete with network. As producer, I can offer another five percent, but twenty is out of reach.”

“And five is inadequate.” A.J. slipped off her glasses and dangled them by an earpiece. Her eyes seemed larger, richer, without them. “I understand public television, Mr. Brady, and I understand your grant.” She gave him a charming smile. “Fifteen percent.”

Typical agent, he thought, not so much annoyed as fatalistic. She wanted ten, and ten was precisely what his budget would allow. Still, there was a game to be played. “Miss DeBasse is already being paid more than anyone else on contract.”

“You’re willing to do that because she’ll be your biggest draw. I also understand ratings.”

“Seven.”

“Twelve.”

“Ten.”

“Done.” A.J. rose. Normally the deal would have left her fully satisfied. Because her temper wasn’t completely under control it was difficult to appreciate the fact that she’d gotten exactly what she’d intended to get. “I’ll look for the revised contracts.”

“I’ll send them by messenger tomorrow afternoon. That phone call…” He paused as he rose. “You wouldn’t be dealing with me without it, would you?”

She studied him a moment and cursed him for being sharp, intelligent and intuitive. All the things she needed for her client. “No, I wouldn’t.”

“Be sure to thank Clarissa for me.” With a smile smug enough to bring her temper back to boil he offered his hand.

“Goodbye, Mr….” When their hands met this time, her voice died. Feelings ran into her with the impact of a slap, leaving her weak and breathless. Apprehension, desire, fury and delight rolled through her at the touch of flesh to flesh. She had only a moment to berate herself for allowing temper to open the door.

“Ms. Fields?” She was staring at him, through him, as though he were an apparition just risen from the floorboards. In his, her hand was limp and icy. Automatically David took her arm. If he’d ever seen a woman about to faint, he was seeing one now. “You’d better sit down.”

“What?” Though shaken, A.J. willed herself back. “No, no, I’m fine. I’m sorry, I must have been thinking of something else.” But as she spoke, she broke all contact with him and stepped back. “Too much coffee, too little sleep.” And stay away from me, she said desperately to herself as she leaned back on the desk. Just stay away. “I’m glad we could do business, Mr. Brady. I’ll pass everything along to my client.”

Her color was back, her eyes were clear. Still David hesitated. A moment before she’d looked fragile enough to crumble in his hands. “Sit down.”

“I beg your—”

“Damn it, sit.” He took her by the elbow and nudged her into a chair. “Your hands are shaking.” Before she could do anything about it, he was kneeling in front of her. “I’d advise canceling that dinner appointment and getting a good night’s sleep.”

She curled her hands together on her lap to keep him from touching her again. “There’s no reason for you to be concerned.”

“I generally take a personal interest when a woman all but faints at my feet.”

The sarcastic tone settled the flutters in her stomach. “Oh, I’m sure you do.” But then he took her face in his hand and had her jerking. “Stop that.”

Her skin was as soft as it looked, but he would keep that thought for later. “Purely a clinical touch, Ms. Fields. You’re not my type.”

Her eyes chilled. “Where do I give thanks?”

He wondered why the cool outrage in her eyes made him want to laugh. To laugh, and to taste her. “Very good,” he murmured, and straightened. “Lay off the coffee,” he advised, and left her alone before he did something ridiculous.

And alone, A.J. brought her knees up to her chest and pressed her face to them. What was she going to do now? she demanded as she tried to squeeze herself into a ball. What in God’s name was she going to do?




2


A.J. seriously considered stopping for a hamburger before going on to dinner at Clarissa’s. She didn’t have the heart for it. Besides, if she was hungry enough she would be able to make a decent showing out of actually eating whatever Clarissa prepared.

With the sunroof open, she sat back and tried to enjoy the forty-minute drive from her office to the suburbs. Beside her was a slim leather portfolio that held the contracts David Brady’s office had delivered, as promised. Since the changes she’d requested had been made, she couldn’t grumble. There was absolutely no substantial reason for her to object to the deal, or to her client working with Brady. All she had was a feeling. She’d been working on that since the previous afternoon.

It had been overwork, she told herself. She hadn’t felt anything but a quick, momentary dizziness because she’d stood so fast. She hadn’t felt anything for or about David Brady.

But she had. A.J. cursed herself for the next ten miles before she brought herself under control.

She couldn’t afford to be the least bit upset when she arrived in Newport Beach. There was no hiding such things from a woman like Clarissa DeBasse. She would have to be able to discuss not only the contract terms, but David Brady himself with complete objectivity or Clarissa would home in like radar.

For the next ten miles she considered stopping at a phone booth and begging off. She didn’t have the heart for that, either.

Relax, A.J. ordered herself, and tried to imagine she was home in her apartment, doing long, soothing yoga exercises. It helped, and as the tension in her muscles eased, she turned up the radio. She kept it high until she turned the engine off in front of the tidy suburban home she’d helped pick out.

A.J. always felt a sense of self-satisfaction as she strolled up the walk. The house suited Clarissa, with its neat green lawn and pretty white shutters. It was true that with the success of her books and public appearances Clarissa could afford a house twice as big in Beverly Hills. But nothing would fit her as comfortably as this tidy brick ranch.

Shifting the brown bag that held wine under her arm, A.J. pushed open the door she knew was rarely locked. “Hello! I’m a six-foot-two, three-hundred-and-twenty-pound burglar come to steal all your jewelry. Care to give me a hand?”

“Oh, did I forget to lock it again?” Clarissa came bustling out of the kitchen, wiping her hands on an already smeared and splattered apron. Her cheeks were flushed from the heat of the stove, her lips already curved in greeting.

“Yes, you forgot to lock it again.” Even with an armload of wine, A.J. managed to hug her. Then she kissed both cheeks as she tried to unobtrusively sniff out what was going on in the kitchen.

“It’s meat loaf,” Clarissa told her. “I got a new recipe.”

“Oh.” A.J. might have managed the smile if she hadn’t remembered the last meat loaf so clearly. Instead she concentrated on the woman. “You look wonderful. I’d swear you were running into L.A. and sneaking into Elizabeth Arden’s once a week.”

“Oh, I can’t be bothered with all that. It’s too much worrying that causes lines and sags, anyway. You should remember that.”

“So I look like a hag, do I?” A.J. dropped her portfolio on the table and stepped out of her shoes.

“You know I didn’t mean that, but I can tell you’re worried about something.”

“Dinner,” A.J. told her, evading. “I only had time for a half a sandwich at lunch.”

“There, I’ve told you a dozen times you don’t eat properly. Come into the kitchen. I’m sure everything’s about ready.”

Satisfied that she’d distracted Clarissa, A.J. started to follow.

“Then you can tell me what’s really bothering you.”

“Doesn’t miss a trick,” A.J. muttered as the doorbell rang.

“Get that for me, will you?” Clarissa cast an anxious glance at the kitchen. “I really should check the brussels sprouts.”

“Brussels sprouts?” A.J. could only grimace as Clarissa disappeared into the kitchen. “Bad enough I have to eat the meat loaf, but brussels sprouts. I should have had the hamburger.” When she opened the door her brows were already lowered.

“You look thrilled to see me.”

One hand still on the knob, she stared at David. “What are you doing here?”

“Having dinner.” Without waiting for an invitation, David stepped forward and stood with her in the open doorway. “You’re tall. Even without your shoes.”

A.J. closed the door with a quiet snap. “Clarissa didn’t explain this was a business dinner.”

“I think she considers it purely social.” He hadn’t yet figured out why he hadn’t gotten the very professional Ms. Fields out of his mind. Maybe he’d get some answers before the evening was up. “Why don’t we think of it that way—A.J.?”

Manners had been ingrained in her by a quietly determined mother. Trapped, A.J. nodded. “All right, David. I hope you enjoy living dangerously.”

“I beg your pardon?”

She couldn’t resist the smile. “We’re having meat loaf.” She took the bottle of champagne he held and examined the label. “This should help. Did you happen to have a big lunch?”

There was a light in her eyes he’d never noticed before. It was a laugh, a joke, and very appealing. “What are you getting at?”

She patted his shoulder. “Sometimes it’s best to go into these things unprepared. Sit down and I’ll fix you a drink.”

“Aurora.”

“Yes?” A.J. answered automatically before she bit her tongue.

“Aurora?” David repeated, experimenting with the way it sounded in his voice. “That’s what the A stands for?”

When A.J. turned to him her eyes were narrowed. “If just one person in the business calls me that, I’ll know exactly where they got it from. You’ll pay.”

He ran a finger down the side of his nose, but didn’t quite hide the smile. “I never heard a thing.”

“Aurora, was that—” Clarissa stopped in the kitchen doorway and beamed. “Yes, it was David. How lovely.” She studied both of them, standing shoulder to shoulder just inside her front door. For the instant she concentrated, the aura around them was very clear and very bright. “Yes, how lovely,” she repeated. “I’m so glad you came.”

“I appreciate your asking me.” Finding Clarissa as charming as he had the first time, David crossed to her. He took her hand, but this time brought it to his lips. Pleasure flushed her cheeks.

“Champagne, how nice. We’ll open it after I sign the contracts.” She glanced over his shoulder to see A.J. frowning. “Why don’t you fix yourself and David a drink, dear? I won’t be much longer.”

A.J. thought of the contracts in her portfolio, and of her own doubts. Then she gave in. Clarissa would do precisely what Clarissa wanted to do. In order to protect her, she had to stop fighting it and accept. “I can guarantee the vodka—I bought it myself.”

“Fine—on the rocks.” David waited while she went to a cabinet and took out a decanter and glasses.

“She remembered the ice,” A.J. said, surprised when she opened the brass bucket and found it full.

“You seem to know Clarissa very well.”

“I do.” A.J. poured two glasses, then turned. “She’s much more than simply a client to me, David. That’s why I’m concerned about this program.”

He walked to her to take the glass. Strange, he thought, you only noticed her scent when you stood close, very close. He wondered if she used such a light touch to draw men to her or to block their way. “Why the concern?”

If they were going to deal with each other, honesty might help. A.J. glanced toward the kitchen and kept her voice low. “Clarissa has a tendency to be very open with certain people. Too open. She can expose too much of herself, and leave herself vulnerable to all manner of complications.”

“Are you protecting her from me?” A.J. sipped from her drink. “I’m trying to decide if I should.”

“I like her.” He reached out to twine a lock of A.J.’s hair around his finger, before either of them realized his intention. He dropped his hand again so quickly she didn’t have the chance to demand it. “She’s a very likable woman,” David continued as he turned to wander around the room. He wasn’t a man to touch a business associate, especially one he barely knew, in so casual a manner. To give himself distance, he walked to the window to watch birds flutter around a feeder in the side yard. The cat was out there, he noticed, sublimely disinterested as it sunned itself in a last patch of sunlight.

A.J. waited until she was certain her voice would be properly calm and professional. “I appreciate that, but your project comes first, I imagine. You want a good show, and you’ll do whatever it takes to produce one.”

“That’s right.” The problem was, he decided, that she wasn’t as tailored and streamlined as she’d been the day before. Her blouse was soft and silky, the color of poppies. If she’d had a jacket to match the snug white skirt, she’d left it in her car. She was shoeless and her hair had been tossed by the wind. He took another drink. She still wasn’t his type. “But I don’t believe I have a reputation for exploiting people in order to get it. I do my job, A.J., and expect the same from anyone who works with me.”

“Fair enough.” She finished the unwanted drink. “My job is to protect Clarissa in every way.”

“I don’t see that we have a problem.”

“There now, everything’s ready.” Clarissa came out to see her guests not shoulder to shoulder, but with the entire room between them. Sensitive to mood, she felt the tension, confusion and distrust. Quite normal, she decided, for two stubborn, self-willed people on opposing ends. She wondered how long it would take them to admit attraction, let alone accept it. “I hope you’re both hungry.”

A.J. set down her empty glass with an easy smile. “David tells me he’s starved. You’ll have to give him an extra portion.”

“Wonderful.” Delighted, she led the way into the dining area. “I love to eat by candlelight, don’t you?” She had a pair of candles burning on the table, and another half-dozen tapers on the sideboard. A.J. decided the romantic light definitely helped the looks of the meat loaf. “Aurora brought the wine, so I’m sure it’s lovely. You pour, David, and I’ll serve.”

“It looks wonderful,” he told her, and wondered why A.J. muffled a chuckle.

“Thank you. Are you from California originally, David?” Clarissa asked as she handed A.J. a platter.

“No, Washington State.” He tipped Beaujolais into Clarissa’s glass.

“Beautiful country.” She handed Aurora a heaping bowl of mashed potatoes. “But so cold.”

He could remember the long, windy winters with some nostalgia. “I didn’t have any trouble acclimating to L.A.”

“I grew up in the East and came out here with my husband nearly thirty years ago. In the fall I’m still the tiniest bit homesick for Vermont. You haven’t taken any vegetables, Aurora. You know how I worry that you don’t eat properly.”

A.J. added brussels sprouts to her plate and hoped she’d be able to ignore them. “You should take a trip back this year,” A.J. told Clarissa. One bite of the meat loaf was enough. She reached for the wine.

“I think about it. Do you have any family, David?”

He’d just had his first experience with Clarissa’s cooking and hadn’t recovered. He wondered what recipe she’d come across that called for leather. “Excuse me?”

“Any family?”

“Yes.” He glanced at A.J. and saw the knowing smirk. “Two brothers and a sister scattered around Washington and Oregon.”

“I came from a big family myself. I thoroughly enjoyed my childhood.” Reaching out, she patted A.J.’s hand. “Aurora was an only child.”

With a laugh A.J. gave Clarissa’s hand a quick squeeze. “And I thoroughly enjoyed my childhood.” Because she saw David politely making his way through a hill of lumpy potatoes, she felt a little tug on her conscience. A.J. waited until it passed. “What made you choose documentaries, David?”

“I’d always been fascinated by little films.” Picking up the salt, he used it liberally. “With a documentary, the plot’s already there, but it’s up to you to come up with the angles, to find a way to present it to an audience and make them care while they’re being entertained.”

“Isn’t it more of a learning experience?”

“I’m not a teacher.” Bravely he dipped back into the meat loaf. “You can entertain with truth and speculation just as satisfyingly as you can entertain with fiction.”

Somehow watching him struggle with the meal made it more palatable for her. “No urge to produce the big film?”

“I like television,” he said easily, and reached for the wine. They were all going to need it. “I happen to think there’s too much pap and not enough substance.”

A.J.’s brow lifted, to disappear under a thin fringe of bangs. “Pap?”

“Unfortunately network television’s rife with it. Shows like Empire, for instance, or ItTakesTwo.”

“Really.” A.J. leaned forward. “Empire has been a top-rated show for four years.” She didn’t add that it was a personal favorite.

“My point exactly. If a show like that retains consistently high ratings—a show that relies on steam, glitter and contrivance—it proves that the audience is being fed a steady stream of garbage.”

“Not everyone feels a show has to be educational or ‘good’ for it to be quality. The problem with public television is that it has its nose up in the air so often the average American ignores it. After working eight hours, fighting traffic, coping with children and dealing with car repair bills, a person’s entitled to relax.”

“Absolutely.” Amazing, he thought, how lovely she became when you lit a little fire under her. Maybe she was a woman who needed conflict in her life. “But that same person doesn’t have to shut off his or her intelligence to be entertained. That’s called escapism.”

“I’m afraid I don’t watch enough television to see the difference,” Clarissa commented, pleased to see her guests clearing their plates. “But don’t you represent that lovely woman who plays on Empire?”

“Audrey Cummings.” A.J. slipped her fingers under the cup of her wineglass and swirled it lightly. “A very accomplished actress, who’s also played Shakespeare. We’ve just made a deal to have her take the role of Maggie in a remake of Cat on a Hot Tin Roof.” The success of that deal was still sweet. Sipping her wine, she tilted her head at David. “For a play that deals in a lot of steam and sweat, it’s amazing what longevity it’s had. We can’t claim it’s a Verdi opera, can we?”

“There’s more to public television than Verdi.” He’d touched a nerve, he realized. But, then, so had she. “I don’t suppose you caught the profile on Taylor Brooks? I thought it was one of the most detailed and informative on a rock star I’d ever seen.” He picked up his wine in a half toast. “You don’t represent him, too, do you?”

“No.” She decided to play it to the hilt. “We dated casually a couple of years ago. I have a rule about keeping business and personal relationships separated.”

“Wise.” He lifted his wine and sipped. “Very wise.”

“Unlike you, I have no prejudices when it comes to television. If I did, you’d hardly be signing one of my top clients.”

“More meat loaf?” Clarissa asked.

“I couldn’t eat another bite.” A.J. smiled at David. “Perhaps David would like more.”

“As much as I appreciate the home cooking, I can’t.” He tried not to register too much relief as he stood. “Let me help you clear up.”

“Oh, no.” Rising, Clarissa brushed his offer aside. “It relaxes me. Aurora, I think David was just a bit disappointed with me the first time we met. Why don’t you show him my collection?”

“All right.” Picking up her wineglass, A.J. gestured to him to follow. “You’ve scored points,” she commented. “Clarissa doesn’t show her collection to everyone.”

“I’m flattered.” But he took her by the elbow to stop her as they started down a narrow hallway. “You’d prefer it if I kept things strictly business with Clarissa.”

A.J. lifted the glass to her lips and watched him over the rim. She’d prefer, for reasons she couldn’t name, that he stayed fifty miles from Clarissa. And double that from her. “Clarissa chooses her own friends.”

“And you make damn sure they don’t take advantage of her.”

“Exactly. This way.” Turning, she walked to a door on the left and pushed it open. “It’d be more effective by candlelight, even more with a full moon, but we’ll have to make do.” A.J. flicked on the light and stepped out of his view.

It was an average-size room, suitable to a modern ranch house. Here, the windows were heavily draped to block the view of the yard—or to block the view inside. It wasn’t difficult to see why Clarissa would use the veil to discourage the curious. The room belonged in a tower—or a dungeon.

Here was the crystal ball he’d expected. Unable to resist, David crossed to a tall, round-topped stand to examine it. The glass was smooth and perfect, reflecting only the faintest hint of the deep blue cloth beneath it. Tarot cards, obviously old and well used, were displayed in a locked case. At a closer look he saw they’d been hand painted. A bookshelf held everything from voodoo to telekinesis. On the shelf with them was a candle in the shape of a tall, slender woman with arms lifted to the sky.

A Ouija board was set out on a table carved with pentagrams. One wall was lined with masks of pottery, ceramic, wood, even papier-mâché. There were dowsing rods and pendulums. A glass cabinet held pyramids of varying sizes. There was more—an Indian rattle, worn and fragile with age, Oriental worry beads in jet, others in amethyst.

“More what you expected?” A.J. asked after a moment.

“No.” He picked up another crystal, this one small enough to rest in the palm of his hand. “I stopped expecting this after the first five minutes.”

It was the right thing for him to say. A.J. sipped her wine again and tried not to be too pleased. “It’s just a hobby with Clarissa, collecting the obvious trappings of the trade.”

“She doesn’t use them?”

“A hobby only. Actually, it started a long time ago. A friend found those tarot cards in a little shop in England and gave them to her. After that, things snowballed.”

The crystal was cool and smooth in his hand as he studied her. “You don’t approve?”

A.J. merely shrugged her shoulders. “I wouldn’t if she took it seriously.”

“Have you ever tried this?” He indicated the Ouija board.

“No.”

It was a lie. He wasn’t sure why she told it, or why he was certain of it. “So you don’t believe in any of this.”

“I believe in Clarissa. The rest of this is just showmanship.”

Still, he was intrigued with it, intrigued with the fascination it held for people through the ages. “You’ve never been tempted to ask her to look in the crystal for you?”

“Clarissa doesn’t need the crystal, and she doesn’t tell the future.”

He glanced into the clear glass in his hand. “Odd, you’d think if she can do the other things she’s reported to be able to do, she could do that.”

“I didn’t say she couldn’t—I said she doesn’t.”

David looked up from the crystal again. “Explain.”

“Clarissa feels very strongly about destiny, and the tampering with it. She’s refused, even for outrageous fees, to predict.”

“But you’re saying she could.”

“I’m saying she chooses not to. Clarissa considers her gift a responsibility. Rather than misuse it in any way, she’d push it out of her life.”

“Push it out.” He set the crystal down. “Do you mean she—a psychic—could just refuse to be one. Just block out the…let’s say power, for lack of a better term. Just turn it off?”

Her fingers had dampened on the glass. A.J. casually switched it to her other hand. “To a large extent, yes. You have to be open to it. You’re a receptacle, a transmitter—the extent to which you receive or transmit depends on you.”

“You seem to know a great deal about it.”

He was sharp, she remembered abruptly. Very sharp. A.J. smiled deliberately and moved her shoulders again. “I know a great deal about Clarissa. If you spend any amount of time with her over the next couple of months, you’ll know quite a bit yourself.”

David walked to her. He watched her carefully as he took the wineglass from her and sipped himself. It was warm now and seemed more potent. “Why do I get the impression that you’re uncomfortable in this room. Or is it that you’re uncomfortable with me?”

“Your intuition’s missing the mark. If you’d like, Clarissa can give you a few exercises to sharpen it.”

“Your palms are damp.” He took her hand, then ran his fingers down to the wrist. “Your pulse is fast. I don’t need intuition to know that.”

It was important—vital—that she keep calm. She met his eyes levelly and hoped she managed to look amused. “That probably has more to do with the meat loaf.”

“The first time we met you had a very strong, very strange reaction to me.”

She hadn’t forgotten. It had given her a very restless night. “I explained—”

“I didn’t buy it,” he interrupted. “I still don’t. That might be because I found myself doing a lot of thinking about you.”

She’d taught herself to hold her ground. She’d had to. A.J. made one last attempt to do so now, though his eyes seemed much too quiet and intrusive, his voice too firm. She took her wineglass back from him and drained it. She learned it was a mistake, because she could taste him as well as the wine. “David, try to remember I’m not your type.” Her voice was cool and faintly cutting. If she’d thought about it a few seconds longer, she would have realized it was the wrong tactic.

“No, you’re not.” His hand cupped her nape, then slid up into her hair. “But what the hell.”

When he leaned closer, A.J. saw two clear-cut choices. She could struggle away and run for cover, or she could meet him with absolute indifference. Because the second choice seemed the stronger, she went with it. It was her next mistake.

He knew how to tempt a woman. How to coax. When his lips lowered to hers they barely touched, while his hand continued to stroke her neck and hair. A.J.’s grip on the wineglass tightened, but she didn’t move, not forward, not away. His lips skimmed hers again, with just the hint of his tongue. The breath she’d been holding shuddered out.

As her eyes began to close, as her bones began to soften, he moved away from her mouth to trace his lips over her jaw. Neither of them noticed when the wineglass slipped out of her hand to land on the carpet.

He’d been right about how close you had to get to be tempted by her scent. It was strong and dark and private, as though it came through her pores to hover on her skin. As he brought his lips back to hers, he realized it wasn’t something he’d forget. Nor was she.

This time her lips were parted, ready, willing. Still he moved slowly, more for his own sake now. This wasn’t the cool man-crusher he’d expected, but a warm, soft woman who could draw you in with vulnerability alone. He needed time to adjust, time to think. When he backed away he still hadn’t touched her, and had given her only the merest hint of a kiss. They were both shaken.

“Maybe the reaction wasn’t so strange after all, Aurora,” he murmured. “Not for either of us.”

Her body was on fire; it was icy; it was weak. She couldn’t allow her mind to follow suit. Drawing all her reserves of strength, A.J. straightened. “If we’re going to be doing business—”

“And we are.”

She let out a long, patient breath at the interruption. “Then you’d better understand the ground rules. I don’t sleep around, not with clients, not with associates.”

It pleased him. He wasn’t willing to ask himself why. “Narrows the field, doesn’t it?”

“That’s my business,” she shot back. “My personal life is entirely separate from my profession.”

“Hard to do in this town, but admirable. However…” He couldn’t resist reaching up to play with a stray strand of hair at her ear. “I didn’t ask you to sleep with me.”

She caught his hand by the wrist to push it away. It both surprised and pleased her to discover his pulse wasn’t any steadier than hers. “Forewarned, you won’t embarrass yourself by doing so and being rejected.”

“Do you think I would?” He brought his hand back up to stroke a finger down her cheek. “Embarrass myself.”

“Stop it.”

He shook his head and studied her face again. Attractive, yes. Not beautiful, hardly glamorous. Too cool, too stubborn. So why was he already imagining her naked and wrapped around him? “What is it between us?”

“Animosity.”

He grinned, abruptly and completely charming her. She could have murdered him for it. “Maybe part, but even that’s too strong for such a short association. A minute ago I was wondering what it would be like to make love with you. Believe it or not, I don’t do that with every woman I meet.”

Her palms were damp again. “Am I supposed to be flattered?”

“No. I just figure we’ll deal better together if we understand each other.”

The need to turn and run was desperate. Too desperate. A.J. held her ground. “Understand this. I represent Clarissa DeBasse. I’ll look out for her interests, her welfare. If you try to do anything detrimental to her professionally or personally, I’ll cut you off at the knees. Other than that, we really don’t have anything to worry about.”

“Time will tell.”

For the first time she took a step away from him. A.J. didn’t consider it a retreat as she walked over and put her hand on the light switch. “I have a breakfast meeting in the morning. Let’s get the contracts signed, Brady, so we can both do our jobs.”




3


Preproduction meetings generally left his staff frazzled and out of sorts. David thrived on them. Lists of figures that insisted on being balanced appealed to the practical side of him. Translating those figures into lights, sets and props challenged his creativity. If he hadn’t enjoyed finding ways to merge the two, he never would have chosen to be a producer.

He was a man who had a reputation for knowing his own mind and altering circumstances to suit it. The reputation permeated his professional life and filtered through to the personal. As a producer he was tough and, according to many directors, not always fair. As a man he was generous and, according to many women, not always warm.

David would give a director creative freedom, but only to a point. When the creative freedom tempted the director to veer from David’s overall view of a project, he stopped him dead. He would discuss, listen and at times compromise. An astute director would realize that the compromise hadn’t affected the producer’s wishes in the least.

In a relationship he would give a woman an easy, attentive companion. If a woman preferred roses, there would be roses. If she enjoyed rides in the country, there would be rides in the country. But if she attempted to get beneath the skin, he stopped her dead. He would discuss, listen and at times compromise. An astute woman would realize the compromise hadn’t affected the man in the least.

Directors would call him tough, but would grudgingly admit they would work with him again. Women would call him cool, but would smile when they heard his voice over the phone.

Neither of these things came to him through carefully thought-out strategy, but simply because he was a man who was careful with his private thoughts—and private needs.

By the time the preproduction meetings were over, the location set and the format gelled, David was anxious for results. He’d picked his team individually, down to the last technician. Because he’d developed a personal interest in Clarissa DeBasse, he decided to begin with her. His choice, he was certain, had nothing to do with her agent.

His initial desire to have her interviewed in her own home was cut off quickly by a brief memo from A. J. Fields. Miss DeBasse was entitled to her privacy. Period. Unwilling to be hampered by a technicality, David arranged for the studio to be decorated in precisely the same homey, suburban atmosphere. He’d have her interviewed there by veteran journalist Alex Marshall. David wanted to thread credibility through speculation. A man of Marshall’s reputation could do it for him.

David kept in the background and let his crew take over. He’d had problems with this director before, but both projects they’d collaborated on had won awards. The end product, to David, was the bottom line.

“Put a filter on that light,” the director ordered. “We may have to look like we’re sitting in the furniture department in the mall, but I want atmosphere. Alex, if you’d run through your intro, I’d like to get a fix on the angle.”

“Fine.” Reluctantly Alex tapped out his two-dollar cigar and went to work. David checked his watch. Clarissa was late, but not late enough to cause alarm yet. In another ten minutes he’d have an assistant give her a call. He watched Alex run through the intro flawlessly, then wait while the director fussed with the lights. Deciding he wasn’t needed at the moment, David opted to make the call himself. Only he’d make it to A.J.’s office. No harm in giving her a hard time, he thought as he pushed through the studio doors. She seemed to be the better for it.

“Oh, David, I do apologize.”

He stopped as Clarissa hurried down the hallway. She wasn’t anyone’s aunt today, he thought, as she reached out to take his hands. Her hair was swept dramatically back, making her look both flamboyant and years younger. There was a necklace of silver links around her neck that held an amethyst the size of his thumb. Her makeup was artfully applied to accent clear blue eyes, just as her dress, deep and rich, accented them. This wasn’t the woman who’d fed him meat loaf.

“Clarissa, you look wonderful.”

“Thank you. I’m afraid I didn’t have much time to prepare. I got the days mixed, you see, and was right in the middle of weeding my petunias when Aurora came to pick me up.”

He caught himself looking over her shoulder and down the hall. “She’s here?”

“She’s parking the car.” Clarissa glanced back over her shoulder with a sigh. “I know I’m a trial to her, always have been.”

“She doesn’t seem to feel that way.”

“No, she doesn’t. Aurora’s so generous.”

He’d reserve judgment on that one. “Are you ready, or would you like some coffee or tea first?”

“No, no, I don’t like any stimulants when I’m working. They tend to cloud things.” Their hands were still linked when her gaze fastened on his. “You’re a bit restless, David.”

She said it the moment he’d looked back, and seen A.J. coming down the hall. “I’m always edgy on a shoot,” he said absently. Why was it he hadn’t noticed how she walked before? Fast and fluid.

“That’s not it,” Clarissa commented, and patted his hand. “But I won’t invade your privacy. Ah, here’s Aurora. Should we start?”

“We already have,” he murmured, still watching A.J.

“Good morning, David. I hope we haven’t thrown you off schedule.”

She was as sleek and professional as she’d been the first time he’d seen her. Why was it now that he noticed small details? The collar of her blouse rose high on what he knew was a long, slender neck. Her mouth was unpainted. He wanted to take a step closer to see if she wore the same scent. Instead he took Clarissa’s arm. “Not at all. I take it you want to watch.”

“Of course.”

“Just inside here, Clarissa.” He pushed open the door. “I’d like to introduce you to your director, Sam Cauldwell. Sam.” It didn’t appear to bother David that he was interrupting his director. A.J. noticed that he stood where he was and waited for Cauldwell to come to him. She could hardly censure him for it when she’d have used the same technique herself. “This is Clarissa DeBasse.”

Cauldwell stemmed obvious impatience to take her hand. “A pleasure, Miss DeBasse. I read both your books to give myself a feel for your segment of the program.”

“That’s very kind of you. I hope you enjoyed them.”

“I don’t know if ‘enjoyed’ is the right word.” He gave a quick shake of his head. “They certainly gave me something to think about.”

“Miss DeBasse is ready to start whenever you’re set.”

“Great. Would you mind taking a seat over here. We’ll take a voice test and recheck the lighting.”

As Cauldwell led her away, David saw A.J. watching him like a hawk. “You make a habit of hovering over your clients, A.J.?”

Satisfied that Clarissa was all right for the moment, A.J. turned to him. “Yes. Just the way I imagine you hover over your directors.”

“All in a day’s work, right? You can get a better view from over here.”

“Thanks.” She moved with him to the left of the studio, watching as Clarissa was introduced to Alex Marshall. The veteran newscaster was tall, lean and distinguished. Twenty-five years in the game had etched a few lines on his face, but the gray threading through his hair contrasted nicely with his deep tan. “A wise choice for your narrator,” she commented.

“The face America trusts.”

“There’s that, of course. Also, I can’t imagine him putting up with any nonsense. Bring in a palm reader from Sunset Boulevard and he’ll make her look like a fool regardless of the script.”

“That’s right.” A.J. sent him an even look. “He won’t make a fool out of Clarissa.”

He gave her a slow, acknowledging nod. “That’s what I’m counting on. I called your office last week.”

“Yes, I know.” A.J. saw Clarissa laugh at something Alex said. “Didn’t my assistant get back to you?”

“I didn’t want to talk to your assistant.”

“I’ve been tied up. You’ve very nearly recreated Clarissa’s living room, haven’t you?”

“That’s the idea. You’re trying to avoid me, A.J.” He shifted just enough to block her view, so that she was forced to look at him. Because he’d annoyed her, she made the look thorough, starting at his shoes, worn canvas high-tops, up the casual pleated slacks to the open collar of his shirt before she settled on his face.

“I’d hoped you catch on.”

“And you might succeed at it.” He ran his finger down her lapel, over a pin of a half-moon. “But she’s going to get in the way.” He glanced over his shoulder at Clarissa.

She schooled herself for this, lectured herself and rehearsed the right responses. Somehow it wasn’t as easy as she’d imagined. “David, you don’t seem to be one of those men who are attracted to rejection.”

“No.” His thumb continued to move over the pin as he looked back at her. “You don’t seem to be one of those women who pretend disinterest to attract.”

“I don’t pretend anything.” She looked directly into his eyes, determined not a flicker of her own unease would show. “I am disinterested. And you’re standing in my way.”

“That’s something that might get to be a habit.” But he moved aside.

It took nearly another forty-five minutes of discussion, changes and technical fine-tuning before they were ready to shoot. Because she was relieved David was busy elsewhere, A.J. waited patiently. Which meant she only checked her watch half a dozen times. Clarissa sat easily on the sofa and sipped water. But whenever she glanced up and looked in her direction, A.J. was glad she’d decided to come.

The shoot began well enough. Clarissa sat with Alex on the sofa. He asked questions; she answered. They touched on clairvoyance, precognition, Clarissa’s interest in astrology. Clarissa had a knack for taking long, confusing phrases and making them simple, understandable. One of the reasons she was often in demand on the lecture circuit was her ability to take the mysteries of psi and relate them to the average person. It was one area A.J. could be certain Clarissa DeBasse would handle herself. Relaxing, she took a piece of hard candy out of her briefcase in lieu of lunch.

They shot, reshot, altered angles and repeated themselves for the camera. Hours passed, but A.J. was content. Quality was the order of day. She wanted nothing less for Clarissa.

Then they brought out the cards.

She’d nearly taken a step forward, when the slightest signal from Clarissa had her fuming and staying where she was. She hated this, and always had.

“Problem?”

She hadn’t realized he’d come up beside her. A.J. sent David a killing look before she riveted her attention on the set again. “We didn’t discuss anything like this.”

“The cards?” Surprised by her response, David, too, watched the set. “We cleared it with Clarissa.”

A.J. set her teeth. “Next time, Brady, clear it with me.”

David decided that whatever nasty retort he could make would wait when Alex’s broadcaster’s voice rose rich and clear in the studio. “Miss DeBasse, using cards to test ESP is a rather standard device, isn’t it?”

“A rather limited test, yes. They’re also an aid in testing telepathy.”

“You’ve been involved in testing of this sort before, at Stanford, UCLA, Columbia, Duke, as well as institutions in England.”

“Yes, I have.”

“Would you mind explaining the process?”

“Of course. The cards used in laboratory tests are generally two colors, with perhaps five different shapes. Squares, circles, wavy lines, that sort of thing. Using these, it’s possible to determine chance and what goes beyond chance. That is, with two colors, it’s naturally a fifty-fifty proposition. If a subject hits the colors fifty percent of the time, it’s accepted as chance. If a subject hits sixty percent, then it’s ten percent over chance.”

“It sounds relatively simple.”

“With colors alone, yes. The shapes alter that. With, say, twenty-five cards in a run, the tester is able to determine by the number of hits, or correct answers, how much over chance the subject guessed. If the subject hits fifteen times out of twenty-five, it can be assumed the subject’s ESP abilities are highly tuned.”

“She’s very good,” David murmured.

“Damned right she is.” A.J. folded her arms and tried not to be annoyed. This was Clarissa’s business, and no one knew it better.

“Could you explain how it works—for you, that is?” Alex idly shuffled the pack of cards as he spoke to her. “Do you get a feeling when a card is held up?”

“A picture,” Clarissa corrected. “One gets a picture.”

“Are you saying you get an actual picture of the card?”

“An actual picture can be held in your hand.” She smiled at him patiently. “I’m sure you read a great deal, Mr. Marshall.”

“Yes, I do.”

“When you read, the words, the phrasings make pictures in your head. This is very similar to that.”

“I see.” His doubt was obvious, and to David, the perfect reaction. “That’s imagination.”

“ESP requires a control of the imagination and a sharpening of concentration.”

“Can anyone do this?”

“That’s something that’s still being researched. There are some who feel ESP can be learned. Others believe psychics are born. My own opinion falls in between.”

“Can you explain?”

“I think every one of us has certain talents or abilities, and the degree to which they’re developed and used depends on the individual. It’s possible to block these abilities. It’s more usual, I think, to simply ignore them so that they never come into question.”

“Your abilities have been documented. We’d like to give an impromptu demonstration here, with your cooperation.”

“Of course.”

“This is an ordinary deck of playing cards. One of the crew purchased them this morning, and you haven’t handled them. Is that right?”

“No, I haven’t. I’m not very clever with games.” She smiled, half apologetic, half amused, and delighted the director.

“Now if I pick a card and hold it like this.” Alex pulled one from the middle of the deck and held its back to her. “Can you tell me what it is?”

“No.” Her smile never faded as the director started to signal to stop the tape. “You’ll have to look at the card, Mr. Marshall, think of it, actually try to picture it in your mind.” As the tape continued to roll, Alex nodded and obliged her. “I’m afraid you’re not concentrating very hard, but it’s a red card. That’s better.” She beamed at him. “Nine of diamonds.”

The camera caught the surprise on his face before he turned the card over. Nine of diamonds. He pulled a second card and repeated the process. When they reached the third, Clarissa stopped, frowning.

“You’re trying to confuse me by thinking of a card other than the one in your hand. It blurs things a bit, but the ten of clubs comes through stronger.”

“Fascinating,” Alex murmured as he turned over the ten of clubs. “Really fascinating.”

“I’m afraid this sort of thing is often no more than a parlor game,” Clarissa corrected. “A clever mentalist can do nearly the same thing—in a different way, of course.”

“You’re saying it’s a trick.”

“I’m saying it can be. I’m not good at tricks myself, so I don’t try them, but I can appreciate a good show.”

“You started your career by reading palms.” Alex set down the cards, not entirely sure of himself.

“A long time ago. Technically anyone can read a palm, interpret the lines.” She held hers out to him. “Lines that represent finance, emotion, length of life. A good book out of the library will tell you exactly what to look for and how to find it. A sensitive doesn’t actually read a palm so much as absorb feelings.”

Charmed, but far from sold, Alex held out his. “I don’t quite see how you could absorb feelings by looking at the palm of my hand.”

“You transmit them,” she told him. “Just as you transmit everything else, your hopes, your sorrows, your joys. I can take your palm and at a glance tell you that you communicate well and have a solid financial base, but that would hardly be earth-shattering news. But…” She held her own out to him. “If you don’t mind,” she began, and cupped his hand in hers. “I can look again and say that—” She stopped, blinked and stared at him. “Oh.”

A.J. made a move forward, only to be blocked by David. “Let her be,” he muttered. “This is a documentary, remember. We can’t have it staged and tidy. If she’s uncomfortable with this part of the tape we can cut it.”

“If she’s uncomfortable you will cut it.”

Clarissa’s hand was smooth and firm under Alex’s, but her eyes were wide and stunned. “Should I be nervous?” he asked, only half joking.

“Oh, no.” With a little laugh, she cleared her throat. “No, not at all. You have very strong vibrations, Mr. Marshall.”

“Thank you. I think.”

“You’re a widower, fifteen, sixteen years now. You were a very good husband.” She smiled at him, relaxed again. “You can be proud of that. And a good father.”

“I appreciate that, Miss DeBasse, but again, it’s hardly news.”

She continued as if he hadn’t spoken. “Both your children are settled now, which eases your mind, as it does any parent’s. They never gave you a great deal of worry, though there was a period with your son, during his early twenties, when you had some rough spots. But some people take longer to find their niche, don’t they?”

He wasn’t smiling anymore, but staring at her as intensely as she stared at him. “I suppose.”

“You’re a perfectionist, in your work and in your private life. That made it a little difficult for your son. He couldn’t quite live up to your expectations. You shouldn’t have worried so much, but of course all parents do. Now that he’s going to be a father himself, you’re closer. The idea of grandchildren pleases you. At the same time it makes you think more about the future—your own mortality. But I wonder if you’re wise to be thinking of retiring. You’re in the prime of your life and too used to deadlines and rushing to be content with that fishing boat for very long. Now if you’d—” She stopped herself with a little shake of the head. “I’m sorry. I tend to ramble on when someone interests me. I’m always afraid of getting too personal.”

“Not at all.” He closed his hand into a loose fist. “Miss DeBasse, you’re quite amazing.”

“Cut!” Cauldwell could have gotten down on his knees and kissed Clarissa’s feet. Alex Marshall considering retirement. There hadn’t been so much as a murmur of it on the grapevine. “I want to see the playback in thirty minutes. Alex, thank you. It’s a great start. Miss DeBasse—” He’d have taken her hand again if he hadn’t been a little leery of giving off the wrong vibrations. “You were sensational. I can’t wait to start the next segment with you.”

Before he’d finished thanking her, A.J. was at her side. She knew what would happen, what invariably happened. One of the crew would come up and tell Clarissa about a “funny thing that happened to him.” Then there would be another asking for his palm to be read. Some would be smirking, others would be curious, but inside of ten minutes Clarissa would be surrounded.

“If you’re ready, I’ll drive you home,” A.J. began.

“Now I thought we’d settled that.” Clarissa looked idly around for her purse without any idea where she’d set it. “It’s too far for you to drive all the way to Newport Beach and back again.”

“Just part of the service.” A.J. handed her the purse she’d been holding throughout the shoot.

“Oh, thank you, dear. I couldn’t imagine what I’d done with it. I’ll take a cab.”

“We have a driver for you.” David didn’t have to look at A.J. to know she was steaming. He could all but feel the heat. “We wouldn’t dream of having you take a cab all the way back.”

“That’s very kind.”

“But it won’t be necessary,” A.J. put in.

“No, it won’t.” Smoothly Alex edged in and took Clarissa’s hand. “I’m hoping Miss DeBasse will allow me to drive her home—after she has dinner with me.”

“That would be lovely,” Clarissa told him before A.J. could say a word. “I hope I didn’t embarrass you, Mr. Marshall.”

“Not at all. In fact, I was fascinated.”

“How nice. Thank you for staying with me, dear.” She kissed A.J.’s cheek. “It always puts me at ease. Good night, David.”

“Good night, Clarissa. Alex.” He stood beside A.J. as they linked arms and strolled out of the studio. “A nice-looking couple.”

Before the words were out of his mouth, A.J. turned on him. If it had been possible to grow fangs, she’d have grown them. “You jerk.” She was halfway to the studio doors before he stopped her.

“And what’s eating you?”

If he hadn’t said it with a smile on his face, she might have controlled herself. “I want to see that last fifteen minutes of tape, Brady, and if I don’t like what I see, it’s out.”

“I don’t recall anything in the contract about you having editing rights, A.J.”

“There’s nothing in the contract saying that Clarissa would read palms, either.”

“Granted. Alex ad-libbed that, and it worked very well. What’s the problem?”

“You were watching, damn it.” Needing to turn her temper on something, she rammed through the studio doors.

“I was,” David agreed as he took her arm to slow her down. “But obviously I didn’t see what you did.”

“She was covering.” A.J. raked a hand through her hair. “She felt something as soon as she took his hand. When you look at the tape you’ll see five, ten seconds where she just stares.”

“So it adds to the mystique. It’s effective.”

“Damn your ‘effective’!” She swung around so quickly she nearly knocked him into a wall. “I don’t like to see her hit that way. I happen to care about her as a person, not just a commodity.”

“All right, hold it. Hold it!” He caught up to her again as she shoved through the outside door. “There didn’t seem to be a thing wrong with Clarissa when she left here.”

“I don’t like it.” A.J. stormed down the steps toward the parking lot. “First the lousy cards. I’m sick of seeing her tested that way.”

“A.J., the cards are a natural. She’s done that same test, in much greater intensity, for institutes all over the country.”

“I know. And it makes me furious that she has to prove herself over and over. Then that palm business. Something upset her.” She began to pace on the patch of lawn bordering the sidewalk. “There was something there and I didn’t even have the chance to talk to her about it before that six-foot reporter with the golden voice muscled in.”

“Alex?” Though he tried, for at least five seconds, to control himself, David roared with laughter. “God, you’re priceless.”

Her eyes narrowed, her face paled with rage, she stopped pacing. “So you think it’s funny, do you? A trusting, amazingly innocent woman goes off with a virtual stranger and you laugh. If anything happens to her—”

“Happens?” David rolled his eyes skyward. “Good God, A.J., Alex Marshall is hardly a maniac. He’s a highly respected member of the news media. And Clarissa is certainly old enough to make up her own mind—and make her own dates.”

“It’s not a date.”

“Looked that way to me.”

She opened her mouth, shut it again, then whirled around toward the parking lot.

“Now wait a minute. I said wait.” He took her by both arms and trapped her between himself and a parked car. “I’ll be damned if I’m going to chase you all over L.A.”

“Just go back inside and take a look at that take. I want to see it tomorrow.”

“I don’t take orders from paranoid agents or anyone else. We’re going to settle this right here. I don’t know what’s working on you, A.J., but I can’t believe you’re this upset because a client’s going out to dinner.”

“She’s not just a client,” A.J. hurled back at him. “She’s my mother.”

Her furious announcement left them both momentarily speechless. He continued to hold her by the shoulders while she fought to even her breathing. Of course he should have seen it, David realized. The shape of the face, the eyes. Especially the eyes. “I’ll be damned.”

“I can only second that,” she murmured, then let herself lean back against the car. “Look, that’s not for publication. Understand?”

“Why?”

“Because we both prefer it that way. Our relationship is private.”

“All right.” He rarely argued with privacy. “Okay, that explains why you take such a personal interest, but I think you carry it a bit too far.”

“I don’t care what you think.” Because her head was beginning to pound, she straightened. “Excuse me.”

“No.” Calmly David blocked her way. “Some people might say you interfere with your mother’s life because you don’t have enough to fill your own.”

Her eyes became very dark, her skin very pale. “My life is none of your business, Brady.”

“Not at the moment, but while this project’s going on, Clarissa’s is. Give her some room, A.J.”

Because it sounded so reasonable, her hackles rose. “You don’t understand.”

“No, maybe you should explain it to me.”

“What if Alex Marshall presses her for an interview over dinner? What if he wants to get her alone so he can hammer at her?”

“What if he simply wanted to have dinner with an interesting, attractive woman? You might give Clarissa more credit.”

She folded her arms. “I won’t have her hurt.”

He could argue with her. He could even try reason. Somehow he didn’t think either would work quite yet. “Let’s go for a drive.”

“What?”

“A drive. You and me.” He smiled at her. “It happens to be my car you’re leaning on.”

“Oh, sorry.” She straightened again. “I have to get back to the office. There’s some paperwork I let hang today.”

“Then it can hang until tomorrow.” Drawing out his keys, he unlocked the door. “I could use a ride along the beach.”




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