He tilted his head consideringly. “You strike me as a musical kind of gal.”
“Drama,” she retorted, to be perverse.
He plucked two tickets from his shirt pocket and held them out. They were for the Tony Award−winning drama currently on Broadway.
“Why did you get tickets for a drama if you thought I was a musical kind of girl?”
“Maybe I didn’t buy them for you,” he suggested mildly. “Or maybe I just knew you’d be perverse, say drama to spite me and I’d be able to catch you in your own trap.”
“Has anyone ever suggested to you that you have a devious mind?”
“Hourly,” he said with a note of pride. “And in most media reports describing my talents.”
“It’s not something I’d brag about if I were you,” she commented drily.
“So, do you want to have dinner before the theater or after?”
“Have I said I was going?”
“That’s a given. We’re talking about dinner.”
“After,” she said.
He grinned.
“Let me guess. You already have reservations for six.”
“Wrong. Reservations at Tavern on the Green for ten-thirty.”
Her expression brightened despite her attempts to control her reaction. “How did you know—”
“That it’s your favorite?”
“Never mind. Terry, of course.”
“In my business, it pays to do research,” he retorted, neither confirming nor denying his source.
“I thought you dealt with Nielsen and Arbitron, not the FBI.”
He chuckled. “Does the FBI have a file on your restaurant preferences?”
“If they’ve met Terry, they probably do,” she grumbled as Jason stood and held out his hand.
“Come on. Walk me out. I’d better let you get your beauty sleep.”
“Are you implying it will take eighteen hours or so of rest for me to look decent enough to be seen with you?”
“Actually, I was offering a polite excuse for my departure, even though I know you’d rather I stay here and ravage your body all night long.”
Indignation promptly roared through her. “Why you egotistical—”
“Tsk-tsk, is that any way to talk about the man who’s going to make you a star?”
“You’re not going to make me anything,” she shot right back in a determined effort to keep the game alive, even though she sensed it was all but over.
“We’ll see,” he murmured, leaving her still sputtering on the fourth-floor landing.
She leaned over the railing and shouted after him. “I’m a stockbroker, dammit!”
“You were a stockbroker,” he called from right outside Terry’s door, which immediately popped open.
“A lovers’ tiff?” Terry inquired.
“The first of many, I’m sure,” Jason agreed in a stage whisper designed to be heard in the rafters.
Callie wondered how much damage one of those many vases of flowers Jason had sent would do if she sent it crashing down on his head. Probably none. His head was clearly made of concrete.
It was a little late to change her mind and tell him not to bother showing up tomorrow night. Besides, why should she turn down a chance to see a play and to have an outrageously expensive meal at one of her favorite restaurants just to make a point? If he wanted to waste his money trying to bribe her into becoming an actress, so be it. It was probably all on his expense account, anyway. After the turnaround he’d accomplished at TGN, the network could afford it.
“Callie?”
At the sound of his voice, she peered over the railing once more. “What?”
“We’re out the door at seven-fifteen. I really hate to be late when the seats are front row center.”
“I am never late.”
“No last-minute primping.”
“I never primp.”
He grinned at that. “Can’t blame a man for hoping,” he said.
She would have grabbed the vase after that, but it was too late. He was already gone.
“Whew!” Terry murmured, moving into full view in the hall and gazing up at her. “Darling, if he weren’t so blatantly heterosexual, I might fall for him myself.”
“Maybe you should be ready at seven-fifteen tomorrow night, instead of me.”
Neil stuck his head out at that. “I don’t think so,” he said quietly. “If Terry spends any more time with people in television, his few remaining brain cells will rot. You go on your own date.”
“It’s not a date,” Callie declared.
“It sounded like a date to me,” Terry taunted. “Neil, what did it sound like to you?”
“Let’s see, you’re getting dressed up, going to the theater and then out to eat. Definitely a date,” he confirmed.
“A date is social, this is business,” Callie argued.
“Business is lunch at the Four Seasons,” Terry corrected. “A date is an attractive man asking an attractive woman to spend Saturday night with him.” He leered. “Al-l-l night long.”
Callie trembled despite herself. What worried her was the fact that Terry’s interpretation of Jason’s wicked intentions didn’t frighten her nearly as much as it should have. Somewhere deep inside she was apparently hoping that he was right.
6
There had been a time in Callie’s life when she’d taken for granted an evening such as the one Jason had planned. Tonight, though, she felt as if she were back in college, about to go on a date—okay, Terry and Neil had convinced her that’s what it was—with the most exciting, mysterious man on campus.
She retrieved a simple teal silk slip dress from the back of her closet, dug out her sexiest lace panties and matching garter belt, a pair of her sheerest iridescent hose and a strappy pair of high heels.
She spent a full hour soaking in a fragrant bubble bath, then fiddled with her makeup for another hour. Yes, she was primping, but it had nothing to do with Jason’s wistful taunt. She had too much pride to go out tonight looking like a frump. The possibility of running into a former client, her ex-boss or her ex-husband and the bimbo dictated being dressed to the nines.
At seven-ten, Terry and Neil declared her efforts a success. At seven-fifteen, Jason looked as if he might faint
