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Designed to look like a bachelor pad from the Fifties, the club was furnished with zebra-striped chairs, low white and black leather couches, with a huge fire pit in the lounge and faux animal hides on the floor. The walls held framed nudes, the music was Sinatra and the signature drink a gin martini—shaken, not stirred. Perfect hangout for Doctor Nite.
Every seat at Donegan’s long table was filled and people crowded around it, everyone talking at once. The women jutted their breasts forward, the men laughed boldly. Like mating birds, the males showed beak and claw, the females preened and flounced, hardwired to perform this primitive dance.
Jillian understood the drive, even if she didn’t like it, and would use it to appeal to Brody. Instead of her usual jeans, chambray shirt and cargo vest, she’d worn a tailored white blouse that emphasized her tan and offered a sliver of cleavage, snug black slacks and heels high enough that her arches ached the instant she slid them on.
Why did women willingly endure this agony—not much better than ancient foot binding? Supposedly, spike heels enhanced a woman’s sexual features—lifting her butt, lengthening her legs, tilting her breasts forward. Jillian had worn them so she could meet the six-foot Brody at eye level. If they made her more attractive to him, too, they were worth the temporary pain.
Instead of the usual ponytail under a ball cap, she’d let her curls fall wild to her shoulders. Sexier that way, she figured, though she wasn’t much for the teasing hair toss.
She paused near the phone alcove to observe the scene. She liked to dip her toe into the social stream before getting swept into the current.
Donegan was clearly amusing the crowd, but she noticed that whenever someone addressed him, he made eye contact and turned his body toward them, giving full attention to the person. The man knew how to work a crowd, no question.
Jillian was prepared to be charmed. She hoped to charm him right back. At least enough to get hired. Then the real work began.
Abruptly, Donegan rose from the table and headed straight for her. Had he seen her, sensed her presence?
He’s going to the men’s room, you idiot. It was right behind her. She smiled at her foolishness. As he drew nearer, light hit his face and she was startled by his expression. He looked utterly weary. As if he were desperate to escape the noisy crowd and sleep for a week.
Wow. He was close and if she didn’t speak soon, she’d seem like a bug-eyed gawker. She lurched forward. “Mr. Donegan? I’m Jillian James. JJ? Here to discuss filling in for Kirk Canter?”
He smiled and his expression warmed instantly. “Yes. JJ. That’s right.” He gave her an approving once-over. “Kirk didn’t mention you were gorgeous.”
“He’s never seen me, actually. It’s my cousin Nathan who recommended me. He went to film school with Kirk. Thank you, though.” She tugged at her hair, uncomfortable with the compliment, but trying to look pleased.
“No, thank you.” Again his eyes traced her figure, making her hot all over. She was flattered, of course, though years of being ignored by men because of her weight had given her a solid skepticism about superficial male attraction. In this case, she hoped it made Brody more amenable to hiring her.
Brody nodded toward his crowd at the table. “We’re there if you want to head over.”
“I’ll just wait for you.” She wondered how they would manage a meeting surrounded by the rowdy group now accepting a round of drinks. On Brody’s tab, no doubt.
When Brody returned to her, his smile was so gracious she wondered if she’d imagined the naked exhaustion she’d seen in that unguarded moment.
“Shall we?” He put a hand to her back and led her to the table, fingertips light, the contact easy and natural on her body.
At the table, every head swiveled Brody’s way, every pair of eyes turned to him. The king was back.
“I hate to break up the party, guys,” Brody said, “but we need some alone time.” His tone held a hint of sexual suggestion.
“Fo’ sho,” one guy said.
“Brody swings…he scores,” said another, clinking beers with a third man. Two women cut Jillian glares, the message clear: You’re not that hot.
Donegan’s sexual pretense irritated her, but it worked. After a flurry of female kisses, male backslaps and handshakes, Brody and Jillian were suddenly alone.
Surveying the mess of abandoned martini glasses and beer steins, he sighed. “We’ll be more comfortable in the lounge,” he said and took her to a white leather couch in an alcove.
He sat just inside her personal space and studied her as if she were fragile or a work of art, his eyes a soulful brown that invited you in for a swim. If you had to drown, where better than warm chocolate?
Not Jillian’s usual thoughts about men or their eyes, but Brody Donegan was an unusual man. In person, she saw that he was more boy next door than bad boy. Maybe bad boy next door?
“Are you hungry?” he asked. “What would you like to drink?”
“I’m fine as far as food. Club soda to drink, please.”
“Club soda?” He gave her look of mock disappointment. “Come on. You’re out with Doctor Nite. You need something with a kick. Unless you’re twelve-stepping it, JJ? Are you?”
“Twelve-stepping…? Oh. You mean, am I in recovery? No, no. I mean, I’m not an alcoholic—” She caught herself. “Not that that’s bad. I mean, I know many people…” Her words trailed off.
“Some of your best friends are alcoholics?” He grinned.
“That came out wrong.” She was falling on her first-impression face here.
“Don’t be nervous, JJ. I don’t bite. At least, not hard enough to leave a mark.” He winked. “As to a drink, Andre mentioned this tricky little Australian Shiraz that I wanted to try. How’s that sound? One glass? You’re not driving, are you?”
“No. I came in a cab. One glass sounds fine.”
The waiter appeared like a whispered breath and took Brody’s order of the wine and an appetizer sampler. “Maybe you’ll want a taste,” he explained to her, throwing his arm across the back of the sofa and shifting his body her way.
She became aware of his broad shoulders and long legs, the expensive cologne he wore, the hint of stubble that on most men looked scruffy, but on him looked dead sexy.
Get a grip, Jillian.
She sat on the edge of the couch, her back straight, which was a technique she suggested for news interviews because it made you seem alert and prepared. “About the job…” she said, forging ahead. She intended to emphasize her experience, flexibility and the fact she was a quick study.
“Ever been here before?” he asked, his eyes full of mischief and fun. He didn’t seem to be in any hurry to get to the point.
“No. I’ve heard of it, though.” She forced herself to relax, take it easier, enjoy the conversation, despite how her heart thrummed and her brain pushed her to spit it out, get to the point, get the job. “It seems like a Doctor Nite kind of place.”
“Exactly.” He shot her a quick grin. “Tonight, though, I’m here for my agent. He’s trolling for new clients and I knew we’d run into people he should know better.”
“Did it work?”
“I think so. These things have to percolate.”
“That was quite a crowd. Your agent and friends? Fans?” Lovers? The jealous daggers the women had zinged her way suggested they had been or intended to be.
“Friends, mostly. Some fans. Acquaintances. Industry people.” He smiled. “The lines blur. Do you have friends you’re close to?”
“Several, yes.”
“You stay in touch…?”
“Sure. By phone and e-mail. Dinners and drinks. A movie or music somewhere when we can.”
“The occasional slumber party? S’mores and pillow fights in your nighties?”
She laughed at the tease, despite her nervousness and urgency. “Sorry, no. Our schedules sometimes make it hard to find the time to get together in person.”
“Does your work consume you, JJ? Are you like that?”
He’d batted her an easy lob she could direct toward the interview. “I do get so caught up in my work I forget everything else, yes.” My biggest flaw is perfectionism. Which was true, but would sound like bragging.
Before she could say more, the runner arrived with their food—a tiered dish holding lobster ravioli, tenderloin satay and confit duck rolls that looked incredible.
“You forget to eat, too?” Brody asked.
“Sometimes,” she said, her mouth watering madly. She’d thought she was too nervous to eat. Brody had charmed her stomach, too.
The waiter appeared with the wine and poured it for Brody to sip. He nodded his approval, and when both glasses were full, held one out to her. “Now tell me what you think.” His gaze stayed with her while she sipped the smoky blackberry wine with a bright finish. “Very nice,” she said. “I like it.”
“Andre never steers me wrong. Now for the food.” He rubbed his hands together, then stabbed a ravioli with his fork and held it out to her. “Give it a try?”
She leaned forward and allowed Brody to feed her the square of pasta, his hand beneath her lips to catch any drips. The intimate gesture seemed completely normal coming from Brody.
The bite exploded in a lush blend of rich shellfish, creamy sauce and delicate pasta. “Oh, my God,” she said.
“Heaven, huh?” He watched her closely as she chewed.
“Mmm-hmm.” She licked her lips to catch a smear of sauce and Brody’s gaze locked on.
She stilled, her tongue midlip.
“Hmm,” he said, then cleared his throat and leaned for a satay stick. He dipped the meat into the sauce, then held it for her. “It’s peanut-ginger, but light. Try it.”
She tugged a bite of beef from the stick and savored the blend of meat and tangy sauce. “Incredible.”
“I know.” He seemed so happy about her pleasure. “The chef plays hard to get with the recipe. I’ve tried everything, even mentioned him on the show.”
“So you cook?”
“When I have time.”
“Does that mean you’re consumed by your work, too?”
“In a way. The show’s about what I do for fun, so I guess I’m always thinking about it, planning it, working. Like I said, the lines blur.” He swirled his wine thoughtfully, then added, “But I wouldn’t have it any other way.” He smiled at her. “How about you? Would you want to be different?”
“Not really. No.” He sat so close and the way they were talking made this feel like a date, not an interview. She had to stay on track. “It’s late and I don’t want to take up more of what free time you have. So, should we get to the reason I’m here?”
“Sure.” Abruptly serious, Brody set down his wineglass with a firm click. “I’ve been wondering about that myself. Why are you here, JJ?”
“You need a cameraperson,” she said, startled by his changed tone. “Obviously.” She smiled.
“But why you? I looked you up. You do documentaries. You’re absolutely serious and I’m absolutely not.”
“You looked me up?” That surprised her.
He nodded. “I can’t imagine why a woman who scored festival prizes for a film about foster kids would want to work on a cable show about men and beer and sex.”
The blunt question made her stomach drop. She wasn’t ready to mention her new documentary. “Well, Doctor Nite is a hit show and I’d love the credit. It’s a challenge. I like variety. I did broadcast news for several years and—”
“Is it the money? I know documentary makers are always strapped for cash.”
“The money’s important, of course.”
He watched her closely. The man was not nearly as laid-back as he let on.
“I’d value the experience,” she said. “I enjoy learning.” Lame. So lame. She hadn’t expected to be grilled.
“Do you have a boyfriend, JJ?”
“Excuse me?”
“Relax, I’m making a point, not a pass.” He grinned. “At least not yet, anyway.”
Her body responded as if he were, though, warming as automatically as a reflex.
“This job is hell on couples. That’s my point. We’re on the road for days, out all night, surrounded by people looking to get laid. It gets wild.”
“It’s a tough job, but someone has to do it?”
“You got it.” His eyebrows lifted, as if she’d surprised him by making a joke. She was coming off too serious, she realized. That had to be a strike against her with a man known for humor.
“I don’t have a boyfriend, so that’s no problem. Neither is the travel or the hours. I’ll work hard. I’ll be what you need.”
“And what do you think I need?”
There was a beat of heat in his words, something sexy and intimate that caught her short.
“Me,” she blurted. “You need me.”
“Nice one,” he said, tapping his wineglass against hers before turning serious. “It’s a grind, JJ. There’s no glamour. I’m picky and demanding and a pain in the ass. Kirk has the patience of a saint. Most people would want to throw me out a window after the first shoot.”
“I’m very patient. And I’ll shoot until I get it right. That’s how I prefer to work. You can count on me. Not to brag, but I’m good.”
“I have no doubt of that. But I have to say no. It’s been nice meeting you and I appreciate your willingness to help, but I don’t think this will work out.”
“You’re saying no? Just like that?”
A buzzing sound at the table drew her eye. Brody’s cell had lit up and was vibrating against the laminate surface. He picked it up, glanced at the readout and said, “Sorry, I have to get this. My producer has issues with locations to talk about.”
“No problem,” she said, disappointment washing through her.
How could she reverse this? Be funnier, more insistent, more detailed? While she racked her brain, Brody talked to his producer about red tape in San Francisco, then something about Kirk Canter’s surgery at Santa Monica Hospital.
Abruptly, he clicked his phone shut. “I hate to cut this short, but I’ve got to hit the road. They moved Kirk’s surgery up a day and I need to go wish him luck. Let me get you a cab.”
“But I—we—I mean—”
