Not At Eight, Darling. Sherryl Woods

you in the morning,” Danielle called out cheerfully, then added wickedly, “I can hardly wait to hear if those thighs are everything they seem to be.”

      “I do not intend to check out the man’s legs,” Barrie retorted indignantly.

      “Right,” she replied dryly. “You’re only going over there to sample his favorite recipes.”

      “Exactly.”

      “Honey, the evening may start out with beef Stroganoff and asparagus vinaigrette, but I’ll lay you odds that you’re on the menu for dessert,” she said with a wink.

      “No way,” Barrie insisted stoutly as she slipped out the door. But deep inside, where her stomach fluttered nervously and her blood sizzled, she wondered if she would have the strength to resist if Michael was really determined to have her.

       Chapter Four

      The drive from the studio into Beverly Hills, difficult under the best of conditions, had never seemed so long or the traffic so heavy. By the time Barrie was finally winding her way through the posh, unfamiliar neighborhood with its sculptured lawns and deceptively modest houses, it was already well after nine, pitch-dark, and virtually impossible for her to see the street signs clearly enough through those damned rose-tinted glasses to figure out where she was.

      Terrific, she thought, as she peered vaguely through the windshield, then squinted at the address she’d scribbled down. Now she was completely lost in a tight-knit enclave not known for welcoming strangers. She was also just far enough from the nearest gas station or pay phone to make the idea of backtracking thoroughly unappealing. Assuming that she could even figure out how to backtrack. She sighed and tried to resign herself to the possibility of spending the rest of her life roaming the streets of Beverly Hills. Of course, she’d probably run out of gas or get picked up by the police long before that actually happened.

      “Damn,” she muttered in frustration as she pulled to the side of the palm-lined street and fumbled in the glove compartment for her map of L.A. Trying to hold the book so that she could read by the muted reflection of the streetlight, she finally found Michael’s address. She glared at the map.

      Of course his street was only one block long! She should have known he’d live somewhere so exclusive that it was barely on the map. However, it was only about a mile away and, barring any unexpected deadends—or restrictive gates—should be easy enough to reach if she just stayed straight about five blocks and turned left, then right, she decided at last.

      As she crept along, squinting to read the street signs to locate the first turn, she murmured a silent prayer to the patron saint of lost souls to get her out of this fix, and quickly. Michael was going to be furious and, at this point, she wasn’t any too thrilled about the situation herself. She hated being late almost as much as she abhorred being lost. The former made her feel guilty about her rudeness. The latter made her feel vulnerable, panicky in fact. And the combination was enough to send her fleeing home to burrow under the covers.

      To top it off, she knew that this dinner had all sorts of hidden implications and dangers. Dangers best postponed for perhaps five or six years.

      “I wonder if he’d believe that I developed a raging migraine that temporarily blocked out my memory and that I forgot all about dinner?” she asked herself aloud.

      Not a chance, her conscience replied emphatically. He’d know you were being a coward.

      It was probably fortunate, then, that before she could tell her conscience to go to blazes and then retreat to the security of her own bed, she found the street. After that it was an easy enough matter to find the address. There were only three houses on the whole blasted block.

      It was nearly nine-thirty by the time she reluctantly walked up the palm-lined driveway and rang Michael’s doorbell. When he opened the door, there was a worried frown on his face that altered into a tight, unwelcoming smile. Barrie shuddered. His mincemeat look was back.

      “I’ve heard of being fashionably late, but don’t you think this is overdoing it just a bit?” he asked.

      The teasing question was light enough, but there was a hard edge to his voice that told Barrie he was really angry with her, far more angry than she’d anticipated he might be. Cautiously she put her hand on his arm.

      “You really are upset with me, aren’t you?” she said penitently. When he didn’t respond, she rattled on nervously, “I don’t blame you. I’m horribly late, but I was tied up at the studio working on the show longer than I expected. The traffic was awful. You know how that is this time of night. And then I got lost.” She paused for breath and gazed at him hopefully. Nothing. Not even a blink of those blue-green eyes. She tried again. “Anyway, I’m sorry. Did I ruin dinner?”

      He stood looking down at her for a moment, then shook his head and smiled. This time it was more genuine. At least he didn’t look as though he planned to kick her back out onto the streets anymore. “Sorry. Of course not. I guess I was just afraid you’d changed your mind and decided to back out.”