The woman looked her up and down, her light-colored brown eyes openly assessing her and appearing to find her wanting. She wrinkled her nose as if she smelled something bad. “What is your name, please?”
“Patrice Sutton,” said Patrice with a warm smile. Over the years she’d been dismissed by so many receptionists that the woman’s attitude didn’t faze her. Half the time, even if they knew exactly who you were, they would still make you wait—or at the very least, draw out the time you had to stand there while they verified your identity.
Patrice had run two miles that morning, though, and she was still feeling the endorphins coursing through her. They were a wonderful mood-enhancing drug. A receptionist wasn’t going to rain on her parade today.
The receptionist took her time putting on a stylish pair of reading glasses and perusing her computer screen. “Ah, yes, you’re to go right up.” She gave Patrice the office number and pointed in the direction of the bank of elevators. “Hurry, you’re going to be late in five minutes.”
“Thank you,” said Patrice, rolling her eyes when her back was to the woman.
Power trips were so ugly.
A few minutes later, she walked into the reception area of Mark Greenberg’s office and had to face another receptionist. This one was male, African-American and perfectly turned out in a dark blue suit and tie. There was no one else in the office. He rose when he saw her and grinned broadly. “Wow, Ms. Sutton, it’s really you, in the flesh!” His outburst must have been unintentional because he suddenly looked stricken. “Sorry,” he said, chagrined.
Patrice liked him immediately.
She offered him her hand in greeting. He took it and held it in both of his as he smiled at her. “I loved you in Amsterdam Avenue.”
Patrice smiled at the mention of her now-canceled sitcom. She had portrayed—what else—an out-of-work actress, in the well-received situation comedy. The show had been called Amsterdam Avenue because of the prevalence of creative people like actors, dancers and singers living in that part of Manhattan.
“You’re a Kym fan, huh?” she said. “Thanks, I had a lot of fun on that show.”
“I couldn’t wait to see what kind of trouble Kym would get into from week to week,” he said. “Oh, I’ve seen your movies, too.”
“That was you?” Patrice joked. “I hear they sold about two tickets. You must have taken a date with you.”
He laughed uproariously. He laughed so loudly that Mark Greenberg came out of his office to see what all the fuss was about.
“Patrice, you’re here,” he exclaimed upon seeing her. “T.K. and I have been waiting for you.” He laughed shortly when he saw that his assistant still had a grip on Patrice’s hand. “Calvin, if you’ll let go of Ms. Sutton, we’ll get the meeting started.”
Calvin looked embarrassed and abruptly let go of her. “I’m sorry, Ms. Sutton.”
Patrice smiled at him. “It’s been a pleasure chatting with you, Calvin.”
He followed them to the door of Mark’s office. “Can I get you anything? Coffee, tea, bottled water, a muffin? I can go out and get you something if we don’t have it.”
“No, thank you. I’m fine,” said Patrice as Mark grabbed her by the arm and gently pulled her inside his office, whereupon he firmly, if not rudely, shut the door in Calvin’s face.
“I apologize for that,” he said softly as they walked into his spacious office. “Calvin is usually not as effusive when he meets celebrities. I suppose he’s a really big fan of yours. I should have known something was up when he arrived at work this morning looking like a GQ model. We’re usually more casual around here.”
He was wearing jeans and a button-down shirt with a pair of expensive athletic shoes—the same sort of clothing he’d been wearing when Patrice had first met him a few weeks ago at her audition. At that meeting, the casting director had been the primary interviewer. Mark had simply observed.
“No need,” Patrice graciously said, discreetly looking around for T.K. “He’s sweet.”
A tall, well-built man in jeans, a polo shirt and athletic shoes stood at the panoramic picture window, his back to them. Mark cleared his throat. “T.K., I’d like you to meet Patrice Sutton.”
T.K. turned around. He and Patrice walked toward one another, meeting in the center of the room. They shook hands. His big hand swallowed hers. His palm was warm and dry and his skin was kind of rough. Strangely, the roughness of his hand impressed her. Usually, actors’ hands were as soft as hers. It wasn’t as if they worked as laborers or ranchers, the job she traditionally associated with “real” men.
“Good to meet you, Patrice,” T.K. said, smiling down at her. He was six-four to her five-seven.
Patrice smiled back at him. Her throat suddenly felt dry. She cleared it. “Good to meet you, too, T.K.,” she softly said. All she was thinking at that moment was Blanca was wrong. Oh, God, I’m holding T. K. McKenna’s hand!
She released his hand. After releasing his hand, she didn’t seem to know what to do with hers. She tugged her shoulder bag closer to her side and looked around for Mark, who had become her safe harbor in a stormy sea. She didn’t know why being in T. K. McKenna’s presence made her nervous. She’d met some of the most successful actors in the business, luminaries who were considered legends, and she had managed to maintain her dignity.
She had known he was magnificent to behold. She had seen practically all of his 30 films. However, the physical impact of seeing him in person magnified his sex appeal tenfold. For one thing, he smelled wonderful. She just wanted to go to him, bury her nose in his muscular chest and stay there awhile. Also, his burnished honey skin was beautiful; that was the only word for it. Usually she preferred men with rich dark-chocolate skin, but even though his wasn’t very dark, it was very appealing. She itched to touch him, rub his bald head.
T.K., who was used to making people nervous, immediately recognized that Patrice was a bit flustered. He casually put a bit of distance between them, going again to stand near the window, talking the whole time. “Mark tells me you ride.”
Mark came and took Patrice by the elbow and directed her to one of the plush leather armchairs in front of his desk. “Make yourself comfortable.”
He went and sat behind his desk. T.K. remained standing. From across the room, his magnetic gaze held hers.
“I grew up on a ranch in New Mexico,” Patrice said, her voice stronger now.
He looked impressed. His brown eyes held an amused glint. “No kidding, a working ranch?”
“Yes, with cattle and horses and everything,” Patrice told him with a shy smile.
He couldn’t help noticing that some of the tension had gone out of her expression. She apparently loved talking about the ranch.
“Your folks still run it?” he asked.
“Suttons have been running it since the late 1800s,” Patrice said proudly.
T.K. went and pulled another of the leather chairs close to hers and sat down. He leaned