Once in a Blue Moon
Kristin James

www.millsandboon.co.uk

Contents

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

One

She had not expected to ever see him again.

But here he was, walking through the door with Danny Archer and Carol Nieman, all three of them smiling like Cheshire cats and talking in that light, self-satisfied way that betokened the end of a deal.

Isabelle’s stomach clenched. She wanted to turn and run away, yet there was nothing she could do except stand and watch them walk across the soundstage toward her and the rest of the cast.

She recognized Michael immediately despite the fact that it had been over ten years since she’d seen him. He still walked in that intensely masculine, loose-limbed way, like an animal on the prowl; his body was still lean and powerful. And the smile flashing across his face was just as charming as ever. Charm, after all, was his stock in trade, Isabelle thought sardonically.

“Curtis Townsend,” Phil Ridley murmured beside her.

“What?” Isabelle glanced at Phil, confused.

Phil nodded toward the producer and assistant producer and the man in between them, buttressed like a prize. “I’ll lay you odds that he’s going to play Curtis Townsend. You know, the brother they keep talking about.”

“Oh.” Recent scripts had been rife with references to Mark Townsend’s brother, Curtis, a character who had left the show years before. There had been a great deal of speculation that the character was to be brought back.

Isabelle’s stomach knotted even tighter. Surely that could not be. Surely she was not doomed to having Michael Traynor permanently around her—in the same studio twelve hours a day, seeing him in the actor’s lounge, running into him walking along the hallway, even rehearsing and acting opposite him on the set! Panic seized her. She knew she could not bear it.

“People!” Danny Archer was speaking now into the waiting silence, smiling at the cast and crew. He loved having them all hanging on his words. “I have someone here I want you to meet. His name is Michael Traynor.” His grin broadened, and he gave a jovial little laugh. “A name I’m sure you’ve all heard of. I’m proud to say that we have managed to woo him away from New York and that other show, which shall remain nameless.” He paused for the polite murmur of laughter. “Starting next week, he is going to be our new Curtis Townsend.”

Phil cast Isabelle an arch look, raising his brows. Isabelle felt sick. How could this be happening? She had thought Michael safe in New York, tied by his popularity in “Eden Crossing.” She had blithely believed that she would never have to see him again, never have to face the past that lay between them.

“Let me introduce you to your castmates, Michael,” Danny continued, propelling Michael forward with a hand on his elbow. “Of course, Lena you already know.”

Michael smiled, reaching out to take her hand. “Yes. Thank you again for reading with me in the audition.”

Lena almost simpered. “It was a pleasure.” Obviously Michael hadn’t lost a bit of his charm, Isabelle thought sourly.

“This is Paul Kusorka—he plays Chase Manning. And Vivian Blair...”

They were proceeding down the line, coming ever closer to her. Isabelle knew that she would have to meet Michael face-to-face. She steeled herself. She must not let him realize how much seeing him again shook her. She would not let him have that power over her, that satisfaction.

Another thought struck her: Would he even remember her? Recognize her? It had been ten years, after all, and she was well aware of how much less important that summer had been to him than it had been to her. It would be a relief, of course, if he looked at her without recognition, with the vague, indeterminate charm of a new acquaintance—but how humiliating, as well. A painful reminder of the fact that she had been nothing but a summer fling for him, easily forgotten when he returned to New York.

She raised her chin, assuming a cool expression. She was determined not to let her face reflect any response to him, whether he remembered her or not. She would be aloof, remote, unaffected by him.

Danny and Michael were two people away now, chatting with Lyle Gordon, the director. Isabelle waited, surreptitiously wiping her sweating palm against her skirt.

Michael glanced away from Lyle and his eyes moved to Phil, then to Isabelle. She felt the full force of his magnetic blue gaze. It was hard to hide the involuntary quiver that ran through her. God, he was handsome.

Distant memory could not prepare her for the power of his looks. He was older now, the thick black hair shorter and tamed into a more conservative style, as befitted the upright doctor that Curtis Townsend was supposed to be. But the lines in his face only added interest to his smooth good looks, the added flesh removing some of the gauntness of his prominent facial bones. His eyes held a more haunting look of experience and wisdom.

There was none of the surprise in his face that Isabelle had felt when she saw him enter the room. But there was no blankness, either; he knew her, and he had known that she would be here. Then he must have recognized her name when Danny or Carol had told him about the other cast members. Or perhaps he’d even noticed that she was on “All Our Tomorrows” before he had auditioned for the part. Obviously it made no difference to him that she was on the show. But, then, she told herself, she didn’t know why she should expect that it would. Michael Traynor no doubt felt no pain at the mention of her name; he would not flinch at the idea of working with her. A brief summer affair would not loom large in his past.

Now they were standing in front of her, and Danny was saying her name. Isabelle forced herself to smile and extend her hand to Michael. She felt so stiff, she thought her cheeks might crack.

“Hello.”

“Isabelle.”

“You two know each other?” Archer asked in surprise.

“Yes. We know each other.” Michael smiled faintly, looking into Isabelle’s face. His hand was warm around hers. She realized that she remembered exactly how his skin felt.

“We met a long time ago,” Isabelle explained coolly to Danny, “at a summer theater.” She turned to Michael, gazing challengingly into his eyes, willing herself not to notice their disturbing blueness. “I’m surprised that you remember me.”

Michael’s dark, straight brows went up at that statement. “I could hardly forget you,” he said simply.

She wished that she could say that she had forgotten him, but, of course, it would be too rude, as well as untrue. How could she forget him, when everyday she found herself looking into that same face when she gazed at her daughter?

“Of course not,” Danny agreed, grinning. “Who could forget a woman who looks like you, Isabelle?”

Isabelle gave him a perfunctory smile. “Thank you, Danny. Let’s just hope the viewers don’t.”

Behind Michael, Carol Nieman, laughed. “Hardly likely. You’re everyone’s favorite villainess, and you know it.” She cast a roguish glance at Michael. “Isabelle’s our resident man-eater, you see—Jessica Randall.”

Michael nodded. “I know.”

“Yes, of course. She’s devouring your character’s brother at the moment.”

Michael smiled at Isabelle slightly and released her hand. She hadn’t realized that he had continued to hold it until that moment; her hand was a little empty and cold now.

“I look forward to working with you.”

“Oh, I doubt we’ll have many scenes together,” Isabelle replied breezily, turning and walking away from Michael without waiting to see his expression.

She strode through the increasing crowd on the set, smiling and nodding at people, trying to look calm and unconcerned, as if she were just strolling back to her dressing room. As if she were not running away.

* * *

Isabelle closed the door of her dressing room behind her and collapsed heavily into the chair in front of her mirror. She leaned her elbows upon the vanity and rested her head on her hands.

How could this have happened? It seemed the most appalling trick of fate. She had long ago dismissed the fear that she might meet Michael again. Why, it had been years since she had even thought about him—at least in any more than a brief, passing way. And now, to have him turn up, here on her set....

For a moment she panicked and thought of running, of packing up and taking Jenny and moving away. Then she drew a long breath and forced herself to calm down. That was ridiculous; she couldn’t overturn her life and run simply because an old boyfriend had appeared. And that’s all he was, she reminded herself: an old boyfriend. Someone who had once, for a brief summer, had a place in her life and who no longer did.

It was not a disaster. Other women had old lovers re-appear in their lives; why, here among the relatively small acting world of L.A., some women had to face their ex’s all the time, even right after they had split up. At least she had had ten years for the wounds to heal before she had to face Michael again.

Isabelle raised her head and looked at herself in the mirror. She didn’t like what she saw: the frown line between her eyes, the vulnerable mouth, the anxiety looming in her eyes. She looked like a victim, she thought, and she was determined never to be that, never to think of herself that way. Those horrible, pain-filled two years after Michael left her were a thing of the past; she was not the frightened, lonely girl she had been then. She had taken control of her life; she had gone after what she wanted; she had taken care of herself and of Jenny—so well, in fact, that most people would be envious of her life now.

She ought to thank Michael for what he had done, really; it had enabled her to be the person she was now. Sometimes she wondered if she would ever have had the strength or the nerve to have packed up and come to L.A., to pit herself against the terrible odds of becoming a successful actress, if Michael had not left her. The odds were, she knew, that she would not have done what she did, that she would have become merely an appendage of him.

And she was not going to sink back into being a frightened young woman simply because he had shown up again. Isabelle drew another deep breath, willing her face into lines of tranquility, forcing the fear from her eyes, firming her mouth. There, that was better.

Isabelle turned from the mirror and settled down to consider her situation. She did not like the idea of being on the same show with Michael. But there was little hope of his leaving anytime soon, not after Danny had just hired him—and with such obvious pride. Danny considered getting Michael away from “Eden Crossing” a tremendous coup; she could tell by the way he was crowing about him. “Eden” was, after all, the most successful daytime soap, whereas “All Our Tomorrows” had been the perennial runner-up, ;ns1 in its time slot, but ;ns2 overall to “Eden.” Everyone knew that that fact chafed Danny; no doubt he was hopeful that with the added attraction of Michael Traynor, their show would overtake “Eden” in the ratings. Indeed, he was probably right. Whatever Isabelle might feel about Michael Traynor, he was one of the most popular actors on daytime television, and his presence might be just the impetus they needed to push “Tomorrows” over the top.

If anyone left, if would have to be her, and Isabelle knew that she did not want to go. The show had made her very popular, and she enjoyed playing her character. Besides, the money was good, and though she could in all likelihood get a part that paid as well on another soap, she could not be absolutely sure. And with a child like Jenny, financial security was very important. Jenny would always have to have someone to look after her to some extent. That was why Isabelle kept salting away a big hunk of her salary into Jenny’s trust fund every year.

Nor was it only the security of money that Jenny required. She needed to stay in the same house with the same housekeeper to pick her up from school each day, and her mother to spend regular time with her. Isabelle could not take a job on one of the soaps shooting in New York nor could she be in a movie that spent months shooting on location. Even a nighttime series required more time away from home than Isabelle wanted to spend. That was why the “Tomorrows” role was so perfect. “Tomorrows” was probably the best organized, best-run production in town; shooting was scheduled so that one’s scenes were all together on certain days, with the result that even the most popular actors, such as Isabelle, worked only three or four days a week. It wasn’t like other shows she had been in where she might have to be at the set all day only to shoot a scene or two. Isabelle was often able to be home with Jenny two afternoons a week after school, as well as on the weekends.

Besides, she enjoyed her role on “Tomorrows.” She liked the cast and crew, and the writers and directors were good. All in all, she did not want to give up her part on it.

And there was no reason why she should, Isabelle told herself firmly. She would be acting like a schoolgirl if she left the show simply to get away from Michael Traynor. After all, what could happen? It wasn’t as if she were in danger of being hurt by him again. No, she had learned her lesson the first time. She had gotten over him long ago, and she intended to stay that way. And she was old enough and wise enough now that he could not charm her into loving him against her better wishes.

Moreover, she doubted that he would try. Why should Michael be interested in her? She was only a girl he had had a brief fling with one summer; she obviously had not meant much to him, given how easily he had left her. If he were, by some chance, attracted to her again, all she had to do was let him know that she was not interested, and he would drop the matter. It wasn’t as if he had seduced or forced her the first time; she had fallen willingly into his arms. Michael had never pushed her; she had to give him that. He could get any number of women he wanted, after all; he didn’t have to pursue or push.

Surely she was adult enough to handle having to see him around the set, Isabelle told herself, even to play a scene with him now or then. It was unlikely that they would be together in many scenes. Her character, the wicked Jessica, had her hooks in Mark Townsend, the brother of the character Michael would play. And obviously, from his having auditioned with Lena, the writers intended to kindle a romance between Lena’s character, Abby, and his.

It would be relatively easy to avoid him. When she did have to be around Michael, she could manage to be coolly polite. Seeing him had hit her hard this afternoon only because it was so sudden and unexpected. Once she became used to his being around, it wouldn’t bother her so much. After a time, even, she might be totally unaffected.

Isabelle paused in her thoughts and smiled wryly; she wondered if any woman who was still breathing could be totally unaffected by Michael Traynor. Perhaps not, but she was armored against him better than most, she thought; she knew what could happen to her if she used poor judgment.

He wouldn’t necessarily learn about Jenny. Isabelle had been careful to keep her private life separate from her job. She presumed a lot of people knew that she had a daughter, but less than a handful knew anything about that daughter. She never brought Jenny to work with her. Michael Traynor would certainly never be at her house. Even if, by some remote chance, he did see Jenny, he wouldn’t necessarily assume that she was his. Isabelle could see the resemblance in her, but that wasn’t to say that anyone else would. Jenny was quite small for her age; she looked more like seven or eight than ten.

The important thing, of course, was that Jenny not find out the truth. Jenny’s tender feelings were easily hurt, and she could hold on to the pain for much longer than Isabelle would have thought possible. It would never do for her to know that she had a father alive and well, a father who had run out on them before he even knew about her. Worse yet would be for her to know it and see him pull away from her now. No, Jenny must not know. But that would be easy.

There was a rap on her door, and Isabelle’s head came up with a snap. Her heart began to pound. For one crazy moment she thought it was Michael, coming after her to talk to her. But then Tish Klegman’s voice sounded in the hall. “Miss Gray? You start shooting again in fifteen minutes.”

“Oh.” Isabelle pulled herself into the present with difficulty. “Yes. Of—of course. What scene?”

“Three. You and Paul and Phil, in the restaurant.”

“Oh, yes.” It was the scene they had been rehearsing when Danny and Carol had waltzed into practice with their new acquisition.

Isabelle glanced around her, looking for the script. All her lines seemed to have flown from her head in the last few minutes. It took her a moment to recall that she must have left the script out on the set. She sighed and closed her eyes for a moment. She had to pull herself together. She couldn’t go back out there in this frazzled condition.

Isabelle checked her image in the mirror, straightening her clothes, tidying her hair, smoothing away a smudge of mascara beneath her eye. Callie would refresh her makeup right before they shot, of course, but she needed the confidence of looking perfect when she walked onto the soundstage. No one must suspect that Michael Traynor’s arrival had upset her.

Isabelle stood up, drawing another deep breath. Then she opened the door and marched out into the hallway, head high, a faint smile on her lips as she strode along the hall and onto the soundstage.

“Isabelle,” the director said, smiling. “Great. Now maybe we can get back down to business. Need to run through it again?”

Isabelle smiled, picking up her script and glancing down the page. “No, I’m fine, Lyle. Let’s go ahead and shoot.”

* * *

It was a long two hours later when Isabelle finally left the soundstage. She walked tiredly back to her dressing room to remove her makeup and change clothes. Despite her confident assurance to the director, she had had difficulty with the scene, blowing her lines three times in a row before she got them right. Her nerves had infected the others, with the result that the two scenes they filmed had taken them much longer than normal. She was going to have to retain control of herself better than that, Isabelle thought in disgust as she kicked off her spike heels and wriggled her toes in relief.

“Feet hurting?” a sympathetic voice said as Amanda from Wardrobe stuck her head in the door.

Isabelle cast her a wry smile. “As usual. The worst thing about playing a silver-plated bitch is the stiletto heels I have to wear. Come on in. I’ll have the suit off in a sec.”

Amanda came farther into the room, closing the door behind her, and picked up Isabelle’s shoes from the floor. Then she took down a hanger and hung up the skirt and jacket of the elegant business suit that Isabelle had pulled off and handed to her.

“I saw the new hunk,” Amanda said jokingly and fanned herself with an imaginary fan.

“Mmm,” Isabelle replied noncommittally. Now she understood why Amanda personally had come to retrieve her outfit for Wardrobe. A middle-aged woman with short graying hair and no makeup, Amanda looked more like a librarian than someone in charge of glitzy costumes, but she had razor-sharp taste in clothes and loved to indulge it with the studio’s money. She was equally fond of gossip and could usually be found at the center of any studio rumors.

“Word has it that you know him,” she went on when Isabelle said nothing to relieve her curiosity.

“Briefly, a long time ago,” Isabelle replied casually, pulling on her own jeans and a simple short-sleeved sweater. She strove to keep her tone light and uninvolved; she had to set the pattern right from the beginning. The show’s gossip was the best place to start, she supposed—as long as she managed to hide all traces of residual emotion.

“We worked in the same summer theater—Shakespeare,” Isabelle went on. “He was one of the professionals who had come down from New York to work with Dr. Carlysle, and I was a mere intern. I was only eighteen. I hadn’t even started college yet.”

She would not mention the afternoons of drinking coffee with Michael in the café across from the amphitheater or the evenings when he had walked her home, the long kisses on the porch of the big old house where the interns had roomed. She would not reveal how everything inside her had turned to Jell-O everytime Michael looked at her.

“But he remembered you. Phil said he did.” Amanda gave her a conspiratorial smile. Her eyes were alight with the greedy flame of an inveterate gossip. “You must have made an impression on him.”

Isabelle chuckled. “I was surprised he remembered me, truthfully. We did work together on a play, but he was Mercutio in Romeo and Juliet, and I was one of the townspeople.”

She pushed out of her mind the memories of lying beneath a tree with him, the sun dappling her legs and the branches rustling over their heads, the green summer grass a tangy scent in her nostrils and the heat of Michael’s body lying only inches from her as his smooth voice rolled out the lines of the play, the Shakespeare on his tongue as intoxicating as wine. There hadn’t been a time, before or since, when she had felt as alive as she had that summer.

“Mercutio! I would have figured Romeo was more like it, the way he looks.” Amanda fetched up a grandiose sigh.

“As I remember, he liked the part better. It suited him, anyway—charming and cynical.” There had been something dark and mysterious about him. It was intriguing that his charm had a slightly rough edge, that he was not the familiar Southern boy that she’d grown up with, but a Yankee, and one with a sad history, as well. He had been orphaned at thirteen and had been bounced from foster home to foster home for a few years. His love of acting had been the thing that had saved him from following some of his New Jersey friends into a criminal life.

Isabelle had fallen for him hard. To give him credit, he had tried to ignore her, but she had been determined to reach him. She had arranged accidental meetings and flirted and schemed. It had been two weeks before he broke down and invited her out to coffee one afternoon. It had been even longer before he had finally kissed her. After that, though, they had become inseparable. Eventually, inevitably, they had come together in a cataclysmic night of lovemaking.

Three weeks later, Michael had gotten a call from his agent in New York. There had been a part in an off-Broadway play for him. He had, of course, taken it, leaving the last week of playing Mercutio to his understudy. Isabelle had been away that weekend, visiting her parents at home, and she had returned to be told by her roommate, in a tone of mock sympathy, that Michael had gone back to New York. He had left her a letter.

Isabelle would never forget the chill that invaded her being as she read that letter. He had told her of the part and said that he must leave. He loved her, the note had gone on to say, but there was no future for them. He was sure that before long she would forget all about him.

Isabelle had been too numb for tears. Those had come later, as had the saving fury, the scorn at her own naiveté. She had played the fool, she had realized; she had given her heart to a man who had wanted nothing beyond a summer fling. His career was all that mattered to him; he wanted no entanglements. All the other girls at the theater were quick to agree; they had, they assured her, seen it coming. It had happened to most of them at one time or another, they told her, and nodded their heads sagely. That was life. She had learned a valuable lesson.

Perhaps she had. But it had taken her a long, painful time to get over him. And she had always had a reminder of Michael and the pain: his daughter, Jenny.

“...but of course she always claims to have the inside scoop on everybody,” Amanda was saying, giving Isabelle’s suit a last straightening twitch.

Isabelle nodded vaguely and hoped she didn’t need to respond. She had no idea what the woman had been saying while her own thoughts had been wandering back ten years in time.

“Well...” Amanda draped the suit over her arm and picked up the shoes from the counter where she had placed them. “See you Friday—you’re not scheduled tomorrow, are you?”

“No. A day of rest tomorrow, thank heavens.” Isabelle smiled at Amanda. Whatever tendencies Amanda had toward gossip, she was always on top of her job. And she had unerring taste. Isabelle was grateful to her. After all, there were those costume designers whose chief objective seemed to be to make their actresses look frumpy or sallow.

“Okay. Just wait till you see the green evening dress I’ve got picked out for you for the party next week. I’ll show you Friday. You’ll look like a million dollars in it.”

“Wonderful.” Isabelle summoned up enough energy for a last smile at Amanda, then sank onto her chair in front of the vanity and began to take off her heavy on-camera makeup. She combed through her heavily sprayed and arranged hair until it was back into its normal loose style over her shoulders.

Free of the makeup and elaborate hairdo, she felt better. She rolled her head from side to side, letting the tension of the day begin to drain from her. She thought about the fact that in a few minutes she would be home with Jenny—and there would be a whole day alone tomorrow to marshal her inner strength before she had to see Michael Traynor again.

Isabelle slipped her feet into her ragged sneakers and grabbed her bag, heading out the door. She walked down the hall, nodding at the people she passed, and out the front door. The sun struck her like a blow, and she hurriedly dug in her bag for her sunglasses. She didn’t notice the knot of people standing on the sidewalk in front of the building until it was too late.

Michael Traynor was chatting with two of the writers. Isabelle’s stomach clenched. She hadn’t been prepared to see him again. But she summoned up a smile and walked past them with a breezy wave and a “hi,” continuing toward her car in the parking lot without breaking stride.

“Isabelle! Wait!” She glanced back and saw with an inward groan that Michael had peeled away from the others and was walking toward her.

Two

Isabelle hesitated. The nerves in her stomach were jumping. She didn’t have the strength to deal with Michael right now. She would have liked to turn and continue walking to her car. But her pride would not let her. She did not want Michael to think that he was able to affect her in any way. So she squared her shoulders and waited, putting a faintly questioning and impatient expression on her face.

“I’m sorry,” she said, smiling impersonally. “I was just about to leave.”

Michael stopped in front of her. Isabelle was disconcertingly aware of his body, his charisma, the magnetism of his blue eyes. She fought a sudden surge of sensual memories—the warmth and strength of his arms around her, the delicious taste of his mouth, the shivers of delight his hands had roused on her body.

“I’ve been hanging around waiting for you,” Michael began. “We need to talk.”

Isabelle raised her eyebrows coolly, though inside, her nerves were jangling. “We do?”

“Yes.” Michael frowned. “We’re going to be working together. I—It would be easier if things were straight between us.”

“As far as I know, there isn’t anything ‘between us,’” Isabelle answered, pleased at the indifference she had managed to inject into her voice. It was difficult, considering the way Michael’s cobalt-blue eyes were boring into her.

“There was once,” Michael replied seriously. “I don’t want that to be a problem.”

“No problem,” Isabelle returned lightly. “I hadn’t even thought of you in years until Danny brought you in today.”

“I could see that it was a surprise. I had assumed that they’d told you we were negotiating. I’m sorry, I didn’t want it to be a shock to you.”

“Michael...” Isabelle made her voice crisp, using every acting skill she possessed to sound faintly amused. “I’m afraid you don’t have the power to shock me anymore.”

His eyebrows rose lazily. “Ah...a direct hit.” He shrugged. “Well, I’m glad to hear that you’re okay with my joining the cast. I want to work with you without either one of us being submarined by a lot of things from the past.”

“I’m not a teenager anymore, Michael. I don’t fall in and out of love at the drop of a hat. And I used up my supply of tears where you were concerned years ago. If it will relieve your mind, then I’m happy to tell you that my crush on you is most assuredly a thing of the past. I doubt very seriously that you and I will be working together much, but when we do, I’m sure that it will be no problem for us to maintain a professional attitude.”

Isabelle cringed inside at how prissy she sounded. No doubt he would think she had turned into some kind of wooden prig. Well, what did it matter what he thought of her?

Amusement flashed through his eyes for a moment, lightening them, but then it was gone, and he merely nodded. “Good. I’m glad to hear that. I—uh, guess I’ll see you around.”

Isabelle wanted to childishly retort, “Not if I see you first,” but she refrained. Instead, she nodded briefly at Michael and turned and strode off to her car. She resisted the impulse to look back and see if he was watching her. By the time she reached her car and could turn in his direction without it seeming purposeful, she saw that he had left. She sank into the driver’s seat, the adrenaline that had come to her rescue earlier now oozing out of her system and leaving her more drained than before. She leaned her forehead wearily against the steering wheel.

God, she hoped all the days weren’t going to be like this.

* * *

Jenny was riding her bike in front of the house when Isabelle turned into their driveway. With her little spaniel puppy sitting in the basket behind her seat, Jenny was intently pedaling the three-wheel cycle around and around the drive in front of the garage. It was a large cycle, with a front wheel and frame like a bicycle, but with two wide-spaced bicycle wheels across the back to give it stability. When Jenny had outgrown her tricycle, she had wanted to graduate to a bike, but she still had some difficulties with her balance, making a bicycle too dangerous. Isabelle had seen an old lady with a plastic sack of aluminum cans wheeling along a street in Hollywood on a contraption like this one day, and she had realized that it would be perfect for Jenny.

“Mommy!” Jenny cried when she saw Isabelle, and waved enthusiastically. Her eyes lit up in the way that indicated excitement and pleasure, though her mouth and face retained its usual serious expression. Jenny was not much given to smiling.

Isabelle’s daughter was small and pale. Her hair was thick and black, cut short in a practical bob. Thick dark eyebrows cut startlingly across her face, and it was this that gave her the most resemblance to Michael—that and the penetrating blue of her eyes. She wore big round red-rimmed glasses that emphasized the pixieish shape of her face.

“Hi, sweetheart.” Isabelle parked in the garage, then got out of the car and walked over to her. “How’s my girl?”

“I’m fine. I’m giving Patience a ride.”

“I see. That’s nice of you.”

Patience, their dainty liver-and-white Cavalier spaniel, leapt lightly out of her basket and trotted over to Isabelle, wagging her tail. Isabelle bent to pet her. Patience was an extremely sweet-tempered dog who submitted herself resignedly to Jenny’s play and did nothing but walk away if Jenny unintentionally squeezed a leg or pulled an ear. Isabelle had bought her and named her for precisely that quality. Prudence, on the other hand, their large smoky gray Persian cat, made it a point to stay well out of Jenny’s way and always kept a wary eye on her unless Isabelle was with them.

“Hello, Patience,” Isabelle murmured, giving her an extra few rubs to reward her good nature.

Jenny cautiously disembarked from her vehicle and hurried over to her mother, holding her arms wide for a hug. Isabelle pulled her close and squeezed her. Whatever else she felt for Michael Traynor, she could not help but be grateful to him for giving her this girl.

She had not always felt that way, of course. She had cried herself to sleep night after night when she realized that she was pregnant, almost two months after Michael left her. He had tried once or twice to call her during the summer, but she had stubbornly refused to talk to him. When she discovered she was pregnant, she had fallen into despair and she had considered finally talking to him. But he didn’t call her again, and she would not take the step of calling him.

Instead, she had sleepwalked her way through the first semester of her freshman year, then returned home at Christmas and broke the news to her parents. Predictably, her well-to-do Southern parents had been genteelly horrified at the news. When she told them that she intended to keep the baby and raise it, her father had argued with her incessantly. He wanted her to have an abortion; he told her over and over how it would ruin her life and be a perpetual burden to her.

To Isabelle’s surprise, it had been her mother, always the picture of frail, proper Southern femininity, who had finally said, “Oh, Harrington, hush. Of course she’s not going to get rid of her baby. Whatever are you thinking of? We’ll just have to make adjustments, that’s all.”

The adjustments had been far worse than any of them had expected, however. Jenny had been born with a heart defect, pinched-faced and bluish. For weeks, it had been a daily struggle for her to stay alive. She underwent three surgeries in the first two years of her life and another one when she was six to repair her heart. All her life she had remained small and been slow to develop, and she had been hit hard by any childhood virus or infection. Since the final operation, she had been able to lead a fairly normal life physically, to play and even ride her bike without gasping for breath or having to stop frequently.

However, nothing could repair the damage that had been done to Jenny’s brain in the first few weeks of her life when her weak heart had not pumped enough oxygen-rich blood to her brain. She had been slow to develop both mentally and physically, walking later, talking later and never completely achieving the skills of other children her age.

The first few years of Jenny’s life, she had occupied all Isabelle’s time. College, her plans to act, everything had fallen by the wayside as she had struggled to keep Jenny alive and well. Once again, it had been Isabelle’s mother who had pulled her aside and pointed out that Isabelle could not sacrifice herself for her daughter, that she had to create some kind of life for herself, as well.

Isabelle had been scared, but she had known that her mother was right. She had started in a small way by going back to college, but she had quickly realized that she was light-years away from the carefree freshmen in her classes. Finally, she had decided to move to Los Angeles and try to make it in the career she had always wanted: acting. If she could not make it, there would be time enough later to come back and build another, safer career for herself.

It had been tough, and Isabelle knew that it would probably have been impossible without the extra money her parents had provided for Jenny’s welfare. Isabelle had had no life outside of her work and her daughter. She went to auditions; she took acting lessons; she worked part-time jobs. The rest of the time she spent with Jenny. There had been no time for men and, frankly, Isabelle had had little interest in them. She had gotten a few jobs in commercials and walk-ons in two nighttime series. Then her first real break had come: she had been hired as a daily on one of the soap operas. The response to her had been so good that her two weeks had expanded into two months and finally into a year’s contract. Then, almost three years ago, she had moved to “Tomorrows” and her current role as Jessica Connors O’Neal Randall, the town villainess.

She had become enormously popular in the role. She had the perfect looks for the part of the local siren: thick, long black hair, vivid emerald-green eyes and a voluptuous figure. But it was her acting skills that had brought her such a devoted following. She was able to make her character not only wicked, but was able also to invest her with a sense of humor and even a hint of vulnerability that had made it possible for viewers to love her even as they hated her. Last year, when the writers had put Jessica in a life-threatening car crash in which she had lost the child she was carrying, viewers had written in, frantic at the thought that Jessica was going to die.

Because of her popularity in the role, Isabelle was now financially secure. She had been able to buy a lovely secluded house with plenty of yard for Jenny to play in. She could send Jenny to an excellent school and pay for a housekeeper/companion for her daughter. She had even been able to pay back her parents for the money they’d lent her during her first years in L.A. But money was the only thing that had changed for them. Isabelle still had only one interest outside of work, and that was her daughter.

She squeezed Jenny tightly to her now. “How was school?”

“Fine. I made something.”

“You did? How nice. May I see it?”

Jenny shook her head. “I’m not supposed to tell you.”

“I see. A special present, then.”

Jenny nodded. “We made it this morning. But I can’t tell you.”

“That’s all right. I’ll see it when you bring it home.”

Jenny nodded. “Miss Bright said, ‘Shh.’” She brought her forefinger up to her lips and made an exaggerated gesture of silence. “I don’t like it, they say. ‘Don’t talk.’”

“Who says, Jenny? Miss Albright?”

Jenny nodded emphatically. “Miss Bright says ‘Don’t talk,’ and I only asked... He was drawing, see, like this.” She made big circular motions with her right hand, as if drawing in air. “And he—” She pulled her hands apart as if ripping something.

“He tore up his paper?” Isabelle wasn’t sure exactly what Jenny was talking about; she sometimes had trouble following her disjointed, repetitive way of speaking even after years of experience.

Jenny’s dark head came down in the same hard nod. She was clearly feeling indignant. “Yes! And Miss Bright, she said, ‘Don’t talk.’ I don’t like that.”

“I’m sure not. You just wanted to see what he was drawing, right?”

“‘Whatcha doing?’” Jenny agreed. “‘Whatcha doing?’”

Isabelle repressed a smile. This was Jenny’s favorite question of any-and everyone. No doubt some other child in her class had resented her asking it.

“Well, I’m sure Miss Albright didn’t want you disturbing the other students. Apparently he didn’t like it when you asked him to let you see.”

“He’s a poophead,” Jenny commented. Then she added, “Kevin said ‘He’s a poophead.’”

“I bet Miss Albright didn’t like that.”

“Uh-uh.” Jenny shook her head exaggeratedly. “She said, ‘No, no, no.’”

“And what have you been doing since you came home from school?” Isabelle asked, deciding it was probably better to switch off this subject. Miss Albright would probably not appreciate Jenny’s implanting the forbidden word in her mind with further repetitions.

“I gave Patience a ride.” Jenny leaned down and patted the dog firmly on the head.

“Good. But don’t ride her around too much, or she might get sick.”

“She likes to ride. Lady didn’t like to ride.”

“No. Lady was getting a little old for riding.” Lady had been their first dog, a rather cantankerous old miniature poodle that had been Isabelle’s mother’s dog. Jenny had cried so much at leaving her when they moved to Los Angeles that Frances had given her to them.

“Lady’s gone now. Lady’s in Heaven,” Jenny pointed out.

“I know. And I’m sure she’s very happy.”

“Lady’s in Heaven now. We took her—she went—weeks ago.”

“Even longer than that.”

“She went to the dog hospital. Now she’s in Heaven.”

“That’s right. Why don’t you put up your bicycle and let’s go inside and see what Irma has fixed for supper?” Isabelle suggested.

“Hot dog and chips.”

“That’s what we’re having for supper?” Isabelle smiled. “I imagine Irma’s cooked something healthier than that.”

“I had it. Hot dog and chips. That’s what I wanted.”

“When you came home from school? That’s what Irma gave you for a snack after school?”

Jenny nodded and started over to her cycle, saying again, “Hot dog and chips.”

She walked her big tricycle into the garage and carefully stowed it away in its place beside Isabelle’s car. Isabelle waited for her, and they walked in the back door. Irma Pena, their housekeeper, turned and grinned at them, whisking off her apron.

“Ah, Mrs. Gray. I’m glad you’re home. I’m sorry, but I have to run tonight.” Usually Irma was happy to stay longer with Jenny when Isabelle ran late in the evenings. “I have to pick Estrellita up at school. They’re practicing a play, and I have to be there at eight-thirty.”

“I’m sorry I kept you late. We ran over at the studio today.”

“Sí. No problem.” Irma waved away Isabelle’s explanation and apology. “I got plenty of time still. But I don’t like for Estrellita to have to stand around and wait, you know—you never know what can happen.” She shook her head, clicking her tongue, as she crossed the room and picked up her handbag and keys from the counter. “Terrible thing, when a girl isn’t safe at school.”

“Yes, it is.”

Jenny was frowning, listening to her. “I’m safe,” she said.

“Of course you are, precious one.” Irma smiled at her. “I was talking about something else. Don’t you worry about it.”

“Don’t talk to strangers,” Jenny told her solemnly. “Then you’re safe.”

“That’s right. Never talk to strangers,” Isabelle agreed, waving to Irma as she bustled out the door.

“I never do. Miss Bright told us. Strangers might—might—”

“They might hurt you,” Isabelle supplied gently. “That’s why Miss Albright told you not to talk to them.”

This was a lesson that Jenny had been taught regularly for years, both in school and out. She repeated the words often, proud that she had learned the lesson, but for all her words about it, Isabelle was not at all sure that Jenny would heed the advice. She was impulsive and affectionate, prone to hug everyone she met, and Isabelle could easily imagine her wandering off with anyone, hand in hand, while she faithfully repeated her maxim of “Don’t talk to strangers.” For that reason, she made sure that Irma was always there to pick Jenny up as soon as school was let out, and she never let Jenny play outside their fenced-in yard.

Irma had left grilled tuna and a broccoli-and-rice casserole on the stove for them, and Isabelle dished them up and carried them to the table while Jenny painstakingly set the table. Jenny continued to chatter all through dinner and afterward, until finally Isabelle told her that it was time for a quiet period and sent her off to her room to play by herself for a few minutes.

Isabelle kicked off her shoes and stretched out on the couch. Her head was pounding and had been for some time, she realized. Prudence uncoiled her large, smoky gray body from the mantel where she liked to perch and leapt lightly down. She came over to the couch and rubbed herself against it beneath Isabelle’s head, emitting plaintive meows.

“Hey, kitty,” Isabelle murmured, stroking her hand down the cat’s back. “You’re looking as fat and sassy as ever.”

She closed her eyes, still stroking the cat, reveling in the peace of the moment. She needed it, after a day like this one had been.

Taking this time to herself—turning off Jenny’s incessant chatter and separating herself from the child for a few moments—had been one of the hardest things for Isabelle to learn to do. She had been accustomed since Jenny’s birth to spending all her time caring for her and worrying about her. She felt guilty for spending time away from Jenny when she worked even though Jenny was going to a special school that did wonders for her. When she was at home, she felt it was imperative that she give Jenny her constant undivided attention. There were times when Jenny’s disjointed, repetitive chattering scraped her nerves raw, but she gritted her teeth and listened and responded.

It had been Jenny’s teacher, at a parent’s night, that had taken her aside and advised her to tell Jenny when she had talked enough, when Isabelle needed to be by herself or enjoy a few minutes of quiet.

Isabelle had felt—and looked—a trifle shocked. “But I want her to feel that what she says is important to me. I think I should listen to her.”

“Of course you should. But not all the time. I’ve been watching you tonight, and you’re letting Jenny dominate every moment of your time. That isn’t good for her, Ms. Gray. She needs, just like every other child, to know her limits. She needs structure. You aren’t doing her any favors. It’s pity, not love. Just think about it. If Jenny were a ‘normal’ child, would you allow her to rattle on all the time? I don’t think so. You would teach her manners. You’d know that she needs to learn to let others talk, that she’s not the only person in the world. Jenny needs to learn that, too.”

Isabelle had stared at her, much struck by her words. Then she had thanked her, and ever since that day she had made it a point to now and then stop Jenny’s prattling and to take a few minutes out of her evening to be completely alone.

Prudence jumped up onto the couch and settled onto Isabelle’s stomach, letting out her low, throaty purr. The sound was hypnotic, soothing, and Isabelle felt the knots of tension gradually seeping out of her muscles. She was just drifting into sleep when Jenny came back into the room, dragging one of her dolls by the hair.

“Hi,” she said, plopping down on the couch at Isabelle’s feet. “Whatcha doing?”

Isabelle smiled. Ten or fifteen minutes was usually Jenny’s limit for leaving one alone. “Nothing. Just being lazy.”

She sat up and cuddled Jenny to her side. “Well, what do you say we watch a little TV together? Would you like that?”

“Sure.”

Isabelle picked up the remote control and flicked the television on. Jenny was immediately absorbed, staring at the screen, lips slightly parted. Isabelle bent and kissed the top of her head.

She would get past this Michael Traynor thing with all the ease and grace she could muster, Isabelle promised herself. Nothing, absolutely nothing, was going to be allowed to interfere with the tranquil life she and Jenny had created for themselves.

* * *

Michael Traynor walked over to the window of his hotel room and looked out. The swimming pool lay below amidst short palm trees, emerald-green grass and light-edged walkways. It was a landscaping work of art, but Michael didn’t even notice the view. Instead, he stared rather blankly off into the distance; his mind was on Isabelle.

He had known she was on “Tomorrows.” Truthfully—though he would not have told her that—it was one of the things that had intrigued him when his agent told him Danny Archer wanted him for the show. He had been restless, tired of “Eden Crossing,” the show on which he had been for almost four years, tired even of New York City and the opportunity of doing live theater. The money Archer offered had been a good deal better, and L.A. offered more opportunity for other acting jobs, as well as a change of scenery. Besides, the thought of Isabelle teased at his mind. What was she like now? How would he feel when he saw her?

The memories of their long-ago love had stirred within him. He could not remember ever feeling such passion before or since. It had torn out his heart to leave her. The fact that he was sure he was doing the right thing, the noble thing, hadn’t made the pain any less. There had been many times when he had given in and phoned her, ready to beg her to come to New York and be with him, but, fortunately, he supposed, she had refused to even speak with him.

Michael sighed. Apparently Isabelle still despised him just as much. He thought about the moment when he had first seen Isabelle today, standing there on the soundstage with the others. He had known that he would see her, but the actuality of her stunned him. She was beautiful. Over the years he had come to believe that he had exaggerated her beauty, but now he knew that he had not. If anything, she was even more lovely than he had remembered. Time and experience, he realized as he came closer to her, had given her perfect features a character that they had lacked when she was eighteen. His palms had started to sweat and his heart had begun to pound when Danny Archer guided him across the floor to meet her.

He turned away from the window and flopped down on his bed, linking his hands behind his head. He closed his eyes, remembering the first time he had ever seen Isabelle. Then she had been standing on the stage in Virginia, helping set up a flat of painted scenery for the background. Her black hair had tumbled down her back, and her jean shorts and cropped T-shirt had done little to hide her curvaceous figure. He had known as soon as he saw her that she was trouble: far too gorgeous and far too young. He had been right. She had been only eighteen, and she had the kind of beauty that haunted men. Within a month he was desperately in love with her.

A faint smile touched Michael’s lips as he thought about lying stretched out on his bed in his room with her that summer, naked arms and legs entwined, their perspiration mingling as they kissed and caressed and moaned. He could still remember the thrum of the ancient air-conditioning unit that barely cooled the air as their bodies moved together. He could remember the taste of her skin, warm and damp, smelling sweetly of perfume, the delicious weight of her breasts in his hands, the utter glory of being buried deep within her.

Michael groaned softly and rolled onto his side. Just recalling the moments of making love with her had been enough to arouse him. He wondered if it would still be as heavenly to go to bed with her.

Not that he was likely to get a chance, he reminded himself wryly. Isabelle obviously wished to have nothing to do with him. This morning when Danny introduced him, Isabelle had looked straight through him, her face as cold and remote as an iceberg, and greeted him as if he had been someone she had once barely known. Afterward, in the parking lot, she had told him so straight out, just in case he hadn’t gotten the message. Their love affair had been a long time ago, and she hadn’t even thought of him in years.

Michael grimaced. He didn’t know what he had expected. A woman doesn’t greet you with cries of pleasure when you’ve left them in the past, even if it was with the best of motives. And after ten years, well, it wasn’t very likely that she’d have any feeling about him one way or another. He wasn’t even sure how he had hoped she might react. He wouldn’t have wanted her to have missed and mourned him all these years; after all, one of the main reasons he’d left had been because he knew she was too young to really be sure she was in love. He’d wanted her to be able to grow up, to go to college, to meet a man and fall in love for real, forever, not be stuck with an eighteen-year-old’s infatuation. No, he hadn’t hoped that Isabelle would be sad or holding a grudge.

But he had hoped that she would not dismiss him so coolly or quickly. He had thought that perhaps she would feel the same tingles of excitement he had at seeing her again. There had lurked in him some faint, strange, unreasonable idea that when they saw each other again, sparks would be struck again. That fate might have brought them together to give them another chance.

Michael shrugged and stood up. He was, after all, too old to believe in fate or second chances. He had a job, and it started tomorrow. He better get ready for that. As for Isabelle Gray...well, she wanted to keep him at arm’s length, and that was exactly what he would do. They might work together, but that was all. He’d take care to avoid her the rest of the time.

Still, he couldn’t help but remember her kiss....

Three

Isabelle took the script Tish handed her and quickly perused it to get a sense of her scenes the following week. All around her in the lounge, other actors and actresses were doing the same thing. She sneaked a glance at Ben Ivor. He was running his forefinger down the pages, counting under his breath. She cut her eyes toward Felice McIntyre, sitting beside her. Felice, who played the sweet, perennially martyred Townsend sister, Christine, on the show, put her hand up to stifle a giggle. Ben Ivor’s obsession with the number of lines he was given per week was a running joke between them. He played one of the minor regular characters on the show, the resident bartender who also got up now and then to sing on the nightclub’s small stage.

“Fourteen lines!” Ivor exclaimed in disgust. “I can’t believe it. I thought last week was bad enough, but fourteen!” He jumped up, slamming the script shut and started out the door. “I’m going to talk to Karen.”

He stalked out of the lounge to find the head writer of the show. Felice pulled a cigarette out of the pack on the table before her and lit it languidly. “If Karen’s smart, she’ll have left the building already.”

Isabelle chuckled. “I heard that last week she was forced to resort to hiding in the women’s rest room to escape him.”

“I heard. Poor Ben. Since they wrote Selman out, he hasn’t had anyone to compare lines with. He has nothing else to do except harass Karen.”

Felice flipped through the pages. “Oh, God, they’re going on with this hypnosis thing. I can’t imagine what else Christine could possibly dredge up from her past. She’s had every illness and tragedy known to man.”

“There’s incest,” Isabelle pointed out. “They’ve never dropped that on her.”

“Incest? In the saintly Townsend clan? Get real. Besides, they just did the incest thing with Lena last year.”

“That’s right. I’d forgotten. Oh, well, that’s never stopped them yet.” Isabelle thumbed through her pages. “Hey, you and I get into a cat fight on Wednesday.”

“Really?” Felice looked delighted. “What page? Is there any physical stuff? I always like a real knock-down drag-out.”

“Mmm. I slap you, and you turn a bowl of soup over my head.” She made a face. “Great. Why is it that I’m always the one who gets drinks thrown in her face or food dumped in her lap?”

“Because you always have to get your comeuppance in some form, my dear. After all, Jessica always manages to slither out of the consequences for the nasty things she does.”

Isabelle continued flipping through the script while Felice perused the fight scene. When Isabelle reached the following Friday’s filming, she froze. Both hers and Michael’s names jumped off the page at her. She began to read, and with each line she grew stiffer and tauter.

“No! I can’t.” She looked up and glanced around the room, even though she knew it was useless to seek out one of the writers there on the day they handed out the scripts. They were usually out of the building, leaving the head writer to deal with the actors’ complaints.

“What is it?” Felice glanced up at her, startled by the note of real panic in Isabelle’s voice. “What have they got down for you?”

“They have me trying to seduce Curtis Townsend.”

“Michael Traynor?” Felice grinned. “What are you complaining about? Most of the actresses on this show are panting for a chance to do a love scene with him. I’m just sorry I play his sister. I heard Sally was in Carol’s office the other day trying to persuade her that her character was a much better one to pair Michael with than Lena’s. Of course, he and Lena haven’t exactly lit up the screen. I hear Danny is really disappointed with the lack of interest the viewers are showing in their couple. They get tons of letters about Michael, but most of them think he and Lena together are a yawn. That’s probably why they’re trying to spice it up by having you seduce him.”

Isabelle hardly heard Felice. All she could think of was the scene on the paper before her. She simply could not do it!

Naively, she realized now, she had been congratulating herself on how well she had handled Michael’s presence on the show. Most of the time she had avoided the snack area and lounge, the place where she was most likely to run into him. If she did happen to find herself in the same room with him, she had made sure that she stayed on the opposite side of it. When she met him in the halls, she gave him a nod or a terse hello in greeting. Fortunately, he had not attempted to talk to her again, other than their stiff, formal greetings. She had, finally, grown accustomed to seeing him, so that it was not the same shock to her nervous system whenever she came upon him unexpectedly.

Their first scene together had come two weeks after he arrived, and Isabelle had been stiff and nervous, mentally braced to ward off his charm. After they shot it, she had almost cried in her dressing room, sure that it had been the worst performance she’d ever given. But when she’d looked at it later, she had seen that it hadn’t been bad. The edginess and faint atmosphere of hostility had worked well. Michael’s character was, fortunately, written as her enemy; he was about the only male in the fictional town of Lansfield who saw through her beauty to the wicked character beneath. They had had a few scenes together since then, and Isabelle had found it easy to portray the antagonism between them. She was beginning to believe that everything would work out all right. She could handle the intermittent, hostile scenes with Michael, and the rest of the time she could avoid him.

But now this....

Isabelle stood up abruptly. “I have to talk to Karen.”

Felice gaped at her. “Are you serious?”

“Of course I am. I don’t want to do this. It—it isn’t right.” She glanced down at her friend and, seeing her astonished expression, added hastily, “For the part, I mean. They’re enemies. There’s no way Jessica would make a play for him.”

Felice shrugged and said wryly, “Then he’d be the only one in town.”

Isabelle grimaced. “Well, she’s a slut, of course, but she isn’t stupid.” She turned and started for the door.

Just at that moment, Michael Traynor, sitting across the room, raised his head and turned to look at her. His face was impassive, but when his eyes met hers, Isabelle knew that he had been reading the same pages she had. His dark eyebrows, distinctively straight, quirked up into a humorous inverted V, and a faint smile touched his lips.

Isabelle’s stomach lurched, as if she’d taken a sudden step down. She could feel a blush spreading up her face and it infuriated her, which only made her blush worse. She pressed her lips together and jerked her eyes away from his. Keeping her face straight ahead, she strode from the room and out into the hall.

Karen’s office was on the floor above. Her secretary gave Isabelle a fleeting glance and pushed the intercom button, announcing her in a bored voice. A moment later Karen opened the door to her office.

“Isabelle!” She looked puzzled. “I’m surprised to see you. Come in, come in.”

She ushered Isabelle in with good humor. Isabelle had rarely come to her to argue any point about the scripts; she was an easy actress to work with, and it wasn’t difficult to be pleasant to her.

“Don’t tell me you’re unhappy with your script,” she commented as she went back around to sit behind her desk. “We’ve given you two crackerjack scenes next week.”

“I know. I’m sure they’re wonderful.” Isabelle sat down stiffly. Now that she was here, she wasn’t sure what to say. They were good scenes. Most of the actresses on the show would be delighted to have two such prominent scenes in one week. How was she to explain that she simply could not play a seduction scene with Michael Traynor?

“Then what’s the problem?” Karen frowned.

“There isn’t one with the fight with Felice. It’s very funny and vicious and full of great lines.”

Karen smiled, pleased. “Judy Weinburg wrote it. I’m really pleased with her work. I’m giving her more and more of Jessica’s scripts.”

“That’s great. She writes very well.” Isabelle forced a smile. “It’s the seduction scene that worries me. I—well, it doesn’t ring true to me. Why would Jessica try to seduce Curtis? They thoroughly dislike each other. She knows what he thinks of her and that he’s undermining her influence with Mark.”

“It doesn’t have anything to do with her being attracted to him. She’s trying to find some way to control him, like she does with everyone. Why, it’s the most natural thing in the world for her to do. He hasn’t fallen under her spell like all the other men, so she’s decided to bring out the heavy guns. It’s the way she gains power over men. Curtis is a real eye-opener for Jessica, the first man who has been able to resist her charms. I think we’re going to have a lot of fun with that.”

“But—” Isabelle thought frantically “—but why would she risk doing that with Mark’s brother? I mean, Mark has been taking her side when Curtis tries to make him see what she’s like. She has a good hold on Mark and his money, and she wants it to stay that way. She wouldn’t risk Curtis telling his brother what she had done. And you know Goody-Two-Shoes Curtis would run right over and tell Mark.”

“Nah. He’s too noble. He couldn’t bear to hurt his brother that way. He’ll turn her down and despise her all the more for it, but he’ll keep his mouth shut. And Jessica is desperate enough to risk it because Curtis is convincing Mark to go work at that medical mission in Central America. She’s afraid she’ll lose him.”

“I know—what is all that stuff about this medical mission? Where did that come from?”

“Jim Ehrlich’s taking a leave from the show in a few weeks, so we have to find some reason for Mark to disappear for a month. We figured he should do something noble like go work in a medical mission in Cen-tral America. Then we can tie it in with the drug-smuggling story, and the timing’ll be perfect for May sweeps.”

“Oh. I see. I didn’t know Jim was leaving. But why do this scene with Curtis? I mean, he and Jessica don’t have any real story together. They just sort of touch peripherally because of Mark.”

“Right now they don’t,” Karen said significantly, and her words sent a chill through Isabelle. “But we’ve got to do something with Jessica while Mark’s gone. I figure sparring with Curtis would be a good way to fill some of her time. We’ve been getting good viewer response on you and Michael.”

“What?” Isabelle looked at her blankly. “But we’ve only been in a few scenes together.”

“Yeah, but the chemistry’s good. Viewers like a good feud almost as much as a good love story—maybe better. Whenever you and Michael are on screen together, the sparks fly. We’ve had a lot of fan mail saying they’d like to see more of Jessica and Curtis. Lena and Michael’s relationship isn’t progressing the way we’d planned. We may have to take them along slowly, give the fans more time to build an interest in them, and in the meantime we’ll play up the hostility between Curtis and Jessica.”

“So—” Isabelle had to stop and clear her throat before she could continue. She felt as if her vocal cords had tightened into rigidity. “You mean that Michael and I will be having more scenes together?”

“Yeah. We’re going to change the story line some. People love Michael—they think he’s a hunk. So we have to be careful to keep them watching him. We can’t let them get bored with his romantic story.” She paused, then hastened to assure Isabelle. “It’ll be great for you, too. Otherwise, you’re hanging in limbo while Mark’s out, with nothing to work on but that old resentment of Christine, and that’s getting kind of tired.”

That was true, Isabelle knew. People would get a kick out of this fight between them next week, but their conflict was from the past, and people would soon grow bored with it. The worst thing about all this was that Karen was right. A running feud with Curtis over his brother would spark up her story as much as Michael’s. She knew how damaging it could be to one’s popularity when one’s love interest left a show. There had been one actor who was quite popular on “Tomorrows” whose storyline had died because his wife had been killed off. He had drifted around being sad and having people commiserate with him for a few weeks, but his scenes had grown fewer and fewer, and fan mail for him had tailed off. Finally he had been written out, too.

Isabelle sighed. “I know. You’re right.”

Karen gave her a puzzled look. “Then why so downcast? What’s the problem?”

How could she tell Karen that the thought of doing any kind of love scene, even a rejected seduction, with Michael Traynor scared her right down to her toes? Isabelle thought of kissing Michael, and her stomach turned to ice. She could remember vividly the way his lips had felt on hers, the feverish shivers that had run through her every time he kissed her. What if she still reacted that way? It would be so humiliating!

Worse than that, it might stir up old feelings, feelings whose size and intensity frightened Isabelle. She had promised herself long ago that she would never again be so vulnerable to a man as she had been to Michael Traynor. It frightened her to think that if she kissed him, even in pretense for the show, she might once again feel as she had when she had been a girl of eighteen. That she might open up even the tiniest crack in her emotional armor.

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