It was quiet on the set.
In the make-believe bedroom,
Patrice and T.K. kissed tenderly.
He ran his lips down her neck, stopping
at the crevice where her breasts
came together in the corset she wore.

Patrice trembled with pleasure. Rehearsal aside, she was turned on by T.K. He slowly removed her corset and her breasts fell into his big hands. Patrice unbuttoned T.K.’s shirt and ran her hands over his smooth, muscular chest. She felt herself growing moist between her legs, so she tried to focus her mind elsewhere.

She closed her eyes and T.K. kissed her. She didn’t recall a kiss being in the script at this point.

The script. She tried to focus on the script. How Bella gestured without speaking, indicating where she wanted Bass to touch her. She could do that. In Bella she’d found free expression. It was almost like making love to T.K. When they mimicked full-on intercourse, there was a thick cloth between them, but they were each naked from the waist up, and their chests were rubbing. What she did for art. They screamed in ecstasy, and it was over. They fell onto the bed, exhausted but satisfied.

The director yelled, “Cut!”

JANICE SIMS

is the author of eighteen novels and has had stories included in nine anthologies. She is the recipient of an Emma Award for her novel Desert Heat and two Romance in Color awards. She also received an Award of Excellence for her novel For Keeps and a Best Novella award for her short story in the anthology A Very Special Love. She lives in central Florida with her family.

Temptation’s Kiss
Janice Sims

www.millsandboon.co.uk

To the readers who have been with me since

Affair of the Heart. And to the new readers who just

decided to try one of my books for the first time. You’re

both the reason I stay up late at night writing. Thank you!

Dear Reader,

While writing Temptation’s Kiss I finally understood exactly why you hear about so many actors falling in love on the set of a film. In the book, Patrice and T.K. have a hard time denying their passion for one another. And being constantly thrown together on the set of the movie they are shooting only makes them want each other even more.

And by the way, the character T.K. portrays in the movie, Frontier Marshal Bass Reeves, really existed.

Look for the final book in the trilogy, Dance of Temptation, in a store near you soon. Write to me at jani569432@aol.com, or visit my website at www.janicesims.com. You can also find me on Facebook. And if you’re not online yet you can write me at P.O. Box 811, Mascotte, FL 34753-0811.

Best always,

Janice Sims

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

Thanks to my editor, Kelli Martin,

for her help in making this book the best it could

possibly be. And to the rest of the editorial staff at

Kimani Press, including Alex Colon, who gave me

computer tips. You’re all wonderful to work with.

Contents

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 1

Sweat trickled between Patrice Sutton’s brows. She wiped it off and dried her damp palm on the leg of her jeans. Her gaze was on the woman ahead of her in the calf-roping competition as she climbed onto her horse and prepared to race out of the box after the calf when it was released from the chute.

Suddenly someone yanked on her shirtsleeve. She peered underneath the brim of her cowboy hat to see that it was her younger sister, Keira. “Patty, no matter what you do, you’ve got to beat Lucy’s time,” Keira said urgently.

Patrice laughed. “This is a charity event, not an actual competition. I’m here to help raise money for the kids. Besides, it’s hot as Hades today. I doubt if I’ll beat her time.”

The rodeo, which was held every July in Albuquerque, New Mexico, benefited a local children’s hospital. The stadium was filled with kids who were out of school for the summer. Patrice was an up-and-coming film star due to a now-canceled sitcom of some acclaim and starring roles in two successful action films.

“Please, Patty,” Keira whined. “There’s no time to tell you why now, but it’s for a good reason.” Patrice smiled. Keira sounded the way she had when she was a little girl.

Looking at her petite sister, Patrice pursed her lips, thinking. “Lucy’s got the best time so far, at ten seconds. That’s pretty good seeing as how some professional ropers come in at seven. She competes in these events year-round. I haven’t competed since high school.”

Frustrated, Keira blew air between full lips. “Yeah, but you ride as often as you can fit it into your schedule, and I know you’ve been practicing like crazy since you’ve been home. Ma told me. You used to beat Lucy all the time when you were both on the local circuit.”

The announcer’s voice came over the loudspeaker. “Oops, that’s okay, Mary Jane, better luck next time. Folks, Mary Jane got a cowboy speeding ticket because her horse broke the barrier before his time. So that sets Mary Jane’s time at 21 seconds. Miss Lucy Lopez is still the rider to beat.”

The crowd of nearly twelve hundred spectators cheered for Lucy Lopez.

“If she wins,” hissed Keira, “I’ll never hear the end of it.”

“That’s your sister-in-law you’re talking about,” Patrice said teasingly.

A cowboy in a black hat, denim shirt, jeans, black boots and leather chaps motioned for Patrice to follow him. It was time for her to mount her horse. “Gotta go,” said Patrice to her still-fuming sister.

“You’ve got too much of a competitive spirit to lie down and take it,” Keira yelled at Patrice’s back.

Patrice mounted her favorite quarter horse, Billy One Star. He was named this because of the white mark under his forelock. He was a handsome, healthy three-year-old. Her parents had given him to her on her twenty-fifth birthday last year.

She patted his muscular neck as she envisioned the next few minutes, mentally preparing herself. Her heart thudded with excitement. Like she’d told Keira, she hadn’t competed in years. She was nervous. However, she stayed in shape, and she rode Billy One Star as often as she could get home between gigs. Life as an actress who was trying to limit her roles to films gave her quite a lot of downtime between projects.

Billy One Star was so well trained that he didn’t move a muscle after Patrice signaled to the chute operator that she was ready and the calf went running out of the chute. The rider was supposed to give the calf a running start before going after him, and Patrice waited the appropriate amount of time before signaling to Billy One Star to do his thing. Billy’s powerful body leaped forward, and soon they were racing after the calf at his top speed. Patrice concentrated, mouth boxed in determination, as she threw the lariat and looped it around the calf’s neck. She then signaled to Billy to stop, and the horse abruptly skidded to a stop. She leaped from his back, quickly laid the calf onto its side and snared three of its legs together in a wrap and a slap, or a half-hitch knot.

She threw her hands in the air denoting she was done. Billy slowly backed away from the calf in order to maintain the tautness of the rope until Patrice could climb onto his back again and move forward to relax the rope on the calf.

“Ooh, wee!” exclaimed the announcer. “That little filly knows her roping. Ms. Patrice Sutton, Albuquerque girl and TV-and-screen star, caught that ’lil doggie in nine seconds flat. It’s the new time to beat, buckaroos!”

The crowd roared. Patrice waved her hat in the air and signaled Billy One Star to take a bow as she’d taught him. Billy bowed by lowering his great head and bending his front legs slightly.

A couple of cowboys detached Patrice’s lariat from the calf and untied the calf, who immediately got to its feet, unhurt. Patrice sighed, relieved. She always worried that she might injure the calf, but in all the years she’d been roping, she had never done so.

She rode Billy out of the stadium to enthusiastic applause. When she got to the area behind the corral where various RVs and horse trailers were parked, awaiting the return of their passengers, she was greeted by her excited family. Her brother Luke took hold of Billy’s bit and patted his neck while Patrice dismounted and removed her hat. She was immediately enveloped in her father’s arms. “Way to go, Peanut,” he said.

Patrice beamed. Nobody called her Peanut except her daddy. Patrick Sutton’s handsome brown face crinkled in a grin. Six-two to Patrice’s five-seven, he bent to hug her. “You should have heard your momma cheering,” he said proudly, turning to look back at Cady Sutton.

“Of course I was,” Cady said. Patrick released Patrice so his wife could hug her. “It brought back memories.” When she was younger, Cady had been a roper, too. Patrice was the only one of her two daughters who’d shown any interest in it. She reached up to gently caress Patrice’s cheek. “Well done!”

“Thank you, Momma,” said Patrice, her face a mass of smiles.

Keira came running up to everyone. “You beat Lucy’s time. I’m so happy.”

“What was that all about?” Patrice asked, referring to Keira’s earlier strange behavior.

Keira, who was slender and had skin a little lighter than Patrice’s medium-brown skin, smoothed her dark auburn curls away from her heart-shaped face and grimaced. “I overheard her telling one of the other competitors that she planned to mop up the floor with Little Miss Movie Star. That’s you! She said no one was going to steal her title as the area’s champion lady roper, especially not the sister of the little gold digger—that’s me—who had wormed her way into her brother’s heart. She hates me.”

“That was mean,” Patrice agreed, sad that Lucy was making Keira’s life difficult. “I’m here for the kids, and my career is fine, thank you!”

Her mother jumped suddenly. “Oh, my goodness, your cell phone just vibrated,” she said with a laugh. She had been holding Patrice’s purse for her until after she’d competed in the event.

She handed the shoulder bag to Patrice now, and Patrice quickly reached in and retrieved her still-vibrating phone. Looking down at the display, she saw that it was Blanca Mendes, her agent. “I’d better answer this.”

She flipped the phone open. “Hi, Blanca. How are you?”

“Fine, fine,” Blanca replied in her hurried manner. “Listen, chica, you’ve got to get back to L.A. as soon as possible. Mark Greenberg wants to see you in his office at 11:00 a.m. tomorrow morning.”

“I just got through hog-tying a calf in a rodeo. You do know where I am, right?”

Blanca laughed shortly. “It’s Thursday. You must be in The Land of Enchantment, otherwise known as New Mexico.”

“Albuquerque is nearly eight hundred miles from Los Angeles,” Patrice reminded her.

“I know that you drove home on this trip, sweetie,” said Blanca. “You don’t have time to drive back. I’ve booked you on a six o’clock flight out. Just go to the desk at your favorite airline, and they’ll take care of you.”

“Six o’clock!” Patrice cried. “It’s already half past four.”

“Then you’d better get a move on,” Blanca told her. “T. K. McKenna. Need I say more?”

“No,” Patrice sighed.

“That’s what I thought,” said her agent, satisfied she’d gotten her point across. “I’ve arranged to have a car pick you up at the airport. You can get a good night’s rest and be refreshed for your eleven o’clock meeting. I have a good feeling about this. Mark wouldn’t have asked to see you again unless he was really interested. I know how he thinks. He probably wants you to read with one of the other actors.”

Patrice’s heart leaped into her throat. “Do you think he wants me to read with T.K.?”

“T.K. doesn’t have to audition for anyone,” Blanca replied.

“But the role I’m up for is his love interest in the film,” said Patrice hopefully.

“Be prepared for whatever happens,” advised Blanca. “However, I seriously doubt T.K. will show up. Besides, I would prefer to have you cool, calm and collected. Even I would freak out at the prospect of meeting T.K.”

Patrice laughed shortly. Blanca Mendes usually wasn’t intimidated by anyone.

“Okay, I won’t get my hopes up,” Patrice promised. “Thanks, Blanca. I’ll make that flight.”

“Of course you will, chica,” said Blanca, “because you understand that to get anywhere in this business one must be prepared to make—”

“—sacrifices,” Patrice finished for her.

“Call me after the meeting. We’ll go out and celebrate,” said Blanca confidently.

Patrice closed her phone and looked into the crest fallen faces of her family. She sighed heavily. “I guess you got the gist of that. I’ve got to leave this after noon.”

“Did I hear you say ‘T.K.’?” Keira asked excitedly, practically jumping up and down.

“That’s right,” Patrice told everyone. “I auditioned for the role opposite T.K. in a Western of which he’s also serving as one of the producers. I didn’t tell you because I didn’t want you to get your hopes up for me in case I didn’t get the part.”

Cady put her arm about Patrice’s waist. “Oh, honey, we root for you no matter what. We know you have your head on straight and realize that when you don’t get a role you really want that it isn’t the end of the world. Maybe something better is waiting just around the corner.”

Patrice wondered what could be better than starring opposite T. K. McKenna, one of the biggest box-office draws in the world. It had to be something mighty good.

She smiled down at her mother and hugged her. “Thanks. I appreciate that.”

She straightened and looked at them all in turn. “I’m sorry to have to cut my visit short.”

They all shrugged aside her apology, assuring her they understood.

The announcer’s voice rang out. “If the lady ropers would gather in the center of the stadium, it’s time to announce the winner of the competition.”

Keira grabbed Patrice by the arm. “Come on, I can’t wait to see Lucy’s face.”

Patrice, Keira and her parents walked back to the stadium while Patrice’s brother Luke led Billy One Star to his horse trailer where he would rub him down before putting him inside for the trip home, a ranch on the outskirts of Albuquerque.

Luke, twenty, was a junior in college but lived at home where he was being groomed to run the ranch when his father retired. The Suttons had been cattle ranchers in New Mexico since the late 1800s when an ancestor of Patrick’s, an ex-slave also named Patrick, had left Baton Rouge, Louisiana, in search of a better way of life. He’d married a fellow Louisianan woman and soon there were Suttons spread out over New Mexico. However, because of a scarcity of blacks Sutton offspring were obliged to marry Native Americans and Mexicans. Patrice’s father had quite a bit of Native American blood. Her mother hailed from South Carolina and was African-American. She had met her husband when she had taken a trip to the Southwest with girlfriends following her college graduation. The handsome rancher had swept her off her feet, and she had never returned to South Carolina to live.

Patrice closed her eyes as she relaxed against the airplane’s seat. Keira had gotten her to the airport with ten minutes to spare. Luckily, she’d had no bags to check. Blanca had worked her magic, and her transition from terminal to airplane had been flawless. She smiled. It had been fun competing in a rodeo again. She had not dreamed she would actually win the competition. Keira had been happier than she was when she was handed her trophy. The sour look on Lucy Lopez’s face had confirmed what Keira had said about her: she indeed had a bone to pick with Patrice.

Patrice was having none of that, though. After all, Keira was Lucy’s sister-in-law. For Keira’s sake, if not for anything else, there should be peace in the family. Patrice had stepped up to the microphone and said, “Thank you so much. It’s my pleasure to be here today, and I’m thrilled to have won. However, I think I would be remiss if I didn’t thank the wonderful women who also competed in the event, especially Ms. Lucy Lopez, who has been citywide champion for years now.” She offered Lucy her hand in congratulations. Lucy shook it, an astonished expression on her pretty face.

As Patrice left the stage, she overheard one of the other women say, “That was sweet of her.”

“We’re related, you know,” Lucy had said nonchalantly.

“Oh, yeah, how?” asked the woman, surprised.

“Her sister’s married to my brother, Jorge, the doctor,” said Lucy proudly.

Patrice had left feeling a bit hopeful about the future relationship of her sister and Lucy. Later, when she had told Keira about it, her sister had said, “That was just her public face. She still hates me. The test will come at the next family gathering.”

Family dynamics, Patrice thought. They’re so complicated.

Trevor Kennedy, or T.K., McKenna sat on the deck at his house in Malibu ostensibly watching the sunset but actually thinking of Malcolm, his baby brother, who had been killed in a car crash only a few months ago. Malcolm had lived with him. T.K. had given him a job as an assistant in order to keep an eye on him. Malcolm didn’t have any administrative duties. He simply accompanied T.K. wherever he went whether it was to the studio, to an appointment, or on location when he worked on a film. T.K., thirty-six, had been three years older than Malcolm, but it seemed that he was many years older because Malcolm had been mildly mentally deficient. His condition had been an accident of birth. He had experienced a lack of oxygen during his delivery. To someone who didn’t know him well, his mental state wasn’t very noticeable. Malcolm had been a healthy, happy man with a good heart and a great sense of humor. Where his mental deficiency showed was in his relationships with people. He was so easygoing, so trusting, oftentimes people took advantage of his naivety. If he saw someone who needed a meal, he would give him money to buy food. If he knew someone who needed money, he would empty his pockets. Many times he had been tricked out of money or possessions by unscrupulous so-called friends. When it came to women, Malcolm, who had been very shy, was like putty in their hands.

This was what was troubling T.K. right now. Malcolm had been dating a woman named Aisha Jackson before his death. After he’d died, Aisha claimed that she was three months pregnant with Malcolm’s child.

T.K. and his parents, Rose Kennedy McKenna and David McKenna, were not about to miss the opportunity to know Malcolm’s child if it were true, so from that point on, they took care of Aisha. She moved in with Rose and David, and it was agreed that after the baby was born a DNA test would be performed to confirm that Malcolm was the father.

T.K. had a terrible feeling in the pit of his stomach that Aisha was lying, but until the baby was born, he had no way of confirming his suspicions. Some part of him hoped he would be proven wrong. He would like to be an uncle to Malcolm’s child. However, he’d encountered too many opportunists since fame had swept him up in its clutches to not be cynical.

His cell phone rang, and he looked at the display. It was his friend and business partner, producer Mark Greenberg. “Hey, Mark.”

“You will be able to make the meeting in the morning, won’t you? I’d like to see you two together to see if you jibe.”

T.K. smiled at Mark’s use of the word jibe. In lots of ways, Mark was old-fashioned. Although he lived and worked in L.A., his sensibilities were that of a small-town Jewish boy from Hoboken, New Jersey. T.K. liked that about him.

“We’ll only be working together, not getting married,” T.K. joked. “Yeah, I’ll be there.”

“Did you get the chance to watch those movies I sent over?” Mark asked skeptically.

“I did,” T.K. answered, surprising Mark. “The camera definitely loves her, and she can actually act.”

Mark laughed. They often joked about the recent crop of actresses who were beautiful but vapid and couldn’t act their way out of a paper bag, as Mark had put it.

“Yes, yes,” he said now. “Patrice Sutton has it all—looks, talent and just a touch of fearlessness. I like her.”

“I can tell,” T.K. said, laughing softly. “What exactly do you mean by fearlessness?”

“Her agent phoned to confirm that Patrice would be at the meeting, and you’ll never guess what Ms. Sutton was doing today.”

T.K. hated it when someone wanted him to guess anything. He laughed. “Don’t keep me in suspense!”

After Mark told him, he laughed even harder. “A sistuh?”

“That’s what I said,” Mark told him. “It was as unbelievable as it would have been if it were one of my sisters or cousins. I can’t imagine one of those princesses in the dust and dirt chasing after a calf on horseback and jumping off said horse to throw the calf to the ground and tie its legs together. My nana would have a stroke.”

“I can’t wait to meet her,” T.K. said sincerely.

Mark laughed. “It should be interesting.”

Chapter 2

The same driver who had picked Patrice up at the airport last night drove her to Mark Greenberg’s office in downtown L.A. Friday morning. The day was fairly clear, and the temperature was in the high seventies.

As she climbed from the backseat, the driver—a good-looking, tall, broad-shouldered brother with a nice ’fro and a goatee—offered her a hand out of the car. Patrice couldn’t see his eyes behind his dark sunglasses as she accepted his help, but she saw his head tip downward when her skirt hitched up. He smiled. “Would you like me to wait, Ms. Sutton?”

Patrice straightened and looked up at the tall building. “No, I’ll call a cab when I’m ready to leave,” she told him. “Thank you.”

“It’s been my pleasure,” he said.

Patrice smoothed the skirt of her off-white sleeveless A-line dress. It’s hem fell about three inches above her shapely knees, and the bodice didn’t reveal a great deal of cleavage. Brown leather designer pumps and a shoulder bag completed her ensemble. She looked smart and sexy all at once. Tinted glass concealed the lobby from outside eyes, so she was pleasantly surprised by the understated elegance of Italian tile on the lobby’s floor, contemporary furnishings that looked welcoming instead of intimidating and gleaming black granite on the reception desk. The woman behind the desk was a brunette in her mid-thirties. People milled about the lobby, but there was no one presently at the desk. Patrice stepped up to it. “Good morning, I have an appointment to see Mark Greenberg.”

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 toward her. “That’s fascinating. Have you read the script yet?” He wasn’t sure whether or not she’d been provided with a script. Sometimes the casting director gave the actor only part of it to read during the audition.

Patrice glanced at Mark. Before she had left after auditioning for the casting director, he had given her the script. At the time, Patrice had thought it odd that one of the producers would discreetly give her a script, but now she understood that Mark had seen something in her that he had liked that day. That’s why he had given it to her.

She smiled at Mark. “Mark gave me a copy. It’s a wonderful story.”

“Did you know it’s loosely based on the life and times of a real black lawman?”

She did. She had researched Frontier Marshal Bass Reeves after reading the script.

“I found a couple of books online about him,” she told him. She smiled at T.K. “You look kind of like him. However, he was only six-two, and he had a handlebar mustache.”

T.K. looked over at Mark and grinned. “She’s done her homework.”

“What made you want to tell the story of Bass Reeves?” she asked both of them.

Mark deferred to T.K. T.K. leaned back in his chair before beginning, thinking he was crowding Patrice and she might get skittish again if he didn’t back off a little. He found himself naturally drawn to the attractive actress. She had the kind of rich brown skin with red undertones that he loved. Her sooty black hair was healthy-looking and shone like a raven’s wing. Her dark, wide-spaced eyes were beautiful. He tried not to look at those full red lips because he kept getting an image of them kissing whenever he did. He didn’t know if the fact that she had grown up on a ranch made him see her as a natural beauty or if it was simply that she appeared so fresh to him. She fairly glowed, and unlike some actresses who knew their effect on males, she appeared quite unaware of her sex appeal. If she were aware, she would be looking him straight in the eyes with a confident expression in her own. She found it difficult looking into his eyes for any length of time, and she was blushing like crazy. He decided that Patrice Sutton was a very sweet, unaffected girl. He hoped she stayed that way.

“It’s a piece of the American West that has been sorely neglected,” he said of wanting to tell Bass Reeves’s story. “We’ve had movies about Wyatt Earp, ‘Wild Bill’ Hickok, but nothing about Reeves, who was just as big a legend as those men. He was good with a gun. He tracked down and arrested countless outlaws and killed fourteen of them in fair gunfights.”

“Where does the character I read for, Bella Donna, come in? Was she a real person, too?”

“I’m afraid not,” T.K. told her. “Not much was writ ten about his relationship with women.”

“The scriptwriter made her up at our request,” Mark told her. “We thought the lawman should have a noble love.”

“So the writer made her a prostitute?” said Patrice incredulously. She couldn’t help it. If Bella Donna was a fictional character, the writer could have made her a schoolteacher.

“Prostitutes were prevalent in those days,” T.K. said unapologetically. “Because women were so scarce in some areas, oftentimes those were the only kind of women a man saw for years. Think of the lack of opportunities women had back then. Bella Donna might be a prostitute, but she’s also loving and extremely tough. She’s a worthy mate for the marshal.”

“Aren’t you afraid of what the NAACP is going to say about your film? It’s wonderful to remind moviegoers of a great man in history, a great black man, but to pair him with a prostitute? Some people are going to be upset about that.”

T.K. smiled. “A film that doesn’t cause controversy doesn’t cause a stir in the minds of moviegoers. It’ll be good for box-office receipts.”

Patrice nodded in agreement. He was a shrewd businessman as well as a fine actor. “All right, I understand your reasoning.”

“Does that mean you want to work with us?” T.K. asked hopefully.

Patrice’s stomach muscles tightened in panic. Was he actually offering her the role of a lifetime? She looked into his eyes. T.K. smiled. “Sounds tempting,” she said, appearing perfectly calm when she was a quivering bowl of jelly inside. “Let me sleep on it and get back to you tomorrow.”

Blanca had instructed her to never accept a first offer. “You don’t want to appear desperate, chica,” was Blanca’s advice.

“Fair enough,” said T.K. He got to his feet. Mark rose, too. Patrice didn’t move for a moment. The shock of being offered the role had rendered her legs momentarily weak.

She took a deep breath and got to her feet. Offering T.K. her hand, she said, “My sister is going to scream in my ear when I tell her I met you. She adores you.”

T.K. took her hand and covered it with his other one. “Tell her it was I who was impressed with her sister.”

Patrice’s heartbeat doubled when he said that even though she knew he was just being nice. She supposed a man like T. K. McKenna had had plenty of practice charming women. Of course, a star of his stature didn’t have to put forth much effort to entice women. They were probably throwing themselves at him on a daily basis.

“She’s family,” Patrice joked. “She’ll never believe it.”

T.K. laughed. Yes, he was well aware of how truly unimpressed family members could be about your success as an actor. To millions of people, you were an idol. But to your family, you were just the boy who slept with a teddy bear until you were nine.

Family knew where all your skeletons were buried. Heck, they’d helped you bury them.

The three of them walked to the door.

“Thanks for coming, Patrice,” Mark said, smiling warmly. “I hope you decide to sign on. We’re not that bad to work with. As one of the producers, you’ll rarely see me on the set, and T.K. is reportedly now a dream to work with since I convinced him to quit doing the Tarzan yell every time he got a scene right. That was very unsettling.”

“It was also bad for the voice,” T.K. said, playing along.

Patrice laughed. “You guys are crazy.” She reached into her bag and retrieved her cell phone.

“Uh-oh,” said Mark. “We’re so boring she’s going to make a phone call right in the middle of a conversation.”

“I’m phoning for a cab,” she explained. “Hopefully it’ll get here not too long after I get downstairs.”

“A cab?” said T.K. “You don’t drive?”

“Of course I drive,” Patrice explained. “However, my car is in Albuquerque.” She told them how her car happened to be in New Mexico while she was in California.

“Since you went to so much trouble to be here today, the least I can do is give you a lift home,” T.K. gallantly offered.

“That’s very nice of you, but I don’t want you to go out of your way,” Patrice said hurriedly. Here she was about to get out of his presence so that her heart rate could return to some semblance of normal, and he was suggesting they spend more time together?

“How do you know it’s out of my way?” T.K. asked reasonably. “I don’t even know where you live.” He peered down at her with a concerned expression.

“Beverly Hills,” Patrice told him. “Well, not in one of the pricier neighborhoods. I live in a nice bungalow south of Santa Monica Boulevard.”

“That’s not out of my way,” T.K. insisted.

“All right, if you’re sure,” Patrice said reluctantly.

They were in the outer office now. Calvin looked expectantly at Patrice. She smiled at him. “Goodbye, Calvin. It was nice meeting you.”

Beaming with pleasure, he quickly crossed the room and shook her hand again. “It was my pleasure, Ms. Sutton. Please come again soon.”

Mark’s hand was on the small of Patrice’s back, ushering her from the outer office and into T.K.’s capable hands. She wondered if Mark was hoping T.K. would use his considerable charm on the ride to Beverly Hills to persuade her to go ahead and sign on with them. She had felt their disappointment when she had told them she needed time to think.

She and T.K. were alone on the elevator ride downstairs. “Where’s your entourage?” she asked, a teasing glint in her eyes.

“I don’t have one,” T.K. said, smiling at her. “Where’s yours?”

“You’re looking at her,” joked Patrice.

He gave her an intimate perusal, his eyes sweeping over her face. It felt like a caress to her, and she blushed. She also lowered her eyes.

T.K. laughed softly. “You’re not still nervous around me, are you?”

She looked up. “Who said I was nervous around you?”

“I can usually tell when I make someone nervous,” said T.K., the smile never leaving his face. “You look very pretty when you blush.”

Patrice started to ask him how he knew she was blushing when, to her knowledge, her cheeks didn’t change color when she felt embarrassed. However, the elevator doors opened onto the lobby, and there were several people waiting to get on.

A small commotion ensued when T.K. was recognized, and soon he was being asked to sign his name on everything from a laptop to a woman’s smooth, flat belly. Patrice tried not to laugh. It was amazing how shame flew out the window when T. K. McKenna showed up in a lobby of unsuspecting females. T.K. declined to sign the woman’s belly but complimented her on its tone. “You must work out a lot,” he said kindly.

“Every day,” the woman said, producing a piece of paper from her portfolio for T.K. to sign.

After that, T.K. made his apologies, and taking Patrice by the hand, they hurried from the building.

“You can’t go anywhere without that happening, can you?” Patrice asked as they racewalked across the street to the parking garage where T.K. had left his SUV.

“It’s not so bad,” he said nonchalantly. “It’s not a high price to pay for fame and fortune. After all, they’re the ones who go to see my movies. I owe them a certain amount of consideration. But I know where to draw the line. I don’t let the fame control my actions.”

Patrice smiled up at him. The sunlight made his brown eyes appear honey-colored.

She liked his attitude. It’s how she looked at celebrity, too. She didn’t mind meeting the fans; in fact, she loved it. However, there were times when she fiercely guarded her privacy. For example, when she was being interviewed, reporters were free to try to pick her apart, but her family was a forbidden subject.

T.K. still held her hand as they crossed the street. He liked holding her hand. He didn’t know what that meant at this point except that she was very pleasant to be around. He was completely comfortable in her presence, even if he still made her a little nervous.

At the late-model Range Rover, he unlocked the doors and handed Patrice in. When he was behind the wheel and had relocked the doors, he turned to her and asked, “What are you doing for lunch?”

“Lunch?” asked Patrice, sounding startled by his question.

He laughed softly. “Yes, the meal that comes a few hours after breakfast, which I skipped this morning except for a cup of coffee and a swallow of orange juice. Have you been to The Grill? They make great food, really fresh. Good fish if you’re not a red-meat eater. Vegetarian dishes, too.”

“No, I’ve never been there,” Patrice told him. She breathed deeply and slowly released her breath. “Are you sure you don’t have to be anywhere else?”

“Nah, I’m on vacation until we start filming.” He started the SUV, and soon they were turning onto the street and heading toward the San Diego Freeway where he would exit onto Santa Monica Boulevard. From there, it was only three miles to Beverly Hills.

“I’m sorry,” he said suddenly as he wound his way through traffic. “I didn’t even ask if you were free. If you have plans for the afternoon, I can take you directly home.”

“I’m free,” Patrice assured him. She had decided to go with the flow.

He turned and smiled at her before returning his attention to the road. “Good.”

Patrice relaxed against the car’s seat. “You said your parents live in Beverly Hills?”

He must have been fond of his parents because his eyes lit up at the mention of them. “Yes, I finally talked them into moving here about five years ago. We’re from Brooklyn.

“My parents have deep roots there. Both were born there. Both were teachers for nearly thirty years. Most of their friends and family still live in Brooklyn.”

“What did you say to convince them to move here?” she asked, very curious. She couldn’t imagine her parents living in Beverly Hills. It would be a worse situation than that old sitcom The Beverly Hillbillies. Her folks were ranchers, through and through.

“I told them that I didn’t care when the desire to go back to Brooklyn hit them. I would make sure they got on the next plane flying in that direction,” he said with a laugh.

“You’re a good son,” Patrice complimented him.

“I try to be,” T.K. said sincerely.

Chapter 3

At The Grill on the Alley, commonly called The Grill, T.K. gave his key to the valet and then helped Patrice out of the car. He enjoyed the sight of her long, shapely legs but was careful not to ogle. Patrice noticed anyway and felt a tingle of excitement.

Inside, they were immediately shown to a secluded table in the back of the packed dining room. T.K. didn’t let the maître d’ have the pleasure of pulling Patrice’s chair out for her. He did it himself and then sat down across from her.

The maître d’ snapped his fingers at a passing waiter. “See to Mr. McKenna at once.”

He smiled at T.K. and Patrice in turn. “Please call on me if I can be of any further service.”

When he had gone, T.K. laughed softly. “Every time I see him I’m reminded of the butler in that remake of Mr. Deeds Goes to Town.”

“He does look like John Turturro. He’s one of my favorite actors,” Patrice said enthusiastically. “In everything I’ve ever seen him in, he’s done a good job.”

T.K. nodded in agreement. “He’s a fine character actor.” He looked at her intently. “What did you think of the remake?”

“Adam Sandler makes me laugh, and it had some touching moments, but to be honest, I don’t believe any remake can compare with the Frank Capra original. The script’s fabulous, and Gary Cooper is wonderful as Mr. Deeds. Good try to Adam Sandler, though.”

T.K. smiled at her assessment. He liked the original a lot better than the remake, too.

“You like Capra, huh?”

“It’s a Wonderful Life, You Can’t Take it With You, and Mr. Deeds Goes to Town are my favorite Capra films,” she told him, her eyes shining with excitement. “The scripts were excellent, and the leads and supporting casts were, too. Plus, I liked the dignity Capra imbued his black characters with. Yes, they were servants, but they were treated with respect and got actual lines to say instead of standing around rolling their eyes and grinning.”

“You have a problem with the way blacks have been portrayed in films?” T.K. was curious. He wanted to know if she had a fire in her belly to see her people portrayed accurately on film, as he had.

The waiter arrived and introduced himself. They promptly ordered and sent him on his way, eager to continue their conversation.

“You were saying,” T.K. prompted Patrice after the waiter had gone.

“What black actor wouldn’t have a problem with the way we’ve been portrayed by some filmmakers?” she asked. “But I’m not going the route of blaming the performers of the past. They had to play the buffoon in order to put food on the table. I respect them because they survived during a very unpleasant time for blacks.”

T.K. smiled at the way she punctuated her words with her hands. Fleetingly, she reminded him of Shiva, the many-armed Hindu goddess. He didn’t know where that thought came from. She stimulated his mind, he supposed.

“What about black filmmakers today?” he asked. “Do you think they’re doing everything they can do to bring accurate depictions of blacks to the silver screen?”

Patrice pursed her lips and squinted at him. “Don’t get me started on that subject. My actor friends say my opinions are unusual to say the least.”

“Go ahead and shock me,” he coaxed. “This goes no farther than this table.”

“All right,” she said, leaning toward him. “I won’t name names because you already know them anyway. But I don’t think a certain director should be throwing stones at another one simply because they make different types of films. So what if the newcomer’s films are sometimes over-the-top and melodramatic? Hollywood has been producing melodramatic films for ages. One of the most beloved films by black folks, Imitation of Life, is extremely melodramatic. But that doesn’t mean we don’t watch it, raptly, whenever it comes on Turner Classic Movies.”

T.K. laughed. “You’re right. The scene where the daughter barely makes it to her mother’s funeral on time and makes a spectacle of herself is a seminal scene. And I believe, to this day, that Juanita Moore should have won the Oscar for her role.”

“She was robbed,” Patrice agreed heartily. “I can’t watch her final scenes without crying.”

“Okay,” T.K. said, “we agree that the way blacks were depicted in the past was largely not their fault. And Tyler Perry is definitely doing something right.”

“We said no names,” Patrice reminded him, pretending to be scandalized that he would name one of the parties they were discussing.

“No harm in acknowledging someone who’s making a difference for black actors in the industry. Critics might not get him, but I assure you out-of-work actors love him.”

“T.K.!” exclaimed a booming male voice as a tall, slender black man approached their table. Patrice peered up—and up—at Los Angeles Lakers forward Farrell Faison. Farrell was six-seven. T.K. stood up and shook his hand. “Hello, Farrell, how are you, man?”

“Cool, cool,” said Farrell. He looked at Patrice with interest. Patrice smiled up at him. She admired his skill on the court. When she was in town, she tried to go to all the team’s home games. It was the off-season now.

“Aren’t you going to introduce me?” he asked T.K.

“Why don’t you sit down first,” T.K. joked. “I’m getting a crick in my neck from having to look up.”

Farrell laughed and took the seat closest to Patrice’s. He didn’t even glance in T.K.’s direction anymore, just looked at Patrice with a smile on his face.

“Farrell, I’d like you to meet—” T.K. said.

“Ms. Patrice Sutton,” Farrell said with a contented sigh. “I just saw you in She Fell. Wow, not only was the science-fiction story line kickin’, but you were awesome as Victoria.” He shook his head as if he were amazed that he was sitting across from the warrior-woman Victoria. “How long did it take you to get in shape for that role?”

“Six months of grueling aerobics and weight-lifting,” Patrice told him, happy to meet someone who had enjoyed She Fell. It was the film she was proudest of. A friend who was a writer had specifically written the character of Victoria for her. In the story, Victoria was sent through a man-made black hole to a warlike planet by her evil but brilliant physicist husband who got rid of all his enemies by sending them God-knows-where via the black hole. He had drugged and sent Victoria through because she was going to divorce him for infidelity. The film follows Victoria as she rises in power as a warrior. In the end, she returns to Earth and exacts revenge on her husband.

“Who’s your trainer?” Farrell asked.

“Jose Baltodano,” Patrice happily supplied. She was always willing to refer anyone who wanted to get into shape to her friend.

T.K. cleared his throat and playfully glared at Farrell. “Let me get this straight, you came over here to monopolize my date’s time?”

Farrell grinned at him. “Turnabout is fair play, my brother.”

Patrice smiled at that. T.K. had obviously flirted with Farrell’s dates in the past. Then it hit her: T.K. had referred to her as his date. She looked into his eyes. He winked at her.

“I have to protest, my brother,” he said to Farrell. “I just met Patrice myself. You could have at least given me a twenty-four-hour head start before you began poaching on my territory.”

Patrice laughed and rose. “I’ll let you fellas figure out the proper poaching etiquette while I visit the ladies’ room. Excuse me.”

She overheard Farrell say, “She’s too young for you, old man. She’ll give you a heart attack.”

“I’m willing to risk it,” said T.K.

Smiling, Patrice kept walking.

In the ladies’ room, a feminine room replete with a settee, she sat down and dialed Blanca’s number.

Blanca answered right away. “Well, how’d it go?” she asked breathlessly.

“It went very well,” Patrice said as she crossed her legs and got comfortable on the plush covered settee. “They want me.”

“I knew it!” cried Blanca, sounding happy and calculating all at once. “You didn’t accept, though?”

“No, I told them I would let them know tomorrow.”

“Why do you keep saying they and them?” asked Blanca curiously.

“Because T.K. sat in on the meeting, too,” said Patrice, calmly dropping the bomb and waiting for the explosion.

“What?” yelled Blanca. “Mark must have really liked you. This is fantastic. I don’t know if I’ll be able to wait until tomorrow for you to give them a yes.”

“Are you saying you’re going to break your cardinal rule?”

“Rules are made to be broken,” said Blanca. She laughed softly. “Patty, do you know what this means? Forget about working for two years on the sitcom and those really fine movies you’ve done that brought you a little bit of fame. They were dues you had to pay to get here. You’ve arrived!”

Patrice was laughing, too. “It feels good to be wanted.”

Blanca took a deep breath. “Where are you now? I promised a celebration, remember? Where do you want to go tonight? Anywhere you want to go, it’s my treat.”

“I hate to be a party pooper, but I’d prefer to spend a quiet evening at home. Thanks for the offer though. I’m having lunch with T.K. right now,” Patrice told her agent. She explained about having to phone a taxi and T.K.’s offer of a lift.

“His parents raised him right,” Blanca said of T.K.’s being a gentleman. “Okay, I’ll tell you what. Before you two part, assure him that you’ll be delighted to work with him, and I’ll give Mark a call about the contract.”

“Will do,” Patrice promised.

“Congratulations,” said Blanca sincerely. “I’m really proud of you.”

“Thanks, Blanca.”

After hanging up, Patrice rose to check her makeup in the wide mirror over the double sinks. A woman walked in and hurried to a stall.

Seeing nothing wrong with her face, she left the bathroom. When she got within sight of her table, she saw that Farrell had left.

T.K. got up and pulled her chair out. “Farrell remembered a previous engagement.”

Patrice met his eyes. His look was enigmatic. She wished she could have heard their conversation in her absence. “Too bad,” she said. “I’d never met him before. He seems like a nice guy.”

“He is,” T.K. assured her.

He looked up, spotted their waiter and gestured to him. “The waiter wanted to serve our meals while you were gone, but I told him to keep them warm until you got back.”

“That was considerate of you.”

“I’m a considerate guy.”

Patrice let her gaze roam over his face, admiring the strong, masculine shape of his jaw, the fullness of his lips. He smiled the whole while as though he were perfectly fine with her lusting after him with her eyes.

No harm in looking, Patrice thought. The harm comes in acting on your desires. She didn’t plan to do that. She did not become romantically involved with actors she worked with. Work was work, and play was play.

Rumor had it that T.K. didn’t share her opinion on the subject. He had been linked with a few women while they were working on a film together. He didn’t make it a habit like some actors she knew, but the fact that none of those relationships had worked out concerned her. At thirty-six, he had never been married. He could be gay. Nah, she immediately dismissed that. Back in the day it had been possible for Hollywood to hide the fact that some of its leading men—and women—were gay, but these days the tabloids uncovered anyone who was in the closet. She hated tabloid journalism, if you could call it journalism.

She realized they had been looking into each other’s eyes the past five minutes without saying a word. She laughed. “I often thought that you were mesmerizing on the big screen, but I never suspected you might be in person.”

T.K. smiled. “Does that mean you’ll be my Bella Donna?”

“I’ll be Bass Reeves’s Bella Donna,” Patrice corrected him with a wry smile.

T.K. took her hand in his and kissed her knuckles. The feel of his warm mouth on her skin made her sigh involuntarily. He raised his head and looked her in the eyes. “Same difference,” he said. “Lucky for me, it’ll be Bass Reeves kissing you but my lips doing the deed.”

“Just so you both know where not to put your hands,” joked Patrice. T.K. laughed.

The waiter arrived at that moment and served their meals.

Patrice wound up spending a quiet night at home. After phoning family and friends to tell them of her good fortune, she reread the script to Bass Reeves, Lawman. Blanca phoned to say she’d spoken with Mark Greenberg and that the lawyers were working on the contract. He promised that it would be in Blanca’s hands in a matter of days.

Patrice was curled up on the sofa in the living room of her modest bungalow. She was wearing shorts and a tank top because it was warm tonight. The house had air-conditioning but she rarely turned it on unless the temperature rose to the nineties. She liked to sleep with her windows open. It was something she might not do if she lived in greater Los Angeles, but the Beverly Hills police boasted that they could be at your door within a minute of being summoned. She had not had the opportunity to test that boast.

As she read, she found herself chuckling from time to time. The Western was an action/adventure, but it had funny moments, especially the exchanges between Bella and Bass who seemed to love arguing as much as they did making love.

When she got to the love scene, she let out a groan. It was hot. She and T.K. would have to be practically naked. Of course, key parts of their bodies would be concealed from the eyes of those present on the set during the filming of it. But she knew that to the audience it would appear that she and T.K. had been completely nude during the filming. She had never done a nude scene. She panicked. What would her parents think? What would the people at the church she’d gone to when she was growing up say? Her family still attended that church!

She got up, fanning herself with the script. How could she have missed that scene when she had read the script before? She blamed it on her habit of skimming over the directions in the script in favor of her character’s dialogue. There was no dialogue in the love scene. There was only direction: where T.K. would put his hands; where, when and how she was to moan as if in ecstasy.

She looked over at the clock on the mantel above the fireplace. It was 9:13 p.m. Blanca didn’t usually go to bed this early. Blanca had made a copy of the script for her personal use. She grabbed her cell phone from the coffee table and dialed her number.

As soon as Blanca answered, she cried, “Did you read the love scene?”

“Fabulous, isn’t it?” Blanca said sleepily. “I haven’t read anything that perfectly erotic in a long time. It’s a mature scene with two people who truly love each other. It’s tender because it’s goodbye for them, even though neither of them is aware of it. Bella gets killed the next day. It’s the kind of scene people are going to be talking about for a long time, especially women. Bella directs him. She shows him how to love her like she wants to be loved, and Bass is more than willing to oblige. I tell you, women are going to fast-forward to that scene when it comes out on DVD again and again and live vicariously through you.”

“I don’t know if I want them to live vicariously through me!”

“Don’t tell me you’re getting cold feet,” said Blanca with an indulgent laugh. “Do you know how many actresses would kill you to replace you in that scene?”

“I’m sure there would be quite a few,” Patrice admitted. “I’m still leery about showing so much skin.”

“No, you’re nervous about portraying a black woman as a sexual being,” Blanca lightly accused, her tone still humorous. “Patty, I understand your reticence, but think of the portrayals of black women in Oscar-winning roles. You’ve got a maid, a psychic who was the comic relief and a tortured soul who has an affair with the white man who was one of the guards on duty when her husband was executed. There is no example of a black woman loving a black man the way he should be loved. Sleep on that, and call me tomorrow. I’m your friend as well as your agent. If you really don’t want to do the role, then I’ll start looking for something better for you.”

Patrice sat down hard on the couch. Blanca was right. There was so much negativity out there where black men and women were concerned. Moviegoers needed more positive examples of black men loving black women. Sex was a normal, healthy part of being in love with someone. The manner in which it was expressed in the script was not salacious or pornographic.

She took a deep breath. “I don’t have to sleep on it. I want to do it. I just panicked for a moment, there. Sorry to wake you.”

“I wasn’t asleep,” Blanca denied.

“Blanca, I’ve been calling you and waking you up for a few years now. I know how you sound when you first wake up.”

Blanca laughed. “All right, you got me. Good night, chica.”

“Good night,” Patrice said softly, feeling a lot better about the script. She hung up the phone, picked up the script, sat down and continued reading. Bella was killed the next day. Good death scene, Patrice thought. She died bravely. Later in the script, Bass avenged Bella’s murder.

Tears were in Patrice’s eyes when she finished reading. She wondered what T.K. was doing at that moment. Had his flirting been genuine? Or had he done it just because he knew women expected him to be charming and attentive when they were with him?

Chapter 4

That night, T.K. was running on the beach near his house in Malibu. He liked running at night when the world around him was quieter. He liked running on the beach because of the extra resistance the damp sand provided. He got a better workout. An added bonus was that the sound of the ocean soothed him.

He was wearing a sleeveless T-shirt, shorts and running shoes. Much of the heat of the day had dissipated, but it was still a temperate seventy-five degrees out. Sam, his golden retriever, sneezed next to him, and T.K. laughed. “What’s the matter, boy, am I kicking up too much sand for you?”

Sam, of course, didn’t answer but happily ran on beside his human. They were only a half mile from the house. T.K. would be sure to spoil him a little tonight—maybe give him one of those doggy ice-cream treats he loved so much.

Now that Malcolm was gone, Sam was his only housemate. When he was alive Malcolm had loved to care for Sam. Sometimes T.K. would walk into the living room and find man and dog sitting in front of the TV watching some inane comedy, Malcolm laughing uproariously and Sam smiling. Occasionally, when he would go into the living room now, he would expect to find Malcolm there. He supposed it would take his mind a while to accept that his brother was gone forever.

At the house, he and Sam jogged up the back steps of the house that led from the beach. He doffed his shoes on the balcony. He didn’t want to track sand into the house. Sam patiently stood while he wiped him off with an old towel he kept on the balcony for that purpose. They entered the house through the kitchen entrance.

He got a bottle of water from the fridge and poured some in Sam’s dish for him and drank the rest. Then he began the trek upstairs. Although the house was big at five thousand square feet, it wasn’t ostentatious. He preferred clean lines, and possessions weren’t that important to him. The furnishings were expensive only because he thought you got what you paid for. He was a big man, and the last thing he wanted to worry about was his bed collapsing under him because it was cheaply made. He was sensible in that way.

Sam followed him all the way to his bedroom. At the door, he turned to the dog and said, “I’ll be down in a few minutes. I want to shower, and then I’ll give you a good brushing and a treat for being such a trouper tonight.”

Sam peered up at him as though he understood him perfectly, whined, turned around and padded back downstairs.

T.K. walked over to the nightstand next to the side of the bed where he slept and pressed the message button on the answering machine. His mother had phoned while he was out. “Your father and I are going to New York for the weekend and will be leaving Aisha alone in the house. If you would call her to check on her once or twice while we’re gone, we would appreciate it.”

T.K. dreaded doing that. Aisha turned into a sultry vixen when she spoke with him over the phone. It was as if she lost the ability to speak normally. Why she thought he wanted to hear his brother’s girlfriend cooing in his ear, he could not imagine. Trying to sound sexy wasn’t going to make him warm up to her. He kept his distance because whenever she looked at him there was a hungry, predatory expression in her eyes.

He hated to put a pregnant woman in her place, but if it continued he was going to have to bluntly do so.

The next message was from Mark. “I just got off the phone with Blanca Mendes, Patrice’s agent. That’s one formidable lady. She’s sensible too, though. They didn’t ask for any outrageous perks, but she made sure to protect her client’s rights. Patrice will be able to start in late August when we begin filming. She has another film that begins rolling in March, though, so we need to be finished with her scenes before then. I don’t anticipate running over schedule, but you never can anticipate the elements, and you’re going to be in the Badlands. Have a good night.”

T.K. had been pulling off his clothes as he listened. Naked, he strode into the bathroom and turned on the water in the shower. Patrice Sutton. He tried not to think too much about her. She was so sweet. When he closed his eyes and inhaled deeply, he imagined he could still smell the enticing scent of her.

It was too soon after his breakup with Edina to consider allowing another woman to get close to him. He knew most people expected the male in a relationship to have a roving eye, but in theirs it had been Edina who had cheated on him—repeatedly. Plus, she had had the gall to blame him. His schedule, she accused, didn’t allow them enough time to grow as a couple. What she meant was he wasn’t there every night to satisfy her sexual needs. Well, she hadn’t been with him every night to satisfy his needs either, but he hadn’t gone out and found some willing substitute for her. To be truthful with himself, he was more embarrassed than heartbroken because he had suspected for some time now that Edina, who was an actress, was with him only to further her career. He wasn’t conceited enough, even though he was admittedly a fine example of a black male, to believe that he could be the complete answer to a woman’s prayers. No man was that perfect. A woman had to be happy with her life without a man in it before she could find happiness with a man. She needed to know what she wanted out of life and be willing to sacrifice for it. That was Edina’s problem. She wanted instant gratification. She wasn’t willing to work for happiness and didn’t care who she hurt in her efforts to coast through life.

When he was feeling particularly depressed he would ask himself if he had been a better lover whether she would have cheated. Then he would remind himself that he was never a selfish lover. When they made love, he had given her his full attention. Now he knew how women felt when men cheated on them: dignity and self-worth take a beating. The truth was cheaters will stray no matter how well their significant others perform in bed. They’re selfish and greedy, always looking for the next thrill.

He wasn’t about the next thrill any longer. In this fake world in which he made a living, there were too many people who were looking for a thrill, ready to provide one or had enjoyed one too many and had ended up dead, broke or both.

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