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He shifted from foot to foot and leaned against the wall framing a massive window overlooking the city. He’d seen the heat in Darla’s stare, the desire glinting in the depths of her beautiful green eyes. Desire. Lust. An attraction that they seemed to generate when they were anywhere near each other. But he’d also seen her hesitation to answer his question about their phone call. She didn’t need saving. She wasn’t any more certain about him than she had been before. And the thing was, he was on uncertain ground of his own. Blake had never felt this way about a woman and he didn’t know if that made it important that he press her now, or just the opposite. Maybe he needed to back off, to let her run. A few of his father’s words echoed in his mind. Son. You never want anything that doesn’t come honest.
Blake scrubbed his jaw. Damn it. He didn’t want anything that wasn’t honest from Darla—anything not genuine. He couldn’t push Darla. He wouldn’t push her. It had to come honest. They had to come honest.
“Let’s get started,” Frankie shouted. “Blake and Darla, I need you in the center of the room.”
Blake shoved off the wall to find three of Frankie’s staff members gathering nearby, while Meagan stepped away to take a call on her cell. Frankie waved Blake to a twelve-by-twelve squared-off area floored with white tiles and enclosed by hardwood, umbrellas and cameras. Darla appeared at the opposite edge of the set.
Her gaze swept over him and came to rest on his face. She actually managed to scald him with a look of pure lust in the same instant that she damned him for apparently making her do so. Would she ever figure out her feelings for him?
“Okay, Blake and Darla,” Meagan said, shoving her slim phone back into snug, faded jeans. “One of the studio bigwigs is in town, and he and several of the show’s top sponsors want to meet us all for dinner.” She eyed her watch. “They made reservations for seven, which is going to make it tight for me to get home and change. If either of you have a reason to get us out of this that they’ll buy, speak up now, please.”
“Ten years in this business has taught me to say ‘yes’ as often as possible,” Blake commented. “There will be more important times when you’ll have to say ‘no.’”
“Considering I’m with a competing network,” Darla said, “I don’t think it would get me brownie points to miss this.”
“You work for both networks,” Meagan corrected. “I wish you’d start feeling like you belong here.” She grinned. “Blake, I really don’t like how right you are, but okay. Dinner it is.” She cast Darla a wistful look. “We’ll have time to sleep on the plane.”
“Have you flown with Darla?” Blake asked, disbelievingly. “Because she won’t be sleeping—and neither will you if you’re sitting next to her.”
“Right,” Meagan said drily. “Yes, I have, and you make another good point. Sorry, Darla. I might need to get my seat changed.”
Darla sighed. “I understand. Send a new victim, I mean passenger, my way. I’ll torture them so you can sleep.”
Blake and Meagan started laughing, but so did Darla, just as she had in the hallway when she’d tripped, even in front of Lana. He liked her lack of airs, her willingness to be herself and to not take herself so seriously.
“Are we ready to get this moving?” Frankie asked testily.
Meagan stepped out of the way. “They’re all yours.”
“Both of you cross your arms in front of your chests,” Frankie ordered immediately, “and stare each other down in challenge.”
“That shouldn’t be a problem for us,” Blake said, refocusing on Darla and doing as Frankie directed.
“Not a problem at all,” Darla agreed, mimicking his stance by folding her arms in front of her chest, her slim jacket defining her petite waist and flaring out to accent her womanly curves.
Frankie started snapping photos. “Good,” he shouted, showing more excitement than Blake thought the man had in him. “Good. Darla. Step closer to Blake.”
Darla didn’t move. Blake arched a brow. “Thought you didn’t need to be saved?”
A look of surprise flashed on her face, as if her hesitation had been instinctive and she hadn’t realized what she’d done. She stepped forward. “I don’t. In fact, I’d venture to say that if anyone needs to be saved, it’s you.”
“Love the anger, Darla!” Frankie shouted, as if she intended her attitude for the camera.
“Anger?” Darla repeated, still looking at Blake.
“You do sound pretty angry.”
“I’m not angry,” she insisted. “I’m not. I’m—”
“Conflicted,” Blake supplied.
“Not anymore,” she corrected.
“You seem conflicted to me.”
“I’m not.”
“Closer to each other,” Frankie yelled. “I want you almost toe-to-toe, and Darla, give him another prickly stare.”
“Prickly,” Darla repeated, turning toward the camera. “I was not prickly and I’m not angry.”
