LITMIR.BIZ

       www.millsandboon.co.uk

      To the members of the Wednesday Night Dinner Club who gave me the idea, and to Stephen, who kept me inspired.

      Contents

      Prologue

      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 15

      Chapter 16

      Chapter 17

      Prologue

      Los Angeles, 1995

      “COME ON, everyone, sit down, please.” Trish Dawson glanced around the room at the managers for the university’s spring play. Why the producer had asked Trish to run the meeting in her absence, Trish had no idea. Maybe she had a head for details, but she was much happier acting as script doctor than ringmaster. Thanks very much.

      Trish took a deep breath. “Anita’s sick so she’s asked me to get things going. Now, we’ve got two weeks until opening night. We just need to do a status check before we start rehearsal. Martin, you first,” she ordered, trying to avoid looking at the director with his razor-sharp cheekbones and spill of dark hair. He was too good-looking to trust, in Trish’s book. She might have learned that lesson about men the hard way, but she’d learned it well.

      “We’re in pretty good shape,” Martin allowed, flashing his careless smile. “Right now we’re still running about ten minutes long. Where are you at on the cuts, Trish?”

      “You’ll have the revisions by noon tomorrow,” she answered, mentally cursing the flush she could feel moving over her face.

      “In that case, I’d like to plan for a dress rehearsal in a week,” Martin said. “How are we doing with the battle scene?” he asked the dark-haired choreographer, Thea Masterson.

      “Same as we were when you asked me an hour ago.” Humor glinted in Thea’s hazel eyes. “I’ve been running the cast through the sequences and they’re coming along nicely.”

      “How about costumes?” Trish turned to her best friend, Cilla Danforth, wardrobe mistress. “Are we on target for dress rehearsal?”

      “The outfits for the leads should be done,” Cilla said, rolling up the cuff of her Marc Jacobs couture grunge shirt. “A couple of the bit players might have to play it in street clothes, but their costumes aren’t that important.”

      “Historically accurate?” Martin asked.

      Cilla stared at him blandly. “You worry about the actors, Martin, sugar. I’ll worry about the clothes.”

      Cilla never took anything from anybody, Trish thought admiringly, wishing she could be the same way. “How about sets?” she asked, turning to the design manager, Paige Wheeler.

      Paige consulted her tidy stack of notes. “Everything’s ready,” she supplied. “Touch-ups on the interior set for act three should be finished by tomorrow. Otherwise, everything’s done.”

      The day Paige missed a deadline was the day the planets stopped moving in their orbits, Trish reflected. She looked at a blonde in a Pearl Jam T-shirt. “Delaney, where are we at on marketing?”

      “Signage is up and Kelly’s been running her ‘Behind the Scenes’ series in the school paper,” Delaney responded, nodding toward Kelly Vandervere, staff reporter.

      “And there’s Sabrina,” Kelly reminded her.

      “Oh, right, thanks.” Delaney turned to the group. “You guys all probably know Sabrina Pantolini, the one who’s doing the documentary on the play. She’s going to cut a commercial from her footage to play on the college station.”

      There was a round of applause. Trish waited for it to die down and checked her watch. “Great, so it looks like everything’s on schedule. I’ll just write this up for Anita and we can get started with rehearsals.”

      Everyone rose and began drifting out. “S&S meeting tonight at Tortilla Flats,” Cilla reminded her before leaving.

      “S&S? What’s that?” asked Martin, standing nearby.

      Tell him it stood for Sex & Supper Club? No way was Trish going to go there, especially not when her palms were already sweating from nerves. “Just a group of us getting together,” she said vaguely, picking up her notebook.

      He considered. “Maybe I’ll come along.”

      To hear them dissect which guy they knew kissed better than the rest? Trish resisted snorting. “It’s, um, a girl-only thing.”

      “Maybe some other time, then,” he said lightly. “So, are you nervous about opening night?”

      “A little,” she admitted. “Are you?”

      “Not really. It’ll be fine.”

      “I wish I had your faith.”

      He

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