LITMIR.BIZ

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signature on that contract.”

      The movie she’d filmed last summer in Montana with Fitz would open soon, and all indications were it was going to open big. She had her choice of scripts right now, and Fitz and Greenberg were pressuring her to choose theirs.

      His, actually. Burke was the one who’d chosen the script for the classic screwball comedy, sold his bosses on the idea and secured the studio’s blessing to launch the presale phase of production. He was the one who’d suggested Nora for the lead.

      Nora Daniels was an actress poised on the brink of stardom. Men loved her lush, exotic features; women loved her sparkling, impetuous personality. Everyone loved her story: the daughter of an Argentinian heiress and an Irish entrepreneur who’d eloped to New York and gambled away their fortunes on a series of bad investments. When their marriage had crumbled, they’d both fled the country in the company of wealthier partners and left their beautiful baby daughter in the erratic care of a series of nannies and tutors, in a succession of hotels and flats.

      At sixteen, she’d ditched an afternoon ballet lesson to sneak into a Broadway theater during an open call. Her audition performance had become a legend.

      Audiences were enthralled with her style and flash, and she floated easily from the stage to the screen and back again. So far she’d preferred supporting roles, selecting those that would showcase her talent without compromising the progress of her career. She chose her work situations with equal care, seeking the company of an intimate group of friends, finding at rehearsals and on sets the relationships she’d craved during her childhood.

      Two years ago the thirty-year-old actress had married an ambitious businessman, a restaurateur who’d assembled a talented staff in a stylish establishment, attracting a chic clientele. She’d believed she’d found a man who’d give her a family and a home. Instead, he’d deserted her when she was three months pregnant, leaving her alone in the house she’d purchased for them both.

      Fitz’s shoulders lifted and fell in a deep sigh. “She’s talking about putting her house on the market.”

      Burke stilled. “Sorry?”

      “Her house. The one in the Hills.”

      “She won’t do it.” Burke shoved off the desk and strode to the window, staring blindly at the glare of security lights on wet, black pavement. “She loves that house. It took her years to find it.”

      His lips twitched at the image of Nora dragging her samples about in the bulging handbags she preferred, driving them all insane with her constant requests for opinions about wallpapers and fabrics. “It’s going to take her years to redecorate it.”

      “I don’t think she’s coming back.”

      “Back here?” Burke felt as though he’d been run through with a lance of ice. “But—but she lives here.”

      “She hasn’t lived here since Thanksgiving.” Fitz set his bottle on the counter with a loud clink. “She’s dug in so deep in the guest cabin I don’t think I could blast her loose with a stack of dynamite.”

      “You’re the one who invited her.” Burke turned and aimed an accusing look at his friend. “‘Come for the holidays,’ you said. ‘Stay as long as you want.’”

      “I didn’t invite her,” said Fitz. “That was Jenna’s doing.”

      Nora had struck up a friendship with Fitz’s mother-in-law during the location shoot. Burke suspected Jenna Harrison Winterhawk had played a valuable supporting role for Nora during her pregnancy, and had probably continued in that role since Nora had given birth, in Montana, to a daughter of her own. Jenna was probably serving as a real-life model for the kind of mother Nora had never known.

      “You were the one who told her she could stay,” Burke pointed out.

      “I didn’t think she would!” Fitz flung his arms wide as he paced. “She’s been there nearly four months. Four months!”

      “I know how long it’s been.”

      Burke slipped his hands into his pockets. He’d missed her, oddly enough. He’d never thought he’d admit such a thing to himself, but he did.

      He’d missed her energetic conversation and her lusty laugh, the way she could sweep into a room like a whirlwind and set things spiraling out of control. He’d enjoyed the way she’d shower him with praise for bailing her out of her latest spot of trouble, the way she’d bat her eyelashes at him like the outrageous flirt she was and tell him he was her knight in shining armor.

      She deserved a knight, whether that man wore armor or not. She was a dear and special friend, and he treasured her for that as much as for her company.

      “I’m surrounded, out there at the ranch.” Fitz collapsed on the sofa, legs sprawling. “I’m surrounded by gestating, lactating, menstruating women.”

      “God.” Burke moved to the refrigerator and snatched a bottle of water to wash away the disagreeable sensation that had crept up the back of his throat.

      “Did I tell you Jody got her period?”

      Burke nearly choked. “Did you hear me ask?”

      “All those hormones.” Fitz sighed. “The aches and pains. The tears.”

      Burke tipped the bottle back and swallowed again, hard. “When do you go back?”

      “Not soon enough.” Fitz slumped against the cushions. “God, I miss them.”

      “I suppose one does get used to being surrounded,” said Burke, just to be polite, though he didn’t see how such a thing was possible.

      “Yeah, well, you’ll get your chance.”

      Burke froze. “I beg your pardon.”

      “That’s the assignment I was talking about.”

      “Fitz.” Burke lowered his bottle. “You can’t seriously be suggesting what I think you’re suggesting.”

      “I’m not suggesting anything. I’m telling you.” He stared at Burke, and he was as serious as Burke had ever seen him. “Someone has to get Nora’s signature on that contract.”

      “You’re her friend.” Burke hated the note of desperation in his voice, and he willed it away. “You live there. You like it there. You’ll go for a visit, you’ll ask her to come back and sign the contract. She’ll do it for you.”

      “I’ve already asked her, several times.” Fitz sank even lower on the sofa. “The last time I brought up the subject, I must have pushed a little too hard or said something the wrong way, because she—” he rubbed a hand over his eyes, his mouth twisting in a pained grimace “—she cried.”

      “God.” Burke pinched the bridge of his nose, knocking his glasses out of place. “Let me get this straight. You want me to fly out to Montana in the dead of winter.”

      “It’s not the dead of winter.” Fitz shrugged. “Not exactly.”

      “But there will be snow. And temperatures below freezing.”

      “It doesn’t feel that cold when you’re working in it.”

      “Which I won’t be doing, since I don’t know how to do ranch work.”

      The thought of ranch work—of disgusting things done to half-wild animals that outweighed a man by several hundred pounds, of incomprehensible chores involving tools and machinery that could mangle a body in innumerable ways, all accomplished in conditions reeking of manure and worse—made him draw a deep, calming breath.

      Which was immediately followed by a second wave of dread. “You want me to walk into that stew of female biological processes and press a new mother for a business decision?”

      Fitz nodded. “That just about sums it up, yeah.”

      “Why me?”

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