.

blonde and made sure he was seen in all the right places, because those were the things that mattered to him. He was an empty Christmas- tree bauble of a man.

      He was nothing special. And she was determined to treat him that way.

      MAC FROWNED over his notes as Claudia exited the room. Was it just him, or was Grace Wellington less-than-thrilled to be working with him?

      She’d barely looked at him since she walked into the room. He couldn’t work out if she was shy, embarrassed or angry. She was definitely something—the air around her was practically vibrating with suppressed emotion.

      She was nothing like he’d expected. None of his feeble imaginings came even close to the real Grace Wellington. She was…totally original. Her hair was a deep claret, her bangs cut severely straight across her creamy forehead, the rest falling thick and straight down her back. A memory teased at his mind, and he plucked a sepia image from his mental filing cabinet—a voluptuous siren posed provocatively on a beach towel. Bettie Page, the famous 1950s pinup—that was who she reminded him of. Except she wasn’t as traditionally beautiful as Bettie. Grace’s green eyes, almost hidden behind heavy-framed black glasses, had a slight exotic tilt. Her nose was bigger, her mouth wider. Each feature taken alone was perfect, but together the effect was too strong for her ever to be labeled as conventionally beautiful. She was, however, strikingly attractive. Her skin glowed like freshwater pearls, and it was hard to keep his gaze from straying to her full crimson lips or dwelling on her exotically tilted eyes.

      Fortunately, there was plenty of action down south to keep him fully occupied. The smooth, creamy skin of her face gave way to an expanse of smooth, creamy neck and chest that finished in a crescendo of bosom—two firm, proud breasts that strained at the confines of the floral sundress she was wearing. Hollywood being Hollywood, there was every chance they were the work of the men at Dow Corning, but his baser self hoped they were the real deal. They looked warm and soft and silky, and he caught himself wondering if her nipples were a dusky pink to match her pale skin tone.

      The air in the room shifted, and his tingling man senses told him that not only had Ms Wellington finally decided to make eye contact with him, she’d also busted him ogling her chest like a horny teen.

      He met her gaze as openly as he could, reasoning with himself that anyone with such spectacular assets was used to having them admired. She stared back at him coldly.

      “Look, sorry if I stepped on your toes before, asking to see the script before it’s finished. Guess I must have broken some secret writer’s rule, huh?” he asked lightly.

      He was used to making people like him. It was his stock in trade. He threw in a smile for good measure.

      Her lips pursed slightly, and she leaned back in her chair, looking over her glasses at him like a disapproving librarian. The schoolmarm effect was dissipated somewhat, however, by those red, red lips and those amazing— Well, he’d already gotten in enough trouble in that direction already.

      “There’s no rule, as such. It’s just that handing over a rough draft for a writer is the equivalent of you leaving the house without your massage, wax and facial. No one wants to be caught with pillow-face, do they?” she said.

      His back stiffened. Where the hell had that come from?

      It had been a long time since Mac hadn’t been liked by someone—or at least since someone had stopped sucking up to him long enough to let him know it. He was surprised by how much it annoyed him. To his knowledge, he’d never done anything to merit the dagger-eyes she was currently sending him.

      He wondered what her problem was. Was she one of those precious people who resented actors moving into other areas of production? They were out there, he knew— writers and directors and producers who figured actors who were trying to parlay their time in the limelight to time behind the camera were asking for more than their fair share of pie.

      He’d already copped a few sideways glances from a few of the other Boulevard directors. He even suspected a couple of the long-term regulars on the cast weren’t too thrilled to see him dabbling with direction. The same thing had happened when he’d been trying to break out of soap acting. People had wanted to keep him in a clearly defined box. But Mac knew now that if he didn’t get out of that box, he’d be buried in it.

      “Given the time constraints we’re under, I think the best thing to do is to set a deadline for viewing the two prospective sites,” Grace said briskly, flicking through a diary. “What if we both agree to have looked over the two options by the end of the week? Then we can reconvene and discuss things.”

      She glanced up at him, her face set, impassive.

      “I was under the impression that Claudia wanted us to go out together. It being a collaborative thing and all,” he said.

      She shrugged one shoulder. “I was planning on checking out the vineyard this afternoon since I’m ahead on edits, but that probably won’t suit you.”

      She flicked at a piece of invisible lint on her dress. He didn’t have to be a genius to read the subtext of her body language—be gone, pesky man, be gone.

      He’d never taken well to being dismissed.

      “You know, it must be our lucky day—I’ve got the afternoon free as well,” he said easily. In reality, he had a swathe of lines to learn for tomorrow’s rehearsals—but that was what late nights and strong coffee were for.

      She didn’t look pleased. Which only confirmed his suspicions about her. She didn’t think he was up to the job. All his earlier doubts about taking on such an important project evaporated. There was no way he was walking away now. Flashing another one of his red-carpet smiles, he leaned back in his chair and put his feet up on the boardroom table—just because he knew it would piss her off. Her gaze flickered to his legs and back again and she sat a little straighter in her chair.

      “Why don’t you go grab your bag and we’ll get going?” he suggested.

      Her full lips compressed into a thin, ungenerous line.

      “I have some things to take care of first. Why don’t I meet you out there?” she countered.

      His moment of amusement faded as he had a sudden vision of how the next few months were going to be if he was fighting against this woman every step of the way—it would be a bloody battle for each square foot gained. He was a straight-up kind of guy at the end of the day. As amusing as it was to egg Grace on, he figured it was better to call her on her attitude now, get whatever it was out of the way and sorted before it affected the show.

      Then she stood up.

      Hubba hubba.

      It was the only coherent thought that came to mind as he took in the rest of the package that was Grace Wellington. He’d been too busy talking to Claudia to get a full head-to-toe on Grace when she walked in, but now his eyes tracked from the fullness of her breasts to her tiny waist and out again to her curvy hips and butt, all of it showcased by a dress that would have looked right at home on Doris Day in her heyday.

      She had an old-fashioned pinup girl’s body, that was for sure. And she dressed in an old-fashioned style that accentuated all the good bits in a really, really…good way.

      He frowned as she gathered her notes, trying to piece together the different signals he was getting from this woman. She didn’t like him, seemed uptight, but dressed in a fun, flamboyant, sexy style that belied the cool little voice and condemning glances over the top of her ugly glasses.

      Realizing she was about to walk off, he dragged his gaze from her va-voom curves and concentrated on winning this first battle of wills.

      “I can hang around. Doesn’t make sense to take separate cars all that way,” he said.

      She blinked, her back stiffening.

      “I might be a while,” she countered.

      He shrugged. She stared at him. He stared back. He wasn’t going to