Marcia raised a knowing eyebrow at the rather obvious diversion, but she answered obligingly. “Daniel Thomas; he is some sort of genius in the research department of Cinetron films. Mr. Donovan thinks he might be on the right track in developing cinematic videotape. He's been trying to persuade him to quit his job with Cinetron, and come here and concentrate his efforts solely on developing the videotape. He's having a few problems convincing him. Evidently Mr. Thomas is nearing the retirement age and has built up quite a bit of seniority with Cinetron. So far, the large monetary settlement hasn't been the persuasion that your husband thought it might be.” She shrugged. “It's only a matter of time. Mr. Donovan always gets what he wants.”
Brenna nodded, smiling. “That's for sure!” she said vehemently and then blushed again as Marcia broke into an irrepressible chuckle.
Brenna had no doubt that Michael would find a way to obtain the services of Daniel Thomas. She had become aware that Michael had a violent antipathy for the whole Hollywood system, where more often than not films were initiated purely on their box office potential and not on artistic merit. He, too, believed a brilliant picture deserved an equally brilliant monetary reward. But in his eyes an expertly crafted motion picture was the goal, not the tinkle of the box office cash register. Though he still had to deal with the Hollywood money men occasionally, he was gradually attempting to cut himself and Twin Pines entirely free from the system. Evidently, this little man held one of the keys that Donovan had been searching for.
At present all theatrical films had to be processed by the film laboratories in Hollywood, but Donovan was convinced that it was just a matter of time before theatrical films could be transferred to tape. Time, and research geniuses of the calibre of Daniel Thomas, Brenna corrected herself. Once such a film was developed, it would break one of the major chains that still bound Twin Pines to Hollywood. Donovan most certainly would bend every effort to winning Thomas to this purpose.
The rest of the morning passed fairly quickly, with the usual stream of visitors in and out of Donovan's office, and the light clerical duties that Marcia gave her. She had just finished typing the last page of a contract when she looked up to see Jake Dominic standing before her, looking tan and fit and incredibly handsome in white pants and a navy blue sports shirt.
“Jake!” she said delighted, jumping up and giving him both her hands in greeting. She hadn't seen him since about a week after the picture was completed. Michael had told her that immediately after a picture was finished, Dominic always set sail in his luxurious yacht, Sea Breeze, and was gone for an unspecified time, until he was rid of the tension of directing and grew unutterably bored and eager to return to work. That the cruise always included the presence of a beautiful and willing woman went without saying. This time Brenna had heard it rumored that his companion had been the wife of the head of state of a small South American country, and that the State Department had been biting its collective fingernails with fear that, this time, Dominic's affair would cause an international incident.
Yet here he was, looking as casual and arrogant as ever, as he smiled down at her with that wickedly arched eyebrow. “My God, Brenna,” he said teasingly. “What other uses is Michael going to find for you? Wife, mistress, actress, and now secretary. I'm going to have to whisk you away on my next cruise, just to see that you get a rest.”
“From what I hear, the women you take on your cruises get considerably less rest than I do,” Brenna said dryly, her eyes twinkling. “You look in reasonably good health for a man who has been reputedly dodging machetes, or is it bolos?”
“Neither,” Dominic said lazily. “It was all much ado about nothing. The lady's husband is quite complacent as long as she handles her affairs discreetly.”
Brenna giggled at the thought of a cruise with Jake Dominic being considered discreet, and a reluctant smile tugged at his lips. “I missed that laugh of yours,” he said softly, and his dark eyes were suddenly tinged with a touch of loneliness. “It was a bore,” he said wearily. “More so than usual.”
Again Brenna felt that poignant tug of sympathy for this brilliant man who had everything a man could want, and was still jaded and even curiously lonely.
“Perhaps next time you should try a Swede,” she said lightly, trying to gently nudge him out of his depression.
It worked. Dominic's mercurial temperament responded, and the black eyes gleamed mischievously. “I've already gone that route,” he said with a shudder. “They're much too aggressive. I was totally exhausted by the time I got back to port.”
“What about her?” Brenna asked grinning.
“Oh, Helga immediately took off for Switzerland with her ski instructor. I hear he was a candidate for the Olympics before she got her hands on him.” He sighed morosely, his eyes twinkling. “He's never been heard of since!”
Brenna chuckled irrepressibly. “What are you doing back in Twin Pines?” she asked. “Michael didn't mention you were doing a picture?”
He shrugged. “I'm ready to go to work. If I have too much time on my hands, I get restless, and voilà —trouble.”
“It seems I've heard rumors to that effect,” Brenna agreed demurely. “Are you the important lunch date my husband can't break to escort his own wife?”
“Not me, sweet, but I'll act as a substitute, if you'll wait until I see that unchivalrous husband of yours,” he said. “I want to pick up a script Michael told me about. Some thriller about a nuclear power plant. Michael says it has possibilities.”
“Done,” Brenna said cheerfully. “I'll be ready to leave when you're finished with Michael.”
With a wave of his hand, Dominic entered Donovan's office without knocking, and Brenna went to the closet to get her jacket and purse. When she returned to her desk to extract the contract from her typewriter and hand it to Marcia, she was amazed to see the older woman convulsed in laughter. As Brenna stared at her blankly, the secretary wiped tears from her eyes and gasped penitently. “Sorry, Brenna, I was just eavesdropping, and it struck me as funny.”
“What did?” Brenna asked, puzzled.
Marcia's eyes danced. “The calm way you accepted the foremost rake of the western world as a second-best substitute for your husband. No one would believe it.”
Brenna grinned. It did seem funny when she looked at it from Marcia's point of view, and if one didn't know that the husband in question was Michael Donovan.
“If you'll forgive me for interrupting your chat, I'd like to see Mr. Donovan.” The husky voice was dripping sarcasm, and they both looked up, startled, at the woman who had entered the office unnoticed. Brenna's eyes widened as she recognized the woman standing there. The large violet eyes, wild riotous ash-blond hair, and curvaceous figure were as famous as the throaty voice. Melanie St. James, who had rocketed to stardom in her first picture, a Michael Donovan production. With a pang, Brenna recalled that the gossip columns had also been filled with speculations regarding Donovan's torrid affair with his gorgeous protégée.
Marcia Owens recovered her aplomb swiftly. “Is Mr. Donovan expecting you?”
The pouting lips tightened. “Of course, he's expecting me,” she said arrogantly. “We have a luncheon date.”
Brenna felt a cold pain somewhere in her midriff, as she heard the woman's words. So this was Donovan's inviolate, unbreakable luncheon date, she thought numbly.
Marcia Owens shrugged, and picked up the phone. “I'll tell him you're here,” she said coolly. “At the moment he's with Mr. Dominic.”
“Jake Dominic?” Melanie St. James inquired, her eyes taking on an almost greedy glitter. “I've never met him. Is he working with Donovan now?”
“Occasionally,” Marcia answered remotely, and spoke into the receiver. “Mr. Donovan will see you now. Miss St. James,” she said as she replaced the receiver. “Go right in.”
A smile of triumph lit Melanie St. James' face. “I told you he'd see me,” she said with smug satisfaction. “After all, he called me.” She swept by the
m and into Donovan's office, leaving Marcia Owens in an agony of sympathetic embarrassment as she carefully avoided Brenna's eyes.
Brenna said nothing as she moved toward the restroom like a sleepwalker. Refusing to think of anything at all, keeping her mind carefully blank, she washed her face and put on fresh lipstick. She tidied her hair carefully, taking as much time as possible, so that she wouldn't have to return and be present when her husband swept the voluptuous actress out of the office. She was not consciously thinking, but her instinct for self-preservation prevented her from exposing herself to that degree of torture.
When Brenna returned, Dominic was standing by Marcia Owens' desk and they stopped speaking abruptly when she entered the room. Dominic took one look at her set white face, muttered an imprecation beneath his breath, and crossed to take her by the elbow. “Dammit all, what fools you women are,” he said roughly. “Come on, we're going to lunch and I'm going to try to talk some sense into you.”
He half led, half propelled her from the room, and any protests she might have made were quelled by the grim stormy look on Dominic's face. This was not the same Dominic she had joked and teased with such a short time ago. She obeyed meekly as he settled her in his black Ferrari and whisked her to a small restaurant on the edge of town. It looked more like a small brick residence than a restaurant, and there was only a small sign quietly advertising quality cuisine in discreet letters.
It was only after they had been seated at a quiet corner table and Dominic had given the order for both of them, that he turned to Brenna with quiet determination in every line of his face.
“All right, now we talk,” he said briskly. “Will you please tell me why you're looking like a Christian who has just been thrown to the lions?”
Trust Jake to think in such visual terms, she thought numbly, but she had no intention of confiding in him. The wound was too raw to bear probing by that ruthless intellect. “Perhaps I'm not feeling well,” she said evasively. “Marcia will tell you I was a little under the weather this morning.”
“Bull!” Jake said succinctly. “We both know the reason you're falling apart at the seams. I hoped to get you to bring it out in the open yourself. But if you won't, I will.”
“I don't want to talk about it,” Brenna said rigidly, looking down at her folded hands on the white damask tablecloth.
“Too bad!” Jake said coldly. “Michael's my best friend, and I hope you're going to be a close second, Brenna. I'm not about to let some foolish, womanish misconception hurt either of you. Now, let's talk about that promiscuous little sex kitten Michael took out to lunch today.”
Brenna flinched. “I don't see any evidence of misconception,” she said with an effort. “It seems to be perfectly clear.”
“It always does to a woman,” Jake said dryly. “Did it ever occur to you that he could have a reason, other than the obvious one, to see the beauteous Miss St. James? They are in the same business, you know.”
“She isn't under contract to Donovan any more,” Brenna said miserably. “Everyone knows that she signed with Fox two years ago.”
“About the same time she and Donovan called it quits,” Jake observed coolly. “If I remember, it was Donovan who tired of her. So why the hell would he want to stir up the ashes of a dead love affair?” He grimaced. “Believe me, there's nothing less appetizing once you're through with a woman.”
Dominic's brutal frankness was less than comforting when she realized his ruthless attitude was essentially the same as Donovan's. She shivered uncontrollably with the pain of the thought. Would Donovan some day feel the same distaste for her as he did his past mistresses? Was he, even now, trying to tell her, in this cruel and ruthless fashion that she must not count on any real permanency in their relationship?
“You're a good friend to Michael, Jake,” she said huskily, her brown eyes bright with unshed tears. “But I think it's you who isn't reading the situation correctly.”
“Hell!” Dominic said roughly, his black eyes worried. He covered one of her hands with his own. “Michael doesn't give a damn about Melanie,” he said earnestly. “Take it from one who knows. Before you came along women were just something to use and throw away to Michael. In fifteen years, I've never seen him act the way he does about you. The man's obviously crazy about you, you little fool.”
“That's comforting,” she said bitterly. “Maybe I'll last a few months longer than Melanie St. James.” She ran her hand through her hair wearily. “Jake, I know you're doing what you think is best, but all this discussion is tearing me to pieces.” Her lips quivered uncontrollably. “I couldn't possibly eat anything. Would you please take me home?”
Jake sighed, and his face was a picture of dissatisfaction as he took some bills from his wallet and threw them on the table. “I should have known better than to try to argue with a woman where her emotions are concerned,” he said gloomily, as he rose. “Come along, little martyr. I'll take you home where you can sulk, and brood, and build up a really horrendous case against Michael by the time he gets home tonight. Women!”
Perhaps due to this last harsh condemnation of Jake's, Brenna tried to do exactly the opposite when Dominic had dropped her off. She kept herself feverishly busy all afternoon. Playing vigorously with Randy in the pool, then cleaning out and rearranging dresser drawers in her bedroom. She tried to read a script that Michael had left for her, but this was a lost cause. Her mind refused to take in one word of the dialogue.
Michael called three times that afternoon, but she refused to speak to him, giving a vague excuse each time to the puzzled and upset Mrs. Haskins. When he made his last call, he left a message that he wouldn't be home to dinner, a message that Mrs. Haskins delivered with barely concealed, righteous satisfaction. The housekeeper adored Donovan, and she obviously thought Brenna was mistreating her idol.
Brenna herself refused dinner, and returned to her room to settle down and wait for Donovan's return. She realized at once that this was a mistake as clouds of depression rolled over her horizon, making her as brooding and self-pitying as Dominic's accusation. She jumped up, and hurried to the bathroom, filling the aqua tub with steaming, bubbling water while she bundled her hair on top of her head. She dropped her clothes carelessly on the floor and stepped into the tub, reclining full length, her head resting on the plastic pillow affixed to one end of the tub. The water was warm and soothing and like liquid silk against her flesh. Suddenly she remembered that first day on the island, and Michael beside her in that Sybarite sunken bathtub that was built for lovemaking. She could feel her nipples harden, as her mind helplessly replayed the love scene, the first of many that had gradually bound her to Michael with golden chains. She could feel the silent tears that she had fought all day long run down her cheeks in silent profusion, and she knew the time had finally come for self confrontation.
Jake had not truly realized why she had been so devastated by Michael's luncheon date with Melanie St. James. She was not foolish enough to think that Michael had finished with her yet: He was still too eager to possess her. Their lovemaking was too good for her to make that mistake. It may have been a perfectly innocent interlude as Jake had suggested. What had shaken her world to the foundation was her own reaction to that first agonizing suspicion that Donovan might be growing tired of her. The pain had been breathtaking, blacking out the joy of living as if it no longer existed. She had realized then how she had been deceiving herself.
Since she had first discovered her love for Michael, she had convinced herself that an emotion that beautiful could only enrich her, and make her stronger in the years to come. She had not realized that Michael had painted the canvas of her life with his own bright hues, and without him, all the exuberant vitality would vanish as if it had never been. Her love for him had grown with each passing day. Heaven knows what stage of dependency she would reach if she remained with him any longer. If she left now, it would be like losing a limb but she would survive. If she waited until she was discarded, as Michael had l
eft her with no doubt she eventually would be, she was not at all sure that it wouldn't destroy her. It had been that realization that had so stunned her and left her bereft—the knowledge that she must leave Michael, and that it must be accomplished soon for self-preservation's sake. She must break her word to Michael, because she knew he was not ready to let her go yet.
The tears continued to flow and she brushed them aside impatiently. She had always had to be strong and independent. She would get over this stupid pain and weakness and emerge stronger than ever. She would leave, and never see that strongwilled Irishman again. She would make a life for herself and Randy, and it would be a good life. She closed her eyes and the maddening tears continued to flow. She would do all these things, she assured herself sadly, but first she would take one final night for herself. She would say a last “good-bye” to her love, Michael Donovan.
She got out of the tub, drying quickly, powdering liberally with her lavender-scented talc, before donning her favorite negligee set. It was a wonderfully romantic gown. Its white silk background was sprinkled with minute pink roses. The tiny sleeves, low rounded elasticized neckline, and empire waistline lent a Regency air to the ensemble. The matching peignoir was a loose drift of white chiffon with long loose sleeves. She slipped into a pair of white satin mules, and brushed her hair into a bright shining cape. She looked with bittersweet approval into the long oval mirror on the closet door. Yes, this was the image of her that she wanted Michael to hold in his memory when she was gone. She turned off the bedroom light, and left the room to go downstairs to wait for Michael.
She was curled up in one corner of the couch in the living room, idly leafing through a magazine, a little over an hour later when the front door was thrown open explosively. She could hear Donovan's rapid footsteps in the hall.
He came through the living room door like a small hurricane. He had discarded his suit jacket and was dressed in black slacks and a white shirt opened carelessly at the throat. His hair glowed brilliantly under the overhead light, and, as usual, he seemed to draw all the radiance in the room to himself. His face was taut and angry, as he crossed to the couch and pulled her roughly to her feet. “Dammit! I could beat you,” he said furiously. “What the hell do you mean by refusing my phone calls? You know damn well I was tied up with appointments and couldn't come to you. I've gone through hell all afternoon, since Jake called and told me what an asinine snit you'd gotten yourself into. Women!” he finished disgustedly.