Chances Are (7 page)

“I guess I better look out for falling bricks.”

“No doubt, brother.”

 

Dione pulled up in front of the studio and sat in her car for a good five minutes, trying to play out all the scenarios for the rest of the evening. Maybe after the studio meeting she could feign a headache and take a raincheck on dinner. Maybe she should use her cell phone and call, tell him she had an emergency at the house and couldn't get away. Maybe she should act like a grown woman, get out of the car and go out with the man. What was the worst thing that could happen: she'd find out he was a real bastard and that would end any fantasies she may have been conjuring up about anything beyond this project. But she'd never know if she never got out of the car.

Checking her reflection in the rearview mirror, she opened the door and stepped out. She took in a lungful of air.

It's showtime.

G
arrett's body jerked when the buzz from the front door shot through him like a bolt of lightning. He pushed away from the edit board and took a quick look at his watch. It had been forty-five minutes since he'd spoken with Dione. It must be her. But he didn't want to act as anxious as he felt. He'd just play it cool until somebody came to get him.

His thumping heartbeat counted out the seconds. It seemed like forever. Maybe it wasn't even her. But then again, she was probably being given the third degree by the part-time secretary and his personal nemesis, Marva English, who felt it her duty to make people as uncomfortable as possible, especially women who came to see him. If she wasn't so incredibly good at what she did, he would have fired her a long time ago. But Marva ran G.L. Productions with a precision that was almost frightening. Her attention to detail and keeping the business on top of their expenses was almost worth the torture of having her there.

Jason always said Marva's biggest and only problem was that she wanted Garrett for herself and resented any woman whom she viewed as a potential threat to her master plan. Garrett, of course, thought the entire idea was ridiculous.

It wasn't that Marva was outright rude. She just had the uncanny knack of making you feel as if you'd been put under the interrogation lights.

Thinking about it, he jumped up out of his seat with the intention of rescuing Dione when there was a short knock on the door. He saw Marva's pale, butter-toned face and intricately braided strawberry blond head through the rectangular glass in the door.

Before he could do the honors, Marva let herself in. Her expression was pinched, her cheeks flushed—from makeup or aggravation he couldn't tell.

“There's a woman here to see you. A Ms. Williams. She doesn't have an appointment,” she almost sneered, emphasizing
doesn't.
“But she said you were expecting her.”

“I am. And thank you. Ms. Williams is a new client. She's the head of the residence we'll be doing the documentary on.”

Her expression slowly cleared. The crease between her brown eyes eased. “Oh. It would help a lot, Gary, if you'd let me know these things so that I can put the appointment in the book and be prepared.”

He gave her a replica of a smile. “My fault. I apologize. This was last minute.”

“Well, she's in the waiting room.”

“Thanks, Marva.”

“I'll let her know you'll be right with her.” She closed the door and Garrett raised his eyes to the ceiling.
Who was really running this place, anyway?

He pulled the door open and walked out into the adjoining space that served as their waiting area.

For a hot minute he stood in the open archway watching her, the dazzling pink outfit reminding him of the early embers of a raging flame. Although she appeared reserved, almost aloof with her long legs crossed, her shoulders erect while scanning a magazine, he sensed that there was definitely fire beneath her ultracool, very conservative exterior.

Dione felt his presence and slowly turned her head in his direction. When their gazes connected, and his smile touched down on her, she felt her insides shift, then slowly settle.

“Hi.” In three long strides he was standing above her. “Glad you could come.” His gaze rolled over her face. “Let's talk in the back.”

She replaced the magazine on the black, circular table and stood. “Very pleasant secretary you have,” she commented, the subtle sarcasm not wasted on Garrett.

He laughed lightly, placing his hand on the small of her back as he ushered her along, and it took all she had to contain the sudden shudder that rushed up her spine. “She's actually quite harmless,” he said in hushed tones. “She has so many other special qualities that we treasure.”

She looked at him over her shoulder to see if he was kidding. She couldn't tell from the sparkle in his eyes and didn't want to speculate on what her “special qualities” were. All she did know was that Marva whoever, couldn't work for her for five minutes. There was no room for abrasiveness and short dispositions at her domain. Her staff was constantly reminded to leave their bad nights and poor attitudes at the door. To each his own. But, once again the question of integrity resurfaced.

“I was in the editing suite. I thought we could talk there while I finished up a short video.”

He held the door open for her and caught the soft scent of her as she brushed by him and entered the dimly lit space.

“Why do you work with the lights almost out?” she immediately asked, a bit unsettled by the intimate atmosphere. She took a seat farthest away from the control board.

“It's easier to see the images on the screen and the lighted dials with the lights down.” He looked at her from the corner of his eye. “What did you think the reason was?”

She couldn't very well tell him that she thought it was because he was trying to get cozy and only did it when she was around. That obviously wasn't the case. “I wasn't sure.” She examined the heel of her shoe.

“Want to slide over here and see what I'm doing? It's similar to what you want done.”

Sit right next to him?
“Sure.” She took the vacant seat in front of the board.

“What I'm doing,” he began, “is viewing the raw footage that was taken at the company's location and here in the studio. Then I can determine what pieces I want to use and the editing process begins.”

“The client doesn't have any input on what gets cut and what doesn't?”

“That's why we have a meeting before I shoot. Most of my clients are repeats. They trust me.” He looked into her eyes, then quickly looked away. “They tell me what they want and I make it happen.” He shrugged. “Then there are those clients who want to be in on every square inch of production. Drives me crazy. I generally avoid working with them again.”

Was that a hint?
She'd like to think that she could leave it to his discretion to project the best image of Chances Are. But chances were, he wouldn't. “Hmm,” was all she said.

“Here, slide a little closer. I'll let you work on it with me.”

She shook her head, smiling nervously. “No, I—”

“Of course you can.” He took her hands and placed them on what looked like a keyboard. “Do you type?”

“Yes.”

“Great. I don't. Just type what I tell you on the character generator and it will appear on the monitor.”

“Are you sure about this?”

“That you can type, or that's what the machine really does?”

She grinned. “None of the above. Are you sure you want
me
to do this?”

“Sure. Why not? You're here. I'm here.” He swallowed before he really blurted out something ridiculous. “This will make good use of our time and actually help me out in the process.”

“Okay. Fire away.”

As she typed the list of names and titles for the credits, he gently and patiently explained how to correct errors, what some of the titles for the crew meant, and shortcuts to get the machine to repeat the previous action without having to retype the information. She was actually enjoying herself and quickly got the hang of working the machine.

She was keenly aware of his presence, his maleness, when he leaned close to help her, the bottomless pitch of his voice when he explained something, the soulfulness of his laughter, the power yet slenderness of his fingers as he manipulated controls. But instead of it making her uncomfortable as she'd anticipated, she welcomed it, allowed it to flow through and around her without analyzing it.

Her years of training in psychology and in social work had taught her to be analytical, rational, to dissect the information in front of her and come up with a solution. As a result she constantly wanted to deal with what could either be explained by a medical term or solved with some sort of case management plan. There was nothing in her textbooks or in the endless lectures and seminars that taught her how to keep her emotions at bay. Like now. With Garrett. Like all the times she cried herself to sleep when she couldn't help one of the girls. So her rational mind and her giving, needy heart were in constant conflict.

Almost too soon they were finished.

Garrett leaned back in his seat, stretched and talked, his voice coming out like one long satisfied yawn. “All done. Thanks. It would have taken me at least another hour if I had to type it myself.”

“I find that hard to believe,” she said, after having watched the nimbleness of his fingers.

“Trust me. I turn into all thumbs. Give me a camera and an edit board and you can't get any better. I can make magic happen.” He turned to her and flashed that grin.

She wanted to ask him if that's all he was good at. It was right on the tip of her tongue and she snatched it back. Quick.

He switched on the lights and she suddenly felt off balance as if she'd been jerked awake from a peaceful sleep.

“I did want to show you the raw footage of the PSA we did.” He leaned over at a precarious angle to reach for a tape stacked on the floor next to his chair.

Agile, too.

“Here we go.” He straightened himself back up. “What you saw the other day was more or less the finished product.” He pushed the oversized tape in the deck opening, pressed several buttons, and dimmed the lights, again.

As she watched the montage of scenes and obvious retakes, she was amazed at what the end result had actually been.

“How long did it take you to tape all of this?”

“About three days.” He pointed to the monitor as he spoke. “Most people are used to seeing a talking head do these things.” He caught her confused frown. “In other words, no interaction, no real background, just someone sitting in a chair telling you how wonderful they are or their company is.” He shook his head. “Real boring stuff. My goal is to create something memorable every time I get behind the camera lens.”

He turned to her and the intensity in his eyes shook her to her core, and she found herself holding her breath.

“Have you thought about what you wanted to say—the points you want to get across?”

She cleared her throat releasing the knot of air. “Not in detail, but I have a general idea. I like the idea of it being more than just me staring into a camera talking.”

“We can do whatever you want.” He smiled. “I'll handle everything else. And I know you'll be pleased with the outcome.”

“I'm sure I will.”

For a moment, they simply stared at one another, each walking along the road of words unsaid.

He knew he'd been rattling, tooting his own horn. It was suddenly important to him that she felt good about him, about them working together. Most times it didn't matter one way or the other what a client thought about him personally. It was just a job. But Dione was different. He felt as if he had something to prove. And he wasn't quite sure why. She was the first woman he'd met in a while that intrigued him both physically and mentally. Dione was a woman standing on her own two feet, running her own business. These days it took guts, instinct and plenty of determination to run and operate a successful business, especially in New York. He knew first-hand and had to give her her due, whether he agreed with the root of what she did or not.

She probably should give him one of the excuses she'd devised while she'd sat in her car, she thought, make her escape while she could. But the truth was, she didn't want to. As much as she was reluctant to admit it, she wanted to be in his company, listen to him talk, see his smile, hear his laughter. And the realization unnerved her. It had been far too long since she'd opened herself to the possibility of “maybe.” And looking at his eyes and soft, encouraging smile, she couldn't quite remember what those excuses were.

“Ready?” he asked, breaking into her thoughts.

She nodded.

“Great.” He stood up. “Let me tell Marva I'm leaving.”

Dione got up as well and followed him out.

 

“I'll be gone for the rest of the day,” he told Marva, who instantly gave Dione the once over.

“I see,” she said, but didn't sound as if she did. “Is there somewhere you can be reached in case of an emergency?”

Garrett peered at her for a moment as if he'd lost his seeing glasses. “I can't imagine what emergency there would be that can't be handled without me.”

“Anything could happen,” she said, a slight edge to her tone.

Garrett blew out an exasperated breath. “Jason should be back shortly. And I'll be back in the morning. Have a good evening.” He turned to Dione, placed his hand on the small of her back, and ushered her out.

“Is she always like that?” Dione asked under her breath, as they walked down the corridor, wondering if there was something more than just employer-employee going on between them.