Lovescenes

d to mere mortals.

And it had made things easier. The cleared set, the tiny but private dressing-room—all of it helped her get through the day. And when Cade became persistent, when he tried to talk to her about what was happening each time he took her in his arms, she pretended ignorance.

‘You’re one hell of an actress, Padgett,' he’d said the day before. ‘You’ve even got Jerry convinced—he asked me if we’re seeing each other.’

‘You told him the truth, I hope,’ she’d said quickly.

‘I said I wished we were. Nothing more.’

‘There isn’t any more.’

‘Sure there is. I could have told him you’re the amazing mechanical woman. You walk and talk and you even breathe heavily on cue. You’ve made everybody a be­liever. Even him… but then, he’s not in bed with you.’

‘Damn it, Cade, don’t talk like that! I’m not—we’re not—‘

‘That’s a hell of a trick, you know. I reach for you and I end up with Alana Dunbar.’

Shannon had taken a deep breath. ‘I tried to tell you but you wouldn’t listen. The woman in that bed is Alana Dunbar.’

His fingers had curled around her wrist. ‘Prove it. Spend an evening with me. Let me take you to dinner.’

‘No.’

‘To a movie, then.’

‘I’m busy.’

‘Then we’ll make it tomorrow night...’

‘I’m busy then, too.’

‘Sure you are.’

‘I am,’ she’d insisted. ‘I...’

‘You’re afraid,’ he’d said softly.

‘That’s crazy,’ she’d answered. ‘I’m just doing my job.’

And one damned fine job it had been until the last take, she thought grimly, stripping off the hated bod­ysuit and tossing it in the corner.

Well, at least it was Friday. That meant two days away from this pressure cooker.

She sighed as she slipped into a pair of old cor­duroys and an oversized sweater. She’d sleep late and soak in the tub and maybe even indulge herself in cooking up a real meal—linguine with clams or chicken Kiev, and to hell with the calories and what an extra pound or two would look like through the cam­era’s critical eye—and then on Monday, she’d be in control again.

Wearily, she slumped into the chair before her dressing- table and stared at her reflection in the mirror. Alana Dunbar stared back at her, with her crimson lips and gilded eyelids.

So long, Alana, Shannon thought, reaching for the cold cream. You can rest over the weekend, but I expect you to be ready for work first thing Monday morning. And you can do it, Alana. I know you can. You’ve done fine all week, ever since that day at the beach.

That day had sent her home in a state of panic. She’d masked it from Cade, turning down his suggestion of dinner, maintaining her poise until she was up the stairs and safely in her apartment. Then she’d let go, flying to the telephone and dialing Claire’s number before she was out of her jacket.

‘What would happen if I quit the soap?’ she had asked without preamble.

‘Nothing much,’ Claire had said carefully. ‘We’d get sued for breach of contract, but don’t worry about it. I’ve always had this burning desire to manage a troupe of trained fleas, and I’m sure you can land a great job demonstrating pots and pans at Macy’s. What’s the problem, sweetie?’

‘Problem? Did I say there was a problem?’ Shannon had snarled, slamming down the phone. ‘Why should there be a problem?’ she’d demanded of the high- ceilinged room.

Anyway, quitting All Our Tomorrows was out of the question. You didn’t toss aside a career because you couldn’t handle one stupid love scene.