Temptation's Kiss (3 page)

Family knew where all your skeletons were buried. Heck, they'd helped you bury them.

The three of them walked to the door.

“Thanks for coming, Patrice,” Mark said, smiling warmly. “I hope you decide to sign on. We're not that bad to work with. As one of the producers, you'll rarely see me on the set, and T.K. is reportedly now a dream to work with since I convinced him to quit doing the Tarzan yell every time he got a scene right. That was
very
unsettling.”

“It was also bad for the voice,” T.K. said, playing along.

Patrice laughed. “You guys are crazy.” She reached into her bag and retrieved her cell phone.

“Uh-oh,” said Mark. “We're so boring she's going to make a phone call right in the middle of a conversation.”

“I'm phoning for a cab,” she explained. “Hopefully it'll get here not too long after I get downstairs.”

“A cab?” said T.K. “You don't drive?”

“Of course I drive,” Patrice explained. “However, my car is in Albuquerque.” She told them how her car happened to be in New Mexico while she was in California.

“Since you went to so much trouble to be here today, the least I can do is give you a lift home,” T.K. gallantly offered.

“That's very nice of you, but I don't want you to go out of your way,” Patrice said hurriedly. Here she was about to get out of his presence so that her heart rate could return to some semblance of normal, and he was suggesting they spend
more
time together?

“How do you know it's out of my way?” T.K. asked reasonably. “I don't even know where you live.” He peered down at her with a concerned expression.

“Beverly Hills,” Patrice told him. “Well, not in one of the pricier neighborhoods. I live in a nice bungalow south of Santa Monica Boulevard.”

“That's not out of my way,” T.K. insisted.

“All right, if you're sure,” Patrice said reluctantly.

They were in the outer office now. Calvin looked
expectantly at Patrice. She smiled at him. “Goodbye, Calvin. It was nice meeting you.”

Beaming with pleasure, he quickly crossed the room and shook her hand again. “It was my pleasure, Ms. Sutton. Please come again soon.”

Mark's hand was on the small of Patrice's back, ushering her from the outer office and into T.K.'s capable hands. She wondered if Mark was hoping T.K. would use his considerable charm on the ride to Beverly Hills to persuade her to go ahead and sign on with them. She had felt their disappointment when she had told them she needed time to think.

She and T.K. were alone on the elevator ride downstairs. “Where's your entourage?” she asked, a teasing glint in her eyes.

“I don't have one,” T.K. said, smiling at her. “Where's yours?”

“You're looking at her,” joked Patrice.

He gave her an intimate perusal, his eyes sweeping over her face. It felt like a caress to her, and she blushed. She also lowered her eyes.

T.K. laughed softly. “You're not still nervous around me, are you?”

She looked up. “Who said I was nervous around you?”

“I can usually tell when I make someone nervous,” said T.K., the smile never leaving his face. “You look very pretty when you blush.”

Patrice started to ask him how he knew she was
blushing when, to her knowledge, her cheeks didn't change color when she felt embarrassed. However, the elevator doors opened onto the lobby, and there were several people waiting to get on.

A small commotion ensued when T.K. was recognized, and soon he was being asked to sign his name on everything from a laptop to a woman's smooth, flat belly. Patrice tried not to laugh. It was amazing how shame flew out the window when T. K. McKenna showed up in a lobby of unsuspecting females. T.K. declined to sign the woman's belly but complimented her on its tone. “You must work out a lot,” he said kindly.

“Every day,” the woman said, producing a piece of paper from her portfolio for T.K. to sign.

After that, T.K. made his apologies, and taking Patrice by the hand, they hurried from the building.

“You can't go anywhere without that happening, can you?” Patrice asked as they racewalked across the street to the parking garage where T.K. had left his SUV.

“It's not so bad,” he said nonchalantly. “It's not a high price to pay for fame and fortune. After all, they're the ones who go to see my movies. I owe them a certain amount of consideration. But I know where to draw the line. I don't let the fame control my actions.”

Patrice smiled up at him. The sunlight made his brown eyes appear honey-colored.

She liked his attitude. It's how she looked at celebrity, too. She didn't mind meeting the fans; in fact, she loved it. However, there were times when she fiercely guarded her
privacy. For example, when she was being interviewed, reporters were free to try to pick her apart, but her family was a forbidden subject.

T.K. still held her hand as they crossed the street. He liked holding her hand. He didn't know what that meant at this point except that she was very pleasant to be around. He was completely comfortable in her presence, even if he still made her a little nervous.

At the late-model Range Rover, he unlocked the doors and handed Patrice in. When he was behind the wheel and had relocked the doors, he turned to her and asked, “What are you doing for lunch?”

“Lunch?” asked Patrice, sounding startled by his question.

He laughed softly. “Yes, the meal that comes a few hours after breakfast, which I skipped this morning except for a cup of coffee and a swallow of orange juice. Have you been to The Grill? They make great food, really fresh. Good fish if you're not a red-meat eater. Vegetarian dishes, too.”

“No, I've never been there,” Patrice told him. She breathed deeply and slowly released her breath. “Are you sure you don't have to be anywhere else?”

“Nah, I'm on vacation until we start filming.” He started the SUV, and soon they were turning onto the street and heading toward the San Diego Freeway where he would exit onto Santa Monica Boulevard. From there, it was only three miles to Beverly Hills.

“I'm sorry,” he said suddenly as he wound his way
through traffic. “I didn't even ask if you were free. If you have plans for the afternoon, I can take you directly home.”

“I'm free,” Patrice assured him. She had decided to go with the flow.

He turned and smiled at her before returning his attention to the road. “Good.”

Patrice relaxed against the car's seat. “You said your parents live in Beverly Hills?”

He must have been fond of his parents because his eyes lit up at the mention of them. “Yes, I finally talked them into moving here about five years ago. We're from Brooklyn.

“My parents have deep roots there. Both were born there. Both were teachers for nearly thirty years. Most of their friends and family still live in Brooklyn.”

“What did you say to convince them to move here?” she asked, very curious. She couldn't imagine her parents living in Beverly Hills. It would be a worse situation than that old sitcom
The Beverly Hillbillies.
Her folks were ranchers, through and through.

“I told them that I didn't care when the desire to go back to Brooklyn hit them. I would make sure they got on the next plane flying in that direction,” he said with a laugh.

“You're a good son,” Patrice complimented him.

“I try to be,” T.K. said sincerely.

A
t The Grill on the Alley, commonly called The Grill, T.K. gave his key to the valet and then helped Patrice out of the car. He enjoyed the sight of her long, shapely legs but was careful not to ogle. Patrice noticed anyway and felt a tingle of excitement.

Inside, they were immediately shown to a secluded table in the back of the packed dining room. T.K. didn't let the maître d' have the pleasure of pulling Patrice's chair out for her. He did it himself and then sat down across from her.

The maître d' snapped his fingers at a passing waiter. “See to Mr. McKenna at once.”

He smiled at T.K. and Patrice in turn. “Please call on me if I can be of any further service.”

When he had gone, T.K. laughed softly. “Every time
I see him I'm reminded of the butler in that remake of
Mr. Deeds Goes to Town.
”

“He does look like John Turturro. He's one of my favorite actors,” Patrice said enthusiastically. “In everything I've ever seen him in, he's done a good job.”

T.K. nodded in agreement. “He's a fine character actor.” He looked at her intently. “What did you think of the remake?”

“Adam Sandler makes me laugh, and it had some touching moments, but to be honest, I don't believe any remake can compare with the Frank Capra original. The script's fabulous, and Gary Cooper is wonderful as
Mr. Deeds.
Good try to Adam Sandler, though.”

T.K. smiled at her assessment. He liked the original a lot better than the remake, too.

“You like Capra, huh?”

“
It's a Wonderful Life, You Can't Take it With You,
and
Mr. Deeds Goes to Town
are my favorite Capra films,” she told him, her eyes shining with excitement. “The scripts were excellent, and the leads and supporting casts were, too. Plus, I liked the dignity Capra imbued his black characters with. Yes, they were servants, but they were treated with respect and got actual lines to say instead of standing around rolling their eyes and grinning.”

“You have a problem with the way blacks have been portrayed in films?” T.K. was curious. He wanted to
know if she had a fire in her belly to see her people portrayed accurately on film, as he had.

The waiter arrived and introduced himself. They promptly ordered and sent him on his way, eager to continue their conversation.

“You were saying,” T.K. prompted Patrice after the waiter had gone.

“What black actor wouldn't have a problem with the way we've been portrayed by some filmmakers?” she asked. “But I'm not going the route of blaming the performers of the past. They had to play the buffoon in order to put food on the table. I respect them because they survived during a very unpleasant time for blacks.”

T.K. smiled at the way she punctuated her words with her hands. Fleetingly, she reminded him of Shiva, the many-armed Hindu goddess. He didn't know where that thought came from. She stimulated his mind, he supposed.

“What about black filmmakers today?” he asked. “Do you think they're doing everything they can do to bring accurate depictions of blacks to the silver screen?”

Patrice pursed her lips and squinted at him. “Don't get me started on that subject. My actor friends say my opinions are unusual to say the least.”

“Go ahead and shock me,” he coaxed. “This goes no farther than this table.”

“All right,” she said, leaning toward him. “I won't name names because you already know them anyway. But I don't think a certain director should be throwing
stones at another one simply because they make different types of films. So what if the newcomer's films are sometimes over-the-top and melodramatic? Hollywood has been producing melodramatic films for ages. One of the most beloved films by black folks,
Imitation of Life,
is extremely melodramatic. But that doesn't mean we don't watch it, raptly, whenever it comes on Turner Classic Movies.”

T.K. laughed. “You're right. The scene where the daughter barely makes it to her mother's funeral on time and makes a spectacle of herself is a seminal scene. And I believe, to this day, that Juanita Moore should have won the Oscar for her role.”

“She was robbed,” Patrice agreed heartily. “I can't watch her final scenes without crying.”

“Okay,” T.K. said, “we agree that the way blacks were depicted in the past was largely not their fault. And Tyler Perry is definitely doing something right.”

“We said no names,” Patrice reminded him, pretending to be scandalized that he would name one of the parties they were discussing.

“No harm in acknowledging someone who's making a difference for black actors in the industry. Critics might not get him, but I assure you out-of-work actors love him.”

“T.K.!” exclaimed a booming male voice as a tall, slender black man approached their table. Patrice peered up—and up—at Los Angeles Lakers forward Farrell
Faison. Farrell was six-seven. T.K. stood up and shook his hand. “Hello, Farrell, how are you, man?”

“Cool, cool,” said Farrell. He looked at Patrice with interest. Patrice smiled up at him. She admired his skill on the court. When she was in town, she tried to go to all the team's home games. It was the off-season now.

“Aren't you going to introduce me?” he asked T.K.

“Why don't you sit down first,” T.K. joked. “I'm getting a crick in my neck from having to look up.”

Farrell laughed and took the seat closest to Patrice's. He didn't even glance in T.K.'s direction anymore, just looked at Patrice with a smile on his face.

“Farrell, I'd like you to meet—” T.K. said.

“Ms. Patrice Sutton,” Farrell said with a contented sigh. “I just saw you in
She Fell.
Wow, not only was the science-fiction story line kickin', but you were awesome as Victoria.” He shook his head as if he were amazed that he was sitting across from the warrior-woman Victoria. “How long did it take you to get in shape for that role?”

“Six months of grueling aerobics and weight-lifting,” Patrice told him, happy to meet someone who had enjoyed
She Fell.
It was the film she was proudest of. A friend who was a writer had specifically written the character of Victoria for her. In the story, Victoria was sent through a man-made black hole to a warlike planet by her evil but brilliant physicist husband who got rid of all his enemies by sending them God-knows-where via the black hole. He had drugged and sent Victoria through
because she was going to divorce him for infidelity. The film follows Victoria as she rises in power as a warrior. In the end, she returns to Earth and exacts revenge on her husband.

“Who's your trainer?” Farrell asked.

“Jose Baltodano,” Patrice happily supplied. She was always willing to refer anyone who wanted to get into shape to her friend.

T.K. cleared his throat and playfully glared at Farrell. “Let me get this straight, you came over here to monopolize my date's time?”

Farrell grinned at him. “Turnabout is fair play, my brother.”

Patrice smiled at that. T.K. had obviously flirted with Farrell's dates in the past. Then it hit her: T.K. had referred to her as his date. She looked into his eyes. He winked at her.

“I have to protest,
my brother,
” he said to Farrell. “I just met Patrice myself. You could have at least given me a twenty-four-hour head start before you began poaching on my territory.”

Patrice laughed and rose. “I'll let you fellas figure out the proper poaching etiquette while I visit the ladies' room. Excuse me.”

She overheard Farrell say, “She's too young for you, old man. She'll give you a heart attack.”

“I'm willing to risk it,” said T.K.

Smiling, Patrice kept walking.

In the ladies' room, a feminine room replete with a settee, she sat down and dialed Blanca's number.

Blanca answered right away. “Well, how'd it go?” she asked breathlessly.

“It went very well,” Patrice said as she crossed her legs and got comfortable on the plush covered settee. “They want me.”

“I knew it!” cried Blanca, sounding happy and calculating all at once. “You didn't accept, though?”

“No, I told them I would let them know tomorrow.”

“Why do you keep saying
they
and
them?
” asked Blanca curiously.

“Because T.K. sat in on the meeting, too,” said Patrice, calmly dropping the bomb and waiting for the explosion.

“What?” yelled Blanca. “Mark must have really liked you. This is fantastic. I don't know if I'll be able to wait until tomorrow for you to give them a yes.”

“Are you saying you're going to break your cardinal rule?”

“Rules are made to be broken,” said Blanca. She laughed softly. “Patty, do you know what this means? Forget about working for two years on the sitcom and those really fine movies you've done that brought you a little bit of fame. They were dues you had to pay to get here. You've arrived!”

Patrice was laughing, too. “It feels good to be wanted.”

Blanca took a deep breath. “Where are you now? I
promised a celebration, remember? Where do you want to go tonight? Anywhere you want to go, it's my treat.”

“I hate to be a party pooper, but I'd prefer to spend a quiet evening at home. Thanks for the offer though. I'm having lunch with T.K. right now,” Patrice told her agent. She explained about having to phone a taxi and T.K.'s offer of a lift.

“His parents raised him right,” Blanca said of T.K.'s being a gentleman. “Okay, I'll tell you what. Before you two part, assure him that you'll be delighted to work with him, and I'll give Mark a call about the contract.”

“Will do,” Patrice promised.

“Congratulations,” said Blanca sincerely. “I'm really proud of you.”

“Thanks, Blanca.”

After hanging up, Patrice rose to check her makeup in the wide mirror over the double sinks. A woman walked in and hurried to a stall.

Seeing nothing wrong with her face, she left the bathroom. When she got within sight of her table, she saw that Farrell had left.

T.K. got up and pulled her chair out. “Farrell remembered a previous engagement.”

Patrice met his eyes. His look was enigmatic. She wished she could have heard their conversation in her absence. “Too bad,” she said. “I'd never met him before. He seems like a nice guy.”

“He is,” T.K. assured her.

He looked up, spotted their waiter and gestured to
him. “The waiter wanted to serve our meals while you were gone, but I told him to keep them warm until you got back.”

“That was considerate of you.”

“I'm a considerate guy.”

Patrice let her gaze roam over his face, admiring the strong, masculine shape of his jaw, the fullness of his lips. He smiled the whole while as though he were perfectly fine with her lusting after him with her eyes.

No harm in looking, Patrice thought. The harm comes in acting on your desires. She didn't plan to do that. She did not become romantically involved with actors she worked with. Work was work, and play was play.

Rumor had it that T.K. didn't share her opinion on the subject. He had been linked with a few women while they were working on a film together. He didn't make it a habit like some actors she knew, but the fact that none of those relationships had worked out concerned her. At thirty-six, he had never been married. He could be gay. Nah, she immediately dismissed that. Back in the day it had been possible for Hollywood to hide the fact that some of its leading men—and women—were gay, but these days the tabloids uncovered anyone who was in the closet. She hated tabloid journalism, if you could call it journalism.

She realized they had been looking into each other's eyes the past five minutes without saying a word. She laughed. “I often thought that you were mesmerizing
on the big screen, but I never suspected you might be in person.”

T.K. smiled. “Does that mean you'll be my Bella Donna?”

“I'll be Bass Reeves's Bella Donna,” Patrice corrected him with a wry smile.

T.K. took her hand in his and kissed her knuckles. The feel of his warm mouth on her skin made her sigh involuntarily. He raised his head and looked her in the eyes. “Same difference,” he said. “Lucky for me, it'll be Bass Reeves kissing you but my lips doing the deed.”

“Just so you both know where
not
to put your hands,” joked Patrice. T.K. laughed.

The waiter arrived at that moment and served their meals.

 

Patrice wound up spending a quiet night at home. After phoning family and friends to tell them of her good fortune, she reread the script to
Bass Reeves, Lawman.
Blanca phoned to say she'd spoken with Mark Greenberg and that the lawyers were working on the contract. He promised that it would be in Blanca's hands in a matter of days.

Patrice was curled up on the sofa in the living room of her modest bungalow. She was wearing shorts and a tank top because it was warm tonight. The house had air-conditioning but she rarely turned it on unless the temperature rose to the nineties. She liked to sleep with her windows open. It was something she might not do if
she lived in greater Los Angeles, but the Beverly Hills police boasted that they could be at your door within a minute of being summoned. She had not had the opportunity to test that boast.

As she read, she found herself chuckling from time to time. The Western was an action/adventure, but it had funny moments, especially the exchanges between Bella and Bass who seemed to love arguing as much as they did making love.

When she got to the love scene, she let out a groan. It was
hot.
She and T.K. would have to be practically naked. Of course, key parts of their bodies would be concealed from the eyes of those present on the set during the filming of it. But she knew that to the audience it would appear that she and T.K. had been completely nude during the filming. She had never done a nude scene. She panicked. What would her parents think? What would the people at the church she'd gone to when she was growing up say? Her family still attended that church!