Czytaj książkę: «Spotlight On Desire»
The gentle tap-tap at her door broke her concentration
Jewel frowned. The knock sounded too damn familiar. The fact that she now recognized it as Taye’s bid for entry into her dressing room—and that it sent her heart into a spin—was ridiculous!
Without asking who it was, she finished wiping off her makeup and flung open the door. Taye stepped in, closed it and simply stood and watched her. Jewel glared at her visitor, not sure where to start, her careful analysis of the situation suddenly evaporating.
What should I do? Play a role or play it out for real? However she didn’t have time to speak, and didn’t resist when she saw the flicker of desire in his eyes and felt his grip on her upper arms as he swept her flush against his chest.
“Everyone’s gone,” he murmured.
“Why did you come here?” she groaned against his shirt, knowing she had lost her battle of wills.
“Thought you might need a little more coaching.”
MILLS & BOON
Before you start reading, why not sign up?
Thank you for downloading this Mills & Boon book. If you want to hear about exclusive discounts, special offers and competitions, sign up to our email newsletter today!
Or simply visit
Mills & Boon emails are completely free to receive and you can unsubscribe at any time via the link in any email we send you.
ANITA BUNKLEY
is an author of seven successful mainstream novels and three novellas. A member of the Texas Institute of Letters and an NAACP Image Award nominee, she lives in Houston, Texas, with her husband, Crawford.
An avid reader all of her life, she was inspired to begin her writing career while researching the lives of interesting African-American women whose stories had not been told. A strong romantic theme has always been at the center of her novels and now she is enjoying writing true romance for her many fans.
Spotlight on Desire
Anita Bunkley
To my husband, Crawford, with love.
Dear Reader,
Turn off the TV and enter the soap-opera world of Jewel Blaine, the sexy lead actress on The Proud and the Passionate, as she falls under the spell of her handsome director, Taye Elliott.
Jewel has risen to the top of her game by playing and living by a strict set of rules, but once Taye steps onto the set, her code to live by is quickly forgotten.
The fast-paced world of daytime television is the perfect medium for Taye—a stuntman turned director who has a lot to prove and a serious secret to hide. But as you know, Hollywood is not a place where secrets stay hidden for very long. As Jewel and Taye dodge prying eyes, they soon discover that there is no escaping the spotlight that shines on their emerging love.
Enjoy! If you want to drop me a line, please e-mail me at arbun@sbcglobal.net.
Read with love!
Anita Bunkley
Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 1
Galveston Island
“Come home with me, baby. Tonight.”
“You know that’s impossible.”
“Nothing’s impossible, Caprice. Not if you want it badly enough, and if you loved me half as much as you say you do, you’d leave this island tonight and come home.”
“But, Darin…we can’t return to Elm Valley together. Think of the scandal. It’ll be better if you go ahead, and then I show up. I’ve got too much…”
“Cut!” A voice burst from the dark edges of the brightly lit patch of beach. Although the sun had set more than two hours ago, dissolving into Galveston Bay like a ball of liquid gold, huge overhead lights flooded the shoreline and created an island of activity in the otherwise-deserted cove.
Immediately, a fussy wardrobe attendant rushed onto the set and wrapped a thick white robe around Jewel Blaine, who smiled her thanks and closed it over her tiny gold bikini. The actress who played Caprice Desmond on The Proud and the Passionate (P & P) was petite, dark haired and flamboyantly attractive. At thirty-two, she had starred in the groundbreaking African-American soap opera since it debuted on TV five years ago.
Now, Jewel tilted her head, lowered her chin, widened her luminous brown eyes and spun around to face Brad Fortune, the man who called the shots on the set of P & P.
If we have to stay here all night to get it right, we will, she vowed.
As lead actress, Jewel felt personally responsible for the success of each episode and during her tenure on the daytime drama had won two Daytime Emmys, a BET Achievement Award, NAACP Image Award and many critical reviews.
Brad Fortune stopped less than a foot from where Jewel was standing, placed a slender hand on his right hip and narrowed his aquamarine eyes at his star, giving her one of his trademark extended moments. A confirmed bachelor who enjoyed the companionship of a male live-in friend, Brad possessed an instinctive awareness of his actors’ needs and used this insight to gain their respect and trust. With twenty years in daytime television, he was a talented man who knew what audiences wanted and made sure his cast delivered.
Now, the sound of waves lapping at the sandy shore and the rustle of palm fronds filled the night air as everyone waited in respectful silence for Brad to speak. “Not quite enough confliction, Jewel,” he said, his high-pitched voice lower than usual, his tone resolute. He swept a stray clump of reddish-brown hair back into his ponytail, cocked his head to one side and moved nearer to his star. “Infuse more worry into that line. Give me regret, some guilt. But hold firm! Remember, Caprice led Darin to believe that she’d do anything for him. Anything. And now she’s reneging on her promise to go home with him. She’s gotta sound conflicted. Understand?”
Jewel nodded. Brad was a pro, knew what he was after and she trusted him completely. No way would he put film in the can unless he believed the scene was the best that both he and his actors could deliver.
“Right, Brad,” Sonny Burton interjected. “I agree completely.” Nineteen years older than Jewel, Sonny Burton was well cast as Darin Saintclare, her mature on-screen lover. When CBC, the network that owned P & P, first lured handsome, charismatic Sonny Burton away from his popular daytime talk show to become a major black soap star, his national audience had cheered the decision. He was sexy and suave, with a fan of gray at his temples, a generous, welcoming smile and an easygoing style that contrasted sharply with Jewel’s methodically organized approach to her work. However, despite their differences, the two stars created magical on-screen chemistry that drove their fans wild and, so far, pleased the executives at CBC.
Sonny cleared his throat, eyes shining with resolve, clearly wanting to please his director. “I know exactly what you’re after. You want a real sense of Caprice pulling back from Darin, but at the same time…”
“Not overly dramatic. Right?” Jewel finished her costar’s remark. “Caprice wants Darin, but she’s afraid of how she’ll be viewed by the nosy busybodies of Elm Valley if she gives in and returns home too soon.”
“Exactly! Keep the relationship on target but slightly off balance. Jewel, you sure know your girl Caprice,” Brad concurred, blessing Jewel with an appreciative smile. “Caprice might love Darin, but she’s got to look out for herself, too.”
Jewel winked at Sonny, giving him a conspiratorial nod of approval. During the past five years, the on-screen couple had fine-tuned their relationship until it rolled along like raindrops slipping down a windowpane. And even when sticky issues arose on the set, Sonny always had her back and she protected his.
“Caprice can’t come off as too regretful,” Jewel went on, clarifying her character’s motivation. “She’s got her pride, you know?”
“Fine, fine,” Brad stated with a flip of his wrist as he turned around. “We all love Caprice as much as you do. Showing a little hesitant spunk in this scene is totally within character.” A beat. “Okay, let’s take it from the top, people,” Brad called over his shoulder as he walked out of camera range. However, before clearing the illuminated set, he stopped abruptly and spun around, his blue-green eyes wide with shock. His mouth opened, shut and then opened again. “Damn!” he shouted, reeling backward and stumbling to a half fall. Braced on his knees, he groped for words. “I…I feel…Oh my God!” He slammed both hands, palms flat, against his chest and emitted a startling howl.
Shana Dane, the makeup artist whose job it was to keep the cast glossy-photo perfect, tossed her tray of brushes, sponges and cosmetics to the ground and rushed toward Brad, followed closely by Karen Adams, the second-tier segment producer.
“Brad! What’s wrong?” Shana shouted, watching in horror as he collapsed on the sand.
Fred Warner, the executive producer of P & P, who had flown in from Los Angeles that morning to check on progress at the location shoot, jostled Shana and Karen aside to kneel over the fallen man.
“Call an ambulance! Somebody call 911!” Fred shouted frantically, cradling Brad’s head on his lap.
“Doing it now,” Sonny yelled, fumbling with a cell phone that he’d snatched from his pants pocket. He gave the emergency responder directions to their isolated location, unable to tell them more than someone had collapsed in pain and to get there as quickly as possible.
“Brad, Brad. What is it?” Fred urged, slipping an arm beneath Brad’s shoulders to tilt the director closer. He pressed his ear to Brad’s lips.
“I dunno,” Brad managed to whisper. “Got hit with a terrible pain. Here, in my…” Brad’s voice faded as his fingers groped the front of his shirt.
“Hold on, Brad! Hold on,” Jewel urged, dropping to her knees next to Fred.
Sonny jammed his phone back into his pocket and crouched beside Jewel, his shoulder wedged tightly against hers. Jewel grabbed one of Brad’s hands and squeezed it hard, scrunching even closer to urgently whisper, “Brad! Look at me! Open your eyes. Hold on! Hold on! Help is coming.”
Brad’s eyes fluttered open and then closed very quickly, as if trying to focus on Jewel took too much of his energy. His pale face was slick with perspiration, his lips blue and unmoving, his slim body as rigidly immobile as a mannequin’s.
When he shuddered jerkily beneath Jewel’s touch, she felt a jolt of hope.
“Brad! Brad! Don’t you dare give up,” she shouted over the shocked murmurs of the horrified cast and crew. Brad jerked wildly again. His legs shot upward, his arms flew out to the side and his head lolled from side to side before he went still.
“Where’s the doctor? The ambulance? Dammit! We need some help!” Jewel shouted, her words threaded with terror. She gripped Brad’s hand and pressed it hard against her lips, kissing the edge of his palm as she tamped the fingertips of her right hand down against his temple. Looking over at Sonny, a frown etched shadows on her face. “This is bad, Sonny.” Her voice trembled. “I can’t find a pulse. I think Brad is dead.”
Chapter 2
The lobby of Tinsel Town Theater in Fox Hills Mall was crammed with die-hard devotees of action/slasher movies who had come out for the premier of Terror Train 4. After viewing the latest installment in the cultlike series, they were milling around, clutching rolled-up posters, stacks of DVDs and commemorative T-shirts to be signed by the stars.
“Terror Train 4 kicked some serious butt,” a short Hispanic boy with long black hair said as he shoved a DVD at Taye Elliott.
Taye eyed the square plastic case with interest, but did not take it from the guy. Instead, he rotated one shoulder in a noncommittal manner. “Sorry to disappoint, but I’m not one of the actors,” he said. “I’m the director.” He cocked his head toward the outer edge of the lobby where two men and two women sat high on a riser, behind a table draped with gold velvet. “The autographs you want are over there.”
The long-haired boy mugged disinterest and gave Taye a flickering roll of his eyes. “Yeah? But you say you’re the director, huh?”
“Yep. That’s right.”
“Hey, that’s still cool, man. Gimme your autograph, too.”
Taye felt a brief ripple of pleasure flare as he took out the black Sharpie pen he always carried and signed his name on the boy’s DVD.
“You directed all of ’em?” the young man asked.
“All four films,” Taye conceded with a touch of pride.
“That means you directed that wild chase scene on that bomb-rigged bridge in Terror Train 2?”
“Yep. I sure did.”
“Loved it. The bomb! Hey, but I loved number four, too! The best so far, I think.”
“Thanks. Glad you enjoyed it,” Taye replied, appreciating the comment and impressed that the boy concurred with Taye: Terror Train 4 was his best directorial work so far. After having worked as stunt man for fifteen years, he ought to know what made a memorable action film. The Terror Train series had given him the opportunity to prove what he could do and even though the series went straight to DVD and would never hit theaters nationwide, it created a solid base of followers and pulled in substantial international sales.
“Is it true? Is this the last Terror Train movie?” the fan asked, sounding genuinely distressed.
“Yeah. This is it for the series.”
“Damn, man. That sucks,” the boy grumbled. “Why somethin’ this great gotta end?”
Taye offered a noncommittal lift of his eyebrows as the same question hung in his mind, feeling as agitated and frustrated as the boy. However, he understood how the industry worked: Taye was only a director. The money people held all the power. And without funding, there couldn’t be a deal. “Even good things gotta end sometime, you know?” he finally stated.
“I guess,” the boy grudgingly remarked, adding, “Stay cool.”
“Sure will,” Taye agreed, reaching up to slap palms with the guy, who slipped off into the crush of people clumped around the table where the real stars of the movie busily greeted fans.
Moving to a quieter spot in the lobby, Taye leaned against a wall and watched the animated audience move past, liking what he saw: young males in sports-branded clothing, slouch jeans, T-shirts and baseball caps. Girls in tight T-shirts, lots of jewelry, low-rise jeans and flip-flops on their feet. They were white, African American, Asian, Hispanic. Mostly young, but there was also a substantial number of graying baby boomers visible in the crowd.
A fair-skinned woman with dyed blond hair, accompanied by a bearded guy who looked stoned, stopped in front of Taye, breaking into his assessment of the audience. “You look better in person,” she bluntly assessed, blue eyes boring into Taye.
Taye snapped alert and stared at her. “What?”
She repeated her comment, even more emphatically the second time.
“Oh? Well, sorry,” he said. “I wasn’t in the movie.”
“I know you weren’t, but you’re a movie star, right?”
He chuckled low in his throat. “Nope. Got the wrong man. Sorry, I’m not an actor.”
“But I’ve seen you somewhere. I know I have,” she insisted, cracking gum that bounced from one side of her mouth to the other while intently studying Taye. “I got it! Read about you on Hollywood Web Watch. You’re the stunt man who doubles for all those big stars.”
“Used to,” Taye conceded with an edge of defiance, not particularly interested in talking about those days.
A pause. “Mario Van Peebles in Downtown Killer, right?” the woman blurted with glee.
Surprised to have this bit of trivia thrown at him, Taye simply nodded.
“And that was the movie where an extra got killed in a car chase and you got hurt real bad, wasn’t it?”
A stream of air slipped from between Taye’s lips as he inclined his head in surrender. “You got it right,” he admitted, realizing that he should never underestimate how closely the public followed movies, movie stars and all the peripherals connected to the industry. With all the blogs and Web sites and Internet chats going on 24/7, it was easy to find obscure details about actors, doubles, scene sequences, writers and obviously former stunt people like himself.
The woman bobbed her head up and down, sending her halo of blond hair into a frizzy dance. “I knew I was right. Tore up your back and now you direct Terror Train films.”
“A lot safer line of work,” Taye offered, giving her a playful thumbs-up.
“Yeah…well, you still got that stuntman body.” She raked Taye with an appreciative glance that lingered at his horseshoe-shaped belt buckle and then swept down to his black ostrich-skin boots. She ran her tongue over cherry-red lips and sighed.
Suppressing a laugh, Taye raised both hands, palms up, as if to deflect the uninvited compliment. “Even a director’s gotta keep in shape, you know?”
“Hey, that’s cool. The ladies love a man who’s tight…on and off the screen.” She shot an appraising look at her bearded companion, gave up an easy snicker and then headed out into the mall.
Taye laughed aloud, not completely surprised that he’d been mistaken for an actor. He’d stunt doubled for Mario, Will, Wesley and even Denzel in dozens of movies before injuring his back in that rollover crash nearly four years ago. With his career in stunt work compromised, he’d decided to try his hand at directing and had taken on the Terror Train series as soon as it was offered. Shifting from in front of the camera to behind it had been a risky move, but Taye had never been one to shy away from risks. And while accumulating his directing credentials, he’d also formed valuable alliances with important industry people who were proving to be very helpful. He already had a new project lined up that presented quite a challenge.
When the movie crowd thinned, Taye went over to the stars, thanked them for coming out to promote the film and then headed to the mall parking lot. He got into his dark green Hummer truck, fastened his seat belt and glanced into the side-view mirror, catching his reflection while recalling the blond woman’s remarks.
In Hollywood, image was everything and although Taye no longer stunt doubled for handsome A-list actors, he enjoyed walking into a room and causing a stir, especially among women, even though he’d sworn off all but the most casual of relationships since ending his marriage nearly two years ago.
Chapter 3
Jewel could hardly believe that Brad Fortune was gone, struck down by a massive heart attack due to a long-standing heart condition. And it happened so fast, she sadly recalled as she braked at a red light and scanned the block until she saw Bon Ami, the restaurant where she was meeting Fred Warner for lunch.
Sitting at the corner of Rodeo Drive and Beverly Lane, her thoughts remained on Brad. She, along with everyone connected with The Proud and the Passionate, remained stunned by the loss of their beloved director. Brad had appeared to be in perfect health, with the energy and physique of a much younger man. However, he had vigorously protected his private life, so it should not have come as a surprise that he’d kept his illness a secret.
Jewel missed him terribly. They had clicked the first day on the set when, at the end of the shoot, they’d hunkered down in her dressing room with a bottle of Cristal champagne to toast the launch of the show. They’d gotten slightly drunk, bared their souls about their hopes and dreams and goals for their careers and bonded in a special way. Brad had made it easy for Jewel to display the raw emotion that her role as Caprice Desmond demanded. With him, she’d been able to lose herself in her character and give her heart and soul to the camera without inhibition or self-conscious worry.
A swell of sorrow came over Jewel, but she refused to let it build.
No one will ever replace Brad, she sadly mused. But he’s dead and as difficult as that is to accept, I have to press on. I just hope to God that whoever steps in measures up to the standards Brad set.
After handing her silver Lexus sedan over to the parking attendant, Jewel stepped out onto the sidewalk and glanced around. The trendy eatery on Rodeo Drive was a convenient meeting place for Jewel and Fred, as it was halfway between his home in Beverly Hills and her house in Brentwood. The white stone, multiterraced building was buzzing with activity on all three levels, packed with impeccably dressed people as well as tourists in casual clothing, cameras primed to snap photos of someone famous.
Jewel gave her gem-studded jeans a tug, fluttered the wide sleeves of her gauzy black top and touched her Chanel wraparound sunglasses for security, bracing for the paparazzi that she had no doubt were lurking nearby. She swept her eyes over the people sitting at the linen-draped tables nibbling zero-calorie endive-arugula salads and drinking pastel vitamin waters. She saw familiar faces and strangers, too. And in her mind’s eye she also saw fans, the people who appreciated her work, followed her career and were eagerly awaiting the conclusion of the cliffhanger story line that had been so abruptly interrupted by Brad’s untimely death.
Just as she’d suspected, a photographer rushed over and squatted down in front of her, initiating his usual clamor for a photo. She obliged, fluffing up her loose curly hair, striking a flirty, sexy pose with both hands on her hips and easing a pouty smile onto her lips. Jewel grinned and waved at the camera as well as at the curious onlookers who began moving forward, eager to see saucy Caprice Desmond—the character she loved to play and the public loved to follow—in the flesh. While maintaining her public-perfect pose, Jewel graciously accepted pens, pencils and pieces of paper that were thrust at her, happy to scribble “Love, Caprice” on each one.
When the Bon Ami hostess managed to push through the crowd to escort Jewel to her table, Jewel laughingly called out, “No more autographs. I’d like to eat lunch now, okay?” The crowd fell back, the photographer stood. With a quick wave, Jewel made her exit and walked up a short flight of steps to the outdoor patio where Fred was waiting, BlackBerry handheld pressed to his ear, a glass of white wine nearby.
Jewel gave Fred an airbrushed kiss before sitting.
“Just be a sec,” he told her, index finger raised.
“Take your time,” Jewel whispered in a breathy voice, before asking the server to bring her a Perrier water and lime. She settled into the white wrought-iron chair across from her producer and then glanced down at the street-level entry to the restaurant. People were milling around, waiting for their cars and chatting before saying goodbye.
Scanning the crowd, she was struck by the design on the back of a man’s shirt. The swirling collage of red, blue, yellow and green came together in what looked like an eagle, wings spread. It seemed oddly familiar. The man wearing it was talking to a parking valet and gesturing with his hands. Jewel tilted forward to get a closer look, but he disappeared inside the restaurant, so she put it out of her mind.
Some struggling actor, she decided. Hanging around the restaurant, hoping to get the attention of a director or a casting agent. She knew his type. Los Angeles was full of men and women like him—obsessed with creating a splashy impression, so they’d be noticed and, hopefully, offered a movie role. He’s probably a menswear salesman wearing a store sample, she mused, ripping her gaze from the street below just as Fred finished his call and the server placed her water on the table.
“So, tell me. Who’s our new director? I’m so ready to get back to work.” Jewel plunged right in, taking a sip of her drink.
Fred Warner slipped his handheld into the inside pocket of his beige linen suit and adjusted his tan silk tie. “Yeah, well, everyone is.” He sat back, lowered his chin and gave Jewel a look that lasted long enough to let his silence send a message of reassurance. Fred Warner, executive producer of The Proud and the Passionate, was fifty-two years old, two inches shy of six feet tall and startlingly corporate in both appearance and demeanor. His hair was silver, full and impeccably styled. His jewelry was real, understated and tasteful. He wore suits crafted by European designers and hand-made monogrammed shirts and insisted on being chauffeured around town in a white Bentley luxury car that reflected his status as a man with power and money.
“The network has decided to bring in Taye Elliott. He’ll fill in as executive director to take us through May sweeps.”
“Hmm, I don’t know him. What’s he done?” Jewel asked.
“New to daytime but comes with good credentials,” Fred replied.
“Yeah? Tell me more.”
“Youngish…well, younger than Brad. Midthirties. Divorced. No kids…he made a point of informing us of that. Said he’s free to work round the clock, if we need him.”
“Mmm-hmm. But what’s he been doing, if not daytime?” Jewel asked, eager for the professional credentials of the man she’d start working with on Monday. “Lifetime movies? Hallmark? A&E?”
“Nope. Nothing like that.” Fred tasted his wine, a silver eyebrow arched. “Ever heard of the Terror Train series?”
Jewel shook her head, confused. “No…they sound like teenage action/slasher flicks.”
Fred started to reply but stopped when the waiter arrived to take their order. He glanced at Jewel, who shook her head. Suddenly, eating was the last thing on her mind.
“We’ll order later,” Fred advised the young man, turning back to Jewel. “Basically, you’re pretty much on target. Action movies have been Taye Elliott’s forte. He did stunt double work for a lot of A-list actors…Wesley Snipes, Denzel, Will Smith.”
“Oh, he’s black?” Jewel commented, impressed. She could count on one hand the number of African Americans behind the camera in daytime television. This guy must be pretty damn good to have been tapped for a job like this. Suddenly, she was more eager than ever to meet him.
“Right. He doubled for Mario in that scene where he jumps off the roof of that skyscraper in The First Real War. Fantastic work. He won the award for best action movie star at the World Stunt Awards. Did you see that movie?”
Jewel shook her head no.
“Anyway,” Fred continued, “a few years back, Taye injured his spine in a car crash, decided to give up stunt work and try his hand at directing. Took on the Terror Train series…independently financed films that went straight to DVD.” Fred fiddled with a gold cuff link shaped like a half-moon, eyes locked on Jewel. “He did a heck of a job, impressed his producers and started making noise in circles that count.”
Even though Jewel trusted Fred and wanted to share his enthusiasm for this unknown former stuntman turned director, an alarming sense of apprehension began to rise. Her mind jumped ahead to visions of Taye cursing at his actors, corralling them onto the set like cattle on the range and of tough-guy talk in a brusque commando style.
“I don’t get it,” Jewel said, apprehension evident. “How can an action-hero stuntman replace a classy guy like Brad Fortune?”
“Former stuntman,” Fred deadpanned his response, the tip of his tongue pressed to his lower lip.
“Okay, former stuntman,” Jewel conceded, struggling to control her sense of unease, but wanting to hear the network’s rationale for going in this direction. “What am I missing, Fred? What qualifies Elliott to direct a soap opera?”
Hand raised, Fred cautioned patience. “I hear you, Jewel, and I understand your concern, but I really do think Taye Elliott will be a good fit. He’ll bring a fresh approach to the show and, hopefully, help us lock down that young demographic that’s been slipping. Daytime drama won’t be a problem for him. He’s used to fast-paced work and story lines that use recurring characters. He’s got a good track record…comes in on time, under budget and delivers tightly controlled, effective scenes. I have to believe he can do the job. I’ve screened every movie he’s directed and I gotta say, they might be action films, but they have beautifully crafted love scenes, too. They’re huge hits with his target audience….”
“Which is?” Jewel sullenly interrupted, too concerned with how this new director would affect her work to mask her growing irritation.
“Youth. Viewers between eighteen and thirty. The market we’ve got to go after hard…and hold on to. We’re heading into May sweeps with ratings that have been slipping a point a week. We’re counting on Taye to reverse that trend.”
“And I know what the problem is,” Jewel grudgingly concurred. “Down for Love’s debut in January.”
“Exactly. DFL is kickin’ our butts, pulling all the younger viewers, and if we don’t catch up soon, we may not survive this ratings war.”
“And you think Taye Elliott is the savior who will snatch that audience away from DFL?”
“I do. I think he’s precisely what we need right now.” Fred sounded confident, even though a new frown line deepened on his slightly freckled forehead.
“In theory, that sounds good, but it won’t be easy for him to step in, pick up the P & P story lines and pull off a winning sweeps finale. This is April, Fred. There’s not much time. This is gonna be rough on everyone.”
Darmowy fragment się skończył.
