Mind Over Matter: the classic story from the queen of romance that you won’t be able to put down

Mind Over Matter
Nora Roberts

www.millsandboon.co.uk

Theatrical agent Aurora Fields kept her personal life strictly separate from her professional one, but lines were crossed the moment she met David Brady. He had asked her client to participate in his documentary on paranormal phenomena. Aurora agreed, but she stayed on hand to protect the woman from exploitation as fiercely as a mother tigress.

Somehow David saw that Aurora's tough self-image was a little soft around the edges, and he was determined to discover what she was trying to hide. He'd always considered himself a good judge of people, so why did each moment he spent with Aurora leave her as enigmatic—and enticing—as before?

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

1

He’d expected a crystal ball, pentagrams and a few tea leaves. Burning candles and incense wouldn’t have surprised him. Though he wouldn’t admit it to anyone, he’d actually looked forward to it. As a producer of documentaries for public television, David Brady dealt in hard facts and meticulous research. Anything and everything that went into one of his productions was checked and rechecked, most often personally. The truth was, he’d thought an afternoon with a fortune teller would bring him a refreshing, even comic, relief from the daily pressure of scripts, storyboards and budgets. She didn’t even wear a turban.

The woman who opened the door of the comfortable suburban home in Newport Beach looked as though she would more likely be found at a bridge table than a séance. She smelled of lilacs and dusting powder, not musk and mystery. David’s impression that she was housekeeper or companion to the renowned psychic was immediately disabused.

“Hello.” She offered a small, attractive hand and a smile. “I’m Clarissa DeBasse. Please come in, Mr. Brady. You’re right on time.”

“Miss DeBasse.” David adjusted his thinking and accepted her hand. He’d done enough research so far to be prepared for the normalcy of people involved in the paranormal. “I appreciate your seeing me. Should I wonder how you know who I am?”

As their hands linked, she let impressions of him come and go, to be sorted out later. Intuitively she felt he was a man she could trust and rely on. It was enough for the moment. “I could claim precognition, but I’m afraid it’s simple logic. You were expected at one-thirty.” Her agent had called to remind her, or Clarissa would still be knee-deep in her vegetable garden. “I suppose it’s possible you’re carrying brushes and samples in that briefcase, but I have the feeling it’s papers and contracts. Now I’m sure you’d like some coffee after your drive down from L.A.”

“Right again.” He stepped into a cozy living room with pretty blue curtains and a wide couch that sagged noticeably in the middle.

“Sit down, Mr. Brady. I just brought the tray out, so the coffee’s hot.”

Deciding the couch was unreliable, David chose a chair and waited while Clarissa sat across from him and poured coffee into two mismatched cups and saucers. It took him only a moment to study and analyze. He was a man who leaned heavily on first impressions. She looked, as she offered cream and sugar, like anyone’s favorite aunt—rounded without being really plump, neat without being stiff. Her face was soft and pretty and had lined little in fifty-odd years. Her pale blond hair was cut stylishly and showed no gray, which David attributed to her hairdresser. She was entitled to her vanity, he thought. When she offered the cup, he noted the symphony of rings on her hands. That, at least, was in keeping with the image he had projected.

“Thank you. Miss DeBasse, I have to tell you, you’re not at all what I expected.”

Comfortable with herself, she settled back. “You were expecting me to greet you at the door with a crystal ball in my hands and a raven on my shoulder.”

The amusement in her eyes would have had some men shifting in their chairs. David only lifted a brow. “Something like that.” He sipped his coffee. The fact that it was hot was the only thing going for it. “I’ve read quite a bit about you in the past few weeks. I also saw a tape of your appearance on The Barrow Show.” He probed gently for the right phrasing. “You have a different image on camera.”

“That’s showbiz,” she said so casually he wondered if she was being sarcastic. Her eyes remained clear and friendly. “I don’t generally discuss business, particularly at home, but since it seemed important that you see me, I thought we’d be more comfortable this way.” She smiled again, showing the faintest of dimples in her cheeks. “I’ve disappointed you.”

“No.” And he meant it. “No, you haven’t.” Because his manners went only so far, he put the coffee down. “Miss DeBasse—”

“Clarissa.” She beamed such a bright smile at him he had no trouble returning it.

“Clarissa, I want to be honest with you.”

“Oh, that’s always best.” Her voice was soft and sincere as she folded her hands on her lap.

“Yeah.” The childlike trust in her eyes threw him for a moment. If she was a hard-edged, money-oriented con, she was doing a good job disguising it. “I’m a very practical man. Psychic phenomena, clairvoyance, telepathy and that sort of thing, don’t fit into my day-to-day life.”

She only smiled at him, understanding. Whatever thoughts came into her head remained there. This time David did shift in his chair.

“I decided to do this series on parapsychology mainly for its entertainment value.”

“You don’t have to apologize.” She lifted her hand just as a large black cat leaped into her lap. Without looking at it, Clarissa stroked it from head to tail. “You see, David, someone in my position understands perfectly the doubts and the fascination people have for…such things. I’m not a radical.” As the cat curled up in her lap, she continued to pet it, looking calm and content. “I’m simply a person who’s been given a gift, and a certain responsibility.”

“A responsibility?” He started to reach in his pocket for his cigarettes, then noticed there were no ashtrays.

“Oh, yes.” As she spoke, Clarissa opened the drawer of the coffee table and took out a small blue dish. “You can use this,” she said in passing, then settled back again. “A young boy might receive a toolbox for his birthday. It’s a gift. He has choices to make. He can use his new tools to learn, to build, to repair. He can also use them to saw the legs off tables. He could also put the toolbox in his closet and forget about it. A great many of us do the last, because the tools are too complicated or simply too overwhelming. Have you ever had a psychic experience, David?”

He lit a cigarette. “No.”

“No?” There weren’t many people who would give such a definitive no. “Never a sense of déjà vu, perhaps?”

He paused a moment, interested. “I suppose everyone’s had a sense of doing something before, being somewhere before. A feeling of mixed signals.”

“Perhaps. Intuition, then.”

“You consider intuition a psychic gift?”

“Oh, yes.” Enthusiasm lit her face and made her eyes young. “Of course it depends entirely on how it’s developed, how it’s channeled, how it’s used. Most of us use only a fraction of what we have because our minds are so crowded with other things.”

“Was it impulse that led you to Matthew Van Camp?”

A shutter seemed to come down over her eyes. “No.”

Again he found her puzzling. The Van Camp case was the one that had brought her prominently into the public eye. He would have thought she would have been anxious to speak of it, elaborate, yet she seemed to close down at the mention of the name. David blew out smoke and noticed that the cat was watching him with bored but steady eyes. “Clarissa, the Van Camp case is ten years old, but it’s still one of the most celebrated and controversial of your successes.”

“That’s true. Matthew is twenty now. A very handsome young man.”

“There are some who believe he’d be dead if Mrs. Van Camp hadn’t fought both her husband and the police to have you brought in on the kidnapping.”

“And there are some who believe the entire thing was staged for publicity,” she said so calmly as she sipped from her cup. “Alice Van Camp’s next movie was quite a box-office success. Did you see the film? It was wonderful.”

He wasn’t a man to be eased off-track when he’d already decided on a destination. “Clarissa, if you agree to be part of this documentary, I’d like you to talk about the Van Camp case.”

She frowned a bit, pouted almost, as she petted her cat. “I don’t know if I can help you there, David. It was a very traumatic experience for the Van Camps, very traumatic. Bringing it all up again could be painful for them.”

He hadn’t reached his level of success without knowing how and when to negotiate. “If the Van Camps agreed?”

“Oh, then that’s entirely different.” While she considered, the cat stirred in her lap, then began to purr loudly. “Yes, entirely different. You know, David, I admire your work. I saw your documentary on child abuse. It was gripping and very upsetting.”

“It was meant to be.”

“Yes, exactly.” She could have told him a great deal of the world was upsetting, but didn’t think he was ready to understand how she knew, and how she dealt with it. “What is it you’re looking for with this?”

“A good show.” When she smiled he was sure he’d been right not to try to con her. “One that’ll make people think and question.”

“Will you?”

He tapped out his cigarette. “I produce. How much I question I suppose depends on you.”

It seemed like not only the proper answer, but the truest one. “I like you, David. I think I’d like to help you.”

“I’m glad to hear that. You’ll want to look over the contract and—”

“No.” She cut him off as he reached for his briefcase. “Details.” She explained them away with a gesture of her hand. “I let my agent bother with those things.”

“Fine.” He’d feel more comfortable discussing terms with an agent. “I’ll send them over if you give me a name.”

“The Fields Agency in Los Angeles.”

She’d surprised him again. The comfortable auntlike lady had one of the most influential and prestigious agencies on the Coast. “I’ll have them sent over this afternoon. I’d enjoy working with you, Clarissa.”

“May I see your palm?”

Every time he thought he had her cataloged, she shifted on him. Still, humoring her was easy. David offered his hand. “Am I going to take an ocean voyage?”

She was neither amused nor offended. Though she took his hand, palm up, she barely glanced at it. Instead she studied him with eyes that seemed abruptly cool. She saw a man in his early thirties, attractive in a dark, almost brooding way despite the well-styled black hair and casually elegant clothes. The bones in his face were strong, angular enough to warrant a second glance. His brows were thick, as black as his hair, and dominated surprisingly quiet eyes. Or their cool, pale green appeared quiet at first glance. She saw a mouth that was firm, full enough to gain a woman’s attention. The hand in hers was wide, long fingered, artistic. It vied with a rangy, athletic build. But she saw beyond that.

“You’re a very strong man, physically, emotionally, intellectually.”

“Thank you.”

“Oh, I don’t flatter, David.” It was a gentle, almost maternal reproof. “You haven’t yet learned how to temper this strength with tenderness in your relationships. I suppose that’s why you’ve never married.”

She had his attention now, reluctantly. But he wasn’t wearing a ring, he reminded himself. And anyone who cared to find out about his marital status had only to make a few inquiries. “The standard response is I’ve never met the right woman.”

“In this case it’s perfectly true. You need to find someone every bit as strong as you are. You will, sooner than you think. It won’t be easy, of course, and it will only work between you if you both remember the tenderness I just spoke of.”

“So I’m going to meet the right woman, marry and live happily ever after?”

“I don’t tell the future, ever.” Her expression changed again, becoming placid. “And I only read palms of people who interest me. Shall I tell you what my intuition tells me, David?”

“Please.”

“That you and I are going to have an interesting and long-term relationship.” She patted his hand before she released it. “I’m going to enjoy that.”

“So am I.” He rose. “I’ll see you again, Clarissa.”

“Yes. Yes, of course.” She rose and nudged the cat onto the floor. “Run along now, Mordred.”

“Mordred?” David repeated as the cat jumped up to settle himself on the sagging sofa cushion.

“Such a sad figure in folklore,” Clarissa explained. “I always felt he got a bad deal. After all, we can’t escape our destiny, can we?”

For the second time David felt her cool, oddly intimate gaze on him. “I suppose not,” he murmured, and let her lead him to the door.

“I’ve so enjoyed our chat, David. Please come back again.”

David stepped out into the warm spring air and wondered why he felt certain he would.

“Of course he’s an excellent producer, Abe. I’m just not sure he’s right for Clarissa.”

A. J. Fields paced around her office in the long, fluid gait that always masked an overflow of nervous energy. She stopped to straighten a picture that was slightly tilted before she turned back to her associate. Abe Ebbitt was sitting with his hands folded on his round belly, as was his habit. He didn’t bother to push back the glasses that had fallen down his nose. He watched A.J. patiently before he reached up to scratch one of the two clumps of hair on either side of his head.

“A.J., the offer is very generous.”

“She doesn’t need the money.”

His agent’s blood shivered at the phrase, but he continued to speak calmly. “The exposure.”

“Is it the right kind of exposure?”

“You’re too protective of Clarissa, A.J.”

“That’s what I’m here for,” she countered. Abruptly she stopped, and sat on the corner of her desk. When Abe saw her brows draw together, he fell silent. He might speak to her when she was in this mood, but she wouldn’t answer. He respected and admired her. Those were the reasons he, a veteran Hollywood agent, was working for the Fields Agency, instead of carving up the town on his own. He was old enough to be her father, and realized that a decade before their roles would have been reversed. The fact that he worked for her didn’t bother him in the least. The best, he was fond of saying, never minded answering to the best. A minute passed, then two.

“She’s made up her mind to do it,” A.J. muttered, but again Abe remained silent. “I just—” Have a feeling, she thought. She hated to use that phrase. “I just hope it isn’t a mistake. The wrong director, the wrong format, and she could be made to look like a fool. I won’t have that, Abe.”

“You’re not giving Clarissa enough credit. You know better than to let your emotions color a business deal, A.J.”

“Yeah, I know better.” That’s why she was the best. A.J. folded her arms and reminded herself of it. She’d learned at a very young age how to channel emotion. It had been more than necessary; it had been vital. When you grew up in a house where your widowed mother often forgot little details like the mortgage payment, you learned how to deal with business in a businesslike way or you went under. She was an agent because she enjoyed the wheeling and dealing. And because she was damn good at it. Her Century City office with its lofty view of Los Angeles was proof of just how good. Still, she hadn’t gotten there by making deals blindly.

“I’ll decide after I meet with Brady this afternoon.”

Abe grinned at her, recognizing the look. “How much more are you going to ask for?”

“I think another ten percent.” She picked up a pencil and tapped it against her palm. “But first I intend to find out exactly what’s going into this documentary and what angles he’s going for.”

“Word is Brady’s tough.”

She sent him a deceptively sweet smile that had fire around the edges. “Word is so am I.”

“He hasn’t got a prayer.” He rose, tugging at his belt. “I’ve got a meeting. Let me know how it goes.”

“Sure.” She was already frowning at the wall when he closed the door.

David Brady. The fact that she personally admired his work would naturally influence her decision. Still, at the right time and for the right fee, she would sign a client to play a tea bag in a thirty-second local commercial. Clarissa was a different matter. Clarissa DeBasse had been her first client. Her only client, A.J. remembered, during those first lean years. If she was protective of her, as Abe had said, A.J. felt she had a right to be. David Brady might be a successful producer of quality documentaries for public television, but he had to prove himself to A. J. Fields before Clarissa signed on the dotted line.

There’d been a time when A.J. had had to prove herself. She hadn’t started out with a staff of fifteen in an exclusive suite of offices. Ten years before, she’d been scrambling for clients and hustling deals from an office that had consisted of a phone booth outside a corner deli. She’d lied about her age. Not too many people had been willing to trust their careers to an eighteen-year-old. Clarissa had.

A.J. gave a little sigh as she worked out a kink in her shoulder. Clarissa didn’t really consider what she did, or what she had, a career as much as a calling. It was up to A.J. to haggle over the details.

She was used to it. Her mother had always been such a warm, generous woman. But details had never been her strong point. As a child, it had been up to A.J. to remember when the bills were due. She’d balanced the checkbook, discouraged door-to-door salesmen and juggled her schoolwork with the household budget. Not that her mother was a fool, or neglectful of her daughter. There had always been love, conversation and interest. But their roles had so often been reversed. It was the mother who would claim the stray puppy had followed her home and the daughter who had worried how to feed it.

Still, if her mother had been different, wouldn’t A.J. herself be different? That was a question that surfaced often. Destiny was something that couldn’t be outmaneuvered. With a laugh, A.J. rose. Clarissa would love that one, she mused.

Walking around her desk, she let herself sink into the deep, wide-armed chair her mother had given her. The chair, unlike the heavy, clean-lined desk, was extravagant and impractical. Who else would have had a chair made in cornflower-blue leather because it matched her daughter’s eyes?

A.J. realigned her thoughts and picked up the DeBasse contract. It was in the center of a desk that was meticulously in order. There were no photographs, no flowers, no cute paperweights. Everything on or in her desk had a purpose, and the purpose was business.

She had time to give the contract one more thorough going-over before her appointment with David Brady. Before she met with him, she would understand every phrase, every clause and every alternative. She was just making a note on the final clause, when her buzzer rang. Still writing, A.J. cradled the phone at her ear.

“Yes, Diane.”

“Mr. Brady’s here, A.J.”

“Okay. Any fresh coffee?”

“We have sludge at the moment. I can make some.”

“Only if I buzz you. Bring him back, Diane.”

She turned her notepad back to the first page, then rose as the door opened. “Mr. Brady.” A.J. extended her hand, but stayed behind her desk. It was, she’d learned, important to establish certain positions of power right from the start. Besides, the time it took him to cross the office gave her an opportunity to study and judge. He looked more like someone she might have for a client than a producer. Yes, she was certain she could have sold that hard, masculine look and rangy walk. The laconic, hard-boiled detective on a weekly series; the solitary, nomadic cowboy in a feature film. Pity.

David had his own chance for study. He hadn’t expected her to be so young. She was attractive in that streamlined, no-nonsense sort of way he could respect professionally and ignore personally. Her body seemed almost too slim in the sharply tailored suit that was rescued from dullness by a fire-engine-red blouse. Her pale blond hair was cut in a deceptively casual style that shagged around the ears, then angled back to sweep her collar. It suited the honey-toned skin that had been kissed by the sun—or a sunlamp. Her face was oval, her mouth just short of being too wide. Her eyes were a rich blue, accentuated by clever smudges of shadow and framed now with oversize glasses. Their hands met, held and released as hands in business do dozens of times every day.

“Please sit down, Mr. Brady. Would you like some coffee?”

“No, thank you.” He took a chair and waited until she settled behind the desk. He noticed that she folded her hands over the contract. No rings, no bracelets, he mused. Just a slender, black-banded watch. “It seems we have a number of mutual acquaintances, Ms. Fields. Odd that we haven’t met before.”

“Yes, isn’t it?” She gave him a small, noncommittal smile. “But, then, as an agent, I prefer staying in the background. You met Clarissa DeBasse.”

“Yes, I did.” So they’d play stroll around the bush for a while, he decided, and settled back. “She’s charming. I have to admit, I’d expected someone, let’s say, more eccentric.”

This time A.J.’s smile was both spontaneous and generous. If David had been thinking about her on a personal level, his opinion would have changed. “Clarissa is never quite what one expects. Your project sounds interesting, Mr. Brady, but the details I have are sketchy. I’d like you to tell me just what it is you plan to produce.”

“A documentary on psychic phenomena, or psi, as I’m told it’s called in studies, touching on clairvoyance, parapsychology, ESP, palmistry, telepathy and spiritualism.”

“Séances and haunted houses, Mr. Brady?”

He caught the faint disapproval in her tone and wondered about it. “For someone with a psychic for a client, you sound remarkably cynical.”

“My client doesn’t talk to departed souls or read tea leaves.” A.J. sat back in the chair in a way she knew registered confidence and position. “Miss DeBasse has proved herself many times over to be an extraordinarily sensitive woman. She’s never claimed to have supernatural powers.”

“Supernormal.”

She drew in a quiet breath. “You’ve done your homework. Yes, ‘supernormal’ is the correct term. Clarissa doesn’t believe in overstatements.”

“Which is one of the reasons I want Clarissa DeBasse for my program.”

A.J. noted the easy use of the possessive pronoun. Not the program, but my program. David Brady obviously took his work personally. So much the better, she decided. Then he wouldn’t care to look like a fool. “Go on.”

“I’ve talked to mediums, palmists, entertainers, scientists, parapsychologists and carnival gypsies. You’d be amazed at the range of personalities.”

A.J. stuck her tongue in her cheek. “I’m sure I would.”

Though he noticed her amusement, he let it pass. “They run from the obviously fake to the absolutely sincere. I’ve spoken with heads of parapsychology departments in several well-known institutions. Every one of them mentioned Clarissa’s name.”

“Clarissa’s been generous with herself.” Again he thought he detected slight disapproval. “Particularly in the areas of research and testing.”

And there would be no ten percent there. He decided that explained her attitude. “I intend to show possibilities, ask questions. The audience will come up with its own answers. In the five one-hour segments I have, I’ll have room to touch on everything from cold spots to tarot cards.”

In a gesture she’d thought she’d conquered long ago, she drummed her fingers on the desk. “And where does Miss DeBasse fit in?”

She was his ace in the hole. But he wasn’t ready to play her yet. “Clarissa is a recognizable name. A woman who’s ‘proved herself,’ to use your phrase, to be extraordinarily sensitive. Then there’s the Van Camp case.”

Frowning, A.J. picked up a pencil and began to run it through her fingers. “That was ten years ago.”

“The child of a Hollywood star is kidnapped, snatched from his devoted nanny as he plays in the park. The ransom call demands a half a million. The mother’s frantic—the police are baffled. Thirty-six hours pass without a clue as the boy’s parents desperately try to get the cash together. Over the father’s objection, the mother calls a friend, a woman who did her astrological chart and occasionally reads palms. The woman comes, of course, and sits for an hour holding some of the boy’s things—his baseball glove, a stuffed toy, the pajama top he’d worn to bed the night before. At the end of that hour, the woman gives the police a description of the boy’s kidnappers and the exact location of the house where he’s being held. She even describes the room where he’s being held, down to the chipped paint on the ceiling. The boy sleeps in his own bed that night.”

David pulled out a cigarette, lit it and blew out smoke, while A.J. remained silent. “Ten years doesn’t take away that kind of impact, Ms. Fields. The audience will be just as fascinated today as they were then.”

It shouldn’t have made her angry. It was sheer foolishness to respond that way. A.J. continued to sit silently as she worked back the surge of temper. “A great many people call the Van Camp case a fraud. Dredging that up after ten years will only dredge up more criticism.”

“A woman in Clarissa’s position must have to deal with criticism continually.” He saw the flare come into her eyes—fierce and fast.

“That may be, but I have no intention of allowing her to sign a contract that guarantees it. I have no intention of seeing my client on a televised trial.”

“Hold it.” He had a temper of his own and could respect hers—if he understood it. “Clarissa goes on trial every time she’s in the public eye. If her abilities can’t stand up to cameras and questions, she shouldn’t be doing what she does. As her agent, I’d think you’d have a stronger belief in her competence.”

“My beliefs aren’t your concern.” Intending to toss him and his contract out, A.J. started to rise, when the phone interrupted her. With an indistinguishable oath, she lifted the receiver. “No calls, Diane. No—oh.” A.J. set her teeth and composed herself. “Yes, put her on.”

“Oh, I’m so sorry to bother you at work, dear.”

“That’s all right. I’m in a meeting, so—”

“Oh, yes, I know.” Clarissa’s calm, apologetic voice came quietly in her ear. “With that nice David Brady.”

“That’s a matter of opinion.”

“I had a feeling you wouldn’t hit it off the first time.” Clarissa sighed and stroked her cat. “I’ve been giving that contract business a great deal of thought.” She didn’t mention the dream, knowing her agent wouldn’t want to hear it. “I’ve decided I want to sign it right away. Now, now, I know what you’re going to say,” she continued before A.J. could say a word. “You’re the agent—you handle the business. You do whatever you think best about clauses and such, but I want to do this program.”

A.J. recognized the tone. Clarissa had a feeling. There was never any arguing with Clarissa’s feelings. “We need to talk about this.”

“Of course, dear, all you like. You and David iron out the details. You’re so good at that. I’ll leave all the terms up to you, but I will sign the contract.”

With David sitting across from her, A.J. couldn’t take the satisfaction of accepting defeat by kicking her desk. “All right. But I think you should know I have feelings of my own.”

“Of course you do. Come to dinner tonight.”

She nearly smiled. Clarissa loved to feed you to smooth things over. Pity she was such a dreadful cook. “I can’t. I have a dinner appointment.”

“Tomorrow.”

“All right. I’ll see you then.”

After hanging up, A.J. took a deep breath and faced David again. “I’m sorry for the interruption.”

“No problem.”

“As there’s nothing specific in the contract regarding the Van Camp case, including that in the program would be strictly up to Miss DeBasse.”

“Of course. I’ve already spoken to her about it.” A.J. very calmly, very deliberately bit her tongue. “I see. There’s also nothing specific about Miss DeBasse’s position in the documentary. That will have to be altered.”

“I’m sure we can work that out.” So she was going to sign, David mused, and listened to a few other minor changes A.J. requested. Before the phone rang, she’d been ready to pitch him out. He’d seen it in her eyes. He held back a smile as they negotiated another minor point. He was no clairvoyant, but he would bet his grant that Clarissa DeBasse had been on the other end of that phone. A.J. Fields had been caught right in the middle. Best place for agents, he thought, and settled back.

“We’ll redraft the contract and have it to you tomorrow.”

Everybody’s in a hurry, she thought, and settled back herself. “Then I’m sure we can do business, Mr. Brady, if we can settle one more point.”

“Which is?”

“Miss DeBasse’s fee.” A.J. flipped back the contract and adjusted the oversize glasses she wore for reading. “I’m afraid this is much less than Miss DeBasse is accustomed to accepting. We’ll need another twenty percent.”

David lifted a brow. He’d been expecting something along these lines, but he’d expected it sooner. Obviously A.J. Fields hadn’t become one of the top in her profession by doing the expected. “You understand we’re working in public television. Our budget can’t compete with network. As producer, I can offer another five percent, but twenty is out of reach.”