Mind Over Matter

while.”
    “David, I’m not joking.”
    “Neither am I.” Smiling down at her, he slipped his hand into the opening of the robe and parted it. She felt her legs liquefy from the knees down.
    “David.” She turned her head to avoid his lips, then found herself in deeper trouble, as her throat was undefended. “It’ll only take me a minute.”
    “You’re wrong.” He unfastened the belt. “It’s going to take longer than that.”
    “For all I know I might have a breakfast meeting.”
    “For all you know you don’t have an appointment until noon.” Her hands were moving down his back, under his shirt. He wondered if she was aware. “What we both know is that we should make love. Right now.”
    “After,” she began, but sighed against his lips.
    “Before.”
    The robe fell to the floor at her feet. Negotiations ended.

8
    A.J. should have been satisfied. She should have been relaxed. In the ten days following her first night with David, their relationship had run smoothly. When her schedule and his allowed, they spent the evening together. There were simple evenings walking the beach, elegant evenings dining out and quiet evenings dining in. The passion that had pulled them together didn’t fade. Rather, it built and intensified, driving them to quench it. He wanted her, as completely, as desperately, as a man could want a woman. Of the multitude of things she was uncertain of, she could be absolutely certain of that.
    She should have been relaxed. She was tied up in knots.
    Each day she had to rebuild a defense that had always been like a second skin. Each night David ripped it away again. She couldn’t afford to leave her emotions unprotected in what was, by her own description, a casual, physical affair. They would continue seeing each other as long as both of them enjoyed it. No promises, no commitments. When he decided to pull away, she needed to be ready.
    It was, she discovered, like waiting for the other shoe to drop. He would undoubtedly break things off sooner or later. Passions that flamed too hot were bound to burn themselvesout, and they had little else. He read thick, socially significant novels and informative nonfiction. A.J. leaned toward slim, gory mysteries and glitzy bestsellers. He took her to a foreign film festival full of symbolism and subtitles. She’d have chosen the Gene Kelly—Judy Garland classic on late-night TV.
    The more they got to know each other, the more distance A.J. saw. Passion was the magnet that drew them together, but she was very aware its power would fade. For her own survival, she intended to be prepared when it did.
    On a business level she had to be just as prepared to deal with David Brady, producer. A.J. was grateful that in this particular relationship she knew every step and every angle. After listening to David’s ideas for expanding Clarissa’s role in the documentary, she’d agreed to the extra shoots. For a price. It hadn’t been money she’d wanted to wheedle out of him, but the promise of promotion for Clarissa’s next book, due out in midsummer.
    It had taken two days of heated negotiations, tossing the ball back and forth, refusals, agreements and compromises. Clarissa would have her promotion directly on the program, and a review on Book Talk , the intellectual PBS weekly. David would have his extra studio shoots and his interview with Clarissa and Alice Van Camp. Both had walked away from the negotiating table smug that they had outdone the other.
    Clarissa couldn’t have cared less. She was busy with her plants, her recipes and, to A.J.’s mounting dismay, her wedding plans. She took the news of the promotions A.J. had sweated for with an absent “That’s nice, dear,” and wondered out loud if she should bake the wedding cake herself.
    “Momma, a review on BookTalk isn’t just nice.” A.J. swung into the studio parking lot frustrated from the forty-minute drive during which she and Clarissa had talked at cross purposes.
    “Oh, I’m sure it’s going to be lovely. The publisher said they were sending advance copies. Aurora, do you think a garden wedding would be suitable? I’m afraid my azaleas might fade.”
    Brows lowered, she swung into a parking spot. “How many advance copies?”
    “Oh, I’m really not sure. I probably wrote it down somewhere. And then it might rain. The weather’s so unpredictable in June.”
    “Make sure they send at least three. One for the— June?” Her foot slipped off the clutch, so