Mind Over Matter

A.J.?”
    “It’s part of it.” She found the curve of his shoulder an easy place to rest her head. “You can’t tell me you think you’re where you are today because you got lucky.”
    “No. You start off thinking hard work’s enough, then you realize you have to take risks and shed a little blood. Then just when everything comes together and a project’s finished and successful, you have to start another and prove yourself all over again.”
    “It’s a lousy business.” A.J. cuddled against him.
    “Yep.”
    “Why do you do it?” Forgetting the series, forgetting her client, A.J. turned her head to look at him.
    “Masochism.”
    “No, really.”
    “Because every time I watch something I did on that little screen, it’s like Christmas. And I get every present I ever wanted.”
    “I know.” Nothing he could have said could have hit more directly home. “I attended the Oscars a couple of years ago andtwo of my clients won. Two of them.” She let her eyes close as she leaned against him. “I sat in the audience watching, and it was the biggest thrill of my life. I know some people would say you’re not asking for enough when you get your thrills vicariously, but it’s enough, more than enough, to know you’ve had a part in something like that. Maybe your name isn’t a household word, but you were the catalyst.”
    “Not everyone wants his name to be a household word.”
    “Yours could be.” She shifted again to look at him. “I’m not just saying that because—” Because I love you. The phrase was nearly out before she checked it. When he lifted his brow at her sudden silence, she continued quickly. “Because of our relationship. With the right material, the right crew, you could be one of the top ten producers in the business.”
    “I appreciate that.” Her eyes were so earnest, so intense. He wished he knew why. “I don’t think you throw around compliments without thinking about them first.”
    “No, I don’t. I’ve seen your work, and I’ve seen the way you work. And I’ve been around long enough to know.”
    “I don’t have any desire, not at this point, anyway, to tie myself up with any of the major studios. The big screen’s for fantasies.” He touched her cheek. It was real; it was soft. “I prefer dealing in reality.”
    “So produce something real.” It was a challenge—she knew it. By the look in his eyes, he knew it, as well.
    “Such as?”
    “I have a script.”
    “A.J.—”
    “No, hear me out. David.” She said his name in frustration when he rolled her under him on the sofa. “Just listen a minute.”
    “I’d rather bite your ear.”
    “Bite it all you want. After you listen.”
    “Negotiations again?” He drew himself up just to look down at her. Her eyes were lit with enthusiasm, her cheeks flushed with anticipation of excitement to come. “What script?” he asked, and watched her lips curve.
    “I’ve done some business with George Steiger. You know him?”
    “We’ve met. He’s an excellent writer.”
    “He’s written a screenplay. His first. It just happened to come across my desk.”
    “Just happened?”
    She’d done him a few favors. He was asking for another. Doing favors without personal gain at the end didn’t fit the image she’d worked hard on developing. “We don’t need to get into that. It’s wonderful, David, really wonderful. It deals with the Cherokees and what they called the Trail of Tears, when they were driven from Georgia to reservations in Oklahoma. Most of the point of view is through a small child. You sense the bewilderment, the betrayal, but there’s this strong thread of hope. It’s not your ‘ride off into the sunset’ Western, and it’s not a pretty story. It’s real. You could make it important.”
    She was selling, and doing a damn good job of it. It occurred to him she’d probably never pitched a deal while curled up on the sofa before. “A.J., what makes you think that if I were interested, Steiger would be interested in me?”
    “I happened to mention that I knew you.”
    “Happened to again?”
    “Yes.” She smiled and ran her hands down to his hips. “He’s seen your work and knows your reputation. David, he needs a producer, the right producer.”
    “And so?”
    As if disinterested, she skimmed her fingertips up his back. “He asked if I’d mention it to you, all very informally.”
    “This is definitely informal,” he murmured as he fit his body against hers. “Are you