“Forget it.” She began to pace to the sink and back again.

“Damn it, we’d come to you, but there’s no studio in Hicksville.”

“Morganville,” she corrected mildly. “You don’t need me for the recording.”

“They want you to do the title song.”

“What?” Surprised, she stopped her restless pacing.

“Now listen to me before you say no.” C.J. straightened in his chair and put on his best negotiator’s voice. “I realize you’ve always refused to perform or record, and I’ve never pressed you. But this is something I really think you should consider. Maggie, that song’s dynamite, absolute dynamite, and nobody’s going to be able to put into it what you did. After I played the tape, everyone in the room needed a cold shower.”

Though she laughed, Maggie couldn’t quite put the idea aside. “I can think of a half-dozen artists who could deliver that number, C.J. You don’t need me.”

“I can think of a dozen who could deliver it,” he countered. “But not like you. The song needs you, Maggie. At least you could think about it.”

She told herself she’d already refused him enough for one day. “Okay, I’ll think about it.”

“You let me know in a week.”

“C.J.—”

“Okay, okay, two weeks.”

“All right. And I’m sorry about the phone.”

“You could at least get one of those hateful answering machines.”

“Maybe. Take care of yourself, C.J.”

“I always do. Just take your own advice.”

“I always do. Bye.” She hung up, heaving a long sigh. “I feel like I’ve just been taken to task by the school principal.”

Cliff watched her pick up a folded dish towel, crumple it, then set it down again. “You know how to handle him.”

“I’ve had plenty of practice.”

“What’s C.J. stand for?”

“Constant Jitters,” she murmured, then shook her head. “No, to tell you the truth, I haven’t any idea.”

“Does he always give you a hard time?”

“I suppose.” She picked up the dish towel again. “It seems the news hit the papers on the Coast. Then, when he couldn’t reach me …” She trailed off, frowning out the window.

“You’re tense.”

She dropped the cloth over the edge of the sink. “No.”

“Yes,” Cliff corrected. “I can see it.” Reaching out, he ran his hand down the side of her neck to the curve of her shoulder. “I can feel it.”

The brush of his fingers made her skin hum. Slowly, she turned her head. “I don’t want you to do that.”

Deliberately, he took his other hand on a like journey, so that he could knead at the tension in both of her shoulders. Was it her nerves he sought to soothe or his own? “To touch you?” he said quietly. “It’s difficult not to.”