John held out his hand to Anna. “It was a pleasure to meet you, uh—”

Frank gasped.

“Anna Kovács,” she said. “Unknown director.”

He shook her hand, cold and formal. It was a poor imitation of the way they’d touched a few days before.

John turned to go, still carrying the tray. He moved through the crowded party, dodging well-dressed men and high-heeled women. Pushing the swinging door to the back with enough force that it slammed against the wall, he attempted to calm his rising ire. Why did he care what she thought of him?

John paced in front of the large table crowded with small plates, each one set with miniscule servings of food. Clara grabbed his arm.

“Will you wait until we get home to yell at me?”

Clara shook her head, eyes wide. She pointed behind them. Had Anna followed him? He could explain about the before-his-time comment and everything else. He wanted to talk to her like they had at the bar, before he knew who her ex-husband was and before he had to serve drinks topless. He owed her an apology. John turned around.

No, Anna hadn’t followed him. Tom Melton had.

The agent walked up to him, completely unfazed to be standing in the middle of the kitchen cacophony, waitstaff circling around him, managers shouting at their underlings, and the swinging door moving at a steady rhythm behind him.

“You pitched a script to Dan Richards at Remington.”

Where the hell did Tom Melton learn that?

“He said it was good.”

“He didn’t option it.” John picked up his tray full of the small plates.

“Monday, ten a.m., my office.” The agent held out his business card. “We might be able to work together.”

Chapter Nine

Anna repeated her name. The receptionist, an older woman with delicate laugh lines around her eyes and a pitying smile, patted her bobbed gray hair. Anna waited a beat, not dropping her gaze. She was out of options.

Anna had agreed to take the TV show. The project didn’t set her heart racing—she couldn’t remember the last time she’d had one of those. No, she knew the last time. It was the project after The Castro, the one that had gone nowhere, the one she’d tried to fund for three years before setting it aside to take any job she could get.

She didn’t need heart racing. She needed to pay her bills. This TV show was the sensible choice. The sci-fi TV pilot would be a relatively short-term project, but she would make enough money to find an apartment and pay her overdue credit card bills.

Anna put her hands in the pockets of her black blazer. Deciding that this Monday-morning meeting needed something more than her usual ripped jeans, she’d worn her skinny leather pants, heels, and favorite faded gray T-shirt. Not completely different, but enough armor to get through this meeting.