"It's just the thing," John Benton said, a hint of excitement in his voice. "Just the thing."

Marisa Marshall shook her head slowly. Her hands, as they held the bulky script, grew clammy. Who'd have thought that after three years, just to see a name written on the credit of a script could affect her so deeply that she wanted to throw it across the desk at John and scream, "No!"

John sat back in his chair. "Look, you've got to do it. Your last film was three years ago. That's fine, and it adds a bit of mystery, but money's money. Frankly, as your accountant as well as your agent, you're broke. Flat, sweetheart."

"And that's putting it mildly." Marisa attempted humor.

"Very mildly," he said. He flicked his hand across his desk and pointed to the script she was holding. "And that's sure money. I mean a Llewellyn Stone screenplay is bound to be a blockbuster."

"Bound to be," she murmured, her blue eyes not showing any of the turmoil she felt inside.

"You can't go on hiding all your life." John was firm. "Marisa, you're too beautiful, too talented. I've turned down too much for you already."

"Maybe I can't act anymore," she said.

"Of course you can. You've got to."

She knew she could. It was instinctive, but not if it meant having to see Llewellyn Stone again. She placed the script back on John's desk and stood up. She was a tall woman. Elegant. Even dressed in casual denim jeans and a pale blue cotton shirt. Her hair, a mass of loose golden curls, clustered around a perfectly featured face. Only a few telltale lines around her eyes and mouth made her look older than her twenty-five years. They unconsciously revealed an inner torment that John, who'd been her closest companion for the past three years, had never guessed.

John stood up and came around his desk with the script and placed it in her unwilling hand.

"Why don't you take it home? I'll call you in the morning to see what you think."

"Sure you're not just in this for your ten percent?" Marisa tried humor again.

"Of course I am and you know it." He grinned. She smiled at his blond good looks, wondering why she could never feel anything but friendship for him, even though he had often hinted at more.

"It would mean a lot to me," John persisted.

She glanced down at the thick wad of paper in her hand. At the neatly typed name ... The Rain Lady by Llewellyn Stone. Maybe for John she would read it. Just to please him.

"Okay, I'll take it home," she said slowly. "But I'm not agreeing to anything."

John controlled his delight in having gotten this far with her. "Then why don't you come up and have lunch with me tomorrow? We'll discuss it further."