Maybe not, I thought, watching Joe gaze soulfully at the publishing magnate's daughter. But they certainly could get distracted.
Manhattan Nights's record-breaking first season was just wrapping up when one of the producers made the mistake of bragging publicly about the astronomical sum he expected to earn by selling the show worldwide. Joe and four of the other central characters promptly refused to re-sign unless their salaries were tripled. To my surprise, Joe was the reputed ringleader. People Magazine said so, in the same issue they splashed him on their cover as the Sexiest Man Alive. Even seeing the rumour in print, I didn't believe it until one of the quintet, an older actor who hadn't worked in a while, broke ranks and signed a contract for less.
"This doesn't alter my position in the least,' a very self-contained Joe told the roving reporter for Entertainment Tonight.
The reporter had collared Joe outside Cafe Tabac with a stunning redhead clinging to his arm. She wore filmy aqua chiffon. He wore jeans and a neatly pressed dress shirt. I wondered who did his ironing these days. He
and his partner seemed comfortable in the eye of the camera, though Joe did refrain from batting his eyes.
After a brief, bosom-inclusive shot, the camera ignored Joe's date and focused on the clean, resolute lines of his face.
‘I, personally, will not agree to return for a second season until these demands are met for every member of the group of five,’ he said, 'including Mr Sandoval.'
'But Mr Sandoval has already signed a contract,’ the reporter pointed out. 'What makes you think the producers will renegotiate on your say-so?'
Joe's mouth curved in an expression just short of a smile.
'Believe me,’ he said, 'the producers read more of my fan mail than I do.'
That one soundbite proved tasty enough to air on national news. Each time I heard it, I wondered at the change in Joe.
'Now that's chutzpah,’ Sean said admiringly, as we watched a dignified anchorman stoop to report on the drama.
I plumped a pillow behind my back. 'Joe's agent must be having fits.'
'Unless it's his agent's idea.'
I wanted to believe that, but I couldn't. Joe's confidence - Joe's cojones, some might say - sat too easily to belong to anyone but him. The whole affair knocked me back. Despite the fact that Joe's balls were no longer my concern, I didn't like seeing him change from the sweet, unassuming boy I'd known.
‘I guess he's Mr Big now,’ I said.
Sean patted my thigh. 'And you're Ms Big, Kate, so pull in your claws.'
I knew I deserved that but I didn't like it - any more than I liked the sight of the slinky redhead whispering in Joe's ear.
Sean was too sharp to miss my scowl. 'Poor *,’ he mocked. 'Someone else is drinking from your bowl.' He cupped my trouser-covered mound in his broad, callused hand. He squeezed roughly and laughed to find me wet. 'Why don't you take your frustration out on me, Miss Kitty?'
So I did. We both felt better afterwards - except I dreamt of Joe, again. In the dream, Joe and I faced off in the centre ring of a circus, our audience invisible, our sole illumination provided by a single spotlight. Joe held a lion tamer's whip. He cracked it over my head, skirling it out like a snake as he drove me towards my cage. I snarled at him, but I couldn't get away; I couldn't even move except on my hands and knees. Closer and closer he backed me to the open door. Faster and faster I crawled, my knees grinding painfully in the sawdust. The dream was so vivid I could smell the shavings and the sweet-sharp scent of my own humiliation.
Joe's amber eyes caught fire as I gave way before him. Blue glints shone in his straight black hair and his lips were a stern red slash in his handsome face. I'd never seen him look so beautiful - or so heartless.
'How can you do this when I love you?' I said, but he cared nothing for the words.
'Get - in - the - box,' he ordered, swinging the long whip between the words. 'You know you won't be happy until I've caged you.'
I hated that dream. I didn't believe it. I didn't want anyone to cage me - ever.
But I couldn't deny I woke up wet every time I had it.
Chapter Thirteen
The Prodigal Returns
A huge bouquet arrived the day we opened MR Enterprises' new administrative office. Sean and I had purchased a narrow, three-storey building in Philadelphia's Old City neighbourhood. The building was in dire need of renovation, but the price was right and the view could not be beaten. From the little rooftop garden, we could see the gleaming white spire of Christ Church and the slow brown roll of the Delaware River. Inside, sunshine bathed every corner. At our request, the architect left the beams and pipes exposed and knocked two skylights through the roof. The infrastructure we painted teal. The skylights we filled with ferns. Framed cover art decorated the exposed brick walls, and the combined effect was lush and fresh.