Mind Over Matter by Nora Roberts Page A

that one.”
    They were interrupted another half a dozen times before they could get into the theater. A.J. ran into clients, acquaintances and associates, greeted, kissed and complimented while turning down invitations to after-theater parties.
    “You’re very good at this.” David took two seats on the aisle near the back of the theater.
    “Part of the job.” A.J. settled back. There was nothing she enjoyed quite so much as a night at the movies.
    “A bit jaded, A.J.?”
    “Jaded?”
    “Untouched by the glamour of it all, unaffected by the star system. You don’t get any particular thrill out of exchanging kisses and hugs with some of the biggest and most distinguished names in the business.”
    “Business,” she repeated, as if that explained it all. “That’s not being jaded—it’s being sensible. And the only time I saw you awestruck was when you found yourself face-to-face with three inches of cleavage on a six-foot blonde. Ssh,” she muttered before he could comment. “It’s started and I hate to miss the opening credits.”
    With the theater dark, the audience quiet, A.J. threw herself into the picture. Ever since childhood, she’d been able to transport herself with the big screen. She wouldn’t have called it “escape.” She didn’t like the word. A.J. called it “involvement.” The actor playing the lead was a client, a man she knew intimately and had comforted through two divorces. All three of his children’s birthdays were noted in her book. She’d listened to him rant; she’d heard his complaints, his doubts. That was all part of the job. But the moment she saw him on film, he was, to her, the part he played and nothing else.
    Within five minutes, she was no longer in a crowded theater in Los Angeles, but in a rambling house in Connecticut. And there was murder afoot. When the lights went out and thunder boomed, she grabbed David’s arm and cringed in her seat. Not one to pass up an age-old opportunity, he slipped an arm around her.
    When was the last time, he wondered, that he’d sat in a theater with his arm around his date? He decided it had been close to twenty years and he’d been missing a great deal. He turned his attention to the film, but was distracted by her scent. It was still light, barely discernible, but it filled his senses. He tried to concentrate on the action and drama racingacross the screen. A.J. caught her breath and shifted an inch closer. The tension on the screen seemed very pedestrian compared to his own. When the lights came up he found himself regretting that there was no longer such a thing as the double feature.
    “It was good, wasn’t it?” Eyes brilliant with pleasure, she turned to him. “It was really very good.”
    “Very good,” he agreed, and lifted his hand to toy with her ear. “And if the applause is any indication, your client’s got himself a hit.”
    “Thank God.” She breathed a sigh of relief before shifting away to break what was becoming a very unnerving contact. “I talked him into the part. If he’d flopped, it would have been my head.”
    “And now that he can expect raves?”
    “It’ll be because of his talent,” she said easily. “And that’s fair enough. Would you mind if we slipped out before it gets too crazy?”
    “I’d prefer it.” He rose and steered her through the pockets of people that were already forming in the aisles. They hadn’t gone ten feet before A.J.’s name was called out three times.
    “Where are you going? You running out?” Hastings Reed, six feet three inches of down-home sex and manhood, blocked the aisle. He was flushed with the victory of seeing himself triumph on the screen and nervous that he might have misjudged the audience reaction. “You didn’t like it?”
    “It was wonderful.” Understanding his need for reassurance, A.J. stood on tiptoe to brush his cheek. “You were wonderful. Never better.”
    He returned the compliment with a bone-crushing hug. “We have to wait