Free Power Play by Deirdre Martin Page A

arrangement is going to work out great.”
    â€œI think so, too.” Monica had heard through the grapevine that one of the pictures of them at the museum was going to run in tomorrow’s Soap World . People were taking an extra interest in her again. This was a good sign.
    Monica glanced sideways out the window. The paparazzi were still there. Eric noticed, too.
    â€œWe should probably hold hands across the table,” he suggested. “And you might want to look enchanted by everything I say.”
    â€œGood thing I’m an actress,” said Monica. She stretched her hand to meet his in the middle of the table. It was large and warm, comforting somehow. They twined fingers.
    â€œHow’s that?” Eric asked.
    â€œYou’re cutting off my circulation.”
    â€œIf I do it too loosely, it will look fake.”
    â€œFor God’s sake,” Monica replied, exasperated, “do you really think they’re looking that closely?”
    â€œYou never know.”
    â€œFine,” she huffed. She waited for her fingertips to turn blue, but they didn’t. They ordered drinks, then dinner. Monica refrained from sucking down her Bellini in one go.
    â€œLook like you’re hanging on every word I say,” said Eric.
    â€œHow about you look like you’re hanging on every word I say?” Monica countered.
    â€œI could do that.”
    She watched Eric rearrange his facial expression so his eyes were caressing hers, his mouth parted slightly in wonderment. Jesus, this guy was good. It was almost scary.
    â€œYou missed your calling; you should have been an actor.”
    â€œI told you: I am an actor. When I need to be. Why else do you think I’m such a babe magnet?”
    â€œTell me,” Monica asked sweetly. “What’s it like to be a legend in your own mind?”
    Eric chuckled. “I told the guys you had a great sense of humor. It’s good that we’re getting to know each other a little, right? Adds to the realism.”
    Monica sipped her drink with her free hand. “Do you feel at all guilty about this little ruse?”
    â€œNo. Do you?”
    Monica paused. “A little. At some point we’ll have to figure out who breaks up with whom.”
    â€œI think I should break up with you.”
    â€œI disagree.”
    â€œWhat if they can read our lips and know we’re not having an intimate conversation?” Eric said worriedly.
    â€œYou’re an idiot,” said Monica, smiling at him with false adoration. How the hell was she going to get through an entire meal alone with this man? The dinner for James Dempsey was one thing; there were lots of other people for them to talk to, and of course, Chim Chim. But this was different.
    Eventually, the waiter brought their dinners. “Looks good,” said Eric. He had let Monica order for him, confessing that his knowledge of French food extended to fries and yellow mustard. She appreciated his honesty. She hated when men tried to bluff their way through sophistication.
    â€œYou’ll have to let go of my hand if we want to eat,” Monica pointed out.
    â€œOh. Right.”
    He released her hand, and for a split second, she missed the contact. When was the last time she’d held hands with a man? Helping Monty get to the bathroom didn’t count.
    Acutely aware of their surroundings, Monica noticed a woman and a man tucked away at a table for two in the back of the small room, trying to be discreet as they took turns glancing at Eric and Monica. Fans, Monica thought happily. When the woman stood and began walking toward the table, Monica squared her shoulders, sitting up a little straighter and smiling a friendly smile. An autograph, posing for a picture . . . this would be perfect. And the woman wasn’t crawling beneath a bathroom stall. This was her type of fan.
    The woman stopped at the table, twisting her hands shyly.
    â€œExcuse me—are you Eric