oney curled into Dash's lap. His shoulder was warm and solid against her cheek. She could feel the bite of his belt buckle at her waist and breathed in his particular scent. It was crisp and piney, overlaid with the hint of spearmint LifeSavers.

"I'm too old for cuddling," she whispered, cuddling closer.

His arm enfolded her more tightly, and his voice was husky with tenderness. "You're not too old until I say you're too old. I love you, Janie."

Silence fell between them, tender and good. His jaw rested on the top of her head, sheltering her. His arms and chest were a warm, snug harbor in a world that had grown too dangerous. The camera pulled back for a wider angle. Honey closed her eyes, savoring every second. If only he were her dad, instead of Janie's. She had just celebrated her seventeenth birthday, and she knew she was too old to be taking pleasure in something so childish, but she couldn't help it. She had never had a father, but she had dreamed about it, and she wanted to stay in Dash Coogan's arms for the next thousand years.

He picked up her hand and enfolded it in his much larger one. "My sweet little Jane Marie."

"And cut! Print it. That looked good."

Dash dropped her hand. He stirred beneath her, and she rose reluctantly. As he stood, the big front-porch rocker they had been sitting in banged against the wall of the ranch house. Her body had been so warm seconds ago, but now her skin felt cold. He began to walk away, just as he always did when they were done, as if being in her presence for more than five minutes would contaminate him.

She rushed to the edge of the porch and spoke to his back as he walked down the steps. "I think that was a real good scene, don't you, Dash?

"It seemed to go okay."

"Better than okay." She hurried after him, jumping over a tangle of electrical cables on the way. "You were terrific. Really. I think you're a terrific actor. Maybe the best in the world. I think—"

"Sorry, Honey. I can't talk now. I've got things to do."

"But Dash—"

He picked up his stride, and before she knew it, he had left her behind. Lowering her head, she dragged her heels as she began walking toward the motor home they had given her to use when they were on location. Maybe her mind was playing tricks on her. Maybe her memory of that first day when he had treated her so kindly was a delusion. If only she knew what she had done to make him stop liking her.

From the very beginning she'd been just as friendly as she knew how to be. She'd run off all the time to get him coffee and donuts. She'd given him her chair. She'd told him how much she admired him and offered him back rubs. She entertained him with witty conversation during breaks and brought him newspapers. She'd even begged him to let her wash his shirt one day when he'd spilled coffee on it. Why had he turned on her?

When they were acting in a scene together, it seemed as if she really were his daughter and he truly did love her. Sometimes he looked at her so tenderly she felt as if a whole pitcher of warm wine was speeding through her blood veins. But then the camera stopped and the wine turned to ice water because she knew he'd do his best to get away from her.

She paused for a moment in the shade of one of the big sycamore trees, ignoring the fact that she had to finish her history assignment before her tutor arrived. They had asked her to go back to school, something she didn't mind too much even though the tutor they had given her was old and boring. Sitting down on the rope swing that hung from the branches, a prop they used from time to time, she pushed herself gently back and forth.

It was January now, and The Dash Coogan Show had turned into the biggest hit of the fall season. Reaching into the pocket of her flannel shirt, she pulled out a Xerox of an article that had just appeared in one of the most important news magazines in the country. Everyone had been given a copy that morning, but this was the first chance she'd had to look at it. She scanned it, but then slowed down as she came to the end.

The Dash Coogan Show has captured America's imagination in large part because of its superior acting. Liz Castleberry's intelligence shines through the stereotype of Eleanor, giving the spoiled socialite a delightfully ironic edge. Eric Dillon, an actor many critics thought to dismiss as another Hollywood hunk, plays her son Blake with the intensity and brooding melancholy of a young man still trying to discover his place in the world, adding layers of nuance to a character who would have been merely a piece of beefcake in the hands of someone less talented.

But most of all, America has fallen in love with the two leading characters. Dash Coogan has been looking for this part all his life, and he slips into the persona of the broken-down rodeo rider without a single misstep. And thirteen-year-old Honey Jane Moon as the feisty little girl who wants to settle down in a real home is the most winning child star in years. She's spunky without being precious, and so real it's hard to believe she's delivering a performance. The relationship between father and daughter as portrayed by Coogan and Moon is the way love between a parent and child should be—full of sharp edges, bristling with conflict, but deep and abiding.

She stared at the page, absorbing the painful irony of the final sentence. Not once since she was six years old had she known a deep and abiding love.

She sniffed and resolutely stuffed the article back in her pocket for Chantal to put in her shoe box along with the others. Some day when she got the time, her cousin planned to paste all of them in a scrapbook. There were a lot of articles in Chantal's shoe box, despite the fact that Ross wouldn't let any of the reporters who were clamoring to interview her get close. He said he wanted to shield her from public scrutiny until she grew more accustomed to the business, but she suspected his real reason for keeping her away from reporters was that he didn't trust her not to go on one of her talking jags and say things he didn't want made public, such as how old she really was.

She jumped up from the swing, and her heart started a rickety-rack clattering in her chest as she spotted Eric Dillon walking toward his trailer. He was wearing a pair of stone-washed jeans so tight that the outline of the wallet in his back pocket was visible, along with a black T-shirt that had the sleeves cut out.

He turned slightly and her mouth went cotton dry as she took in the clean lines of his profile. Her eyes traced the height of his forehead, the lean straight nose, that thin, strong mouth with its sharply chiseled bow. She loved his mouth and spent a lot of her spare time daydreaming about what it would be like to kiss it. But the only way that would happen was if the writers made it happen, and right now that didn't seem too likely.

Sometimes it gave her chills the way the writers kept calling her into that conference room and making her talk. In her old life, God had been in charge, but now that she had met the show's five writers, she understood real power.

"Eric!" His name spilled from her lips with embarrassing eagerness.

He turned toward her and she glimpsed something scary in his face, but then she decided it was only annoyance. People were after him all the time. Some of the crew members complained because Eric was sort of temperamental, but she couldn't find it in her heart to hold it against him. Not with all the pressures of stardom bearing down on him. She rushed toward him, telling herself to act casual, but he started walking away, so she had to move even faster.

"Would you like to run some lines, Eric? I've been working on those sensory-awareness exercises I heard you telling Liz about. We're filming the scene by the corral this afternoon. It's an important scene, and we need to be ready for it."

He began walking. "Sorry, kid. Not right now."

It was the dog-dish haircut. How could he ever think of her as a seventeen-year-old woman when she looked like somebody's little brother? She found herself moving faster, occasionally taking two steps to keep up.

"How about half an hour? Would half an hour be good for you?"

"I'm afraid not. I've got some business to attend to." He mounted the steps to his motor home and opened the door.

"But Eric—"

"Sorry, Honey. No time."

The door shut. As she stared at its unyielding surface, she realized that she'd done it again. Even though she kept telling herself to act mature and sophisticated, she ended up acting just like Janie.

She glanced around, hoping no one had witnessed what a fool she'd made of herself, but the only person nearby was Liz Castleberry, and she didn't seem to be paying attention. Honey slipped her hands back into her jeans pockets so she looked as if she were just wandering around with nothing particular on her mind.

On location, the four leading actors each had a small motor home. Liz's motor home was parked next to Eric's. She was sitting in a lawn chair near the door with Mitzi, her golden retriever, sprawled at her side. She had a sweater tossed over her shoulders and was studying her script through a pair of large sunglasses with clear pink rims.

From the beginning Honey had liked Liz's dog a lot better than she liked Liz. Liz was too glamorous for her to be comfortable in her presence. More than anyone else on the show, she acted like a real movie star, and since the first days of filming, Honey had been steering a wide berth around her. It hadn't been difficult to do. All the show's stars tended to keep to themselves.

Mitzi rose and trotted forward, her tail wagging. Honey was feeling bruised from her encounter with Eric and she wanted to be alone for a while, but it was hard to ignore a dog with a yen to play, especially one the size of Mitzi. She reached down and stroked the dog's large, handsome head. "Hi, girl."

Mitzi began circling her and nuzzling her knees, the rhythm of her tail moving from adagio to allegro. Honey sank down and pushed her fingers into the dog's soft, butterscotch fur. Leaning forward, she rested her cheek against Mitzi's neck, not minding the musty scent of dog breath. Mitzi's tongue scraped her cheek. Even though Mitzi was only a dog, Honey appreciated the affection.

It was getting harder all the time for her to blame other people for not wanting to be with her. There were so many things wrong with her. She was ugly and bossy. Other than the fact that she could cook and she was a good driver, she didn't have any particular talents. When she thought about it, she realized that there wasn't much to like, let alone love.

"Bad day?

Honey's head shot up at the sound of Liz's quiet voice. "Hell, no. I'm having a great day. A great one."

Releasing Mitzi, she sat back on her heels, taking in the actress's billowy chestnut hair and flawless skin and wishing she could look like her. Honey was beginning to think that she was the only ugly person in all of Southern California.

Liz slipped her sunglasses on top of her head. Her eyes were as green as Silver Lake before the water had gone bad. She nodded her head toward Eric's trailer. "You're way out of your league, kiddo. Be careful with that one."

Honey leaped to her feet. "I don't have the slightest idea what you're talking about. And I don't appreciate other people nibbing into my business."

Liz shrugged and pulled her glasses back down over her eyes.

Honey spun around and began to stomp away only to run into Lisa Harper, the actress who was playing Dusty. When she realized that Lisa was heading for Eric's trailer, she intercepted her.

"I wouldn't bother him if I were you, Lisa. Eric's got some business to attend to, and he doesn't want to be interrupted." She tried to conceal her resentment at the way Lisa's breasts stretched out the front of her purple knit top.

"You're a stitch, Honey." Lisa laughed. "I'm Eric's business." She climbed the steps to his trailer and disappeared inside.

An hour later she reappeared. Her purple knit top had been replaced with one of Eric's cropped-off T-shirts.

The conference room was dim, with only weak threads of late afternoon light seeping through the closed draperies. Honey sat before them like a sinner on judgment day called to the presence of the Almighty. Except there was only one of Him, and there were five of them.

A woman with burgundy fingernails gestured toward the can of Orange Crush they had set out for her. "Help yourself, Honey," she said quietly.

The man at the center of the table lit a cigarette and leaned back in his chair. "You can start whenever you're ready."

Honey gazed stubbornly down at the floor. "I don't have anything to say."

"Look at us when you talk, please."

"I'm not saying anything. I mean it this time. I don't have a single thing on my mind."

Someone flicked a lighter. A chair creaked softly.

One of the men tapped a pencil on his notepad. "Why don't you tell us about Eric?"

"There's nothing to tell."

"We hear things."

She stiffened in her chair. "I'm not talking about him anymore."

"Don't hold out on us, Honey. That's not a good idea."

Honey's hand clamped tighter around the soda pop can. "Why should I tell you anything? I don't even know why I'm here. I don't like you people!"

Unmoved by her rebellion, they picked up their notepads. "Anytime you're ready."

And because she had no one else to talk to, she told the writers everything....

EXTERIOR. THE LANDING OUTSIDE BLAKE'S APARTMENT OVER THE GARAGE—NIGHT.

Janie stands on the landing looking at the door of Blake's apartment. Nervously, she tucks her T-shirt into her pants and then tries to tidy her hair with her fingers, only to realize the task is hopeless and mess it up again. Finally, she loses her nerve and begins to go back down the stairs, then changes her mind and returns. Summoning her courage, she knocks on the door. When there is no answer, she knocks again.

JANIE

Blake? Blake, are you there?

BLAKE'S VOICE

What do you want, Janie?

JANIE

You—uh— You said you'd help me with my arithmetic homework one of these nights. The— uh—the fractions. Oh, man, those fractions are really hard.

Blake slowly opens the door. He is dressed in jeans, his chest bare. Janie stares at him and gulps.

BLAKE

I'm sorry, Janie, but tonight's not a real good night for me.

JANIE

(disappointed)

Oh... Well, maybe... You want to play some cards instead?

BLAKE

Not tonight, kid.

JANIE

How about some TV? The Cowboys are playing tonight.

DUSTY'S VOICE

(coming from inside the apartment)

Blake? Is something wrong?

Janie's face falls as she absorbs what is taking place.

BLAKE

(gives Janie a sympathetic smile)

Maybe some other time.

As he turns to go back inside, Janie's heartbreak changes to anger.

JANIE

You toad sucker! Dusty's in there. I heard her voice. You got Dusty in your apartment!

BLAKE

Now, Janie...

JANIE

(furiously)

Does your mama know about this? Because if your mama knew, she'd kill you! I'm gonna tell her! I'm going right down there and pound on her door and tell her that her only son is a low-life, scum-suckin' womanizer!

Dusty appears behind Blake's shoulder. She is wearing Blake's robe and her hair is rumpled.

DUSTY

(not unkindly)

Hey, Janie. What're you doin' here?

JANIE

And you! You should be ashamed of yourself! All this time I thought you were a nice person! Now it turns out you're nothing but a—a—slut!

BLAKE

(coldly)

I think you'd better calm down, Janie.

JANIE

(hysterically)

I am calm. I am completely calm.

BLAKE

(steps out on landing and shuts door)

Janie, you can't talk to Dusty like that. There are things you don't understand. You're still a kid, and—

JANIE

I'm not a kid! Don't ever say I'm a kid! I'm almost fourteen and I'm—

Janie bursts into tears...

Silence fell over the set as they all waited.

Dry-eyed and furious, Honey rounded on the cameras. "This is stupid! I'm not doing this!"

"Cut!"

Eric slammed his hand down on the railing. "Aw, for chrissake. This is the ninth take."

The director stepped forward. Although the landing to Blake's apartment was supposed to be above the garage, the set rose just a few feet off the studio floor. While one of the wardrobe assistants handed Eric a shirt, the director gazed up at Honey.

"Do you need makeup to get the crystals?"

Honey had been working on the show for six months, long enough to know that he was talking about menthol crystals that could be blown into her eyes to make them tear. She shook her head, imagining Eric's disgust. Real actors didn't need menthol crystals. Not if they had prepared properly. Not if they'd done their sensory-awareness exercises. But doing this scene was like pulling at an open wound, and all she wanted was to get out of here.

Eric clenched his teeth. "For God's sake use the crystals. We don't have the time to wait for you to do it right."

His callousness destroyed the last vestige of her self-control. "Janie's not some damn crybaby! And she sure as hell wouldn't waste her time crying over a damn peckerhead like Blake!"

Lisa stuck her head out the door. "Are we going to take a break? Because I have to pee."

"No!" Eric shouted. "No goddamn break. It's six o'clock. If Honey doesn't get it right this time, I'm walking. I've got things to do."

"And everybody here knows exactly what kind of things!" Honey shouted.

"That's it. I'm out of here. I don't have to take this shit."

Eric vaulted over the railing to the studio floor. He worked out daily and there was no reason for him to be breathing so hard, but the panic that gripped him couldn't be cured by physical conditioning. From the beginning, he had hated working with her. He couldn't stand the way she looked at him, the way she followed him around. If he'd known about her in the beginning, he would never have signed the contract to do the show. Even his growing fame wasn't worth being forced to stare into those big, needy eyes, that face that begged for his attention.

"Hold it, everybody," the director exclaimed. "Things are getting a little out of control here. One more take, Eric. If Honey doesn't get it this time, we'll start fresh tomorrow. Come on, Eric, cut me some slack. It's late and everybody's nerves are shot. Makeup, get the menthol crystals."

Eric ground his teeth. He wanted to tell all of them to go to hell, but if he walked out now, he'd have to work with the little pest first thing tomorrow morning, and he had enough trouble sleeping as it was. Sometimes in his nightmares her voice was starting to get mixed up with Jason's.

Begrudgingly, he threw off his shirt and climbed back up the three steps. She stared at him, hurt and adoration making her light blue eyes huge. They wanted to suck him in, eat him up. He tried to distance himself from her by studying her face objectively. She was going to be a knockout one of these days, when she stopped looking like a kid.

His small flash of objectivity faded, and all he could see was someone who reminded him far too much of his pain in the ass little brother.

He set his jaw and spoke in a nasty snarl, hoping to make her hate him. "Next time do your homework first. You're getting paid to be a professional. Start acting like one."

She sucked in her breath as if he'd hit her. Her eyes grew luminous with misery, and her bottom lip sagged with vulnerability. He felt the impact of her hurt in his own gut.

The director spoke up. "Let's take it from Janie's close-up. Positions, everybody."

The makeup man blew the crystals in her eyes, and they began to tear.

"Quiet, please. We're rolling. Marker. Action."

The camera came in for a close-up. One fat drop rolled over her bottom lashes and trickled down her cheek, but her expression remained mutinous.

Eric told himself that it was Blake who had to touch her. Blake. Not himself.

Stepping forward, he put his arms around her and pulled her to his chest. Her head didn't even reach his chin. She was just about Jason's height, and like his half brother, she only wanted his attention.

The squeal of brakes shrieked in his mind, the sound of a scream.

"Cut. Print it. Good. We can all go home."

"Asshole!" Honey shoved hard against his chest and ran from the set.

He stood at the top of the landing looking after her, his eyes dark and tormented.!!!Take me with you, Eric. Please.