onday morning Honey arrived on the set with three dozen Rice Krispies squares and a chocolate sheet cake. The crew was surprised, but delighted.

"Clever, darling," Liz Castleberry drawled as she licked a dab of frosting from her bottom lip. "Bribery

by chocolate."

"I'm not trying to bribe anybody," Honey countered, not at all happy that the Queen of the Bitches had seen through her so clearly.

She waited two days, and then she brought in several dozen homemade chocolate-chip cookies. Adding baking to her already exhausting work day had left her so weary that she kept falling asleep between scenes, but the crew members began to smile at her, so she decided it was worth the sacrifice. Dash chatted casually with her during the day, but he didn't invite her out to the ranch or mention the possibility of taking her riding again. She blamed herself.

February slipped by. The writers began sending her frantic notes to meet with them, but she tore them up. Maybe if she proved to Dash that she could keep her mouth shut, he'd invite her back. But as the weeks passed and he didn't make an overture, she began to despair. They would go on hiatus soon, and then she wouldn't see him for four months.

After spending the weekend with her family, listening to Sophie whine and Buck burp beer, she arrived at work on a Monday in mid-March to begin shooting the last show of the season.

Connie Evans, who did her makeup, studied her critically in the mirror. "Those circles under your eyes are getting worse, Honey. It's a good thing the season's over or I'd have to start using industrial-strength concealer on you."

As Connie dabbed away at the shadows, Honey picked up the manila envelope printed with her name that lay on the makeup table. She was supposed to receive her script for the week by messenger no later than Saturday afternoon, but more frequently, she didn't see it until she arrived at work on Monday. She wondered what the writers had in store for her this week. Since she continued to ignore their increasingly strident demands to come and talk to them, she hoped they hadn't decided to get even with her by making Janie fall into a beehive or something like that.

The last few scripts had spotlighted Blake. In one of them, he had a steamy romance with an older woman who was a friend of Eleanor's. The script had taken full advantage of Eric's dark sexuality, and Honey had gotten so upset watching it that she'd turned off the TV.

As Connie dabbed her with makeup, Honey drew the current week's script from the envelope and stared down at the title. "Janie's Daydream." That didn't sound too bad.

Ten minutes later, she leapt up from her chair and raced out to find Ross.

Liz, wrapped in a pale pink terry-cloth robe, was emerging from her own dressing room when Honey came barreling down the hall. Liz took one look at Honey's face and lunged for her as she flew by. With a hard yank, Liz pulled her into her dressing room and shut the door with her hip.

"What do you think you're doing?" Honey snatched her arm away.

"Giving you a minute to calm down."

Honey's hands clenched into fists at her side. "I don't need to calm down. I'm perfectly calm. Now get out of my way."

Liz leaned against the jamb. "I'm not moving. Pour a cup of coffee, sit down on that sofa, and get yourself under control."

"I don't want coffee. I want—"

"Now!"

Even in a bathrobe, the Queen of the Bitches looked forbidding, and Honey hesitated. Maybe she did need a few minutes to get herself together. Stepping over Mitzi, who was sprawled on the floor, she filled one of the floral china cups Liz kept next to her stainless-steel German coffee-maker.

Liz edged away from the door and gestured toward her own copy of the script lying open on her dressing table. "Be grateful that it's a family show and you don't have to do the scene nude."

Honey's stomach did a flip-flop. "How do you know what I'm upset about?"

"It doesn't take a mind reader, darling."

She stared down into her coffee cup. "I'm not kissing him. I mean it. I'm not going to do it."

"Half the women in America would be glad to stand in for you."

"Everybody's going to think that I've been talking to the writers again and I haven't. I haven't talked to them in weeks."

"It's just a kiss, Honey. It's perfectly believable that Janie would be having daydreams about kissing Blake."

"But nobody's going to think it's Janie's daydream. They're all going to think it's mine."

"Isn't it?"

She jumped up, sloshing her coffee into the saucer. "No! I can't stand him. He's conceited and arrogant and mean."

"He's a lot more than that." Liz sat down on the dressing-table stool and began pulling on a pair of sheer pearl-gray nylons. "Forgive the theatrics, darling, but Eric Dillon is a walking danger zone." She shuddered delicately. "I just hope I'm not around when he finally explodes."

Honey placed her untasted coffee on the table. "I've got to wear a nightgown and a wig and dance around with him under a tree. What a stupid daydream. It's so embarrassing I can't even stand to think about it."

"It's a long dress, not a nightgown. And the wig will probably be beautiful. You'd look silly kissing Blake in those jeans with that awful hair. If you ask me, you're going to look a hundred times better than you usually do."

"Thanks a lot."

Liz drew the panty hose to her waist. Beneath them, Honey could glimpse a skimpy pair of black lace panties.

"With all those marvelous displays of temperament, I could never understand why you didn't throw one of your hissy fits over something important. That horrid haircut, for example."

"I'm not talking about my hair," Honey retorted. "I'm talking about kissing Eric Dillon. I'm going to Ross right now, and I'm—"

"If you throw one of your famous fits, you'll undo all those delicious high-calorie bribes you've been baking. Besides, we start shooting in half an hour, so it's a little late to get a script change. And, anyway, what would you say? Spending a morning dancing around outside and kissing Eric Dillon hardly qualifies as hazardous duty."

"But.."

"You've never kissed a man, have you, Honey?"

She drew herself up to her full five feet and one inch. "I'm eighteen years old. I kissed my first man

when I was fifteen."

"Was he the one you knifed or the one you shot in the head?" Liz drawled.

"I might have lied about that, but I'm not lying about the kissing. I've had a few romances." She searched her mind for some details that would convince her. "There was this one boy. His name was Chris, and he went to the University of South Carolina. He had this T-shirt with Gamecocks written on it."

"I don't believe you."

"I don't happen to care."

Liz slipped off her robe and reached for the dress she was wearing in the first scene. Honey stared at her bra. It was nothing more than two black lace scallop shells.

"Eric will do all the work, Honey. God knows he has enough experience. Janie's not supposed to know anything about lovemaking, anyway."

"It's not lovemaking! It's only a kiss."

"Exactly. I checked the shooting schedule. Since it's an exterior, they're not filming the scene until Friday. You'll have all week to get yourself together. Now calm down and treat it like any other piece of business."

Honey held Liz's gaze for a few moments and then dropped her eyes. Absentmindedly, she stroked Mitzi's head. "I don't understand why you're trying to help me. You do it all the time, don't you?"

"I try."

"That's what Dash said. But I can't understand why."

"Women should help each other, Honey."

Honey looked up at Liz and smiled. It was nice to hear herself classified as a woman. Giving Mitzi a final pat, she rose and made her way to the door. "Thanks," she said, just before she let herself out.

That afternoon, Liz caught Dash alone. "You'd better keep an eye on your young charge, cowboy. She's a bit upset about this week's show, and you know as well as I do that when Honey gets upset, anything can happen."

"Honey's not my responsibility!"

"Once you smacked her, you made her yours for life."

"Damn it, Liz..."

"Ta-ta, darling." She wiggled her fingers and walked away, leaving a cloud of expensive fragrance behind.

Dash swore softly under his breath. He didn't want Honey in his private life, but it was getting harder and harder to keep her out. If only he hadn't gotten soft in the head that day he'd blistered her butt. He should never have invited her to his ranch. Not that he'd had a bad time. In fact, he'd had a damn good time with her, and he hadn't once thought about taking a drink.

She was surprisingly easy to be with for a female. Of course, she wasn't much of a female, which had been the major reason he had enjoyed their day together. No hidden sexual agenda had been percolating beneath the surface, and there had been something relaxing about being with someone who pretty much said whatever was on her mind. Besides, in a funny way, Honey saw a lot of things the same way he did. The IRS, for example.

As Honey came toward him and they took their places for the next scene, he realized that he liked Honey more than he liked his own daughter. Not that he didn't love Meredith, because he did, but even when she was a child he hadn't felt close to her. When she'd turned fifteen she'd gotten religion, and after that there'd been no stopping her. Just last week Wanda had called him with the news that Meredith had decided to drop out of Oral Roberts because the place was getting too liberal for her. As far as his son, Josh, was concerned, things weren't any better. Josh had always been pretty much a mama's boy, something a little more attention from his father might have prevented.

A light meter popped up in front of his face. Honey yawned next to him. Even wearing makeup she looked tired.

"Did you get any of those cookies I brought in last week?" she asked. "The ones with M & Ms in them?"

"I had a couple."

"I didn't think they were as good as those frosted brownies. What did you think?"

"Honey, are you doing any sleeping when you get home, or do you just stay up all night and bake cookies?"

"I sleep."

"Not enough. Look at you. You're getting all run down." He knew he should stop right there, but she looked so small and worn-out that his heart took possession of his brain. "Starting right now, your baking days are over, little girl."

Her eyes shot open in outrage. "What?"

"You heard me. People are going to have to start liking you for your sweet personality and not for your cookies. The next time you bring anything to eat on the set, I'm pitching it right in the garbage."

"You are not! This isn't any of your business!"

"It is if you want to come out to the ranch on Saturday and go riding."

Right before his eyes, he watched the war going on inside her, the battle between her desire to be with him and her independent nature. Her jaw set in that stubborn line he'd grown all too familiar with.

"You're manipulating me. You think you can go hot or cold on me whenever you feel like it, without the slightest regard for my feelings."

"I told you the kind of man I am, Honey."

"I just want to be your friend. Is that so terrible?"

"Not if that was all you wanted. But you make me nervous." He looked out beyond the cameras to the rear of the studio and decided to say what was on his mind. "You want a lot from people, Honey. I get this feeling that you'd suck out my last drop of blood if I let you. To be honest, I don't have any to spare."

"That's an awful thing to say. You make me sound like a vampire."

He didn't reply. Just gave her some time to sort out her options.

"All right," she said sullenly. "If I can come out to the ranch, I won't bake anymore."

A queer glow of pleasure warmed his insides at the idea that she enjoyed being with him enough to compromise her pride. She was a great kid when she wasn't being a pain in the ass. "One more thing,"he added. "You also have to get through this week with a little dignity. I'm specifically talking about Friday's shooting schedule."

Honey glared over at Liz, who was flirting with a new cameraman. "Somebody has a big mouth."

"You should be glad that particular somebody is watching out for you."

They were interrupted before she could reply, which was probably just as well.

Friday crept toward her like smog. When it finally arrived, she refused to look in the mirror as they fussed with her makeup and zipped her into a white lace dress that sloped down off her shoulders and brushed the floor. They fastened a lavender lace choker around her neck, then set the wig on top of her head. It was long and honey-colored, just like her real hair.

"Perfect," Evelyn, her newest hairdresser, said, standing back to admire Honey.

Connie, who had just finished her makeup, concurred. "Go on, Honey. Stop being a chicken. Take a look."

Honey braced herself and turned toward the mirror. She looked...

"Holy shit," she whispered softly under her breath.

"My sentiments exactly," Evelyn replied dryly.

Honey had been afraid she'd look like a boy in drag, but instead, the delicate young woman who stared back at her was a vision of femininity. There was a blurry, dreamlike quality about her features—from the light blue luminosity of her eyes to her soft pink mouth, which didn't look like it belonged on a sucker fish at all but on someone beautiful. Her hair curled softly around her face and fell in waves over the tops of her shoulders, just like a story-book princess.

The AD stuck his head in the trailer. "Show time, Honey. We need you on—Wow!"

Evelyn and Connie laughed, then escorted Honey from the trailer. She squinted slightly in the sunlight. The women walked on each side of her, picking up the hem of her dress to keep it off the grass and giving her last-minute instructions.

"Don't sit down, Honey. And don't eat anything."

"Stop licking your lips. I'll have to powder you again."

Eric was already on the set. Honey avoided looking at him. She felt excited and scared at the same time. It was one thing to have to kiss Eric Dillon when she looked like a horse's rear end. It was quite another when she looked like Sleeping Beauty. She pressed her hand to the pocket in the side seam of the dress and was reassured to feel the tiny tube of Binaca breath spray she had slipped there.

Eric adjusted the lavender sash at his waist. He was dressed like Prince Charming in a white shirt with billowy sleeves, tight-fitting purple trousers, and calf-hugging black leather boots. The costume was constrictive, but as he leaned down to wipe a smudge off his boots, he decided he'd worn worse.

At the sound of female laughter, he looked up. Honey was coming toward him, but several seconds passed before his brain registered what he was seeing. His mouth set in a grim line. He should have known. For two seasons he'd been looking at those tiny features and that incredible mouth, but he still hadn't realized quite how pretty she could be.

She drew closer and lifted her head. Light blue eyes, dewy and star-filled, drank him in, begging him to find her beautiful. His stomach clenched. If he wasn't very careful today, she would go off in another love spin.

"What do you think, Eric?" she asked softly. "How do I look?"

He shrugged, his face blank of any expression. "Okay, I guess. The wig's a little weird, though."

Her bubble burst.

Jack Swackhammer, who was directing his first episode since Honey had gotten him fired, stepped into the shade beneath the oak tree. "Honey, we're going to begin with you in the swing." He motioned her toward the rope swing, which had been embellished with corny purple satin ribbons and puffy lavender tulle bows.

Honey did as he asked, and they began blocking out the first shot. Since there was no dialogue in the scene, all she had to do was let Eric push her, but she was so tense she felt as if she would break apart if he even touched her.

"We're laying in an orchestral track on top of the video— lots of strings and schmaltz," Jack said. "Ray'll play it for you while we're shooting to get you in the mood."

She wanted to die from embarrassment when one of the speakers began emitting a romantic orchestral score.

"Will you relax?" Eric grumbled from behind her as the cameras rolled and he began to push.

Her insides cramped as she realized that she knew how to be Janie but she didn't have the faintest idea how to be Janie's fantasy of herself. "I am relaxed," she hissed, finding it easier to talk to him since she didn't have to face him.

"Your back is like a board," Eric complained.

She had never felt more awkward, more at a loss. She knew exactly who she was when she was dressed in jeans with her dog's dish haircut, but who was the creature in the fairy-tale gown?

"You worry about yourself, and I'll worry about me," she retorted, the skin beneath her lace dress hot with embarrassment.

He gave the swing a hard push. "It's going to be a long afternoon if you don't take it easy."

"It's going to be a long one anyway, because I have to work with you."

"Cut! We don't look like we're having a good time," Jack drawled from his position next to the first camera. "And we seem to have forgotten that some of our viewers can read lips."

Because she was embarrassed and unsure of herself, she took refuge in hostility. Lifting her head, she spoke directly to the camera. "This is bullshit."

The swing jerked to a stop.

Jack ran his hands through his thinning hair. "Let's settle down and try it again."

But the next take didn't go any better, nor did the one after that. She simply couldn't relax, and Eric wasn't helping. Instead of acting romantic, he behaved as if he hated her guts, which he probably did,

but he didn't have to be so obvious about it. She tried to remember if he had eaten any of her cookies.

At Jack's orders, Ray, the sound man, turned off the music. The director looked at his watch. They were already behind schedule, and it was all her fault. This time she wasn't causing trouble on purpose, but nobody would believe that.

"How about a break?" she suggested, jumping up from the swing as Jack approached them both.

The director shook his head. "Honey, I understand that you've never done anything like this before, and you're bound to feel awkward—"

"I don't feel the slightest bit awkward. I'm as comfortable as I can be."

He apparently decided it was a waste of time to argue with her because he turned on Eric. "We've done

at least ten shows together, and this is the first time I've seen you do half-assed work. You're holding out. What's going on here?"

To Honey's surprise, Eric didn't try to defend himself. He stared down at a bare spot in the grass as if he were trying to make up his mind about something. Probably whether or not he could kiss her without throwing up.

When he looked up, his mouth had thinned into a grim line. "All right," he said slowly. "You're right. Give us a chance to improvise a little... work it through. Just start to roll and then leave us alone for a while."

"We're on a tight schedule," Jack replied. And then he threw up his hands in frustration. "Go ahead. It can't be any worse. Okay with you, Honey?"

She nodded stiffly. Anything was better than what they had been doing.

There was a sudden purposefulness about Eric, as if he'd made some sort of decision. "Have sound crank up the music a little so the two of us can talk without everybody on the crew listening in."

Jack nodded and returned to his position behind the camera. Connie scampered over and touched up their makeup. Within moments, the lush sound of strings filled the set.

Honey's stomach clenched. The Binaca! She'd forgotten to spray her mouth. What if her breath was bad?

"We're rolling," Jack said, speaking just loudly enough to be heard over the music. "Marker. Action."

She turned to Eric for direction and saw that he was studying her. He looked deeply unhappy. And then, as she watched, he seemed to go inside himself. She had observed him do this when he was getting ready for a difficult scene, but she had never been standing quite so close. It was eerie. An absolute stillness came over him, a blankness of expression, as if he were emptying himself out.

And then his chest began to rise and fall in gentle rhythm. A transformation came over him, subtle at first but gradually becoming more visible. He seemed to come into focus before her eyes in a new form. The ice chips melted in those turquoise eyes and the furrows eased from his forehead. Her bones turned to gelatin as the hard lines around his mouth softened. Before her eyes, he became young and sweet. He reminded her of someone, but for a moment she couldn't think who it was. And then she knew.

He looked like all of her daydreams of him.

Picking up her hand, he drew her over by the tree. "You should wear dresses more often."

"I should?" Her voice came out like a small croak.

He smiled. "I'll bet you've got your jeans on underneath."

"I do not!" she exclaimed indignantly.

He settled his hand on the small of her back, just below her waist, and squeezed gently. "You're right. I don't feel any jeans."

A tremor passed through her. He was standing so close that the heat of his body warmed her through the lace of her dress. "Shouldn't I get on the swing?" she asked, stumbling slightly over the words.

"Do you want to?"

"No, I—" She started to dip her head, but he caught her chin with the tip of his finger, making her look

at him.

"Don't be afraid."

"I'm—I'm not afraid."

"Aren't you?"

"This wasn't my daydream," she said miserably. "It was the writers. They—"

"Who cares? It's a beautiful daydream. Why don't we enjoy it?"

She caught her breath at the husky intimacy in his voice, as if they were the only people left in the world. The sunlight filtering through the leaves of the tree threw lavender shadows across his features. They played hide-and-seek with his eyes and the corners of his mouth. She couldn't have torn her gaze away from him if she'd had to.

"How do we enjoy it?" she asked breathlessly.

"Why don't you touch my face, and then I'll touch yours."

Her hand trembled. It tingled at her side. She wanted to lift it, but she couldn't.

He gently clasped her wrist and drew it upward between their bodies until she touched him. As she brushed the side of his jaw, he released her, leaving her on her own.

With the tips of her fingers, she felt the slight hollow in his cheek, right beneath the ridge of bone. Her hand moved on to the corner of his jaw, his chin. She touched him as if she were blind, memorizing every dip and rise. Unable to stop herself, she slid her fingertips to his bottom lip and explored its contours.

He smiled beneath her touch and lifted his own hand to her mouth. Under the touch of his fingers, her mouth became beautiful. His eyes bathed her with admiration, and hard knots unraveled inside her until all of her became beautiful.

"I'm going to kiss you now," he whispered.

Her lips parted, and her heart raced. His breath fell softly on her skin as his head dipped. He drew her against his body so tenderly she might have melted there from the warmth of the sunlight. She anticipated his lips for a fraction of a second before they brushed against her own. And then her senses sang as he kissed her.

Castles and flowers and milk-white steeds danced through her mind. His mouth was gentle, his lips chastely closed. A spell of wonder and innocence enveloped her. The kiss was pure, unsullied by awkwardness or lust, a kiss to awaken a sleeping princess, a kiss that had been formed from the gilded web of daydreams.

When their lips finally parted, he continued to smile down at her. "Do you have any idea how beautiful you look?"

Mutely, she shook her head, her customary glibness deserting her. He drew her away from the trunk of the tree into a patch of sunlight and kissed her again. Then he reached up, pulled a leaf from the tree, and tickled her nose with it.

She giggled.

"I'll bet you don't weigh anything." Without giving her a chance to reply, he picked her up in his arms and swung her in a slow, looping circle. The skirt of her dress tangled in his fingers and the sleeves of his shirt billowed. Thousands of tiny bubbles rose inside her. She tossed back her head, and her laughter seemed to mingle with the breeze and the sunlight that lit sparks in his dark hair.

"Are you dizzy yet?" he asked, laughing back at her.

"No... Yes..."

He set her on her feet, keeping his arm behind her waist so she didn't fall. And then he twirled her again, dancing her in and out of the shadows. She felt light and graceful and achingly alive, an enchanted princess in a fairy-tale forest. Pulling her into his arms, he kissed her again.

She sighed when he eventually drew away. The music swirled around them, bathing them in its magic. He cupped her cheek as if he couldn't get enough of her. He turned her again and again. Her lips tingled, and the blood sang in her veins. Finally she thought she understood what it was to be a woman.

They stopped moving. He held her still in front of him and looked beyond her. "Do you have what you need?"

His voice jolted her. It sounded different, harder.

"Cut and print!" Jack exclaimed. "Fantastic! Great work, both of you. I may need a couple more close-ups, but let me check the tape first."

Eric stepped away from her. She felt a chill as he transformed himself before her eyes. All the warmth disappeared. He looked edgy, restless, and hostile.

His name seemed to stick in her throat. "Eric?"

"Yeah?" The day wasn't warm, but beads of sweat had broken out on his forehead. He walked behind the cameras toward one of the director's chairs and snatched up the cigarettes he had left there.

She followed him, unable to hold herself back. "I—It— uh—it went pretty well, didn't it?"

"Yeah, I guess." He lit a cigarette and took a deep, uneven drag. "I hope we don't have to do a piece of shit like that again. From now on do us all a favor and keep your adolescent sexual fantasies to yourself."

Her daydream shattered. He had been acting. None of it was real. Not his kisses, his whispers, his gentle, loving touch. With a soft exclamation of pain, she turned into an ugly duckling again. Picking up her skirts, she raced for the solitude of her trailer.

Dash stood less than twenty feet away observing it all. He had seen how skillfully Dillon had maneuvered her so the cameras could photograph them from different angles, and he couldn't remember the last time he'd felt such an urge to hurt someone. He told himself it wasn't any of his business. Hell, he'd done worse to women in his life. But Honey wasn't a woman yet, and as Dillon bent over to retrieve his script, Dash found himself walking up to him.

"You're a genuine sonovabitch, aren't you, pretty boy?"

Eric's eyes narrowed. "I was doing my job."

"Is that so? And what job is that?"

"I'm an actor."

Dash opened and closed his fist at his side. "A bastard is more like it."

Eric's eyes narrowed and he tossed his cigarette to the ground. "Go ahead, old man. Take a swing." He braced himself, the muscles beneath his shirt tightening.

Dash wasn't intimidated. Dillon had Hollywood muscles, built on high-priced gym equipment instead of hard work and barroom brawls. They were cosmetic muscles, no more real than the kisses he had given Honey.

And then Dash saw the sweat glistening on Eric's forehead. He had seen men sweat from fear before, and they always looked wild in the eyes. Dillon just looked desperate.

He knew then that Eric wanted him to hit him, and as abruptly as it had seized him, he lost his desire to draw blood. For a moment he did nothing, and then he pushed his hat back on his head and gave Dillon a long, steady gaze.

"I guess I'll pass for now. I don't want a young stud like you humiliating me in front of everybody."

"No!" A vein began to throb in Eric's temple. "No! You can't do that. You—"

"So long, pretty boy."

"Don't—"

The plea stuck in Eric's throat as he watched Dash walk away. He fumbled for another cigarette, lit it, and drew the poisoned smoked into his lungs. Coogan didn't even respect him enough to fight him. At that moment he admitted to himself what he had refused to acknowledge before. How much he admired Dash Coogan—not as an actor, but as a man. Now that it was too late, he knew that he wanted Coogan's respect, just as he'd always wanted respect from his father. Dash was a real man, not a pretend one.

The smoke was choking him. He had to get out of here. Someplace where he could breathe. An image of needy, light blue eyes swam before him. He stalked from the set, pushing his way through the equipment and the crew, trying to escape those eyes. But they stayed with him. She was so desperate for love that she didn't have any sense of self-preservation. She hadn't even put up a fight, just let him throw her right over the edge of the cliff.

His lungs burned. Stupid. She was so goddamn stupid. She didn't understand the first rule of fairy tales. She didn't understand that little girls weren't ever supposed to fall in love with the evil prince.