Film at Eleven. Kelsey Roberts

      Molly did, feeling all of her insecurities knot in the pit of her belly. Silently she cursed Gavin Templesman. Only her beloved mentor could have conned her into doing this silly segment. Gavin knew how she felt about being in the public eye. He also knew how badly she wanted her book to succeed. She wanted to help people. That didn’t mean she wanted to sit under a circle of hot lights and have the intrusive camera trained on her face for the next ten minutes. She knew her stuff. Saying something inappropriate or becoming tongue-tied wasn’t going to be a problem for her. No matter how much she disliked the artifice of the television studio.

      No, what she didn’t enjoy was the feeling of vulnerability and discomfort she felt as Chandler Landry strolled across the set toward her. She folded her hands loosely in her lap as she watched him approach, willing her erratic heartbeat to slow and her breathing to remain even. Hard to imagine, but he was even better looking in person than on her twenty-seven-inch screen at home.

      She hoped he wasn’t a shaking-hands kinda guy. Her palms were slightly damp. Which annoyed her no end.

      “Dr. Jameson,” Chandler greeted with a smile that she felt all the way to her toes.

      She subtly brushed her right hand on her skirt before taking the hand he offered and struggled to keep her knees from buckling. Up close, Chandler was a devastating sight to behold. The faint scent of his cologne was as intriguing as the fact that his palm was slightly callused. Why would a pretty boy have calluses?

      “Mr. Landry,” she greeted, forcing a lightness to her tone. “I feel like I know you already.”

      “Most people do,” he replied easily. “The price you pay for being invited into the homes of viewers day in and day out.”

      “We all have our crosses to bear,” she countered, dropping his hand.

      “We’re back in fifteen,” a voice thundered through the studio.

      Chandler held out a chair for her, presenting Molly with what she assumed was her first in a series of humiliations. In spite of her heels, she was forced to climb up on to the stool, and her perfectly professional navy pumps fell about an inch shy of the foot bar.

      “Ten seconds, Chandler.”

      He rolled her into place. “Sit on the back of your jacket,” Chandler suggested. “It looks better on camera.”

      “I thought I was here to give advice to your callers,” she said as she adjusted the bunched lapels of her suit.

      He clipped a microphone to the creamy silk tie that complemented his gunmetal-gray shirt. “This is television, sweetheart. Ninety percent of it is how you look.”

      “How positively shallow,” she muttered as she scooted the hem of her jacket beneath her hips. Sweetheart? What a condescending ass.

      “People don’t tune in for ugly.”

      “In five,” the bodyless voice announced.

      “Lucky for you.”

      Chandler tossed her an easy smile. “Thanks, I think.”

      “In four.”

      Molly felt like a few thousand nerve endings wired for sound. While the studio was relatively quiet, everyone was watching the two of them. She felt like a zoo exhibit, and had to force herself not to fiddle with her hair and clothes. Something she rarely did. She was uncomfortably self-conscious and hoped to God it didn’t show. She took a deep calming breath and let it out slowly.

      Better.

      “Three.”

      Her breathing was fine. It was her heart rate that was the problem. Nerves, anticipation and, damn it, the close proximity of Chandler Landry had her hyperaware. How did I allow myself to get talked into this?

      “Two.”

      Chandler patted her hand just as one of the large cameras wheeled closer to them. “Good luck, Doc.”

      Headset woman brought her hand down and pointed at Chandler just as a large red light came on above the teleprompter attached to the camera lens.

      “Good morning, again, Montana. I’m here in the studio this morning with author and psychiatrist Martha Jameson.”

      Molly felt a trickle of perspiration dribble down between her shoulder blades. Part of it was the bright lights but most of it was palpable, intense fear.

      “Dr. Jameson’s latest book,” Chandler continued, holding her book up as he spoke. “The Relationship Mambo, has just been released by University Press. Good morning, Dr. Jameson.”

      “Good morning,” she replied in a hideously scratched voice.

      “I was reading your book last night and I was struck by the fact that you advocate casual physical encounters in this day and age.”

      Leave it to a man to focus on the sex parts. Out of context, of course. This was going to be the longest ten minutes of her life. “Actually,” she began, treading the waters between being pissed and terrified. “You’ve misstated my position.” She ignored the dark flash in his eyes. “Sexuality is part of human nature. And while the ideal situation would be physical intimacy as part of a meaningful, committed relationship, that isn’t always practical. The chapter you referred to is a discussion of the double standard that exists in our society. I was simply stating my opinion that women should take ownership over their sexuality just as men have done since the dawn of time.”

      “That’s great in theory, but doesn’t society frown on women being promiscuous?”

      “I’m not advocating promiscuity, Mr. Landry. I’m acknowledging that women have the same physical needs as men.” And apparently the same homicidal tendencies, Molly thought, wanting to smack that smug smile off his handsome face. Strangely, her heartbeat felt just fine and dandy now.

      Great looking—yes. But smug, arrogant and very sure he was the be all and end all for any woman he met.

      Nice try, Molly thought, narrowing her eyes slightly, but no cigar. It would take a better man than you are, Gunga Din.

      Chandler smiled and winked. “Let’s hope every woman out there adopts your philosophy. Dr. Jameson will answer any of your relationship questions. Call the number at the bottom of your screen.” Chandler flipped her book open to a premarked page. He glanced down, then looked at her from under his brows as if surprised. “You also advocate divorce, Dr. Jameson.”

      Molly’s blood boiled as she tried to maintain her fake smile. “Again you’ve misinterpreted my position.” Read for comprehension, pretty boy! “I advocate divorce in situations where there is abuse, both physical and emotional.”

      “Or lack of love,” he read.

      “Which is a form of emotional abuse, Mr. Landry. Relationships are living things. They need fuel to survive. If there is no love, the relationship withers and dies.” Which is exactly what I’d like to have happen to you!

      “You don’t confine your advice to men and women,” he continued. “You write extensively about parent-child relationships, as well. Do you have children, Dr. Jameson?”

      “No. My book is based on research and almost a decade as a therapist.”

      “Isn’t it hard for you to hold yourself out as an authority on children when you’ve never had any of your own?”

      “Psychiatrists often can’t have firsthand knowledge of a given situation. For example, a doctor doesn’t have to beat his wife in order to understand the dynamic of spousal abuse.”

      He gave her a slight nod of recognition. “We’ve got John on line one. Go ahead, John.”

      “Yes,” a deep voice crackled through the studio. “My life sucks.”

      “This is morning television, John,” Chandler warned politely. “Watch the language.”

      “Anyway,”