"This is the first time you've been romantic since we separated. Something special must have happened." Gabby examined him candidly. "It was last night, wasn't it?"
"No, pet."
"I was with Jordan Lennox and he hit you."
Audibon's fists clenched. He recovered himself and abandoned the tenderness. "All right," he said crisply. "If you insist on being cerebral ... I'm worried about you. I hate the idea of you free-lancing around from job to job, never knowing where the next check is coming from. I want to offer a contract."
Gabby looked at him steadily.
"I want to offer security and success. Not materialistically, but Rennaissancewise. Don't waste time and talent on subsistence-type jobs to keep bread in the house. Do the creative work you're equipped to do ... and you know how stratospheric my opinion of your talent is. It needs an oxygen mask."
"Thank you, Roy."
"Stop slumming, pet. Come back to me. You and I are top-level talent. You've got to work where the work counts. Architectural design? The network's dreaming up a new office building in Cuba. Take a dive at it from the twenty-foot board. Stage design? Come into our set department and rub up our imagination."
"You're very kind, Roy."
"Not kind. Practical. New talent is our priority headache. We know it's around, but we can't tap it. The slobs outside the network think there's a cabal to keep new talent out. There isn't. We just can't mock up an efficient screening operation to locate it. But once we bark our shins on new talent, we burn incense and work overtime building it up. Let me build you up, pet. Don't waste yourself on the outside."