Private Scandals

  His mouth quivered as she dragged on his T-shirt. “I’m not cynical, I’m realistic. Marriage has become like newspapers. You toss them out when you’re through, and not a hell of a lot of people bother to recycle.”

  “Then what’s the point?” She yanked on her shorts.

  “I’m in love with you.” He said it quietly, simply, and stopped her from storming out of the room. “I’d like to think about the idea of starting a life with you, having children, giving some of those traditional trappings a shot.”

  His words deflated her anger. “Damn you, Finn,” she said helplessly.

  He grinned up at her. “Then you’ll think about it.”

  Chapter Twenty

  Dan Gardner didn’t marry Angela for her money. Not entirely. Some people were unkind enough to think he had—even to say he had. During the first few weeks of their marriage there was considerable speculation in the tabloid press about the matter, as well as the disparity in their ages: ten years almost to the day. A firm believer in publicity, Dan had planted the articles himself.

  But there were other reasons he had married her. He admired her skills. He understood her flaws and, most important to him, how to exploit them. It was he, recognizing her insecurities and her suspicions, who had insisted on signing a prenuptial agreement. Divorce would not benefit him. But Dan wasn’t planning on divorce—unless it benefited him. It was he—knowing her weakness for romance and her need to be the center of love—who arranged for candlelit dinners for two, quiet weekends in the country. When she needed attention beyond what he could provide, he arranged for that as well. As Angela became more and more obsessed with eroding ratings, he picked up the threads of several A. P. Production projects and deftly increased the profits.

  He might not have married her for her money, but he intended to enjoy it.

  “Look at this!” Angela heaved a copy of TV Guide across the room. It landed with Deanna’s picture faceup. “Just look! ‘Daytime’s new princess,’ my ass.” Her silk robe billowed out like a sail as she paced the snowy carpet of her penthouse. “ ‘Warm and accessible, sexy and sharp.’ They fawned over her, Dan. Goddamn it, they gave her the cover and two full pages.”

  “Don’t let it spook you.” Because they were staying in for the evening, Dan poured her a full flute of champagne. She was easier to handle when she was drunk and weepy. And when she was needy, the sex was simply stupendous. “She’s just got a longer way to fall now, that’s all.”

  “That’s not all.” Angela snatched the glass away from him. She didn’t want to need a drink, but she did and she was in no mood to fight the longing. “You saw the ratings. She’s had a twenty-percent share for the last three weeks.”

  “And you ended up the year as number one,” he reminded her.

  “It’s a new year,” she snapped back. “Yesterday doesn’t count.” She drank deeply, then planted the dainty heel of her feathered mule in Deanna’s left eye. “Not so pretty now, are you?” Fueled on envy, she kicked the magazine aside. “No matter what I do she keeps moving up. Now she’s getting my press.” After draining the glass, she thrust it back at Dan.

  “Angela’s isn’t your only interest.” Dutifully he refilled the glass for her. “You have the specials, the projects A. P. Productions is involved with. Your interests and your impact are more diverse than hers.” He watched her eyes consider as she drank. “She’s got one note, Angela. She plays it well, but it’s just one note.”

  The description steadied her quaking heart. “She was always limited, with her little timetables and note cards.” But as her fury drained, despair crept into the void. “I don’t want her cutting me out, Dan.” Her eyes filled, swimming with hot tears as she gulped down champagne. “I don’t think I could stand it. Not from her of all people.”

  “You’re making it too personal.” Sympathetically, he filled her glass again, knowing that after the third drink she’d be as pliant as a baby with a full tummy.

  “It is personal.” The tears spilled over, but she let Dan lead her to the couch. She cuddled there on his lap with tangled threads of contentment and unease working through her. It had been the same cuddling on her father’s lap on the rare occasions when he had been home and sober. “She wants to hurt me, Dan. She and that bastard Loren Bach. They’d do anything to hurt me.”

  “No one’s going to hurt you.” He tipped the glass to her lips the way a mother might urge medicine on a whiny child.

  “They know I’m the best.”

  “Of course they do.” Her neediness aroused him. As long as her neuroses bloomed, he was in charge. Setting her glass aside, he parted her robe to nuzzle her breasts. “Just leave everything to me,” he murmured. “I’ll take care of it.”

  “Do arguments with your mate end up as war zones, with flying accusations and flying dishes? ‘How to Fight Fair,’ tomorrow on Deanna’s Hour.”

  “Okay, Dee, we need some bumpers for the affiliates.”

  She rolled her eyes at the assistant director, but dutifully scanned the cue cards. “View the best on Tulsa’s best. KJAB-TV, channel nine. Okay, let’s run through them.”

  For the next hour she taped promos for affiliates across the country, a tedious chore at best, but one she always agreed to.

  When it was done, Fran walked on set with a chilled sixteen-ounce bottle of Pepsi. She waddled a little, heavily pregnant with her second child. “The price of fame,” she said.

  “I can pay it.” Grateful, Deanna took a long, cool drink. “Didn’t I tell you to go home early?”

  “Didn’t I tell you I’m fine? I’ve got three weeks yet.”

  “Three more weeks and you won’t fit through the doorway.”

  “What was that?”

  “Nothing.” Deanna drank again before heading off set. She paused by the large mirror, hooking an arm through Fran’s so that they stood side by side. “Don’t you think you’re a bit bigger than you were when you were carrying Aubrey?”

  Fran snuck an M& M into her mouth. “Water weight.”

  Deanna caught the whiff of candy and lifted a brow. “Sure it couldn’t have anything to do with all those chocolate doughnuts you’ve been scarfing down?”

  “The kid has a yen for them. What am I supposed to do? The cravings have to be filtered through me first.” Tilting her head, Fran studied her reflection. The new chin-length hair bob might have been flattering, she thought. If her face hadn’t looked like an inflated balloon. “Jeez, why did I buy this brown suit? I look like a woolly mammoth.”

  “You said it, I didn’t.” Deanna turned toward the elevators, eyeing Fran owlishly as she pressed the button.

  “No cracks about weight restrictions, pal.” With what dignity she could muster, Fran waddled in and stabbed sixteen. “I can’t wait until it’s your turn. If you’d just give in and marry Finn, you could start a family. You, too, could experience the joys of motherhood. Swollen feet, indigestion, stretch marks and the ever-popular weak bladder.”

  “You’re making it so appealing.”

  “The trouble—and the reason I am once again approaching the size of a small planet—is that it is appealing.” She pressed a hand to her side as the baby—once again dubbed Big Ed—tried out a one-two punch. “There’s nothing quite like it,” she murmured. The doors opened. “So, are you going to marry the guy or what?”

  “I’m thinking about it.”

  “You’ve been thinking about it for weeks.” Fran braced a hand on her spine as they walked to Deanna’s office.

  “He’s thinking, too.” She knew it sounded defensive. Annoyed, she sailed through the empty outer office into her own. “And things are complicated right now.”

  “Things are always complicated. People who wait for the perfect moment usually die first.”

  “That’s comforting.”

  “I wouldn’t want to push you.”

  “Wouldn’t you?” Deanna smiled again.

  “Nudge, sweetie pie, not push. What’s this?” Fran picked up the
single white rose that lay across Deanna’s desk. “Classy,” she said, giving it a sniff. “Romantic. Sweet.” She glanced at the plain white envelope still resting on the blotter. “Finn?”

  No, Deanna thought, her skin chilled. Not Finn. She struggled for casualness and picked up a pile of correspondence Cassie had typed. “Could be.”

  “Aren’t you going to open the note?”

  “Later. I want to make sure Cassie gets these letters out before the end of the day.”

  “God, you’re a tough sell, Dee. If a guy sent me a single rose, I’d be putty.”

  “I’m busy.”

  Fran’s head jerked up at the change in her tone. “I can see that. I’ll get out of your way.”

  “I’m sorry.” Instantly contrite, Deanna reached out. “Really, Fran, I didn’t mean to bite your head off. I guess I’m a little wired. The Daytime Emmy business is coming up. That stupid tabloid story about my secret affair with Loren Bach hit last week.”

  “Oh, honey, you’re not letting that get to you. Come on. I think Loren got a kick out of it.”

  “He can afford to. It didn’t make him sound as though he was sleeping his way to a thirty-percent share.”

  “Nobody believes those things.” She huffed at Deanna’s expression. “Well, nobody with an IQ in the triple digits. As far as the Emmys go, you’ve got nothing to worry about there either. You’re going to win.”

  “That’s what they keep telling Susan Lucci.” But she laughed and waved Fran away. “Get out of here—and go home this time. It’s nearly five anyway.”

  “Talked me into it.” Fran laid the rose back on the desk, not noticing Deanna’s instinctive recoil. “See you tomorrow.”

  “Yeah.” Alone, Deanna reached cautiously for the envelope. She took the ebony-handled letter opener from her desk set and slit it cleanly open.

  DEANNA, I’D DO ANYTHING FOR YOU.

  IF ONLY YOU’D LOOK AT ME, REALLY LOOK.

  I’D GIVE YOU ANYTHING. EVERYTHING.

  I’VE BEEN WAITING SO LONG.

  She was beginning to believe the writer meant every word. She slipped the note neatly back into the envelope, opened her bottom desk drawer to place it on the mounting stack of similar messages. Determined to handle the matter practically, she picked up the rose, studying its pale, fragile petals as if they held a clue to the identity of the sender.

  Obsession. A frightening word, she thought, yet surely some forms of obsession were harmless enough. Still, the flower was a change in habit. There’d been no tokens before, only the messages in deep red. Surely a rose was a sign of affection, esteem, fragrant and sweet. Yet the thorns marching up the slender stem could draw blood.

  Now she was being foolish, she told herself. Rising, she filled a water glass and stuck the rose inside. She couldn’t stand to see a beautiful flower wither and die. Still, she set it on a table across the room before she went back to her desk.

  For the next twenty minutes, she signed correspondence. She still had the pen in her hand when her intercom buzzed.

  “Yes, Cassie.”

  “It’s Finn Riley on two.”

  “Thanks. I’ve finished these letters. Can you mail them on your way home?”

  “Sure thing.”

  “Finn? Are you downstairs? I’m sorry, we had a couple of glitches here and I’m running behind.” She glanced at her watch, grimaced. “I’ll never make dinner at seven.”

  “Just as well. I’m across town, stuck at a meeting. Looks like I won’t make it either.”

  “I’ll cancel, then. We’ll eat later.” She glanced up at Cassie as the woman slipped the signed correspondence from Deanna’s desk. “Cassie, cancel my seven o’clock, will you?”

  “All right. Is there anything else you need before I go? You know I can stay to go over those tapes with you.”

  “No, thanks. See you tomorrow. Finn?”

  “Still here.”

  “I’ve got some tapes I need to review. Why don’t you swing by here and pick me up on the way home? I’ll cancel my driver.”

  “Looks like it’ll be about eight, maybe later.”

  “Later’s better. I’ll need at least three hours to finish here. I get more done when everyone’s gone home anyway. I’ll raid Fran’s food stash and burrow in until I hear from you.”

  “If I can’t make it, I’ll let you know.”

  “I’ll be here. ’Bye.”

  Deanna replaced the receiver, then swiveled in her chair to face the window. The sun was already setting, dimming the sky, making the skyline gloomy. She could see lights blinking on, pinpoints against the encroaching dusk.

  She imagined buildings emptying out, the freeway filling. At home, people would be switching on the evening news and thinking about dinner.

  If she married Finn, they would go home. To their home, not his, not hers.

  If she married Finn . . . Deanna toyed with the bracelet she always wore, as much a talisman to her as the cross Finn wore was to him. She would be making a promise of forever if she married him.

  She believed in keeping promises.

  They would begin to plan a family.

  She believed, deeply, in family.

  And she would have to find ways, good, solid, clever ways to make it all work. To make all the elements balance.

  That was what stopped her.

  No matter how often she tried to stop and reason everything out, or how often she struggled to list her priorities and plan of attack, she skittered back like a spooked doe.

  She wasn’t sure she could make it work.

  There wasn’t any hurry, she reminded herself. And right now her priority had to be managing that next rung on the ladder.

  She glanced at her watch, calculating the time she needed against the time she had. Long enough, she thought, to let herself relax briefly before getting back to work.

  Trying one of the stress-reduction techniques she’d learned from a guest on her show, she shut her eyes, drawing long, easy breaths. She was supposed to imagine a door, closed and blank. When she was ready, she was to open that door and step into a scene she found relaxing, peaceful, pleasant.

  As always, she opened the door quickly, too quickly, impatient to see what was on the other side.

  The porch of Finn’s cabin. Spring. Butterflies flitted around the blooming herbs and flowering ground cover of his rock garden. She could hear the sleepy droning of bees hovering around the salmon-colored azalea she had helped him plant. The sky was a clear, dazzling blue so perfect for dreams.

  She sighed, beautifully content. There was music, all strings. A flood of weeping violins flowing through the open windows behind her.

  Then she was lying on that soft, blooming lawn, lifting her arms to Finn. The sun haloed around his hair, casting shadows over his face, deepening his eyes until they were so blue she might have drowned in them. Wanted to. And he was in her arms, his body warm and hard, his mouth sure and clever. She could feel her body tighten with need, her skin hum with it. They were moving together, slowly, fluidly, as graceful as dancers, with the blue bowl of the sky above them and the drone of bees throbbing like a pulse.

  She heard her name, a whisper twining through the music of the dream. And she smiled and opened her eyes to look at him.

  But it wasn’t Finn. Clouds had crept over the sun, darkening the sky to ink so that she couldn’t see his face. But it wasn’t Finn. Even as her body recoiled, he said her name again.

  “I’m thinking of you. Always.”

  She jerked awake, skin clammy, heart thumping. In automatic defense, she wrapped her arms tight around herself to ward off a sudden, violent chill. The hell with meditation, she thought, struggling to shake off the last vestige of the dream. She’d take work-related stress any day. She tried to laugh at herself, but the sound came out more like a sob.

  Just groggy, she thought. A little groggy from an unscheduled catnap. But her eyes widened as she stared at her watch. She’d been asleep for nearly an hour.


  A ridiculous waste of time, she told herself, and rose from the chair to work out kinks. Work, she told herself firmly, and started to shrug out of her suit jacket as she turned back to her desk.

  And there were roses. Two perfectly matched blooms speared up from the water glass in the center of her desk. In instant denial, she stepped forward, her eyes cutting across the room to where she