Private Scandals

  “It’s because I’m older than you, isn’t it?” She hurled the words at him as her fury contorted the careful beauty of her face. “You think you can find someone younger, someone you can mold and train and teach to grovel.”

  “We’ve played that tune before. I’d say we’ve played them all.” He turned, heading for the door. He was nearly across the foyer when she threw herself at his feet.

  “Don’t. Don’t leave me!” She clung to his legs, sobbing. Rejection sliced at her, bringing as much fear as pain. As it always did. As it always would. “I’m sorry.” And she meant it, completely, utterly, at that moment. It only made it worse. “I’m sorry. Please, don’t leave me.”

  “For God’s sake, Angela.” Pummeled by pity and disgust, he dragged her to her feet. “Don’t do this.”

  “I love you. I love you so much.” With her arms twined around his neck, she wept against his shoulder. The love was as true as her earlier fury, as volatile, and as capricious.

  “If I thought you meant that, I’d feel sorry for both of us.” He jerked her back, gave her a quick shake. Tears. He’d always considered them a woman’s most potent and most underhanded weapon. “Turn it off, damn it. Do you think I could have slept with you on and off for three months and not know when you’re manipulating me? You don’t love me, and you only want me because I walked away.”

  “That’s not true.” She lifted her tear-ravaged face. There was such innocent hurt in it, such wretched sincerity, that he nearly faltered. “I do love you, Finn. And I can make you happy.”

  Furious, with her as well as with his own weakness for her, he pried her arms away. “Do you think I didn’t know that you put pressure on James to have me fired just because you didn’t want me to take the London assignment?”

  “I was desperate.” She covered her face with her hands and let the tears leak through her fingers. “I was afraid of losing you.”

  “You wanted to prove you were in control. And if James hadn’t been so solidly behind me, you could have fucked up my career.”

  “He didn’t listen to me.” She lowered her hands, and her face was cold. “Neither did you.”

  “No. I came here tonight because I’d hoped we’d both had enough time to let things settle. Looks like I was wrong.”

  “Do you think you can walk out on me?” She spoke quietly and with utter calm as Finn moved toward the door. The tears were forgotten. “Do you think it’s simple to just turn your back and walk away? I’ll ruin you. It may take years, but I swear, I’ll ruin you.”

  Finn paused at the door. She stood in the center of the foyer, her face blotched and puffy with weeping, her eyes swollen and hard as stone. “Thanks for the party, Angela. It was a hell of a show.”

  Deanna would have agreed. As Finn strode toward his car, she was yawning in the elevator as it climbed toward her apartment. She was grateful she had the entire next day off. It would give her time to recover, and time to think through her situation with Marshall.

  But the only thing on her schedule now was a long, soothing bath and a good night’s sleep.

  She had her keys out of her purse before the elevator doors opened. Humming to herself, she unlocked both the standard lock and the dead bolt. Out of habit, she hit the light switch beside the door as she crossed the threshold.

  Quiet, she thought. Wonderful, blessed silence. With the door locked again behind her, she crossed automatically to her phone machine to check messages. As she played them back, she slipped out of her black satin pumps and wriggled her cramped toes. She was smiling at the recording of Fran’s voice reciting possible baby names when she spotted the envelope near the door.

  Odd, she mused. Had that been there when she’d come in? She crossed the room, glancing through the security peephole before bending to scoop up the note.

  There was nothing written on the sealed envelope. Puzzled, and fighting off another yawn, she tore it open, unfolded the single sheet of plain white stationery.

  There was only one sentence, typed in bold red ink.

  Deanna, I adore you.

  Chapter Six

  “We’ve got thirty seconds to air.”

  “We’ll make it.” Deanna slipped into her chair beside Roger on the news set. Through her earpiece she heard the frantic overlapping voices in the control room. A few feet away, the floor director was shouting demands for information and dancing in place. One of the camera crew was smoking lazily and chatting with a grip.

  “Twenty seconds. Jesus.” Roger wiped his damp palms on his knees. “Where did Benny get the bright idea to add music to the tape?”

  “From me.” Deanna gave Roger a brief apologetic smile. “It was just a toss-off idea when I was previewing it. It really will make the piece perfect.” Someone was shouting obscenities through her earpiece, and her smile turned a little sickly. Why did she always want perfection? “Honestly, I didn’t know he’d grab onto it this way.”

  “Ten fucking seconds.” Roger took a last glimpse in his hand mirror. “If we have to fill, I’m dumping on you, babe.”

  “We’re going to be fine.” Her jaw was set stubbornly. She’d make it fine, by God. She’d make it the best damn one-minute-ten the station had ever aired. The swearing in the control room turned to a pandemonium of cheers as the floor director began his countdown. “Got it.” She glanced smugly in Roger’s direction, then faced the camera.

  “Good afternoon, this is Midday. I’m Roger Crowell.”

  “And I’m Deanna Reynolds. The passenger count on flight 1129 from London last Friday was two hundred and sixty-four. Early this morning, that number rose by one. Matthew John Carlyse, son of passengers Alice and Eugene Carlyse, made his first appearance at five-fifteen this morning. Though six weeks premature, Matthew weighed in at a healthy five pounds.”

  As the tape rolled, to the accompaniment of the crooning “Baby, Baby,” Deanna let out a relieved breath and grinned at the monitor. Her idea, she reminded herself. And it was perfect. “Great pictures.”

  “Not bad,” Roger agreed, and was forced to smile when the monitor focused on the tiny form squirming and squawling in the incubator. There was a small set of wings pinned to his blanket. “Almost worth the ulcer.”

  “The Carlyses named their son after Matthew Kirkland, the pilot who landed flight 1129 safely at O’Hare Friday night despite engine failure. Mr. Carlyse said that neither he nor his wife were concerned about making the return flight to London at the end of the month. Young Matthew had no comment.”

  “In other news . . .” Roger segued into the next segment.

  Deanna glanced down at her copy, reviewing her pacing. When she looked up again, she spotted Finn in the rear of the studio. He rocked back on his heels, his thumbs hooked in his front pockets, but he gave her a nod of congratulations.

  What the hell was he doing there, watching, evaluating? The man had a full week’s free time coming to him. Why wasn’t he at the beach, the mountains, somewhere? Even as she turned to the camera again and picked up her cue, she could feel his eyes on her, coolly blue and objective.

  By the time they broke for the last commercial before “Deanna’s Corner,” her nerves had evolved into bubbling temper.

  Deanna pushed back from the news desk, descended the step and marched across the snaking cables. Before she could greet her guest for the day, Finn stepped in front of her.

  “You’re better than I remember.”

  “Really?” She gave the hem of her jacket a quick tug. “Well, with a compliment like that, I can die happy.”

  “Just an observation.” Curious, he wrapped his fingers around her arm to hold her in place. “I can’t make up my mind about you. Am I still on the blacklist because I bumped you off the story the other night?”

  “You’re not on any list. I just don’t like being watched.”

  He had to grin. “Then you’re in the wrong business, Kansas.”

  He let her go. Impulsively he took one of the folding chairs out of camera range. H
e hadn’t intended to stay, and knew he did so simply to irritate her. He’d come in that afternoon, as he’d come in the evening before, because he enjoyed being back in the Chicago studios.

  He didn’t have much in his life at the moment other than his career. He preferred it that way. He watched Deanna ease her guest’s nerves with off-camera chitchat, and considered. Would she be relieved or annoyed to know he hadn’t given her a thought over the remainder of the weekend? Years in the business had made him an expert at compartmentalizing his life. Women didn’t interfere with his work, the sculpting of a story or his ambitions.

  The months in London had added to his reputation and his credibility, but he was happy to be back.

  His thoughts swung back to Deanna as he heard her laugh. A good, smoky sound, he thought. Subtle sex. It suited her looks, he decided. And those eyes. They were warm now, and filled with lively interest as her guest hyped a one-woman art show scheduled for that evening.

  At that moment, Finn didn’t give a damn about art. But he was interested, very interested in Deanna. The way she leaned forward, just a little, to add a sense of intimacy to the interview. Not once did he catch her looking at her notes and scrambling for the next question.

  Even when they broke, Deanna continued to give her guest her attention. As a result, the artist left the studio with her ego fully pumped. Deanna slipped back behind the news desk with Roger for the close.

  “She’s good, isn’t she?”

  Finn glanced behind him. Simon Grimsley was standing just inside the studio doors. He was a thin-shouldered man, with a long, narrow face set in perpetual lines of worry and doubt. Even when he smiled, as he did now, there was a look in his eyes that spoke of inescapable doom. He was losing his hair, though Finn knew him to be on the shy side of thirty. He was dressed, as always, in a dark suit and snugly knotted tie. And, as always, the attire accented his bony frame.

  “How’s it going, Simon?”

  “Don’t ask.” Simon rolled his dark, pessimistic eyes. “Angela’s in one of her moods today. Big time.”

  “That’s not exactly a breaking story, Simon.”

  “Don’t I know it.” He lowered his voice as the red light blinked on. “Threw a paperweight at me,” he whispered. “Baccarat. Lucky she doesn’t have much of an arm.”

  “Maybe she could get a job with the Cubs.”

  Simon gave what passed for a chuckle, then guiltily stifled it. “She’s under a lot of pressure.”

  “Yeah, right.”

  “It isn’t easy staying number one.” Simon let out a sigh of relief when the “on the air” sign blinked off. Live television kept him in a constant state of turmoil. “Deanna.” He signaled to her and nearly hooked his foot in a coil of cable in his hurry to catch up. “Nice show. Really nice.”

  “Thanks.” She looked from him to Finn, then back. “How’d this morning’s taping go?”

  “It went.” He grimaced. “Angela asked me to get this message to you.” He offered a pale pink envelope. “It seemed important.”

  “Okay.” She resisted the urge to bury the note in her pocket. “Don’t worry, I’ll get back to her.”

  “Well, I’d better get upstairs. Come by this afternoon’s taping if you get a chance.”

  “I will.”

  Finn watched the door swing shut behind Simon. “I’ll never understand how anyone so nervous and depressed can deal with the characters Angela’s books.”

  “He’s organized. I don’t know anyone better at sorting things out than Simon.”

  “That wasn’t a criticism,” Finn said as he matched her stride out of the studio. “It was a comment.”

  “You seem to be full of comments today.” Out of habit, she turned into the dressing room to redo her makeup.

  “Then I’ve got another one. Your interview with the artist—Myra, was it?—was solid.”

  Pleasure snuck through her guard. “Thanks. It was an interesting subject.”

  “It didn’t have to be. You kept her grounded when she started to run on about technique and symbolism. You kept it light and friendly.”

  “I prefer light and friendly.” Her eyes met his in the mirror and sizzled. “I’ll leave Gorbachev and Hussein to you.”

  “I appreciate it.” He shook his head as she freshened her lipstick. “You’re touchy. The observation was meant as a compliment.”

  He was right, she thought. She was being touchy. “Do you know what I think, Finn?” She smoothed back her hair and turned. “I think there’s too much energy in this room. Conflicting energy.”

  He had felt electricity since the moment he’d scooped her against him on a rainy runway. “And how does all that conflicting energy make you feel?”

  “Crowded.” She smiled, in direct response to the amusement in his eyes. “I suppose that’s why it always seems you’re in my way.”

  “I guess I’d better move aside then, and give you some room.”

  “Why don’t you?” She picked up the pink envelope she’d set on the counter, but before she could open it, Finn took her hand.

  “Question. How do you justify your job as a reporter for CBC with your job with Angela?”

  “I don’t have a job with Angela. I work the news.” In quick, competent moves, she ran a brush through her hair and tied it back. “I occasionally do favors for Angela. She doesn’t pay me.”

  “Just a couple of pals helping each other out?”

  She didn’t care for the edge in his voice. “I wouldn’t say Angela and I were pals. We are friends, and she’s been very generous with me. The news division doesn’t have a problem with my personal association with Angela, or with the time I give her.”

  “So I hear. But then the entertainment division wouldn’t step back from applying a little pressure when they’ve got the clout of a top-rated show.” He rocked back on his heels, studying her. “It makes me wonder why Angela would go to the trouble just to use you.”

  Her hackles rose. “She isn’t using me. I’m learning from her. And learning is something I find useful.”

  “Learning what, exactly?”

  How to be the best, she thought, but cautiously kept that thought to herself. “She has incredible interviewing skills.”

  “That she does, but yours seem sharp enough to me.” He paused. “At least on soft news.”

  She nearly snarled, delighting him. “I enjoy what I do, and if I didn’t, it still wouldn’t be any of your business.”

  “An accurate statement.” He should have dropped the subject, but he knew too well what Angela could do with her claws once they were dug in. Unless he missed his guess, Deanna would bleed fast and copiously. “Would you listen to a friendly warning about Angela?”

  “No. I make up my mind about people on my own.”

  “Suit yourself. I wonder,” he continued, searching her face. “Are you as tough as you think you are?”

  “I can be tougher.”

  “You’ll need to be.” He released her hand and walked away.

  Alone, Deanna let out a long, steadying breath. Why was it every time she spent five minutes with Finn, she felt as though she’d run a marathon? Exhausted and exhilarated. Pushing him firmly out of her mind, she tore open Angela’s note. The handwriting was a series of loops and flourishes drawn with a fountain pen.

  Deanna darling,

  I have something vitally important to discuss with you. My schedule today is maddening, but I can slip away about four. Meet me for tea at the Ritz. Lobby lounge. Believe me, it’s urgent.

  Love,

  Angela

  Angela hated to be kept waiting. By four-fifteen, she’d ordered a second champagne cocktail and begun to steam. She was about to offer Deanna the chance of a lifetime, and rather than gratitude, she was greeted with rudeness. As a result, she snapped at the waitress when her drink was served, and scowled around the sumptuous lounge.

  The fountain behind her tinkled musically. It soothed her a bit, like the frothy sip of champagne. It wasn?
??t really drinking, she thought, pleasing herself. It was like tasting success.

  The gilt and glory of the Ritz was a long way from Arkansas, she reminded herself. And she was about to go further yet.

  The reminder of her plans softened the frown on her face. The smile bolstered the courage of a matron with blue-tinted hair who approached for an autograph. Angela was all gracious affability. When Deanna hurried in at twenty after four, she saw Angela chatting amiably with a fan.

  “Excuse me.” Deanna took the seat across from Angela. “I’m sorry I’m late.”