Private Scandals (7 page)

“If you do, then you know that looks matter in television news. The public likes their death, destruction and dirty politics delivered by an attractive medium. And why the hell not?”

“How long did it take you to get that cynical?”

“About five minutes after I landed my first on-the-air job at the number-three station in Tulsa.” Finn’s thoughts veered forward; it would take only an inch to taste her ripe, sexy and serious mouth. “I beat out two other candidates because I looked better on tape.”

“And your work had nothing to do with it?”

“It does now.” He toyed with the ends of the hair that rained over her shoulders.

His fingers felt entirely too good against her skin, Deanna realized, and shifted gears. “Where did you get the scar?”

“Which one?”

“This one.” She moved his hand between them, tilted the scar up.

“Oh. Bar fight. In . . .” His eyes narrowed as he tried to place the incident. “Belfast. A charming little pub that caters to the IRA.”

“Mmm.” As a precaution she kept his hand in hers. However intimate the gesture looked, it prevented him from touching her. “Don’t you think it’s undignified for a well-known television correspondent to brawl in bars?”

“I’m entitled to some entertainment, but it was a long time ago.” The scarred thumb brushed gently up the side of hers, down again, toward the wrist, where her pulse began to stutter. “I’m much more dignified now.” And he smiled, drawing her closer.

Every muscle in her body turned to water. “I don’t think so.”

“Try me.” It was a low, murmured challenge she had no answer for. “Someone’s looking for you.”

Shaking off the mood, she glanced over her shoulder and spotted Marshall. When their eyes met, he smiled and held up two glasses of champagne.

“I guess that’s my cue to let you go.” Finn did, then captured her hand for one last moment. “Just how seriously involved are you?”

She hesitated, looking down at their joined hands. The desire to link fingers was very strong. “I don’t know.” She
met his eyes squarely. “I haven’t decided.”

“Let me know when you do.” He released her hand, and watched her walk away.

“I’m sorry I’m late.” Marshall kissed her briefly before he offered Deanna a flute of champagne.

“It’s all right.” She sipped, surprised that her throat felt so dry.

“It’s a little chilly out here, isn’t it?” Concerned, he touched her hand. “You’re cold. Come inside.”

“All right.” She glanced back toward Finn as Marshall led her away. “I’m sorry the evening was spoiled yesterday.”

“Don’t worry about it.” After a quick scan of the room, Marshall guided her toward a quiet corner. “We both face emergencies in our work.”

“I did call you after I got in.”

“Yes, I got the message from my service.” His eyes flicked down to his glass before he drank. “I decided to make it an early night.”

“Then you didn’t see the report.”

“Last night? No. But I did catch pieces of it on the morning news. Wasn’t that Finn Riley you were dancing with just now?”

“Yes.”

“He’s had quite a homecoming all in all. I can’t imagine being that concise and detached after being so close to death. I suppose he’s hardened to it.”

Deanna frowned. “I’d say it’s more a matter of instinct and training.”

“I’m glad your instinct and training haven’t made you so cold. Your report from the airport was very passionate, very genuine.”

She smiled weakly. “It was supposed to be objective and informative.”

“It was very informative.” He kissed her again. “And you looked beautiful in the rain.” Lingering over the kiss, he missed her wince of annoyance. “Barring news bulletins,” he said quietly, “can we plan on slipping away early, having some time alone?”

Twenty-four hours before, she would have said yes, she realized. Now, with the murmur of conversation around them, the music drifting in through the terrace doors, the fizz of champagne on her tongue, she hesitated. Marshall tipped a finger under her chin, a gesture she’d once found endearing.

“Problem?” he asked.

“No. Yes.” She let out a breath, impatient with her own wavering. It was time to step back, she thought, and take stock. “I’m sorry, Marshall, Angela’s counting on me to see this party through. And to be honest, things are moving a little fast for me.”

He didn’t remove his hand, but she sensed him drawing in. “I didn’t mean to push.”

“You weren’t. You haven’t.” She curled her fingers over his wrist in a gesture that was both apologetic and affectionate. “I tend to be cautious—maybe overcautious—in relationships. There are reasons, and I’ll explain them to you, when I can.”

“No need to rush.” He let his hand drop away from her chin. “You know how much I want to be with you, and it’s not simply sexual.”

“I know that.” Rising to her toes, she laid her cheek against his. And remembered, very clearly, the feel of her cheek resting against Finn’s as they’d danced.

He was tired, and he didn’t tire easily. Years of snatching sleep on trains and planes and buses, of camping out in jungles and deserts and behind enemy lines had toughened him. He enjoyed the fine linens and mint-bedecked pillows of luxury hotels, but Finn could sleep just as soundly with his head on a bedroll and the echoes of artillery fire as a lullaby.

Tonight he pined for bed and oblivion. Unfortunately, there was unfinished business. He might have been a man to ignore rules, but he never ignored problems.

“That was the last of them.” Angela swept back into the living room looking as fresh and lovely as she had
hours earlier. “Everyone was so glad to see you again.” She wrapped her arms around him, nestling her head beneath his shoulder.

His hand lifted to stroke her hair in a habitual gesture. She felt soft, and somehow pink, he thought. It was like being tangled in a fragrant, climbing vine. If he didn’t nip off the feelers, it would certainly choke him.

“Let’s sit down. We need to talk.”

“I know it’s hard to believe, but I’m about talked out.” She skimmed a hand down his shirt, then back up to toy with his top button. “And I’ve been waiting all evening to be alone with you, to give you your real homecoming.” She leaned forward for a kiss. Her eyes flashed like jagged cobalt when he held her off.

“Angela, I’m sorry. I’m not interested in picking up where we left off six months ago.” He kept his hands firm on her shoulders. “We ended it badly, and I regret that, but we did end it.”

“You’re not going to punish me for being overly emotional, for saying things in the heat of the moment. Finn, we meant too much to each other.”

“We had an affair,” he corrected. “We had sex. It was great sex. And we had a kind of odd friendship. We might be able to salvage the friendship if we put the rest out of the picture.”

“You’re being cruel.”

“I’m being honest.”

“You don’t want me?” She tossed back her head and laughed. The sound, like her eyes, was glassy. “I know you do. I can feel it.” Her skin was glowing as she stepped toward him again. Her lips parted, curved, as she watched his eyes drop to them and linger. “You know what I can do for you, Finn. What I’ll let you do to me. You want as much as I want.”

“I don’t take everything I want.”

“But you took me. Right here, on this floor the first time. Remember?” With her eyes locked on his, she slid her hands up his chest, shivering with triumph when she
felt the unsteady thud of his heart under her palm. “I drove you crazy; you tore my clothes off of me. Remember what it was like?” Her voice lowered, sliding through his system like tainted honey.

He remembered, and the memory made him sick with desire. The bite of her fingernails on his back, her teeth at his shoulder. She’d drawn blood and he hadn’t given a damn.

“I want you to take me again, Finn.” She watched his face as her hand crept downward.

His fingers curled at her back, digging into the silk. He knew what it would be like and, for a moment, desperately craved that moment of violent pleasure. But he remembered much more than the urgent sex and the dazzling fantasies.

“It isn’t going to happen again, Angela.” He let his hands drop away from her back. She was quick. He should have been prepared, but her vicious backhanded blow knocked him back two steps.

His eyes heated like suns, but he lifted a hand and coolly wiped the blood from his lip. “More than this room hasn’t changed, I see.”

“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.

“
W
e’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. He 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.”

“Don’t give it a thought.” Waving away the apology, Angela smiled. “So nice to have met you, Mrs. Hopkins. I’m glad you enjoy the show.”

“I wouldn’t miss it. And you’re even lovelier in person than you are on TV.”

“Isn’t that sweet?” Angela said to Deanna when they were alone. “She watches the show every morning. Now she’ll be able to brag to her bridge club that she met me in person. Let’s get you a drink.”

“We’d better make it tea. I’m driving.”

“Nonsense.” Angela caught the waitress’s attention, tapped her glass, then held up two fingers. “I refuse to celebrate with something as passive as tea.”

“Then I’d better know what we’re celebrating.” Deanna slipped out of her jacket. One drink, she estimated, could easily last the entire thirty minutes she’d allowed for the meeting.

“Not until you have your champagne.” Angela smiled coyly before sipping her own. “I really need to thank you again for being such a trouper the other night. It turned out to be a wonderful party.”

“There wasn’t much to do.”

“Easy for you to say. You’re able to keep a handle on all those little details.” With a flutter of her fingers, Angela dismissed them. “They just annoy me.” Setting her drink aside again, she took out a cigarette. “And what do you think of Finn?”

“I’d have to say he’s one of the best reporters on CBC or any of the networks. Powerful. He has a way of cutting to the heart of an issue, and letting just enough of himself sneak through to intrigue the audience.”

“No, no, not professionally.” Angela blew out an impatient stream of smoke. “As a man.”

“I don’t know him as a man.”

“Impressions, Deanna.” Angela’s voice sharpened, putting Deanna on alert. “You’re a reporter, aren’t you? You’re trained to observe. What are your observations?”

Boggy ground, Deanna decided. The station had been ripe with rumors of past history, and the speculation of a current affair between the two stars. “Objectively? He’s very attractive, charismatic, and I suppose I’d have to use the word ‘powerful’ again. He’s certainly well liked by the techs, and by the brass.”