PRIVATE SCANDALS

                  by
           NORA ROBERTS

All rights reserved.
Copyright 1993 by Nora Roberts.  Excerpt from Hidden Riches copyright 1994  by Nora Roberts.

 BOOK JACKET INFORMATION

                JOVE
               NOVEL

  "Her stories have fueled the dreams of TWENTY-FIVE MILLION READERS."
    --Entertainment Weekly

        NEW YORK TIMES BESTSELLING AUTHOR
           NORA ROBERTS

  "MOVE OVER, SIDNEY SHELDON: THE WORLD HAS A NEW MASTER OF ROMANTIC SUSPENSE, AND HER 
NAME IS NORA ROBERTS."
    --Rex Reed

  A captivating novel set in the world of television talk shows, Private Scandals reveals the ambitious dreams of a 
savvy young woman, and the dark obsessions that threaten all she's worked for ...
  Deanna Reynolds had it all planned: She'd start out in the newsroom of a small Chicago station, then move up to 
one day host her own talk show. When her mentor Angela Perkins leaves for the big time in New York, Deanna risks 
everything for the chance to replace Angela on the air. Finn Riley, the network's sexiest journalist, falls for the risk-
taker in the small town girl. But soon they are caught up in the bitter backlash of Angela's revenge ... Together Finn 
and Deanna must unmask the hidden betrayals of Deanna's fiercest rival by taking the biggest risk of all ...

  "FAST-PACED ... THE SPARKS FLY!" --USA Today

  "A FUN READ!"
      --Publishers Weekly

A Choice of the Literary Guild (R) and Doubleday Book Club

 PRIVATE SCANDALS

  The sensational new novel by NORA ROBERTS ... Filled with the memorable characters and breathless suspense 
that have made her a NATIONAL BESTSELLING AUTHOR

  "NORA ROBERTS'S GIFT ... IS HER ABILITY TO PULL THE READER INTO THE LIVES OF HER CHARACTERS--
WE live, love, anguish and triumph with them. And so it is in this compelling story ... As always, a masterful handling 
of the right elements makes [this] book top-notch: vibrant characters, passion, high drama, intrigue ... and a sharing of 
emotions with which we can all identify. FIRST-RATE READING."
    --Rendezvous

  "THE INCOMPARABLE NORA ROBERTS ONCE AGAIN DELIVERS ... TENSE, COMPELLING AND RIVETING."
    --Romantic Times

  "NORA ROBERTS'S PRIVATE SCANDALS IS RIGHT ON TARGET. She turns the world of television inside-out, 
and then outside-in, all the while creating a plot of nail-biting suspense. Oprah, Phil and Sally will need a few days to 
recover after this!"
    --REX REED

          Also by Nora Roberts

Hot Ice
Sacred Sins
Brazen Virtue
Sweet Revenge
Public Secrets
Genuine Lies
Carnal Innocence
Honest Illusions

                To Pop

          PRIVATE SCANDALS

              PART ONE

  ""The time has come," the Walrus said, "to talk of many things.""
    Lewis Carroll

            Chicago, 1994

  It was a moonless midnight in Chicago, but to Deanna, the moment had all the makings of High Noon. It was easy to 
see herself in the quietly dignified, stalwart Gary Cooper role, preparing to face down the canny, vengeance-seeking 
gunslinger.
  But damn it, Deanna thought, Chicago was her town. Angela was the outsider.
  It suited Angela's sense of the dramatic, Deanna supposed, to demand a showdown in the very studio where they 
both had climbed ambition's slippery ladder. But it was Deanna's studio now, and it was her show that garnered the 
lion's share of the ratings points. There was nothing Angela could do to change that, short of conjuring up Elvis from 
the grave and asking him to sing "Heartbreak Hotel" to the studio audience.
  A ghost of a smile flitted around Deanna's lips at the image, but there wasn't much humor in it. Angela was nothing if 
not a worthy opponent. Over the years she had used gruesome tactics to keep her daily talk show on top.
  But whatever Angela had up her sleeve this time wasn't going to work. She had underestimated Deanna Reynolds. 
Angela could whisper secrets and threaten scandal all she wanted, but nothing she could say would change Deanna's 
plans.
  She would, however, hear Angela out. Deanna thought she would even attempt, one last time, to compromise. To 
offer, if not friendship, at least a cautious truce. There was little hope the breach could be spanned after all this time 
and all the hostility, but hope, to Deanna's mind, sprang eternal.
  At least until it dried up.
  Focusing on the matter at hand, Deanna pulled into the CBC Building's parking lot. During the day, the lot would be 
crammed with cars-- technicians, editors, producers, talent, secretaries, interns. Deanna would be dropped

off and picked up by her driver, avoiding the hassle. Inside the great white building, people would be rushing to put 
out the news--at seven A.m., noon and five and ten P.m.--and Let's
Cook! with Bobby Marks, the weekly In
Depth with Finn Riley, and the top-rated talk show in the country, Deanna's Hour.
  But now, just after midnight, the lot was nearly empty. There were half a dozen cars belonging to the skeleton crew 
who were loitering in the newsroom, waiting for something to happen somewhere in the world. Probably hoping any 
new wars would wait to erupt until the lonely night shift ended.
  Wishing she were somewhere else, anywhere else, Deanna pulled into an empty space and shut off the engine. For 
a moment she simply sat, listening to the night, the swish of cars on the street to the left, the rumble of the huge air-
conditioning system that kept the building and the expensive equipment cool. She had to get a handle on her mixed 
emotions and her nerves before she faced Angela.
  Nerves were second nature in the profession she'd chosen. She would work with them, or through them. Her temper 
was something she could and would control, particularly if losing it would accomplish nothing. But those emotions, the 
ones that ran so strong and so contradictory, were another matter. Even after all this time, it was difficult to forget that 
the woman she was about to face was one she had once admired and respected. And trusted.
  From bitter experience Deanna knew that Angela was an expert in emotional manipulation. Deanna's problem--and 
many said her talent--was an inability to hide her feelings. They were there, up front, shouting to anyone who cared to 
listen. Whatever she felt was mirrored in her gray eyes, broadcast in the tilt of her head or the expression of her 
mouth. Some said that's what made her irresistible, and dangerous. With a flick of her wrist, she turned the rearview 
mirror toward her. Yes, she mused, she could see the sparks of temper in her own eyes, and the simmering 
resentment, the dragging regret. After all, she and Angela had been friends once. Or almost friends.
  But she could also see the pleasure of anticipation. That was a matter of pride. This bout had been a long time 
coming.
  Smiling a little, Deanna took out a tube of

lipstick and carefully painted her mouth. You didn't go one-on-one with your arch rival without the most basic of 
shields. Pleased that her hand was rock steady, she dropped the lipstick back in her purse, climbed out of the car. 
She stood a moment, breathing in the balmy night while she asked herself one question.
  Calm, Deanna?
  Nope, she thought. What she was, was revved. If the energy was fueled by nerves, it didn't matter. Slamming the car 
door behind her, she strode across the lot. She slipped her plastic ID out of her pocket and punched it into the security 
slot beside the rear door. Seconds later, a little green light blipped, allowing her to depress the handle and pull the 
heavy door open.
  She flicked the switch to light the stairway, and let the door ease shut behind her.
  She found it interesting that Angela hadn't arrived before her. She'd have taken a car service, Deanna thought. Now 
that Angela was settled in New York, she no longer had a regular driver in Chicago. It surprised Deanna that she 
hadn't seen a limo waiting in the lot.
  Angela was always, always on time.
  It was one of the many things Deanna respected about her.
  The click of Deanna's heels on the stairs echoed hollowly as she descended a level. As she slipped her card in the 
next security slot, she wondered briefly who Angela had bribed, threatened or seduced to gain entry to the studio.
  Not so many years before, Deanna had rushed down that same route, wide-eyed and enthusiastic, running errands 
at the snap of Angela's demanding fingers. She'd been ready to preen like an eager puppy for any sign of approval. 
But, like any smart pup, she'd learned.
  And when betrayal had come, with its keen-edged disillusionment, she might have whimpered, but she'd licked her 
wounds and had used everything she'd learned--until the student became the master.
  It shouldn't have surprised her to discover how quickly old resentments, long cooled, could come rolling to a boil. 
And this time, Deanna thought, this time when she faced Angela, it would be on her own turf, under her own rules. 
The naive kid from Kansas was more than ready to flex the muscles of

realized ambition.
  And perhaps once she did, they would finally clear the air. Meet on equal terms. If it wasn't possible to forget what 
had happened between them in the past, it was always possible to accept and move on.
  Deanna slipped her card into the slot beside the studio doors. The light blinked green. She pushed inside, into 
darkness.
  The studio was empty.
  That pleased her. Arriving first gave her one more advantage, as a hostess escorting an unwelcome guest into her 
home. And if home was where you grew from girl to woman, where you learned and squabbled, the studio was home.
  Smiling a little, Deanna reached out in the dark for the switch that controlled a bank of overhead lights. She thought 
she heard something, some whisper that barely disturbed the air. And a feeling stabbed through that fine sense of 
anticipation. A feeling that she was not alone.
  Angela, she thought, and flicked the switch. But as the overhead lights flashed on, brighter ones, blinding ones, 
exploded inside her head. As the pain ripped through them, she plunged back into the dark.

  She crawled back inffconsciousness, moaning. Her head, heavy with pain, lolled back against a chair. Groggy, 
disoriented, she lifted a hand to the worst of the ache. Her fingers came away lightly smeared with blood.
  She struggled to focus, baffled to find herself sitting in her own chair, on her own set. Had she missed a cue? she 
wondered, dizzy, staring back at the camera where the red light gleamed.
  But there was no studio audience beyond the camera, no technicians working busily out of range. Though the lights 
flooded down with the familiar heat, there was no show in progress.
  She'd come to meet Angela, Deanna remembered.
  Her vision wavered again, like water disturbed by a pebble, and she blinked to clear it. It was then her gaze latched 
on to the two images on the monitor. She saw herself, pale and glazed-eyed. Then she saw, with horror, the guest 
sitting in the chair beside hers.
  Angela, her pink silk suit decorated with pearl buttons. Matching strands of pearls around

her throat, clustered at her ears. Angela, her golden hair softly coiffed, her legs crossed, her hands folded together 
over the right arm of the chair.
  It was Angela. Oh yes, there was no mistaking it. Even though her face had been destroyed.
  Blood was splattered over the pink silk and joined by more that ran almost leisurely down from where that lovely, 
canny face should be.
  It was then Deanna began to scream.

              Chapter One
            Chicago, 1990

  In five, four, three ...
  Deanna smiled at the camera from her corner of the set of Midday News. "Our guest this afternoon is Jonathan 
Monroe, a local author who has just published a book titled I Want Mine." She lifted the slim volume from the small 
round table between the chairs, angling it toward Camera Two. "Jonathan, you've subtitled this book Healthy 
Selfishness. What inspired you to write about a trait most people consider a character flaw?"
  "Well, Deanna." He chuckled, a small man with a sunny smile who was sweating profusely under the lights. "I 
wanted mine."
  Good answer, she thought, but it was obvious he wasn't going to elaborate without a little prompting. "And who 
doesn't, if we're honest?" she said, trying to loosen him up with a sense of comradeship. "Jonathan, you state in your 
book that this healthy selfishness is quashed by parents and caregivers, right from the nursery."

  "Exactly." His frozen, brilliant smile remained fixed while his eyes darted in panic.
  Deanna shifted subtly, laying her hand over his rigid fingers just under camera range. Her eyes radiated interest, her 
touch communicated support. "You believe the demand of adults that children share toys sets an unnatural 
precedent." She gave his hand an encouraging squeeze. "Don't you feel that sharing is a basic form of courtesy?"
  "Not at all." And he began to tell her why. Though his explanations were delivered in fits and starts, she was able to 
smooth over the awkwardness, guiding him through the three-minute-fifteen-second spot.
  "That's I Want Mine, by Jonathan Monroe," she said to the camera, winding up. "Available in your bookstores now. 
Thank you so much for joining us today, Jonathan."
  "It was a pleasure. As a side note, I'm currently working on my second book, Get Out of My Way, I Was Here First. 
It's about healthy aggression."
  "Best of luck with it. We'll be back in a moment with the rest of the Midday News." Once they were in!commercial, 
she smiled at Jonathan. "You were great. I appreciate your coming in."
  "I hope I did okay." The minute his mike was removed, Jonathan whipped out a handkerchief to mop his brow. "First 
time on TV."
  "You did fine. I think this will generate a lot of local interest in your book."
  "Really?"
  "Absolutely. Would you mind signing this for me?"
  Beaming again, he took the book and pen she offered. "You sure made it easy, Deanna. I did a radio interview this 
morning. The DJ hadn't even read the back blurb."
  She took the autographed book, rising. Part of her mind, most of her energy, was already at the news desk across 
the studio. "That makes it hard on everyone. Thanks again," she said, offering her hand. "I hope you'll come back with 
your next book."
  "I'd love to." But she'd already walked away, maneuvering nimbly over snaking piles of cable to take her place 
behind the counter on the news set. After slipping the book under the counter,

she hooked her mike to the lapel of her red suit.
  "Another screwball." The comment from her co-anchor, Roger Crowell, was typical.
  "He was very nice."
  "You think everyone's very nice." Grinning, Roger checked his hand mirror, gave his tie a minute adjustment. He had 
a good face for the camera--mature, trustworthy, with distinguished flecks of gray at the temples of his rust-colored 
hair. "Especially the screwballs."
  "That's why I love you, Rog."
  This caused snickering among the camera crew. Whatever response Roger might have made was cut off by the floor 
director signaling time. While the TelePrompTer rolled, Roger smiled into the camera, setting the tone for a soft 
segment on the birth of twin tigers at the zoo.
  "That's all for Midday. Stay tuned for Let's Cook! This is Roger Crowell."
  "And Deanna Reynolds. See you tomorrow." As the closing music tinkled in her earpiece, Deanna turned to smile at 
Roger. "You're a softy, pal. You wrote that piece on the baby tigers yourself. It had your fingerprints all over it."
  He flushed a little, but winked. "Just giving them what they want, babe."
  "And we're clear." The floor director stretched his shoulders. "Nice show, people."
  "Thanks, Jack." Deanna was already unhooking her mike.
  "Hey, want to get some lunch?" Roger was always ready to eat, and countered his love affair with food with his 
personal trainer. There was no disguising pounds from the merciless eye of the camera.
  "Can't. I've got an assignment." Roger rose. Beneath his impeccable blue serge jacket, he wore a pair of eye-
popping Bermuda shorts. "Don't tell me it's for the terror of Studio B."
  The faintest flicker of annoyance clouded her eyes. "Okay, I won't."
  "Hey, Dee." Roger caught up with her on the edge of the set. "Don't get mad."
  "I didn't say I was mad."
  "You don't have to." They walked down the single wide step from the glossy set to the scarred wood floor, skirting 
around camera and cable.

They pushed through the studio doors together. "You are mad. It shows. You get that line between your eyebrows. 
Look." He pulled her by the arm into the makeup room. After flicking on the lights, he stood behind her, his hands on 
her shoulders as they faced the mirror. "See, it's still there."
  Deliberately, she eased it away with a smile. "I don't see anything."
  "Then let me tell you what I see. Every man's dream of the girl next door. Subtle, wholesome sex." When she 
scowled, he only grinned. "That's the visual, kid. Those big, trust-me eyes and peaches and cream. Not bad qualities 
for a television reporter."
  "How about intelligence?" she countered. "Writing ability, guts."
  "We're talking visuals." His smile flashed, deepening the character lines around his eyes. No one in television would 
dare refer to them as wrinkles. "Look, my last co-anchor was a Twinkie. All blow-dried hair and bonded teeth. She 
was more worried about her eyelashes than she was punching the lead."
  "And now she's reading the news at the number-two station in LA." She knew how the business worked. Oh yes, she 
did. But she didn't have to like it. "Rumors are, she's being groomed for network."
  "That's the game. Personally, I appreciate having someone at the desk with a brain, but let's not forget what we are."
  "I thought we were journalists." "Television journalists. You've got a face that was made for the camera, and it tells 
everything you're thinking, everything you're feeling. Only problem is, it's the same off camera, and that makes you 
vulnerable. A woman like Angela eats little farm girls like you for breakfast."
  "I didn't grow up on a farm." Her voice was dry as a Midwest dust bowl.
  "Might as well have." He gave her shoulders a friendly squeeze. "Who's your pal, Dee?"
  She sighed, rolled her eyes. "You are, Roger."
  "Watch your back with Angela."
  "Look, I know she has a reputation for being temperamental--"
  "She has a reputation for being a stone bitch." Stepping away from Roger, Deanna uncapped

a pot of cold cream to remove her heavy makeup. She didn't like having her coworkers pitted against one another, 
competing for her time, and she didn't like feeling pressured into choosing between them. It had been difficult enough 
juggling her responsibilities in the newsroom and on set with the favors she did for Angela. And they were only favors, 
after all. Done primarily on her own time.
  "All I know is that she's been nothing but kind to me. She liked my work on Midday and the "Deanna's Corner" 
segment and offered to help me refine my style."
  "She's using you."
  "She's teaching me," Deanna corrected, tossing used makeup pads aside. Her movements were quick and 
practiced. She hit the center of the wastebasket as consistently as a veteran free-throw shooter. "There's a reason 
Angela has the top-rated talk show in the market. It would have taken me years to learn the ins and outs of the 
business I've picked up from her in a matter of months."
  "And do you really think she's going to share a piece of that pie?"
  She pouted a moment because, of course, she wanted a piece. A nice big one. Healthy selfishness, she thought, 
and chuckled to herself. "It's not as though I'm competing with her."
  "Not yet." But she would be, he knew. It surprised him that Angela didn't detect the ambition glinting just behind 
Deanna's eyes. But then, he mused, ego was often blinding. He had reason to know. "Just some friendly advice. Don't 
give her any ammunition." He took one last study as Deanna briskly redid her makeup for the street. She might have 
been naive, he mused, but she was also stubborn. He could see it in the way her mouth was set, the angle of her 
chin. "I've got a couple of bumpers to tape."
He tugged on her hair. "See you tomorrow." "Yeah." Once she was alone, Deanna tapped her eye pencil against the 
makeup table. She didn't discount everything Roger said. Because she was a perfectionist, because she demanded, 
and received, the best for her show, Angela Perkins had a reputation for being hard. And it certainly paid off. After six 
years in syndication, Angela's had been in the number-one spot for more than three.
  Since both Angela's and Midday

News were taped at the CBC studios,
Angela had been able to exert a little pressure to free up some of Deanna's time.
  It was also true that Angela had been nothing but kind to Deanna. She had shown Deanna a friendship and a 
willingness to share that were rare in the highly competitive world of television.
  Was it naive to trust kindness? Deanna didn't think so. Nor was she foolish enough to believe that kindness was 
always rewarded.
  Thoughtfully, she picked up the brush marked with her name and pulled it through her shoulder-length black hair. 
Without the cover of heavy theatrical makeup necessary for the lights and camera, her skin was as elegantly pale as 
porcelain, a dramatic contrast to the inky mane of hair and the smoky, slightly slanted eyes. To add another touch of 
drama, she'd painted her lips a deep rose.
  Satisfied, she pulled her hair back in a ponytail with two quick flicks of her wrist.
  She never planned to compete with Angela. Although she hoped to use what she learned to boost her own career, 
what she wanted was a network spot, someday. Maybe a job on 20/20.
And it wasn't beyond the realm of possibility that she could expand the weekly "Deanna's Corner" segment on the 
noon news into a full-fledged syndicated talk show of her own. Even that would hardly be competing with Angela, the 
queen of the market.
  The nineties were wide open for all manner of styles and shows. If she succeeded, it would be because she'd 
learned from the master. She would always be grateful to Angela for that.

  "If the son of a bitch thinks I'm going to roll over, he's in for an unpleasant surprise." Angela Perkins glared at the 
reflection of her producer in her dressing room mirror. "He agreed to come on the show to hype his new album. Tit for 
tat, Lew. We're giving him national exposure, so he's damn well going to answer some questions about his tax 
evasion charges."
  "He didn't say he wouldn't answer them, Angela." The headache behind Lew Mcationeil's eyes was still dull enough 
to keep him hoping it would pass. "He just said he won't be able to be specific as long as the case is pending. He'd

like it if you would concentrate on his career."
  "I wouldn't be where I am if I let a guest dictate my show, would I?" She swore again, ripely, then wheeled in the 
chair to snarl at the hairdresser. "Pull my hair again, sweetie, and you'll be picking up curlers with your teeth."
  "I'm sorry, Miss Perkins, but your hair is really too short ..."
  "Just get it done." Angela faced her own reflection again, and deliberately relaxed her features. She knew how 
important it was to relax the facial muscles before a show, no matter how high the adrenaline. The camera picked up 
every line and wrinkle, like an old friend a woman meets for lunch. So she breathed deeply, closing her eyes a 
moment in a signal to her producer to hold his tongue. When she opened them again, they were clear, a diamond 
bright blue surrounded by silky lashes.
  And she smiled as the hairdresser swept her hair back and up into a wavy blond halo. It was a good look for her, 
Angela decided. Sophisticated but not threatening. Chic but not studied. She checked the style from every angle 
before giving the go-ahead nod.
  "It looks great, Marcie." She flashed the high-powered smile that made the hairdresser forget the earlier threat. "I feel 
ten years younger."
  "You look wonderful, Miss Perkins." "Thanks to you." Relaxed and satisfied, she toyed with the trademark pearls 
around her throat. "And how's that new man in your life, Marcie? Is he treating you well?"
  "He's terrific." Marcie grinned as she gave Angela's hair a large dose of spray to hold the style. "I think he might be 
the one."
  "Good for you. If he gives you any trouble, you let me know." She winked. "I'll straighten him out."
  With a laugh, Marcie backed away. "Thanks, Miss Perkins. Good luck this morning."
  "Mmm-hmmm. Now, Lew." She smiled and lifted a hand for his. The squeeze was encouraging, feminine, friendly. 
"Don't worry about a thing. You just keep our guest happy until airtime. I'll take care of the rest."

  "He wants your word, Angela."
  "Honey, you give him whatever he wants." She laughed; Lew's headache sprang into full-blown agony. "Don't be 
such a worrier." She leaned forward to pluck a cigarette from the pack of Virginia Slims on the dressing table. She 
flicked on a gold monogrammed lighter, a gift from her second husband. She blew out one thin stream of smoke.
  Lew was getting soft, she mused, personally as well as professionally. Though he wore a suit and tie, as dictated by 
her dress code, his shoulders were slumped as if pulled down by the weight of his expanding belly. His hair was 
thinning out, too, she realized, and was heavily streaked with gray. Her show was known for its energy and speed. 
She didn't enjoy having her producer look like a pudgy old man.
  "After all these years, Lew, you should trust me."
  "Angela, if you attack Deke Barrow, you're going to make it tough for us to book other celebrities."
  "Bull. They're six deep waiting for a chance to do my show." She jabbed her cigarette in the air like a lance. "They 
want me to hype their movies and their TV specials and their books and their records, and they damn well want me to 
hype their love lives. They need me, Lew, because they know that every day millions of people tune in." She smiled 
into the mirror, and the face that smiled back was lovely, composed, polished. "And they tune in for me."
  Lew had worked with Angela for more than five years and knew exactly how to handle a dispute. He wheedled. 
"Nobody's denying that, Angela. You are the show. I just think you should tread lightly with Deke. He's been around 
the country-music scene a long time, and this comeback of his has a lot of sentiment behind him."
  "Just leave Deke to me." She smiled behind a mist of smoke. "I'll be very sentimental."
  She picked up the note cards that Deanna had finished organizing at seven that morning. It was a gesture of 
dismissal that had Lew shaking his head. Angela's smile widened as she skimmed through the notes. The girl was 
good, she mused. Very good, very thorough.
  Very useful.
  Angela took one last contemplative drag

on her cigarette before crushing it out in the heavy crystal ashtray on her dressing table. As always, every pot, every 
brush, every tube was aligned in meticulous order. There was a vase of two dozen red roses, which were brought in 
fresh every morning, and a small dish of multicolored coated mints that Angela loved.
  She thrived on routine, at being able to control her environment, including the people around her. Everyone had their 
place. She was enjoying making one for Deanna Reynolds.
  Some might have thought it odd that a woman approaching forty, a vain woman, would have taken on a younger, 
lovely woman as a favored apprentice. But Angela had been a pretty woman who with time, experience and illusion 
had become a beautiful one. And she had no fear of age. Not in a world where it could be so easily combated.
  She wanted Deanna behind her because of her looks, because of her talent, because of her youth. Most of all, 
because power scented power.
  And for the very simple reason that she liked the girl.
  Oh, she would offer Deanna tidbits of advice, friendly criticism, dollops of praise--and perhaps, in time, a position of 
some merit. But she had no intention of allowing someone she already sensed as a potential competitor to break free. 
No one broke free from Angela Perkins.
  She had two ex-husbands who had learned that. They hadn't broken free. They had been dispatched.
  "Angela?"
  "Deanna." Angela flung out a hand in welcome. "I was just thinking about you. Your notes are wonderful. They'll add 
so much to the show."
  "Glad I could help." Deanna lifted a hand to toy with her left earring, a sign of hesitation she'd yet to master. "Angela, 
I feel awkward asking you this, but my mother is a huge fan of Deke Barrow's."
  "And you'd like an autograph."
  After a quick, embarrassed smile, Deanna brought out the CD she was holding behind her back. "She'd love it if he 
could sign this for her."
  "You just leave it to me." Angela tapped one perfect, French-manicured nail along the edge of the CD. "And what is 
your mother's name again,

Dee?"
  "It's Marilyn. I really appreciate it, Angela."
  "Anything I can do for you, sweetie." She waited a beat. Her timing had always been excellent. "Oh, and there is a 
little favor you could do for me."
  "Of course."
  "Would you make reservations for dinner for me tonight, at La Fontaine, seven-thirty, for two? I simply don't have 
time to deal with it myself, and I forgot to tell my secretary to handle it."
  "No problem." Deanna pulled a pad out of her pocket to make a note.
  "You're a treasure, Deanna." Angela stood then to take a final check of her pale blue suit in a cheval glass. "What do 
you think of this color? It's not too washed-out, is it?"
  Because she knew that Angela fretted over every detail of the show, from research to the proper footwear, Deanna 
took time for a serious study. The soft drape of the fabric suited Angela's compact, curvy figure beautifully. "Coolly 
feminine."
  The tension in Angela's shoulders unknotted. "Perfect, then. Are you staying for the taping?"
  "I can't. I still have copy to write for Midday."
  "Oh." The annoyance surfaced, but only briefly. "I hope helping me out hasn't put you behind."
  "There are twenty-four hours in the day," Deanna said. "I like to use all of them. Now, I'd better get out of your way."
  "'Bye, honey."
  Deanna shut the door behind her. Everyone in the building knew that Angela insisted on having the last ten minutes 
before she took the stage to herself. Everyone assumed she used that time to go over her notes. That was nonsense, 
of course. She was completely prepared. But she preferred that they think of her brushing up on her information. Or 
even that they imagine her taking a quick nip from the bottle of brandy she kept in her dressing table.
  Not that she would touch the brandy. The need to keep it there, just within reach, terrified as much as it comforted.
  She preferred they believe anything, as long as they didn't know the truth.
  Angela Perkins spent those last solitary

moments before each taping in a trembling cycle of panic. She, a woman who exuded an image of supreme self-
confidence; she, a woman who had interviewed presidents, royalty, murderers and millionaires, succumbed, as she 
always did, to a vicious, violent attack of stage fright.
  Hundreds of hours of therapy had done nothing to alleviate the shuddering, the sweating, the nausea. Helpless 
against it, she collapsed in her chair, drawing herself in. The mirror reflected her in triplicate, the polished woman, 
perfectly groomed, immaculately presented. Eyes glazed with the terror of self-discovery.
  Angela pressed her hands to her temples and rode out the screaming roller coaster of fear. Today she would slip, 
and they would hear the backwoods of Arkansas in her voice. They would see the girl who had been unloved and 
unwanted by a mother who had preferred the flickering images on the pitted screen of the tiny Philco to her own flesh 
and blood. The girl who had wanted attention so badly, so desperately, she had imagined herself inside that television 
so that her mother would focus those vague, drunken eyes just once, and look at her.
  They would see the girl in the secondhand clothes and ill-fitting shoes who had studied so hard to make average 
grades.
  They would see that she was nothing, no one, a fraud who had bluffed her way into television the same way her 
father had bluffed his way into an inside straight.
  And they would laugh at her.
  Or worse, turn her off.
  The knock on the door made her flinch. "We're set, Angela."
  She took a deep breath, then another. "On my way." Her voice was perfectly normal. She was a master at pretense. 
For a few seconds longer, she stared at her reflection, watching the panic fade from her own eyes.
  She wouldn't fail. She would never be laughed at. She would never be ignored again. And no one would see 
anything she didn't allow them to see. She rose, walked out of her dressing room, down the corridor.
  She had yet to see her guest and continued past the green room without a blink. She never spoke to a guest before 
the tape was rolling.

  Her producer was warming up the studio audience. There was a hum of excitement from those fortunate enough to 
have secured tickets to the taping. Marcie, tottering in four-inch heels, rushed up for a last-minute check on hair and 
makeup. A researcher passed Angela a few more cards. Angela spoke to neither of them.
  When she walked onstage, the hum burst open into a full-throttle cheer.
  "Good morning." Angela took her chair and let the applause wash over her while she was miked. "I hope everyone's 
ready for a great show." She scanned the audience as she spoke and was pleased with the demographics. It was a 
good mix of age, sex and race--an important visual for the camera pans. "Anyone here a Deke Barrow fan?"
  She laughed heartily at the next round of applause. "Me too," she said, though she detested country music in any 
form. "I'd say we're all in for a treat."
  She nodded, settled back, legs crossed, hands folded over the arm of her chair. The red light on the camera blinked 
on. The intro music swung jazzily through the air.
  ""Lost Tms," "That Green-Eyed
Girl," "One Wild Heart." Those are just a few of the hits that made today's guest a legend. He's been a part of country-
music history for more than twenty-five years, and his current album, Lost in Nashville, is zooming up the charts. 
Please join me in welcoming, to Chicago, Deke Barrow."
  The applause thundered out again as Deke strode out onstage. Barrel-chested, with graying temples peeking out 
from beneath his black felt Stetson, Deke grinned at the audience before accepting Angela's warm handshake. She 
stood back, letting him milk the moment by tipping his hat.
  With every appearance of delight, she joined in the audience's standing ovation. By the end of the hour, she thought, 
Deke would stagger offstage. And he wouldn't even know what had hit him.

  Angela waited until the second half of the show to strike. Like a good host, she had flattered her guest, listened 
attentively to his anecdotes, chuckled at his jokes. Now
Deke was basking in the admiration as Angela held the mike for excited fans as they stood

to ask questions. She waited, canny as a cobra.
  "Deke, I wondered if you're going by Danville, Kentucky, on your tour. That's my hometown," a blushing redhead 
asked.
  "Well now, I can't say as we are. But we'll be in Louisville on the seventeenth of June. You be sure to tell your friends 
to come on by and see me."
  "Your Lost in Nashville tour's going to keep you on the road for several months," Angela began. "That's rough on 
you, isn't it?"
  "Rougher than it used to be," he answered with a wink. "I ain't twenty anymore." His broad, guitar-plucking hands 
lifted and spread. "But I gotta say I love it. Singing in a recording studio can't come close to what it's like to sing for 
people."
  "And the tour's certainly been a success so far. There's no truth, then, to the rumor that you may have to cut it short 
because of your difficulties with the IRS?"
  Deke's congenial grin slipped several notches. "No, ma'am. We'll finish it out."
  "I feel safe in speaking for everyone here when I say you have our support in this. Tax evasion." She rolled her eyes 
in disbelief. "They make you sound like Also Capone."
  "I really can't talk about it." Deke shuffled his booted feet, tugged at his bola tie. "But nobody's calling it tax evasion."
  "Oh." She widened her eyes. "I'm sorry. What are they calling it?"
  He shifted uncomfortably on his chair. "It's a disagreement on back taxes."
  ""Disagreement" is a mild word for it. I realize you can't really discuss this while the matter's under investigation, but I 
think it's an outrage. A man like you, who's brought pleasure to millions, for two generations, to be faced with potential 
financial ruin because his books weren't in perfect order."
  "It's not as bad as all that--"
  "But you've had to put your home in Nashville on the market." Her voice dripped sympathy. Her eyes gleamed with it. 
"I think the country you've celebrated in your music should show more compassion, more gratitude. Don't you?"
  She hit the right button.

  "Seems like the tax man doesn't have much to do with the country I've been singing about for twenty-five years." 
Deke's mouth thinned, his eyes hardened like agates. "They look at dollar signs. They don't think about how hard a 
man's worked. How much he sweats to make something of himself. They just keep slicing at you till most of what's 
yours is theirs. They turn honest folk into liars and cheaters."
  "You're not saying you cheated on your taxes, are you, Deke?" She smiled guilelessly when he froze. "We'll be back 
in a moment," she said to the camera, and waited until the red light blinked off. "I'm sure most of us here have been 
squeezed by the IRS, Deke." Turning her back on him, she held up her hands. "We're behind him, aren't we, 
audience?"
  There was an explosion of applause and cheers that did nothing to erase the look of sickly shock from Deke's face.
  "I can't talk about it," he managed. "Can I get some water?"
  "We'll put the matter to rest, don't you worry. We'll have time for a few more questions." Angela turned to her 
audience again as an assistant rushed out with a glass of water for Deke. "I'm sure Deke would appreciate it if we 
avoided any more discussion on this sensitive subject. Let's be sure to give him plenty of applause when we get back 
from commercial, and give Deke some time to compose himself."
  With this outpouring of support and empathy, she swung back toward the camera. "You're back with Angela's. We 
have time for just a couple more questions, but at Deke's request, we'll close the door on any discussion of his tax 
situation, as he isn't free to defend himself while the case is still pending."
  And of course, when she closed the show moments later, that was exactly the subject on every viewer's mind.
  Angela didn't linger among her audience, but joined Deke onstage. "Wonderful show." She took his limp hand in her 
firm grasp. "Thank you so much for coming. And the best of luck."
  "Thank you." Shell-shocked, he began signing autographs until the assistant producer led him offstage.
  "Get me a tape," Angela ordered as she

strode back to her dressing room. "I want to see the last segment." She walked straight to her mirror and smiled at her 
own reflection.

             Chapter Two

  Deanna hated covering tragedies. Intellectually she knew it was her job as a journalist to report the news, and to 
interview those who had been wounded by it. She believed, unwaveringly, in the public's right to know. But 
emotionally, whenever she pointed a microphone toward grief she felt like the worst kind of voyeur.
  "The quiet suburb of Wood Dale was the scene of sudden and violent tragedy this morning. Police suspect that a 
domestic dispute resulted in the shooting death of Lois Dossier, thirty-two, an elementary school teacher and Chicago 
native. Her husband, Dr. Charles Dossier, has been taken into custody. The couple's two children, ages five and 
seven, are in the care of their maternal grandparents. At shortly after eight A.m. this morning, this quiet, affluent home 
erupted with gunfire."
  Deanna steadied herself as the camera panned the trim two-story dwelling behind her. She continued her report, 
staring straight at the lens, ignoring the crowd that gathered, the other news teams doing their stand-ups, the sweet 
spring breeze that carried the poignant scent of hyacinth.
  Her voice was steady, suitably detached. But her eyes were filled with swirling emotion.
  "At eight-fifteen A.m., police responded to reports of gunfire, and Lois Dossier was pronounced dead on the scene. 
According to neighbors, Mrs. Dossier was a devoted mother who took an active interest in community projects. She 
was well liked and well respected. Among her closest friends was her next-door neighbor, Bess Pierson, who reported 
the disturbance to the police." Deanna turned to the woman at her side, who was dressed in purple sweats. "Mrs. 
Pierson, to your knowledge, was there any violence in the Dossier household before this morning?"
  "Yes--no. I never thought he would hurt her. I still can't believe it." The camera zoomed in on the swollen, tear-
streaked face of a woman

pale with shock. "She was my closest friend. We've lived next door to each other for six years. Our children play 
together."
  Tears began to spill over. Despising herself, Deanna clutched the woman's hand with her free one, and continued. 
"Knowing both Lois and Charles Dossier, do you agree with the police that this tragedy was a result of a domestic 
dispute that spiraled out of control?"
  "I don't know what to think. I know they were having marital problems. There were fights, shouting matches." The 
woman stared into the void, shell-shocked. "Lois told me she wanted to get Chuck to go into counseling with her, but 
he wouldn't." She began to sob now, one hand covering her eyes. "He wouldn't, and now she's gone. Oh God, she 
was like my sister."
  "Cut," Deanna snapped, then wrapped her arm around Mrs. Pierson's shoulders. "I'm sorry. I'm so sorry. You 
shouldn't be out here now."
  "I keep thinking this is a dream. That it can't be real."
  "Is there somewhere you can go? A friend or a relative?" Deanna scanned the trim yard, crowded with curious 
neighbors and determined reporters. A few feet to the left another crew was rolling tape. The reporter kept blowing the 
takes, laughing at his own twisting tongue. "Things aren't going to quiet down here for a while."
  "Yes." After a last, sobbing breath, Mrs. Pierson wiped at her eyes. "We were going to the movies tonight," she said, 
then turned and dashed away.
  "God." Deanna watched as other reporters stabbed their microphones toward the fleeing woman.
  "Your heart bleeds too much," her cameraman commented.
  "Shut up, Joe." She pulled herself in, drew a breath. Her heart might have been bleeding, but she couldn't let it affect 
her judgment. Her job was to give a clear, concise report, to inform and to give the viewer a visual that would make an 
impact.
  "Let's finish it. We want it for Midday. Zoom up to the bedroom window, then come back to me. Make sure you get 
the hyacinths and daffodils in frame, and the kid's red wagon. Got it?"

  Joe studied the scene, the White
Sox fielder's cap perched on his wiry brown hair tipped down to shade his eyes. He could already see the pictures, 
cut, framed, edited. He squinted, nodded. Muscles bunched under his sweatshirt as he hefted the camera. "Ready 
when you are."
  "Then in three, two, one." She waited a beat while the camera zoomed in, panned down. "Lois Dossier's violent 
death has left this quiet community rocked. While her friends and family ask why, Dr. Charles Dossier is being held 
pending bond. This is Deanna Reynolds in Wood Dale, reporting for CBC."
  "Nice job, Deanna." Joe shut down the camera.
  "Yeah, dandy." On her way to the van, she put two Rolaids in her mouth.

  CBC used the tape again on the local portion of the evening news, with an update from the precinct where Dossier 
was being held on charges of second-degree murder. Curled in a chair in her apartment, Deanna watched objectively 
as the anchor segued from the top story into a piece on a fire in a South Side apartment building.
  "Good piece, Dee." Sprawled on the couch was Fran Myers. Her curly red hair was lopsidedly anchored on top of 
her head. She had a sharp, foxy face accented by eyes the color of chestnuts. Her voice was pure New Jersey brass. 
Unlike Deanna, she hadn't grown up in a quiet suburban home in a tree-lined neighborhood, but in a noisy apartment 
in Atlantic City, New Jersey, with a twice-divorced mother and a changing array of step-siblings.
  She sipped ginger ale, then gestured with her glass toward the screen. The movement was as lazy as a yawn. "You 
always look so great on camera. Video makes me look like a pudgy gnome."
  "I had to try to interview the victim's mother." Jamming her hands in the pockets of her jeans, Deanna sprang up to 
pace the room, wiry energy in every step. "She wouldn't answer the phone, and like a good reporter, I tracked down 
the address. They wouldn't answer the door, either. Kept the curtains drawn. I stayed outside with a bunch of other 
members of the press for nearly

an hour. I felt like a ghoul."
  "You ought to know by now that the terms "ghoul" and "reporter" are interchangeable." But Deanna didn't smile. Fran 
recognized the guilt beneath the restless movements. After setting down her glass, Fran pointed to the chair. "Okay. 
Sit down and listen to advice from Auntie Fran."
  "I can't take advice standing up?" "Nope." Fran snagged Deanna's hand and yanked her down onto the sofa. Despite 
the contrasts in backgrounds and styles, they'd been friends since freshman orientation in college. Fran had seen 
Deanna wage this war between intellect and emotion dozens of times. "Okay. Question number one: Why did you go 
to Yale?"
  "Because I got a scholarship." "Don't rub your brains in my face, Einstein. What did you and I go to college for?"
  "You went to meet men."
  Fran narrowed her eyes. "That was just a side benefit. Stop stalling and answer the question."
  Defeated, Deanna let out a sigh. "We went to study, to become journalists, to get high-paying, high-profile jobs on 
television."
  "Absolutely correct. And have we succeeded?"
  "Sort of. We have our degrees. I'm a reporter for CBC and you're associate producer of Woman Talk on cable."
  "Excellent launching points. Now, have you forgotten the famous Deanna Reynolds's Five-Year Plan? If so, I'm sure 
there's a typed copy of it in that desk."
  Deanna glanced over at her pride and joy, the single fine piece of furniture she'd acquired since moving to Chicago. 
She'd picked up the beautifully patinated Queen Anne desk at an auction. And Fran was right. There was a typed 
copy of Deanna's career plan in the top drawer. In duplicate.
  Since college, she had modified her plans somewhat. Fran had married and settled in Chicago and had urged her 
former roommate to come out and try her luck.
  "Year One," Deanna remembered. "An on-camera job in Kansas City."
  "Done."
  "Year Two, a position at CBC,

Chicago."
  "Accomplished."
  "Year Three, a small, tasteful segment of my own."
  "The current "Deanna's Corner,"" Fran said, and toasted the segment with her ginger ale.
  "Year Four, anchoring the evening news. Local."
  "Which you've already done, several times, as substitute."
  "Year Five, audition tapes and resumes to the holy ground: New York."
  "Which will never be able to resist your combination of style, on-camera appeal and sincerity--unless, of course, you 
continue to second-guess yourself."
  "You're right, but--"
  "No buts." On this Fran was firm. She expended some of the energy she preferred to hoard by propping her feet on 
the coffee table. "You do good work, Dee. People talk to you because you have compassion. That's an advantage in a 
journalist, not a flaw."
  "It doesn't help me sleep at night." Restless and suddenly tired, Deanna scooped a hand through her hair. After 
curling her legs up, she studied the room, brooding.
  There was the rickety dinette she'd yet to find a suitable replacement for, the frayed rug, the single solid armchair 
she'd had re-covered in a soft gray. Only the desk stood out, gleaming, a testimony to partial success. Yet everything 
was in its place; the few trinkets she'd collected were arranged precisely.
  This tidy apartment wasn't the home of her dreams, but as Fran had pointed out, it was an excellent launching point. 
And she fully intended to launch herself, both personally and professionally.
  "Do you remember, back at college, how exciting we thought it would be to sprint after ambulances, interview mass 
murderers, to write incisive copy that would rivet the viewers' attention? Well, it is." Letting out a sigh, Deanna rose to 
pace again. "But you really pay for the kick." She paused a moment, picked up a little china box, set it down again. 
"Angela's hinted that I could have the job as head researcher on her show for the asking--on-air credit with a 
significant raise in salary."

  Because she didn't want to influence her friend, Fran pursed her lips and kept her voice neutral. "And you're 
considering it?"
  "Every time I do, I remember I'd be giving up the camera." With a half laugh, Deanna shook her head. "I'd miss that 
little red light. See, here's the thing." She plopped down on the arm of the couch. Her eyes were glowing again, 
darkened to smoke with suppressed excitement. "I don't want to be Angela's head researcher. I'm not even sure I 
want New York anymore.
I think I want my own show. To be syndicated in a hundred and twenty markets. I want a twenty-percent share. I want 
to be on the cover of TV Guide."
  Fran grinned. "So, what's stopping you?" "Nothing." More confident now that she'd said it aloud, Deanna shifted, 
resting her bare feet on the cushion of the sofa. "Maybe that's Year Seven or Eight, I haven't figured it out yet. But I 
want it, and I can do it. But--" She blew out a breath. "It means covering tears and torment until I've earned my 
stripes."
  "The Deanna Reynolds's Extended Career Plan."
  "Exactly." She was glad Fran understood. "You don't think I'm crazy?"
  "Sweet pea, I think that anyone with your meticulous mind, your camera presence and your polite yet strong 
ambition will get exactly what she wants." Fran reached into the bowl of sugared almonds on the coffee table, popped 
three in her mouth. "Just don't forget the little people when you do."
  "What was your name again?"
  Fran threw a pillow at her. "Okay, now that we have your life settled, I'd like to announce an addition to the Fran 
Myers's My Life Is Never What I Thought It Would Be Saga."
  "You got a promotion?"
  "Nope."
  "Richard got one?"
  "No, though a junior partnership at Dowell, Dowell and Fritz may be in the offing." She drew a deep breath. Her 
redhead's complexion flushed like a blooming rose. "I'm pregnant."
  "What?" Deanna blinked. "Pregnant? Really?" Laughing, she slid down on the couch

to grasp Fran's hands. "A baby? This is wonderful. This is incredible." Deanna threw her arms around Fran to 
squeeze, then pulled back sharply to study her friend's face. "Isn't it?"
  "You bet it is. We weren't planning on it for another year or two, but hell, it takes nine months, right?"
  "Last I heard. You're happy. I can see it. I just can't believe--" She stopped, jerked back again. "Jesus, Fran. You've 
been here nearly an hour, and you're just getting around to telling me. Talk about burying the lead."
  Feeling smug, Fran patted her flat belly. "I wanted everything else out of the way so you could concentrate on me. 
U."
  "No problem there. Are you sick in the mornings or anything?"
  "Me?" Fran quirked a brow. "With my cast-iron stomach?"
  "Right. What did Richard say?" "Before or after he stopped dancing on the ceiling?"
  Deanna laughed again, then sprang up to do a quick spin of her own. A baby, she thought. She had to plan a 
shower, shop for stuffed animals, buy savings bonds. "We have to celebrate."
  "What did we do in college when we had something to celebrate?"
  "Chinese and cheap white wine," Deanna said with a grin. "Perfect, with the adjustment of Grade A milk."
  Fran winced, then shrugged. "I guess I'll have to get used to it. I do have a favor to ask."
  "Name it."
  "Work on that career plan, Dee. I think I'd like my kid to have a star for a godmommy."

  When the phone rang at six A.m., Deanna pulled herself out of sleep and into a hangover. Clutching her head with 
one hand, she fumbled for the receiver with the other.
  "Reynolds."
  "Deanna, darling, I'm so sorry to wake you."
  "Angela?"
  "Who else would be rude enough to call you at this hour?" Angela's light laugh came through the phone as Deanna 
blearily looked at the

clock. "I have an enormous favor to ask. We're taping today, and Lew's down with a virus."
  "I'm sorry." Valiantly, Deanna cleared her throat and managed to sit up.
  "These things happen. It's just that we're dealing with a sensitive issue today, and when I considered it, I realized 
you would really be the perfect one to handle the guests offstage. That's Lew's area, you know, so I'm really in a 
bind."
  "What about Simon, or Maureen?" Her brain might have been cloudy, but Deanna remembered the chain of 
command.
  "Neither one of them are suited for this. Simon does excellent pre-interviews over the phone, and God knows 
Maureen's a jewel at handling transportation and lodging arrangements. But these guests require a very special 
touch. Your touch."
  "I'd be glad to help, Angela, but I'm due in to the station at nine."
  "I'll clear it with your producer, dear. He owes me. Simon can handle the second taping, but if you could just see your 
way clear to helping me out this morning, I'd be so grateful."
  "Sure." Deanna shoved her tousled hair back and resigned herself to a quick cup of coffee and a bottle of aspirin. 
"As long as there's no conflict."
  "Don't worry about that. I still have clout with the news department. I'll need you here by eight, sharp. Thanks, 
honey."
  "All right, but--"
  Still dazed, Deanna stared at the phone as the dial tone hummed. A couple of details had been overlooked, she 
mused. What the hell was this morning's topic, and who were the guests that needed such special care?

  Deanna stepped into the green room with an uneasy smile on her face and a fresh pot of coffee in her hand. She 
knew the topic now, and scanned the seven scheduled guests cautiously, like a veteran soldier surveying a mine field.
  Marital triangles. Deanna took a bracing breath. Two couples and the other women who had almost destroyed their 
marriages. A mine field might have been safer.
  "Good morning." The room remained ominously silent except for the murmur of the morning news from

the television. "I'm Deanna
Reynolds. Welcome to Angela's. Can I freshen anyone's coffee?"
  "Thank you." The man seated in a chair in the corner shifted the open briefcase on his lap, then held out his cup. He 
gave Deanna a quick smile that was heightened by the amusement glittering out of soft brown eyes. "I'm Dr. Pike. 
Marshall Pike." He lowered his voice as Deanna topped off his cup. "Don't worry, they're unarmed."
  Deanna's eyes lifted to his, held. "They still have teeth and nails," she murmured.
  She knew who he was, the segment expert, a psychologist who would attempt to cap this particular can of worms 
before the roll of ending credits. Mid-thirties, she gauged, with the quick expertise of a cop or a reporter. Confident, 
relaxed, attractive. Conservative, judging by his carefully trimmed blond hair and well-tailored chalk-striped suit. His 
wing tips were polished to a high gleam, his nails were manicured and his smile was easy.
  "I'll watch your flank," he offered, "if you watch mine."
  She smiled back. "Deal. Mr. and Mrs. Forrester?" Deanna paused as the couple glanced toward her. The woman's 
face was set in a resentful scowl, the man's in miserable embarrassment. "You'll be on first ... with Miss Draper."
  Lori Draper, the last segment of the triangle, beamed with excitement. She looked more like a bouncy cheerleader 
ready to execute a flashy C jump than a sultry vamp. "Is my outfit okay for TV?"
  Over Mrs. Forrester's snort, Deanna assured her it was. "I know the basic procedure was explained to all of you in 
the pre-interview. The Forresters and Miss Draper will go out first--"
  "I don't want to sit next to her." Mrs. Forrester's hiss squeezed through her tightly primmed mouth.
  "That won't be a problem--"
  "I don't want Jim sitting next to her, either."
  Lori Draper rolled her eyes. "Jeez, Shelly, we broke it off months ago. Do you think I'm going to jump him on national 
TV,

or what?"
  "I wouldn't put anything past you." Shelly snatched her hand away as her husband tried to pat it. "We're not sitting 
next to her," she said to Deanna. "And Jim's not going to talk to her, either. Ever."
  This statement set the match to the smoldering embers in triangle number two. Before Deanna could open her 
mouth, everyone was talking at once. Accusations and bitterness flew through the room. Deanna glanced toward 
Marshall Pike and was greeted with that same easy smile and a lift of one elegant shoulder.
  "All right." Deanna pitched her voice over the din as she stepped into the fray. "I'm sure you all have valid points, and 
quite a bit to say. Why don't we save it for the show? All of you agreed to come on this morning to tell your sides of 
the story, and to look for some possible resolutions. I'm sure we can arrange the seating to suit everyone."
  She ran briskly through the rest of the instructions, controlling the guests in the same way a kindergarten teacher 
controls recalcitrant five-year-olds. With determined cheerfulness and a firm hand.
  "Now, Mrs. Forrester--Shelly--Jim, Lori, if you'll all come with me, we'll get you settled and miked."
  Ten minutes later, Deanna stepped back into the green room, grateful that no blood had been spilled. While the 
remaining triangle sat stonily, staring at the television screen, Marshall was up, perusing a tray of pastries.
  "Nicely done, Ms. Reynolds."
  "Thank you, Dr. Pike."
  "Marshall." He chose a cinnamon danish. "It's a tricky situation. Though the triangle was technically broken when the 
affair ended, emotionally, morally, even intellectually, it remains."
  Damn right, she thought. If anyone she loved cheated on her, it would be he who would be broken-- in every way. "I 
suppose you deal with similar situations in your practice."
  "Often. I decided to focus on the area after my own divorce." His smile was sweet and sheepish. "For obvious 
reasons." He glanced down at her hands, noting that she wore a single ring, a garnet in an antique gold setting on

her right hand. "You're not in the market for my particular skill?"
  "Not at the moment." Marshall Pike was enormously attractive, she mused--the charming smile, the long, slender 
build that had even Deanna, who hit five-ten in her heels, tilt her head up to meet the flattering interest in the deep 
brown eyes. But at this moment she needed to focus the lion's share of her attention on the sullen group behind him.
  "The program will start right after this commercial." Deanna gestured toward the set. "Marshall, you won't be going 
on until the final twenty minutes, but it would help if you'd watch the show to formulate specific advice."
  "Naturally." He enjoyed watching her, the way she revved in neutral. He could almost hear the engine gun of her 
energy. "Don't worry. I've done Angela's three times."
  "Ah, a vet. Is there anything I can get you?"
  His eyes slid toward the trio behind him, then came back to Deanna's. "A flak jacket?"
  She chuckled, gave his arm a squeeze. He'd be just fine, she decided. "I'll see what I can do."
  The show proved to be emotional, and though bitter accusations flew, no one was seriously wounded. Off camera, 
Deanna admired the way Angela kept a light hand on the reins, allowing her guests to go their own way, then easing 
them back when tempers threatened to boil over.
  She pulled the audience in as well. With an unerring instinct, she offered the mike to just the right person at just the 
right time, then segued smoothly back to a question or comment of her own.
  As for Dr. Pike, Deanna mused, they couldn't have chosen a more skilled mediator. He exuded the perfect 
combination of intellect and compassion, mixed with the concise, teaspoon-size advice so necessary for the medium.
  When the show was over, the Forresters were clutching hands. The other couple had stopped speaking to each 
other, and the two other women were chatting like old friends.
  Angela had hit the mark again.

  "Decide to join us, Deanna?" Roger pinched her arm as he swung up beside her.

  "I know you guys can't get through the day without me." Deanna wove her way through the noisy newsroom toward 
her desk. Phones were ringing, keyboards clattering. On one wall, current shows from CBC and the other three 
networks were flashing on monitors. From the smell of things, someone had recently spilled coffee.
  "What's our lead?" she asked Roger. "Last night's fire on the South Side."
  With a nod, Deanna sat at her desk. Unlike most of the other reporters, she kept hers meticulously neat. Sharpened 
pencils stood points down in a flowered ceramic cup, a notepad aligned beside them. Her Filofax was opened to 
today's date.
  "Arson?"
  "That's the general consensus. I've got the copy. We've got a taped interview with the fire marshal, and a live remote 
at the scene." Roger offered her his bag of licorice. "And being a nice guy, I picked up your mail."
  "So I see. Thanks."
  "Caught a few minutes of Angela's this morning." He chewed thoughtfully on his candy. "Doesn't discussing adultery 
so early in the day make people nervous?"
  "It gives them something to talk about over lunch." She picked up an ebony letter opener and slit the first envelope.
  "Venting on national television?"
  She lifted a brow. "Venting on national television seemed to have helped the Forresters' relationship."
  "Looked to me like the other couple was heading for divorce court."
  "Sometimes divorce is the answer."
  "Is that what you think?" He kept the question light. "If your spouse was cheating, would you forgive and forget, or 
would you file papers?"
  "Well, I'd listen, I'd discuss it, try to find out the reason it happened. Then I'd shoot the adulterous swine full of holes." 
She grinned at him. "But, that's just me. And see, hasn't it given us something to talk about?" She glanced down at 
the single sheet in her hand. "Hey, look at this."
  She angled the sheet so they could both see it. In the center of the paper, typed in dark red ink, was a single 
sentence.

 Deanna, I love you.

  "The old secret admirer, hmm?" Roger spoke carelessly, but there was a frown in his eyes.
  "Looks that way." Curious, she turned the envelope over. "No return address. No stamp, either."
  "I just pulled the mail out of your box." Roger shook his head. "Somebody must have slipped it in."
  "It's kind of sweet, I guess." She rubbed a quick chill from her arms and laughed. "And creepy."
  "You might want to ask around, see if anybody noticed somebody sneaking around your mail slot."
  "It's not important." She tossed both letter and envelope in the trash and picked up the next.
  "Excuse me."
  "Oh, Dr. Pike." Deanna set down her mail and smiled at the man standing behind Roger. "Did you get lost on your 
way out?"
  "No, actually, I was told I'd find you here."
  "Dr. Marshall Pike, Roger Crowell." "Yes, I recognized you." Marshall offered a hand. "I watch you both often."
  "I just caught part of your act myself." Roger slipped his bag of candy into his pocket. His thoughts were still focused 
on the letter, and he promised himself he'd slip it back out of her trash at the first possible moment. "We need copy on 
the dog show, Dee."
  "No problem."
  "Nice to have met you, Dr. Pike." "Same here." Marshall turned back to Deanna when Roger walked away. "I wanted 
to thank you for keeping things sane this morning."
  "It's one of the things I do best." "I'd have to agree. I've always thought you report the news with clearheaded 
compassion. It's a remarkable combination."
  "And a remarkable compliment. Thanks." He took a survey of the newsroom. Two reporters were arguing bitterly 
over baseball, phones were shrilling, an intern wheeled a cart heaped with files through the narrow spaces between 
desks. "Interesting place."

  "It is that. I'd be glad to give you a tour, but I do have copy to write for Midday."
  "Then I'll take a rain check." He looked back at her, that sweet, easy smile at the corners of his mouth. "Deanna, I 
was hoping, since we've been through the trenches together, so to speak, you'd be willing to have dinner with me."
  "Dinner." She studied him more carefully now, as a woman does when a man stops being simply a man and 
becomes a possible relationship. It would have been foolish to pretend he didn't appeal to her. "Yes, I suppose I'd be 
willing to do that."
  "Tonight? Say, seven-thirty?"
  She hesitated. She was rarely impulsive. He was a professional, she mused, well mannered, easy on the eyes. And 
more important, he had exhibited both intelligence and heart under pressure. "Sure." She took a square of notepaper 
from a smoked-glass holder and wrote down her address.

             Chapter Three

  "Coming up on Midday, the story of a woman who opens her home and heart to Chicago's underprivileged children. 
Also the latest sports report with Les Ryder, and the forecast for the weekend with Dan Block. Join us at noon."
  The minute the red light blinked out, Deanna unhooked her mike and scrambled up from the news desk. She had 
copy to finish and a phone interview scheduled, and she needed to review her notes for the upcoming "Deanna's 
Corner." In the two weeks since she had pinch-hit for Lew, she'd put in more than a hundred hours on the job without 
breaking stride.
  She whipped through the studio doors and was halfway down the hall toward the newsroom when Angela stopped 
her.
  "Honey, you only have two speeds. Stop and go."
  Deanna paused only because Angela blocked the way.
  "Right now it's go. I'm swamped." "I've never known you not to get everything done, and

at exactly the proper time." To keep her in place, Angela laid a hand on her arm. "And this will only take a minute."
  Deanna struggled with impatience. "You can have two, if we talk on the move."
  "Fine." Angela turned and matched her stride to Deanna's. "I've got a business lunch in an hour, so I'm a little 
strapped myself. I need a tiny favor."
  "All right." With her mind already on her work, Deanna swung into the newsroom and headed for her desk. Her 
papers were stacked according to priority: the precise notes to be transcribed and expanded into copy, the list of 
questions for the phoner and her cards for "Deanna's Corner." She turned on her machine and typed her password 
while she waited for Angela to explain.
  Angela took her time. She hadn't been in the newsroom for months, she mused, possibly longer, since her offices 
and studio were in what CBC employees called "the Tower," a slim white spear that shot up from the building. It was a 
not-so-subtle way to separate the national and non-news programs from the local ones.
  "I'm giving a little party tomorrow night. Finn Riley's due back from London this evening, and I thought I'd give a little 
welcome-home thing for him."
  "Mmm-hmm." Deanna was already working on her lead.
  "He's been gone so long this time, and after that nasty business in Panama before he went back to his London post, 
I thought he deserved some R and R."
  Deanna wasn't sure a small, bloody war should be called "that nasty business," but she nodded.
  "Since it's all so impulsive, I really need some help putting everything together. The caterers, the flowers, the music--
and of course, the party itself. Making sure everything runs smoothly. My secretary just can't handle it all, and I really 
want it to be perfect. If you could give me a couple of hours later today--and tomorrow, of course."
  Deanna battled back the sense of resentment, and obligation. "Angela, I'd love to help you out, but I'm booked."
  Angela's persuasive smile never altered, but her eyes chilled. "You're not scheduled for

Saturday."
  "No, not here--though I am on call. But I have plans." Deanna began to tap a finger on her notes. "A date."
  "I see." Angela's hand went to her pearls, where her fingers rubbed one smooth, glowing sphere. "Rumor has it that 
you've been seeing a lot of Dr. Marshall Pike."
  The evening news might run on facts and verified information, but Deanna understood that newsrooms and 
television studios ran on gossip. "We've been out a few times in the last couple of weeks."
  "Well, I wouldn't want to interfere--and I hope you won't take this the wrong way, Dee." To add intimacy to the 
statement, Angela rested a hip on Deanna's desk. "Do you really think he's your type?"
  Torn between manners and her own schedule, Deanna chose manners. "I don't really have one. A type, I mean."
  "Of course you do." With a light laugh, Angela tilted her head. "Young, well built, the outdoorsy type. Athletic," she 
continued. "You need someone who can keep up with the vicious pace you set for yourself. And a good intellect, 
naturally, but not overly cerebral. You need someone who can make his point in quick, fifteen-second bites."
  She really didn't have time for any of this. Deanna picked up one of her sharpened pencils and ran it through her 
fingers. "That makes me sound sort of shallow."
  "Not at all." Angela's eyes widened in protest even as she chuckled. "Darling, I only want the very best for you. I'd 
hate to see a passing interest interfere with the momentum of your career, and as for Marshall ... He's a bit slick, isn't 
he?"
  Temper glinted in Deanna's eyes, and was quickly suppressed. "I don't know what you mean. I enjoy his company."
  "Of course you do." Angela patted Deanna's shoulder. "What young woman wouldn't? An older man, experienced, 
smooth. But to let him interfere with your work--"
  "He's not interfering with anything. We've gone out a few times in the last couple of weeks, that's all. I'm sorry, 
Angela, but I really have to get back on schedule here."

  "Sorry," she said coolly. "I thought we were friends. I didn't think a little constructive advice would offend you."
  "It hasn't." Deanna fought back a sigh. "But I'm on deadline. Listen, if I can squeeze out some time later today, I'll do 
what I can to help you with the party."
  As if a switch had been thrown, the icy stare melted into the warmest of smiles. "You're a jewel. Tell you what, just to 
prove there's no hard feelings, you bring Marshall tomorrow night."
  "Angela--"
  "Now, I won't take no for an answer." She slid off the desk. "And if you could get there just an hour or two early, I'd 
be so grateful. No one organizes like you, Dee. We'll talk about all of this later."
  Deanna leaned back in her chair when Angela strolled away. She felt as though she'd been steamrolled with velvet.
  With a shake of her head, she looked down at her notes, her fingers poised over her keyboard. Frowning, she 
relaxed them again. Angela was wrong, she thought. Marshall wasn't interfering with her work. Being interested in 
someone didn't have to clash with ambition.
  She enjoyed going out with him. She liked his mind --the way he could open it to see both sides of a situation. And 
the way he laughed when she dug in on an opinion and refused to budge.
  She appreciated the fact that he was letting the physical end of their relationship develop slowly, at her pace. 
Though she had to admit it was becoming tempting to speed things up. It had been a long time since she'd felt safe 
enough, and strong enough, with a man to invite intimacy.
  Once she did, Deanna thought, she would have to tell him everything.
  She shook the memory away quickly, before it could dig its claws into her heart. She knew from experience it was 
best to cross one bridge at a time, then to prepare to span the next.
  The first bridge was to analyze her relationship with Marshall, if there was a relationship, and to decide where she 
wanted it to go.
  A glance at the clock made her moan.
  She would have to cross that personal bridge on her own time. Setting her fingers on the keyboard, she got to work.

 Angela's staff privately called her suite of offices "the citadel." She reigned like a feudal lord from her French 
provincial desk, handing out commands and meting out reward and punishment in equal measures. Anyone who 
remained on staff after a six-month probationary period was loyal and diligent and kept his or her complaints private.
  She was, admittedly, exacting, impatient with excuses and demanding of certain personal luxuries. She had, after all, 
earned such requirements.
  Angela stepped into the outer office, where her executive secretary was busily handling details for Monday's taping. 
There were other offices--producers, researchers, assistants --down the quiet hallway. Angela had long since left the 
boisterous bustle of newsrooms behind. She had used reporting not merely as a stepping-stone, but as a catapult for 
her ambitions. There was only one thing she wanted, and she had wanted it for as long as she could remember: to be 
the center of attention.
  In news, the story was king. The bearer of the tale would be noticed, certainly, if she was good enough. Angela had 
been very good. Six years in the pressure cooker of on-air reporting had cost her one husband, netted her a second 
and paved the way for Angela's.
  She much preferred, and insisted on, the church-like silence of thick carpets and insulated walls.
  "You have some messages, Miss Perkins." "Later." Angela yanked open one of the double doors leading to her 
private office. "I need you inside, Cassie."
  She began to pace immediately. Even when she heard the quiet click of the door closing behind her secretary, she 
continued to move restlessly, over the Aubusson, past the elegant desk, away from the wide ribbon of windows, 
toward the antique curio cabinet that held her collection of awards.
  Mine, she thought. She had earned them, she possessed them. Now that she did, no one would ever ignore her 
again.
  She paused by the framed photos and prints that adorned a wall. Pictures of Angela with celebrities at charity events 
and award ceremonies. Her covers of TV Guide and

Time and P. She stared at them, drawing deep breaths.
  "Does she realize who I am?" she murmured. "Does she realize who she's dealing with?"
  With a shake of her head, she turned away again. It was a small mistake, she reminded herself. One that could be 
easily corrected. After all, she was fond of the girl.
  As she grew calmer, she circled her desk, settled into the custom-made pink leather chair the CEO of her syndicate--
her former husband--had given her when her show hit number one in the ratings.
  Cassie remained standing. She knew better than to approach one of the mahogany chairs with their fussy 
needlepoint cushions until invited.
  "You contacted the caterer?"
  "Yes, Miss Perkins. The menu's on your desk."
  Angela glanced at it, nodded absently. "The florist."
  "They confirmed everything but the calla lilies," Cassie told her. "They're trying to find the supply you want, but 
suggested several substitutes."
  "If I'd wanted a substitute, I'd have asked for one." She waved her hand. "It's not your fault, Cassie. Sit down." 
Angela closed her eyes. She was getting one of her headaches, one of those pile-driving thumpers that came on in a 
rush of pain. Gently, she massaged the center of her forehead with two fingers. Her mother had gotten headaches, 
she remembered. And had doused them with liquor. "Get me some water, will you? I've got a migraine brewing."
  Cassie got up from the chair she'd just taken and walked across the room to the gleaming bar. She was a quiet 
woman, in looks, in speech. And was ambitious enough to ignore Angela's faults in her desire for advancement. 
Saying nothing, she chose the crystal decanter that was filled with fresh spring water daily and poured a tumblerful.
  "Thanks." Angela downed a Percodan with water, and prayed for it to kick in. She couldn't afford to be distracted 
during her luncheon meeting. "Do you have a list of acceptances for the party?"
  "On your desk."
  "Fine." Angela kept her eyes closed.

"Give a copy of it, and everything else, to Deanna. She'll be taking care of the details from here."
  "Yes, ma'am." Aware of her duties, Cassie walked behind Angela's chair and gently massaged her temples. Minutes 
clicked by, counted off by the quiet tick of the long case clock across the room. Musically, it announced the quarter-
hour.
  "You checked on the weather forecast?" Angela murmured.
  "It's projected to be clear and cool, a low in the mid-forties."
  "Then we'll need to use the heaters on the terrace. I want dancing."
  Dutifully, Cassie stepped away to note the instructions down. There was no word of thanks for her attentiveness; 
none required. "Your hairdresser is scheduled to arrive at your home at two. Your dress will be delivered by three at 
the latest."
  "All right, then, let's put all that aside for the moment. I want you to contact Beeker. I want to know everything there is 
to know about Dr. Marshall Pike. He's a psychologist with a private practice here in Chicago. I want the information as 
Beeker collects it, rather than waiting for a full report."
  She opened her eyes again. The headache wasn't in full retreat, but the pill was beating it back. "Tell Beeker it isn't 
an emergency, but it is a priority. Understood?"
  "Yes, Miss Perkins."

  By six that evening, Deanna was still going full steam ahead. While she juggled three calls, she beefed up copy that 
would be read on the late news. "Yes, I understand your position. But an interview, particularly a televised interview, 
would help show your side." Deanna pursed her lips, sighed. "If you feel that way, of course. I believe your neighbor is 
more than willing to tell me her story on the air." She smiled when the receiver squawked in indignation. "Yes, we'd 
prefer to have both sides represented. Thank you, Mrs. Wilson. I'll be there at ten tomorrow."
  She spotted Marshall coming toward her and lifted a hand in a wave as she punched down the next blinking light on 
her phone. "Sorry,

Mrs. Carter. Yes, as I was saying,
I understand your position. It is a shame about your tulips. A televised interview would help show your side of the 
dispute." Deanna smiled as Marshall stroked a hand down her hair in greeting. "If you're sure. Mrs. Wilson has agreed 
to tell me her story on the air." Tipping the receiver a safe inch from her ear, Deanna rolled her eyes at Marshall. "Yes, 
that would be fine. I'll be there at ten. 'Bye."
  "Hot breaking story?"
  "Hot tempers in suburbia," Deanna corrected as she disconnected. "I have to put in an hour or two tomorrow after 
all. A couple of neighbors are engaged in a pitched battle over a bed of tulips, an old, incorrect survey and a cocker 
spaniel."
  "Sounds fascinating."
  "I'll give you the scoop over dinner." She didn't object when he lowered his head, and met his lips willingly. The kiss 
was friendly, without the pressure of intimacy. "You're all wet," she murmured, tasting rain and cool skin.
  "It's pouring out there. All I need is a nice warm restaurant and a dry wine."
  "I've got one more call waiting." "Take your time. Want anything?"
  "I could use a cold drink. My vocal cords are raw."
  Deanna cleared her mental decks and punched in the next button. "Mr. Van Damme, I'm terribly sorry for the 
interruption. There seems to be a mix-up with Miss Perkins's wine order for tomorrow night. She'll need three cases of 
Taittinger's, not two. Yes, that's right. And the white wine?" Deanna checked off her list as the caterer recited from his. 
"Yes, that's right. And can I ease her mind about the ice sculpture?" She sent Marshall another smile when he 
returned with a cold can of 7-Up. "That's wonderful, Mr. Van Damme. And you do have the change from tarts to petits 
fours? Terrific. I think we've got it under control. I'll see you tomorrow, then. 'Bye."
  With a long exhale, Deanna dropped the phone on its hook. "Done," she told Marshall. "I hope."
  "Long day for you?"

  "Long, and productive."
Automatically she began to tidy her desk. "I appreciate your meeting me here, Marshall."
  "My schedule was lighter than yours." "Mmm." She took a deep drink, then set the can aside before shutting down 
her workstation. "And I owe you one for changing plans for tomorrow to accommodate Angela."
  "A good psychologist should be flexible." He watched her as she straightened papers and organized notes. 
"Besides, it sounds like a hell of a party."
  "It's turning out that way. She's not a woman to do anything halfway."
  "And you admire that."
  "Absolutely. Give me five minutes to freshen up, then I promise to focus all my energy on relaxing with you over 
dinner."
  When she stood, he shifted so that his body just brushed hers. It was a subtle move, a subtle suggestion. "You look 
very fresh to me."
  She felt the trickle of excitement run down her spine, the warmth of awareness bloom in her stomach. Tilting her 
head to meet his eyes, she saw the desire, the need and the patience, a combination that sent her pulse skipping.
  She had only to say yes, she knew, and they would forget all about dinner, and all about relaxing. And for one 
moment, one very long, very quiet moment, she wished it could be that simple.
  "I won't be long," she murmured.
  "I'll wait."
  He would, she thought when he moved aside to let her by. And she would have to make up her mind, soon, whether 
she wanted to continue along the comfortable, companionable road of this relationship, or shift gears.
  "Having your head shrunk, Dee?"
  She spotted the cameraman by the door, biting into a Milky Way. "That's so lame, Joe."
  "I know." He grinned around the chocolate. There was a button that said AVAILABLE pinned to his tattered denim 
vest. He had holes in the knees of his jeans. Techs didn't have to worry about appearance. That was just the way Joe 
liked it. "But somebody's got to say it. Did you set up those two interviews for the morning? The tulip wars?"
  "Yeah. Sure you don't mind giving up your

Saturday morning?"
  "Not for overtime pay."
  "Good. Delaney's still at the desk, isn't he?"
  "I'm waiting for him." Joe bit off more candy. "We've got a poker game tonight. I'm going to hose him for the double 
shift he stuck me with last week."
  "Do me a favor, then, and tell him we're set, both women, ten o'clock."
  "Will do."
  "Thanks." Deanna hurried away to do quick repairs on her hair and makeup. She was applying fresh lipstick when 
Joe burst into the ladies' room. The door slammed back against the wall, echoing as he lunged at her.
  "Jesus, Joe, are you nuts?"
  "Get your butt in gear, Dee. We've got an assignment, and we've got to move fast." He grabbed her purse from the 
sink with one hand and her arm with the other.
  "What, for God's sake?" She tripped over the threshold as he hauled her out the door. "Did somebody start a war?"
  "Almost as hot. We've got to get out to O'Hare."
  "O'Hare? Damn it, Marshall's waiting." Fighting impatience, Joe let Deanna tug her arm free. If he had any 
complaints about her, it was that her vision wasn't quite narrow enough. She always saw the peripheral when the 
camera needed a tight shot.
  "Go tell the boyfriend you've got to go be a reporter. Delaney just got word there's a plane coming in, and it's in 
trouble. Big time."
  "Oh, God." She made the dash back into the newsroom with Joe on her heels. Bursting through the pandemonium, 
she snatched a fresh notebook from her desk. "Marshall, I'm sorry. I have to go."
  "I've already gathered that. Do you want me to wait?"
  "No." She dragged a hand through her hair, grabbed her jacket. "I don't know how long I'll be. I'll call you. Delaney!" 
she called out.
  The stout assignment editor waved the stub of his unlit cigar in her direction. "Take off, Reynolds. Keep in touch on 
the two-way. We'll be patching you in live. Get me a

goddamn scoop."
  "Sorry," she called to Marshall. "Where's the plane coming in from?" she shouted to Joe as they raced up the stairs. 
His motorcycle boots clattered on the metal like gunfire.
  "London. They'll be feeding us the rest of the information as we go." He shoved open the outside door and then 
plunged out into a torrent of rain. His Chicago Bulls sweatshirt was immediately plastered to his chest. He shouted 
over the storm while he unlocked the van. "It's a 747.
More than two hundred passengers. Left engine failure, some problem with the radar. Might have taken a hit of 
lightning." To punctuate his words, a spear of lightning cracked the black sky, shattering the dark.
  Already drenched, Deanna climbed into the van. "What's the ETA?" Out of habit, she switched on the police scanner 
under the dash.
  "Don't know. Let's just hope we get there before they do." He'd hate to miss getting a shot of the crash. He gunned 
the engine, glanced at her. The gleam in his eyes promised a wild ride. "Here's the kicker, Dee. Finn
Riley's on board. The crazy son of a bitch called in the story himself."

             Chapter Four

  Sitting in the forward cabin of the beleaguered 747 was like riding in the belly of a dyspeptic bronco. The plane 
bucked, kicked, shuddered and shook as if it were struggling mightily to disgorge its complement of passengers. 
Some of the people on board were praying, some were weeping, still others had their faces buried in air-sickness 
bags, too weak to do anything but moan.
  Finn Riley didn't give much thought to prayer. In his own way he was religious. He could, if the need arose in him, 
recite the Act of Contrition just as he had through all those shadowy sessions in the confessional as a child. At the 
moment, atonement wasn't on the top of his list.
  Time was running out--on his battery pack on his laptop computer. He'd have to switch to his tape recorder soon. 
Finn much preferred writing copy as the words flowed from his mind to his fingers.
  He glanced out the window. The black sky exploded again and again with spears of lightning. Like lances of the 
gods--nope, he decided, deleting

the phrase. Too corny. A battleground, nature against man's technology. The sounds were definitely warlike, he 
mused. The prayers, the weeping, the groans, the occasionally hysterical laugh. He'd heard them in trenches before. 
And the echoing boom of thunder that shook the plane like a toy.
  He used the last moments of his dying battery playing that angle.
  Once he'd shut down, he secured the disk and the computer in his heavy metal case. He'd have to hope for the best 
there, Finn mused, as he slipped his mini-recorder from his briefcase. He'd seen the aftermath of plane crashes often 
enough to know what survived was pure luck.
  "It's May fifth, seven-oh-two Central time," Finn recited into the recorder. "We're aboard flight 1129 approaching 
O'Hare, though it's impossible to see any lights through the storm. Lightning struck the port engine about twenty 
minutes ago. And from what I could squeeze out of the first-class flight attendant, there's some problem with the 
radar, possibly storm-related. There are two hundred and fifty-two passengers on board, and twelve crew."
  "You're crazy." The man sitting next to Finn finally lifted his head from between his knees. His face, under its sheen 
of sweat, was pale green. His upper-class British voice was slurred more than a little with a combination of scotch and 
terror. "We could be dead in a few minutes and you're talking into some bloody machine."
  "We could be alive in a few minutes, too. Either way, it's news." Sympathetic, Finn dragged a handkerchief out of the 
back pocket of his jeans. "Here."
  "Thanks." Mumbling, the man dabbed at his face. As the plane shuddered again, he laid his head weakly against the 
seat and closed his eyes. "You must have ice water for blood."
  Finn only smiled. His blood wasn't icy, it was hot, pumping hot, but there was no use in trying to explain that to a 
layman. It wasn't that he wasn't afraid, or that he was particularly fatalistic. But he did have the reporter's unique 
sense of tunnel vision. He had his recorder, his notebook, his laptop. These were shields that gave the illusion of 
indestructibility.

  Why else did a cameraman continue to roll tape when bullets were flying? Why did a reporter jab a mike into the face 
of a psychopath, or run in instead of out of a building during a bomb threat? Because he was blinded by the shields of 
the Fourth Estate.
  Or maybe, Finn mused with a grin, they were just crazy.
  "Hey." He shifted in his seat and aimed the recorder. "Want to be my last interview?"
  His companion opened red-rimmed eyes. What he saw was a man only a few years younger than himself, with clear, 
pale skin shadowed by a hint of a beard shades darker than the tousled mane of wavy bronze hair that swept the 
collar of a leather bomber's jacket. Sharp, angular features were softened by a mouth spread in an engaging grin that 
featured a crooked eyetooth. The grin brought out dimples that should have softened the face, yet only made it 
tougher. Like dents in rock.
  But it was the eyes that held the onlooker's attention. Just now they were a deep, misty blue, like a lake dappled in 
fog, and they were filled with amusement, self-deprecation and recklessness.
  The man heard a sound bubble in his own throat and was stunned to realize it was a laugh. "Fuck you," he said, 
grinning back.
  "Even if we buy it on this run, I don't think they'll air that. Network standards. Is this your first trip to the States?"
  "Jesus, you are crazy." But some of his fear was ebbing. "No, I make the trip about twice a year."
  "What's the first thing you want to do if we land in one piece?"
  "Call my wife. We had a row before I left. Silly business." He mopped his clammy face again. "I want to talk to my 
wife and kids."
  The plane lost altitude. The PA crackled under the sounds of screams and sobs.
  "Ladies and gentlemen, please remain in your seats, with your seat belts fastened. We will be landing momentarily. 
For your own safety, please put your head between your knees, grasp your ankles firmly. Once we land, we'll begin 
emergency evacuation procedures."
  Or they'll scrape us up with shovels, Finn mused. The vision of the wreck of Pan Am

flight 103 spread over Scotland played uneasily in his mind. He remembered too well what he'd seen, what he'd 
smelled, what he'd felt when he'd broadcast that report.
  He wondered, fatalistically, who would stand in front of twisted, smoking metal and tell the world about the fate of 
flight 1129.
  "What's your wife's name?" Finn asked as he leaned forward.
  "Anna."
  "Kids?"
  "Brad and Susan. Oh God, oh God,
I don't want to die."
  "Think about Anna and Brad and Susan," Finn told him. "Pull them right into your head. It'll help." Cool-eyed, he 
studied the Celtic cross that had worked its way out from under his sweater to dangle on its chain. He had people to 
think about, as well. He closed his hand over the cross, held it warm in his hand.
  "It's seven-oh-nine, Central time. The pilot's taking us in."

  "Can you see it yet? Joe, can you see it?" "Can't see a goddamn thing through this goddamn rain." He squinted, 
hefting his camera. Rain ran off the bill of his fielder's cap and waterfalled in front of his face. "Can't believe there's no 
other crews here yet. It's just like Finn to call the son-of-a-bitching story in so we'd get an exclusive."
  "They'll have heard about it by now." Straining to see through the gloom, Deanna shoved sopping hair from her 
eyes. In the lights of the runway, the rain looked like a hail of silver bullets. "We won't be alone out here for long. I 
hope we're right about them using this runway."
  "We're right. Wait. Did you hear that? I don't think that was thunder."
  "No, it sounded like--there!" She stabbed a finger toward the sky. "Look. That's got to be it."
  The lights were barely visible through the slashing rain. Faintly, she heard the mutter of an engine, then the 
answering wail of emergency vehicles. Her stomach flipped over.
  "Benny? Are you copying this?" She lifted her voice over the storm, satisfied when she heard her producer's voice 
come through her earpiece. "It's coming down now. Yes?" She nodded

to Joe. "We're set. We're going live," she told Joe, and stood with her back to the runway. "Go from me, then follow 
the plane in. Keep on the plane. They've got us," she murmured, listening to the madhouse of the control room 
through her earpiece. "In five, Joe."
  She listened to the lead-in from the anchor, and her cue. "We've just spotted the lights from flight 1129. As you can 
see, the storm has become very violent, rain is washing over the runways in sheets. Airport officials have refused to 
comment on the exact nature of the problem with flight 1129, but emergency vehicles are standing ready."
  "What can you see, Deanna?" This from the anchor desk back in the studio.
  "The lights, and we can hear the engine as the plane descends." She turned as Joe angled the camera skyward. 
"There!" In the lightning flash, the plane was visible, a bright silver missile hurtling groundward. "There are two-
hundred and sixty-four passengers and crew aboard flight 1129." She shouted over the scream of storm, engines and 
sirens. "Including Finn Riley, CBC'S foreign correspondent returning to Chicago from his post in London. Please 
God," she murmured, then fell silent, letting the pictures tell the story as the plane came into clear view.
  It was laboring. She imagined herself inside as the pilot fought to keep the nose up and level. The sound must have 
been deafening.
  "Almost," she whispered, forgetting the camera, the mike, the viewers as she kept her gaze riveted on the plane. 
She saw the landing gear, then the bright red, white and blue logo of the airline slashed on the side of the plane. 
There was only static in her earpiece.
  "I can't hear you, Martin. Stand by."
  She held her breath as the wheels hit, skidded, bounced off the tarmac. Held it still as the plane slid and swayed, 
chased down the runway by the flashing lights of emergency vehicles.
  "It's skidding," she called out. "There's smoke. I can see what looks like smoke under the left wing. I can hear the 
brakes screaming, and it's slowing. It's definitely slowing, but there's a problem with control."
  The wing dipped, skimming the tarmac and shooting up a shower of sparks. Deanna watched them

sizzle and die in the wet as the plane swerved. Then, with a shuddering bump, it stopped, diagonally across the 
runway.
  "It's down. Flight 1129 is on the ground."
  "Deanna, is it possible for you to assess the damage?"
  "Not from here. Just the smoke I spotted at the left wing, which corroborates our unofficial reports of left-engine 
failure. Emergency crews are soaking down the area with foam. Ambulances are standing by. The door's opening, 
Martin. The chute's coming out. I can see--yes, the first passengers being evacuated."
  "Get closer," the producer ordered. "We're cutting back to Martin to give you time to get closer."
  "We'll move closer to the scene, and bring you more on flight 1129, which has just landed at O'Hare. This is Deanna 
Reynolds for CBC."
  "You're clear," her producer shouted. "G." "Goddamn!" Excitement pitched Joe's voice up an octave. "What pictures. 
What pictures. It's fucking Emmy time."
  She shot him a look, but was too used to the cameraman's style to comment. "Come on, Joe. Let's see if we can get 
some interviews."
  They dashed toward the runway as more passengers slid down the emergency chute into the arms of waiting rescue 
workers. By the time they reached the huddle of vehicles, and reset for broadcast, there were half a dozen people 
safely out. One woman sat on the ground, weeping into her folded arms. With the singlemindedness of a newsman, 
Joe rolled tape.
  "Benny, we're at the scene. Are you getting this?"
  "Absolutely. It's good film. We'll be putting you back live. Get me one of the passengers. Get me--"
  "Riley," Joe shouted. "Hey, Finn Riley."
  Deanna glanced back toward the chute in time to see Finn make his slide to earth. On hearing his name called, he 
turned his head. Eyes narrowed against the driving rain, he focused on the camera. And grinned.
  He landed easily, despite the metal case he clutched. Rain dripped from his hair,

skimmed down his leather jacket and soaked his boots.
  In an easy lope he covered the ground from chute to camera.
  "You lucky son of a bitch." Joe beamed and punched Finn on the shoulder.
  "Good to see you, Joe. Excuse me a minute." Without warning, he grabbed Deanna and planted a hard kiss on her 
mouth. She had time to feel the heat radiating from his body, to register the shock of electricity from his mouth to hers, 
a quick burst of power, before he released her.
  "Hope you don't mind." He gave her a charming smile. "I thought about kissing the ground, but you look a hell of a lot 
better. Can I borrow these a minute?"
  He was already tugging her earpiece free. "Hey."
  "Who's producing?"
  "Benny. And I--"
  "Benny?" He snagged her mike. "Yeah, it's me. So, you got my call." He chuckled. "My pleasure. Anything I can do 
for the news department." He listened a moment, nodded. "No problem. We're going live in ten," he told Joe. "Keep an 
eye on that for me," he asked Deanna, and set his case down at her feet. He dragged the hair out of his face and 
looked into the camera.
  "This is Finn Riley, reporting live from O'Hare. At six thirty-two this evening, flight 1129 from London was struck by 
lightning."
  Deanna wondered why the rain running off her clothes didn't sizzle as she watched Finn make his report. Her report, 
she corrected. Two minutes after hitting the ground and the sneaky bastard had usurped her, stolen her piece and 
delegated her to gofer.
  So he was good, Deanna fumed as she watched him leading the viewers on the odyssey of flight 1129 from London. 
That was no surprise. She'd seen his reports before--from London, yes, and from Haiti, Central America, the Middle 
East.
  She'd even intro'd a few of them. But that wasn't the point.
  The point was that he'd snatched her piece away from her. Well, Deanna decided, he might have upstaged her, but 
he was going to discover that

stealing her newspiece wasn't a snap.
  Interviews were her strong point, she reminded herself. That was her job, she told herself, struggling to cool off. And 
that's what she would do. Brilliantly.
  Turning her back on Finn, she hunched her shoulders against the downpour and went to look for passengers.
  Moments later, there was a tap on her back. She turned, lifted a brow. "Did you need something?"
  "Brandy and a roaring fire." Finn wiped rain from his face. He was in gear, fueled by the chaos and the immediacy of 
the report. And the simple fact that he wasn't a dead man. "Meantime, I figured we'd round out the piece with some 
interviews. Some passengers, a few of the emergency crew--some of the flight crew, if we're lucky. We should be able 
to get it in for a special report before the late news."
  "I've already lined up a couple of passengers who are willing to talk to me on air."
  "Good. Take Joe and do it, while I see if I can finagle an interview with the pilot."
  She snagged his arm before he could pivot away. "I need my mike."
  "Oh. Sure." He handed it over, then offered the earpiece. She looked like a wet dog, he mused. Not a mongrel, no 
indeed. One of those classy Afghan hounds that manage to maintain dignity and style under the worst of 
circumstances. His pleasure at being alive went up another notch. It was a pure delight to watch her glaring at him. "I 
know you, don't I? Aren't you on the Sunrise News?"
  "Not for the past several months. I'm on Midday."
  "Congratulations." He focused on her more intently, the misty blue of his eyes turning sharp and clear. "Diana--no, 
Deanna. Right?"
  "You have a good memory. I don't believe we've spoken before."
  "No, but I've caught your work. Pretty good." But he was already looking beyond her. "There were some kids on the 
flight. If you can't get them on mike, at least get them on camera. The competition's here now." He gestured to where 
other newsmen were milling among the passengers. "Let's work fast."
  "I know my job," she said, but he was already

moving away.
  "He doesn't seem to have a problem with self-esteem."
  Beside her, Joe snorted. "He's got an ego the size of the Sears Tower. And it isn't fragile. The thing is, when you do 
a piece with him, you know he's going to do it right. And he doesn't treat his crew like mentally deficient slaves."
  "Too bad he doesn't treat other reporters with the same courtesy." She spun on her heel. "Let's get pictures."

  It was after nine when they returned to CBC, where Finn was greeted with a hero's welcome. Someone handed him 
a bottle of Jameson, seal intact. Shivering, Deanna headed straight for her desk, turned on her machine and started 
writing copy.
  This, she knew, would go national. It was a chance she didn't intend to miss.
  She tuned out the shouting and laughing and back-slapping and wrote furiously, referring now and then to the 
sketchy notes she'd scribbled in the back of the van.
  "Here." She looked down and saw a hand, wide-palmed, long-fingered, scarred at the base of the thumb, set down a 
glass on her desk. The glass held about an inch of deep amber liquid.
  "I don't drink on the job." She hoped she sounded cool, not prim.
  "I don't think a swallow of whiskey's going to impair your judgment. And," he said, drifting easily into a rich Pat 
O'Brien brogue, "it'll put some heat in your belly. You don't plan on operating heavy machinery, do you?" Finn skirted 
her chair and sat on the edge of her desk. "You're cold." He handed her a towel. "Knock it back. Dry your hair. We've 
got work to do."
  "That's what I'm doing." But she took the towel. And after a moment's hesitation, the whiskey. It might have been 
only a swallow, but he was right, it put a nice cozy fire in her stomach.
  "We've got thirty minutes for copy. Benny's already editing the tape." Finn craned his head around to scan her 
screen. "That's good stuff," he commented.
  "It'll be better if you'd get out of my

way."
  He was used to hostility, but he liked to know its source. "You're ticked because I kissed you? No offense, Deanna, 
but it wasn't personal. It was more like primal instinct."
  "I'm not ticked because you kissed me." She spoke between her teeth and began to type again. "I'm ticked because 
you stole my story."
  Hooking his hands around his knee, Finn thought about it and decided she had a small, if not particularly salient 
point. "Let me ask you a question. Which makes better film? You doing a stand-up, or me giving a play-by-play of the 
flight minutes after evacuation?"
  She spared him one heated glance, and said nothing. "Okay, while you're thinking it over, we'll print out my copy and 
see how it reads with yours."
  She stopped. "What do you mean, your copy?" "I wrote it on the plane. Got a quick interview with my seatmate, too." 
The reckless amusement was back in his eyes. "Should be good for human interest."
  Despite her annoyance, she nearly laughed. "You wrote copy while your plane was going down?"
  "Those portable computers will work anywhere. You've got about five minutes before Benny comes along and starts 
tearing his hair out."
  Deanna stared after him when Finn walked off to commandeer a desk.
  The man was obviously a lunatic.

  And a damned talented one, she decided thirty minutes later.
  The edited tape was completed, the graphics set less than three minutes before airtime. The copy, reworked, 
rewritten and timed, was plugged into the TelePrompTer. And Finn Riley, still in his sweater and jeans, was seated 
behind the anchor desk, going national with his report.
  "Good evening. This is a special report on flight 1129. I'm Finn Riley."
  Deanna knew he was reading the news, since she had written the first thirty seconds herself. Yet it felt as though he 
were telling a story. He knew exactly which word to punch, when to pause. He knew exactly how to go through the 
camera and into the home.
  It wasn't an intimacy, she mused, worrying her earring. He wasn't settling in for a

cozy chat. He was ... bringing tidings, she decided. Carrying the message. And somehow staying aloof from it.
  Neat trick, she thought, since he had been on the very plane he was describing.
  Even when he read his own words, words he had written while plunging through the sky in a crippled plane with its 
port engine smoking, he was removed. The storyteller, not the story.
  Admiration snuck past her defenses. She turned to the monitor when they switched to film, and saw herself. Hair 
dripping, eyes huge, face pale as the water that rained over her. Her voice was steady. Yes, she had that, Deanna 
thought. But she wasn't detached. The fear and terror were there, transmitted as clearly as her words.
  And when the camera shifted to capture the plane skidding on the runway, she heard her own whispered prayer.
  Too involved, she realized, and sighed. It was worse when she saw Finn on the monitor, taking over the story 
minutes after escaping the damaged plane. He had the look of a warrior fresh from battle--a veteran warrior who could 
discuss each blow and thrust concisely, emotionlessly.
  And he had been right. It made better film. At commercial, Deanna went up into the control booth to watch. Benny 
was grinning like a fool even as sweat popped onto his wide, furrowed brow. He was fat and permanently red-faced 
and made a habit of tugging on tufts of his lank brown hair. But he was, Deanna knew, a hell of a producer.
  "We beat every other station in town," he was telling Finn through the earpiece. "None of them have any tape of the 
landing, or the initial stages of evacuation." He blew Deanna a kiss. "This is great stuff. You're back in ten, Finn. We'll 
be going to the tape of passenger interviews. And cue."
  Through the last three and a half minutes, Benny continued to murmur to himself, pulling at his hair.
  "Maybe we should have put him in a jacket," he said at one point. "Maybe we should have found him a jacket."
  "No." There was no use being resentful. Deanna put a hand on Benny's shoulder. "He looks great."

  "And in those last moments in the air, some, like Harry Lyle, thought of family. Others, like Marcia DeWitt and 
Kenneth Morgenstern, thought of dreams unfulfilled. For them, and all the others aboard flight 1129, the long night 
ended at seven-sixteen, when the plane landed safely on runway three.
  "This is Finn Riley for CBC. Good night."
  "Up graphics. Music. And we're clear!"
  A cheer erupted in the control booth. Benny leaned back in his swivel chair and lifted his arms in triumph. Phones 
started to shrill.
  "Benny, it's Barlow James on two."
  A hush fell over control, and Benny stared at the receiver as though it were a snake. Barlow James, the president of 
the news division, rarely phoned.
  Every eye was on Benny as he swallowed and took the phone. "Mr. James?" Benny listened a moment, his ruddy 
face going ghostly, then flushing hot candy pink. "Thank you, sir." Opening his mouth wide, Benny flashed a thumb's 
up and set the cheering off again. "Yes, sir, Finn's one in a million. We're glad to have him back. Deanna Reynolds?" 
He swiveled in his chair and rolled his eyes at Deanna. "Yes, sir, Mr. James, we're proud to have her on our team. 
Thank you very much. I'll let them know."
  Benny replaced the receiver, stood and did a fast boogie that sent his belly swaying over his belt. "He loved it," 
Benny sang. "He loved it all. They want the whole eight minutes for the affiliates. He loved you." Benny grabbed 
Deanna's hands and spun her around. "He liked your fresh, intimate style-- that's a quote. And the fact that you 
looked good soaking wet."
  With a choked laugh, Deanna stepped back and rammed straight into Finn.
  "Two pretty good qualities in a reporter," Finn decided. He caught a whiff of her hair as he steadied her, rain and 
apple blossoms. "Nice job, guys." He released Deanna to shake hands with the control crew. "Really terrific."
  "Mr. James said welcome back, Finn," Benny said. As he relaxed again, the pudge of his

belly sagged comfortably at his belt. "And he's looking forward to beating your butt at tennis next week."
  "In his dreams." Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Deanna descending the stairs. "Thanks again."
  He caught up with her in the newsroom just as she was shrugging into her coat.
  "It was a good piece," he said. "Yes, it was."
  "Reading copy isn't one of my priorities, but reading yours was a pleasure."
  "It's certainly a night for compliments." She swung her purse over her arm. "Thanks, and welcome back to Chicago."
  "Need a lift?"
  "No, I've got my car."
  "I don't." He flashed her a smile. Dimples winked out, charmingly. "Probably hell getting a cab in this weather."
  She studied him. In her heels, she was about the same height he was, and she got a good, close look at those 
innocent blue eyes. Too innocent, she thought, especially in combination with that quick, dashing grin and the wink of 
dimples. He wanted to look innocent, she decided. Therefore he did. Neat trick.
  "I suppose, as a professional courtesy, I could give you a ride home."
  Her hair was still wet, he noted, and she hadn't bothered to repair her makeup. "Are you still ticked at me?"
  "No, actually, I'm down to mildly miffed."
  "I could buy you a burger." He reached out to toy with one of the buttons on her jacket. "Maybe I could talk you down 
to slightly steamed."
  "These things generally run their course. In any case, I think your homecoming's been exciting enough. I've got a call 
to make."
  She was involved with someone, Finn realized. It was too bad. Really too bad. "Just the lift, then. I appreciate it."

             Chapter Five

  For some, organizing a party was a casual affair. Food, drink, music and good company were tossed together and 
left to mix in their own way.

  For Deanna, it was a campaign.
From the moment Cassie had passed the torch to her barely twenty-four hours earlier, no detail was left unattended 
to, no list unfulfilled. Like a general rousing troops, she inspected the caterer, the florist, the bartender, the 
housekeeping staff. She arranged, rearranged and approved. She counted stemware, discussed the playlist with the 
band and personally tasted Van Damme's chicken kabobs in peanut butter sauce.
  "Incredible," she murmured, her eyes closed, her lips just parted as she savored the flavor. "Really, really incredible."
  When she opened her eyes, she and the slim young caterer beamed at each other.
  "Thank God." Van Damme offered her a glass of wine as they stood in the center of Angela's enormous kitchen. 
"Miss Perkins wanted cuisine from around the world as her theme. It took a great deal of thought and preparation, in a 
short amount of time, to come up with flavors that would complement one another. The ratatouille, the deep-fried 
mushrooms @a la Berlin, the tiny spanakopita ..." The list went on.
  Deanna didn't know ratatouille from tuna fish, but made appropriate noises. "You've done a wonderful job, Mr. Van 
Damme." Deanna toasted him and drank. "Miss
Perkins and all of her guests will be delighted. Now I know I can leave all of this in your hands."
  She hoped. There were half a dozen people in the kitchen, rattling pans, arranging trays, bickering. "We have thirty 
minutes." She took one last glance around. Every inch of Angela's rose-colored counters was filled with trays and 
pots. The air was thick with delicious smells. Van Damme's assistants rushed about. Marveling that anyone could 
function amid the confusion, Deanna escaped.
  She hurried toward the front of the house. Angela's lofty living room was all pastels and flowers. Delicate calla lilies 
streamed out of crystal vases. Fairy roses swam in fragile bowls. The floral theme was continued with the tiny violets 
dotting the silk wallpaper and the pale pattern of the Oriental carpets spread over the floor.
  The room, like all of Angela's trim two-story home, was a celebration of feminine decorating, with soft colors and 
deep cushions.

Deanna's practiced eye scanned over the sherbet-colored pillows on the curved-back sofa, the arrangement of 
slender tapers, the presentation of pale pink and green mints in crystal candy dishes. She could hear the faint sounds 
of the band tuning up through the closed terrace doors.
  For a moment, she imagined the house as hers. More color, she thought. Fewer frills. But she would definitely enjoy 
the lofty ceilings and curved windows, the cozy fireplace set with apple wood.
  She'd want some art on the walls. Bold prints, sinuous sculptures. And a few well-chosen antiques to mix with edgy 
modern pieces.
  One day, she mused, and shifted a vase an inch on a tabletop.
  Satisfied, she took a final tour of the main level. She had just started across the foyer to the staircase when the door 
chimes pealed. Too early for guests, she thought as she turned to answer. She sincerely hoped it wasn't a last-minute 
delivery she'd have to deal with.
  Finn stood on the porch with dusk gathering behind him. A breeze wafted up, played with his hair and brought 
Deanna the scent of man and nightfall. He grinned at her, letting his gaze roam up from the toes of her sneakers to 
her tousled hair.
  "Well, hi. Are you covering tonight's event?" "So to speak." He'd shaved, she noted. And though he hadn't bothered 
with a tie, the slate-gray jacket and trousers made the casual look elegant. "You're early."
  "By request." He stepped inside and shut the door at his back. "I like your party dress."
  "I was just going up to change." And he was blowing a hole in her schedule. She caught herself playing with her 
earring and dropped her hand hastily. "Why don't you come in and sit down. I'll tell Angela you're here."
  "What's your hurry?" he asked as he followed her into the living room.
  "No hurry. Do you want a drink? The bartender's in the kitchen, but I can handle something simple."
  "Don't bother."
  He sat on the arm of the sofa as he glanced around speculatively. Deanna was no more

suited to the ornate femininity of the room than he was, Finn decided. She made him think of Titania. And, though he 
couldn't say why, Titania made him think of wild sex on a damp forest floor.
  "Nothing's changed around here in the last six months. I always feel as though I'm walking into the royal gardens."
  Deanna's lips twitched. She quashed the disloyal urge to laugh and agree. "Angela's fond of flowers. I'll go get her."
  "Let her primp." Finn snagged Deanna's hand before she could walk out. "She's fond of that, too. Do you ever sit 
down?"
  "Of course I sit down."
  "I mean when you're not driving a car or writing copy."
  She didn't bother to tug her hand free. "Occasionally I sit down to eat."
  "That's interesting, so do I. Maybe we could do it together sometime."
  Deanna lifted a brow, tilted her head. "Mr. Riley, are you coming on to me?"
  He sighed, but the laughter stayed in his eyes. "Miss Reynolds, I thought I was being so subtle."
  "No."
  "No, I'm not being subtle?"
  "No, you're not. And no." Now she did slide her hand from his. "It's a nice offer, but I'm involved with someone." 
Maybe, she added to herself. "And if I weren't, I don't think it's wise to mix personal and professional relationships."
  "That sounds very definite. Are you always very definite?"
  "Yes." But she smiled. "Definitely." Angela paused in the doorway, set her teeth against temper. The picture of her 
prot@eg@ee and her lover smiling intimately at each other in her living room had her gorge rising. Though the taste 
of fury was familiar, even pleasant, she took a deep breath, fixed a smile on her lips.
  "Finn, darling!" She flew across the room, a curvy golden blossom stemmed in pale blue silk. Even as Finn rose from 
the sofa, she threw herself into his arms and fastened her mouth possessively on his. "Oh, I've missed you," she 
murmured, sliding her fingers up into the

thick tangle of his hair. "So much."
  She had an impact, Finn thought. She always did. The offer of unapologetic sex was there in the press of her body, 
the heat of her mouth. His body responded even as his mind took a wary step in retreat.
  "It's good to see you, too." He untangled himself, holding her at arm's length to study her. "You look wonderful."
  "Oh, so do you. Shame on you, Deanna." But she didn't take her eyes off Finn. "For not telling me the guest of honor 
was here."
  "I'm sorry." Deanna resisted the urge to clear the huskiness from her throat. She wished now she had left the room 
the moment Angela had entered, but the greedy, knowing look on the woman's face as she raced to Finn had rooted 
Deanna to the spot. "I was just about to."
  "She was going to mix me a drink first." Finn looked over Angela's shoulder to Deanna. There was still amusement 
there, Deanna noticed. And if she wasn't mistaken, a faint touch of embarrassment.
  "I don't know what I'd do without her." Turning, Angela slid one arm around Finn's waist, cuddling her body back into 
the curve of his in a way only small, soft women could manage easily. "I can depend on Deanna for absolutely 
everything. And do. Oh, I forgot." Laughing, she held out a hand for Deanna, as if to invite her into the charmed circle. 
"With all this confusion, I completely forgot about the excitement last night. I was nearly sick with worry when I heard 
about the plane." She shuddered, and squeezed Deanna's hand. "And I meant to tell you what a terrific job you did on 
the remote. Isn't it just like Finn to hop right out of the center of a near disaster and do a report?"
  Deanna's eyes flicked up to Finn's, then back to Angela's. There was so much sexual heat in the room she could 
barely breathe. "I wouldn't know. I'm sure the two of you would like some time alone before the guests arrive, and I 
really need to change."
  "Oh, of course, we're keeping you. Deanna's a tiger for timetables," Angela added, tilting her head up to Finn's. "Run 
along, dear." Her voice was a purr as she released Deanna's hand. "I'll handle things from here."

  "Why don't I fix that drink?"
Finn shifted away from Angela when Deanna's quick footsteps rapped up the stairs.
  "I'm sure there's champagne back there," Angela told him as he walked behind the rosewood bar. "I want to toast 
your homecoming with the best."
  Obliging, Finn took a bottle from the small refrigerator built into the back of the bar. He considered several different 
ways to handle the situation with Angela as he removed the foil and twisted the wire.
  "I tried to phone you several times last night," she began.
  "When I got in, I let the machine pick up. I was pretty wiped out." The first lie--but not the last, he decided with a 
grimace as he popped the cork. Bubbling wine fizzed up to the lip, then retreated.
  "I understand." She crossed to the bar, laid a hand on his. "And you're here now. It's been a long six months."
  Saying nothing, he poured her wine and opened a bottle of club soda for himself.
  "Aren't you joining me?"
  "I'll stick with this for now." He had a feeling he'd need a clear head tonight. "Angela, you went to an awful lot of 
trouble. It wasn't necessary."
  "Nothing is too much trouble for you." She sipped the wine, watching him over the rim.
  Perhaps it was the coward's way to keep the bar between them. But his eyes were direct, steady and cool. "We had 
some good times, Angela, but we can't go back."
  "We'll be moving forward," she agreed. She brought his hand to her lips, drew the tip of his finger into her mouth. 
"We were so good together, Finn. You remember, don't you?"
  "I remember." And his blood pounded in response. He cursed himself for being as mindless as one of Pavlov's dogs. 
"It's just not going to work."
  Her teeth nipped sharply into his flesh, surprising, and arousing, him. "You're wrong," she murmured. "I'll show you." 
The doorbell chimed again, and she smiled. "Later."

  He felt like a man locked behind bars of velvet. The house was crowded with people, friends,

coworkers, network brass, associates, all happily celebrating his return. The food was fabulous and exotic, the music 
low and bluesy. He wanted to escape.
  He didn't mind being rude, but understood if he attempted to leave, Angela would create a scene that would 
reverberate from coast to coast. There were too many people in the business here for an altercation to go unreported. 
And he much preferred reporting news, rather than being reported on. With that in mind, he opted to tough it out, even 
with the inevitable messy showdown with her at the end of the interminable party.
  At least the air was clear and fresh on the terrace. He was a man who could appreciate the scent of spring blossoms 
and newly cut grass, of mingling women's perfumes and spicy food. Perhaps he would have enjoyed being alone to 
absorb the night, but he'd learned to be flexible when there was no choice.
  And he had the talent for listening and exchanging conversation while his mind wandered. For now he let it trail to his 
cabin, where he would sit by the fire with a book and a brandy, or hunch over his bait box making new lures. Alone. 
The fantasy of being alone kept him sane through discussions of ratings and programming.
  "I tell you, Riley, if they don't beef up Tuesday nights, we're going to face another cutback in the news division. 
Makes me sick to think about it."
  "I know what you mean. Nobody's forgotten the body count from two years ago." He spotted Deanna. "Excuse me a 
minute, there's something I have to do." He squeezed through the crowd on the terrace and slipped his arms around 
her. When she stiffened, he shook his head. "This isn't a come-on, it's a diversion."
  "Oh?" Automatically, she matched her steps to his as he danced. "From what?"
  "From a diatribe on network politics. Tuesday night's schedule."
  "Ah." She ran her tongue around her teeth. "We're a little weak there, as I'm sure you know. Our lead-in for the late 
news is--"
  "Shut up." He smiled at her when she laughed, and enjoyed the fact that they were eye to eye. "You're a long one, 
aren't you?"
  "So I've been told. You know, of course, that as the guest of honor, you're required to mingle."

  "I hate rules."
  "I live for them."
  "Then consider this dance mingling. We'll even make small talk. I like your dress." It was true. The Adolfo gown's 
simple lines and bold red color were a welcome change from Angela's overly fussy pastels and lace.
  "Thank you." Curiously she studied his face. She could almost see the pain rapping at his temples. "Headache?"
  "No, thanks, I have one already." "Let me get you some aspirin."
  "It's all right. It'll pass." He drew her closer, laid his cheek against hers. "Better already. Where are you from?"
  "Topeka." She'd nearly sighed, nearly closed her eyes before she snapped back to attention. He was entirely too 
smooth, she decided, though the adjective seemed odd when she was pressed tight to a body that was tough as iron.
  "Why Chicago?"
  "My roommate from college settled here after she got married. She talked me into relocating. The position with CBC 
made the move easy."
  She smelled fabulous, he mused. The scent of her hair and skin made him think of spiced wine and quiet smoke. He 
thought of his lake, dappled in starlight, and the musical call of crickets in high grass. "Do you like to fish?"
  "Excuse me?"
  "Fish. Do you like to fish?"
  She drew back to look at his face. "I have no idea. What sort of fishing?"
  He smiled. It wasn't just the puzzlement in her eyes that caused his lips to curve. It was the fact that she was so 
obviously considering his question as seriously as one on world politics.
  "You made the right move, Kansas. Curiosity like that should take you right to the top in this business. God knows 
you've got the face for it."
  "I prefer to think I've got the brains for it."
  "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 mater 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.

 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. 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."
  "Especially the women." Angela began to jiggle her foot, a sign of agitation. Her father had been charismatic, too, 
hadn't he? she remembered bitterly. And attractive, and certainly powerful--when he was on a winning streak. And 
he'd left her as well, her and her pathetic, drunken mother for another woman and the siren call of a royal flush. But 
she'd learned since then, learned a lot about payback. "He can be very charming," she continued. "And very devious. 
He isn't above using people to get what he wants." She drew deeply on the cigarette, smiled thinly through a mist of 
smoke. "I noticed him seek you out at the party, and thought I'd give you a friendly warning."
  Deanna lifted a brow, wondering how Angela would feel if she knew Finn had used the same phrase just a few hours 
earlier. "No need."
  "I know that you're involved with Marshall at the moment, but Finn can be very persuasive." She tapped out her 
cigarette, leaning closer. Girl to girl. "I know how news travels at the studio, so there's no need to pretend you don't 
know about what was between Finn and me before he went to London. I'm afraid since I broke things off, he might try 
to salve his ego and strike back at me, by making a play for someone I care about. I wouldn't want to see you hurt."
  "I won't be." Uncomfortable, Deanna shifted back. "Angela, I really am running thin on time. If this is what you 
wanted to talk to me about--"
  "No, no. Just making small talk. And here we go." She beamed as their drinks were served. "Now we have the 
proper tools for a toast." She lifted her glass, waited until Deanna had lifted hers. "To New York." The flutes clinked 
joyfully together.
  "New York?"
  "All my life I've been working toward it." After a hasty sip, Angela set her glass

down. Excitement was shimmering around her in restless waves. Nothing, not even champagne could compete with it. 
"Now it's reality. What I'm telling you now is in the strictest confidence. Understood?"
  "Of course."
  "I had an offer from Starmedia, Deanna, an incredible offer." Her voice bubbled like the wine. "I'll be leaving Chicago 
and CBC in August, when my contract's up. The show will be moving to New York, with the addition of four prime-time 
specials a year." Her eyes were like blue glass, her fingers running up and down the flute like excited birds searching 
for a place to land.
  "That's wonderful. But I thought you'd already agreed to renew with CBC and the Delacort syndicate."
  "Verbally." She shrugged it off. "Starmedia is a much more imaginative syndicate. Delacort's been taking me for 
granted. I'm going where I'm most appreciated--and most rewarded. I'll be forming my own production company. And 
we won't just produce Angela's. We'll do specials, TV movies, documentaries. I'm going to have access to the best in 
the business." She paused, always a showman. "That's why I want you to come with me as my executive producer."
  "You want me?" Deanna shook her head as if to clear jumbled thoughts. "I'm not a producer. And Lew--"
  "Lew." Angela dismissed her longtime associate with a toss of her head. "I want someone young, fresh, imaginative. 
No, when I make this move, I won't be taking Lew with me. The job's yours, Deanna. All you have to do is take it."
  Deanna took a long, slow sip of champagne. She'd been expecting the offer of head researcher, and because 
ambition pointed elsewhere, she was prepared to decline. But this, this was out of nowhere. And it was far more 
tempting.
  "I'm flattered," she began. Flabbergasted, she corrected. "I don't know what to say."
  "Then I'll cue you. Say yes."
  With a quick laugh, Deanna sat back and studied the woman across from her. Eager, impulsive and, yes, ruthless. 
Not bad qualities all in all. There was also talent and

brains and those edgy nerves Angela thought no one noticed. It was the combination that had pushed her to the top, 
and was keeping her there.
  A top spot on the top show in the market, Deanna calculated. "I wish I could jump at it, Angela. But I need to think 
this through."
  "What is there to think about?" The wine was fizzing in Angela's head. Deanna was just quick enough to save a flute 
from upending when Angela reached carelessly across the table. "You don't get offers like this every day in this 
business, Deanna. Take what there is when you can. Do you know the kind of money I'm talking about? The prestige, 
the power?"
  "I have some idea."
  "A quarter of a million a year, to start. And all the benefits."
  It took Deanna a moment to close her mouth. "No," she said slowly. "Apparently I didn't have any idea."
  "Your own office, your own staff, a car and driver at your disposal. Opportunities to travel, to socialize with the 
cream."
  "Why?"
  Pleased, Angela sat back. "Because I can trust you. Because I can depend on you, and because I see something of 
myself when I look at you."
  A quick chill danced up Deanna's spine. "It's a very big step."
  "Small ones are a waste of time." "That may be, but I need to think this through. I don't know if I'm suited."
  "I think you're suited." Angela's impatience was simmering again. "Why would you doubt it?"
  "Angela, one of the reasons I imagine you're offering me this job is because I'm a good detail person. Because I'm 
thorough and obsessively organized. I wouldn't be any of those things if I didn't take the time to sort this out."
  With a nod, Angela took out another cigarette. "You're right. I shouldn't be pushing, but I want you with me on this. 
How much time do you need?"
  "A couple of days. Can I let you know by the end of the week?"
  "All right." She flicked on her lighter and studied the flame briefly. "I'll just say one more thing. You don't belong 
behind a desk on some local noon show reading the news. You were made for

bigger things, Deanna. I saw it in you right from the beginning."
  "I hope you're right." Deanna let out a long breath. "I really do."

  The little gallery off Michigan Avenue was crammed with people. Hardly larger than the average suburban garage, 
the showroom was brightly lit to suit the bold, splashy paintings arranged nearly frame to frame along the walls. The 
moment Deanna stepped inside, she was glad she'd followed the impulse to stop in. Not only did it take her mind off 
Angela's stunning offer that afternoon, but it allowed her to follow up firsthand on her own interview.
  The air was ripe with sounds and scents. Cheap champagne and clashing voices. And color, she mused. The blacks 
and grays of the crowd were a stark contrast to the vibrancy of the paintings. She regretted she hadn't wrangled a 
camera crew to do a brief update.
  "Quite an event," Marshall murmured in her ear.
  Deanna turned, smiled. "We won't stay long. I know this isn't exactly your style."
  He glanced around at the frantic colors slashed over canvas. "Not exactly."
  "Wild stuff." Fran edged her way through, her husband Richard's hand firmly gripped in hers. "Your spot this 
afternoon had some impact."
  "I don't know about that."
  "Well, it didn't hurt." Tilting her head up, Fran sniffed the air. "I smell food."
  "It's gotten so she can smell a hot dog boiling from three blocks away." Richard shifted in to drape an arm around 
Fran. He had a pretty, boyish face that smiled easily. His pale blond hair was conservatively cut, but the tiny hole in 
his left earlobe had once sported a variety of earrings.
  "It's heightened sensory awareness," Fran claimed. "And mine tells me there are pigs-in-a-blanket at three o'clock. 
Catch you later." She dragged Richard away.
  "Hungry?" Bumped from behind, Deanna moved comfortably into Marshall's protective arm.
  "Not really." Using the advantage of height, he scouted the area and led her away from the heart of the crowd. 
"You're being a good sport about this."

  "Coming here? It's interesting."
  She laughed and kissed him again. "A very good sport. I'd just like to make a quick pass through, and congratulate 
Myra." Deanna looked around. "If I can find her."
  "Take your time. Why don't I see if I can find us some canap`es."
  "Thanks."
  Deanna threaded her way through the crowd. She enjoyed the press of bodies, the undertones of excitement, the 
snippets of overheard conversations. She'd made it halfway around the room when a bold painting stopped her. 
Sinuous lines and bold splashes against a textured background of midnight blue, it turned the canvas into an 
explosion of emotion and energy. Fascinated, Deanna moved closer. The label beneath the sleek ebony frame read 
AWAKENINGS. Perfect, Deanna thought. Absolutely perfect.
  The colors were alive and seemed to be fighting their way free of the canvas, away from the night. Even as she 
studied the work, she felt her pleasure turn to desire, and desire to determination. With a little juggling of her budget ...
  "Like it?"
  She felt jolted into awareness. But she didn't bother to turn around to face Finn.
  "Yes, very much. Do you spend much time in galleries?"
  "Now and then." He stepped up beside her, amused at the way she stared at the painting. Every thought in her head 
was reflected in her eyes. "Actually, your spot this afternoon convinced me to drop in."
  "Really?" She looked at him then. He was dressed much as he'd been when he'd crossed the runway. His expensive 
leather jacket unsnapped, his jeans comfortably worn, boots well broken in.
  "Yes, really. And I owe you one, Kansas."
  "Why is that?"
  "Th." He nodded toward the painting. "I just bought it."
  "You--" She looked from him to the painting and back again. Her teeth locked together. "I see."
  "It really caught me." He dropped a hand on her shoulder and faced the painting. If he

continued to look at her, Finn knew he'd break out in a grin. It was all there in her eyes--the disappointment, the 
desire, the irritation. "And the price was right. I think they're going to find out very soon that they're underselling her."
  It was hers, damn it. She'd already imagined it hanging above her desk at home. She couldn't believe he'd snapped 
it out from under her. "Why this one?"
  "Because it was perfect for me." With the lightest of pressure on her shoulder, he turned her to face him. "I knew the 
moment I saw it. And when I see something I want ..." He trailed a finger up the side of her throat, feather light, while 
his eyes stayed on hers. "I do what I can to have it."
  Her pulse jumped like a rabbit, surprising her, annoying her. They were standing toe to toe now, their eyes and 
mouths lined up. And too close, just an inch too close, so that she could see herself reflected in the dreamy blue of his 
eyes.
  "Sometimes what we want is unavailable." "Sometimes." He smiled, and she forgot the crowd pressing them 
together, the coveted painting at her back, the voice in her head telling her to back away. "A good reporter has to 
know when to move fast and when to be patient. Don't you think?"
  "Yes." But she was having a hard time thinking at all. It was his eyes, she realized, the way they focused as if there 
were nothing and no one else. And she knew, somehow, that he would continue to look at her just that way, even if 
the ground suddenly fell away beneath her.
  "Want me to be patient, Deanna?" His finger roamed over her jawline, lingered.
  "I--" The air backed up in her lungs. And for a moment, one startled moment, she felt herself swaying toward him.
  "Oh, I see you found refreshments already," Marshall said.
  She saw the wry amusement on Finn's face. "Yes, Marshall." Her voice was unsteady. Fighting to level it, she 
gripped his arm as though he were a rock in the stormy sea. "I ran into Finn. I don't think you've met. Dr. Marshall 
Pike, Finn Riley."
  "Of course. I know your work." Marshall offered a hand. "Welcome back to Chicago."
  "Thanks. You're a psychologist, right?"

  "Yes. I specialize in domestic counseling."
  "Interesting work. The statistics seem to point to the end of the traditional family, yet the overall trend, if you look at 
advertising, entertainment, seems to be making a move back to just that."
  Deanna looked for a barb, but found nothing but genuine interest as Finn drew Marshall into a discussion on 
American family culture. It was the reporter in him, she imagined, that made it possible for him to talk to anyone at any 
time on any subject. At the moment, she was grateful.
  It comforted her to have her hand tucked into Marshall's, to feel that she could be, if she chose, part of a couple. She 
preferred, overwhelmingly, Marshall's gentle romancing to Finn's direct assault on the nervous system. If she had to 
compare the two men, which she assured herself she certainly didn't, she would have given Marshall top points for 
courtesy, respect and stability.
  She smiled up at him even as her eyes were drawn back to the dramatic and passionate painting.
  When Fran and Richard joined them, Deanna made introductions. A few minutes of small talk, and they said their 
goodbyes. Deanna tried to pretend she didn't feel Finn's eyes on her as they nudged their way to the door.
  "Be still my heart," Fran muttered in Deanna's ear. "He's even sexier in person than he is on the tube."
  "You think so?"
  "Honey, if I was unmarried and unpregnant, I'd do a lot more than think." Fran shot one last look over her shoulder. 
"Yum-yum."
  Chuckling, Deanna gave her a light shove out the door. "Get a hold of yourself, Myers."
  "Fantasies are harmless, Dee, I keep telling you. And if he'd been looking at me the way he was looking at you, I'd 
have been a puddle of hormones at his feet."
  Deanna combated the jitters in her stomach with a brisk gulp of spring air. "I don't melt that easily."

  Not melting easily, Deanna thought later, was part of the problem. When Marshall pulled his car to the

curb in front of her building, she knew that he would walk her up. And when he walked her up, he would expect to be 
invited inside. And then ...
  She simply wasn't ready for the "and then." The flaw was in her, undoubtedly. She could easily blame her hesitation 
toward intimacy on the past. And it would be true enough. She didn't want to admit another part of her hesitation was 
attributable to Finn.
  "You don't need to walk me up."
  He lifted a hand to toy with her hair. "It's early yet."
  "I know. But I have an early call in the morning. I appreciate your going by the gallery with me."
  "I enjoyed it. More than I anticipated." "Good." Smiling, she touched her lips to his. When he deepened the kiss, 
drawing her in, she yielded. There was warmth there, passion just restrained. A quiet moan of pleasure sounded in 
her throat as he changed the angle of the kiss. The thud of his heart raced against hers.
  "Deanna." He took his mouth on a slow journey of her face. "I want to be with you."
  "I know." She turned her lips to his again. Almost, she thought dreamily. She was almost sure. "I need a little more 
time, Marshall. I'm sorry."
  "You know how I feel about you?" He cupped her face in his hand, studying her. "But I understand, it has to be right. 
Why don't we get away for a few days?"
  "Away?"
  "From Chicago. We could take a weekend." He tipped her face back and kissed the side of her mouth. "Canc@un, 
St. Thomas, Maui. Wherever you like." And the other side. "Just the two of us. It would let us see how we are 
together, away from work, all the pressures."
  "I'd like that." Her eyes drifted closed. "I'd like to think about that."
  "Then think about it." There was a look of dark triumph in his eyes. "Check your schedule, and leave the rest to me."

             Chapter Seven

  Deanna hadn't expected the pricks of disloyalty. Television was, after all, a

business. And part of the business was to get ahead, to make the best deal. But while the May sweeps consumed the 
CBC Building, with nightly ratings discussed and analyzed by everyone from top brass to the maintenance crews, she 
felt like a traitor.
  Next year's budgets were being forecasted off the sweeps, and the forecasts were being made on faulty 
assumptions.
  She knew Angela's would be gone before the start of the fall season. And with the deal Angela had made, she would 
compete with CBC'S daytime lineup as well as with prime-time specials.
  The more celebratory the mood in the newsroom, the more guilt jabbed at Deanna's conscience.
  "Got a problem, Kansas?"
  Deanna glanced up as Finn made himself comfortable on the corner of her desk. "Why do you ask?"
  "You've been staring at that screen for the past five minutes. I'm used to seeing you move."
  "I'm thinking."
  "That doesn't usually stop you." Leaning forward, he rubbed his thumb between her eyebrows. "Tension."
  In defense, she shifted back in her chair to break the contact. "We're in the middle of the May sweeps. Who isn't 
tense?"
  "Midday's holding its own."
  "It's doing better than that," she snapped back. Pride and loyalty welled together. "We've got a twenty-eight-percent 
share. We're up three full ratings points since the last sweeps."
  "That's better. I'd rather see you fired up than unhappy."
  "I wasn't unhappy," she said between her teeth. "I was thinking."
  "Whatever." He rose then, and hauled up the garment bag he'd set on the floor.
  "Where are you going?"
  "New York." In an easy, practiced move, Finn slung the bag over his shoulder. "I'm putting in a few days as 
substitute host on Wake Up Call. Kirk
Brooks's allergies are acting up." Deanna arched a brow. She knew that CBC'S Wake Up Call was performing poorly, 
lagging well behind Good Morning

America and Today. "You mean the ratings are acting up."
  Finn shrugged and took one of the candy-coated almonds from the bowl on her desk. "That's the bottom line. The 
brass figures the viewers will think somebody who's been through a few firefights and earthquakes is glamorous." 
Disgust crossed his face as he swallowed. "So, I'll get up early for a few days and wear a tie."
  "It's a little more than that. It's a complicated show. Interviews, breaking stories--"
  "Chitchat." The phrase was ripe with contempt.
  "There's nothing wrong with chitchat. It involves the viewer, brings them into the picture. And it opens doors."
  His lips curved into something between a smile and a sneer. "Right. The next time I interview Qaddafi I'll be sure to 
ask how he feels about Madonna's new video."
  Intrigued, she tilted her head back to study him. She thought she'd pegged him as the reckless rebel who did 
precisely as he chose and kept the executives groping for the Maalox. "If you hate it so much, why are you doing it?"
  "I work here," he said simply, and helped himself to a handful of candy.
  Deanna lowered her eyes, toyed with papers on her desk. So did she, she thought miserably. So did she. "Then it's 
a matter of loyalty."
  "First." What was going on inside that head of hers? he wondered. It was a pity he didn't have time to hang around 
and dig it out. "Then you can expand it. If Wake Up Call goes in the sewer, the revenue suffers. What's the first place 
that feels it?"
  "The news department."
  "Damn right. You've got the morning show scraping the bottom of the ratings barrel, and the fact that a couple of 
fatheaded idiots can't seem to program a decent Tuesday night, and before you can say Nielsen, we've got cutbacks."
  "Monday and Friday are strong," she murmured. "And we've got Angela's."
  "It's a little tough knowing that Angela and a handful of sitcoms are saving our ass." Then he smiled, shrugged. 
"Screwy business. I

don't suppose you'd kiss me goodbye."
  "I don't suppose I would."
  "But you'll miss me." There was enough laughter in his eyes to make her grin back at him.
  "You're not going off to war, Finn." "Easy for you to say. Stay tuned." He sauntered off. Deanna watched him walk up 
to another woman reporter. The woman laughed, then planted an exaggerated kiss on his mouth. As applause 
erupted, he turned, grinned at Deanna. With a final salute to the newsroom, he swung through the doors.
  Deanna was still chuckling when she returned to her copy. The man might have his flaws, she mused, but at least he 
could make her laugh.
  And, she admitted, he could make her think. Mentally, she pulled out her list. Two columns, neatly typed, specifying 
her reasons to accept and decline Angela's offer. There was a hard copy in the top drawer of her desk at home. It was 
a simple matter to visualize it. With a sigh, she added one word to the "decline" column.
  Loyalty.
  "Miss Reynolds?"
  She blinked and focused. Behind a porcelain pot of lush red hibiscus was a round, cheerful face. It took her a 
moment to click it in. But when he shoved a pair of wire-rimmed glasses up his pug nose, she remembered.
  "Jeff, hi. What's all this?"
  "For you." He set it on her desk, then immediately shoved his hands in his pockets. As an editorial assistant, Jeff 
Hyatt was more comfortable with equipment than with people. He gave Deanna a fleeting smile, then stared at the 
flowers. "Nice. I ran into the delivery boy, and since I was on my way in ..."
  "Thanks, Jeff."
  "No problem."
  Deanna had already forgotten him as she reached for the card tucked among the blooms.

           How about Hawaii?

  Smiling, she reached out to stroke a blossom. One more on the "decline" list, she mused. Marshall.

                                  
  "Miss Reynolds to see you, Miss Perkins."
  "Ask her to wait." With a cigarette smoldering between her fingers, Angela frowned over Beeker's report on Marshall 
Pike. It was certainly interesting reading, and demanded her full attention. His credentials were well earned--the 
doctorate from Georgetown, the year studying abroad. And financially, the psychologist did well for himself counseling 
socialites and politicians on their floundering marriages and dysfunctional families. He offset his lucrative practice by 
donating three afternoons a week to social services.
  Overall, a nice, upstanding profile of a man who had studied well and worked hard and was devoted to preserving 
family life.
  Angela knew all about profiles, and the illusions they fostered.
  His own marriage had failed. A quiet, civilized divorce hadn't caused much of a ripple in Chicago society, and 
certainly hadn't harmed his practice. Still, it was interesting. Interesting because Beeker had discovered that the size 
of Marshall's settlement with his ex-wife was a whopper, as were the alimony payments. Much more than a brief, 
childless marriage warranted.
  He hadn't contested it, Angela mused. A smile lifted the corners of her mouth as she continued to read. Perhaps he 
hadn't dared. When a thirty-five-year-old man was caught entertaining his secretary's very lovely, very naked and very 
young daughter at two A.m., he didn't have a lot of room for negotiations. A minor, however willing, was still a minor. 
And adultery, particularly with a sixteen-year-old, carried a hefty price tag.
  He'd been clever in covering himself, Angela mused, scanning Beeker's file. The secretary had taken a fat lump sum 
and a glowing reference and moved her family to San Antonio. The wife had taken a great deal more, but barely a 
whisper about the good doctor had escaped. And when it had--and Angela admired him for his boldness--rumor tied 
him obliquely with the secretary, not her nubile daughter. ...
  So, the elegant Dr. Pike continued his practice as one of Chicago's most eligible bachelors.

  The eminent family counselor with a weakness for teenagers. An interesting topic for a show, she decided, and 
laughed out loud. No, no, they would keep this one private. Some information was worth a great deal more than 
ratings. Angela closed the file and slipped it into a drawer. She wondered how much Deanna knew.
  "Send her in, Cassie."
  Angela was all smiles when Deanna walked in. "Sorry I kept you waiting. I had a little something to finish up."
  "I know you're busy." Deanna briefly tugged on her earring. "Do you have a few minutes?"
  "Of course." She rose, gesturing to a chair. "How about some coffee?"
  "No, don't bother." Deanna sat, made herself fold her hands quietly in her lap.
  "No trouble. Something cold instead?" Delighted, for the moment, to serve, Angela crossed to the bar and poured 
them both a mineral water. "If I didn't have a dinner tonight, I'd have Cassie bring in some of those fudge cookies I 
know she's got in her desk." She laughed lightly. "She doesn't think I know about them. But then, I make it a policy to 
know everything about my people." After handing Deanna a glass, she dropped into a chair and stretched out her 
legs. "It's been quite a day so far. And I'm off at dawn for California."
  "California? I didn't know you were going on location."
  "No, I'm speaking at the commencement exercises at Berkeley." Not bad, Angela thought, for someone who waited 
tables to get through Arkansas State. "I'll be back for Monday's tapings. You know, Dee, since you stopped by, you 
might take a look at my speech. You know how I value your input."
  "Sure." Miserable, Deanna sipped at the water. "I can't do it until after five, but--"
  "No problem. You can fax it back to me at home. I'll give you a copy."
  "All right. Angela--" The only way to handle this was straightforwardly. "I'm here to talk to you about your offer."
  "I was hoping you were." Relaxed, satisfied, Angela slipped off her shoes and reached for a cigarette. "I can't tell you 
how much I'm looking forward to the move to New York,

Deanna. That's where the pulse of this business is, you know." She snapped on her lighter, took a quick drag. "That's 
where the power is. I've already got my agent looking for an apartment."
  Her eyes lost their calculating edge and turned dreamy. Inside she was still the girl from Arkansas who wanted to be 
a princess. "I want something with a view, lots of windows and light, lots of room. A place where I can feel at home, 
where I can entertain. If I find the right place, we may even shoot some of the specials there. The viewing audience 
likes to get a peek at our personal lives."
  She smiled as she tapped her cigarette. The soft look in her eyes sharpened. "We're going places, Dee. Women 
have finally gained a solid foothold in broadcasting, and we're going right to the top. You and me." She reached over 
and gave Deanna's hand a quick squeeze. "You know, your brains, your creativity are only part of the reason I want 
you with me." Her voice was persuasive and ringing with sincerity. "I can trust you, Dee. I can relax around you. I don't 
have to tell you what that means to me."
  Deanna closed her eyes a moment while guilt churned in her stomach.
  "I don't think there's ever been another woman I've felt so close to," Angela concluded.
  "Angela, I want--"
  "You're going to be more than my executive producer; you're going to be my right hand. In fact, I should have my 
agent looking for a place for you, too. Nearby," she murmured, envisioning the late-night girl talks she'd never been 
permitted during her youth. "It's going to be wonderful, for both of us."
  "Angela, slow down." With a half laugh, Deanna held up a hand. "I think I understand how much this deal with 
Starmedia means to you, and I'm thrilled for you. You've been wonderful to me, your help, your friendship, and I wish 
you all the success in the world." Leaning over, Deanna took Angela's hand. "But I can't take the job."
  The gleam in Angela's eyes dimmed. Her mouth tightened. The unexpected rejection nearly stopped her breath. "Are 
you certain you understand just what I'm offering you?"

  "Oh yes, I do. I do," she repeated, squeezing Angela's hand between both of hers before she got up to pace. "And 
believe me, I've thought about this carefully. I've had a hard time thinking of anything else." She turned back, 
gesturing with her hands. "And I just can't do it."
  Very slowly, Angela straightened in her chair. She crossed her legs. The simple gesture eradicated all the softness. 
"Why?"
  "A lot of reasons. First, I have a contract."
  With a sound caught between disgust and amusement, Angela waved it aside. "You've been around long enough to 
know how easily that's dealt with."
  "That may be, but when I signed I gave my word."
  Taking another contemplative drag, Angela narrowed her eyes. "Are you that naive?"
  Deanna understood it was meant as an insult. But she merely lifted a shoulder. "There are other factors. Even 
knowing you don't plan to take Lew, I'd feel guilty stepping into his shoes--particularly since I don't have his 
experience. I'm not a producer, Angela. And though it's awfully tempting to forget that and jump at the offer--the 
money, the position, the power. Christ, New York." She blew out a breath that fluttered her bangs. She hadn't fully 
understood how much she wanted all those things until they had been within reach and she'd had to let them go. "And 
the chance to work with you. Really work with you, that isn't easy for me to turn my back on."
  "But you are." Angela's tone was cool. "That's precisely what you're doing."
  "It's just not for me. Other factors just got in the way, no matter how hard I tried to reposition them. My ambitions run 
in front of the camera. And I'm happy in Chicago. My job, my home, friends are here."
  Angela tapped out the cigarette in quick, short bursts, like machine-gun fire. "And Marshall? Did he factor into this 
decision?"
  Deanna thought of the pot of red hibiscus on her desk. "Somewhat. I do have feelings for him. I'd like to give them a 
chance."
  "I have to tell you, you're making a mistake. You're letting details and personal feelings cloud your professional 
judgment."
  "I don't think so." Deanna crossed the

room to sit again, leaned forward. It was a tricky business, she thought, turning down an offer without seeming 
ungrateful. Particularly when the offer had taken on all the connotations of a favor to a friend. "I've looked at this from 
every angle. That's what I do--occasionally what I overdo. Your offer wasn't easy to turn down, and I don't do it lightly. 
I'll always be grateful and incredibly flattered that you had enough faith in me to ask."
  "So you're going to sit back and read copy?" Now it was Angela who rose. Fury was bubbling so hot within her she 
could feel it searing under her skin. She'd offered the girl a feast, and she was settling for crumbs. Where was the 
gratitude? Where was the fucking loyalty? "Your choice," she said coolly as she sat behind her desk. "Why don't you 
take a few more days--the weekend, while I'm away--in case you have any second thoughts." She shook her head to 
cut off any comment from Deanna. "We'll talk again Monday," Angela said in dismissal. "Between tapings. Pencil it in 
for, oh ..." Her mind was working frantically as she flipped through her appointment book. "Eleven-fifteen." Her smile 
was warm, friendly again when she glanced up. "If you're of the same mind then, I won't give you an argument. Fair 
enough?"
  "All right." It seemed more gracious, and certainly easier to agree. "I'll see you Monday, then. Have a nice trip."
  "I will." Deliberately she waited until Deanna was at the door. "Oh, Dee." She smiled and held up a manila envelope. 
"My speech?"
  "Right." Deanna crossed the room again, to take the package.
  "Try to get it back to me before nine. I need my beauty sleep."
  Angela waited until the door closed before she folded her hands on the desk. Her fingers turned bone-white with the 
pressure. She took a long moment, staring at the closed door, breathing shallowly. It wouldn't do to rage, she told 
herself. No, not this time. For Deanna she had to be cool and calm and concise to review the facts.
  She'd offered Deanna a position of power, her own unqualified friendship, her trust. And she preferred to read the 
news at noon because she had a contract, a lease on an apartment and a man.

  Could she actually be that artless? Angela wondered. That guileless? That stupid?
  She relaxed her hands, forced herself to lean back in her chair and even her breathing. Whatever the answer, 
Deanna would learn that no one ever turned Angela down.
  Calmer now, Angela opened a drawer and took out Marshall's file. The look on her face wasn't hard, nor was it 
glittery with anger. Her lips trembled into a pout, a child's expression on being denied. Deanna wasn't going to go with 
her to New York, she mused. And she was going to be very, very sorry.

  Deanna had taken one step into the outer office when her guilty mood vanished into a flood of surprised pleasure.
  "Kate. Kate Lowell."
  The leggy, doe-eyed woman turned, brushing her glorious mane of flaming hair aside. Her face--the ivory 
complexion, the delicate bones, the melting eyes and generous mouth--was as stunning as it was famous. The quick, 
flashing smile was automatic. She was, first and last, an actress.
  "Hello."
  "Those braces sure as hell did the job." Now Deanna laughed. "Kate, it's Dee. Deanna Reynolds."
  "Deanna." The furious nervous tension beneath the smile dissolved. "Oh, God, Deanna." The infectious giggle that 
turned men to putty rang out. "I can't believe it."
  "Imagine how I feel. It has to be fourteen, fifteen years."
  For Kate, for one beautiful moment, it felt like yesterday. She could remember all the long talks--the innocence of 
girlish confidences.
  Under Cassie's fascinated eye, the two women crossed the room and embraced. They hung on to each other a 
moment, tight.
  "You look wonderful," they said simultaneously, then laughed.
  "It's true." Kate drew back, but kept Deanna's hand in hers. "We do. It's a long way from Topeka."
  "Longer for you. What's Hollywood's newest star doing in Chicago?"
  "A little business." Kate's smile dimmed. "A little hype. What about you?"

  "I work here."
  "Here?" The remnants of the warm smile vanished. "For Angela?"
  "No, downstairs. In the newsroom. Midday, with Roger Crowell and Deanna Reynolds."
  "Don't tell me two of my favorite people know each other." Angela stepped out, the gracious hostess. "Kate, dear, I'm 
sorry you had to wait. Cassie didn't tell me you were here."
  "I just got in." The hand still gripping Deanna's stiffened, then relaxed. "My plane was delayed this morning, so I've 
been running behind all day."
  "Awful, isn't it? Even a woman with your talents is subject to the whims of technology. Now tell me ..." She strolled 
over to lay a proprietary hand on Deanna's shoulder. "How do you know our Dee?"
  "My aunt lived across the street from Deanna's family. I spent a couple of summers in Kansas as a child."
  "And you were playmates." Angela's laugh was delighted. "That's charming. And Deanna's been keeping her brush 
with fame all to herself. Shame on you."
  In a subtle move, no less potent for its polish, Kate shifted. The gesture eased Angela out of the circle. "How's your 
family?"
  "They're fine." Baffled by the tension snapping in the air, Deanna tried to find the source of it in Kate's eyes. All she 
could see--was allowed to see--was the soft, tawny gold. "They never miss one of your movies. Neither do I. I 
remember how you'd put on plays in your aunt's backyard."
  "And you'd write them. Now you're reporting the news."
  "And you're making it. You were incredible in Deception, Kate. I cried buckets."
  "There's Oscar talk." Smoothly, Angela moved forward to drape an arm around Kate's shoulders. "How could there 
not be when Kate so effectively played the heroic young mother fighting to keep her child." A look passed between 
them, sharp as a razor. "I attended the premiere. There wasn't a dry eye in the house."

  "Oh, I imagine there was one."
Kate's smile was brilliant, and curiously feline. "Or two."
  "I'd love to give you girls time to catch up." Angela pressed her fingers warningly on Kate's shoulder. "But we're 
running late."
  "I'll let you go." Tucking Angela's speech under her arm, Deanna stepped back. "How long will you be in Chicago?"
  "I'm leaving tomorrow." Kate stepped back as well. "It was good to see you."
  "And you." Oddly hurt, Deanna turned and walked away.
  "Isn't that sweet?" Angela gestured Kate into her office, shut the door. "You running into a childhood friend--who just 
happens to be my prot@eg@ee--right in my office. Tell me, Kate, have you kept in touch with Dee? Shared all your 
secrets with her?"
  "Only a fool shares secrets willingly, Angela. Now let's not waste time on small talk. Let's get down to business."
  Satisfied, Angela sat behind her desk. "Yes, let's."

  To Finn Riley, New York was like a woman: A long-legged, slick-skinned siren who knew her way around the block. 
She was sexy; she was by turns tacky and chic. And God knew she was dangerous.
  Perhaps that was why he preferred Chicago. Finn loved women, and had a weakness for the long-legged, 
dangerous type. But Chicago was a big, burly man, with sweat on his shirt and a cold brew in his fist. Chicago was a 
brawler.
  Finn trusted an honest fight more than he ever would a seduction.
  He knew his way around Manhattan. He'd lived there briefly with his mother during one of his parents' trial 
separations. He'd lost track of how many trial separations there had been before the inevitable divorce.
  He remembered how reasonable they both had been. How bloodless and civilized. And he remembered being 
shuffled off to housekeepers, secretaries, prep schools, to spare him, supposedly, from that well-choreographed 
discord. In reality, he knew neither of his parents had been comfortable with a young boy who had asked direct 
questions

and hadn't been satisfied with logical, gutless answers.
  So he had lived in Manhattan, and on Long Island, and in Connecticut and Vermont. He'd summered in Bar Harbor 
and on Martha's Vineyard. He'd done time in the hallowed halls of three of New England's top prep schools.
  Perhaps that was why he still had such restless feet. The minute roots started to dig in, he felt honor-bound to rip 
them out and move on.
  Now he was back in New York. Temporarily. Where he knew the underbelly as well as he knew his mother's elegant 
penthouse on Central Park West.
  He couldn't even say if he preferred one to the other. Any more than he could say that he minded putting in a few 
days on Wake Up
Call.
  At the moment, Finn put New York out of his mind and concentrated on the ball whizzing toward his nose. It wasn't 
self-defense nearly as much as it was the spirit of competition. And God knew the exertion of the court was a 
welcome change from the hours he'd spent sitting on a sofa on the set the last four days.
  He sliced out with his racket, letting out a grunt of effort that was lost as the ball caromed off the wall. The power 
sang up his arm, the echo of the smash reverberated in his head. Adrenaline raced through him as his opponent 
cracked the ball back.
  He met it with a solid backhand. The sweat dribbled satisfactorily down his back, dampening his ragged CBC T-shirt. 
For the next five minutes, there was only the smash and echo of the ball, the smell of sweat and the sound of labored 
breathing.
  "Son of a bitch." Barlow James sagged against the wall as Finn blew one by him. "You're killing me."
  "Shit." Finn didn't bother with the wall. He slid straight down to the floor of the Vertical Club. Every muscle in his body 
was weeping. "Next time I'll bring a gun. It'll be easier on both of us." He groped for a towel, mopped his soaking face. 
"When the hell are you going to get old?"
  Barlow's laugh barked off the walls of the racquetball court. He was a brawny six-foot-four, flat of stomach, broad of 
chest, with shoulders like concrete blocks. At

sixty-three, he was showing no signs of slowing down. As he crossed toward Finn, he pulled an orange neon 
sweatband away from his silver mane of hair. Finn had always thought Barlow had a face that belonged on Mount 
Rushmore. Craggy, huge and powerful.
  "Getting soft, kid." Barlow pulled a bottle of Evian out of his gym bag and tossed it underhand to Finn. The second 
one he kept himself, drinking in deep, greedy gulps. "Almost took you that time."
  "I've been playing with Brits." Since he nearly had his breath back, Finn grinned up at him. "They're not as mean as 
you."
  "Well, welcome back to the States." Barlow offered a hand, hauling Finn to his feet. It was like being gripped by a 
friendly grizzly. "You know, most people would have considered the post in London a promotion, even a coup."
  "It's a nice town."
  Barlow let out a sigh. "Let's hit the showers."

  Twenty minutes later, they were stretched out on massage tables being pummeled.
  "Damn good show this morning," Barlow commented. "You've got a good crew, solid writers. Give it a little time and 
you'll be competitive."
  "Time is shorter than it used to be in this business. I used to hate the goddamn bean counters." He bared his teeth in 
a grimace. "Now I'm a goddamn bean counter."
  "At least you're a bean counter with imagination." Barlow said nothing. Finn held his silence, knowing there was a 
purpose to this informal meeting.
  "Give me an opinion on the Chicago bureau."
  "It's tight," Finn said cautiously. "Hell, Barlow, you were bureau chief there for more than ten years, you know what 
we're working with. You've got a solid combination of experience and fresh blood. It's a good place to work."
  "Ratings for the local evening news are weak. What we need is a stronger lead-in. I'd like to see them shift Angela's 
to four, pull her audience along."
  Finn shrugged. He didn't ignore ratings, but he did detest their importance. "She's been at nine in Chicago and most 
of the Midwest for years. You might have a tough time pulling it off."

  "Tougher than you think," Barlow murmured. "You and Angela ... ah, there's nothing going on there anymore?"
  Finn opened his eyes, cocked a brow. "Are we going to have a father-son chat, Pop?"
  "Wiseass." Barlow chuckled, but his eyes were keen. Finn knew the look. "I wondered if you two had picked up 
where you left off."
  "Where we left off was in the toilet," Finn said dryly. "And no."
  "Hmmm. So are relations friendly or strained?" "Publicly, friendly. Realistically, she hates my guts."
  Barlow grunted again. It was good news, he thought, because he was fond of the boy. It was bad news because it 
meant he might not be able to use him. Making up his mind, he shifted on the table, wrapping the sheet around him 
and dismissing both masseuses.
  "I've got a problem, Finn. A nasty little rumor that came buzzing in my ear a couple of days ago."
  Finn pushed himself up. At any other time he would have made a crack about two grown men having an intense 
conversation while they were half naked and smelling of ginseng. "You want it to buzz in my ear?"
  "And stop there."
  "All right."
  "Word is Angela Perkins is pulling up stakes--in Chicago and with CBC and Delacort."
  "I haven't caught wind of that." Considering, Finn pushed the hair away from his face. Like any reporter, he hated 
getting news secondhand. Even if the news was only a rumor. "Look, it's contract time, right? She probably started the 
hum herself to get the brass to offer another truckload of money."
  "No. Fact is, she's keeping it quiet. Real quiet. What I hear is that her agent's making negotiating noises, but they 
don't ring true. The leak came from Starmedia. If she leaves, Finn, it'll be a big hole."
  "That's the entertainment division's problem." "Their problem's our problem. You know that."
  "Fuck."
  "Well said. I only mention it because I thought if you and Angela were still ..."
  "We're not." Finn frowned. "I'll see

what I can find out when I get back."
  "Appreciate it. Now, let's get some lunch. We'll talk about news magazines."
  "I'm not doing a news magazine." It was an old argument, one they continued with perfect amiability as they trailed 
sheets into the locker room.

  "Hawaii sounds perfect," Deanna said into the phone.
  "I'm glad you think so. How about the second week in June?"
  Pleased with the idea, Deanna poured a mug of coffee. She carried it and her portable phone to the table where 
she'd set up her laptop. "I'll put in for it. I haven't taken any time since I started at the station, so I don't think it'll be a 
problem."
  "Why don't I stop by? We can talk about it, look at some brochures."
  She closed her eyes, knowing she couldn't ignore the insistent blip on her computer screen. "I wish we could. I've 
got work. I had something come in at the last minute that held me up." She didn't mention the hour she'd spent 
punching up Angela's speech. "Pulling the anchor desk this weekend's really tied me up. How about brunch on 
Sunday?"
  "Say about ten? I could meet you at the Drake. We can look over the brochures and decide on what suits us."
  "Perfect. I'll be looking forward to it." "So will I."
  "I'm sorry about tonight."
  "Don't be. I've got some work myself. Good night, Deanna."
  "Good night."
  Marshall hung up. Mozart was playing on the stereo, a quiet fire was burning in the hearth and the scent of lemon oil 
and fragrant smoke hung in the air.
  After polishing off his brandy, he walked up the stairs to his bedroom. There, with the sound of violins lilting through 
the recessed speakers, he stripped out of his tailored suit. Beneath, he wore silk.
  It was a small affectation. He liked soft, expensive things. He liked, admittedly and without shame, women. His wife 
had often joked about it, he remembered, had even appreciated his

admiration for the opposite sex.
Until, of course, she'd found him intimately admiring young Annie Gilby.
  He winced at the memory of his wife arriving home a full day early from a business trip. The look on her face when 
she'd walked into the bedroom and discovered him making loud, boisterous love to Annie. It had been a horrible 
mistake. A tragic one. His argument, perfectly justified, that his wife's preoccupation with her career and her lack of 
occupation in their bedroom had made him easy game, had fallen on deaf ears.
  It hadn't mattered to her that the girl had utterly and deliberately seduced him, had played on his weaknesses, his 
frustrations. There had been other women, yes. But they had been momentary diversions, discreet sexual releases 
when his wife was away or involved with her own decorating business. And not worth mentioning.
  He would never have hurt Patricia, Marshall assured himself now as he chose dark slacks and a shirt. He had loved 
her completely, and he missed her miserably.
  He was a man who needed to be married, who needed a woman to talk to, to share his life and home with. A bright, 
intelligent woman, like Patricia. True, he needed the stimulation of beauty. That wasn't a flaw. Patricia had been 
beautiful, and ambitious; she had a sense of style and taste that was faultless.
  In short, she'd been perfect for him. Except for her inability to understand a few very human flaws.
  When she had discovered them, she'd been unforgiving as stone. And he had lost her.
  Though he still missed her, he understood life continued.
  Now he had found someone else. Deanna was beautiful, ambitious, intelligent. She was as perfect a companion as 
he could want. And he wanted her--had wanted her since he had first seen her face on the television screen. Now she 
was more than an image, she was reality. He was going to be very careful with her.
  Sexually, she was a bit repressed, but he could be patient. The idea of taking her away from Chicago, away from the 
pressures and distractions, had been brilliant. Once she was relaxed, secure, she would belong to him. Until

that time he would harness his needs, his frustrations.
  But he hoped it wouldn't be much longer.

             Chapter Eight

  "Maui," Fran said over a mouthful of cheeseburger. "For the weekend. That's so un-Deanna."
  "Is it?" Deanna paused over her own meal and considered. "Maybe it is, and I'm going to enjoy every minute of it. 
We're getting a suite in a hotel right on the beach where the brochure says you can see whales. Binoculars," she said 
suddenly, and dug in her purse for a pad. "I need a good pair."
  Fran craned her neck and read the neat list Deanna had started. "Now, that's our Deanna. Are you going to eat all 
those fries?"
  "No, help yourself." Already engrossed in her list, Deanna pushed her plate toward Fran.
  "A weekend in Hawaii sounds pretty serious." Fran doused the fries with ketchup. "Is it?"
  "It could be." She glanced up again, and the bloom in her cheeks spoke volumes. "I really think it could be. I feel 
comfortable with Marshall."
  Fran grimaced. "Sweet pea, you feel comfortable with an old pair of bunny slippers."
  "Not that kind of comfortable. I can relax around him. I know he's not going to pressure me, so that I can ... just let 
things happen. When it feels right. I can talk to him about anything."
  The words came quickly. Too quickly, Fran mused. If she knew Deanna, and she did, she'd have bet a month's pay 
her best friend was going out of her way to convince herself.
  "He has this incredible sense of fairness," Deanna continued. "We're interested in so many of the same things. And 
he's romantic. I didn't realize how wonderful it would be to have someone send me flowers and arrange candlelight 
dinners."
  "That's because you were always looking for the trapdoor." "Yeah." Deanna let out a little breath, closed her 
notebook. "I'm going to tell him about Jamie Thomas."
  In an automatic gesture of support, Fran reached out and covered Deanna's hand with

hers. "Good. That means you trust him."
  "I do." Her eyes darkened with determination.  "And I want a normal, healthy relationship  with a man. By God, I'm 
going to have one. I  won't be able to do that until I tell him what  happened to me. He's coming over for dinner 
tomorrow."
  Fran abandoned the fries to fold her arms on  the table between them. "If you need any moral  support, you only 
have to call."
  "I'll be fine. I've got to get back,"  she said after a glance at her watch. "I've got  to do a news break at eight-thirty."
  "You've got the ten o'clock tonight, too, don't  you?" Fran stuffed a last fry in her mouth.  "Richard and I'll watch you, 
while we're all  snuggled up in bed. I'll make sure he's  naked."
  "Thanks." Deanna counted out bills for the  tab. "That'll give me a nice visual while  I'm reading the news."

  It was nearly midnight when Deanna climbed  into bed. As always, she checked her alarm, then  made certain there 
was a pencil and pad on the  nightstand beside the phone. The phone rang just as she  was reaching for the light. 
Instinctively, she picked  up the receiver with one hand, the pencil with the other.
  "Reynolds."
  "You were wonderful tonight."
  The flutter of pleasure made her smile as  she eased back against the pillows. "Marshall.  Thanks."
  "I just wanted you to know I was watching. It's the  next best thing to being with you."
  "It's nice to know." It felt glorious,  snuggling back in bed, pleasantly sleepy, with the  voice of the man she thought 
she might love in her  ear. "I've been thinking about Hawaii all  day."
  "So have I. And about you." He had her taped  image freeze-framed on his set, quietly  arousing himself with her 
image and her voice. "I'm  very indebted to Angela Perkins for bringing us  together."
  "Me too. Sleep well, Marshall."
  "I will. Good night, Deanna."
  Warm and content, Deanna replaced the receiver.  Hugging herself, she laughed and indulged in a dreamy  fantasy. 
She and Marshall walking along the  beach while the sun dripped color into the water.  Soft breezes. Soft words. The  
gentle tug low in her stomach pleased her.  Normal, she told herself. Certainly that proved  she was a normal woman 
with normal needs. She  was ready to take the next step toward fulfilling  them. She was eager to.
  Only seconds after she switched off the lamp  and snuggled down, the phone rang again. Chuckling  to herself, she 
lifted the receiver in the dark.
  "Hi," she murmured. "Did you forget  something?"
  There was only echoing silence in response.  "Marshall?" Her sleepy voice shifted  into puzzlement. "Hello? Who's 
there?" Then  into unease as the dull silence continued.  "Hello? Is anyone there?" The quiet click  brought on a quick 
shudder.
  Wrong number, Deanna assured herself as she  hung up. But she was cold. And it was a long time  before she 
warmed again and slept.

  Someone else lay awake in the dark. The  ghostly light from the television screen was the only  relief. Deanna smiled 
there, looking out into the  room, looking directly into the eyes of her  audience of one. Her voice, so smooth, so  
sweet, so seductive, played over and over on  the recorder as it was rewound.
  "I'm Deanna Reynolds. Good night.
I'm Deanna Reynolds. Good night. I'm  Deanna Reynolds. Good night."
  "Good night." The answering whisper was soft,  no more than a purr of pleasure.

  Angela had planned every detail  meticulously. Standing in the center of her office,  she turned a slow circle. 
Everything was ready.  There was a faint fragrance of jasmine in the air  from the vase of flowers on the table by the 
love seat.  The television set, for once, was blank. The  quiet strains of Chopin eased through the speakers  of the 
stereo. Beeker had been very thorough in his  report. Marshall Pike preferred  classical music, romantic settings and a  
woman with style. She wore the same trim  designer suit she'd worn for that morning's  taping, but she'd removed the 
blouse. The jacket  fit with a snug V, and there was a cunning hint of  black lace teasing the cleavage.
  At precisely eleven o'clock, she answered the  buzzer on her desk. "Yes,
Cassie."
  "Dr. Pike is here, Miss Perkins."
  "Ah, good." A feline smile crossed her  face as she walked toward the office door. She  liked a man to be prompt. 
"Marshall." She  held out both hands to grip his, easing forward and  tilting her head to offer her cheek. And to give 
him  an interesting glimpse of black lace. "I  really appreciate your making time for me today."
  "You said it was important."
  "Oh, and it is. Cassie, would you mind taking  those letters right to the post office? Then you can go ahead  and take 
your lunch. I won't need you back here  until one." Turning, Angela led Marshall  into her office, being certain to leave 
the door open  a few inches. "What can I get you, Marshall?  Something cold?" She trailed a fingertip down  her 
jacket. "Something hot?"
  "I'm fine."
  "Well then, let's sit down." She took  his hand again, steered him toward the love seat.  "It's awfully good to see you 
again."
  "It's good to see you, too." Puzzled, he  watched her settle back, her skirt riding up  on her thigh as she crossed her 
legs.
  "You know how pleased I am with the help you've  given me on the show, but I asked you here today  to discuss 
something more personal."
  "Oh?"
  "You've been seeing a lot of Deanna."  He relaxed and struggled to keep his eyes from  roaming down from her face. 
"Yes, I have. In  fact, I've been meaning to call you and thank you  for indirectly bringing us together."
  "I'm very fond of her. As I'm sure you  are," she added, laying a hand lightly on his  thigh. "All that energy, that 
youthful enthusiasm.  A beautiful girl."
  "Yes, she is."
  "And so sweet. Wholesome, really."  Angela's fingers stroked lightly along his  leg. "Not your usual type."
  "I don't know what you mean."
  "You're a man who's attracted to experience,  to a certain sophistication. Except in one  illuminating case."
  He stiffened, drew back. "I don't know  what you're talking about."
  "Yes, you do." Her voice remained  pleasant, easy. But her eyes had  sharpened like two blue blades. "You see, I  
know all about you, Marshall. I know about your  foolish slip with one Annie Gilby, age  sixteen. And all about your 
previous, I should  say pre-Deanna, arrangement with a certain  woman who lives on Lake Shore. In  fact, I made it 
my business to know everything there  is to know about you."
  "You've had me followed?" He struggled for  outrage, but panic had already outdistanced everything  else. She could 
ruin him, with one careless  announcement on her show. "What right do you have  to pry into my personal life?"
  "None at all. That's what makes it so  exciting. And it is exciting." She toyed with the  top button of her jacket. When 
his eyes  flicked down to the movement, she glanced at the  antique clock behind him. Eleven-ten, she  thought, 
coolheaded, cold-blooded. Perfect.
  "If you think you can use some sort of  blackmail to ruin my relationship with Deanna,  it isn't going to happen." His 
palms were wet, from  fear, and from a terrible arousal. He would resist  it. He had to resist it. "She's not a child.  
She'll understand."
  "She may, or she may not. But I do."  With her eyes on his, Angela flicked  open the first button on her jacket. "I  
understand. I sent my secretary away,  Marshall." Her voice lowered, thickened.  "So I could be alone with you. Why 
do you think  I went to all the trouble to find out about you?"  She released the second button, toyed with the  third and 
last.
  He wasn't sure he could speak. When he  forced the words out, they were like grains of sand in his  throat. "What 
kind of game is this,  Angela?"
  "Any kind you want." She shot forward, quick  as a snake, and caught his bottom lip between her  teeth. "I want you," 
she whispered. "I've  wanted you for a long time." Straddling him, she  pressed his face against the breasts that 
strained against  the hint of black lace. "You want me, don't  you?" She felt his mouth open, grope blindly for  flesh. 
There was a flash, razor-edged and hot, that  was power. She'd won. "Don't you?" she  demanded, gripping his head 
in both hands.
  "Yes." He was already dragging her skirt up  to her waist.

           Deanna waited impatiently for the elevator  to climb to sixteen. She really didn't have time  to keep the 
appointment with Angela. But she was  obligated by that invincible combination of manners and  affection. She 
glanced at her watch again as people  shuffled on and off on seven.
  Angela was going to be upset, she mused. And  there was no preventing it. Deanna hoped the dozen  roses she'd 
brought along would soften the  refusal.
  She owed Angela much more than a few flowers,  she thought. So many people didn't see what a generous  and 
giving person Angela Perkins was, or how  vulnerable. All they saw was the power, the  ambition, the need for 
perfection. If Angela  had been a man, those traits would have been  celebrated. But because she was a woman, they 
were  considered flaws.
  As she stepped off the elevator on sixteen,  Deanna promised herself that she would follow  Angela's example, and 
the hell with the critics.
  "Hi, Simon."
  "Dee." He moved past her, double time, then  stopped short and rushed back. "It's not her  birthday. Tell me it's not 
her birthday."
  "What? Oh." Seeing the horror on his  face as he stared at the armload of flowers, she  laughed. "No. These are a 
thank-you gift."
  He let out a sigh, pressing his fingers to his  eyes. "Thank God. She'd have killed me if  I'd forgotten. She was 
already chewing off heads this  morning because her flight was delayed getting in last  night."
  Deanna's friendly smile faded. "I'm  sure she was just tired."
  Simon rolled his eyes. "Right, right. And who  wouldn't be? I get jet-lagged on the el."  To show his complete 
sympathy with his boss's mood  swings, he sniffed deeply at the flowers.  "Well, those should brighten her mood."
  "I hope so." Deanna continued down the  corridor, wondering if Angela was taking  Simon to New York. If she wasn't 
taking  Lew ... just how much of her staff would be laid

off? Simon, the perennial bachelor and  fussbudget, might be a bit twitchy, but he  was loyal.
  The twinge of guilt at knowing, when he  didn't, that his career was on the line made her  wince.
  She found the outer office deserted. Puzzled,  she looked at her watch again. Cassie must have  had an early 
errand. With a shrug, she approached  Angela's door.
  She heard the music first, quiet, lovely.  The fact that the door was open several inches was  rare. Deanna knew that 
Angela was  obsessive about keeping it firmly shut whether  she was in or out. Shrugging, she crossed over,  knocked 
lightly.
  She heard other sounds now, not as quiet, not as  lovely as the music. She knocked again, easing  the door open 
wider.
  "Angela?"
  The name stuck in her throat as she saw the two  forms wrestling on the love seat. She would have  stepped back 
immediately, with embarrassment flaming in  her cheeks, but she recognized the man, and the heat  drained away 
into cold shock.
  Marshall's hands were on Angela's breasts,  his face buried in the valley between them. Even as  she watched, 
those hands, ones she'd admired for their  elegance, slid down to tug at the stylish linen  skirt.
  And as he did, Angela turned her head,  slowly, even while her body arched forward. Her  eyes met Deanna's.
  Even in her haze of shock, Deanna saw the  quick smile, the cagey delight before the distress  clicked in. "Oh my 
God." Angela shoved  against Marshall's shoulder. "Deanna." Her  voice held the horror she couldn't quite bring to her  
eyes.
  He turned his head. His eyes, dark and  glassy, fixed on Deanna's. All movement  froze, hideously, as if a switch had  
freeze-framed them. Deanna broke the  tableau with a strangled cry. She turned and  ran, trampling the roses she'd 
dropped at her  feet.
  Her breath was heaving by the time she reached the  elevator. There was pain, a terrible pain  radiating out from her 
chest. She stabbed the Down  button again and again. Driven, she whirled away

and ran for the stairs. She couldn't stand still,  couldn't think. She stumbled down, saving herself from a  fall by instinct 
rather than design. Knowing only that  she had to get away, she plunged down, floor  after floor, her sobbing breaths 
echoing behind her.
  At street level, she rammed blindly against the  door. She battered against it, weeping, until  she found the control to 
depress the handle. Shoving  through, she ran straight into Finn.
  "Hey." Amusement came and went in a  heartbeat. The moment he saw her face, his  laughter fled. She was pale as 
a sheet, her  eyes wild and wet. "Are you hurt?" He  gripped her by the shoulders, drawing her out into the  sunlight. 
"What happened?"
  "Let me go." She twisted, shoving against him.  "Goddamn it, leave me alone."
  "I don't think so." Instinctively, he  wrapped his arms around her. "Okay, baby.  I'll just hold on, and you can cut 
loose."
  He rocked, stroking her hair while she  wept against his shoulder. She didn't hold  back, but let all the shock and hurt 
pour out with the  tears. The surging pressure in her chest eased  with them, like a swelling soothed with cool water.  
When he sensed her calming, Finn shifted his  hold. With his arm around her shoulders, he led her  across the lot to a 
low stone wall.
  "Let's sit." He dragged a handkerchief out  of his pocket and pressed it into her hands. Though  he hated a woman's 
tears, escaping  Deanna's would brand him as the worst sort of  coward. "You can pull yourself together and tell Uncle  
Finn all about it."
  "Go to hell," she muttered, and blew her  nose.
  "That's a good start." Gently, he brushed the  hair away from her damp cheeks. "What  happened, Deanna?"
  She looked away from him. There was too much  concern, too much willingness to understand in his eyes.  "I just 
found out I'm an idiot. That I have no  sense of judgment, and that no one can be trusted."
  "Sounds like a resume for a television news  anchor." When she didn't smile, he took  her hand. "I haven't got any 
whiskey on  me, and I gave up smoking last year. The best  I can offer you is a shoulder."
  "I seem to have used that already."
  "I have another one."

  Instead of leaning on it, she sat up  straighter, squeezed her eyes tight a moment.  Maybe she was an idiot, but she 
still had pride.  "I just walked in on a woman I considered a  friend, and a man I was considering as a lover."
  "That's a big one." And he didn't have any  clever words to smooth it over. "The  psychologist?"
  "Marshall, yes." Her lips trembled. With  an effort, she firmed them. The tears she'd shed  didn't shame her, but they 
were over. She meant  to keep it that way. "And Angela. In her  office."
  Muttering an oath, he glanced up to the windows  on the sixteenth floor. "I don't suppose  you could have mistaken 
the situation."
  Her laugh was as dry as dust. "I'm a  trained observer. When I see two people, one  half naked, pawing each other, I 
know what  they're up to. I don't need corroboration  to make the report."
  "I guess not." He was silent a moment. The  breeze whispered through the plot of grass behind them  and waved 
through the bank of tulips that spelled out  CBC in sunny yellow. "I could round up a  crew," Finn considered, "go up to 
sixteen with a  camera, lights and a mike, and make his life a  living hell."
  This time her laugh was less strained.  "Interview him at the scene of the crime? It's  a nice offer."
  "No, really, I'd enjoy it." The more he  thought about it, the more he believed it was the perfect  solution. "Dr. Pike, as 
a respected  family counselor, how do you explain being  caught with your pants down in a place of  business before 
noon? Was this a professional  call? A new form of therapy you'd like to share with the  public?"
  "They weren't down--yet," she said with a sigh.  "I interrupted them. And while your offer's  tempting, I'd just as soon 
handle the situation  myself." She pushed the used handkerchief back in his  hand. "Goddamn it, they made a fool out 
of  me." Springing off the wall, Deanna wrapped  her arms tightly around her body. "She planned  it. I don't know why, 
I don't even know how,  but she planned it. I saw it in her eyes."
  This news didn't surprise him. Nothing about  Angela did. "Have you pissed her off

lately?"
  "No." She lifted her hand to push back her  hair and then stopped. New York, she thought, and  nearly laughed 
again. "Maybe I did," she said  softly. "And this is some twisted form of payback  for what she sees as ingratitude." 
Furious  now, Deanna turned back toward him. "She  knew how I felt about him, and she used it. And  what timing. 
Less than an hour before I have to go  on." She looked at her watch, then covered her  face with her hands. "Oh God. 
I've only  got twenty minutes."
  "Take it easy. I'll go down and tell  Benny you're sick. They'll get a sub."
  For one indulgent moment, she considered his offer.  Then she remembered Angela's crafty,  satisfied smile. "No. 
She'd enjoy that too  much. I can do my job."
  Finn studied her. Her face was tracked with  tears and her eyes were puffy and red-rimmed, but she  was 
determined. "They grow them tough in Kansas,"  he said with approval.
  Her chin rose another notch. "Damn right they  do."
  "Let's get you into makeup."
  She said nothing until they'd crossed the lot,  walked through the door. "Thanks."
  "You're welcome. Got any Visine?"
  She grimaced as they started up the steps. "That  bad?"
  "Oh, it's worse."
  He kept their conversation light as he steered her  into makeup. He brought her ice for her eyes,  water for her 
throat, then stayed to chat while she  concealed the worst of the damage with cosmetics. But  he was thinking, and his 
thoughts were anything but light.  Anything but kind.
  "That's not half bad," he commented. "Try a  little more blusher."
  He was right. Deanna stroked the brush over  her cheek. And saw Marshall's reflection in the  mirror. Her hand 
trembled once before she set the  brush aside.
  "Deanna, I've been looking for you."  "Oh?" She felt Finn coil beside her, like a  big, mean cat about to spring, and 
laid a hand on  his arm. With a jolt she realized the slightest    signal from her would have him tearing in. It wasn't  as 
unattractive an image as she wanted  to think. "I've been right here," she said coolly.

"I have a show to do."
  "I know. I ..." His eyes clung to hers,  soft and brown and pleading. "I'll wait."
  "There's no need for that." Odd, she thought.  She felt powerful. Invincible. There seemed to be  no relation between 
the woman she was at this moment and the  one who had run sobbing from Angela's office.  "I have a couple minutes 
to spare." Calmly,  she leaned back against the counter and smiled at  Finn. There was blood in her eye that had 
nothing  to do with tears. "Would you mind leaving us alone?"
  "Sure." He reached over and tipped her chin  up another inch with his fingertip. "That's a good  look for you, Kansas." 
With a last, ice-edged  stare at Marshall, he strolled out.
  "Was it necessary to bring him into our private  business?"
  Deanna cut him off with a look. "Can you  really have the gall to criticize me at a time like  this?"
  "No." Marshall's shoulders drooped.
"No, of course not. You're right. It's just that I  find this difficult, and embarrassing enough without the  gossip 
spreading through the newsroom."
  "Finn has more interesting things to discuss than your  sex life, Marshall. I promise you. Now  if you have something 
to say, you'd better say it. I  only have a few minutes."
  "Deanna." He stepped forward and would have  reached for her, but the flash in her eyes warned him.  "I have no 
excuse for what happened--or nearly  happened. But I want you to know there's nothing between  me and Angela. It 
was an impulse," he  continued, speaking quickly when Deanna remained  silent. "Purely physical and meaningless. It  
had nothing to do with what I feel for you."
  "I'm sure it didn't," she said after a  moment. "And I believe you. I believe it was  impulsive, meaningless sex."
  Relief flooded through him. He hadn't lost  her. His eyes brightened as he reached out to her. "I  knew you'd 
understand. I knew the minute I saw  you that you were a woman generous enough to accept me,  to understand me. 
That's why I knew we were meant  to be together."
  Rigid as stone, she stared up at him.  "Take your hands off me," she said quietly.  "Right now."
  "Deanna." When he only tightened his  hold, she fought back a bubble of panic, a

quick, ugly sensory memory, and shoved.
  "I said now." Free, she stepped back and  took a deep, steadying breath. "I said I  believed you, Marshall, and I do. 
What you did  with Angela had nothing to do with your feelings for me.  However, it had everything to do with mine for 
you. I  trusted you, and you betrayed that trust. That makes it  impossible for us to part friends. So, we'll just part."
  "You're hurt now." A muscle twitched in  his cheek. "So you're not being reasonable." It was like  Patricia, he thought. 
So much like Patricia.
  "Yes, I'm hurt," she agreed. "But
I'm being very reasonable." A ghost of a smile  flitted around her mouth, as insulting as a slap.  "I make a habit out of 
being reasonable. I'm  not calling you any of the names that occur to me."
  "You see this as my fault. As a weakness."  Confident in his skills as a mediator, he  shifted gears. "What you 
haven't yet been able  to see is your part in it. Your responsibility.  I'm sure you'll agree that no successful  
relationship is the result of one person's  efforts. All the weeks we've been together  I've been patient, waiting for you 
to allow our  relationship to move to the natural and very human  phase of physical pleasure."
  She didn't think he could shock her again. But  she'd been wrong. "You're saying because I wouldn't  go to bed with 
you, I forced you to turn to Angela?"
  "You're not seeing the grays, Deanna," he  said patiently. "I respected your wishes, your  need to progress slowly. At 
the same time,  it's necessary for me to satisfy my own needs.  Angela was certainly a mistake--"
  She nodded slowly. "I see. I'm glad  we straightened this out, Marshall, before it went any  further. Now I'm going to 
very reasonably tell  you to go to hell."
  She started out, her eyes going to smoke when he  blocked the doorway. "We haven't finished,  Deanna."
  "I've finished, and that's all that counts. We  both made a mistake, Marshall, a big one.  Now get out of my way, and 
stay out of it before I  make another one and embarrass us both by tearing the  skin off your face."
  Stiffly, he stepped aside. "I'll be    ready to discuss this when you've calmed down."
  "Oh, I'm calm," she muttered as she  headed for the studio. "I'm dead calm, you

bastard."
  She shoved through the studio doors, strode across  the floor and took her place behind the anchor  desk.
  Finn watched her through the first break. Once he  was satisfied she was under control, he slipped out  and walked 
to the elevator.

  Over a celebratory glass of champagne,  Angela watched the noon report in her  office. She didn't give a damn 
about the words  or images, but she was interested, even  fascinated, by Deanna. The girl looked as  cool and sweet 
as an ice-cream soda,  Angela thought. Except for the eyes. Angela  would have been bitterly disappointed if she 
hadn't  seen the banked fury in Deanna's gaze.
  "Direct hit," she murmured, delighted.  I win, she thought again, but couldn't prevent a  twinge of admiration.
  Curled in the leather chair behind her desk, she  sipped and smiled, and finally raised her glass in  silent toast to 
Deanna.
  "She's got style, doesn't she?" Finn  said from the doorway.
  To her credit, Angela didn't jolt. She  continued to sip and study the screen.  "Absolutely. She could go a long way in 
the  business with the right teacher."
  "Is that the role you've carved out for yourself here?"  Finn crossed the room, skirted the desk to stand  behind 
Angela's chair. "Going to teach her your  way, Angela?"
  "My way works. Dee would be the first to tell you  how generous I've been with her."
  "She scares you, doesn't she?" Finn lowered  his hands to Angela's shoulders, holding her firm  so that they both 
faced Deanna's image.
  "Why should she?"
  "Because she's got more than style. You've got  plenty of that yourself. She's got brains, but you have  those, too. 
And guts, and drive. But then she  tops you, Angela. Because she's got class.  Bred-in-the-bone class." His fingers 
dug in when  she started to shift. He couldn't know just how  deeply he'd hit the mark. "That's something you'll  never 
have. You can wear your pearls and your  thousand-dollar suits; it doesn't mean a  damn. Because you can't wear 
class. You can't buy  it and you can't fake it." He spun her chair

around, leaning over her so they were face  to face. "And you'll never have it. So she scares the  hell out of you, and 
you had to find a way to show her  who was on top."
  "Did she come running to you, Finn?" She was  shaken, much more than she cared to admit, but she  lifted her glass 
and sipped delicately, even  though the drink now seemed a little more like a crutch.  "Was she shocked and 
devastated and crying out for  comfort?"
  "You're such a bitch, Angela."
  "You always liked that about me." Her eyes  laughed over the rim of her glass. Then she  shrugged. "The truth is, I'm 
sorry she was  hurt that way. There's no denying that Marshall  wasn't right for her, but I know she cared for him.  The 
simple fact was he was attracted to me, and  I to him." Because she wanted to believe her  excuse, she did. Her voice 
rang with  sincerity. "Things got out of hand, and I blame  myself entirely. It was thoughtless."
  "The hell it was. You don't take a breath  without thinking it through."
  She smiled again, looking up under her lashes.  "Don't be jealous, Finn."
  "You're pathetic. Did you think this stunt was  going to break her?"
  "If she had loved him, it would have." Pursing  her lips, she examined her nails. "So, perhaps  I did her a favor."
  He laughed. "Maybe you did at that. You  sure as hell did me one." He turned back  to her and grinned. "I want her, 
and you just cleared  the path."
  He didn't have to dodge the glass she  hurled. It struck the window a full six inches  from his head. The crystal 
shattered. Delighted,  Finn stuck his hands in his pockets.
  "Your aim still stinks."
  There was no laughter now, nor any of the  regret she'd convinced herself she felt. There was  only rage. "Do you 
think she'll want you after  she hears what I can tell her?"
  "Do you think she'll listen to anything you say after  this stunt?" There was reckless humor in his eyes.  "You 
overshot your mark this time. She's not going  to come whimpering to you. She's going to tough it out. And  she's 
going to get better. And you're going to start  looking over your shoulder."
  "Do you think I'm worried about some fluffy little

news reader?" she demanded. "All I  have to do is make a phone call and she'd be gone.  Like that." She snapped her 
fingers. "Who do you  think's been keeping this station out of the basement for the  last two years? And where do you 
think it'll go when  I pull up stakes?"
  "So you are leaving." He nodded, rocked  back on his heels. "Well, congratulations and  bon voyage."
  "That's right. When the new season opens I'll  be in New York, and Angela's will be  produced by my own company. 
CBC'S  affiliates will come crawling to pay my price  to air my show. Within two years, I'll be the  most powerful 
woman in television."
  "You might pull it off," he agreed. "For a  while."
  "I'll still be on top when you're scrounging  around for a two-minute spot on the late news."  She was trembling now, 
her temper pricked and  pecked by needles of insecurity. "People want me.  They admire me. They respect me."
  "I certainly did."
  Both Finn and Angela turned to the  doorway, where Deanna stood, pale under her  camera makeup. She noted, 
with no surprise,  that Angela had salvaged most of the rose  blooms and had set them prominently on her  desk.
  "Deanna." Tears swimming in her eyes,  Angela started across the room. "I don't know  how I can ever apologize."
  "Please don't. I think, since it's only  the three of us here, we can be honest. I know you  planned the whole episode, 
that you arranged to have  me walk in just when I did."
  "How could you say such a thing?"
  "I saw your face." Her voice hitched, but  she steadied herself. She would not lose control. "I  saw your face," she 
repeated. "I'm not sure  whether it was because you wanted to prove that I was wrong  about Marshall, or if it was 
because I couldn't  accept your offer. Maybe it was a combination of  both."
  Hurt, every bit as genuine as the pearls at her  throat, shuddered through Angela's voice. "You    should know me 
better."
  "Yes, I should have known you better. But I  wanted to believe in you. I wanted to be  flattered that you befriended 
me, that you saw something in

me. So I didn't look past the  surface."
  "S." Blinking at tears, Angela turned  away. "You're going to toss our friendship aside  because of a man."
  "No, I'm tossing it aside because of me. I  wanted you to know that."
  "I gave you my time, my help, my  affection." Whirling, Angela pounced. "No  one turns me down."
  "Then I guess I'm the first. Good luck in  New York." Good copy, Deanna told  herself as she walked out. Damn good 
copy.
  "Don't forget to look over your shoulder,"  Finn said as he closed the door quietly behind  him.

             Chapter Nine

       ANGELA TRADES WINDY
       CITY FOR BIG APPLE
       TALK SHOW QUEEN TO
       REIGN IN NEW YORK  MULTIMILLION-DOLLAR DEAL FOR
    CHICAGO'S FAVORITE BLONDE

  The headlines gloated over the news. Even  staunch vehicles like the Chicago Tribune,  The New York Times, The 
Washington  Post carried the banner. For one sunny day in  June, stories of Angela's record-breaking  deal 
overshadowed the troubled economy and unrest in  the Middle East.
  She was in her element.
  With the graciousness of royalty, she granted  interviews, welcomed a team from People into her  home, chatted with 
Liz Smith over the phone.  She had a quote for Variety and agreed to a  layout in McCall's.
  Finally, through hard work, blind ambition and sheer  guts, she had attained what she'd always craved.

Undivided attention.
  She was canny enough to have nothing but the highest  praise for CBC, for Delacort and for  Chicago. She even 
worked up a few tears on  Entertainment Tonight.
  And her clipping service captured every word, every  inch of print that revolved around her.
  Then, amidst the uproar, she delivered the coup  de grace. She would be taking the last six  weeks on her contract 
as vacation.
  "She knows how to turn the screws, doesn't  she?" Fran rolled a pair of mismatched  socks into a ball and tossed 
them into a laundry  basket.
  "That's not the worst of it." Deanna paced the  tiny living room of Fran's downtown apartment.  "Half her staff got 
pink-slipped. The others  have the choice of pulling up stakes and moving  to New York or looking for a new job." She  
hissed through her teeth. "There aren't any damn  jobs."
  "Obviously you don't read the papers. The  administration says we're not in a recession.    It's all in our minds."
  Unamused, Deanna picked up a book of  baby names and slapped it against her palm as she  roamed the room. "I 
saw Lew Mcationeil's  face when he left the building yesterday. God,  Fran, he's been with her almost six years, and  
she cuts him loose without a thought."
  Fran chose another pair of socks, one  navy, one black. Close enough, she decided,  and bundled them together. 
The heat made her purple  tank top stick to her skin. "I'm sorry,  Dee, for all of them. Everybody in television  knows 
the game usually stinks. But I'm more concerned  about you. Is Marshall still calling?"
  "He stopped leaving messages on my  machine." She shrugged. "I think he finally  figured out I wasn't going to call 
back. He  still sends flowers." With a bitter laugh, she  tossed the baby book back onto the coffee  table. "Can you 
believe it? He really thinks if  he blankets me in enough posies, I'll forget  everything."
  "Want to have a men-are-scum session?  Richard's playing golf, so he can't be  offended."
  "No, thanks." For the first time, she focused  on her friend. "Fran, you just rolled up a gray

sock with a blue one."
  "I know. It adds a little excitement to the  mornings. I gotta tell you, Dee,  Richard's getting staid. You know, Saturday  
golf dates, three-piece suits. The house  in the 'burbs we're buying. Jesus, we used  to be rebels. Now we're ..." She 
shuddered,  lowered her voice. "Mainstream."
  Laughing, Deanna sat cross-legged on the    floor. "I'll believe that when you buy a  Volvo and an espresso 
machine."
  "I almost bought one of those "Baby On  Board" signs the other day. I came to my  senses just in time."
  "Then you're okay. I haven't even asked  how you're feeling."
  "Fabulous, really." Fran jabbed a loose  pin back into her messy topknot. "All these  women at work who've had kids 
look at me with  scorn and envy. They have all these horror  stories about pregnancy--morning sickness,  fainting, 
water retention. And I feel like  Rocky." She lifted an arm, flexed her  muscle and managed to make a couple of  
freckles ripple. "Like I could go the distance  without breaking a sweat." Lips pursed, she  held up a checked argyle 
and a white sweat  sock. "What do you think?"
  "Why be subtle?" For the next few minutes  they worked silently, folding laundry. "Fran,  I've been thinking."
  "I wondered when you'd get around to it. I could  practically see the idea hopping around in your  brain."
  "It could be impractical," Deanna mused.  "Hell, it could be impossible. After I run it  by you, I want you to be 
completely honest."
  "All right." Fran shoved the laundry  basket away with one bare foot. "Shoot."
  "Delacort, Angela's old syndicate,  is going to have a big hole in their line-up and in  their revenue. I'm sure they can 
fill it  adequately enough, but ... Did you know  Delacort's CEO was Angela's second  husband?"
  "Sure. Loren Bach." Aside from the  occasional grisly mystery, Fran's favorite  reading was gossip rags, and she 
wasn't ashamed  of it. If you wanted to know what celebrity was  doing what with whom, and where, she was your girl.

"They hooked up right after she ditched her  first one--the real estate tycoon. Anyway,  Loren Bach put a lot of money 
and muscle  behind our girl. Made her a star."
  "And though there were a few rumors, and some  items in gossip columns to the contrary, they  supposedly parted 
amicably." That much,  Deanna had read. "Knowing Angela the way I  do now, I really doubt that."
  Fran's eyebrows wiggled. Not only did  she love gossip, she loved dirty gossip  best. "Word was she cost him a cool 
two  million in the settlement, plus the house and    furnishings, so I'd make it four mil. I  wouldn't think Bach would 
have too much residual  affection for our heroine."
  "Exactly. And Bach has a long-standing  relationship with Barlow James, the president of  CBC'S news division." 
Deanna rubbed her  nervous hands on her knees. "And Mr. James  likes my work."
  Fran cocked her head, her eyes bright as a  bird's. "So?"
  "So I've got some money saved, I've  got some connections." The idea had her heart  jittering so that she pressed 
the heel of her hand  against it as if to slow its pace. She wanted this very  much, maybe too much. Enough, she 
realized,  to skip several steps of her carefully  calculated career plan. "I want to rent a  studio, put together a tape. I 
want to pitch it  to Loren Bach."
  "Jesus." Fran leaned back against the  cushions of the couch and goggled. "Is this you  talking?"
  "I know how it sounds, but I've thought it through.  Bach moved Angela from a small, local show  to a national hit. He 
could do it again. I'm hoping  he wants to do it again, not only for his company, but  personally. I can put together a 
series of clips  from "Deanna's Corner" and my news  reports. I think I can get Barlow James  to back me. And if I had 
a pilot, something  simple and slick, I might have a shot." She  rose again, too excited to sit. "The timing's  perfect. 
The syndicate's still reeling from  Angela's defection, and they haven't groomed  a successor. If I could convince them 
to give  me a chance locally, a handful of markets in the  Midwest, I know I could make it work."

  Fran blew out a breath, tapped her  fingers on her flat belly. "It's off the  wall, all right. And I love it." Letting her  head 
fall back, she laughed at the ceiling.  "It's just screwy enough to fly."
  "I'll make it fly." Deanna came  back to crouch in front of Fran and grip her  hands. "Especially if I have an 
experienced  producer."
  "You can count on me. But the cost of the studio,  the techs, even a trimmed-down production  staff. It's a lot to risk."
  "I'm willing to risk it."
  "Richard and I have some put away."  "No." Touched, grateful, Deanna shook  her head. "Absolutely not. Not with 
my  godchild on the way. I'll take your brain,  your back and your time, but not your money." After  patting Fran's belly, 
she stood again.  "Believe me, the first three are more  important."
  "Okay. So what's your format, what's your  topic, where's your audience?"
  "I want something simple, comfortable. Nothing  issue-oriented. I want to do what I do best,  Fran. Talk to people. 
Get them to talk to me.  We get a couple of deep, cozy chairs.  God knows I need new furniture anyway.  Keep it 
chummy, intimate."
  "Fun," Fran said. "If you're not going for the  tears and angst, go for the fun. Something the audience  can get 
involved in."
  Deanna pulled at her earlobe. "I thought  I might draw on some of the guests I've had  on "Deanna's Corner." Sort of 
a  woman-in-the-arts thing."
  "It's not bad, but it's tame. And it's  lofty. I don't think you want talking heads  for a demo, especially arty ones." Fran 
thought  over the possibilities. "We did this  makeover thing on Woman Talk last year.  Went over big."
  "You mean a before-and-after sort of thing?"  "Yeah. Makeup, hair. It's fun. It's  satisfying. But you know what I'd 
like?" She  curled her legs up, leaned forward. "A  fashion show sort of thing. What's new for  summer? What's hot? 
What's now? You get,  say, Marshall Field's involved. They get  to show off some of the summer styles. Career stuff,

evening stuff, casual wear."
  Eyes half closed, Deanna tried  to visualize it. "Right down to shoes and  accessories, with a fashion coordinator. 
Then  we choose women out of the audience."
  "Exactly. Real women, no perfect  bodies."
  Warming to the idea, Deanna reached for her  purse and took out a notebook. "We'll have  to have chosen them 
earlier. So the fashion  coordinator has time to find the right look, the right  outfit."
  "Then they get, say, a hundred-dollar  gift certificate from the department store."
  "How to look like a million for a hundred  dollars or less."
  "Oh, I like it." Fran rocked back. "I  really like it."
  "I've got to get home." Deanna  scrambled up. "Make some calls. We've  got to move fast."
  "Sweet pea, I've never known you to move  any other way."

  It required eighteen-hour days, the bulk of  Deanna's savings and a surplus of frustration.  Because she was able to 
wrangle only a week off from  her duties at CBC, she did without sleep.  Fueled on coffee and ambition, she pushed 
the  project forward. Meetings with the promotion people at  Marshall Field's, phone calls to union  reps, hours of 
searching for the right set  accessories.
  The first Deanna's Hour might need to be  produced on a shoestring, but she didn't intend  for it to look that way. 
Deanna oversaw every step  and stage. A loss or a victory, she was  determined that it carry her mark.
  She bargained. A set of chairs for  on-screen credit. She promised. A few  hours' labor for a full-time position if the  
pilot was picked up. She begged and she  borrowed. Fifty folding chairs from a local  women's group. Floral 
arrangements,  equipment, bodies.
  On the morning of the taping, the small studio  she had rented was in chaos. Lighting technicians  shouted orders 
and suggestions as they made  last-minute adjustments. The models were crammed  into a bread box-size dressing 
room, jockeying

for enough space to dress. Deanna's  mike shorted out, and the florist delivered a  funeral wreath instead of the 
baskets of summer  blossoms.
  ""In loving memory of Milo.""
Deanna read the card and let loose with a quick,  hysterical laugh. "Oh, Christ, what else?"
  "We'll fix it." Firmly, and perhaps  frantically, in control, Fran gave her a  brisk shove. "I've already sent Richard's  
nephew Vinnie out for baskets. We'll just  pull the flowers out and toss them in. It'll  look great," she said desperately.  
"Natural."
  "You bet. We've got less than an  hour." She winced at the sound of a crashing folding  chair. "If anyone actually 
shows up for the  audience, we're going to look like idiots."
  "They're going to show up." Fran attacked the  gladiolas. Her hair stood out in corkscrew  spikes, like an electric 
halo. "And we'll  be fine. Between the two of us we contacted every  women's organization in Cook County. Every one  
of the fifty tickets is spoken for. We could have  managed twice that if we'd had a bigger  studio. Don't worry."
  "You're worried."
  "That's a producer's job. Go change, do    your hair. Pretend you're a star."
  "Oh, Miss Reynolds? Deanna?" The  fashion consultant, a petite, perky woman  with a permanent smile, waved from 
offstage.
  "I want to kill her," Deanna said under her  breath. "I want it bad."
  "Stand in line," Fran suggested. "If she's  changed her mind about the running order again, I  get first shot."
  "Oh, Deanna?"
  "Yes, Karyn." Deanna fixed a smile  on her face and turned. "What can I do for you?"
  "I just have a teeny little problem? The walking  shorts in pumpkin?"
  "Yes?" Deanna gritted her teeth. Why  did the woman have to make a question out of every statement?
  "They just don't suit Monica. I don't  know what I was thinking of. Do you think we could have  someone dash over to 
the store and pick up the same  outfit in eggplant?"
  Before Deanna could open her mouth, Fran  eased forward. "I'll tell you what, Karyn.

Why don't you call the store, have someone  dash over here with the outfit."
  "Oh." Karyn blinked. "I suppose I  could, couldn't I? Goodness, I'd better hurry.  It's almost show time."
  "Whose idea was it to do a fashion show?"  Fran went back to dismantling the funeral  wreath. "It must have been 
yours. I would never have  thought up something this complicated. Go put yourself  together. You won't make much of 
a fashion statement  in sweats and with curlers in your hair."
  "Right. If I'm going to bomb, I might as  well look my best doing it."
  Deanna's dressing room was the size of a  closet, but it boasted a sink, a john and a  mirror. She grinned when she 
saw the big gold  star Fran had taped to the door.
  Maybe it was just a symbol, she mused as she  ran a fingertip over the foil, but it was her  symbol. Now she was 
going to have to earn it.
  Even if everything fell apart, she'd have three  weeks' worth of incredible memories. The rush  and thrill of putting the 
show together, the fascination and  strain of handling all the details. And the knowledge, the  absolute certainty that 
this was exactly what she  wanted to do with her life. Added to that, astoundingly,  was the fact that so many people 
believed she could.
  There had been tips from the floor director  at CBC, advice from Benny and several others  on the production end. 
Joe had agreed to head  up the camera crew and had persuaded a few of his  pals to help with the sound and lighting 
end. Jeff  Hyatt had arranged for editing and graphics.
  Now she would either earn their faith in her--or  blow it.
  She was fastening on an earring and giving herself a  final pep talk when the knock sounded on the  door.
  "Don't tell me," she called out. "The  eggplant won't do either, and we have to dash back for  tomato."
  "Sorry." Finn pushed open the door. "I  didn't bring any food."
  "Oh." She dropped the back of her earring and  swore. "I thought you were in Moscow."
  "I was." He leaned against the jamb as she  retrieved the little gold clasp. "And look what  happens when I go away 
for a couple of weeks.  You're the top story in the newsroom gossip  pool."

  "Great." Her stomach sank as she  fought the earring into place. "I must have been out of  my mind to start this."
  "I imagine you were thinking clearly." She  looked fabulous, he realized. Nervous, but  revved and ready. "You saw 
an open door and  decided you could walk through first."
  "It feels like an open window. On the top  floor."
  "Just land on your feet. So what's your  topic?"
  "It's a fashion show, with audience  participation."
  His grin broke out, dimples winking. "A  fashion show? That kind of fluff, with your news  background?"
  "This isn't news." She elbowed past him.  "It's entertainment. I hope. Don't you have a  war to cover or something?"
  "Not at the moment. I figured I'd stick  around awhile. Then I could head back to the  newsroom with the scoop. Tell 
me." He put  a hand on her shoulder to slow her down. "Are you  doing this for yourself, or to irritate Angela?"
  "Both." She pressed a fist to her stomach  to try to quiet it. "But for me first."
  "Okay." He could feel the energy, and the  nerves vibrating against his palm. He wondered  what it would be like to 
tap it, when they were alone. "And  what's the next step?"
  She sent him a sidelong look, hesitated.  "Off the record?"
  "Off the record," he agreed.
  "A meeting with Barlow James. And if I  manage to get his endorsement, I'm going  to Bach."
  "So, you don't intend to pitch in the minors."  "Not for long." She let out a long breath.  "A minute ago I was sure I 
was going to be  sick." She tossed her hair back. "Now I  feel great. Really great."
  "Dee!" Holding her headset in place,  Fran rushed down the narrow corridor.  "We've got a full house." She snatched  
Deanna's hand and squeezed. "Every seat. The  three women we picked out from the Cook County  Historical Society 
are psyched. They can't  wait to start."
  "Then let's not."
  "Okay." Fran looked sick. "Okay,"

she said again. "We can go whenever you're  ready."
  She left the warm-up to Fran, standing just off  set and listening to the laughter and applause. The  nerves were 
gone. In their place was a burst of  energy so huge she could barely hold still. Pushed  by it, she made her entrance, 
settled into her chair  under the lights, in front of the camera.
  The theme music, compliments of Vinnie,  Richard's nephew and an aspiring musician,  danced out. Off camera, 
Fran signaled for  applause. The red light shone steadily.
  "Good morning, I'm Deanna Reynolds."
  She knew there was chaos off set--the  scrambling wardrobe changes, the barking of  orders, the inevitable glitches. 
But she felt  completely in control, chatting amiably with the  perky, detestable Karyn, then roaming the audience  for 
comments as the models strutted their stuff.
  She could almost forget it was a career move instead  of a lark as she giggled with an audience member  over a pair 
of polka-dot micro shorts.
  She looked like a woman entertaining friends,  Finn mused as he loitered at the back of the  studio. It was an 
interesting angle, because it  wasn't an angle at all. As a hard  newsman with a natural disdain for fluff, he  couldn't 
say he was particularly interested in the  topic. But his tastes aside, the audience was  enchanted. They cheered and 
applauded, let out the  occasional "ooh" and "aah," then balanced it with  cheerful groans over an outfit that didn't hit  
the mark.
  Most of all, they related to Deanna. And  she to them, in the way she slipped an arm around an  audience member, 
made eye contact or stepped  back to let her guests take the spotlight.
  She'd walked through the door, he decided, and  smiled to himself. He slipped out thinking it wouldn't  hurt to put in a 
call to Barlow James, and  hold that door open a little wider.

  Angela swept through the lofty living room of  her new penthouse apartment. Her heels clicked  over parquet floors, 
muffled on carpet,  clicked over tile as she stalked from airy window  seat to gleaming breakfront. As she paced, she  
smoked in quick, ragged jerks, struggling with temper,  fighting for control.
  "All right, Lew." Calmer, she stopped beside

a pedestal table, stabbing out the cigarette  in a crystal ashtray and tainting the scent of  roses with smoke. "Tell me 
why you think I'd  be interested in some little homemade tape of a  second-rate newsreader?"
  Lew shifted uncomfortably on the velvet  settee. "I thought you'd want to know." He  heard the whine in his own voice 
and lowered his eyes.  He detested what he was doing: crawling,  belly-rolling for scraps. But he had two  kids in 
college, a high-dollar mortgage  and the threat of unemployment urging him on. "She  rented a studio, hired techs, 
called in  favors. She got some time off from the newsroom  and put together a fifty-minute show, plus an  audition 
tape of some of her old stuff." Lew  tried to ignore the ulcer burning in his gut. "I  hear it's pretty good."
  "Pretty good?" Angela's sneer was as sharp  as a scalpel. "Why would I have any interest in  "pretty good"? Why 
would anyone? Amateurs    try to push their way into the market all the time.  They don't worry me."
  "I know--I mean there's talk around the job  how the two of you had words."
  "Oh?" She smiled frostily. "Did you  fly all the way from Chicago to feed me the  latest CBC gossip, Lew? Not that I  
don't appreciate it, but it seems a little  extreme."
  "I figured ..." He took a steadying  breath, ran a hand through his thinning hair. "I know  you offered Deanna my job, 
Angela."
  "Really? Did she tell you that?"
  "No." Whatever pride he had left  surfaced. He met her eyes squarely. "But  it leaked. Just like it leaked that she 
turned you down."  He saw the familiar flash in her eyes. "And  I know," he hurried on, "after working with you for so  
many years, I know you wouldn't like to see her  benefit from your generosity."
  "How could she?"
  "By turning it into a matter of loyalty to the  station. By soliciting Barlow James."
  He had her interest now. To conceal it, she  turned, flipping open an enamel box and taking  out a cigarette. Her 
eyes flicked over toward  the bar, where champagne was always chilling. Frightened  by the depth of longing for one 
small swallow, she  moistened her lips and looked away again.

  "Why should Barlow get involved?"
  "He likes her work. He's made a point  of calling the station a few times to say so. And when  he came to visit the 
Chicago bureau last  week, he made time for a meeting with her."
  Angela snapped on her lighter.
  "Word is he took a look at the tape.  He liked it."
  "So he wants to flatter one of his young  female reporters?" Angela tossed her head  back, but her throat tightened 
against the smoke.  Just one swallow, she thought. One cool, frothy  sip.
  "She sent the tape to Loren Bach."  Very slowly, Angela lowered the cigarette and  left it to smolder in the ashtray. 
"Why, that little  bitch," she said softly. "Does she really think  she can begin to compete with me?"
  "I don't know if she's aiming that high.  Yet." He let that idea simmer. "I do know  that some of the Midwest affiliates 
are concerned about  the cost of your new show. They might be willing  to plug into something cheaper, and closer to 
home."
  "Then let them. I'll bury whatever they put  up against me." Giving a bark of a laugh, she  strode over to survey her 
view of New  York. She had everything she'd wanted. Needed.  At last, at long last, she was the queen  overlooking 
her subjects from her high,  impregnable tower. No one could touch her now.  Certainly not Deanna. "I'm on top here,  
Lew, and I'm damn well going to stay there.  Whatever it takes."
  "I can use my connections, find out what  Loren Bach decides."
  "That's fine, Lew," she murmured, staring  over the tops of the trees of Central Park.  "You do that."
  "But I want my job back." His voice  quavered with emotion, with self-disgust. "I'm  fifty-four years old, Angela. At my  
age, and the way things are out there right now, I can't  afford to be sending out resumes. I want a  firm, two-year 
contract. By that time both my  kids'll be out of college. I can sell the  house in Chicago. Barbara and I can buy a  
smaller one out here. We don't need the room  now. I just need a couple of years to make sure  I have something to 
fall back on. That's not too much  to ask."

  "You've certainly thought this through."  Angela sat on the window seat, lifting her  arms and laying them atop the 
flowered cushion. Her  throat had opened again, all on its own. That  pleased her. She didn't need a drink when she  
had the taste of power.
  "I've done good work for you," he reminded her.  "I can still do good work. Plus, I have plenty of  contacts back in 
Chicago. People who'll pass  on inside information, if there's a need for it."
  "I can't see that there will be, but ..." She  smiled to herself, considering. "I don't like  to ignore possibilities. And I 
always reward  loyalty." She studied him. A drone, she  decided. One who would work tirelessly, and one who  was 
afraid enough to bury ethics under necessity.  "I'll tell you what, Lew. I can't offer you  executive producer. That slot's 
already  filled." She watched him pale. "Assistant  producer. I know that technically it's a  demotion, but we don't have 
to look at it that  way."
  Her smile was bolstering. As easily as a child,  she forgot her earlier disgust with him, and her careless  betrayal. 
Now, once again, they were teammates.
  "I've always depended on you, and I'm glad  I can continue to do so. It's a negligible cut in  salary, and it is New 
York. That makes up  for a lot, doesn't it?" She beamed at him,  pleased with her own generosity. "And to show you 
how much  I value you, I'll want you on board for the first  special. We'll have Legal draw up a  contract, make it 
official. In the meantime  ..." She rose, crossed to him to take his hand  between both of hers in the warm, affectionate 
gesture  of old friends. "You go back and tidy up your  affairs in Chicago. I'll have my real estate  agent look for a cozy 
little place for you and  Barbara. Maybe Brooklyn Heights." She  rose on her toes to kiss his cheek. "And you  keep 
your ears open, won't you, dear?"
  "Sure, Angela," he said dully.
"Whatever you say."

              Chapter Ten

  Loren Bach's office capped the lofty  silver tower that was home for Delacort's  Chicago base. Its glass walls offered 
a  view that stretched beyond the Monopoly board of

downtown. On a clear day, he could  see into misted plains of Michigan. Loren  liked to say he could stand guard over 
hundreds of the  stations that carried Delacort's programming, and  thousands of homes that watched.
  The suite of offices reflected his  personality. Its main area was a streamlined,  masculine room designed for serious 
work. The  deep green walls and dark walnut trim were  pleasant to the eye, an uncluttered backdrop  for the sleek, 
modern furnishings and recessed  television screens. He knew that it was sometimes  necessary to entertain in an 
office, as well as do  business. As a concession and a convenience, there was a  semicircular sofa in burgundy 
leather, a  pair of padded chrome chairs and a wide  smoked-glass table. The contents of a fully  stocked refrigerator 
catered to his addiction  to Classic Coke.
  One of his walls was lined with photographs of  himself with celebrities. Stars whose sitcoms and  dramas had 
moved into syndication, politicians  running for office, network bigwigs. The one  telling omission was Angela Perkins.
  Adjoining the office was a washroom in  dramatic black and white, complete with a  whirlpool and sauna. Beyond 
that was a smaller  room that held a Hollywood bed, a  big-screen TV and a closet. Loren had never  broken the habit 
of his lean years, and continued  to work long hours, often catching a few hours'  sleep and a change of clothing right 
in the workplace.
  But his sanctuary was an area that had been  converted from office space. It was cluttered with  colorful arcade 
games where he could save worlds  or video damsels in distress, electronic  pinball machines that whirled with light 
and sound, a  talking Coke machine.
  Every morning he allowed an hour to indulge himself  with the bells and whistles and often challenged network  
executives to beat his top scores. No one  did.
  Loren Bach was a video wizard, and the love  affair had begun in childhood in the bowling  alleys his father had 
owned. Loren had never had  any interest in tenpins, but he'd had an interest  in business, and in the flash of the 
silver ball.
  In his twenties, with his degree from MIT still  hot, he'd expanded the family business  into arcades. Then he'd begun 
to dabble in the king of

video: television.
  Thirty years later, his work was his play, and his  play was his work.
  Though he had allowed a few decorative  touches in the office area--a Zorach  sculpture, a Gris collage--the core of 
the  room was the desk. So it was more of a console than a  traditional desk. Loren had designed it  himself. He 
enjoyed the fantasy of sitting in a  cockpit, controlling destinies.
  Simple and functional, its base was fitted  with dozens of cubbyholes rather than drawers. Its  work surface was wide 
and curved, so that when  Loren sat behind it, he was surrounded by phones,  computer keyboards, monitors.
  An adept hacker, Loren could summon up  any desired information skillfully and swiftly,  from advertising rates for 
any of Delacort's--  or its competitors'--programs, to the current  exchange rate of dollar to yen.
  As a hobby, he designed and programmed  computer games for a subsidiary of his  syndicate's.
  At fifty-two, he had the quiet,  aesthetic looks of a monk, with a long, bony  face and a thin build. His mind was as 
sharp as a  scalpel.
  Seated behind his desk, he tapped a button  on his remote. One of the four television  screens blinked on. Eyes mild 
and thoughtful,  he sipped from a sixteen-ounce bottle of  Coke and watched Deanna Reynolds.
  He would have viewed the tape without the call from  Barlow James--Loren took at least a  cursory study of anything 
that crossed his desk--  but it was doubtful that he would have slotted time for it so  quickly without the endorsement.
  "Attractive," he said into his  mini-recorder, in a voice as soft and cool as  morning snow. "Good throat. Excellent 
camera  presence. Energy and enthusiasm. Sexy but  nonthreatening. Relates well to audience.  Scripted questions 
don't appear scripted. Who  does her writing? Let's find out. Production  values need improvement, particularly the  
lighting."
  He watched the full fifty minutes,  reversing the tape occasionally, freeze-framing,  all the while making his brief 
comments into the  recorder.

  He took another long sip from the  bottle, and he was smiling. He'd lifted  Angela from minor local celebrity into a  
national phenomenon.
  And he could do it again.
  With one hand he froze Deanna's face on  the screen; with the other, he punched his intercom.  "Shelly, contact 
Deanna Reynolds at
CBC, Chicago news division. Set up an  appointment. I'd like to have her come in as soon as  possible."

  Deanna was used to worrying about her appearance.  Working in front of the camera meant that part of the job  dealt 
with looking good. She would often discard a  perfectly lovely suit that appealed to her because the  cut or the color 
wasn't quite right for TV.
  But she couldn't remember agonizing over the  image she projected more than she did when  preparing to meet 
Loren Bach.
  She continued to second-guess herself as she sat  in the reception area outside his office.
  The navy suit she'd chosen was too severe.  Leaving her hair down was too frivolous. She  should have worn bolder 
jewelry. Or worn none  at all.
  It helped somehow to focus on clothes and  hairstyles. Twinkie habits, she knew. But  it meant she didn't obsess 
about what this meeting  could mean to her future.
  Everything, she thought as her stomach clutched.  Or nothing.
  "Mr. Bach will see you now."
  Deanna only nodded. Her throat tightened  up like a vise. She was afraid any word that fought  its way free would 
come out as a squeak.
  She stepped through the doors the receptionist  opened, and into Loren Bach's office.
  He was behind his desk, a sloped-shouldered,  skinny man with a face that reminded Deanna of  an apostle. She'd 
seen photographs and  television clips, and had thought he'd be bigger  somehow. Stupid, she thought. She of all 
people knew  how different a media image could be from reality.
  "Ms. Reynolds." He rose, extending a  hand over the curved Lucite. "It's nice  to meet you."
  "Thank you." His grip was firm, friendly and  brief. "I appreciate your taking the time."
  "Time's my business. Want a Coke?"

  "I ..." He was already up and striding  across the room to a full-sized, built-in  refrigerator. "Sure, thanks."
  "Your tape was interesting." With his back to her,  Loren popped the caps on two bottles. "A  little rough on some of 
the production values, but  interesting."
  Interesting? What did that mean? Smiling  stiffly, Deanna accepted the bottle he handed  her. "I'm glad you think so. 
We didn't have a  great deal of time to put it together."
  "You didn't think it necessary to take the time?"  "No. I didn't think I had the time."
  "I see." Loren sat behind his desk again,  took a long swig from the bottle. His hands were  white and spidery, the 
long, thin fingers rarely still.  "Why not?"
  Deanna followed his lead and drank. "Because  there are plenty of others who'd like to slip  into Angela's slot, at 
least locally. I  felt it was important to get out of the gate  quickly."
  He was more interested in how she'd do coming down the  stretch. "Just what is it you'd like to do with  Deanna's 
Hour?"
  "Entertain and inform." Too glib, she thought  immediately. Slow down, Dee, she warned herself.  Honesty's fine, but 
put a little thought into it.  "Mr. Bach, I've wanted to work in television  since I was a child. Since I'm not an  actress, I 
concentrated on journalism.  I'm a good reporter. But in the last couple of  years, I've realized that doing the news  
doesn't really satisfy my ambitions. I like  to talk to people. I like to listen to them--and I'm good at  both."
  "It takes more than conversational skills  to carry an hour show."
  "It takes a knowledge of how television works, how  it communicates. How intimate, and how powerful,  it can be. 
And making the subject forget, while the  light's on, that he or she is talking to anyone  but me. That's my strong 
point." She shifted,  her body edging forward. "I did some  summer-interning at a local station in Topeka  while I was 
in high school, and I interned for  four years at a station in New Haven during  college. I worked as a news writer in  
Kansas City before my first on-air job.  Technically, I've been working in television for

ten years."
  "I'm aware of that." He was aware of every  detail of her professional life, but he  preferred getting his own 
impressions, face  to face. He appreciated the fact that she kept  her eyes and her voice level. He remembered  his 
first meeting with Angela. All those sexual  spikes, that manic energy, that overpowering  femininity. Deanna Reynolds 
was a different  matter altogether.
  Not weaker, he mused. Certainly not less  potent. Simply ... different.
  "Tell me, other than fashion shows, what  sort of topics did you plan to do?"
  "I'd like to concentrate on personal issues  rather than front-page ones. And I'd like to avoid  shock television."
  "No redheaded lesbians and the men who love  them?"
  She relaxed enough to smile. "No, I'll  leave those to someone else. My idea is to balance  shows like the demo with 
more serious ones, but to keep it  very personal, involving the audience-studio and the  home audience. Topics like 
step-families,  sexual harassment in the workplace, how men and  women cope with middle-age dating. Issues that  
target in on what the average viewer might be  experiencing."
  "And you see yourself as a spokesperson for the  average viewer?"
  She smiled again. Here, at least, she could be  confident. "I am the average viewer. I'm  certainly going to watch a 
special on PBS that  interests me, but I'm more than happy to pull up  a bar stool with the gang at Cheers. I share my  
first cup of coffee in the morning with the Chicago  Tribune and Kirk Brooks on Wake
Up Call. And unless I have an early  call, I go to bed with The Tonight Show--unless  Arsenio looks better that night." 
Now she  grinned and sipped again. "And I'm not ashamed of  it."
  Loren laughed, then drained his Coke. She'd  very nearly described his own viewing habits.  "I'm told you 
moonlighted for Angela."
  "Not moonlighting exactly. It wasn't as  structured or formal as that. And I was never on  her payroll. It was more of 
an ...  apprenticeship." Deanna screened the emotion  from her voice. "I learned quite a bit."

  "I imagine you did." After a  moment, Loren steepled his hands. "It's no  secret that Delacort is unhappy about losing  
Angela's. And anyone involved in the business  would know that we don't wish her well." His eyes  were dark as onyx 
against his Byronically pale  skin. Yes, an apostle, Deanna thought again,  but not one who would have gone 
cheerfully to the Roman  lions. "However," he continued, "given her  track record, she should continue to dominate the  
market. We're not ready to go head to head with her,  nationally, with another talk-show format."
  "You'll counter-program," Deanna said,  making Loren stop, raise a brow. "Go against  her with game shows, high-
rated reruns, soaps,  depending on the demographics."
  "That would be the idea. I had considered  spot-testing a talk-show format, in a handful of  CBC affiliates."
  "I only need a handful," she said evenly, but  gripped the soft-drink bottle with both hands  to hold it steady. Sink or 
swim, she decided.  "To start."
  Perhaps it was personal, Loren mused. But what  of it? If he could use Deanna Reynolds  to take a small slice out of 
Angela, he could  afford the cost. If the project failed, he would  write it off as experience. But if he could make  it 
work, if he could make Deanna work, the  satisfaction would be worth more, much more than  advertising revenue.
  "Do you have an agent, Ms. Reynolds?"  "No."
  "Get one." His dark, mild eyes sharpened.  "I'd like to welcome you to Delacort."

  "Tell me again," Fran insisted.
  "A six-month contract." No matter how  many times she said it aloud, the words still echoed  gleefully in Deanna's 
ears. "We'll tape  right here at CBC, one show a day, five days a  week."
  Still dazed even after two weeks of  negotiations, she wandered Angela's office.  All that was left were the pastel 
walls and carpet  and the steely view of Chicago. "I'll be able  to use this office, and two others in accordance with  
CBC'S end of the deal, during the probationary  period. We'll be carried by ten affiliates in  the Midwest--live in 
Chicago, Dayton and

Indianapolis. We have six weeks  to put it together before we premiere in August."
  "You're really doing it."
  With a half laugh, Deanna turned back.  She wasn't smiling like Fran, but her eyes were  glowing. "I'm really doing 
it." She took a  deep breath, grateful that none of Angela's  signature scent remained in the air. "My  agent said the 
money they're paying me is a slap  in the face." Now she grinned. "I told him  to turn the other cheek."
  "An agent." Fran shook her head and sent  her cowbell earrings dancing. "You've got an  agent."
  Deanna turned toward the window and grinned out  at Chicago. She'd chosen a small, local  firm, one that could 
focus on her needs, her  goals.
  "I've got an agent," she agreed. "And a  syndicate--at least for six months. I hope  I've got a producer."
  "Sweet pea, you know--"
  "Before you say anything, let me finish."  Deanna turned back. Behind her, the spears and  towers of the city shot up 
into the dull gray sky.  "It's a risk, Fran, a big one. If things  don't work out, we could be out on our butts in a  few 
months. You've got a solid job at  Woman Talk, and a baby on the way. I  don't want you to jeopardize that for 
friendship."
  "Okay, I won't." Fran shrugged, and because  there was no place to sit, settled on the floor,  grateful for the give of 
elastic over her expanding  waist. "I'll do it for ego. Fran Myers,  Executive Producer. Has a nice ring."  She circled her 
knees with her arms. "When do  we start?"
  "Yesterday." Laughing, Deanna sat beside  her, slung an arm over her shoulders. "We  need staff. I might be able to 
lure in some of  Angela's who got pink-slipped or didn't  want to relocate. We need story ideas and people  to research 
them. The budget I have to work with is  slim, so we'll have to keep it simple." She  stared at the bare, pastel walls. 
"Next  contract, it'll be a hell of a lot bigger."
  "The first thing you need is a couple of chairs,  a desk and a phone. As producer, I'll see  what I can beg, borrow or 
steal." She  scrambled to her feet. "But first, I have to go tender

my resignation."
  Deanna caught her hand. "You're sure?"  "Damn right. I already discussed the  possibility with Richard. We looked at 
it this  way: If things go belly-up in six months,  I'd be ready for maternity leave anyway."  She patted her stomach and 
grinned. "I'll  call you." She paused at the doorway. "Oh,  one more thing. Let's paint these damn walls."
  Alone, Deanna pulled her knees up to her  chest and lowered her head. It was all happening so  fast. All the 
meetings, the negotiations, the  paperwork. She didn't mind the long hours; she  thrived on them. And the realization 
of an ambition  brought with it a burst of energy that was all but  manic. But beneath the excitement was a small, very  
cold ball of terror.
  It was all going in the right direction. Once  she adjusted to the new pace, she'd get her  bearings. And if she failed, 
she would simply go  back a few steps and start again.
  But she wouldn't regret.
  "Ms. Reynolds?"
  Thoughts scattering, Deanna looked up and  saw Angela's secretary in the doorway.  "Cassie." With a rueful smile, 
she glanced  around. "Things look a little different these days."
  "Yeah." Cassie's own smile came and  went. "I was just getting some things out of the outer  office. I thought I should 
let you know."
  "That's all right. It won't be my territory  officially until next week." She rose and  smoothed down her skirt. "I heard 
you'd  decided not to make the move to New York."
  "My family's here. And I guess I'm  Midwest through and through."
  "It's rough." Deanna studied her, the  short, tidy curls, the sad eyes. "Do you have  something else?"
  "Not yet. I've got some interviews lined  up, though. Miss Perkins made the  announcement, and a week later she's 
gone. I  haven't gotten used to it."
  "I'm sure you're not alone there."  "I'll get out of your way. I just had some  plants to take home. Good luck with your 
new  show."
  "Thanks. Cassie." Deanna stepped  forward, hesitated. "Could I ask you something?"
  "Sure."

  "You worked for Angela for about four  years, right?"
  "It would have been four years in September.  I started as a secretarial assistant straight  out of business college."
  "Even down in the newsroom we'd hear  occasional grumbling from her staff. Some  complaints, some gossip. I don't 
recall ever  hearing anything from your direction. I wondered why  that was."
  "I worked for her," Cassie said simply.  "I don't gossip about people I work for."
  Deanna lifted a brow, kept her eyes  steady. "You don't work for her anymore."
  "No." Cassie's voice cooled. "Ms.  Reynolds, I know that the two of you had ... a  disagreement before she left. And I 
understand that you'd  feel some hostility. But I'd rather you didn't  draw me into a discussion about Miss Perkins,  
personally or professionally."
  "Loyalty or discretion?"
  "I'd like to think it's both," Cassie said  stiffly.
  "Good. You know I'm going to be doing a  similar type of program. You may not repeat  gossip, but you certainly 
can't help but hear it  around here, so you'd know that my contract is of short  term. I may not get beyond the initial six  
months or ten affiliates."
  Cassie thawed a bit. "I've got some  friends downstairs. The newsroom pool's running  in your favor about three to 
one."
  "That's nice to know, but I imagine that's a  matter of loyalty as well. I need a  secretary, Cassie. I'd like to hire 
someone  who understands that kind of loyalty, one who knows how  to be discreet as well as efficient."
  Cassie's expression altered from polite  interest to surprise. "Are you offering me a  job?"
  "I'm sure I won't be able to pay you what  Angela did, unless--no, damn it, until  --we can make this thing fly. And 
you'll probably  have to put in some very long, tedious hours initially,  but the job's yours if you want it. I hope  you'll 
think about it."
  "Ms. Reynolds, you don't know if I was  in on what she did to you. If I helped set it  up."
  "No, I don't," Deanna said calmly.

"I don't need to know. And I think,  whether we work together or not, you should call me  Deanna. I don't intend to run 
a less  efficient organization than Angela did, but  I hope to run a more personal one."
  "I don't have to think about it. I'll take the  job."
  "Good." Deanna held out a hand. "We'll  start Monday morning. I hope I can get you a  desk by then. Your first 
assignment's going to be  to get me a list of who Angela laid off, and  who on it we can use."
  "Simon Grimsley would be on top of it.  And Margaret Wilson from Research. And Denny  Sprite, the assistant 
production manager."
  "I've got Simon's number," Deanna  muttered, dragging out her address book to note  down the other names.
  "I can give you the others."
  When Deanna saw Cassie take out a  thick book and flip it open, she laughed.  "We're going to be fine, Cassie. 
We're  going to be just fine."

  It was difficult for Deanna to believe that she  was leaving the newsroom behind. Particularly since  she was huddled 
in Editing reviewing a tape.
  "How long is it now?" she asked.
  Jeff Hyatt, in the editor's chair,  glanced at the digital clock on the console.  "Minute fifty-five."
  "Hell, we're still long. We need to slice  another ten seconds. Run it back, Jeff."
  She leaned forward in her swivel chair, like a  runner off the mark, and waited for him to cue it  up. The report of a 
missing teenager reunited  with her parents had to fit into its allotted time.  Intellectually, Deanna knew it.  Emotionally, 
she didn't want to cut a  second.
  "Here." Jeff tapped the monitor with one  blunt, competent finger. "This bit of them walking  around the backyard. 
You could lose it."
  "But it shows the emotion of the reunion. The way  her parents have her between them, their arms linked."
  "It's not news." He shoved up his glasses  and smiled apologetically. "It's nice,  though."
  "Nice," she muttered under her breath.  "Anyway, you've got that together-again business in

the interview portion. When they're all  sitting on the couch."
  "It's good film," Deanna muttered.  "All you need's a rainbow arching around them."
  Deanna turned at Finn's voice and  scowled. "I didn't have one handy."
  Despite her obvious annoyance, he stepped  over, dropped his hands on her shoulders and finished  watching the 
tape. "It has more impact without it,  Deanna. You soften the interview and the emotion  you're after by having them 
take a stroll together.  Besides, it's news, not a movie-of-the-week."
  He was right, but it only made it harder  to swallow. "Take it out, Jeff."
  While he ran tape, editing and marking time,  she sat with her arms folded. It was going to be one  of the last pieces 
she did for CBC News. It  was a matter of ego, as well as pride, that  made her want it perfect.
  "I need to do the voice-over," she said with a  telling look at Finn.
  "Pretend I'm not here," he suggested.  When Jeff was set, she took a moment  to study the script. Holding a 
stopwatch in one  hand, she nodded, then began to read.
  "A parent's worst nightmare was resolved  early this morning when sixteen-year-old  Ruthanne Thompson, missing 
for eight days,  returned home to her family in Dayton. ..."
  For the next several minutes, she forgot Finn  as she and Jeff worked on perfecting the segment.  At last, satisfied, 
she murmured a thanks  to the editor and rose.
  "Good piece," Finn commented as he walked out  of Editing with her. "Spare, solid and touching."
  "Touching?" She stopped to angle a look at  him. "I didn't think that counted with you."
  "It does if it's news. I heard you're  moving upstairs next week."
  "You heard right." She turned into the  newsroom.
  "Congratulations."
  "Thanks--but you might want to hold off on that  until after the first show."
  "I've got a feeling you'll pull it off."  "Funny, so do I. Up here." She tapped  her head. "It's my stomach that doubts."
  "Maybe you're just hungry." Casually, he  twined a lock of her hair around his finger. "How  about dinner?"

  "Dinner?"
  "You're off the schedule at six. I looked.  I'm clear until eight A.m., when I have  to catch a plane for Kuwait."
  "Kuwait? What's up there?"  "Rumblings." He gave her hair a little  tug. "Always rumblings. So how about a date,  
Kansas? Some spaghetti, some red wine. A  little conversation?"
  "I've sort of given up dating for a while."  "Are you going to let that shrink control your  life?"
  "It has nothing to do with Marshall," she said  coolly. But, of course, it did. And because it  did, she executed a quick 
about-face. "Listen,  I like to eat, and I like Italian. Why don't  we just call it dinner?"
  "I won't argue over semantics. Why  don't I pick you up at seven? That'll give  you time to go home and change. The 
place I have in  mind is casual."

  She was glad she'd taken him at his word.  She'd been tempted to fuss, at least a little,  then had settled on a roomy 
blouse and slacks  that suited the midsummer mugginess. Comfort seemed  to be the tone of the evening.
  The place he'd chosen was a small, smoky  caf`e that smelled of garlic and toasting bread.  There were cigarette 
burns in the checkered  tablecloths and hacks in the wooden booth that would have  played hell with panty hose.
  A stubby candle stuck out of the mouth of the  obligatory Chianti bottle. Finn shoved it  to the side as they slid into a 
booth. "Trust me.  It's better than it looks."
  "It looks fine." The place looked comforting.  A woman didn't have to be on her guard in a  restaurant that looked like 
someone's family  kitchen.
  He could see her relaxing, degree  by degree. Perhaps that was why he'd brought her here,  he thought. To a place 
where there was no hovering  ma@itre do', no leather-bound wine list.
  "Lambrusco okay with you?" he asked as a  T-shirt-clad waitress approached their  booth.
  "That's fine."
  "Bring us a bottle, Janey, and some  antipasto."

  "Sure thing, Finn."
  Amused, Deanna rested her chin on her  cupped hand. "Come here often?"
  "About once a week when I'm in town. Their  lasagna's almost as good as mine."
  "You cook?"
  "When you get tired of eating in restaurants,  you learn to cook." His lips curved just a little as  he reached across the 
table to play with her fingers. "I  thought about cooking for you tonight, but I didn't think  you'd go for it."
  "Oh, why?" She moved her hands out of reach.  "Because cooking for a woman, if you do it right, is  a surefire 
seduction, and it's clear you like  to take things one cautious, careful step at a  time." He tilted his head when the 
waitress  returned with the bottle, filled their glasses.  "Am I right?"
  "I suppose you are."
  He leaned forward, lifting his glass. "So,  here's to the first step."
  "I'm not sure what I'm drinking to."  Watching her, his eyes dark and focused, he  reached out, rubbed his thumb 
over her cheekbone.  "Yes, you do."
  Her heart stuttered. Annoyed at herself, she  exhaled slowly. "Finn, I should make it clear  that I'm not interested in 
getting involved, with  anyone. I have to put all my energies, all my  emotions into making the show work."
  "You look like a woman with enough emotion to go around  to me." He sipped, studying her over the rim.  "Why don't 
we just see what develops?"
  The waitress slid the platter of antipasto  on the table. "Ready to order?"
  "I'm ready." Finn smiled again. "How about  you?"
  Flustered, Deanna picked up the  plastic-coated menu. Odd, she thought, she  couldn't seem to comprehend a thing 
written there. It  might as well have been in Greek. "I'll go  for the spaghetti."
  "Make it two."
  "Gotcha." The waitress winked at Finn.  "White Sox are up by two in the third."
  "White Sox?" Deanna arched a brow as the  waitress toddled off. "You're a White Sox  fan?"
  "Yeah. You into baseball?"
  "I played first base in Little League,

batted three thirty-nine my best  season."
  "No shit." Impressed, and pleased, he  tapped a thumb to his chest. "Shortstop. Went  all-state in high school. Three-
fifty my  top season."
  With deliberate care, she chose an olive.  "And you like the Sox. Too bad."
  "Why?"
  "Seeing as we're in the same profession,  I'll overlook it. But if we go out again, I'm  wearing my Cubs hat."
  "Cubs." He shut his eyes and groaned.  "And I was nearly in love. Deanna, I thought  you were a practical woman."
  "Their day's coming."
  "Yeah, right. In the next millennium.  Tell you what. When I get back in town,  we'll take in a game."
  Her eyes narrowed. "At Comiskey or  Wrigley?"
  "We'll flip for it."
  "You're on." She nibbled on a  pepperoncini, enjoying the bite. "I'm still  ticked about them putting lights in at  
Wrigley."
  "They should have done it years ago."  "It was tradition."
  "It was sentiment," he corrected. "And you  put sentiment up against ticket sales, sales  win every time."
  "Cynic." Her smile froze suddenly.  "Maybe I could get baseball wives on the  show. Cubs and Sox. You'd have 
viewer interest  right off, people taking sides. God knows all you have  to do is mention sports or politics in this town  
to get people going. And we could talk about being married  to someone who's on the road weeks at a time  during 
the season. How they deal with slumps,  injuries, Baseball Annies."
  "Hey." Finn snapped his fingers in front of  her face and made her blink.
  "Oh, sorry."
  "No problem. It's an education to watch you  think." It was also, to his surprise, arousing. It  made a man wonder--
hope--that she would  concentrate as fiercely on sex. "And it's a  good idea."
  Her smile spread inch by inch until her face  glowed with it. "It'd be a hell of a kickoff,

wouldn't it?"
  "Yeah, but you're mixing your sports  metaphors."
  "I'm going to love this." With her wine in one  hand, she settled back against the booth. "I'm  really going to love this. 
The whole process is so  fascinating."
  "And news wasn't?"
  "It was, but this is more--I don't know.  Personal and exciting. It's an adventure.  Is that how you feel about flying off 
to one country  after another?"
  "Most of the time. Different place, different  people, different stories. It's hard to get into a  rut."
  "I can't imagine you worrying about that."  "It happens. You get cozy, lose the  edge."
  Cozy? In war zones, disaster areas,  international summits? She didn't see how.  "Is that why you didn't stay in 
London?"
  "Part of it. When I stop feeling like a  foreigner, I know it's time to come home. Have you ever  been to London?"
  "No. What's it like?"
  It was easy to tell her, easy for her to listen.  They talked over pasta and red wine, over  cappuccino and cannoli until 
the candle in the  bottle beside them began to gutter, and the juke fell  silent. It was the lack of noise that made  
Deanna glance around. The restaurant was almost  empty.
  "It's late," she said, surprised when she  glanced at her watch. "You have a plane to catch  in less than eight hours."
  "I'll manage." But he slid out of the booth  as she did.
  "You were right about the food. It was fabulous."  But her smile faded when he reached out and cupped  the nape of 
her neck in his hand. He held her  there, his eyes on hers as he closed the distance between  them.
  The kiss was slow, deliberate and devastating.  She'd expected more of a one-two punch from a man  whose eyes 
could bore a hole in the brain. Perhaps  that was why the soft, lazy romance of the kiss disarmed  her so completely.
  She lifted a hand to his shoulder, but rather than  easing him away, as she had intended, her fingers  dug in. Held 
on. Her heart took a long,

seamless somersault before it thudded against  her ribs.
  When her mouth yielded under his, he deepened  the kiss. Slowly still, teasing a response from her  until her hand 
slid from his shoulder to cling at his  waist.
  Dozens of thoughts struggled to form in her head,  then skittered away. For here was heat, and  pleasure and the 
undeniable promise, or threat, of  much more.
  More was what he wanted. Much more desperately  than he had anticipated. However simple  he'd intended the kiss 
to be, he was almost undone  by it. He eased her away. The small, baffled  sound she made as her eyes blinked open 
had him  gritting his teeth against a quick, vicious ache.
  It was important to keep steady--though at the  moment she couldn't have said why. Instinct alone had  her stepping 
back an inch.
  "What was that for?"
  "Other than obvious reasons?" He should be  amused by the question. "I figured if we got that  done here, you 
wouldn't project what could, should or  might happen when I took you home."
  "I see." She realized her purse had  dropped to the floor, and bent to retrieve it.  "I don't plan every aspect of my life 
out like  a feature story."
  "Sure you do." He ran a finger down her  cheek. It was hot and flushed and made him long for  another taste. "But 
that's okay with me. Just  consider that your lead. We'll pick up the rest  of the copy when I get back."

            Chapter Eleven

  By the end of July, Deanna had what could  loosely be called a staff. In addition  to Fran and Simon, she had a 
single researcher  and a booker, overseen by Cassie. They were still in  dire need of bodies and brains--and a budget  
to pay for them.
  The technical end was solid. At one of the  endless meetings Deanna attended, it was agreed  that Studio B would 
be fully staffed and carefully  lit. Production values would be top-notch.
  All she had to do was give them something  to produce.
  She'd temporarily moved two desks  into Angela's old office. One for herself, one for

Fran: they divided the work, and  brainstormed ideas.
  "We've got the first eight shows booked."  Fran paced the office, a clipboard in one  hand. "Cassie's handling travel 
and lodging.  She's doing a good job, Dee, but she's  ridiculously overworked."
  "I know." Deanna rubbed her gritty eyes  and struggled to clear her brain. "We need an  assistant producer, and 
another researcher. And a  general dogsbody. If we can get the first dozen  shows under our belt, we might be able to 
swing it."
  "Meantime, you're not getting enough sleep."  "Even if I had the time, I couldn't." She  reached out for the ringing 
phone. "My stomach's in a  constant state of turmoil, and my mind just won't  shut off. Reynolds," she said into the 
receiver.  "No, I haven't forgotten." She glanced at  her watch. "I have an hour." She blew out a  breath as she 
listened. "All right, tell them  to send the wardrobe up. I'll pick what  suits and be down for makeup in thirty minutes.  
Thanks."
  "Photo shoot?" Fran remembered.
  "And the promos. I can't accuse Delacort  of chintzing on the advertising. But damn, I  don't have time. We need a 
staff meeting, and we  still have to go through those responses to the eight-hundred  number and the write-in."
  "I'll schedule it for four." Fran grinned.  "Wait until you read some of the stuff from the  write-in. Margaret's idea on 
why  ex-husbands should be shot down like a dog is a  hoot."
  Deanna's smile was strained. "We did  tone that down, didn't we?"
  "Yeah. It went out "Why Your Ex-Husband  Is Your Ex." Tame enough, but the  responses weren't. We've got 
everything from  serious abuse cases to guys who cleaned engine  parts in the kitchen sink. We'll need an  expert. I 
thought a lawyer instead of a  counselor. Divorce lawyers have terrific  stories, and Richard has plenty of contacts."
  "Okay, but--" She broke off as a clothes  rack wheeled through the doorway. "Come on,  Fran, help me play closet." 
A head  peeked around the suits and dresses. "Oh, hi,  Jeff. They've got you making deliveries?"
  "I wanted a chance to come up and see the

operation." With a shy smile he glanced  around. "We're rooting for you downstairs."
  "Thanks. How's everybody in the newsroom?  I haven't had a chance to stop down for days."
  "Pretty good. The heat brings out the  loonies, you know? Lots of hot stories  breaking." He rocked the rack, loitering 
as  Deanna began to go through the wardrobe.  "Deanna, I was kind of wondering, if you--you  know--get an opening 
up here. For somebody to pick  up loose ends, answer the phone. You know."
  Deanna stopped with her hand on a crimson  blazer. "Are you kidding?"
  "I know you've got people who've worked this end of  things before. But I always wanted to do this kind of  television. 
I just thought ... you know."
  "When can you start?"
  He looked startled. "I ..."
  "I mean it. We're desperate. We need  someone who can do a little of everything. I know you can from  your work 
downstairs. And your editing skills would be  invaluable. The pay's lousy and the hours are  miserable. But if you want 
a shot as an  assistant producer--with on-screen credit and  all the coffee you can drink--you're hired."
  "I'll give my notice," Jeff said through  a grin that all but split his face. "I may have  to work another week or two, but I 
can give you  all my extra time."
  "God, Fran, we've found a hero."  Deanna took him by the shoulders and kissed his  cheek. "Welcome to bedlam, 
Jeff. Tell  Cassie to fit you for a straitjacket."
  "Okay." Flushing, laughing, he backed out  of the room. "Okay. Great."
  Fran pulled out a plum-colored suit and  held it up in front of Deanna. "General  dogsbody?"
  "One of the best. Jeff can mow down a mountain  of paperwork like a beaver taking out a tree. He  carries all this 
stuff in his head. Ask him what  won for best picture in 1956, and he knows.  What was the lead story on the ten 
o'clock on  Tuesday of last week? He knows. I like the  red."
  "For the promos," Fran agreed. "Not the  stills. What does he do downstairs?"
  "Editorial assistant. He also does some  writing." She pulled out a sunny yellow  dress with turquoise sleeves and 
round fuchsia

buttons. "He's good. Dependable as  a sunrise."
  "As long as he works long and cheap."  "That's going to change." Her eyes darkened as  she held Fran's next 
selection up in  front of her. "I know how much everyone's putting  into this. Not just timewise. I'm going to make it  
work."

  To give their chances a boost, Deanna  granted interviews--print, radio,  television. She appeared on a segment of  
Midday and was interviewed by Roger. She took  two days and visited all the affiliates within  driving distance, and put 
in personal phone calls  to the rest.
  She personally oversaw every detail of her set  design, pored over press clippings for  program ideas and spent 
hours reviewing  responses to the ads for topic guests.
  It left little time for a social life. And it  certainly provided a good excuse to avoid  Finn. She'd meant what she'd said 
when she'd  told him she didn't want to get involved.  She couldn't afford to, she'd decided.  Emotionally or 
professionally. How could she trust  her own judgment when she'd been so willing  to believe in Marshall?
  But Finn Riley wasn't easily avoided.  He dropped into her office, stopped by her  apartment. Often he carried take-
out pizza or  white cartons filled with Chinese food. It was  hard to argue with his casual comment that she had to eat  
sometime. In a weak moment, she agreed to go out to the  movies with him. And found herself just as charmed, and 
just  as uneasy, as before.
  "Loren Bach on one," Cassie told her.  It was still shy of nine o'clock, but Deanna was already  at her desk. "Good 
morning, Loren."
  "Countdown, five days," he said cheerfully.  "How are you holding up?"
  "By my knuckles. The publicity's generated  a lot of local interest. I don't think  we'll have any problem filling the 
studio."
  "You're getting some interest on the East  Coast as well. There's a nice juicy  article in the National Enquirer about 
the  "All About Eve" of talk shows. Guess  who's playing Margo Channing?"
  "Oh hell. How bad is it?"

  "I'll fax you the article. They  spelled your name right, Eve--ah, Deanna."  He chuckled, tickled with his own humor. 
"From  one who knows our heroine well, I can tell you  she leaked this little tidbit. Makes it sound as  though she all 
but picked you up out of the street,  played big sister and mentor, then was stabbed in the  back for her generosity."
  "At least they didn't claim I'd been  dropped from a spaceship into her front yard."
  "Maybe next time. In the meantime, you got  some national press. And whether she knows it or not,  linked your 
name with hers in such a way that'll make  people curious. I think we can get some play out of  this. A tag in 
Entertainment Weekly, maybe  another squib in Variety."
  "Great. I guess."
  "Deanna, you can buck the tabloids when  you've built the muscle. For now, just consider it  free press."
  "Courtesy of Angela."
  "Word is she's negotiating a contract  to write her autobiography. You might be  worth a chapter."
  "Now I'm excited." Her chair squeaked as  she leaned back, reminding her she'd forgotten  to oil the springs. That 
made her lean forward again and  add the chore to her growing list on the corner of  her desk. "I hope you don't mind 
if I just  concentrate on pulling off the first show. I'll  worry about repaying Angela for her generosity  later."
  "Deanna, you make the show work, that'll be  payment enough. Now, let's talk business."
  Twenty minutes later, with a headache just  beginning to brew behind her eyes, she hung up.  What had ever made 
her think she was good with  details? Deanna wondered. What had ever  made her think she wanted the responsibility 
of  helming a talk show?
  "Deanna?" Cassie entered with a tray. "I  thought you'd like some coffee."
  "You read my mind." Deanna set aside  papers to make room for the pot. "Do you have time for  any? We might 
want to tank up before the rest  of the day's schedule hits."
  "I brought two cups." She poured both before  she took a chair. "Do you want to go over your  agenda for today?"
  "I don't think so." The first sip of hot

black coffee punched its  caffeine-laced fist straight into her bloodstream.  "It's engraved on my forehead. Have we set 
up  a lunch for the baseball wives after the show?"
  "Simon and Fran will play host.  Reservations are confirmed. And Jeff thought it  might be nice to have roses in the 
green room when  they arrive. I wanted to run it by you."
  "Good old Jeff. Very classy idea.
Let's put cards on each bunch with a personal  thank-you from the staff." After another sip, she  pressed a hand to her 
jittery stomach. "Christ,  Cassie, I'm scared to death." Setting the cup  aside, she took a deep, calming breath and  
leaned forward. "I want to ask you something, and I  really want you to be brutally honest, okay? No  sparing feelings, 
no false pep talk."
  "All right." Cassie laid her steno pad  on her lap. "Shoot."
  "You worked for Angela a long time. You  probably know as much about the ins and outs of this  sort of a show as 
any producer or director.  I imagine you have an opinion of why  Angela's works. And I want to know,  candidly, if you 
believe we have a shot at this."
  "You want to know if we can make Deanna's  Hour competitive?"
  "Not even that," Deanna said, shaking her head.  "If we can get through the first half a dozen shows  without being 
laughed out of the business."
  "That's easy. After next week, people are going  to do a lot of talking about Deanna's Hour.  And more people are 
going to tune in to see what the deal  is. They're going to like it, because they're going to like  you." She chuckled at 
Deanna's expression.  "That's not sucking up. The thing is, the average  viewer won't see or appreciate the work 
that's  gone into making it all look good and run  smoothly. They won't know about the long hours or  the sweat. But 
you know, so you'll work harder. The  harder you work, the harder everyone else will. Because you  do something 
Angela didn't. Something I guess  she just couldn't. You make us feel important.  That makes all the difference. 
Maybe it won't  put you on top of the ratings heap right away, but it  puts you on top with us. That counts."
  "It counts a lot," Deanna said after a  moment. "Thanks."
  "In a couple of months, when the show's  cruising and the budget opens up, I'm going to come

back in here. That's when I'm going  to suck up." She grinned. "And hit you for a  raise."
  "If the damn budget ever opens up,  everyone's getting a raise." Deanna blew  at her bangs. "In the meantime, I 
need to see  the tapes on the promos for the affiliates."
  "You need a promotion manager."  "And a unit manager, and a publicity  director, a permanent director and a few  
production assistants. Until that happy day,  I'm wearing those hats, too. Have the newspapers  come in yet?"
  "I passed them on to Margaret. She's going  to screen them for ideas and make clippings."
  "Fine. Try to get me the clippings before  lunch. We're going to want something really hot  for the second week in 
September. Bach just  told me we'll be going up against a new game  show in three cities during fall premiere  week."
  "Will do--oh, and your three o'clock with Captain  Queeg is rescheduled for three-thirty."
  "Captain--oh, Ryce." Not bothering to hide  the smile, Deanna noted it down on her  calendar. "I know he's a little 
eccentric,  Cassie."
  "And overbearing."
  "And overbearing," Deanna agreed. "But  he's a good director. We're lucky to have him  for the few opening weeks."
  "If you say so." She started out, then  hesitated and turned back. "Deanna, I  didn't know if I should mention it, then I  
figured it wouldn't be right to start censoring your  calls."
  "What?"
  "Dr. Pike. He called when you were on with  Mr. Bach."
  Thoughtfully, Deanna set aside her pen.  "If he calls back, put him through. I'll  take care of it."
  "Okay. Oops." She grinned and stepped  back to avoid running into Finn. "'Morning,  Mr. Riley."
  "Hey, Cassie. I need a minute with the  boss."
  "She's all yours." Cassie closed the  door behind her.
  "Finn, I'm sorry, I'm swamped." But

she wasn't quite quick enough to avoid the kiss  when he skirted the desk. She wasn't sure  she wanted to.
  "I know, I've only got a minute myself."  "What is it?" She could see the excitement in  his eyes, feel it in the air 
sparking around him.  "It's big."
  "I'm on my way to the airport. Iraq just  invaded Kuwait."
  "What?" Her reporter's adrenaline made  her spring up. "Oh, Jesus."
  "Blitzkrieg style. An armored thrust,  helicopter-supported. I have a couple of  contacts at Green Ramp in North 
Carolina,  a couple of guys I got to know during the fighting  at Tocumen airfield in Panama a few  months ago. Odds 
are we'll go with  diplomatic and economic pressure first, but  there's a damn good chance we'll deploy  troops. If my 
instincts are worth anything,  it's going to be big."
  "There are blowups over there all the time."  Weakly she sat on the arm of her chair.
  "It's land, Kansas. And it's oil, and it's  honor." He lifted her to her feet, caught  her hair in his hand to draw it away 
from her face.  He wanted--needed, he admitted--a long  look at her. A good long look. "I may be  gone for a while, 
especially if we send  troops."
  She was pale, struggling to be calm. "They  think he has nuclear capabilities, don't  they? And certainly access to 
chemical weapons."
  Dimples flashed recklessly. "Worried about  me?"
  "I was just wondering if you were taking a gas  mask as well as a camera crew." Feeling  foolish, she stepped back. 
"I'll watch for  your reports."
  "Do that. I'm sorry I'll miss your  premiere."
  "That's okay." She managed a smile.  "I'll send you a tape."
  "You know." He toyed with a strand of her hair.  "Technically, I'm going off to war. The old  "I'm shipping out, babe, 
and who knows what tomorrow  might bring."" He smiled into her dark, serious  eyes. "I don't suppose I could 
convince you  to lock that door over there and give me a  memorable send-off."

  She was afraid he could. "I don't  fall for tired old lines. Besides, everyone knows  Finn Riley always brings back the 
story  alive."
  "It was worth a shot." But he slipped his  arms around her waist. "At least give me something  to take into the desert 
with me. I hear it gets  pretty cold at night."
  There was a part of her that feared. And a part that  yearned. Listening to both, she wrapped her arms  around his 
neck. "All right, Riley. Remember  this."
  For the first time, she pressed her lips to his  without hesitation. There was more than the quick, familiar  thrill when 
her mouth opened to his, more than the  slow, grinding ache she'd tried so hard to deny.  There was need, yes, to 
taste, to absorb and,  curiously, to comfort.
  When the kiss deepened, she let herself forget  everything else, and just feel.
  She could smell him--soap and light, clean  sweat. His hair was soft and full, and seemed  to beckon her fingers to 
comb through and hold on. When  his mouth became less patient, when she heard his  quiet groan of pleasure, she 
responded  heedlessly, mating her tongue with his, nipping at  his lip to add the dark excitement of pain to the  
pleasure.
  She thought he trembled, but could no longer find  the will to soothe.
  "Deanna." Desperately, he took his  mouth over her face, along her throat, where her  pulse beat like wings. "Again."
  His lips crushed down on hers again, absorbing  the flavor, the warmth. Shaken, he drew back  just enough to rest 
his brow against hers, to hold her another  moment where he felt so oddly centered, so  curiously right.
  "Goddamn," he whispered. "I'm going  to miss you."
  "This wasn't supposed to happen."
  "Too late." He lifted his head, brushed  his lips over her forehead. "I'll call when I  can." As soon as he'd said it, Finn 
realized  he'd never made that promise before. It was the kind  of unstated commitment that had him stepping back,  
tucking his hands safely in his pockets. "Good  luck next week."
  "Thanks." She took a step back herself so  that they took each other's measure like two boxers

after a blood-pumping round in the ring.  "I know it's a useless thing to say, but be  careful."
  "I'll be good." His grin was quick and reckless.  "That's more important." He walked to the door,  then stopped, his 
hand on the knob. "Listen,  Deanna, if that asshole shrink does happen  to call back--"
  "You were eavesdropping."
  "Of course I was, I'm a reporter.  Anyway, if he does call back, brush him  off, will you? I don't want to have to kill 
him."
  She smiled, but the smile faded quickly.  Something in Finn's eyes told her he was  serious. "That's a ridiculous thing 
to say. It  happens that I'm not interested in Marshall, but--"
  "Lucky for him." He touched a finger to his  brow in salute. "Stay tuned, Kansas.  I'll be back."
  "Arrogant idiot," Deanna muttered.  When her eyes began to sting, she turned to stare out  at Chicago. There might 
be a war on the other  side of the world, she thought as the first tear spilled  over. And a show to produce right here.
  So what in the hell was she doing falling in  love?

  "Okay, Dee, we're nearly ready for you."  Fran scooted back into the dressing room. "The  studio audience is all in."
  "Great." Deanna continued to stare blindly at the  mirror as Marcie put the finishing touches on  her hair. "Just great."
  "They're wearing Cubs hats and White Sox  T-shirts. Some people even brought banners, and  they're waving them 
around. I'm telling you, they're  revved."
  "Great. Just great."
  Smiling to herself, Fran glanced down at her  clipboard. "All six of the wives are in the  green room. They're really 
chummy. Simon's  in there now, going over the setup with them."
  "I went in to introduce myself to them earlier."  Her voice was a monotone. She could feel the  nausea building like a 
tidal wave. "Oh  God, Fran, I really think I'm going to be  sick."
  "No, you're not. You don't have time. Marcie,  her hair looks fabulous. Maybe you can give  me some tips on mine 
later. Come on, champ."

Fran gave Deanna a tug that brought  her out of the chair. "You need to go out and give the  audience a pep talk, get 
them on your side."
  "I should have worn the navy suit," Deanna  said as Fran dragged her along. "The orange and  kiwi is too much."
  "It's gorgeous--and it's bright and young. Just the  right combo. You look hip, but not trendy, friendly but  not 
homespun. Now look." Making a little island  of intimacy in the midst of backstage chaos,  Fran took Deanna by the 
shoulders. "This is  what we've all been slaving for over the last  couple of months--what you've been aiming toward  
for years. Now go out there and make them love you."
  "I keep thinking about all this stuff. What if  a fight breaks out? You know how rabid Sox and  Cubs fans can be. 
What if I run out of  questions? Or can't control the crowd? What if  someone asks why the hell I'm doing a silly  show 
about baseball when we're sending troops to the  Middle East?"
  "Number one, nobody's going to fight because  they're going to be having too much fun. Number  two, you never run 
out of questions, and you can control  any crowd. And finally, you're doing this show on  baseball because people 
need to be entertained,  especially during times like these. Now pull it  together, Reynolds, and go do your job."
  "Right." She took a deep breath. "You're  sure I look okay?"
  "G."
  "I'm going."
  "Deanna."
  She turned, surprised, then infuriated  to see Marshall standing an arm's length behind her.  Fran's snarl had her 
stepping forward. "What  are you doing here?"
  His smile was easy, though his eyes held  regret. "I wanted to wish you luck. In  person." He held out a bouquet of 
candy pink  roses. "I'm very proud of you."
  She didn't reach for the flowers, but she kept  her eyes level with his. "I'll accept the  wish for luck. Your pride is your 
business.  Now, I'm afraid only staff is allowed  back here."
  Very slowly, he lowered the flowers. "I  didn't know you had it in you to be cruel."
  "It seems we were misled. I have a show to do,  Marshall, but I'll take a moment to tell you

once again that I have no desire  to resume any sort of relationship with you.  Simon?" She called out without taking 
her eyes  from Marshall's. "Show Dr. Pike out, will you?  He seems to have made a wrong turn."
  "I know the way," he said between clenched teeth.  He let the roses fall to the floor, reminding  her how she had 
dropped a similar bouquet. The  scent of them turned her stomach. "I won't  always be turned away so easily."
  He stalked off with Simon nervously dogging his  heels. Deanna allowed herself one long, calming  breath.
  "Creep," Fran muttered, lifting a hand  automatically to soothe the tension in Deanna's  shoulders. "Bastard. To 
come here like this right before a  live show. Are you going to be all right?"
  "I'm going to be fine." She shook off the  fury. There was too much riding on the next hour  for her to indulge herself. 
"I am fine." She  headed out, taking the hand mike from Jeff as she  passed.
  Jeff smiled broadly as he watched her.  "Break a leg, Deanna."
  She straightened her shoulders. "Hell, I'm  going to break two." She stepped onto the set,  smiled at the sea of faces. 
"Hi, everyone,  thanks for coming. I'm Deanna. In about five  minutes we're going to get this show rolling. I  hope 
you're going to help me out. It's my first  day on the job."

  "Put in the damn tape." In her towering  New York office, Angela stubbed out one  cigarette and immediately lit 
another.
  "I went out on a limb to get a copy of  this," Lew told her as he slipped the tape  into the VCR.
  "You told me, you told me." And she was  sick of hearing it. Sick, too, with fear of what  she might see on the monitor 
in the next few  minutes. "Cue it up, damn it."
  He hit the Play button and stepped back.  Eyes narrowed, Angela listened to the intro  music. Too close to rock, she 
decided with a  smirk. The average viewer wouldn't like it. The  pan of the audience--people in baseball caps,  
applauding and waving banners. Middle-class,  she decided, and leaned back comfortably.
  It was going to be all right after all, she

assured herself.
  "Welcome to Deanna's Hour." The  camera did a close-up of Deanna's face.  The slow, warm smile, the hint of 
nerves in the  eyes. "Our guests today, here in Chicago, are  six women who know all there is to know about  
baseball--and not just about squeeze plays and  Texas Leaguers."
  She's jittery, Angela thought, pleased.  She'd be lucky to make it through to commercial.  Anticipating the humiliation, 
Angela allowed  herself to feel sorry for Deanna. After all, she  thought with a soft, sympathetic sigh, who knew  better 
than she what it was like to face that merciless  glass eye?
  She'd taken on too much, too soon,  Angela realized. It would be a hard lesson,  but a good one. And when she 
failed, as she  certainly would, and came knocking on the door  looking for help, Angela decided she would be  
gracious enough, forgiving enough to give her a second  chance.
  But Deanna made it to commercial, segueing  into the break over applause. After the first fifteen  minutes, the 
pleasant flavor of gloating  sympathy had turned bitter in her throat.
  She watched the show through to the closing credits,  saying nothing.
  "Turn it off," she snapped, then rose to go  to the wet bar. Rather than her usual mineral water,  she reached for a 
split of champagne, spilling it  into a flute. "It's nothing," she said, half  to herself. "A mediocre show with minimal  
demographic appeal."
  "The response from the affiliates was solid."  With his back to her, Lew ejected the tape.
  "A handful of stations in the dust bowl of the  Midwest?" She drank quickly, her lips  tightening on the gulp. "Do you 
think that worries  me? Do you think she could play that in New  York? It's what works here that matters. Do you  
know what my share was last week?"
  "Yes." Lew set the tape aside and  played the game. "You've got nothing to worry  about, Angela. You're the best, 
and everyone knows  it."
  "Damn right I'm the best. And when my first  prime-time special hits during the November  sweeps, I'll start getting 
the respect I  deserve." Grimacing, she drained the

champagne. It no longer tasted  celebratory, but it thawed all the little ice  pockets of fear. "I've already got the 
money."  She turned around, steadier. She could afford to be  generous, couldn't she? "We'll let Deanna have  her 
moment, and why not? She won't last. Leave  the tape, Lew." Angela went back to her  desk, settled down and 
smiled. "And ask my  secretary to come in. I have a job for her."
  Alone, Angela swiveled in her chair  to study the view of her new home. New York  was going to do more than make 
her a star, she mused.  It was going to make her an empire.
  "Yes, Miss Perkins."
  "Cassie--damn it, Lorraine." Spinning  around, she glared at her new secretary. She  hated breaking in new 
employees, being expected  to remember their names, their faces. Everyone always  expected too much from her. 
"Get me Beeker  on the phone. If he can't be reached, leave a  message with his service. I want a  call-back ASAP."
  "Yes, ma'am."
  "That's all." Angela glanced toward the  champagne, then shook her head. Oh no, she  wasn't going to fall into that 
trap. She wasn't  her mother. She didn't need liquor to get through the  day. Never had. What she needed was action.  
Once she lit a fire under Beeker and had him  digging deeper and harder for dirt on Deanna  Reynolds, she'd have all 
the action she could  handle.

              PART TWO

  "All fame is dangerous."
      Thomas Fuller

            Chapter Twelve

  "Cooked beneath a blazing sun, an enemy of  rainfall, of plant life, of human beings, are  the shifting sands of the 
Saudi desert." Finn did  his best not to squint into the camera as that merciless  sun beat down on him. He wore an  
olive-drab T-shirt, khakis and a faded  bush hat. "Sandstorms, unrelenting heat and  mirages are common in this 
hostile environment.  Into this world the forces of the United States have come  to draw their line in the sand.
  "It has been three months since the first men  and women of the armed forces were deployed under Desert  Shield. 
With the efficiency and ingenuity of the  Yankee, these soldiers are adjusting to their new  environment, or in some 
cases, adjusting their  environment to suit them. A wooden box, a liner  of Styrofoam and an air-conditioner blower."  
Finn rested his hand on a wooden crate. "And a  few industrious GI'S have created a makeshift  refrigerator to help 
combat the  one-hundred-and-twenty-degree heat. And with  boredom as canny an enemy as the climate,  off-duty 
soldiers spend their time reading mail from  home, trading the precious few newspapers that  get through the censors 
and setting up lizard  races. But the mails are slow, and the days are  long. While parades and picnics back home  
celebrate Veterans Day, the men and women of  Desert Shield work, and wait.
  "For CBC this is Finn Riley, in Saudi  Arabia."
  When the red light blinked off, Finn unhooked  his sunglasses from his belt loop and slipped them  on. Behind him 
was an F-15Can Eagle and men  and women in desert fatigues. "I could go for some  potato salad and a brass band, 
Curt. How  about you?"
  His cameraman, whose ebony skin gleamed like  polished marble with his coat of sweat and sun  block, rolled his 
eyes to heaven. "My mama's  homemade lemonade. A gallon of it."
  "Cold beer."
  "Peach ice cream--and a long, slow kiss from

Whitney Houston."
  "Stop, you're killing me." Finn took a  deep drink of bottled water. It tasted  metallic and overwarm, but it washed the 
grit out of  his throat. "Let's see what they'll let us  take pictures of, and we'll try for some  interviews."
  "They ain't going to give us much," Curt  grumbled.
  "We'll take what we can."
  Hours later, in the relative comfort of a  Saudi hotel, Finn stripped to the skin. The  shower washed away the layers 
of sand and sweat and  grit of two days and nights in the desert. He  felt a sweet, almost romantic longing for the  
yeasty tang of an American brew. He  settled for orange juice and stretched out on the  bed, cooly naked, quietly 
exhausted. Eyes  closed, he groped for the phone to begin the  complicated and often frustrating process of  calling 
the States.

  The phone woke Deanna out of a dead sleep.  Her first jumbled thought was that it was a wrong number  again, 
probably the same idiot who had dragged  her out of a soothing bath earlier, only to hang up  without apology. Already 
cranky, she jiggled the  phone off the hook.
  "Reynolds."
  "Must be, what? Five-thirty in the morning  there." Finn kept his eyes closed and smiled at  the husky sound of her 
voice. "Sorry."
  "Finn?" Shaking off sleep, Deanna pushed  herself up in bed and reached for the light. "Where are  you?"
  "Enjoying the hospitality of our Saudi  hosts. Did you have any watermelon today?"
  "Excuse me?"
  "Watermelon. The sun's a bitch here,  especially about ten in the morning. That's when I  started to have this fantasy 
about watermelon. Curt  got me going, then the crew started torturing  themselves. Snow cones, mint juleps, cold fried  
chicken."
  "Finn," Deanna said slowly. "Are you all  right?"
  "Just tired." He rubbed a hand over his face  to pull himself back. "We spent a couple of  days out in the desert. The 
food sucks, the  heat's worse and the fucking flies ... I

don't want to think about the flies.  I've been up for about thirty hours, Kansas.  I'm a little punchy."
  "You should get some sleep."  "Talk to me."
  "I've seen some of your reports," she  began. "The one on the hostages Hussein's  calling "guests" was gripping. 
And the one from the  air base in Saudi."
  "No, tell me what you've been doing."  "We did a show today on obsessive  shoppers. One guest stays up every 
night watching  one of the shopping channels and ordering everything on the  screen. His wife finally cut the cable 
when he  bought a dozen electronic flea collars. They  don't have a dog."
  It made Finn laugh, as she'd hoped it would.  "I got the tape you sent. It bounced around a  little first, so it took a 
while. The crew and I  watched it. You looked good."
  "I felt good. We're getting picked up  by another couple of stations in Indiana. Late  afternoon. We'll be going up 
against a monster soap,  but who knows?"
  "Now tell me you miss me."
  She didn't answer right away, and caught  herself wrapping the phone cord around and around her  hand. "I suppose 
I do. Now and then."
  "How about now?"
  "Yes."
  "When I get home, I want you to come with me  up to my cabin."
  "Finn--"
  "I want to teach you how to fish."  "Oh?" A smile tugged at her mouth.  "Really?"
  "I don't think I should get serious about a  woman who doesn't know one end of a rod from the  other. Keep it in 
mind. I'll be in touch."
  "All right. Finn?"
  "Hmmm?"
  She could tell he was nearly asleep.  "I'll, ah, send you another tape."
  "'Kay. See you."
  He managed to get the phone back on the  hook before he started to snore.

  The reports continued to come. The escalation of  hostilities, the negotiations for the release of the  hostages many 
feared would be used as human

shields. The Paris summit, and the  president's Thanksgiving visit to U.s.  troops. By the end of November, the UN 
had  voted on Resolution 678. The use of force    to expel Iraq from Kuwait was approved, with a  deadline for 
Saddam of January fifteenth.
  On the homefront there were yellow ribbons  flying--from the tips of car antennae and porch  banisters. They were 
mixed with holly and ivy as  America prepared for Christmas, and for war.
  "This toy piece will show not only what's hot  for kids for Christmas, but what's safe."  Deanna looked up from her 
notes and narrowed her  eyes at Fran. "Are you okay?"
  "Sure." With a grimace, Fran shifted her  now-considerable bulk. "For someone who's got what  feels like a small 
pick-up truck sitting on  her bladder, I'm dandy."
  "You should go home, put your feet up. You're  due in less than two months."
  "I'd go crazy at home. Besides, you're the  one who should be exhausted, schmoozing half the  night at the charity 
dinner-dance."
  "It's part of the job," Deanna said  absently. "And, as Loren pointed out, I made  a number of contacts, and got some 
press."
  "Mmm. And about five hours' sleep."
Fran fiddled with a toy rabbit that wiggled its  ears and squeaked when she pressed its belly.  "Do you think Big Ed 
would like this?"
  Brow lifted, Deanna studied Fran's  belly, where "Big Ed," as the baby was called,  seemed to be growing by leaps 
and bounds. "You already have  two dozen stuffed animals in the nursery."
  "You started it with that two-foot teddy bear."  Setting the bunny aside, Fran reached among  the toys scattered on 
the office floor and chose  a combat-fatigued GI Joe. "Why the hell  do they always want to play soldier?"
  "That's one of the questions we'll ask our expert.  Have you heard from Dave?"
  Fran tried not to worry about her stepbrother,  a National Guard officer who was in the Gulf.  "Yeah. He got the box 
we sent over. The  comic books were a big hit. Wow!" With a sound  between a gasp and a laugh, she pressed a 
hand to her  stomach. "Big Ed just kicked one through the posts."
  "Is Richard really going to buy the baby a  Bears helmet?"
  "Already has. Which reminds me, I want

to make sure we get gender molding  into this segment. How society, and parents, continue  stereotypes by buying 
this kind of thing for boys"--she  waved the GI Joe--"and this sort of thing for  girls." She nudged a Fisher-Price oven 
with  her foot.
  "Ballet shoes for girls, football  cleats for boys."
  "Which leads to girls shaking pom-poms on the  sidelines while boys make touchdowns."
  "Which," Deanna continued, "leads to men making  corporate decisions and women serving coffee."
  "God, am I going to screw this kid up?"  Fran levered herself out of the chair. The fact that she  waddled made her 
nervous pacing both comic and  sweet. "I shouldn't have done this. We should have  practiced on a puppy first. I'm 
going to be  responsible for another human being, and I  haven't even started a college fund."
  Over the past few weeks, Deanna had  become used to Fran's outbursts. She sat  back and smiled. "Hormones 
bouncing again?"
  "You bet. I'm going to go find Simon and  check on last week's ratings--and pretend  I'm a normal, sane human 
being."
  "Then go home," Deanna insisted. "Eat a  bag of cookies and watch an old movie on  cable."
  "Okay. I'll send Jeff in to pick up the  toys and move them down to the set."
  Alone, Deanna sat back and closed her  eyes. It wasn't only Fran who was on edge  these days. The entire staff was 
running on  nerves. In six weeks, Deanna's Hour  would either be re-signed with Delacort, or they would  all be out of 
a job.
  The ratings had been inching up, but was it enough?  She knew she was putting everything she had into the show  
itself, and everything she could squeeze out into the public  relations and press events Loren insisted on.  But was 
that enough?
  The trial run was almost over, and if  Delacort decided to dump them ...
  Restless, she rose and turned to face the  window. She wondered if Angela had ever stood  there and worried, 
agonized over something as basic  as a single ratings point. Had she felt the  responsibility weigh so heavily on her  
shoulders--for the show, for the staff, for the advertisers?  Is that why she'd become so hard?

  Deanna rolled her tensed shoulders.
It wouldn't simply be her career crumbling if the  show was axed, she thought. There were six other people who  had 
their time and energy and, yes, their egos,  invested. Six other people who had families,  mortgages, car payments, 
dentist bills.
  "Deanna?"
  "Yes, Jeff. We need to get these toys  down to the ..." She trailed off as she turned and  spotted a seven-foot plastic 
spruce. "Where  in the world did you get that?"
  "I, ah, liberated it from a storeroom."  Jeff stepped out from behind the tree. His cheeks were  flushed from both 
nerves and exertion. His glasses  slid slowly down the bridge of his nose. His  boyishness was endearing. "I thought 
you might like it."
  Laughing, she examined the tree. It was  pretty pathetic, with its bent plastic boughs and  virulent green color no one 
would mistake for  natural. She looked at Jeff's grinning  face, and laughed again. "It's exactly what I  need. Let's put it 
in front of the window."
  "It looked kind of lonely down there." Jeff  centered it carefully in front of the wide pane.  "I figured with some 
decorations ..."
  "Liberated."
  He shrugged. "There's stuff in this building  nobody's used--or seen--for years. Some  lights, some balls, it'll look 
fine."
  "And plenty of yellow ribbons," she said,  thinking of Finn. "Thanks, Jeff."
  "Everything's going to be okay, Deanna."  He put a hand on her shoulder, gave it a quick,  shy squeeze. "Don't worry 
so much."
  "You're right." She pressed her hand on top  of his. "Absolutely right. Let's get the  rest of the crew in here and 
decorate this baby."

  Deanna worked throughout the holidays with the plastic  tree glowing behind her. By juggling appointments and  
putting in three eighteen-hour days, she made  time for a frantic, twenty-four-hour trip home  over Christmas. She 
returned to Chicago's  bitter cold on the last plane on Boxing  Day.
  Loaded down with luggage, gifts and tins of  cookies from Topeka, she unlocked her  apartment. The first thing she 
saw was the plain white  envelope on the rug, just inside. Uneasy, she  set her bags aside. It didn't surprise

her to find a single sheet in the  envelope, or to see the bold red type.

       Merry Christmas, Deanna.
        I love watching you every day.  I love watching you.
              I love you.

  Weird, she mused, but harmless considering some  of the bizarre mail that had come her way since  August. She 
stuffed the note in her pocket, and  she'd barely flipped the lock back in place  when a knock sounded on the other 
side of the door.  She tugged off her wool cap with one hand, opened  the door with the other.
  "Marshall."
  His Burberry coat was neatly folded over his  arm. "Deanna, hasn't this gone on long enough?  You haven't 
answered any of my calls."
  "There's nothing going on at all. Marshall,  I just this minute got back into town. I'm  tired, I'm hungry, and I'm not in 
the mood  for a civilized discussion."
  "If I can swallow my pride enough to come here,  the least you can do is ask me in."
  "Your pride?" She felt her temper rise.  A bad sign, she knew, when only a few  words had been exchanged. "Fine. 
Come in."
  He glanced at her bags as he stepped through the  door. "You went home for Christmas, then?"
  "That's right."
  He laid his coat over the back of a chair.  "And your family's well?"
  "Hale and hearty, Marshall, and I'm not in  the mood for small talk. If you have something  to say, say it."
  "I don't believe this is something we can  resolve until we sit down and talk it through."  He gestured to the sofa. 
"Please."
  She shrugged out of her coat and took a chair  instead. She linked her hands firmly in her lap  and waited.
  "The fact that you're still angry with me proves  that there's an emotional investment between us." He  sat, resting his 
hands on his knees. "I realized  that trying to resolve things right after the incident was a  mistake."
  "The incident? Is that what we're calling  it?"
  "Because," he continued, calmly, "emotions, on

both sides, were running too close to the  surface, making it difficult to compromise and  vent constructively."
  "I rarely vent constructively." She  smiled then, but her eyes were hot. "I don't  suppose we got to know each other 
well enough for you  to realize that under certain circumstances, I have a  nasty temper."
  "I understand." He was pleased, very pleased that they  were communicating again. "You see, Deanna, I  believe 
part of our difficulties stemmed from the  fact that we didn't know each other as well as  we should have. We share the 
blame there, but it's a very  human, very natural inclination to show only your  best sides when developing a 
relationship."
  She had to take a deep breath, had to school  herself to remain seated when the urge to spring up and  strike out 
was churning inside her. "You want  to share the blame for that, fine--particularly since  I have no intention of ever 
moving beyond that stage with  you."
  "Deanna. If you'll be honest, you'll  admit that we were creating something special between us."  As a good therapist, 
he kept his eyes steady on  hers, his voice mild and soothing. "A meeting of  intellects, of tastes."
  "Oh, I think our meeting of intellects and  tastes took a sharp division when I walked in  and found you and Angela 
groping each other. Tell  me, Marshall, did you have the brochures for our  proposed Hawaiian tryst in your jacket  
pocket at the time?"
  His color rose. "I have apologized  repeatedly for that lapse."
  "Now it's a lapse. Before it was an incident.  Let me give you my term for it, Marshall. I  call it a betrayal, a betrayal 
by two people I  admired and cared for. Deliberate on  Angela's side, and pathetic on yours."
  The muscle in his jaw began to twitch. "You and  I had not fully committed to each other, sexually  or emotionally."
  "You're saying that if I'd gone to bed with you, it  wouldn't have happened? I'm not buying it." She  sprang to her feet. 
"I'm not sharing the blame for  this one, pal. You're the one who thought with your  glands. So take my advice, doctor, 
and get  the hell out of my house. I want you to stay  away from me. I don't want you knocking at  my door. I don't 
want to hear your voice

on the phone. And I don't want any  more calls in the middle of the damn night where you  can't even drum up the 
guts to speak."
  He stood, standing stiffly. "I don't know  what you're talking about."
  "Don't you?" Her cheeks were flaming.
  "I only know that I want to make things right.  My eyes have been opened during these months since  you cut me out 
of your life, Deanna. I know  you're the only woman who can make me happy."
  "Then you're in for a sad life. I'm not  available, and I'm not interested."
  "There's someone else." He stepped forward,  gripping her forearms before she could jerk away. "You  can speak of 
betrayal when you so casually, so  easily move from me to someone else."
  "Yes, there's someone else, Marshall.  There's me. Now take your hands off me."
  "Let me remind you what we had," he  murmured, pulling her against him. "Let me show  you the way it could be."
  The old fear returned, making her tremble as  she fought free of his grip. Struggling for air,  she braced herself 
against the chair. Cornered, she was  cruel. "You know what would make an interesting  topic for my show, Marshall? 
Try this on.  Respected family counselors who harass  women they've dated as well as seducing underage  girls." She 
wrapped her arms tight around her  body as his color drained. "Yes, I know all  about it. A child, Marshall? Can you 
imagine how that  revolts me? The woman you were seeing while you were  supposedly developing our relationship is  
small change compared to that. Angela sent me a  little package before she left for New York."
  Cold sweat pearled on his brow. "You have no  right to publicize my private life."
  "And no intention of doing so. Unless you continue  to harass me. And if you do--" She trailed off.
  "I expected better than threats from you,  Deanna."
  "Well, looks like you were wrong again." She  strode to the door, yanked it open. "Now get  out."
  Shaken, he picked up his coat. "You owe me  the courtesy of giving me the information you have."
  "I owe you nothing. And if you're not out this door  in five seconds, I'm going to let out a  scream that'll raise the roof 
on this building and  bring the neighbors running."

  "You're making a mistake," he said  as he walked to the door. "A very big  mistake."
  "Happy holidays," she told him, then  slammed the door and turned the bolt.

  "Great show, Deanna." Marcie wiped at  her eyes as Deanna walked back into the  dressing room. "It was great to 
have all those  families of soldiers over in the Gulf on  together. And those tapes from over there."
  "Thanks, Marcie." Deanna walked over  to the lighted makeup mirror and removed her  earrings. "You know, Marcie, 
it's New Year's  Eve."
  "I've heard rumors."
  "It's that time for "Out with the old, in with the  new."" Pushing a hand through her hair, Deanna  turned in front of the 
mirror, critically  studying left profile, right, full face. "And  Marcie, my friend, I'm feeling reckless."
  "Oh yeah?" Marcie stopped arranging her  makeup case in preparation for Bobby Marks.  "What kind of reckless? 
Like going-out-and-picking-  up-strange-men-at-cheap-bars reckless?"
  "I didn't say I was insane, I said I  was reckless. How much time do you have free before  Bobby comes in?"
  "About twenty minutes."
  "Okay, that should do it." Deanna boosted herself  into the swivel chair, then spun it away from the  mirror. "Change 
me."
  Marcie nearly gave in to the urge to rub her  hands together. "You're serious?"
  "Deadly. I had a nasty scene with a former  relationship a few days ago. I don't know if  I'm going to have a job much 
less a career this time  next month. I may just be falling in love with a  man who spends more time out of the country 
than in, and  in two weeks we could be at war. Tonight, New  Year's Eve, I will not be with the man I think I  may be 
falling in love with, but at a crowded party  socializing with strangers because socializing with  strangers is now part of 
my job. So I'm  feeling reckless, Marcie, reckless enough to do something  drastic."
  Marcie clipped the knee-length bib around  Deanna's neck. "Maybe you'd better  define "drastic" before I get 
started."
  "Nope." Deanna inhaled deeply,

exhaled slowly. "I don't want  to know. Surprise me."
  "You got it." Marcie picked up her spray  bottle and dampened Deanna's hair. "You  know, I've been wanting to do 
this for weeks."
  "Now's your chance. Make me a new  woman."
  Little tangles of nerves formed in Deanna's  stomach as Marcie snipped. And snipped. She  watched with a faltering 
heart as tresses of ebony  hair hit the tiled floor at her feet.
  "You know what you're doing, right?"  "Trust me," Marcie told her, as she  snipped some more. "You're going to look 
fabulous.  Distinctive."
  "Ah, distinctive?" Wary, Deanna tried  to turn toward the mirror.
  "No peeking." Marcie laid a firm hand  on her shoulder. "It's like going into a cold  pool," she explained. "If you try to 
ease it  a little at a time, it's a hard, miserable  experience. And sometimes you chicken out and back off  before you 
get under. If you do it all at once, you  have that one nifty shock, then you love it." She  pursed her lips as she wielded 
the scissors.  "You know, maybe it's more like losing your  virginity."
  "Holy shit!"
  Marcie glanced up and grinned at CBC'S  resident television chef. "Hiya, Bobby.  Almost done here."
  "Holy shit," he said again, and stepped inside  to stare at Deanna. "What'd you do, Dee?"
  "I wanted a change." Her voice was weak  as she started to lift a hand to her hair. Marcie  pushed it away.
  "A cold pool," she said darkly.  "It's a change, all right." Bobby stepped  back, and shook his head. "Hey, can I have 
some of  this hair?" Stooping, he picked up a handful.  "I can have a toupee made. Hell, I could have  half a dozen."
  "Oh, God, what have I done?" Deanna  squeezed her eyes tight.
  "Dee? What's keeping you? We need to--  oh, Jesus!" Fran stopped in the doorway,  one hand covering her gaping 
mouth, the other pressed  to her belly.
  "Fran." Desperate, Deanna reached out.  "Fran. Fran, I think I had a nervous

breakdown. It's New Year's
Eve," she babbled. "Bobby's making toupees.  I think my life is flashing in front of my  eyes."
  "You cut it," Fran managed after a moment.  "You really cut it."
  "But it'll grow back, right?" Deanna  snatched a lock of hair from her bib. "Right?"
  "In five or ten years," Bobby  predicted cheerfully, and arranged some of  Deanna's shorn locks atop his bald dome.  
"Not quite soon enough to honor the clause I imagine  you have in your contract restricting appearance  changes."
  "Oh God." Deanna's already pale cheek  went dead white. "I forgot. I just didn't  think. I went a little crazy."
  "Be sure to have your lawyer use that one with  Delacort," Bobby suggested.
  "They'll love it," Marcie said grimly.  "She'll see for herself in a minute." Marcie  fluffed and combed. Unsatisfied, she 
added a dab  of gel, working it in, then styling with the concentration of a  woman cutting diamonds. "Now you just 
take a  deep breath, and hold it," Marcie advised,  unhooking the bib. "And don't say anything  until you take a really 
good look."
  No one spoke as Marcie turned Deanna  slowly toward the mirror. Deanna stared at the  reflection, her lips parted in 
shock, her eyes  huge. The long mane of hair was gone,  replaced by a short, sleek cap with a saucy  fringe of bangs. 
In a daze, she watched the  woman in the mirror lift a hand, touch the nape  of her neck, where the hair stopped.
  "It follows the shape of your face," Marcie  said nervously when Deanna only continued to stare.  "And it shows off 
your eyes and eyebrows. You've  got these great dark eyebrows with this terrific  natural arch. Your eyes are a little  
almond-shaped and dramatic, but they kind of got  lost with all that hair."
  "I ..." Deanna let out a breath, took  another. "I love it."
  "You do?" As her knees buckled in relief,  Marcie dropped into the chair beside her. "Really?"
  Deanna watched her own smile bloom. "I  love it. Do you realize how many hours a week  I had to devote to my 
hair? Why didn't I  think of this before?" She grabbed a hand mirror

to view the back. "This is going to save  me almost eight hours a week--an entire  workday." She picked up the 
earrings she'd discarded  and put them back on. "What do you think?" she  asked Fran.
  "Not to diminish your time-saving priorities, you  look incredible. The hip girl-next-door."
  "Bobby?"
  "It's sexy. A cross between an Amazon  and a pixie. And I'm sure Delacort won't  mind reshooting all the promos."
  "Oh my God." As the idea took root,  Deanna turned to Fran. "Oh my God."
  "Don't worry, you'll dazzle Loren with it  tonight. Then we'll work it into the next show."
  "Post-holiday blues?"
  "Sure, sure." Thinking frantically,  Fran gnawed on her lip. "Ah--something as  simple and frivolous as a new 
hairstyle can  give you that quick lift after the party's over."
  "I'll buy it," Bobby decided. "Now,  if you ladies don't mind, I need to get  into makeup. I have a trout to saut`e."

  Early in the first light of the new year, with a  video of Deanna's Hour playing on the  TV, a single, lonely figure 
wandered a  small, dark room. On the table where framed  pictures of Deanna beamed into the shadowy  light, a new 
treasure was laid: a thick  tress of ebony hair wrapped in gold cord.
  It was soft to the touch, soft as silk. After a  last caress, the fingers wandered away, toward the  phone. They dialed 
slowly, so that the joy could be  drawn out. Moments later, Deanna's voice  drifted through the receiver, sleepy, a bit  
uneasy, bringing with it a silver spear of  pleasure that lasted long after the receiver was replaced  again.

            Chapter Thirteen

  It was after two A.m. in Baghdad when Finn  reviewed his notes for the scheduled live  broadcast on CBC'S Evening 
News. He  sat on the single chair that wasn't heaped with  tapes or cable, dragging on a fresh shirt  while his mind 
honed ideas and observations into a  report.
  He tuned out his surroundings, the noise of

preparation, the smell of cold food and the  chatter.
  His crew was spread around the suite, checking  equipment and tossing jokes. A sense of  humor, particularly if it 
was dark, helped cut  the tension. For the past two days, they had hoarded  food and bottled water.
  It was January sixteenth.
  "Maybe we should tie some sheets together,"  Curt suggested. "Hang them outside the window  like a big white flag."
  "No, we'll send up my Bears cap." The  engineer flicked a finger at its brim. "What  red-blooded American boy's 
going to bomb a  football fan?"
  "I heard the Pentagon told them to hit the  hotels first." Finn glanced up from his notes and  grinned. "You know how 
fed up Cheney is with the  press." Finn picked up the phone that connected  him with Chicago and caught the byplay 
at the  news desk between commercials. "Hey, Martin.  How'd the Bulls do last night?" As he  spoke he moved in front 
of the window so that  Curt could get a video test of him against the  night sky. "Yeah, it's quiet here. Nerves  are 
pretty high--so's the anti-American  sentiment."
  When the director cut in, Finn nodded.  "Got it. They're picking up the feed," he  told Curt as he moved out onto the 
balcony.  "We'll go on in the next segment. In four  minutes."
  "Bring up the lights," Curt demanded. "I  got a bad shadow here."
  Before anyone could move, there was a rattling  boom in the distance.
  "What the hell was that?" The engineer went pale  and swallowed his gum. "Thunder? Was that thunder?"
  "Oh, Jesus." Finn turned in time to see  the searing glow of tracer rounds split the night  sky. "Martin. You still there? 
Haversham?" He  called to the director even as Curt shifted the  camera to the sky. "We've got explosions here.  The 
air raid's started. Yes, I'm sure.  Get me on the air for God's sake. Get  me on the goddamn air."
  He heard the curses and cheers from the Chicago  control room, then nothing but a statical hiss.
  "Lost it. Fuck." Coolly, he eyed the  violent light show. He didn't give a thought,

at the moment, to one of those deadly lights  striking the building. Every thought in his head was  focused on 
transmitting the story. "Keep  running that tape."
  "You don't have to tell me twice." Curt was  all but hanging over the railing. "Look at that!"  he shouted in a voice that 
was tight with nerves and  excitement. Air-raid sirens screamed over the  crash of exploding shells. "We got ourselves 
a  front-row seat."
  In frustration, Finn held his microphone out  to record the sounds of battle. "Get Chicago  back."
  "I'm trying." The engineer worked controls with  trembling hands. "I'm trying, goddamn it."
  Eyes narrowed, Finn stalked to the balcony  rail, then turned to the camera. If they couldn't  go live, at least they'd 
have tape. "Baghdad's  night sky erupted at approximately two  thirty-five this morning. There are flashes and the  
answering spears from antiaircraft. Flames  shoot up from the horizon sporadically." When  he turned, he saw, with 
both awe and dull  disbelief, the searing comet trail of a tracer  flash by at eye level. Its deadly, eerie  beauty made his 
blood pump. What a  visual. "Oh, Christ, did you get that? Did  you get it?"
  He heard his engineer swear thinly as the  building shook. Finn shoved his blowing hair out of  his face and shouted 
into his mike. "The city is  being rattled by the air raid. The waiting is  over. It's started."
  He turned back to the engineer. "Any  luck?"
  "No." Though his color was still gone, he  managed a wobbly grin. "I think our friendly  hosts are going to be coming 
along pretty soon  to evict us."
  Now Finn grinned, a quick, reckless flash as  deadly as rifle fire. "They have to find us first."

  While Finn taped his war report, Deanna  sat, numbed with boredom, through another interminable  dinner. Strains 
of monotonous piano music  wafted through the ballroom of the hotel in  Indianapolis. In addition to after-dinner  
speeches, mediocre wine and rubber chicken, all  she had to look forward to was the long trip back  to Chicago.

  At least, she thought, selfishly, she  wasn't suffering alone. She'd dragged Jeff  Hyatt with her.
  "It's not too bad," he murmured, as he  swallowed a bite. "If you put enough salt on  it."
  She sent him a look that was nearly as bland as  the meal. "That's what I love about you, Jeff.  Always the optimist. 
Let's just see if you can  smile about the fact that after we finish not eating this,  the station manager, the head of 
sales and two of our  advertisers are going to give speeches."
  He thought about it a moment, opted for water rather  than wine. "Well, it could be worse."
  "I'm waiting."
  "We could be snowed in."
  She shuddered. "Please, don't even joke  about that."
  "I like these trips, really." Head ducked,  he glanced at her, then back to his plate.  "Going through the station, 
meeting everyone, watching them  roll out the red carpet for you."
  "I like that part myself. Spending time at one of the  affiliates and seeing all that enthusiasm for the show.  And most 
of the people are terrific." She sighed and  toyed with the lump of rice next to her chicken.  She was just tired, she 
thought. All of her life,  she'd had a surplus of energy, and now it seemed  she was running on empty. All those 
demands on  time, on her brain, on her body.
  Celebrity, she'd discovered, was not all  glamour and limos. For every perk there was a price.  For every rich-and-
famous elbow she rubbed, there were  half a dozen corporate dinners or  late-night meetings. For every magazine 
cover,  there were canceled social plans. Helming a  daily show didn't simply mean having camera  presence and 
good interviewing skills. It meant  being on call twenty-four hours a day.
  You got what you asked for, Dee, she reminded  herself. Now stop whining and get to work. With a  determined 
smile, she turned to the man beside her.  Fred Banks, she remembered, station owner,  golf enthusiast and 
hometown boy.
  "I can't tell you how much I enjoyed seeing  your operation today," she began. "You have a wonderful  team."
  He puffed up with pride. "I like to think so.  We're number two now, but we intend to be  number one within the year. 
Your show's going to help

us accomplish that."
  "I hope so." She ignored the little ball of  tension in her stomach. Her six months was almost  up. "I'm told you were 
born right here in  Indianapolis."
  "That's right. Born and bred."
  While he expounded on the delights of his  hometown, Deanna made appropriate comments  while her eyes 
scanned the room. Every table was  circled by people who were in some way depending on her  to make it. And doing 
a good show wasn't enough.  She'd done so that morning, she thought. Nearly ten  hours before--if you didn't count 
time for makeup,  hair, wardrobe and pre-production. Then there'd  been an interview, a staff meeting, phone  calls to 
return, mail to screen.
  Mail that had included another odd letter from what  she was coming to think of as her most persistent fan.

           You look like a sexy
        angel with your hair short.
        I love the way you look.
              I love you.

  She'd tucked the note away and had answered  three dozen others. All that before she'd hopped a  plane with Jeff 
for Indianapolis and the tour of the  affiliate, the meetings and handshakes with the local  staff, the business lunch, the 
spot on the news  and now this never-ending banquet.
  No, a good show wasn't enough. She had to be  diplomat, ambassador, boss, business  partner and celebrity. And 
she had to wear each and every  hat correctly--while pretending she wasn't  lonely, or worried about Finn, or missing 
those  quiet hours when she could curl up with a book for  pleasure rather than because she'd be interviewing the  
author.
  This was what she wanted, Deanna told herself,  and beamed at the waiter as he served the peach  melba.
  "You can sleep on the plane going home,"  Jeff whispered in her ear.
  "It shows?"
  "Just a little."
  She excused herself and pushed back from the table.  If she couldn't fix the fatigue, at least she  could fix its signs.

  She was nearly at the doors when she  heard someone tap on the podium mike.  Automatically, she looked back and 
saw  Fred Banks standing under the lights. "If I  can have your attention. I've just received word that  Baghdad is 
under attack by UN forces."
  There was a buzzing in Deanna's ears.  Dimly she heard the noise level rise  in the ballroom, like a sea at high tide.  
From somewhere nearby a waiter raised a  triumphant fist.
  "I hope they kick that bastard's sorry  butt."
  Slowly, all fatigue washing away, she  walked back to the table. She had a job  to finish.

  Finn sat on the floor of a hotel  bedroom, his laptop on his knees. He  hammered out copy as fast as it could pass 
from  his mind to his fingers. It was nearly dawn  now, and though his eyes were gritty, he felt  no sense of fatigue. 
Outside, the  fire-fight continued. Inside, a game of  cat and mouse was under way.
  During the past three hours, they had moved  twice, hauling equipment and provisions. While  Iraqi soldiers swept 
the building, moving  guests and international news crews to the basement  of the hotel, Finn and his crew had 
slipped from  room to room. The successful intrigue had his  blood pumping.
  While he took his round at sentry duty, his  two companions sprawled on the bed and snatched  sleep.
  Satisfied with the copy he'd finished thus far,  Finn turned off the computer. He rose, working out  the kinks in his 
back, in his neck, and thinking  wi/lly of breakfast: blueberry pancakes and  gallons of hot coffee. He made do with a  
handful of Curt's trail mix, then hefted the  camera.
  At the window he recorded the final images  of the first day of war, the lightning flashes of  cruise missiles and smart 
bombs, the streaks  of tracers. He speculated on how much  devastation they would see when dawn broke. And how  
much they would get on tape.
  "I'm gonna have to report you to the union,  pal."

  Finn lowered the camera and glanced  back at Curt. The cameraman was standing beside  the bed, rubbing his tired 
eyes.
  "You're just pissed because I can handle this baby as  well as you."
  "Shit." Challenged, Curt walked over  to take the camera. "You can't do nothing but look  pretty on tape."
  "Then get ready to prove it. I've got some  copy to read."
  "You're the boss." He rolled tape in  silence as bombs exploded. "Are we going to work  on a way to get out of here?"
  "I've got some contacts in Baghdad."  Finn watched the fires leaping from the horizon.  "Maybe."

  The moment the last after-dinner speech was finished,  the last hand shaken, the last cheek kissed,  Deanna headed 
for a phone. While Deanna  called Fran and Richard, Jeff used the phone  beside her to contact the Chicago 
newsroom.
  "What?" Richard answered with a snarl. "What  is it?"
  "Richard? Richard, it's Deanna.  I'm on my way to the airport in  Indianapolis. I heard about the air  strike, and--"
  "Yeah, right. We heard. But we've  got our own little crisis right here. Fran's  in labor. We're just about to head out to 
the  hospital."
  "Now?" Because it felt like her circuits were about  to overload, Deanna pressed her fingers hard  against her 
temple. "I thought we had another ten  days."
  "Tell that to Big Ed. Breathe, Fran,  don't forget to breathe."
  "Look, I won't hold you up. Just tell  me if she's okay."
  "She just finished half a pizza--that's why she  didn't tell me she was in labor. She already  contacted Bach. Looks 
like you're going to be  preempted tomorrow. No, damn it, you're not going  to talk to her, Fran, you're going to 
breathe."
  "I'll be there as soon as I can. Tell her  ... Oh, Jesus, just tell her I'll be  there."
  "I'm counting on it. Hey, we're going to have  a baby! See you."

  With the line buzzing in her ear,  Deanna rested her brow against the wall. "What  a day."
  "Finn Riley reported the air strike."  "What?" Alert again, she spun around  to Jeff. "Finn? He's all right, then?"
  "He was on the line with the studio when it hit.  He got about five seconds of pictures across  before they lost the 
feed."
  "So we don't know," she said slowly.  "Hey, he's been through stuff like this before, right?"  He put a hesitant arm 
around her shoulders as  he led her out to their waiting car.
  "Yes, of course. Of course he has."  "And look at it this way. We're getting out  of here at least an hour early, 
because everybody  wanted to get home and turn on the tube."
  She nearly laughed. "You're good for me,  Jeff."
  He beamed back at her. "Same goes."

  It was six A.m. when Deanna finally  unlocked the door to her apartment and staggered  inside. She'd been up for a 
full twenty-four  hours and was long past fatigue. But, she  reminded herself, she'd fulfilled her  professional 
obligations, and she'd seen her  goddaughter born.
  Aubrey Deanna Myers, she mused, and  smiled blearily as she walked to the bedroom.  An eight-pound miracle with 
red hair. After  watching that incredibly beautiful life slide  into the world, it was hard to believe there was a war raging  
on the other side of the world.
  But as she tugged off her clothes, unspeakably  grateful that her show was preempted that morning, she  switched 
on the television and brought that war into her  home.
  What time was it in Baghdad? she wondered, but  her mind simply wouldn't cope with the math.  Wearily she sat on 
the edge of the bed in her  underwear and tried to concentrate on the images and  reports.
  "Be careful, damn you."
  It was her last thought as she slid down over the  bedspread and tumbled into sleep.

  Late during the second night of the Gulf  War, Finn set up at a Saudi base. He  was tired and hungry and longed for 
a bath. He could

hear the roar of jets taking off from the  airfield to make their way to Iraq. Other  news teams, he knew, would be 
broadcasting  reports.
  His mood was foul. As a result of the  Pentagon's restrictions on the press, he would  have to wait his turn in the pool 
before he could  travel to the front--and then he could go only where  military officials instructed. For the first time  
since World War II, all reports would be  subject to censorship.
  It was one of the few words Finn considered an  obscenity.
  "Don't you want to take time to shave that  pretty face?"
  "Cram it, Curt. We're on in ten."
He listened to the countdown in his earpiece. "In  the predawn hours of day two of Desert Storm  ..." he began.

  On her couch in Chicago, Deanna leaned  forward and studied Finn's image on-screen.  Tired, she thought. He 
looked terribly tired.  But tough and ready. And alive.
  She toasted him with her diet soda as she ate  the peanut butter sandwich she'd fixed for dinner.
  She wondered what he was thinking, what he was  feeling, as he spoke of sorties and statistics  or answered the 
scripted questions of the news anchor.  The Arabian sky spread at his back, and  occasionally he had to raise his 
voice over the sound  of jet engines.
  "We're glad that you're safely out of  Baghdad, Finn. And we'll stay tuned for  further reports."
  "Thanks, Martin. For CBC, this is Finn  Riley in Saudi Arabia."
  "Good seeing you, Finn," Deanna murmured,  then sighed and rose to take her dishes into the  kitchen. It wasn't until 
she passed her  answering machine that she noticed the rapid blink  of the message light.
  "Oh, hell, how could I have forgotten?"  Setting the dishes aside, she pushed  Rewind. She'd slept a blissful six  
hours, then had rushed out again. A stop by the  hospital, a few hours at the office, where  chaos had reigned. That 
chaos, and the war talk,  had driven her out again with a thick file of  clippings and a bag of mail. She'd worked the 
rest

of the evening, ignoring the phone. Without  checking her messages.
  Having a baby and a war was certainly  distracting, she thought as she hit Play.
  There was a call from her mother. One from Simon.  Dutifully, she scribbled the messages on a  pad. There were 
two hang-ups, each with a long  pause before the click of the receiver.
  "Kansas?" Deanna dropped her pencil as  Finn's voice filled the room. "Where the hell  are you? It must be five A.m. 
there. I've  only got this line for a minute. We're out of  Baghdad. Christ, the place is a mess. I  don't know when I'll be 
able to get through again, so  catch me on the news. I'll be thinking about you,  Deanna. God, it's hard to think about 
anything  else. Buy yourself a couple of flannel  shirts, will you? And some wading boots. It can get  cold at the cabin. 
Write, okay? Send a  tape, a smoke signal. And let me know why  the hell you're not answering your phone. Later."
  And he was gone.
  Deanna was reaching down to press Rewind and  listen to the message again when Loren Bach's  voice flowed out. 
"Jesus H. Christ, you're  a hard woman to get in touch with. I called your  office, and your secretary said you were at 
the  hospital. Scared the life out of me until she  explained it was Fran having her baby. Heard  it's a girl. Don't know 
why the hell you're not  home yet, but here's the deal: Delacort would like  to renew your contract for two years. Our 
people will be  contacting your agent, but I wanted to be the first  to tell you. Congratulations, Deanna."
  She couldn't have said why, but she sat down on the  floor, covered her face with her hands and wept.

  Things moved quickly over the next five  weeks, at home and away. With the new contract  with Delacort signed and 
sealed, Deanna found  both her budget and her hopes expanding. She was  able to add to her staff, and furnish a 
separate  office for Fran when she returned from maternity  leave.
  Best of all, the ratings began a slow, steady  climb during the first weeks of the new year.
  She had ten cities now, and though she still fell  behind Angela's whenever the shows were scheduled head  to 
head, the margin had slimmed.
  To celebrate the success, she bought a softly

patterned Aubusson carpet  to replace the flea-market rug in her living  room. It went, she thought, perfectly with the  
desk.
  She had a cover on Woman's Day  scheduled for April, a feature in People and, for  old time's sake, agreed to 
appear on a segment  of Woman Talk. The Chicago
Tribune did a Sunday spread, calling her  a star on the rise.
  She turned down, with a combination of amusement and  horror, an offer to pose for Playboy.
  When the red light blinked on, Deanna was  seated on set. She smiled, slipping easily,  comfortably into thousands 
of homes.
  "Do you remember your first love? That first kiss  that made your heart beat faster? The long talks,  the secret 
glances?" She sighed and had the  audience sighing with her. "Today, we're going  to reunite three couples who 
remember very  well. Janet Hornesby was sweet sixteen  when she had her first romance. That was fifty years  ago, 
but she hasn't forgotten the young boy who  stole her heart that spring."
  The camera began to pan the panel, focusing  on giddy, nervous smiles as Deanna continued  to speak.
  "Robert Seinfield was just eighteen when he  left his high school sweetheart and moved two  thousand miles away 
with his family. Though a  decade has passed, he still thinks of Rose, the  girl who wrote him his first love letter. And  
twenty-three years ago, college plans and  family pressures separated Theresa  Jamison from the man she'd thought 
she'd marry.  I think our guests today are wondering, What if?  I know I am. We'll find out, after this."

  "God, great show." Fran, Aubrey snug  in a baby saque at her torso, marched out on  the set. "I think Mrs. Hornesby 
and her  fellow might have a second chance."
  "What are you doing here?"
  "I wanted Aubrey to see where her mother  works." Nestling the baby, she looked longingly  around the set. "I've 
missed this place."
  "Fran, you've just had a baby."
  "Yeah, I heard about that. You know, Dee, you  should think about a follow-up show. People love the  sentimental 
stuff. If any of those three

couples get together, you could do a kind of  anniversary thing."
  "I've already thought of that." Deanna stepped  back, hands on hips. "Well," she said after a  minute. "You look good. 
Really."
  "I feel good. Really. But as much as I  love being a mom, I hate being a homebody.  I need work or I'm liable to do 
something drastic.  Like take up needlepoint."
  "We couldn't let that happen. Let's go up  and talk about it."
  "I want to say hi to the crew first."  "I'll be up in the office when you're  finished." Smiling smugly, Deanna headed to 
the  elevator. She'd won her fifty-dollar bet  with Richard. He'd been positive she'd last  two full months. On the ride up 
to the  sixteenth floor, she glanced at her watch and  calculated time. "Cassie," she began, the  minute she stepped 
into the outer office. "See if  you can reschedule my lunch meeting for  one-thirty."
  "No problem. Great show, by the way. Word is  the phones were going crazy."
  "We aim to please." With her schedule in  mind, she dropped down behind her desk to study the  mail Cassie had 
stacked for her. "Fran  stopped by downstairs. She'll be up in a few  minutes--with the baby."
  "She brought the baby? Oh, I can't wait  to see her." She stopped, disturbed by the  expression on Deanna's face. 
"Is something  wrong?"
  "Wrong?" Baffled, Deanna shook her  head. "I don't know. Cassie, do you know how  this got here?" She held up a 
plain white  envelope that carried only her name.
  "It was already on your desk when I brought the  other mail in. Why?"
  "It's just weird. I've been getting these  notes on and off since last spring." She  turned the paper around so Cassie 
could read it.
  ""Deanna, you're so beautiful. Your eyes  look into my soul. I'll love you forever.""  Cassie pursed her lips. "I guess 
it's  flattering. And pretty tame compared to some of the  letters you get. Are you worried about it?"
  "Not worried. Maybe a little uneasy. It  doesn't seem quite healthy for someone to keep this up  for so long."

  "Are you sure they've all been from the  same person?"
  "Same type of envelope, same type of  message in the same type of red print."  Distress curled loosely in her 
stomach.  "Maybe it's someone who works in the building."
  Someone she saw every day. Spoke with. Worked with.  "Anyone been asking you out, or coming on to you?"
  "What? No." With an effort, Deanna  shook off the eerie mood, then shrugged. "It's  stupid. Harmless," she said, as if 
to convince  herself, then deliberately tore the page in two  and tossed it in the trash. "Let's see what  business we 
can clear up before noon, Cassie."
  "Okay. Did you happen to catch Angela's  special last night?"
  "Of course." Deanna grinned. "You  didn't think I'd miss my toughest  competition's first prime-time program, did 
you?  She did a nice job."
  "Not all the reviewers thought so." Cassie  tapped the clippings on Deanna's desk. "The  one from the Times was a 
killer."
  Automatically Deanna reached into the stack and  read the first clipped review.
  ""Pompous and shallow."" She winced.  ""By turns simpering and sniping.""
  "The ratings weren't what they expected, either,"  Cassie told her. "They weren't embarrassing,  but they were hardly 
stellar. The Post called her  self-aggrandizing."
  "That's just her style."
  "It was a little much, doing that tour of her  penthouse for the camera and cooing about New York.  And there were 
more shots of her than her guests."  Cassie shrugged, grinned. "I counted."
  "I imagine this will be tough for her to take."  Deanna set the reviews aside again. "But  she'll bounce back." She shot 
Cassie a  warning look. "I've had my problems with her, but  I don't wish hatchet reviews on anyone."
  "I wouldn't either. I just don't want you to be  hurt by her."
  "Bullets bounce off me," Deanna said  dryly. "Now let's forget about Angela.  I'm sure I'm the last thing on her mind 
this  morning."

  Angela's initial tantrum over the  reviews had resulted in a snowstorm of shredded

newspaper. It littered the floor of  her office. She ground newsprint into the pink  pile as she paced.
  "Those bastards aren't getting away with taking a  slice at me."
  Dan Gardner, the new executive producer  of Angela's, wisely waited until the  worst of the storm had passed. He 
was thirty,  built like a middleweight with a compact, muscular  body. His conservatively styled brown hair  suited his 
boyish face, accented by dark blue  eyes and subtly clefted chin.
  He had a shrewd mind and a simple goal:  to ride to the top on whatever vehicle could get  him there the fastest.
  "Angela, everyone knows reviews are  crap." He poured her a soothing cup of tea.  It was a pity, he thought, that 
their strategy of  allowing no previews of the first show had failed.  "Those jerks always take cheap shots at whoever's  
on top. And that's just where you are." He handed her  the delicate china cup. "On top."
  "Damn right I am." Tea slopped over  into the saucer as she whirled away. Fury was  better than tears, she knew. No 
one,  absolutely no one would have the satisfaction of  seeing how hurt she was. She'd been so proud,  showing off 
her new home, sharing her life with her  audience.
  They had called it "simpering."
  "And the ratings would have proved it," she snapped  back, "if it hadn't been for this damn war. The  goddamn 
viewers just can't get enough of the fucking  thing. Day and night, night and day, we're  bombarded. Why don't we just 
blow the damn  country off the map and be done with it?"
  Tears were close, perilously close. She  battled them back and sipped the tea like medicine.
  She wanted a drink.
  "It's not hurting us. Your lead-in to the six  o'clock news has come up in five markets. And the  viewers loved your 
remote at Andrews Air  Force Base last week."
  "Well, I'm sick of it." She hurled the  teacup at the wall, sending shards flying and  drops splattering over the silk 
wallpaper.  "And I'm sick of that little bitch in Chicago  trying to undermine my ratings."
  "She's a flash in the pan." He hadn't  even jolted at the explosion. He'd been

expecting it. Now that it was done, he  knew she could begin to calm. And when she'd  calmed, she'd be needy.
  He'd been seeing to Angela's needs for  several months.
  "In a year she'll be old news, and you'll  still be number one."
  She sat behind her desk, leaning back, eyes  shut. She was slipping. Nothing seemed to be going  the way she'd 
planned when she'd formed her  production company. She was in charge, yes, but  there was so much to do. So 
many demands, so many, many  ways to fail.
  But she couldn't fail, could never face that. She  calmed herself by taking long, slow breaths, just as she  did during 
bouts of stage fright. It was much more  productive, she reminded herself, to focus on  someone else's failure.
  "You're right. Once Deanna bottoms out,  she'll be lucky to get a gig on public  access." And she had something that 
might hurry that  fine day along.
  As the smile curved Angela's lips,  Dan walked behind the chair to massage the tension from  her shoulders. "You 
just relax. Let me do all  the worrying."
  She liked the feel of his hands on her--  gentle, competent, sure. They made her feel  protected, safe. She so 
desperately needed  that now.
  "They love me, don't they, Dan?"
  "Of course they do." His hands trailed up  to her neck, then brushed down over her breasts.  They were soft and 
heavy and never failed to arouse him.  His voice thickened as he felt her nipples  harden between the light pinch of his 
thumb and forefinger.  "Everybody loves Angela."
  "And they'll keep watching." She sighed,  relaxing as his hands molded her.
  "Every day. Coast to coast."
  "Every day," she murmured, and her smile  widened. "Go lock the door, Dan. Tell  Lorraine to hold my calls."
  "I'd love to."

            Chapter Fourteen

  During the frigid nights in the desert, it was  hard to remember the blazing heat of day. Just as after  the first bombs 
exploded it was difficult

to remember the deadly tedium of the long  weeks of Desert Shield.
  Finn had been through other wars, though he'd never  been so hamstrung by military regulations. There  were ways, 
however, for the enterprising reporter  to stretch them. He would never have denied that certain  sensitive intelligence 
data couldn't be  broadcast without endangering troops. But he  wasn't a fool, nor was he blindly ambitious.  He saw 
his job, and his duty, as finding out what  was happening, not just what the official reports  claimed was happening.
  Twice he and Curt climbed into his rented  truck with a portable satellite dish bracketed  in the bed, and headed out. 
Over the poorly marked  roads and the shifting sand, they managed to link up with  U.s. troops. Finn listened to 
complaints and  to hopes, and returned to base to report both.
  He watched Scuds fly and Patriots  intercept them. He slept in snatches and lived  with the possibility of a chemical 
assault.
  When the ground war began, he was ready, eager,  to follow it into Kuwait City.
  It would be called the Mother of Battles, the  hundred hours of fierce fighting to liberate  Kuwait. While allied troops 
took up  positions along the Euphrates River, along  the highways linking Kuwait to other cities,  Iraqis fled. Hustling, 
as one trooper told  Finn, "to get out of Dodge."
  There were massive traffic jams, trapped  tanks, abandoned possessions. From a dusty  truck heading toward the 
city, Finn observed the  wreckage. Mile after mile of shattered  vehicles lined the road. Cars, stripped for  parts, tilted 
on crates. Personal  possessions littered the roadway,  mattresses, blankets, frying pans and ammo  clips. Incredibly, 
a chandelier, its crystals  gleaming in the sun, lay on the sand like scattered  jewels. And worse, much worse, was the  
occasional corpse.
  "Let's get some tape of this." Finn stepped  out of the truck, his boots crunching down on one  of the cassette tapes 
that were blowing across the  highway.
  "Looks like the garage sale from hell,"  Curt commented. "Crazy bastards must have been  looting on their way out."
  "It always comes down to getting your own,

doesn't it?" Finn pointed toward a  swatch of hot pink flapping from beneath an  overturned truck. The evening gown 
shimmered with  sequins. "Where the hell did she expect to wear  that?"
  Finn prepared for a stand-up as Curt set up  his equipment. He hadn't thought anything else could  surprise him. Not 
after seeing the pathetically  gaunt Iraqi soldiers wearily surrendering  to allied troops. Seeing the fear and fatigue,  
and the relief, on their faces as they emerged from their  foxholes in the desert. He hadn't thought  anything else 
about war could affect him, not the torn  bodies, the atrocities of scavengers or the  stink of death cooking under the 
merciless sun.
  But that flap of pink silk, rustling  seductively in the desert wind, turned his  stomach.
  It was worse inside the city. The raw  nerves, the anger, the devastation, all coated in  a layer of oily soot from the 
fires that depleted  Kuwait's lifeblood of oil.
  When the wind blew toward the city, the sky would  darken with smoke. Midday would become midnight.  The 
seaside was dotted with mines, and explosions  rocked the city several times a day. Gunfire  continued, not only in 
celebratory bursts, but in  savage drive-by attacks on Kuwaiti  soldiers. Survivors searched the cemetery for the  
remains of loved ones, many of whom had suffered  torture and worse.
  Through all he observed, through all he  reported, Finn continued to think of a sequined  evening gown billowing out 
of the sand.

  Like the rest of the world, Deanna watched the end  of the war on television. She listened to the  reports on the 
liberation of Kuwait, the  official cease-fire, the statistics of  victory. It became a habit to drop into the  newsroom 
before she left the CBC Building,  hoping for a few scraps of information that hadn't yet  been aired.
  But the reality of day-to-day  responsibilities kept her grounded. Whenever  she had a free night, she watched the 
late  news, then slipped in a tape of that morning's  show. In the privacy of her apartment, she could  watch herself 
critically, searching for ways  to improve her on-air skills or to tighten the

overall format.
  She sat cross-legged on the floor, comfortable  in sweatshirt and jeans, a notepad open across  her knees. The 
earrings were wrong, she noted. Every  time she moved her head they swung--a distraction  for the viewer, she 
thought, and wrote: No more  dangling earrings.
  And the hand gestures were too broad. If she  didn't watch it, she'd end up being parodied on  Saturday Night Live. 
She should be so  lucky, she thought with a grin, and scribbled on her  pad.
  Did she touch people too much? Nibbling her  lips, Deanna watched. She always seemed to be  laying a hand on a 
guest's arm or circling an  audience member's shoulder. Maybe she should--
  The knock on the door had her swearing. Her  schedule didn't allow for unexpected  visitors after ten. Grudgingly, 
she switched  off the VCR. She glimpsed through the peephole.  Then she was tugging at locks, dragging at the  
chain.
  "Finn! I didn't know you were back!"  She didn't know who moved first. In a  heartbeat, they were wrapped together, 
his mouth hard on  hers, her hands fisted in his hair. The explosion  of need rattled them both, the swell of heat, the  
blast of power. The bomb detonated inside her,  leaving emotions shattered, needs raw. Then he was  kicking the 
door closed as they tumbled to the  floor.
  She didn't think. Couldn't think. Not with his  mouth burning on hers and his hands already urgently  possessing. Like 
tussling children, they rolled over the  rug, the only sounds incoherent murmurs and  strained breathing.
  It wasn't dreamlike, but stark reality. The  only reality that mattered. His hands were rough,  streaking under the 
fleece of her shirt to take,  digging into her hips to press her fiercely against  him.
  She seemed to be erupting beneath him, with short,  static bursts of energy. Her skin was hot,  smooth, unbearably 
soft. He wanted to taste  it, to devour it, to consume the flavor of her flesh  and blood and bone. Her mouth wasn't 
enough--her  throat, her shoulder, where he dragged the shirt  down. He felt like an animal, rabid and  starving, and 
wanted to glory in it. Yet he knew  he could hurt her, would hurt her, if he

didn't harness the worst of the need.
  "Deanna." He wished he could find some  spark of tenderness within the furnace that roared  inside him. "Let me ..." 
He lifted his  head, struggling to clear his vision. He'd barely  looked at her, he realized. The moment she'd  opened 
the door and said his name, his control had  snapped.
  Now she was vibrating like a plucked string beneath  him, her eyes huge and dark, her mouth swollen.  And her skin 
... He brought his fingertips to her  cheek, stroking over the flushed, damp flesh.
  Tears. He'd always considered them a woman's  greatest weapon. Shaken, he brushed them away and  cleared his 
throat. "Did I knock you down?"
  "I don't know." She felt like a jumble of  nerve ends and sparks. "I don't care."    Slowly, beautifully, her smile 
bloomed.  She framed his face in her hands. "Welcome  home." She let their slow, quiet kiss soothe  them both.
  "I've been told I have considerable finesse with  women." Taking her hand, he closed it into a  loose fist and pressed 
it to his lips. "Though  it might be hard for you to believe at the moment."
  "I'd rather not ask for corroboration."  His grin flashed. "Look, why don't we  ..." He trailed off as he stroked a hand 
over  her hair. Confused, he pulled back, eyes  narrowed, and studied her. "What in the hell did  you do to your hair?"
  In automatic defense, she combed her fingers  through it. "I cut it. New Year's Eve."  Her smile wavered. "The 
viewers like it--three  to one. We did a poll."
  "It's shorter than mine." With a half laugh,  he moved back to squat on his haunches. "Come  here, let me get a good 
look." Without waiting  for assent, he hauled her to a sitting position.
  She sat, pouting a little, her eyes daring him,  and the lamplight glowing over the glistening cap. "I  was tired of 
dealing with it," she muttered when he  only continued his silent study. "This saves me  hours a week, and it suits the 
shape of my  face. It looks good on camera."
  "Um-hmm." Fascinated, he reached out to toy  with her earlobe, then skimmed his finger down the  side of her 
throat. "Either several months of  celibacy is playing hell with my libido, or  you're the sexiest woman alive."

  Delighted, flustered, she hugged her  knees. "You look pretty good yourself. You know  they're calling you the Desert 
Hunk."
  He winced. After the ribbing he'd taken from his  associates, he was hard-pressed to find the  humor in it. "It'll pass."
  "I don't know. There's already a fan club  here in Chicago." Seeing that he could be  embarrassed only amused her. 
"You did look  pretty hunky with Scuds flying in the sky behind  you, or with tanks rolling across the sand at your  
back. Especially since you didn't shave for a  couple of days."
  "Once the ground war started, water was at a  premium."
  Her amusement faded. "Was it bad?"  "Bad enough." He took her hand, gently  now, remembering to appreciate the 
elegance. That  was what he needed, the warm reality of her.  Maybe, in a day or two, the things he'd seen,  the 
things he'd heard would fade a little.
  "Do you want to talk about it?"
  "No."
  "You look tired." She could see now how  drawn he was beneath the desert tan. "When did you  get back?"
  "About an hour ago. I came straight here."  Even as her heart picked up rhythm, she  responded to the weariness in 
his eyes. "Why  don't I fix you something to eat? You can get your  bearings."
  He kept her hand in his, wishing he could  explain to her, to himself, how much steadier he felt  being here. Being 
close. "I wouldn't turn down a  sandwich, especially if it came with a beer."
  "I can probably handle that." She got to her  feet, gave his hand a tug. "Come on, stretch  out on the couch, relax 
with Carson. While you're  eating, I'll fill you in on all the news and  gossip from CBC."
  He rose, waiting until she'd punched the  remote. "Are you going to let me stay tonight,  Deanna?"
  She looked back at him, her eyes huge,  but steady. "Yes."
  Turning quickly, she walked into the kitchen. Her  hands were trembling, she realized. And it was  wonderful. Her 
whole body was quivering in  response to that long, last look he'd given her  before she'd rushed away. She didn't 
know what it

would be like, but she knew that she'd never  wanted anyone more. The months of separation hadn't  stunted the 
emotions that had begun growing inside  her.
  And that first greedy kiss as they'd tumbled  heedless to the floor had been more stunning, more erotic  than any 
fantasy she'd woven while she'd  waited for him to come back.
  He'd come to her. She pressed a hand to her  stomach. Nerves were jittering, she thought. But they  were good 
nerves, hot and strong, not cold, cowardly  ones.
  Tonight, she would take the step. She would  reclaim herself. Because she wanted, Deanna  thought. Because she 
chose.
  Putting a sandwich of cold ham and cheese on  a platter, she added a pilsner of beer. She  lifted the tray and smiled 
to herself. Desire was as  basic and human as hunger. Once they had  satisfied the latter, she would take him to her  
bed, into her body.
  "I could put together something hot," she said as she  carried the tray back into the living room.  "There's a can of 
soup in the--" Deanna broke  off and stared.
  Carnac the Magnificent was on a roll. Ed  was hooting in response. And Finn Riley, the  Desert Hunk, was sleeping 
like a baby.
  He'd pried off his battered hightops, but  hadn't bothered to remove his jacket.  Unrelenting work, travel and jet lag 
had finally  taken their toll. He lay flat on his stomach,  his face smashed into one of Deanna's satin  pillows, his arm 
dangling limply over the edge  of the couch.
  "Finn?" Deanna set the tray aside and  put a hand on his shoulder. When she shook him,  he didn't stir, a hundred 
and sixty pounds of  exhausted male.
  Resigned, she went for a spare blanket and  tucked it around him. She locked the front  door, secured the chain. 
Switching the lamp  to low, she sat down on the floor in front of  him. "Our timing," she said quietly and kissed  his 
cheek, "continues to suck." With a sigh, she  picked up the sandwich and tried to fill the void of  sexual frustration with 
food and television.

  Finn pulled out of the dream, chilled with sweat.  The fading vision behind his eyes was horrid--the

body riddled with bullets at his feet,  blood and gore staining the pink silk and sequins  of the tattered evening gown. 
In the quiet light of  morning, he struggled to sit up, rubbing his hands  over his face.
  Disoriented, he tried to get his bearings.  Hotel room? What city? What country? A  plane? A taxi?
  Deanna. Remembering, Finn let his head  fall back against the cushions and moaned. First  he'd tossed her to the 
floor, then he'd passed  out. A rousing segment in the frustrating journal of  their romance.
  He was surprised she hadn't dragged him out  of the apartment by the feet and left him snoring in the  hall. Fighting 
free of the blanket, he staggered  up. He swayed a moment, his body still floating  with fatigue. He'd have killed for 
coffee. He  supposed that was why he thought he smelled some  brewing. After months in the desert, he knew that  
mirages weren't only the result of heat, but of  desperate human desires.
  He rolled his stiff shoulders and swore.  Christ, he didn't want to think about desires.
  But maybe it wasn't too late. A quick  injection of instant coffee, and he could slip  into bed with Deanna and make 
up for his neglect the  night before.
  Bleary-eyed, he stumbled toward the kitchen.  She was no mirage, standing there in a beam of  sunlight, looking 
fresh and lovely in slacks  and a sweater, pouring gloriously scented coffee  into a red ceramic mug.
  "Deanna."
  "Oh!" She jolted, nearly upending the mug.  "You startled me. I was concentrating on some  mental notes for the 
show." She set the pot down,  brushed suddenly damp hands down her hips.  "How'd you sleep?"
  "Like a rock. I don't know whether to be  embarrassed or apologetic, but if you share that  coffee, I'll be anything you 
want."
  "There's nothing to be embarrassed or  apologetic about." But she couldn't meet his  eyes as she reached for the 
mug. "You were exhausted."
  He lightly stroked a hand over her hair.  "How angry are you?"
  "I'm not." But her gaze cut away from his when  she pushed the mug into his hand. "Do you want  cream or sugar?"

  "No. If not angry, what?"
  "It's hard to explain." There wasn't enough  room in the kitchen, she realized. And he was  blocking the way out. "I've 
really got to go,  Finn. My driver will be here in a few  minutes."
  He stood his ground. "Try to explain."  "This isn't easy for me." Unnerved, she  snapped out the words and turned 
away. "I'm not  experienced in morning-after conversation."
  "Nothing happened."
  "That's not the point, not really. I wasn't  thinking last night. I couldn't. When I saw you,  I was overwhelmed by what 
was happening, what I was  feeling. No one's ever wanted me the way you  did last night."
  "And I blew it." No longer interested in  coffee, he set the mug carefully on the counter.  "I'm sorry. Maybe I shouldn't 
have stopped that  first mad rush, but I was afraid I'd hurt  you."
  She turned slowly, her eyes reflecting her  confusion. "You weren't hurting me."
  "I would have. Christ, Deanna, I could have  eaten you alive. And tearing into you on the floor,  it was ..." He thought 
bitterly of Angela.  "It was too careless."
  "That's my point. Not on your side, Finn,  on mine. I was careless, and that's not like me." There  seemed to be 
nothing she could do with her hands. She  lifted them, let them fall as he continued to stand and  study her. "The 
feelings you've stirred up aren't  like me. And the way things turned out ..." She  tugged at her earlobe. "It gave me 
time  to think."
  "Great." He snatched up the mug again and  took a long drink. "Terrific."
  "I haven't changed my mind," she said as she  watched his eyes darken. "But we need to talk,  before this goes any 
further. Once I explain,  once you understand, I hope we can keep going."
  There was a plea in her eyes, something she needed  from him. He didn't have to know what it was  to respond. 
Crossing to her, he cupped her chin  in his hands and kissed her lightly. "Okay.  We'll talk. Tonight?"
  Nerves vanished in relief. "Yes, tonight.  Fate must be looking out for me. It's the first  free weekend I've had in two 
months."
  "Come to my place." As her body softened

beautifully against his, he kissed her  again, lingering, persuasive. "There's something I very  much want to do." He 
nipped at her lip until  her eyes fluttered closed.
  "Yes."
  "I very, mmm, very much ..." He traced her  lips with his tongue, dipped slowly inside  to savor. "Want to cook for 
you."

  "So, what's he going to cook?"
  "I didn't ask." Briskly, Deanna  checked over her wardrobe list, noting the dates  that certain skirts, blazers, blouses 
and  accessories had been worn. She had a  production assistant who dated and tagged each  piece, listing not only 
when it had been worn, but  in combination with what other items.
  "It's pretty serious when a man cooks for  you--especially on a Friday night." Fran  kept one eye on Aubrey, who was 
taking a  peaceful nap in the Portacrib. "Very  high-powered wooing."
  "Maybe." Deanna smiled at the idea.  Meticulously, she began to arrange her  choices for the following week's line-
up of shows.  "I plan on enjoying it."
  "My instincts tell me he's good for you.  I'd like a little more time to check him out personally, but  the look on your 
face when you came in this morning  was almost enough."
  "What kind of look?"
  "Happiness. Strictly feminine happiness.  Different from the gleam in your eye when Delacort  renewed us, or when 
we got picked up by six  new stations."
  "How about when we moved into first place in  Columbus?"
  "Even different from that. This is  all-important. The show, what you're able to do with  it. The way you've shifted 
things around so I can  bring Aubrey to work."
  "I want her here, too," Deanna reminded  her. "Nobody on staff is going to have to make the  choice between 
parenthood and career. Which brings up a  topic idea I had."
  Fran picked up her clipboard. "Shoot."  "Finding ways to incorporate day care into the  workplace. Right in office 
buildings and  factories. I read an article about this  restaurant, family-run. They have what amounts

to a preschool right off the kitchen.  I've already given Margaret the clipping."
  "I'll check it out."
  "Good. Now let me tell you my idea about  Jeff."
  "Jeff? What about him?"
  "He's doing a good job, wouldn't you say?"  "I'd say he's doing a great one." Fran  glanced over as Aubrey sighed in 
her sleep.  "He's totally devoted to you and the show, and he's a  wizard at cutting through the fat."
  "He wants to direct." Pleased that she'd  been able to surprise Fran, Deanna sat  back. "He hasn't said anything to 
me,  to anyone. He wouldn't. But I've watched him.  You can see it by the way he hangs around the  studio, talking to 
the cameramen, the techs. Every time  we get a new director, Jeff all but  interrogates him."
  "He's an editor."
  "I was a reporter," Deanna pointed out.  "I want to give him a shot. God knows we  need a permanent director, 
somebody who can  slide into the groove, who understands my rhythm.  I think he'll fit the bill. What, as  executive 
producer, do you think?"
  "I'll talk to him," Fran said after a  moment. "If he's interested, we've got a show  scheduled for next week on video 
dating. It's  light. We could test him out on it."
  "Good."
  "Deanna." Cassie stood in the doorway,  a newspaper rolled tight in her hand.
  "Don't tell me. I've only got  twenty minutes before shooting the new promo, and  after that I've got to get across town 
and charm the  Chicago chapter of NOW. I swear, warden,  I wasn't trying to make a break for it."
  "Deanna," Cassie repeated. There was no  humor in her eyes. Only distress. "I think  you should see this."
  "What is it? Oh, not the tabloids again."  Prepared to be mildly irked, she took the  paper from Cassie, unfolded it and 
glanced at the  screaming headline. "Oh my God." Her  knees went to jelly as she groped behind her for a  chair. "Oh, 
Fran."
  "Take it easy, honey. Let me see."  Fran eased Deanna down into a chair and took  the paper.

  SECRET LIFE OF AMERICA'S
         GIRL NEXT DOOR
      Midwest's Darling a Party-
         Hardy College Girl
         Deanna's Former Lover
            Tells All!

  There was a big red EXCLUSIVE! bannering the  corner, and a sidebar hinting at WILD  NIGHTS! DRUNKEN 
ORGIES! SEX ON
THE FIFTY-YARD LINE! beneath a recent  photo of Deanna. Beside her was a grainy  photograph of a man she'd 
tried to forget.
  "That son of a bitch!" Fran exploded. "That  lying bastard. Why the hell did he go to the tabs  with this? He's dripping 
with money."
  "Who knows why anyone does anything."  Sickened, Deanna stared at the bold  headlines. The frightened, broken 
girl she had  been resurfaced. "He got his picture in the  paper, didn't he?"
  "Honey." Fran quickly turned the paper  over. "Nobody's going to believe that trash."
  "Of course they are, Fran." Her eyes were  bright and hard. "They'll believe it because it makes  titillating copy. And 
most people won't get past  the headlines anyway. They'll scan them when  they're checking out in the supermarket. 
Maybe  they'll read the copy on the front page, even  flip through to the inside. Then they'll go home and  chat about 
the story with their neighbors."
  "It's crap. Exploitive crap, and  anybody with a working brain knows it."
  "I just thought you should know." Cassie handed  Deanna a cup of water. "I didn't want  you finding out from 
someone else."
  "You were right."
  Cassie pressed her lips together. "You've  gotten some calls on it." Including one, which she  would not pass on, 
from Marshall Pike.
  "I'll handle them later. Let me see,  Fran."
  "I'm going to fucking burn this rag."  "Let me see," Deanna repeated. "I  can't deal with it if I don't know what it  says."
  Fran reluctantly handed the paper to her. As  with the worst of tabloid press, there was just enough truth  mixed in 
with the lies to have impact. She had indeed

gone to Yale. And she had dated
Jamie Thomas, a star tackle. Yes, she  had attended a postgame party with him in the  autumn of her junior year. 
She'd danced,  she'd flirted. She'd consumed more alcohol than  might have been wise.
  She certainly had taken a walk to the playing  field with him on that cool, clear night. And she  had laughed as he'd 
rushed over the grass,  tackling invisible opponents. She'd even  laughed when he'd tackled her. But the story  didn't 
say that she'd stopped laughing very quickly.  There was no mention of fear, of outrage, of sobbing.
  In Jamie's recollection she hadn't fought.  She hadn't screamed. In his version he hadn't  left her alone, her clothes 
torn, her body  bruised. He didn't say how she'd wept on  that chilly grass, her spirit shattered and her  innocence 
violently stolen.
  "Well." Deanna brushed a tear from her  cheek. "He hasn't changed his story over the  years. Maybe he's 
embellished it a little more,  but that's to be expected."
  "I think we should contact Legal." It took  all of Fran's control to speak calmly. "You  should sue Jamie Thomas and 
the paper for libel,    Dee. You're not going to let him get away with  it."
  "I let him get away with a lot worse,  didn't I?" Very neatly, very deliberately,  she folded the paper, then tucked it into 
her  purse. "Cassie, please clear my schedule  after the NOW meeting. I know it may cause some  problems."
  "No problem," Cassie said instantly.  "I'll take care of it."
  "Cancel everything," Fran told her.  "No, I can do what I have to do." Deanna  picked up her sweater. However 
steady her  voice, her movements, her eyes were devastated.
  "Then I'll go with you. You're not going home  alone."
  "I'm not going home at all. There's someone  I need to talk to. I'll be fine." She  squeezed Fran's arm. "Really. I'll see  
you Monday."
  "Damn it, Dee, let me help."
  "You always have. I really have to do this one thing  alone. I'll call you."

                                  
  She didn't expect the explanation to be  easy. But she hadn't known she would find herself  sitting in the driveway 
beside Finn's beautiful  old house, fighting for the courage to walk up and  knock on the door.
  She sat watching the bare limbs of the spreading  maples tremble in the high March wind. She  wanted to watch the 
strong, white sunlight flash  and gleam off the tall, graceful windows, and  glint off the tiny flecks of mica in the 
weathered  stone.
  Such a sturdy old house, she thought, with its  curving gables and arrow-straight chimneys. It  looked like a 
dependable place, a haven against  storms and wind. She wondered if he'd chosen  to give himself some personal 
calm away from the  chaos of his work.
  She wondered if it would offer her any.  Bracing herself, she stepped from the car, walked  along the walkway of 
stones and stepped up onto  the covered porch he'd had painted a deep,  glossy blue.
  There was a brass knocker in the shape of an  Irish harp. She stared at it a long time before she  knocked.
  "Deanna." He smiled, holding out a hand in  welcome. "It's a little early for dinner, but I  can fix you a late lunch."
  "I need to talk to you."
  "So you said." He let his hand drop when she  didn't take it, then closed the door. "You  look pale." Hell, he thought, 
she looked as  fragile as glass. "Why don't you sit  down?"
  "I'd like to sit." She followed him into the first  room off the hallway.
  Her first distracted glimpse of the room  simply registered man. No frills, no  flounces, just sturdy, dignified old pieces  
that murmured of easy wealth and masculine taste.  She chose a high-backed chair in front of the  fire that burned 
low. The warmth was comforting.
  Without asking, he walked to a curved cabinet  and chose a decanter of brandy. Whatever was  preying on her mind 
went deep enough to make her  withdraw.
  "Drink this first, then tell me what's on your  mind."
  She sipped, then started to speak.

  "Finish it," he interrupted  impatiently. "I've seen wounded soldiers with  more color than you have right now."
  She sipped again, more deeply, and felt the heat  fight with the ice shivering in her stomach. "There's  something I 
want to show you." She opened her bag,  took out the paper. "You should read this first."
  He glanced down. "I've already seen it." In  a gesture of disdain, he tossed it aside.  "You've got more sense than to 
let that kind of  tripe get to you."
  "Did you read it?"
  "I stopped reading poorly written fiction  when I was ten."
  "Read it now," Deanna insisted.  "Please."
  He studied her another minute, concerned and  confused. "All right."
  She couldn't sit after all. While he read,  Deanna got up to wander around the room, her hands  reaching nervously 
for mementos and knickknacks.  She heard the paper rattle in his hands, heard  him swear quietly, viciously under his 
breath, but  she didn't look back.
  "You know," Finn said at length, "at least they  could hire people who can write a decent sentence."  A glance at her 
rigid back made him sigh.  He tossed the paper aside again. He rose,  crossing to lay his hands on her shoulders.  
"Deanna--"
  "Don't." She stepped away quickly, shaking  her head.
  "For Christ's sake, you've got too much  sense to let some sloppy journalism turn you  inside out." He couldn't stem 
the impatience, or  the vague disappointment in her reaction. "You're  in the spotlight. You chose to be. Toughen up,  
Kansas, or go back and stick with the noon  news."
  "Did you believe it?" She whirled around, her  arms folded tight across her chest.
  For the life of him he couldn't figure out how  to handle her. He tried for mild amusement. "That  you were some sort 
of nubile nymphomaniac? If  you were, how could you have resisted me for so long?"
  He was hoping for a laugh, and would have settled for  an angry retort. He got nothing but frozen  silence. "It's not all 
a lie," she said at  length.
  "You mean you actually went to a couple of

parties in college? You popped the top  on a few beers and had a fling with a jock?" He  shook his head. "Well, I'm 
shocked and  disillusioned. I'm glad I found this out before I  asked you to marry me and have my children."
  Again, his joke didn't make her laugh. Her  eyes went from blank to devastated. And she burst  into terrible tears.
  "Oh, Christ. Don't, baby. Come on,
Deanna, don't do this." Nothing could have  unmanned him more. Awkward, cursing himself, he  gathered her close, 
determined to hold her tight,  even when she resisted. "I'm sorry." For  what, he couldn't say. "I'm sorry, baby."
  "He raped me!" she shouted, jerking away when  his arms went limp. "He raped me," she  repeated, covering her 
face with her hands as the  tears fell hot and burning. "And I didn't do  anything about it. I won't do anything now. 
Because it  hurts." Her voice broke on a sob as she  rocked back and forth. "It never, never stops  hurting."
  He couldn't have been more shocked, more horrified.  For a moment, everything in him froze and he could  only 
stand and stare as she wept uncontrollably  into her hands with the sun at her back and the fire  crackling cheerfully 
beside her.
  Then the ice inside him broke, exploded with a  burst of fury so ripe, so raw that his vision  hazed. His hands curled 
into fists, as if there were  something tangible he could pummel.
  But there was nothing but Deanna, weeping.  His arms dropped to his sides again, leaving him  feeling helpless and 
miserable. Relying on  instinct, he scooped her up, carried her to the  couch, where he could sit, cradled her in his lap  
until the worst of the tears were spent.
  "I was going to tell you," she managed. "I  spent last night thinking about it. I wanted you  to know before we tried--to 
be together."
  He had to get past the anger, somehow. But his  jaw was clenched and his words sharp. "Did you think it  would 
change anything I feel for you?"
  "I don't know. But I know it scars you, and  no matter how many ways you're able to go on with your  life, it's always 
in there. Since it happened  ..." She took the handkerchief he offered and  mopped at her face. "I haven't been able  to 
put it aside far enough, or deep enough,  to feel able to make love with a man."

  The hand that was stroking her hair  faltered only a moment. He remembered  vividly the way he had plunged in the 
night  before. And the way he would have initiated the physical  end of their relationship if something hadn't restrained  
him.
  "I'm not cold," she said in a tight, bitter  voice. "I'm not."
  "Deanna." He eased her head back so that  she would meet his eyes. "You're the warmest  woman I know."
  "Last night there was nothing there but you; I had  no time to think. This morning it didn't seem  fair for you not to 
know first. Because if things didn't  work, physically, it would be my fault. Not  yours."
  "I think that's the first really stupid thing I've  ever heard you say. But we'll put it aside for  now. If you want to talk this 
through, I'll  listen."
  "I do." But she shifted away so that she could  sit on her own. "Everyone on campus knew  Jamie Thomas. He was a 
year ahead of me,  and like most of the other women in college, I had a  crush on him. So when he made a move in 
my  direction at the beginning of my junior year, I  was flattered and dazzled. He was a football  star, and a track star, 
and he had a  three-point-oh average. I admired that, and his  plans to go into the family firm. He had brains  and 
ambition, a good sense of humor. Everybody  liked him. So did I."
  She took a steadying breath, let herself  remember. "We saw a lot of each other during  the first couple months of 
that semester. We studied  together, and went for long walks and had all those  deep, philosophical discussions 
college  students can be so smug about. I sat in the stands  at football games and cheered him on."
  She paused. "We went to a party after the  biggest game of the season. He'd had a  terrific game. Everybody was 
celebrating, and  we got a little drunk. We went back to the  field, just he and I, and he started to run through  all these 
football moves. Clowning around. Then  he stopped clowning, and he was on top of me. It  seemed all right at first. 
But he got really  rough, and he frightened me. I told him to stop.  But he wouldn't stop."
  Cut the act, Dee. You know you want it.

You've been begging for it all night.
  She shuddered, gripping her hands tight. "And  I started crying, begging him. And he was so strong,  and I couldn't 
get away. He was tearing my  clothes. He was hurting me."
  Goddamn tease.
  "I called for help, but there was no one. I  screamed. He put his hand over my mouth when I  screamed. He had big 
hands. And I could only  see his face."
  You're going to love it, babe.
  "His eyes were glazed--like glass. And he was  inside me. It hurt so much I thought he would  kill me. But he didn't 
stop. He didn't  stop until he'd finished. After a while--it  seemed like such a long time--he rolled off me, and  he 
laughed."
  Come on, Dee, you know you had fun. Ask  around. Nobody makes the women happy like good  old Jamie.
  "Then he stopped laughing, and he got angry  because I was crying. I couldn't stop crying."
  Don't pull that shit with me. We both  wanted it. You say anything different and half the  football team will say you 
made it with them, right  here. Right on the fucking fifty-yard line.
  "He yanked me up, stuck his face in mine.  And he warned me that if I tried to pretend I  hadn't been willing, no one 
would believe me.  Because he was Jamie Thomas. And everyone liked  Jamie. So he left me there, and I didn't  do 
anything. Because I was ashamed."
  The grainy newspaper photo swam  into Finn's mind, and he struggled against the violence  that rose in him. But he 
kept his tone even.  "Didn't you have anyone to go to?"
  "I told Fran." Her nails were biting  into her palm and slowly, deliberately she  relaxed her hand. "After a couple of 
weeks, I  couldn't hide it from her. She wanted to go to the  dean, but I wouldn't." She stared down at her own  hands 
and felt the hot shame wash over her again.  "She finally bullied me into counseling. After a  while, I got over the worst 
of it. I don't  want it to control my life, Finn." She  looked at him then, eyes swollen and full of  grief. "I don't want it to 
spoil what we  may be able to have."
  He was afraid any words he tried might be  the wrong ones. "Deanna, I can't tell you it

doesn't matter, because it does." When  she dropped her gaze, he touched her cheek,  urging her eyes back up to 
his. "Because I can't  stand the thought of you being hurt that way. And because you  may not be able to trust me."
  "It isn't that," she said quickly. "It's me."  "Then let me do something for you." Gently, he  kissed her forehead. "Come 
to the cabin with me.  Now. Today. Just a weekend alone where we can  relax."
  "Finn, I don't know if I can give you  what you want."
  "I don't care about what you can give me.  I'm more interested in what we can give each  other."

            Chapter Fifteen

  She supposed he called the place a cabin  because it was built of wood. Far from the primitive  box she'd imagined, 
the trim, two-story  structure had upper and lower covered decks  joined by open stairs. Outside, the cedar shingles  
had silvered with weather and time and were accented by deep  blue shutters. Tall, spreading yews tucked  the house 
into its own private reserve.
  Instead of a lawn, rocks, low evergreens,  flowering bushes, herbs and hardy perennials  covered the ground. A few 
brave crocuses were  already peeking through.
  "You garden. How did you learn?"
  "I read a lot of books." Finn hauled  their suitcases from the trunk while Deanna  stood at the head of the gravel drive 
and looked  around. "I never know how long I'll be away, so  grass wasn't practical. I didn't like the  idea of hiring a 
lawn service. It's mine."  Faintly embarrassed by the statement, he shrugged.  "So I spent a few weeks putting in stuff 
that  wouldn't need a lot of attention."
  "It's beautiful."
  He'd wanted her to think so, he realized.  "It'll look better in another month or two.  Let's go inside. I'll start a fire, then  
show you around."
  She followed him up to the porch, ran her hand  along the arm of a rocking chair. "It's hard  to picture you sitting 
here, looking out over a  rockery and doing nothing."
  "It'll get easier," he promised, and led

her inside.
  The cabin opened up into a large room, topped  by a loft and a quartet of skylights. One wall  was dominated by a 
fireplace fashioned of river  rock; another was crowded with books on  built-in shelves. The paneling was the color of  
honey, as was the flooring, over which he'd scattered  rugs--Orientals, French, English,  Indian. And, incredibly, the 
lush black sheen  of a bear rug, complete with snarling head and  claws.
  Catching her eye, Finn grinned. "It was a  gift--some of the guys from the station."
  "Is it real?"
  "Afraid so." He crossed to the hearth, where  the bear spread like a wide black pool. "I  call him Bruno. Since I'm not 
the one who  shot him, we get along pretty well."
  "I guess he's ... good company."
  "And he doesn't eat much." He sensed her  nerves, shivering along the chilled air. And he  understood them. He'd 
rushed her out of Chicago  before she'd been able to think things through. Now she was  alone with him. "Colder in 
here than it is  outside."
  "Yes." She rubbed her hands as she wandered  to one of the windows to study his view. There was no  other house 
to disturb the panorama, only those  lush yews and trees not yet greening. "It  doesn't seem that we could be only an 
hour or  so out of the city."
  "I wanted somewhere I could get away." He  built a fire competently, quickly. "And where I  could get back quickly if 
a story broke.  There's a TV, radio and fax machine in the  other room."
  "Oh, I see. You can take the boy out of the  newsroom ... That's nice," she said, and  walked over to where the wood 
was beginning to crackle  and spark.
  "There's another fireplace upstairs." He  took her bag and gestured toward the steps that led  to the loft.
  The second floor held one large bedroom  that echoed the simple furnishings of the main room.  A sitting area in 
front of a window contained a  love seat in deep hunter green, another  rocker, a low pine table and a three-footed  
stool. The gleaming brass bed was covered with  burgundy corduroy and faced a small stone

fireplace. There was a pine dresser  and a roomy armoire.
  "Bath's through there." Finn indicated the door  with a nod of his head as he crouched to set the fire.
  Curious, Deanna nudged the door open.  Staring, she stood on the threshold unsure whether  to laugh or applaud. 
Although the rest of the cabin  might have reflected rustic elegance, in the  bathroom, Finn had gone for dramatic.
  The ebony, oversized tub was fitted with jets  and surrounded by a ledge that snugged against a wide  window. The 
separate shower was constructed of glass  block and white tile. The wall over the sink was  mirrored and hugged by a 
long counter of  black-and-white tiles, as neat as a  chessboard. A portable television sat on it,  facing the tub.
  "Some bathroom."
  "If you're going to relax," Finn commented as  he rose, "you might as well relax."
  "No TV in the bedroom?"
  Finn opened one door of the armoire. There,  atop a trio of drawers, was the blank eye of a  television screen. 
"There's a shortwave in the  drawer of the nightstand." When she laughed, he  held out a hand. "Come down and 
keep me company  while I cook dinner."
  "You, ah, didn't bring your bags up," she  said as they started down.
  "There's another bedroom downstairs."  "Oh." She felt the tension dissolve, even as  she was pricked by regret.
  He stopped at the base of the steps, turned,  put his hands on her shoulders and kissed her  lightly. "Okay?"
  She rested her brow against his a moment.  "Yes," she said. "Okay."
  And it was, sitting at the breakfast bar  putting a salad together while Finn sliced  potatoes into thin strips for frying, 
listening to the  high March wind blow through the evergreens and tap at  the windows. It was easy, relaxing in the 
country  kitchen while potatoes fried and chicken  grilled and laughing at his stories of adventures  in the marketplaces 
in Casablanca.
  All the while the kitchen TV murmured,  keeping the world in the background, and somehow making the  atmosphere 
they shared more intimate.
  The room was warm and cozy, with dark curtaining  the windows and candles flickering on the kitchen

table. "It's wonderful," she told him  after another bite of chicken. "You're as good as  Bobby Marks."
  "And I'm cuter."
  "Well, you've got more hair. I suppose  I should offer to cook tomorrow."
  "That depends." He curled his fingers around  hers, grazed his teeth over her knuckles.  "How are you at broiling 
fresh fish?"
  "Is that what's on the menu?"
  "If our luck holds. We should be able  to pull a couple out of the lake in the morning."
  "In the morning?" She blinked. "We're  going fishing in the morning?"
  "Sure. What do you think I brought you up here  for?" When she laughed he shook his head.  "Kansas, you don't 
understand the master plan.  After we've dropped line together for a couple of  hours, pulled in trout together, cleaned 
them--"
  "Cleaned them?"
  "Sure. After all that, you won't be able  to resist me. The excitement, the passion, the  elemental sexuality of fishing 
will have overwhelmed  you."
  "Or will have bored me senseless."  "Have a little faith. There's nothing like man--or  woman--against nature to stir up 
the juices."
  "That's quite a plan." She tipped back in her  chair, amazingly relaxed. "Have you had much  success with it?"
  He only grinned and topped off their wine.  "Want to look at my lures?"
  "I don't think so. You can surprise me  tomorrow."
  "I'll wake you up at five."
  The glass froze an inch from her lips. "At  five? A.m.?"
  "Dress warm," he warned her.

  Deanna had been certain she'd be restless,  had been sure her nerves would resurface the  moment the house was 
quiet around her. But the instant  she'd snuggled under the blankets, she'd dropped  into a deep, dreamless sleep. A 
sleep that was  rudely disturbed by a hand shaking her shoulder.
  She opened her eyes, blinked into the dark and  closed them again.
  "Come on, Kansas, rise and shine."  "Is there a war?" she mumbled into the pillow.
  "There's a fish with your name on it," Finn

told her. "Coffee'll be ready in ten  minutes."
  She sat up, blinked again and was able to make out  his silhouette beside the bed. And she could smell him  --soap 
and damp skin. "How come you have to catch  fish at dawn?"
  "Some traditions are sacred." He leaned  down, unerringly finding her warm, sleepy mouth with  his. Her sigh of 
response had his muscles  tightening, and his mind skidding toward an entirely  different morning activity. "You'll want 
that  long underwear I told you to pack." He cleared  his throat, forced himself to step back before he gave  up and 
crawled under the blankets with her. "It'll  be cold out on the lake."
  He left her huddled in bed. He hadn't  slept well. Big surprise, Finn thought  wryly. She needed time, he reminded 
himself. And  care. And patience. What she didn't need was for  him to unstrap the desire that was clawing inside of  
him. It would frighten her, he was sure, if she  understood just how much he wanted.
  It very nearly frightened him.

  There was fog on the lake. Light fingers of it  tore like cotton in the breeze and muffled the sound  of the boat's 
motor. In the east the sky was  struggling to light, and the silver sun glanced off the  mist, hinting at rainbows. She 
could smell water  and pine, and the soap from Finn's shower. Deanna  sat at the bow of the small boat, her hands 
resting  on her knees, the collar of her jacket turned  up against the chill.
  "It's beautiful." Her breath puffed out in  smoke. "Like we're the only ones around for  miles."
  "The Senachwine gets plenty of campers and  hikers." He cut the engine and let the boat  drift on water as calm as 
glass. "We've  probably got company on the lake already."
  "It's so quiet." But she did hear, in the  distance, the putt of another engine, the call of a  bird and the faint lap of 
water against the hull.
  "That's the best thing about fishing." After dropping  anchor, he handed her a rod. "You can't rush it.  You can't crowd 
it. All you have to do is sit in one  spot and let your mind rest."
  "Let your mind rest," she repeated.
  "What we're doing here is float fishing,"  he began. "It takes more finesse than bait

fishing."
  "Right."
  "No sarcasm, please. It's an art."  "Art? Really."
  "The art," Finn continued, "is to lay the  float gently on the surface so that it entices  the fish as you skillfully reel it 
back."
  Deanna glanced up from her study of the pretty  lures and looked out over the water. "I don't  see any fish."
  "You will. Trust me. Now you're going to cast the  line out. It's all in the wrist."
  "That's what my father always says about  horseshoes."
  "This is every bit as serious." He moved  surefootedly to her end of the boat.
  "Horseshoes are serious?"
  "Christ, Deanna, don't you know anything?  When a man needs to relax, to unwind, it  doesn't mean he doesn't want 
competition."
  She grinned when he shifted her hands on the  rod. "My father would like you."
  "Sounds like a sensible man. Now keep your  hands firm, wrists supple." He steadied her,  casting the line out so 
that it landed with a quiet plop in  the still waters. Ripples ringed magically around the  lure, spreading, delighting her.
  "I did it!" Beaming, she looked over her  shoulder at Finn. "Okay, you did it, but I  helped."
  "Not bad. You have potential." He took up  his own rod, chose a lure. He cast off  soundlessly, with barely a ripple on 
the lake.  Through Deanna's pleasure came the hot spirit of  competition.
  "I want to do it again."
  "You're supposed to do it again. But you have to reel  it in first."
  Her brow arched. "I knew that."  "Slow," he said, with a hint of a smile as he  demonstrated. "Smooth. Patience is as 
much  an art as casting."
  "So we just sit here, and keep tossing the line  out and bringing it back in?"
  "That's the idea. I get to sit here and look  at you. Which is a pretty good way to spend the  morning. Now if you were 
a man, we'd liven things  up by telling lies--about fish and women."
  Her brow was knitted in concentration as she cast  off again. Her lure did not land soundlessly, but she

enjoyed its celebratory plop. "In  that order, I imagine."
  "Generally, you mix it up. Barlow James and  I once spent six hours out here. I don't  think we told each other a 
single truth."
  "I can lie."
  "Nope. Not with those eyes. I'll make it  easy for you; tell me about your family."
  "I've got three brothers." She stared at  the lure, looking for action. "Two older and one  younger. The older two are 
married, and the youngest is  still in college. Should I, like, move this around or  anything?"
  "No, just relax. Are they all still in  Kansas?"
  "Yeah. My father owns a hardware business, and  my oldest brother went in with him. My mother  keeps the books. 
What are you doing?"
  "Playing this one out," he said calmly as he  reeled in. "He's hooked."
  "You've got one." She leaned forward in the  boat, jerking her line. "Already?"
  "Did you grow up in the city or the  suburbs?"
  "The 'burbs," she said impatiently. "How    come you've got one already? Oh, look!" She  stared, fascinated, as he 
drew the fish out of the  lake. It wriggled, the strengthening sun flashing  off its fins. The fascination remained as he  
netted it and plopped it onto the bottom of the  boat. "You must have used a better lure than  mine," she said as Finn 
removed it and laid the  fish on ice.
  "Want to trade?"
  The stubborn line creased her brow. "No."  She studied him as he cast off again. Determined,  she reeled in, shifted 
positions, then cast off  the opposite side of the boat with more enthusiasm  than style.
  When Finn only grinned at her, she put her  nose in the air. "What about your family?"
  "I don't have any to speak of. My parents  divorced when I was fifteen. I was the only child.  They're both lawyers." 
He braced his rod so  that he could uncap the thermos of coffee and pour for  both of them. "They buried each other 
under a very  civilized mountain of papers, and agreed to split  everything fifty-fifty. Including me."
  "I'm sorry."
  "What for?" It wasn't a bitter question, but a

simple one. "Family ties don't  run strong in the Rileys. We each have our own  life, and prefer it that way."
  "I don't mean to criticize, but that sounds  awfully cold."
  "It is cold." He sipped coffee and  absorbed the quiet pleasure of the chilly morning  with the sun breaking over the 
water. "It's also  practical. We don't have anything in common but  blood. Why pretend otherwise?"
  She didn't know how to respond. She was far  away from her family, but the connection was there, always  there. 
"They must be proud of you."
  "I'm sure they're pleased that the money they  spent on my education wasn't wasted. Don't  look like that." He 
reached out and patted her  ankle. "I wasn't traumatized or scarred.  The fact is, it's been a plus careerwise.  If you 
don't have roots, you don't have to keep  ripping them out every time you get an assignment."
  Perhaps there was no need to feel sympathy for the  man, but she couldn't prevent it spreading in her  for the boy 
he'd been. "Roots don't have to hold  you back," she said quietly. "Not if you know how  to transplant them."
  "Kansas?"
  "Yes?"
  "You've got a bite."
  "I've got--oh!" Her line tugged again.  If Finn hadn't reached out and held her still, she  would have leaped up and 
capsized them. "What do I  do? I forgot. Wait, wait," she said, before he  could reply. "I want to do it myself."
  Brow puckered in concentration, she turned the  reel, feeling the resistance as the fish fought  back. There was a 
moment when she felt an urge  to release it. Then the line went taut, and the spirit of  competition overwhelmed 
everything else.
  When she finally dropped the catch awkwardly in  the bottom of the boat, she shouted with laughter.  "He's bigger 
than yours."
  "Maybe."
  She slapped Finn's hand aside before he could  remove the lure. "I'll do it."
  With the sun rising higher in the east, they grinned  at each other over a five-pound trout.

  They carried four fish back to the cabin with them.  Two apiece. Deanna had argued hotly for a  tie breaker, but Finn 
had started the motor. You

didn't catch more than you could eat,  he'd told her as he cleaned them.
  "That was great." Still revved, Deanna spun  around the kitchen. "Really great. I feel like a  pioneer. Are we going to 
have fish for lunch?"
  "Sure. We'll fry some up. Let me  beef up the fire in the living room first."
  "I really thought it would be boring," she said,  following him in. "I mean that in a good way."  Laughing, she combed 
a hand through her hair. "But it  was exciting, too. I don't know.  Satisfying." She laughed again.
  "You've got a knack for it." Finn added  another log, sat back on his heels. "We can  go out for a couple hours 
tomorrow morning before we head  back."
  "I'd like that." She watched the firelight dance  over his forearm as he prodded the quiet flames  into a roar. His 
profile was to her, relaxed, his  eyes dark as they stared into the fire. His hair  fell over his brow, curled above the 
collar of his  shirt. "I'm glad you brought me here."
  He looked over his shoulder, smiled. "So am  I."
  "Not just for the fishing lesson."
  His smile faded, but his eyes stayed on hers.  "I know."
  "You brought me here to get me away from the  papers, and the talk, and the ugliness." She looked  past him, into 
the fire, where the flames were rising.  "You haven't asked me any more questions."
  He laid down the poker and turned to face  her. "Did you want me to?"
  "I don't know." She tried for a smile.  "What question would you ask?"
  He asked the one that had kept him restless through  the night. "Are you afraid of me?"
  She hesitated. "A little," she heard herself  say. "More afraid of what you can make me  feel."
  He glanced back at the fire. "I won't  pressure you, Deanna. Nothing happens between us  that you don't want." He 
looked back at her  now, his eyes dark, intense. "I promise."
  Rather than relaxing, the tension coiled in her  stomach; his words, and her certainty that he would  keep them, 
balled it tighter. "It's not that kind  of fear, Finn. It's ... seductive."
  The look in his eyes made her body yearn.  She turned away quickly so that she could say it

all, say it quickly. "Because of what  happened, I've never been able to get back what  I lost. Until you." She turned 
back  slowly. The nerves were vicious. She could feel  her heart pounding strong and hard in her breast. "I  think, until 
you. And I'm afraid of that. And  afraid that I might spoil it."
  Though he stood, he didn't approach her.  "Whatever happens between us happens to and because of both  of us. 
It'll wait until you're ready."
  She looked down at her hands, linked tight in  front of her. "I'd like to ask you a question."
  "All right."
  "Are you afraid of me?"
  She stood there, lashes concealing her eyes,  slim and fragile-looking in the oversized shirt.  A log shifted lazily 
behind him and sent out a  short, small burst of sparks.
  "Deanna, I've never been so afraid of  anything in my life as I am of you, and what you can  make me feel."
  Her lashes lifted then. And she was no longer  so fragile, not with her eyes huge and smoky,  her lips softly curved. 
The first step toward him  was the hardest. Then it was easy, to walk to him,  to slip her arms around him, to rest her 
head on his  shoulder.
  "I couldn't have asked for a better answer.  Finn, I don't want to lose what I'm  feeling right now." When he didn't 
move, she  looked up, lifted her hands to his chest. "I  don't think I will if you make love with me."
  Of all the emotions he'd expected to feel,  alarm was the last. Yet it was alarm that came first,  swiftly, 
overpoweringly, as she looked up at  him with trust and doubt warring in her eyes.  "There's no pressure here, 
Deanna."
  "There is. Not from you. In me." Was that his heart  racing under her palm? she wondered. How could it be  beating 
so fast when he was watching her so calmly,  when his hands were so light on her shoulders. "I  need you."
  It wasn't merely desire that stabbed through him  at the words. There was something sharper and hotter fused  with 
it. His hands slid from her shoulders to her face,  cupping it as he lowered his mouth to hers.
  "I won't hurt you."
  "I know," she said, but trembled nonetheless.  "I'm not afraid of that."
  "Yes, you are." And he regretted that,

bitterly. "But you won't be." He  promised that, fiercely. "You only have to tell  me to stop."
  "I won't." There was determination in her eyes  again. He swore to himself he would change it  to pleasure.
  Her mouth went dry when he unbuttoned her  shirt. Slowly, his eyes on hers, he peeled  away the first layer, cast it 
aside. Then  smiled. "This is going to take a while."
  Her laugh bubbled out, nervous and shaky.  "I've got plenty of time."
  Her eyes closed, her mouth lifted to his.  It was right, so simply, so easily right to press  her body to his, to lift her 
arms and take him  to her. She shivered again when he tugged the  turtleneck away. But it wasn't from cold.  Nor was 
it from fear. Still her breath caught when he  lifted her into his arms and laid her on the thick  pelt of the hearthrug.
  "I don't want you to think of anything but me."  He kissed her again, lingered over it before sitting  back to tug off her 
boots. "No one but me."
  "No, I'm not. I can't."
  Sun and firelight danced over her closed  lids. She listened to it hiss and spark, heard the  rustle as he removed his 
own shirt, pried off his  boots. Then he was beside her, gently stroking her  face until she opened her eyes and looked 
at  him.
  "I wanted you from the first moment I saw you."  She smiled, willing herself to relax, to beat  back those little frissons 
of doubt. "Almost a  year ago."
  "Longer." His lips toyed with hers, warmed  them, waited for hers to respond. "You came  running into the 
newsroom. You headed straight for  your desk, then you pulled back your hair with this  red ribbon and started beating 
out copy. It was a  few days before I left for London." He  skimmed a hand over the insulating silk covering  her torso, 
barely touching her, hinting only of  what could be. "I watched you for a while. It was like  someone had hit me with a 
hammer. All those months  later, I saw you standing on the tarmac in the  rain."
  "And you kissed me."
  "I'd saved it up for six months."
  "Then you stole my story."
  "Yeah." He grinned, then lowered his mouth to her  curved lips. "And now I've got  you."
  She stiffened instinctively when his hand slipped  under the silk. But he didn't grope, didn't  rush. In moments, the 
easy caress of his fingers  on her skin had her muscles loosening. When they  slid up to circle her breast, her body 
curved  to welcome them.
  Like warm rain, this pleasure was soft and quiet  and soothing. She accepted it, absorbed it, then  ached for it, as he 
slowly undressed her.
  The heat from the fire radiated out, but she felt  only his hands, molding gently, exploring,  arousing. His touch 
lingered, then moved on, lighting  flames in which those tiny raindrops of pleasure  began to sizzle. When she 
trembled now, she  trembled from the heat. And her breath strangled in  her throat.
  He no longer felt the beast clawing at him.  There was a sweetness here, and a power. He knew as  his lips roamed 
from hers down to the swell of her  breasts that she was his, as completely, as  absolutely as if they had been lovers 
for  years.
  Her body was like water in his hands, rising and  falling with the tide of pleasure they brought to each  other. He 
heard the wind scraping at the windows,  the spit of the fire in the hearth. And the sound of his  name whispering from 
her lips.
  He knew he could make her float, as she was  floating now, her eyes like smoke and her  muscles like warmed wax. 
And he knew he had  only to inch her higher, just a bit higher, to watch  her break through those clouds into the storm.
  She felt his teeth scrape over her hip,  and the hand she was stroking through his hair went taut.  Heat coiled hot in 
her belly as his tongue  streaked over her. She shook her head to refuse  it, to will away the sudden, uncontrollable  
quivering. Then the furnace of pressure built  so quickly. She writhed, struggling toward it,  struggling away. She tried 
to call out, to tell  him to wait, to give her a moment to prepare. But  the pleasure geysered through her, spurting 
molten  through her system.
  He watched the instant of frantic denial, the  stunned panic, the mindless pleasure. Everything  she felt echoed 
inside him. As breathless as she,  he levered himself over her, raining kisses over her  glowing face until she was 
wrapped around him,  until her movements grew frantic and  his own churning need demanded release.
  "Look at me." He fought the words out of his  burning throat. "Look at me."
  And when she did, when their eyes met, held,  he slipped inside her. Slowly, his hands fisted  in the rug as if he 
could grip control there, he  lowered to her, felt her rise to meet him until  they moved together silkily.
  When her lips curved, he pressed his face  to her throat and took them both over the edge.
            Chapter Sixteen

  Still dreaming, she turned to him, and he was there.  Arms moving to enfold her, body ready  to possess her. As the 
warm light of dawn slid  lazily into the room, they joined again. Rhythm  fluid, flesh warm, passions met. It was so  
easy, so effortless, to glide together, without hurry,  without thought, while the air throbbed as steady as a  pulse.
  The ebb and flow of their bodies, the movement of  sex as simple as breathing, had her lips curving  before they met 
his in a long, deep, dusky kiss.
  When their needs peaked, as gentle as the morning,  she sighed out his name and drifted from dream to reality  to 
find him still pulsing inside her, a second  heartbeat.
  "Finn." She spoke again, smiling into the    quiet morning light. The cross he wore  pressed against her skin, just 
below her heart.
  "Hmmm?"
  "This is an even better way to start the day  than fishing."
  He chuckled, nuzzling at her neck.  "Yesterday morning all I could think about was  crawling into this bed with you."
  Her smile spread. "Well, you're here  now."
  "It seems I am." He lifted his head,  studying her as he toyed with the hair at her  temple. Her eyes were big and 
sleepy, her  skin glowing with that translucent polish that was the  afflush of good sex. "We overslept."
  "No." Delighted with how easy it was, she  ran her hands down his back to the taut skin of his  buttocks. "We slept 
perfect.
Absolutely perfect."
  "You know ..." He cupped her breast, rubbing  his thumb over the nipple and watching her lips part  on an unsteady 
breath. "I was going to teach you how  to fly-fish this morning."
  At his gentle tug, fresh arousal settled in  her belly. "Were you?"
  "A dry fly-fisherman is the aristocrat of  angling. It takes ... a master's touch."
  She turned her head when he lowered his mouth

to her throat. "I could learn."
  "I think you could." He scraped his teeth over  the pulse that fluttered like bird wings. There was  nothing, he 
decided, more erotic than feeling a  woman open herself to pleasure. "I believe you have  unlimited potential."
  She sighed, tightening in response as he  hardened inside her. "I always want to be the  best. It's probably a flaw."
  "I don't think so," he murmured. She  arched to meet him, already shuddering over the first peak.  "It's definitely a 
virtue."

  "Deanna, why would a sharp woman like you  continue this sentimental attachment to a loser?"
  "It's not sentimental." Deanna sniffed as  she unlocked the door to her apartment. "It's a very  practical, very logical 
loyalty. The Cubs  are going to surprise everyone this year."
  "Yeah, right." After indulging in a snort,  Finn followed her inside. "It would be a  surprise if they managed to crawl 
out of the  basement. When's the last time the Cubs came  close?"
  That stung. "That's not the point." Her voice,  despite her best intentions, was very prim. "They  have heart."
  "Too bad they don't have bats."
  She stuck her nose in the air and turned to her  answering machine. "Excuse me. I have to check  my messages."
  "No problem." Grinning, he dropped down  on the couch. "We can finish this later. I  probably didn't mention that I 
was captain of the  debate team in college. And this is one I  can't lose."
  To show her disdain, she stabbed the Play  button.
  "Deanna, Cassie. Sorry to bother you at  home--even if you're not there. We've got a  couple of changes in Monday's 
schedule.  I'll just fax them to you. If you have any questions, you  know where to reach me. And, oh hell, we've had a  
lot of calls on the tabloid article. I've  screened a lot of them out, but if you want  to respond, I have a list of reporters 
you may  want to agree to speak with. I'll be in most of the  weekend. Call if you want me to set something  up."
  "She never asked any questions," Deanna

murmured. "No one at the office  asked any questions at all."
  "They know you."
  She nodded, switching off the machine for a moment.  "You know, Finn, as hard as the job can be, as much  energy 
as it demands, I wake up some mornings  with the feeling that I've fallen into clover."
  "If you ask me, making a living out of chatting  for an hour a day smells more like gravy."
  That made her smile a little. "You handle the  earthquakes. I'll handle the heartaches."
  He tugged off his jacket. "It's a shame  to waste all those brains."
  "I'm not wasting them," she began hotly.  "I'm--" But she caught the glint in his eye and  stopped. He was only trying 
to draw her in again.  "No thanks, captain. I'm not going to debate  you." She turned back to the answering machine,  
stopped again. "Do you ever worry that someone's going  to take it all away from you? Tell you one day that  it's over, 
that there'll be no more cameras?"
  "No." His confidence, the easy arrogance of it,  made her smile widen. "And neither should you." He  tipped her chin 
up, kissed her. "You're  terrific at fluff."
  "Shut up, Finn." She stabbed the Play  button again, then scribbled down the brief  message from Simon on a 
potential hitch on  tomorrow's show, another from Fran telling her the hitch  had been diverted. She waited through 
the blank  tape on a delayed hang-up, then gritted her  teeth over three calls from reporters who'd  managed to 
wangle her unlisted number.
  "You all right?" Finn came up behind her to rub  the tension from her shoulders.
  "Yes." She indulged herself a moment by leaning  back against him. "I'm fine. I have to decide  whether to refuse to 
comment or to draft a statement.  I guess I don't want to think about it yet."
  "Then don't."
  "Playing ostrich won't make it go away."  She straightened, stepped aside to stand on her  own. "I want to make the 
right decision. I  hate making mistakes."
  "Then you've got two choices. You react  emotionally, or you react like a reporter."
  Her brow creased as she thought it through. "Or I  combine the two," she said softly. "I've been  thinking about doing 
a show on date rape. I kept  pulling back because I thought I was too close.

But maybe I'm just close enough."
  "Why would you put yourself through that, Deanna?"  "Because I've been through it. Because men like  Jamie walk 
away from it. And because ..." She  let out a long breath that threatened to catch in her  throat. "I'm tired of being 
ashamed that I  didn't do anything about it. I've got a chance  to make up for that now."
  "It'll hurt you."
  "Not the way it once did." She reached for him  then. "Not anymore."
  His grip on her tightened. Damn it, he  needed to protect her. And she needed to stand on her  own. The one thing 
he could do was track down  Jamie Thomas and have a nice, long ... chat.  "If you decide to do the show, let me 
know. I  want to be there if I can."
  "Okay." She tilted her head back to kiss  him before drawing away. "Why don't I open some  wine? Let's forget about 
all this for a while."
  She needed to. He could see the tension  creeping back, like a thief, into her eyes. "As  long as you're going to let 
me stay. And this time I  won't fall asleep on the couch."
  "I won't give you the chance," she told him,  and walked into the kitchen.
  Out of habit, he moved to the television first,  switching it on just as the late news began. He  turned toward the 
couch, intending to take his boots  off and put his feet up. He spotted the  envelope lying on the rug just inside the 
door.
  "I've got some chips." Deanna carried out  a tray and set it on the coffee table. "The  drive gave me an appetite." Her 
smile  froze when she spotted the envelope in his hand.  "Where did you get that?"
  "It was inside the door." He'd started  to hold it out to her, but drew it back now. She'd  gone pale. "What's the 
problem?"
  "It's nothing." Annoyed with herself, she shook  off the vague, niggling fear. "It's silly,  that's all." Trying to convince 
them both she was  unconcerned, she took the envelope and split it  open.

  Deanna,
            nothing they say would
         ever change my feelings.
         I know it's all a lie
         I'll always believe you.
          I'll always love you.

  "A shy fan," she said with a shrug that came off  as more of a defensive jerk. "Who needs to get a  life."
  Finn took the sheet from her, scanned it.  "Response to the tabloids, I'd say."
  "Looks like." But the anonymous faith  didn't cheer her.
  "I take it you've gotten one of these before."  "I'd have a whole collection if I'd kept  them." She picked up her glass of 
wine.  "They've been coming on and off for a year."
  "A year?" He looked at her, his eyes  intense. "Like this?"
  "Here, at the newsroom, at my office."  She moved her shoulders again, restless. "Always the  same format and 
same type of message."
  "Have you reported it?"
  "To whom? The police?" Whatever unease  she'd felt vanished in a laugh. "Why? What  could I tell them? Officer, 
I've been receiving  anonymous love letters. Call out the dogs."
  "A year makes it more than harmless love  letters. It makes it obsession. Obsessions are  not healthy."
  "I don't think a dozen or so sappy  notes over a year constitutes an obsession.  It's just someone who watches me 
on TV,  Finn, or who works in the building. Someone who's  attracted to the image but too shy to approach me  in 
person for an autograph." She thought about the  calls, those silent messages in the middle of the  night. And that he 
had been able to slip a note  under her door. "It's a little spooky, but it's not  threatening."
  "I don't like it."
  She took his hand to draw him down on the couch  with her. "It's just your reporter's instinct working  on overdrive." 
Because his mouth was much more  intoxicating, she set the wine aside. "Of  course, if you want to be a little jealous 
..."
  Her eyes were laughing at him. Finn smiled  back, letting her set the mood. But he thought

about the single sheet of paper lying open  on the coffee table, its message of devotion as  red as blood.

  "Not one statement." Angela chuckled to herself  and stretched on her stomach over the pink satin  sheets of her big 
bed. The television was on, and  newspapers and magazines littered the floor  around her.
  It was a beautiful room, majestic and  museum-like with its curved and gilded antiques and  fussy, feminine flounces. 
One of the maids had  griped to a friend that she was surprised there wasn't  a velvet rope across the door and a 
charge for  admission.
  There were mirrors on every wall, oval and  square and oblong, reflecting both the taste  she'd purchased and her 
own image.
  The only colors other than the gold and wood  tones were pink and white, a candy cane she could  savor in long, 
greedy licks.
  There were banks of roses, dewy fresh, so that  she never had to breathe without drawing in the rich,  satisfying 
scent she equated with success. At  the head of the giltwood bed was a mountain of  pillows, all slick silks and frothy 
lace.  She tapped her pink-tipped toes against them, and  gloated.
  Near the bed was a fauteuil, where she had  carelessly tossed one of her many negligees.
  Once, long ago, she had envied others their  beautiful possessions. She had, as a child, as a  young woman, stared 
through shop windows and wished. Now  she owned, or could own, whatever she desired.
  Whomever.
  Naked, his subtle muscles gleaming, Dan  Gardner straddled her hips and rubbed fragrant  oil into her back and 
shoulders.
  "It's been over a week," she reminded him,  "and she hasn't made a peep."
  "Do you want me to contact Jamie Thomas?"  "Hmmm." Angela stretched luxuriously  under his hands. She was 
feeling pampered and  victorious. And calm, beautifully calm.  "Go ahead, and tell him to keep talking  to reporters, 
maybe expand on the story a bit.  Remind him that if he doesn't make enough trouble  for our little Dee, we'll have to 
leak the story about his  love affair with China White."
  "That should do it." Dan admired the body under his

as much, or nearly as much, as he  admired Angela's mind. "If it comes out  he's earmarking business funds for 
cocaine, his  career will bottom out. Even if it is in  Daddy's firm."
  "Remind him of that if he balks. Rich  boy's going to pay," she murmured. She would have  hated him for being born 
into wealth and privilege and  squandering it all on a weakness like drugs. But the  pathetic way he'd folded after her 
first threat  made her despise him.
  "Oh, and send a case of Dom Perignon  to Beeker." Angela examined her nails,  scowling at a minute flaw in the 
candy-pink  polish. "He did a good job. But keep him  on the case. If we find enough of the dirt our little  Dee's 
brushed under the rug, we can bury her in  it."
  "I love your mind, Angela." And aroused  by it, he bit her sharply on the shoulder. "It's  so beautifully twisted."
  "I don't give a damn what you think of my  mind." With a low chuckle, she levered herself so that  he could slip his 
oil-slicked hands over her  breasts. "And in this case it's focused straight  and true. However it happened, she's 
sneaking up  in the ratings. I'm not going to allow that, Dan, not  after she betrayed my friendship. So you just keep--"  
She scrambled suddenly to her knees, letting out  a howl of protest as a clip of Deanna and  Finn rolled over the 
screen.
  "In other entertainment news," the announcer  continued, "talk-show star Deanna Reynolds  accompanied CBC 
foreign correspondent  Finn Riley to a National Press Club  banquet in Chicago, where Riley was honored  for his 
work during the Gulf War. The inside word  is that Riley, America's Desert Hunk,  is considering an offer to head a 
weekly news  magazine for CBC. Riley had no comment about the  project, or his personal relationship with  
Chicago's darling Deanna."
  "No!" Angela exploded from the bed, a  compact, golden missile detonating. "I  took her in. I offered her 
opportunities,  gave her my affection. And she moves in on  me."
  She stalked naked to an open bottle of  champagne and poured lavishly. There were tears, as  genuine and as 
painful as her bitterness, stinging her

eyes.
  "And that son of a bitch turned on me, too."  In one violent gesture, she tossed the sparkling  wine back. Its heat 
burst into her stomach like  love. "He turned on me, and he turned  to her. To her. Because she's younger." Enraged, 
and  suddenly frightened when she saw the glass was  empty, she hurled it toward the television. It  slapped the 
corner of the cabinet and sliced  delicately in two. "She's nothing. Less  than nothing. A pretty face and a tight body.  
Anybody can have those. She won't keep Finn.  He'll shake her off, and so will the viewers."  She dashed the tears 
aside with a vicious hand, but  her mouth continued to tremble. "They'll want me.  They always want me."
  "She can't come close to you, Angela." Dan  approached her slowly, making sure his eyes were  filled with 
understanding and desire. "You're the best  there is. In public." Gently, he turned her  so that they faced the full-length 
mirror. "In  private," he murmured, watching her watching his  hands caress. "You're so beautiful. She's  built like a 
boy, but you ... You're a woman."
  Desperate for reassurance, she clasped her  hands over his, tightening her grip until he  squeezed her breasts 
painfully. "I need to be  wanted, Dan. I need to know people want me. I  can't survive without that."
  "They do. I do." He was used to her  outbursts, accustomed to her neediness. And he  knew how to use both to his 
advantage. "When  I see you on the set, so cool, so controlled,  you dazzle me." He slipped his hand between her  
thighs, patiently stroking until she was damp,  until she quivered. Until he did. "And I  can hardly wait until I can get 
you alone, like  this."
  Her breath grew shallow, but her vision was  clear, focused hard on the glass as his busy  hands worked over her. 
The flavor of champagne was  still on her tongue, making her yearn for more.  Crave more. She swallowed it and 
concentrated on  what she saw in the glass.
  "You'd do anything for me."
  "Anything."
  "And to me."
  He laughed. He knew where the power was. The  more she needed, the more she plotted, the more she placed  in 
his hands. And the truth was, sex with Angela was

like a dark, violent ride into an  irresistible hell.
  "What do you want me to do, Angela?"  "Take me here, right here, so I can watch."
  He laughed again. She was quivering like a bitch  in heat, her eyes riveted on her own body.  Her vanity, the pathetic 
insecurity of it, was one  more hold he had on her. But when he started  to shift, she shoved him back.
  "No." She could barely breathe now. Her  full white breasts still carried the angry red  marks from his hands. She 
wanted them there, wanted  them as proof that she was desired. "From behind. Like an  animal."
  His mouth watered at the image. His erection  ached like a wound. Desperate to take, he shoved  her roughly to her 
knees. Eyes feral, teeth  bared, she watched him crouch over her. He jerked  her head back by the hair, hissing when 
she growled  low in her throat.
  "I won't stop. Even if you beg."
  "Fuck me." Her smile glinted like a  sword already bloodied. "And when you're done,  we're going to find a new way 
to make her  pay."
  "Watch." He held her head still with one hand.  "I want you to watch."
  He drove himself into her viciously, the blood  all but bursting in his veins when she cried out in  pain and shock and 
greedy pleasure. His fingers  dug hard into her hips while he rammed inside  her again and again until the sweat ran 
off both of  them like rain, and his vision dimmed.
  But hers stayed clear. She saw the blood on  her lip where her teeth had dug in, the sheen of  sweat and tears on 
her face. And as the horrible,  loveless orgasm slammed through the agony and need,  Dan's face dissolved into 
Finn's. And she  smiled as he cried out her name and shuddered,  shuddered, shuddered.
  She was wanted. She was desired. She was the  best.

  "Deanna, are you sure you want to do this?"  Fran nibbled on her thumbnail, a habit  she'd broken years before, as 
she stood beside  Deanna's desk.
  "Absolutely sure." She continued to sign  the outgoing mail. Her signature was quick and neat  and automatic. "It's a 
show I want to do.

How many carts did we get back?"
  Fran frowned down at the forms in her hand, the  carts they passed to the audience after each  program. These had 
been typed simply: Do you  know of anyone who has experienced date rape?  Is this a topic you would be willing to 
discuss on  Deanna's Hour?
  There was room for comments, for names and phone  numbers. Out of the two hundred carts Fran had  surveyed, 
she had chosen only two.
  "These are the ones I thought you should see."  Reluctantly, Fran laid them on the desk.  "It's going to be painful for 
you, Deanna."
  "I can handle it."
  She skimmed the first cart, then went back and  read each word again.
  He said I asked for it. I didn't. He  said it was my own fault. I'm not sure. I'd  like to try to talk about it, but I don't know 
if I  can.
  Setting the cart aside, she reached for the  second.
  It was my first date after my divorce. It  was three years ago, and I haven't been with a  man since. I'm still afraid, but 
I trust you.
  "Two women," Deanna murmured. Yes,  it was painful. There was a tight, angry fist  lodged in her chest. "Right out 
of the studio  audience. How many more, Fran? How many more are out  there wondering if it was their fault? How 
many more are  afraid?"
  "I can't stand to see you hurt this way. You know  if you do this, you're going to have to bring up Jamie  Thomas."
  "I know that. I've already run it by Legal."  "And if he sues?"
  Deanna sighed, barely refrained from rubbing  her eyes and smearing makeup. She hadn't  slept well--and with Finn 
in Moscow, she'd  slept alone. But it hadn't been doubt keeping  her wakeful. It had been anticipation.
  "Then he sues. To encapsulate what I  got from Legal, he's already gone public with his  version. Since it's a matter 
of his word against  mine, I'm going public with my version. I could  have done so in a dozen interviews since the  
tabloids hit. Two dozen," she corrected,  with a grim smile. "I prefer to do it this way,  my way, on my own show."
  "You know the press will jump all over it."

  "I know." She was calm now, dead  calm. "That's why we're going to schedule it  during the May sweeps."
  "Jesus, Dee--"
  "I'm going public with this, Fran, and I    hope to God even one woman who watches is  helped by what I'm doing." 
She used the heels  of her hands to rub the dampness from her cheek. "And  by Christ, I'm going to kill the 
competition in the  ratings while I'm at it."

  Deanna's nerves were steady as stone before the  show. In her precise manner, she had gone over  her scripted 
question cards while Marcie put the  finishing touches on her makeup. Prepared, even  eager, she swiveled in her 
chair toward Loren  Bach.
  "Now, are you here to observe, Loren, or  to offer advice?"
  "Some of both." He folded his long, white  fingers together. "As you know, I don't make it a  habit to interfere with the 
content of the show."
  "I do know that, and I appreciate it."  "But I do make a habit out of protecting  my people." He sat silently a moment, 
gathering his  thoughts while he studied the orderly room filled  with stacks of newspapers, magazines, all  current, a 
shelf of neatly marked videos that  could be slipped into the VCR for viewing. The room  smelled lightly of cosmetics 
and lotions.  Feminine, yes, he mused, but also tools of the  trade. The dressing room was as much a work  space as 
her office.
  "It's possible for you to do this show, and do an  excellent job, without bringing your personal  experience into it."
  "Possible, yes." She rose then to close the  door Marcie had left open. "Are you asking  me to do that, Loren?"
  "No. I'm reminding you of it."
  "Then I'll remind you that I'm part of the show,  not just a host. An intimate part; that's what    makes it work for me 
and, I think, for the viewing  audience."
  He smiled, and his eyes remained keen. She  looked polished and poised, he mused. "I  wouldn't argue with that. 
But Deanna, if you have any  doubts about what you're doing, there is no need to go  ahead."
  "I don't have doubts, Loren. I have fears.

I think, at least I hope, that facing  them is the answer. You may have concerns that Jamie  Thomas will try some sort 
of legal  retribution, but--"
  Loren waved that away. "I have lawyers to deal  with that. In any case, it seems the brunt of the  publicity backfired 
on him. He is, at the  moment, on an extended vacation in Europe."
  "Oh, I see." She took a deep breath.  "Well then."
  "You don't mind if I stay to watch the show?"  He rose as she did.
  "I'd appreciate it." On impulse she  leaned forward and kissed his cheek. When he blinked  in surprise, she smiled. 
"That wasn't for my  business associate. It was for your support."
  When she opened the door, she found herself  instantly scooped up into Finn's arms.
  "You're supposed to be in Moscow."  "I'm back." He'd pulled every string he could  grab to arrive in Chicago in time 
for the show. "You  look good, Kansas. How do you feel?"
  "Shaky." She pressed a hand to her stomach.  "Ready."
  "You'll be fine." He kept an arm around her  shoulders and nodded to Loren. "Good to see you."
  "And you. You can keep me company while  Deanna goes to work."
  "Fine." Finn walked Deanna toward the  set. "Working tonight?"
  "I have a network dinner at seven. But I  think I can get out by ten."
  "Want to come by my place?"
  "Yes." She gripped his hand, hard. The  closer she got to the set, the more her stomach  twisted. She shot one look 
at Fran, braced  herself. "Like diving into a cold pool."
  "What?"
  She forced a smile as she glanced up at  Finn. "Just some advice I got once. See  you in an hour, huh?"
  "I'll be here."
  Deanna took her place with the three women  already fidgeting onstage. She spoke quietly  to each one of them, 
then miked, waited for her cue.
  Music. Applause. The objective red  eye of the camera.
  "Welcome to Deanna's Hour. Our show  today deals with a painful subject. Rape in any  form is tragic and horrible. It 
takes on a

different dimension when the victim knows and  trusts her attacker. Every woman on this stage  has been a victim of 
what is called date,  or acquaintance, rape. And we all have a story  to tell. When it happened to me nearly ten years  
ago, I did nothing. I hope I'm doing  something now."

           Chapter Seventeen

  To celebrate Deanna's first year on the  air, Loren Bach threw a party in his penthouse  overlooking Lake Michigan. 
Over the low  music and chink of glasses, voices buzzed.  Faintly, from the adjoining game room, came the  beeps 
and bells of video games.
  In addition to the staff of the show and CBC and  Delacort executives, he had invited a  handful of carefully selected 
columnists and  reporters. The publicity on Deanna since  the May sweeps showed no sign of abating.  Loren had no 
intention of allowing it to.
  While the ratings climbed, so did the  advertising revenue. As Chicago's darling  rapidly became America's darling,  
Deanna's growing celebrity opened the doors  to booking stellar names who breezed on the show  to hype their hot 
summer movies and concert tours.  She continued to mix the famous with segments on  dealing with jealous spouses, 
choosing the right  swimwear and computer dating.
  The result was a carefully crafted show with an  appealing, casual, homey look. Deanna was  at the core, as 
awestruck as her audience by the  appearance of a glamorous movie star, as amused  as they by the notion of 
choosing a mate with a machine,  as wary and unnerved as any woman of stripping  down to a bikini on a public 
beach.
  The girl-next-door image drew the  audience. The sharp, practical mind behind it  structured the vision.
  "Looks like you made it, kid."
  Deanna smiled at Roger as she kissed his  cheek. "Through the first year, anyway."
  "Hey, in this business that's a minor  miracle." He chose a baby carrot from his  buffet plate and bit in with a sigh. 
He'd put  on a few pounds over the past months. The  camera gleefully advertised every ounce. "Too  bad Finn 
couldn't be here."

  "The Soviets would pick my  anniversary to stage a coup." She tried not  to worry about Finn, back in Moscow.
  "Have you heard from him?"
  "Not for a couple of days. I saw him on the  news. Speaking of which, I caught your new  promo. Very sharp."
  "Our news team is your news team," Roger  said in his announcer's voice. "Keeping  Chicago informed."
  "You and your new partner have a nice rhythm."  "She's all right." He switched to celery,  found it just as bland. 
"Good voice, good face. But  she doesn't get my jokes."
  "Rog, nobody gets your jokes."  "You did."
  "No." She patted his cheek. "I pretended  I did, because I love you."
  There was a quick pinch around his heart. "We still  miss you around the newsroom."
  "I miss you too, Roger. I'm sorry about  you and Debbie."
  He shrugged, but the wounds of his recent  divorce were still tender. "You know what they say,  Dee. Shit happens. 
Maybe I'll be  looking into that computer dating."
  She gave a snort of laughter and squeezed  his hand. "I have one word of advice on that.  Don't."
  "Well, since Finn's busy hopping all  over the globe, maybe you'd be interested in a  stable, slightly older man."
  She would have laughed again, but she wasn't  entirely sure he was joking. "There happens  to be this stable, 
slightly older man whose friendship  means a lot to me."
  "Hi, Dee."
  "Jeff."
  "I saw you didn't have a glass, and thought you  might like some champagne."
  "Thanks. You never miss a detail. I  pulled a coup of my own when I stole Jeff  away from the news department," she 
told Roger.  "We'd never get Deanna's Hour on the  air without him."
  He beamed with pleasure. "I just pick up the  loose ends."
  "And tie them up in a bow."  "Excuse me." Barlow James slipped behind  Deanna and circled her waist with his arm. 
"I

need to steal the star for a moment, gentlemen.  You're looking fit, Roger."
  "Thanks, Mr. James." With a wan  smile, Roger held up another carrot.  "I'm working on it."
  "I won't keep her long," Barlow  promised, and led Deanna toward the open  terrace doors. "You look more than fit," 
he  commented. "You look luminous."
  She laughed. "I'm working on it."
  "I believe I have something that might add to the  glow. Finn contacted me this morning."
  Relief came one heartbeat before pleasure.  "How is he?"
  "In his element."
  "Yes." She looked out at the lake, where  pale fingers of moonlight nudged past clouds  to brush the water. The 
silhouettes of boats  rocked gently in the current. "I suppose he  is."
  "You know, between the two of us, we might be able  to apply enough pressure to convince him to do that news  
magazine and keep his butt in Chicago."
  "I can't." Though she wished she could. "He  has to do what suits him best."
  "Don't we all," Barlow said with a sigh.  "Now, I've dulled some of that glow. This should  bring it back." He took a 
long slim box from  his inside jacket pocket. "Finn asked me  to pick this up for you. Something he had made before 
he  was called away. I'm to tell you he's sorry  he can't give it to you himself."
  She said nothing as she stared at its contents. The  bracelet was delicately fashioned of oval  gold links, cut to catch 
the light and joined together  by the rainbow hue of multicolored gems.  Emerald, sapphire, ruby, tourmaline fired  and 
flashed in the moonlight. At the center a  filigreed D and R flanked a brilliant  array of sizzling diamonds that shaped a 
star.
  "The star's self-explanatory, I  believe," Barlow told her. "It's    to commemorate your first year. We're confident  
there'll be many more."
  "It's beautiful."
  "Like the woman it was made for," Barlow said,  slipping it from the box to clasp it around her wrist.  "The boy 
certainly has taste. You know,  Deanna, we need a strong hour on Tuesday  nights. You may not feel comfortable 
using your

influence to persuade him to fill it. But
I do." He winked and, patting her shoulder,  left her alone.
  "You're too damn far away," she said  quietly, rubbing a fingertip over the bracelet.
  She had so much that she wanted, she reminded  herself. So much that she'd worked toward. So why was she  still 
so unsettled? Very much like the boats on the  water below, she mused. Anchored, yes, but still  shifting, still tugging 
against the tide.
  Her show was rapidly becoming national. But she  had yet to select a new apartment. She was  enjoying national 
exposure in the media, most of it  flattering. And she was standing alone at a party  thrown in her honor, feeling lost 
and discontented.
  For the first time in her life her professional  goals and personal ones seemed out of balance.  She knew exactly 
what she wanted for her  career, and could see the steps toward achieving it so  clearly. She felt capable and 
confident when she  thought of pushing Deanna's Hour to the top of the  market. And whenever she stood in front of 
the  audience, the camera on and focused, she felt  incredibly alive, completely in control, with just  enough giddy 
pleasure thrown in to make it all a  continual thrill.
  She wasn't taking success for granted, for  she knew too well the caprices of  television. But she knew that if the 
show was canceled  tomorrow, she would pick up, go on and start over.
  Her personal needs weren't so clear-cut,  nor was the route she wanted to take. Did she  want the traditional home 
and marriage and  family? If it was possible to mix that kind of  ideal with a high-powered and demanding career, she 
would  find a way.
  Or did she want what she had now? A  place of her own, a satisfying yet strangely  independent relationship with a 
fascinating man. A  man she was madly in love with, she admitted.  And who, though the words hadn't been said, she 
was  certain loved her as deeply.
  If they changed what they had, she might lose  this breathless, stirring excitement. Or she might  discover something 
more soothing and equally thrilling  to replace it.
  And because she couldn't see the answer, because the  confusion in her heart blinded her vision, she  struggled all 
the harder to separate intellect from  emotion.

  "There you are." Loren Bach strode  out on the balcony, a bottle of champagne in  one hand, a glass in the other. 
"The guest of  honor shouldn't be hiding in the shadows." He  topped off her glass before setting the bottle  aside on 
the glass table beside him.  "Particularly when the media is in attendance."
  "I was just admiring your view," she countered.    "And giving that media a chance to miss me."
  "You're a sharp woman, Deanna." He  clicked his glass against hers. "I'm taking this  evening to feel very smug 
about going with my instincts and  signing you."
  "I'm feeling pretty smug about that myself."  "As long as you don't let it show. That  wide-eyed enthusiasm is what 
sells, Dee.  That's what the audience relates to."
  She grimaced. "I am wide-eyed and  enthusiastic, Loren. It's not an act."
  "I know." He couldn't have been happier.  "That's why it's so perfect. What did I read  about you recently--" He 
tapped a finger against his  temple as if to shake the memory loose.  ""Midwest sensibilities, an
Ivy-League brain, a face that makes a man  yearn for his high school sweetheart, all  coated with a quiet sheen of 
class.""
  "You left out my quick, sexy laugh," she said  dryly.
  "Complaining, Deanna?"
  "No." She leaned comfortably against the railing  to face him. The scent of hibiscus from the bold  red blooms in the 
patio pots mixed exotically  with the fragrance of champagne and lake water. "Not  for a minute. I love every bit of it. 
The spread  in Premiere, the cover on McCall's, the  People's Choice nomination--"
  "You should have won that," he muttered.  "I'll beat Angela next time." She  smiled at him, her bangs fluttering in the 
light  breeze, the diamonds at her wrist glinting in  the starlight. "I wanted that Chicago Emmy, and  I've got it. I intend 
to win a national one,  when the time comes. I'm not in a hurry, Loren,  because I'm enjoying the ride. A lot."
  "You make it look easy, Dee, and fun."  He winked. "That's the way I sell computer  games. And that's the way you 
slip right through the  television screen into the viewer's living room.  That's the way you up the ratings." His smile

hardened, glinted in the shadowy light.  "And that's the way you're going to knock Angela  out of first place."
  Because the gleam in Loren's eye made her  uneasy, Deanna chose her response  carefully. "That's not my primary 
goal. As  naive as it may sound, Loren, all I want  is to do a good job and provide a good show."
  "You keep doing that, and I'll handle the rest."  It was odd, he thought, that he hadn't realized just  how much 
revenge against Angela burned in him.  Until Deanna. "I'm not going to claim that  I made Angela number one, 
because it's more  complex than that. But I speeded the process  along. My mistake was to be deluded enough by the  
screen image and marry someone who didn't exist  off camera."
  "Loren, you don't have to tell me this."  "No, no one has to tell you anything, but they  do. That's part of your charm, 
Deanna. I can  tell you that Angela shed me as carelessly as a  snake sheds its skin when she'd decided she'd  
outgrown me. It's going to give me a lot of  satisfaction to help you gun her down,  Deanna." He drank again, with 
relish. "A  great deal of deep satisfaction."
  "Loren, I don't want to go to war with  Angela."
  "That's all right." He touched his glass to hers  again. "I do."

  Lew Mcationeil was as obsessed with  Angela's success as Loren Bach was with her  failure. His future depended 
on it. He had  hopes to retire in another decade, with his nest  egg securely in place. He had no hopes  of remaining 
with Angela's for that long. His best  chance was to work out his contract while the show remained  a number-one hit, 
then slide gently into another  producing slot.
  He had some reason to worry. While  Angela's was still in command of the top rung, and the  show had added 
another Emmy to its collection, its  star was fraying at the edges. In Chicago she had  managed to command her staff 
using her iron will and her  penchant for perfection, and leavening them with doses of  considerable charm.
  Since the move to New York, a great deal  of the charm had been shaken by stress, and the stress was    doused 
with French champagne.

  He knew--had made it his business  to know--that she had poured a great deal of her own  money into the fledgling 
A.p. Productions. The  veteran show kept the company out of the red, but  Angela's dabbling in television movies had  
been disastrous thus far. Her last special had  received lukewarm reviews, but the ratings had put  the show into the 
top ten of the week.
  That was fortunate, but her daily ratings had  plummeted in August, when she had insisted on  running repeats while 
she took an extended  vacation in the Caribbean.
  No one could deny that she deserved the break. Just  as no one could deny that the timing had been poor with  
Deanna's Hour steadily closing the distance in  points.
  There were other mistakes, other errors in  judgment, the largest being Dan Gardner. As the  power shifted gradually 
from Angela's hands to those  of her lover and executive producer, the tone  of the show altered subtly.
  "More complaints, Lew?"
  "It's not a complaint, Angela." He  wondered how many hours of his life he'd spent  standing beside her chair in her 
dressing room. "I  only wanted to say again that I think it's a  mistake to have a homeless family on the  program with 
a man like Trent Walker. He's a  shark, Angela."
  "Really?" She took a slow drag on her  cigarette. "I found him quite charming."
  "Sure, he's charming. He was real charming when  he bought that shelter then turned the building  into high-priced 
condos."
  "It's called urban renewal, Lew. In  any case, it should be fascinating to see him  debate with a family of four who are 
currently  living in their station wagon. Not only topical"  --she crushed out the cigarette--"but excellent  TV. I hope he 
wears the gold cuff  links."
  "If it goes the wrong way, it may look as  though you're unsympathetic to the plight of the  homeless."
  "And what if I am?" Her voice cracked  like a whip. "There are jobs out there. Too many of  these people would 
rather take a handout than earn an honest  living." She thought of the way she'd waited tables  and cleaned up slop to 
pay for her education. The  humiliation of it. "Not all of us were born to the good

life, Lew. When my book comes out  next month, you can read along with everyone else  how I overcame my modest 
beginnings and worked my  way to the top." With a sigh, she dismissed the  hairdresser. "That's fine, dear, run along.  
Lew, let me say first that I don't  appreciate your second-guessing me in front  of members of my staff."
  "Angela, I wasn't--"
  "And second," she interrupted, still frigidly  pleasant. "There's no need for concern. I have no  intention of letting 
anything go wrong, or of giving  the soft-hearted public an unflattering opinion  on my stand. Dan's already seeing to it 
that it leaks  that I, personally, will sponsor the family  we're highlighting on the show. I will at first  modestly decline to 
comment, then, reluctantly,  will agree that I have found employment for both  parents, along with six months' rent and 
a stipend  for food and clothing. Now ..." She gave her  hair one last fluff as she rose. "I'd like  to look them over 
before we go on the air."
  "They're in the green room," Lew  murmured. "I decided to put Walker elsewhere  for the time being."
  "Fine." She swept by him and into the  corridor. All graciousness and warm  support, she greeted the family of four 
who  sat nervously huddled together on the sofa in front  of the television. Waving away their thanks, she  pressed 
food and drink on them, patted the little  boy on the head and tickled the toddler under the chin.
  Her smile snapped off like a light when she  started back to her dressing room. "They don't  look like they've been 
living on the street for six  weeks to me. Why are their clothes so neat? Why  are they so clean?"
  "I--they knew they were going on national TV,  Angela. They put themselves together as best they could.  They've 
got pride."
  "Well, dirty them up," she snapped. She  had a headache coming on like a freight train and  wanted her pills. "I want 
them to look  destitute, for Christ's sake, not like some  middle-class family down on their luck."
  "But that's what they are," Lew began.  She stopped, turned, freezing him with eyes as  cold as a doll's. "I don't care 
if the  four of them have fucking MBA'S from Harvard. Do  you understand me? Television is a visual

medium. Perhaps you've forgotten that. I  want them to look like they just got swept off the  street. Put some dirt on 
those kids. I  want to see holes in their clothes."
  "Angela, we can't do that. It's staging. It  crosses the line."
  "Don't tell me what you can't do." She  jabbed one frosty pink nail into his chest.  "I'm telling you what's going to be 
done. It's  my show, remember. Mine. You've got ten  minutes. Now get out of here and do something to earn  your 
salary." She shoved him out, slamming the  door behind him.
  The panic attack had nearly overtaken her  in the hall. Chills raced over her skin; she  leaned back against the door 
shuddering. She would have  to go out there soon. Go out and face the audience.  They would be waiting for her to 
make the wrong move,  to say the wrong words. If she did, if she  made one mistake, they would leap at her like  wild 
dogs.
  And she would lose everything. Everything.  On wobbly legs, she lunged across the room.  Her hands shook as she 
poured the champagne. It  would help, she knew. She'd discovered after years  of denial that just one small glass 
before a show could  chase away those cold, clammy chills. Two  could ease all those gnawing fears.
  She swallowed greedily, draining the glass,  then poured the second with a steadier hand. A third  glass wouldn't 
hurt, she assured herself. Just  smoothing out the rough edges. Where had she heard that  before? she wondered as 
she brought the crystal to her  lips.
  Her mother. Good God, her mother.
  Just smoothing out the rough edges, Angie. A  couple sips of gin smooths them all right out.
  Horrified, she dropped the full glass,  spilling bubbling wine over the rug. She watched  it spread, like blood, and 
turned away shivering.
  She didn't need it. She wasn't like her  mother. She was Angela Perkins. And she was the  best.
  There would be no mistakes. She promised  herself that as she turned to the mirror so that her  image, glossy and 
elegant, could calm her.  She would go out and do what she did best. And she  would keep those wild dogs at bay yet 
again.  She would tame them, and make them love her.

  "Satisfied, Lew?" Still riding on the  echoes of applause, Angela dropped into the  chair behind her desk. "I told you it 
would work."
  "You were great, Angela." He said it because it was  expected.
  "No, she was fabulous." Dan sat on the  edge of her desk and leaned over to kiss her.  "Having that kid sit on your 
lap was inspired."
  "I like kids," she lied. "And that one seemed  to have some brains. We'll see to it that he gets in  school. Now ..." She 
sat back, letting the  family slip from her mind as casually as she  slipped out of her shoes. "Let's get down  to 
business. Who is she looking to book next  month?"
  Resigned, Lew passed Angela a list.
He didn't have to be told they were discussing  Deanna. "The names with the asterisks have already  booked."
  "She's going after some heavy hitters, isn't  she?" Angela mused. "Movies, fashion.  Still steering clear of politics."
  "Fluff over substance," Dan said, knowing that  comment would please her.
  "Fluff or not, we wouldn't want her to get  lucky. She's already snagged too much press.  That damn Jamie Thomas 
affair." Her mouth  tightened into a thin line of disgust as she thought of him  hiding out in Rome.
  "We still have the data on him," Dan reminded  her. "Easy enough to leak his drug problem to the  press."
  "Leaking that gains us nothing, and would only drum  up more sympathetic press for Deanna. Let it  go." She 
scanned the sheet of paper. "Let's  see who we know well enough on here to persuade  to give Deanna a pass." She 
glanced up and  gave Lew a bland smile. "You can go. I  won't need you."
  When Lew closed the door quietly behind him,  Dan lighted Angela's cigarette. "That  hangdog face of his gets old 
fast," he  commented.
  "But he has his uses." Pleased, she tapped  the list with one lacquered nail. "It's very  satisfying to know what our 
little Dee is planning  almost before she does." Angela checked two names  on the list. "I can take care of both of 
these with a  casual phone call. It's so gratifying to have

important people owe you. Ah, now, look  here. Kate Lowell."
  "Very hot." Dan rose to pour them both a  Perrier. "One of those rarities that makes the  term "actress-model" a 
compliment."
  "Yes, she's very beautiful, very talented. And  very hot right now with her new movie burning up the  box office." 
Angela's smile was slow and  surprisingly sweet. "It so happens Deanna  knows Kate. They summered in Topeka 
together.  And it so happens I know an interesting little  secret of Kate's. A little secret that will  make certain she won't 
be chatting to her old  pal on the air. In fact, I think we'll just  book her ourselves. I'll take care of this one.  Personally."

  "I just don't understand it, Finn." Deanna  snuggled down on the couch beside him, resting her head  against his 
chest. "One minute we were making the  travel arrangements, the next we get a line  from her publicist about 
unexpected scheduling  conflicts."
  "It happens." He was more interested in nibbling  on her fingers than talking shop.
  "Not like this. We tried to reschedule, gave them  an open date, and got the same response. I  really wanted her on 
in November, but I  didn't contact her personally because I didn't  want it to seem like calling in a favor from a  friend." 
She shook her head, remembering how warm,  then how distant Kate had been when they'd seen  each other in 
Angela's office. "Damn it,  we used to be friends."
  "Friendships are often one of the first casualties  of this business. Don't let it get you down,  Kansas."
  "I'm trying not to. I know we'll get  someone else. I guess I feel snubbed,  personally and professionally." She made 
an  effort to push it out of her mind. Their time was too  precious to waste. "This is nice."
  "What is?"
  "Just sitting here, doing nothing. With you."  "I like it myself. Kind of habit-forming." He  stroked a finger over the 
bracelet she wore.  Since his return from Moscow, he hadn't seen  her without it. "Barlow James is in town."
  "Mmm. I heard. Do you want something  to eat?"

  "No."
  "Good." She sighed lustily. "Neither do I.  I don't want to move all day. All  wonderful Sunday."
  An absolutely free Sunday for both of  them, she mused. And she didn't want to spoil  it by mentioning the latest note 
she'd found mixed with  her viewer mail.

          I know you don't really  love him, Deanna.
         Finn Riley can't mean
           as much to you as I will.  I can wait for you.
           I'll wait forever.

  Of course, that note had been nothing compared to the  one from the Alabamian truck driver who wanted  her to see 
the country from the bed in his  sixteen-wheeler. Or the self-ordained minister  who claimed to have had a vision of 
her naked--a  sign from God that she, and her checkbook, were  meant to join him in his work.
  So it was nothing to worry about. Really, nothing  at all.
  "I had a meeting with him yesterday."  She blinked. "Who?"
  "Barlow James." Because he could see she was  clicking into her think mode, Finn tugged at her  ear. "Keep up, will 
you?"
  "Sorry. Where's he sending you now?"  "I have to leave for Paris in a few days. I  thought you might like to fly out 
there next weekend."
  "Fly out to Paris?" She turned to look at  him. "For the weekend?"
  "You take the Concorde. We eat French  food, see French sights and make love in a  French hotel. I might even be 
able to fly  back with you."
  The idea made her sit upright. "I can't  imagine flying off to Paris for a weekend."
  "You're a celebrity," he reminded her.  "You're supposed to do things like that. Don't you ever  read fan magazines?"
  Her eyes were alight with the possibilities.  "I've never been to Europe."
  "You've got a passport, don't you?"  "Sure. I even renewed it recently, a  habit from my reporting days, when I nursed 
the  vague hope of copping some exciting foreign

assignment."
  "So, I'll be your exciting foreign  assignment."
  "If I could clear my schedule ... I will  clear my schedule." She twisted around to throw her  arms around him.
  "Where are you going?" he demanded, tightening his  grip when she started to wriggle away.
  "I have to make a list. I have to get a  Berlitz tape and a guidebook, and--"
  "Later." He laughed his way into the kiss.  "God, you're predictable, Kansas. Whatever  I toss at you, you make a 
list."
  "I'm organized." She thumped a fist against  his chest. "That doesn't mean I'm  predictable."
  "You can write up six lists later. I  haven't told you about my meeting with Barlow."
  But she wasn't listening. She'd need one of  those mini video recorders, she decided. Like  Cassie had. And a 
phrase book. "What?"  She blinked when Finn tugged on her hair. "The  meeting with Barlow," she said, tucking her 
mental  list aside. "You just said he was sending you  to Paris."
  "That's not what the meeting was about. It was a  continuation of discussions we've been having on and  off for 
about a year."
  "The news magazine." She grinned. "He  won't give up, will he?"
  "I'm going to do it."
  "I think it's--you're what!" She jerked  upright again. "You're going to do it?"
  He'd expected her to be surprised. Now  he was hoping she'd be pleased. "It's taken us a  while to agree on terms 
and format."
  "But I didn't think you were interested at all.  You like being able to plug into any story that comes  along. Toss your 
garment bag over your shoulder,  pick up your laptop and go."
  "The paladin of newscasters." He toyed with  her earring. "I'd still do that, to an extent. When  something breaks, I'd 
go, but I'd be covering it  for the show. We'd do remotes whenever they were called  for, but we'd base here in 
Chicago." That had  been a sticking point, since Barlow had wanted  him in New York. "I'd be able to take a  story and 
explore all the angles instead of  fitting it into a three-minute piece on the  news. And I'd spend more time here. With 
you."

  "I don't want you to do this for me."  She got to her feet quickly. "I won't deny that  it's hard for me to say goodbye so 
often, but--"
  "You've never said so."
  "It wouldn't have been fair. God, Finn."  She dragged both hands through her hair. "What could  I have said? Don't 
go. I know there are  world-altering events taking place, but I'd rather you  stay home with me?"
  He rose as well, brushed a knuckle down  her cheek. "It wouldn't have hurt my ego to hear  it."
  His quiet words shivered through her. "It wouldn't  have been fair to either of us. And you changing the thrust  of your 
career because of me won't be fair either."
  "I'm not just doing this for you. I'm doing it for  myself, too."
  "You said you didn't want to put down  roots." She was distressed, because she realized she  was near tears. She 
wouldn't have been able to explain  them to him, or to herself. "I remember that. Finn,  we're professionals, and we 
both understand the  demands of the career. I don't want to make you  feel pressured."
  "You don't get it, do you?" His impatience was  back. "There's nothing I wouldn't do for you,  Deanna. Things have 
changed for me in this past  year. It's not as easy for me to pick up and go.  It's not a snap for me to fall asleep in 
some  hotel halfway around the world. I miss you."
  "I miss you too," she said. "Does that  make you happy?"
  "Damn straight it does." He eased her  forward, kissed her softly, gently, until her  mouth grew greedy and hot under 
his. "I want  you to miss me. I want it to kill you every time I  go away. And I want you to feel as baffled and  
uncomfortable and as frustrated as I am with this  whole mess we've gotten ourselves into."
  "Well, I do, so that's just fine for both of  us."
  "Fine and dandy." He released her. If she  wanted to fight with reason, he'd give her  plenty of it. Objective words 
were, after all,  his stock-in-trade. "I'll still have to go. I'll  have more control over where and when, but I'll have to go.  
And I want you to suffer whenever I do."
  "You," she said precisely, "can go to hell."  "Not without you." He caught her face in his  hand, holding tight when she 
would have jerked away.

"Goddamn it, Deanna. I love  you."
  When his hand went limp, she stepped back on  shaky legs. Her eyes were huge and fixed on his  face. It took her a 
moment before she could breathe  again. Another moment before she could form coherent  words. "You've never said 
that before."
  Her reaction wasn't precisely what he'd  hoped for. Then again, he had to admit that his  declaration hadn't been 
exactly polished.  "I'm saying it now. You have a problem with it?"
  "Do you?"
  "I asked you first."
  She only shook her head. "I don't  suppose I do. It makes it kind of handy, because  I love you too." She let out a 
quick, catchy  sigh. "I didn't realize how much I needed the  words."
  "You're not the only one who has to take things  in stages." He reached out, touched her cheek.  "Pretty scary, huh?"
  "Yeah." She took his wrist, held tight  while the first flood of pleasure poured through her.  "I don't mind being scared. 
In fact, I like  it, so if you'd like to tell me again, it's okay."
  "I love you." He scooped her up, making  her laugh as they tumbled onto the couch. "You'd  better hold on to me," he 
warned her, and tugged  her sweater over her head. "I'm about to scare you  to death."

            Chapter Eighteen

  In Depth with Finn Riley premiered in  January, a mid-season replacement for a  disastrous hospital drama. The 
network had high  hopes that a weekly news magazine featuring a  recognizable face could drag the time slot out of 
the  ratings basement. Finn had experience and  credibility, and most important, he was  wildly popular with women, 
particularly in the  coveted eighteen-to-forty category.
  CBC ushered the show onto the air with plenty of  hype. Promos were run, ads were designed,  theme music was 
composed. By the time the set, with its  three-dimensional world map and sleek glass  counter, was constructed, Finn 
and the three reporters  on his team were already hard at work.
  His vision of the project was much simpler than  jazzy promotion spots or expensive props.

He was, as he told Deanna, doing  something he'd always fantasized about. He was coming in  as relief pitcher after 
the seventh-inning stretch.  All he had to do was throw strikes.
  With his first program, he managed to strike out  the competition with a thirty-percent share. Around  water coolers 
the next morning, Americans  chatted about the U.s. chances for Olympic  gold, and Finn Riley's cagey interview with  
Boris Yeltsin.
  In the spirit of friendly competition, Deanna  scheduled a program featuring Rob Winters, a  veteran film actor whose 
directorial debut  was winning critical and popular acclaim.
  Charming, handsome and cozily at home in front  of the camera, Rob kept both the studio and  viewing audiences 
entertained. His final  anecdote, involving the filming of a steamy love  scene and an unexpected invasion of sea gulls,  
closed the show with a roar of laughter.
  "I can't thank you enough for doing the show."  Deanna clasped his hand warmly after he'd  finished signing 
autographs for lingering members  of the audience.
  "I nearly didn't." While security  ushered the last of the audience from the studio, he  studied Deanna carefully. "To 
be frank, the  only reason I agreed to come on was because I was  pressured not to." He flashed his famous grin.  
"That's why I have a reputation for being  difficult."
  "I'm not sure I understand. Your agent  advised you against doing this?"
  "Among others." Deanna studied him,  confused. "Got a minute?" he asked.
  "Of course. Would you like to go upstairs to my  office?"
  "Fine. I could use a drink." His quick  smile was back. "You'd last about twenty  minutes in Hollywood with eyes like 
that." He  put a friendly hand on her arm as they walked on  set toward the elevator. "If you let enough people  see 
what you're thinking, you'll be gobbled up and  swallowed whole."
  Deanna stepped inside the elevator, pushed  the button for the sixteenth floor. "And what am  I thinking?"
  "That it's barely ten o'clock in the morning and  I'm going to start knocking back doubles." His  grin was as fast and 
potent as a jigger of whiskey.

"You're thinking I should have stayed at  Betty Ford a little longer."
  "You did tell me during the show that you didn't  drink any longer."
  "I don't--alcohol. My newest addiction  is Diet Pepsi with a twist of lime. A little  embarrassing, but I'm man enough to 
handle it."
  "Deanna--" Cassie turned from her  workstation. When she saw the man beside Deanna, her  eyes popped wide 
open.
  "Did you need me for something, Cassie?"  "What?" She blinked, flushed, but didn't  take her eyes off Rob's face. 
"No--no,  it's nothing."
  "Rob, this is Cassie, my secretary and  sergeant at arms."
  "Nice to meet you." Rob took her limp  hand in both of his.
  "I enjoy your work, Mr. Winters. We're  all thrilled you could do the show today."
  "My pleasure."
  "Cassie, hold my calls, please.  I'll fix you that drink," she told Rob as she  led him into her office.
  The room had changed considerably from the early  days. The walls were painted a bold teal, and the  carpet had 
been replaced by oak flooring and  geometric rugs. The furniture was streamlined  and built for comfort. Gesturing 
Rob to a chair,  she opened a compact refrigerator.
  "I haven't been up here in four or five  years, I guess." He stretched out his long  legs and glanced around. "It's an 
improvement."  He looked back at Deanna. "But then,  pastel pinks probably aren't your style."
  "I suppose not." She sliced lime and added  it to two iced soft drinks. "I'm curious why  your agent advised you 
against doing the show."  Curious wasn't the word, but she kept her  voice mild. "We do our best to make our  guests 
comfortable."
  "It probably had something to do with a call from  New York." He accepted the glass, waited  until Deanna took a 
seat. "From Angela  Perkins."
  "Angela?" Baffled, she shook her head.  "Angela called your agent about your coming on my  show?"
  "The day after your people contacted him." Rob took  a long sip. "She said a little bird had told

her that I was considering a stop in  Chicago."
  "Sounds like her," Deanna muttered. "But I  don't know how she could have found out so quickly."
  "She didn't say." Watching Deanna's  face, he rattled the ice in his glass. "And  she didn't bring it up when she spoke 
to me,  either. Two days later. With my agent she used  charm, reminding him that she'd booked me on  Angela's 
when my career was floundering, and that if  I agreed to go on with you, she wouldn't be able  to welcome me to New 
York as she'd hoped  to. She wanted me for her next special, and  guaranteed that she would use her influence to 
add  weight to my Oscar nomination. Which meant talking  the film up in public and in private and  contributing to the 
ad campaign."
  "Some not-so-subtle bribery." Her voice  tightened with anger held under strict control. "But  you're here."
  "I might not have been if she'd stayed with  bribery. I want that award, Deanna. A  lot of people, including me, 
thought I was washed up  when I went into rehab. I had to beg for money  to make this film. I made deals and 
promises,  told lies. Whatever it took. Halfway through  production, the press was saying that the public was  going to 
stay away in droves because nobody gave  a shit about an epic love story. I want that  award."
  He paused, drank again. "I'd just about made  up my mind to take my agent's advice and  give you a pass. Then 
Angela called me.  She didn't use charm, she threatened me. And that  was her mistake."
  Deanna rose to refill his glass. "She  threatened not to support the film if you came on  my show?"
  "She did better than that." He took out a  cigarette, shrugged. "Do you mind? I haven't  kicked this vice yet."
  "Go ahead."
  "I came here because I was pissed." He  struck a match, blew out smoke. "My little  way of telling Angela to get 
fucked. I  wasn't going to bring any of it up, but there's  something about the way you handle yourself." He narrowed 
his  eyes. "You've just got to trust that face of  yours."
  "So I'm told." She managed a smile,

though bitterness was bubbling in her throat.  "Whatever the reason you came on, I'm glad you  did."
  "You're not going to ask me what else she  threatened me with?"
  Her smile fluttered again, more easily.  "I'm trying not to."
  He gave a short laugh and set the Pepsi  aside. "She told me you were a  manipulative, scheming monster who'd 
use any  means necessary to stay in the spotlight. That you'd  abused her friendship and trust, and that the only  
reason you were on the air was that you were screwing  Loren Bach."
  Deanna merely lifted a brow. "I'm  sure Loren would be surprised to hear it."
  "It sounded more like a self-portrait to me."  He took another drag, tapped his cigarette  restlessly in the ashtray. "I 
know what it is to have  enemies, Deanna, and since it seems we now  have a mutual one, I'm going to tell you what  
Angela held over my head. I'll need you  to keep it to yourself for twenty-four hours, until  I get back to the coast and 
arrange a press  conference."
  Something cold skittered up her spine. "All  right."
  "About six months ago I went in for a routine  exam. I was worn out, but then I'd been working  pretty much around 
the clock for more than a year,  doing the film, overseeing the editing, gearing up for  promotion. I'd been a pretty 
regular  customer of the medical profession during my  drinking days, and my doctor is very discreet.  Discretion 
aside, Angela managed to get wind  of the test results." He took one last drag  on the cigarette, crushed it out. "I'm  
HIV'-POSITIVE."
  "Oh, I'm sorry." Instantly she reached  out and gripped his hand hard in hers. "I'm so  sorry."
  "I always figured the booze would get me.  Never figured it would be sex."
  He lifted the glass. The ice rattled  musically when his hand shook. "Then again, I spent  enough time drunk that I 
didn't know how many women  there were, much less who they were."
  "We're finding out more every day--" She cut herself  off. It was so trite, she thought, so pathetically  useless. "You're 
entitled to your privacy,

Rob."
  "An odd statement from an ex-reporter."  "Even if Angela leaks this, you don't have  to confirm."
  He sat back again, looking amused. "Now  you're pissed."
  "Of course I am. She used me to get to you.  It's just television, for God's sake. It's  television. We're talking about 
ratings points  here, not world-altering events. What kind of    business is this that someone would use your tragedy  
to shake down the competition?"
  In a lighter mood, he sipped at his drink.  "It's show business, babe. Nothing's closer  to life and death than life and 
death." He smiled  wryly. "I ought to know."
  "I'm sorry." She closed her eyes and  fought for control. "A temper tantrum isn't  going to help you. What can I do?"
  "Got any friends who are voting members of the  Academy?"
  She smiled back. "Maybe a couple."  "You might give them a call, use that sexy,  persuasive voice to influence their 
vote. And after  that, you can go back in front of the camera and beat the  pants off Angela's."
  Her eyes kindled. "You're damn right I  will."

  She called a staff meeting that afternoon in her own  office and sat behind her desk to project the  image of authority. 
The anger was still with her,  simmering deep. As a result, her voice was  clipped, cool and formal.
  "We have a problem, a serious one, that just  recently came to my attention." She scanned the  room as she spoke, 
noting the puzzled faces.  Staff meetings were often tiresome, sometimes heated,  but always informal and essentially 
good-natured.
  "Margaret," she continued. "You contacted  Kate Lowell's people, didn't you?"
  "That's right." Unnerved by the chill in the air,  Margaret nibbled on the earpiece of her reading  glasses. "They were 
very interested in having her come  on. We had the hook that she'd lived in  Chicago for a few years when she was a 
teenager.  Then they switched off. Scheduling conflicts."
  "How many other times has that happened in the last  six months?"
  Margaret blinked. "It's hard to say right off.

A lot of the topic ideas don't pan  out."
  "I mean specifically celebrity-oriented  shows."
  "Oh, well." Margaret shifted in her seat.  "We don't do a lot of those because the format  generally runs to civilian 
guests, the everyday people  you do so well. But I'd guess that five or  six times in the last six months we've had  
somebody wiggle off the hook."
  "And how do we handle the projected guest  list. Simon?"
  He flushed. "Same as always, Dee. We  toss around ideas, brainstorm. When we come up  with some workable 
topics and guests, we do the  research and make some calls."
  "And the guest list is confidential until it's  confirmed?"
  "Sure it is." He nervously slicked a  hand over his hair. "Standard operating procedure.  We don't want any of the 
competitors to horn  in on our work."
  Deanna picked up a pencil from the glass  surface of her counter, tapped it idly. "I  learned today that Angela Perkins 
knew we were  interested in booking Rob Winters within hours of  our contacting his agent." There was a general  
murmuring among the staff. "And I suspect,"  Deanna continued, "from what I learned, that she was  also aware of 
several others. Kate Lowell  appeared on Angela's two weeks after her people  claimed a scheduling conflict. She 
wasn't the  only one. I have a list here of people we tried  to book who guested on Angela's within two  weeks of our 
initial contact."
  "We've got a leak." The muscles in  Fran's jaw twitched. "Son of a bitch."
  "Come on, Fran." Jeff cast worried  glances around the room. He shoved at his  glasses. "Most of us have been here 
from the first day.  We're like family." He tugged at the collar  of his T-shirt, cutting his eyes back  to Deanna. "Man, 
Dee, you can't believe  any of us would do anything to hurt you or the show."
  "No, I can't." She pushed a hand through her  hair. "So I need ideas, suggestions."
  "Jesus. Jesus Christ," Simon mumbled  under his breath as he pressed his fingers to his  eyes. "It's my fault." 
Dropping his hands,  he gave Deanna a shattered look. "Lew

Mcationeil. We've kept in touch all  along. Hell, we've been friends for ten years.  I never thought ... I'm sick," he said. 
"I  swear to God it makes me sick."
  "What are you talking about?" Deanna asked  quietly, but she thought she knew.
  "We talk once, twice a month." He  shoved back from the table, crossing the room to pour  a glass of water. "Usual 
stuff--shop  talk." Taking out a bottle, he shook two  pills into his hand. "He'd bitch about  Angela. He knew he could to 
me, that it wouldn't  go any further. He'd tell me some of the wilder  ideas her team had come up withfor segments. 
Maybe  he'd ask who we were lining up. And I'd tell  him." He swallowed the pills audibly.  "I'd tell him, because we 
were just two old friends  talking shop. I never put it together until this  minute, Dee. I swear to Christ."
  "All right, Simon. So we know how, we know  why. What are we going to do about it?"
  "Hire somebody to go to New York and break  all of Lew Mcationeil's fingers," Fran  suggested as she rose to go 
stand beside the clearly  distressed Simon.
  "I'll give that some thought. In the meantime, the  new policy is not to discuss any guests, any  topic ideas or any of 
the developmental  stages of the show outside of the office. Agreed?"
  There was a general murmuring. No one made  eye contact.
  "And we have a new goal. One we're all  going to concentrate on." She paused, waiting  until she could skim her 
gaze over each face.  "We're going to knock Angela's out of the  number-one spot within a year." She held up a  hand 
to stop the spontaneous applause. "I  want everyone to start thinking about ideas for  remotes. We need to start 
taking this show on the  road. I want sexy locations, funny  locations. I want the exotic, and I want  Main Street, USA."
  "Disney World," Fran suggested.
  "New Orleans, for Mardi Gras,"
Cassie put in, and lifted her shoulders. "I  always wanted to go."
  "Check it out," Deanna ordered. "I want  six doable locations. I want all the topic  ideas we have cooking on my desk 
by the end of the  day. Cassie, make a list of all the

personal appearance requests I've  got and accept them."
  "How many?"
  "All of them. Fit them into my schedule. And  put in a call to Loren Bach." She sat  back and rested her palms on the 
surface of the  desk. "Let's get to work."
  "Deanna." Simon stepped forward as the  others filed out. "Can I have a minute?"
  "Just," she said, and smiled. "I want to get  started on this campaign."
  He stood stiffly in front of her desk.  "I know it might take you a little time to replace  me, and that you'd like a smooth 
transition. I'll  hand in my resignation whenever you want."
  Deanna was already drawing a list on a legal  pad in front of her. "I don't want your  resignation, Simon. I want you to 
use that  wily brain of yours to put me on top."
  "I screwed up, Dee. Big time."
  "You trusted a friend."
  "A competitor," he corrected. "God  knows how many shows I sabotaged by opening my big  mouth. Shit, Dee, I was 
bragging, playing  "My job's bigger than your job." I  wanted to needle him because it was the only way I  could stick it 
to Angela."
  "I'm giving you another way." She leaned  forward, eyes keen. She felt the power in her  now, and she would use it, 
she knew, to finish what  Angela had begun. "Help me knock her out  of the top slot, Simon. You can't do that if you  
resign."
  "I can't figure why you'd trust me."  "I had a pretty good idea where the leak had  come from. Simon, I spent enough 
time around here to know  you and Lew were tight." She spread her fingers.  "If you hadn't told me, you wouldn't have 
had  to offer to resign. I'd have fired you."
  He rubbed a hand over his face. "So I  admit to being a jerk and I keep my job."
  "That about sums it up. And I expect, because  you're feeling like one, you'll work even harder to put  me on top."
  More than a little dazed, he shook his head. "You  picked up a few things from Angela after all."
  "I got what I needed," she said shortly.  She snatched up her phone when it buzzed.  "Yes, Cassie?"
  "Loren Bach on one, Deanna."

  "Thanks." She let her finger hover  over the button as she glanced back at  Simon. "Are we straight on this?"
  "As an arrow."
  She waited until the door shut behind  Simon, then drew in a deep breath.  "Loren," she said when she made the 
connection.  "I'm ready to go to war."

  In the cold, gloomy hours of a February  morning, Lew kissed his wife goodbye. She  stirred sleepily, and gave his 
cheek a pat before  snuggling under the down quilt for another  thirty-minute nap.
  "Chicken stew tonight," she mumbled. "I'll be  home by three to put it on."
  Since their children had grown, each had fallen  into a comfortable morning routine. Lew left his  wife sleeping and 
went downstairs alone to eat  breakfast with the early news. He winced over the  weather report, though a glance out 
the window had  already told him it wasn't promising. The drive  from Brooklyn Heights to the studio in  Manhattan 
was going to be a study in frustration.  He bundled into a coat, pulled on gloves,  put on the Russian-style fur hat his 
youngest  son had given him for Christmas.
  The wind was up, tossing the nasty wet snow  into his face, letting it sneak under the collar of  his coat. It was still 
shy of seven, dreary enough that the  streetlights still glowed. The snow muffled sound and  seemed to smother the 
air.
  He saw no one out in the tidy neighborhood  but an unhappy cat scratching pitifully on his  owner's front door.
  Too used to Chicago winters to complain about a  February storm, Lew trudged to his car and  began to clean the 
windshield.
  He paid no attention to the fairy-tale world  forming behind him. The low evergreens with their frosting of  white, the 
pristine carpet that coated winter  grass and pavement, the dancing flakes that  swirled in the dull glow of the 
streetlamps.
  He thought only of the drudgery of scraping his  windshield clean, of the discomfort of snow on his  collar, of the nip 
of the wind at his ears. Of the  traffic he had yet to face.
  He heard his name called, softly, and turned  to peer through the driving snow.
  For a moment he saw nothing but white and the

snow-smothered beam of light from the  streetlamp.
  And then he saw. For just an instant, he saw.  The shotgun blast struck him full in the  face, cartwheeling his body 
over the hood of his  car. From down the block a dog began to bark in  high, excited yips. The cat streaked away  to 
hide in a snow-coated juniper.
  The echo of the shot died quickly, almost as quickly as  Lew Mcationeil.
  "That was for Deanna," the killer whispered, and  drove slowly away.

  When Deanna heard the news a few hours  later, the shock of it overshadowed the envelope  she'd found on her 
desk. It said simply:

     Deanna, I'll always be there for you.

            Chapter Nineteen

  Deanna lounged in Finn's big tub with  steaming water whirling and pulsing around her, her  eyes half closed and a 
frothy mimosa in her  hand. It was the middle of a Saturday morning, and  she had more than an hour before Tim 
O'Malley,  her driver, would be by to pick her up for an  appearance in Merrillville, Indiana.
  She felt as lazy and smug as a cat curled  in a sunbeam.
  "What are we celebrating?"
  "You're in town; I'm in town. And not counting  your afternoon across the state line today, it looks like it  could stay 
that way for a week."
  From the opposite end of the tub, Finn watched  her tension ease, degree by degree. She'd  been wound tight as a 
spring for weeks. Longer,  he thought, sipping the icy drink. Even before Lew  Mcationeil's random and senseless 
murder, she'd  been a bundle of nerves. In the weeks  following Lew's death her feelings had shifted from  remorse to 
anger to guilt to frustration over a  man who had done his best to sabotage her show for  his own ends.
  Or Angela's ends, Finn theorized.
  But now she smiled, and her eyes were heavy with  pleasure. "Things have been a little chaotic  lately."
  "You flying off to Florida, me chasing  presidential candidates from state to state.

Both of us trying to put together a show with  press and paparazzi dogging our heels." He  shrugged, rubbing his foot 
up and down her slick,  slippery leg.
  It hadn't been easy for anyone on her  staff, or his, to work with the continued and pesky  attention the media had 
focused on their  relationship. For reasons neither of them could fathom,  they had become the couple of the year. 
Just that  morning, Deanna had read about her wedding plans  in a tabloid some helpful soul had tucked under  the 
front doormat.
  All in all it made her uneasy, unsure  and far too distracted.
  "Do you call that chaotic?" Finn asked, and  drew her attention back.
  "You're right, just another day in the simple  life." Her sigh was long and sumptuous. "And  at least we're getting 
things done. I really  liked your show on Chicago's decaying  infrastructure, even if it did make me start  to worry that 
the streets are going to crumble under my  car."
  "Everything was there--panic, comedy, half-crazed  city officials. Still, it wasn't as gripping as  your interview with 
Mickey and Minnie Mouse."
  One eye opened. "Watch it, pal."
  "No, really." His grin was wicked. "You've  got America talking. What kind of relationship  do they have, and what 
part does Goofy play in it?  These burning questions need to be answered--and who    knows, it might help take some 
of the heat off us?"
  "We were dealing with American traditions," she  shot back. "On the need for entertainment and  fantasy, and the 
enormous industry that fuels it.  Which is every bit as relevant as watching  politicians sling insults at each other.  
More," she said, gesturing with her glass. "People need  some mode of escape, particularly during a  recession. You 
do your shows on global warming and the  socioeconomic troubles in the former Soviet  Union, Riley. I'll stick with the 
everyday  issues that affect the average person."
  He was still grinning at her. Deanna took a  sip of her mimosa and scowled at him. "You're  riding me on purpose."
  "I like the way your eyes get dark and edgy."  He set his glass aside so that he could slide  forward and lay his body 
over hers. Water sloshed  lazily over the lip of the tub. "And you get this

line right here"--he rubbed his thumb between  her brows--"that I get to smooth away."
  His free hand was busy smoothing something else.  "Some might say you're a sneaky bastard,  Finn."
  "Some have." He nipped at her lips.  "Others will. And speaking of Mickey and  Minnie." His hands cruised over her 
hot, soft  skin.
  "Were we?"
  "I was wondering if we can compare our  relationship to theirs. Undefined and long-term."
  While the jets of water frothed around them and  between them, she stroked a hand through his damp hair.  It felt so 
good to be here, to know that at any moment  the comforting heat could erupt into explosive heat.  "I can define it: 
We're two people who love  each other, who enjoy each other, who want to be  with each other."
  "We could be with each other more if you'd move in  with me."
  It was a subject they'd discussed before. And one  they had been unable to resolve. Deanna  pressed her lips to his 
shoulder. "It's easier  for me to have my own place when you're away."
  "I'm here more than I'm gone these days."  "I know." Her lips slid up his throat as  she tried to distract him. "Give me 
some time  to work it out in my head."
  "Sometimes you've got to trust your impulses,  Deanna, your instincts." His mouth met hers,  tasting of frustration 
and desire. He knew if  he pushed, she'd agree, but his instinct warned him  not to rush her. "I can wait. Just don't 
make  me wait too long."
  "We can give it a trial run." Her  blood was pulsing as frantically as the bubbling  water. "I'll move some things in, 
stay here through  next week."
  "I'll make it hard for you to leave again."  "I bet you will." She smiled, pushing his hair  back, framing his face. "I'm so 
in love with  you, Finn. You can believe that. And I swear, the  rumors about me and Goofy are all lies.  We're just 
friends."
  He tipped her head back so that her body  slipped farther into the water. "I don't trust the  long-eared son of a bitch."
  "I just used him to make you jealous--though he  does have a certain guileless charm I find

strangely appealing."
  "You want charm? Why don't I--damn."  Finn tossed his wet hair back and reached for the  tubside phone. "Hold that 
thought," he told  her. "Yeah, Riley."
  Deanna was considering several interesting ways  to distract him when she saw the change in his face.  The water 
shifted and slopped over as he climbed  from the tub to reach for a towel.
  "Get Curt," he said, dripping as he  slung the towel around his waist. "And contact  Barlow James. I want a full crew, 
a  mobile unit on the spot five minutes ago.  I'll be at the site in twenty minutes." He  swore, not so lightly, under his 
breath. "You can if  I tell you that you can."
  "What is it?" Deanna turned off the tub  and rose. Water streamed from her as she shook out a  towel. She already 
knew he was leaving.
  "There's a hostage situation over in  Greektown." With a quick flick of the wrist, he  turned on the television even as 
he headed into the  bedroom to drag on clothes. "It's bad.  Three people are already dead."
  She shivered once. Then as quick, as brisk as  he, she reached for her robe. She wanted to tell  him she'd go with 
him. But of course she couldn't.  There were several hundred people waiting for her in the  ballroom of an Indiana 
hotel.
  Why was she so cold? she wondered as she  bundled hurriedly into her robe. He was already  tucking a shirt into his 
slacks, as calmly as  a man going to his office to work on tax forms.  He'd survived air raids and earthquakes.  Surely 
a skirmish in Greektown was nothing  to worry about.
  "You'll be careful."
  He grabbed a tie, a jacket. "I'll be  good." As she reached into the closet for the suit  she'd chosen for her afternoon 
appearance, he spun her  around for a kiss. "I'll probably be back before  you."

  The worst kind of war was one with no front  lines or battle plans. It was fueled on  anger and fear and the blind need 
to destroy. The  once-tidy restaurant with its pretty, striped  awning and sidewalk tables was destroyed. Shards  from 
the broken window sparkled like scattered gems  over the sidewalk. The flap of the awning in the

raw spring wind was smothered by the  static-filled drone of police radios.  Reporters held back by barricades 
swarmed like  hungry wolves.
  There was another volley of gunshots from  inside. And a long, terrified scream.
  "Jesus." Sweat popped out on Curt's  brow as he held the camera steady. "He's  killing them."
  "Get a shot of that cop there," Finn ordered.  "The one with the bullhorn."
  "You're the boss." Curt focused in on a  cop in a neon orange trench coat with a  hangdog face and graying hair. 
Amid the  screams and shouts, the weeping, the bitter threats  and curses from inside the restaurant, the  steely-eyed 
cop continued to talk in a soothing  monotone.
  "Pretty cool customer," Curt observed,  then at a signal from Finn shifted, crouched  to get a shot of the SWAT team 
taking position.
  "Cool enough," Finn agreed. "If he  keeps at it, they might not need the sharpshooters.  Keep rolling. I'm going to see 
if I can work  my way over and find out who he is."

  The ballroom was filled to capacity. From where  Deanna sat on the raised dais, she could see  all three hundred 
and fifty people who had come  to hear her talk about women in broadcasting. She  was going to give them their 
money's worth. She'd  gone over her notes thoroughly once again on the  drive from Chicago, letting her 
concentration  lapse only when she caught a glimpse of  Finn on the limo's television.
  He was, as Barlow James would say, in his  element. And, it seemed, she was in hers.
  She waited through the flattering introduction, through  the applause that followed it, then rose and walked  to the 
podium. She scanned the room, smiled.
  "Good afternoon. One of the first things we learn in  broadcasting is that we work weekends. Since we  are, I hope to 
make the next hour as entertaining  as it is informative. That, to me, is television,  and I've found it a very satisfying 
way to make a  living. It occurred to me that as you are  professionals, you wouldn't have much opportunity  to watch 
daytime TV, so I'm hoping to convince you  to set your VCR'S Monday morning. We're  on at nine here in Merrillville."

  That earned Deanna her first chuckle,  and set the tone for the next twenty minutes,  until her speech segued into a 
question-and-answer  period.
  One of the first questioners asked if Finn Riley  had accompanied her.
  "I'm afraid not. As we all know, one of the  boons, and the curses, of this business is the  breaking story. Finn's 
reporting on one right  now, but you can catch him on In Depth  Tuesday nights. I always do."
  "Miss Reynolds, how do you feel about the  fact that looks have become as much a part of the  criteria for on-air jobs 
as credentials?"
  "I would certainly agree with network  executives that television is a visual  medium. To a point. I can tell you this: If 
in  thirty years Finn Riley is still reporting, and  considered a statesman, I'd not only expect  but demand, as a woman, 
to be given the same  respect."

  Finn wasn't thinking about the future. He was  too involved in the present. Using wile,  guile and arrogance, he'd 
managed to gain a  position beside the hostage negotiator,  Lieutenant Arnold Jenner. Jenner still held  the bullhorn 
but had taken a short break in his  appeal to his quarry to release the hostages.
  "Lieutenant, the word I've gotten here is  that Johnson--that's his name, isn't it, Elmer  Johnson?"
  "It's the one he answers to," Jenner said  mildly.
  "He has a history of depression. His  VA records--"
  "You wouldn't have access to his medical  records, Mr. Riley."
  "Not directly." But he had contacts, and  he'd used them. "My take on this is that  Johnson served in the military and 
has been  troubled since his discharge in March of last year.  Last week he lost his wife and his job."
  "You're well informed."
  "I get paid to be. He went into this  restaurant at just past ten this morning--that's about  three hours ago--armed with 
a forty-four Magnum,  a Bushmaster, a gas mask and a carbine. He  shot and killed two waiters and a bystander, then  
took five hostages, including two women and a

twelve-year-old girl, the owner's  daughter."
  "Ten," Jenner said wearily. "The kid's  ten. Mr. Riley, you do good work, and usually I  enjoy it. But my job right now 
is to get those people out  of there alive."
  Finn glanced over, noting the position of the  sharpshooters. They wouldn't wait much longer.  "What are his 
demands? Can you tell me that?"
  It hardly mattered, Jenner decided. There  had been only one, and he hadn't been able  to meet it. "He wants his 
wife, Mr.  Riley. She left Chicago four days ago.  We're trying to locate her, but we haven't had  any luck."
  "I can get it on the air. If she catches  a bulletin, she may make contact. Let me  talk to him. I might be able to get 
him to bargain  if I tell him I'll put all my people on  it."
  "You that desperate for a story?"  Insults were too common in his line of work for  Finn to take offense. "I'm always 
ready  to bargain for a story, Lieutenant." His eyes  narrowed as he measured the man beside him. "Look,  the kid's 
ten. Let me try."
  Jenner believed in instinct, and he also knew,  without a doubt, that he couldn't hold the situation from  flash point 
much longer. After a moment, he handed  Finn the bullhorn. "Don't promise what you  can't deliver."
  "Mr. Johnson. Elmer. This is Finn  Riley. I'm a reporter."
  "I know who you are." The voice came out, a  high-pitched shriek through the broken glass. "Do  you think I'm 
stupid?"
  "You were in the Gulf, right? I was too."  "Shit. You figure that makes us buddies?"
  "I figure anybody who did time over  there's already been to hell." The awning flapped,  reminding him of the road to 
Kuwait, and the sparkle  of pink sequins. "I thought maybe we could make  a deal."
  "There ain't no deal. My wife gets here,  I let them go. She doesn't, we're all  going to hell. For real."
  "The cops have been trying to reach her, but I  thought we could put a new spin on it. I've  got a lot of contacts. I can 
get your story  national, put your wife's picture on

television screens from coast to coast.  Even if she isn't watching, someone who knows her  is bound to be. We'll put 
a number on, a  special number where she can call in. You can  talk to her, Elmer."
  That was good, Jenner decided, even as he  braced to rip the bullhorn from Finn's hands if  the need arose. Using 
his first name, offering him not  only hope but a few minutes of fame. His  superiors might not approve, but Jenner 
thought it  could work.
  "Then do it!" Johnson shouted out. "Just  fucking do it."
  "I'll be glad to, but I can't unless you  give something back. Just let the little girl come out,  Elmer, and I'll plug your 
story across the  country within ten minutes. I can even fix it so you  can get a message to your wife. In your own  
words."
  "I'm not letting anybody out, except in a  body bag."
  "She's just a kid, Elmer. Your wife  probably likes kids." Christ, he hoped  so. "If you let her go, she'll hear about it, 
and  she'll want to talk to you."
  "It's a trick."
  "I've got a camera right here." He glanced  toward Curt. "Is there a TV in the bar in  there?" he called out.
  "What if there is?"
  "You can watch everything I do. Everything I  say. I'll have them put me on live."
  "Then do it. Do it in five minutes, fucking  five minutes, or you're going to have another body  in here."
  "Call the desk," Finn shouted. "Patch me  in. Set up for live now." Then he turned  back to Jenner.
  "You'd make a pretty good cop--for a  reporter."
  "Thanks." He handed Jenner the bullhorn.  "Tell him to send her out while I'm on the  air, or I go to black."

  In precisely five minutes, Finn faced  the camera. Whatever his inner turmoil, his  delivery was calm and well paced, 
his eyes  cool. Behind him was the shattered exterior of the  restaurant.
  "This morning in Chicago's Greektown, this

family-run restaurant erupted with  violence. Three people are known dead in the standoff between  police and Elmer 
Johnson, a former mechanic  who chose this spot to take his stand. Johnson's  only demand is contact with his 
estranged wife,  Arlene."
  Though he sensed activity behind him, Finn's  eyes stayed fixed on the camera's light.
  "Johnson, well armed, is holding five  hostages. In his appeal to--"
  There was a scream from behind him. Finn shifted  instantly to give Curt room to tape.
  It happened quickly, as if all the waiting  hours had been focused on this one moment. The child,  trembling and 
weeping, stepped outside. Even as  the shadow of the awning fell over her face, a  wild-eyed man sprinted out, 
screaming as he  hurtled toward escape. The rash of gunfire from  the restaurant propelled the man forward, off his  
feet. It was Jenner, Finn saw, who scooped  the child aside even as Johnson stumbled to the  door.
  The sniper's bullet plowed through Johnson's  forehead.
  "Oh man." Curt kept repeating the words  over and over under his breath as he held the camera  steady. "Man, oh 
man, oh man."
  Finn only shook his head. The burning in his  left arm made him glance down curiously.  Brows knit, he touched the 
hole in his sleeve.  His fingers came away sticky with blood.
  "Well, hell," he murmured. "I got this  coat in Milan."
  "Shit, Riley." Curt's eyes bulged.  "Shit. You're hit."
  "Yeah." He didn't feel any pain yet,  only dull annoyance. "You just can't patch  leather, either."

  On Monday, as soon as the morning show was  taped, Deanna stood in the center of her  office, her eyes glued to 
the TV screen. It  seemed unbelievable that she could hear Finn's  voice supplying the details over the special  report.
  She saw the scene as he had, the shattered  glass, the bloodied body. The camera bobbled  and swung as the 
sniper fired. Her heart jerked  as she heard the pop and ping of bullets.
  Through it all, Finn's voice remained calm,

cool, with an underpinning of fury she  doubted any of his viewers were aware of. She  stood, a fist pressed to her 
heart as the camera  zoomed in on the child, weeping in the arms of a  rumpled man with graying hair.
  "Deanna." Jeff hesitated in the  doorway, then crossed the room to stand beside her.
  "It's horrible," she murmured.  "Unbelievable. If that man hadn't panicked  and run out that way, if he hadn't done 
that, it  might have turned out differently. That little girl,  she could have been caught in the cross fire. And  Finn ..."
  "He's okay. Hey, he's right downstairs.  Back on the job."
  "Back on the job."
  "Deanna," he said again, and laid a hand on  her shoulder. "I know it must be tough for you. Not  only knowing it 
happened, but actually watching it."  He walked over and switched off the set. "But  he's okay."
  "He was shot." She whirled away from the  blank screen and struggled for composure. "And I  was in Indiana. You 
can't imagine how horrible it  was to have Tim come into the ballroom and tell me  he'd seen it on the limo's set. And 
to be  helpless. Not to be there when they took him to the  hospital."
  "If it upsets you this much, and you asked him,  he could get a desk job."
  For the first time all morning she gave him a  genuine smile. "Things don't work that way. I  wouldn't want them to. 
We'd better get back  to work." She gave his hand a quick squeeze before  rounding her desk. "Thanks for listening."
  "Hey. That's what I'm here for."

  "Everybody stays late tonight," Angela  announced at an emergency staff meeting.  "Nobody leaves until we lock in 
this show.  I want a panel, and I want it hard-line.  Three from this white supremacist group, three from  the NAACP. I 
want radicals." She sat  behind her desk, her fingers drumming on the  surface. "Make sure each side gets at  least a 
dozen tickets, so they can seed the  audience. I want to blow the roof off."
  She stabbed a finger at her head researcher.  "We've got some statistics here in New  York. Get me some of the 
relatives."

  "Some of them might not be easy  to persuade."
  "Then pay them," she snapped. "Money always  turns the tide. And I want some tape, as  graphic as possible, from 
rallies. Some  witnesses to racially motivated crimes,  perpetrators would be better. Promise that  we'll protect their 
identities. Promise  them anything, just get them."
  When she fell into silence, Dan gave a nod  that signaled the end of the meeting. He waited  until the door was 
closed again.
  "You know, Angela, you could be walking on thin  ice here."
  Her head snapped up. "You sound like Lew."  "I'm not advising you against doing it. I'm just  suggesting that you 
watch out for the cross fire."
  "I know what I'm doing." She'd seen  Finn's report, as had nearly every other  American with a television set. Now 
she was going  to outdo him as well as Deanna. "We need  something hot, and the timing couldn't be better. The  
country's in an uproar about race, and the city's a  mess."
  "You're not worried about Deanna  Reynolds." He smiled, knowing he had  to defuse the tantrum he saw building in 
her  eyes.
  "She's climbing up my back, isn't she?"  "She'll slip off." He took her rigid  hands in his. "What you need now is a 
boost in  publicity. Something that will focus the public's  attention on you." He lifted her hand, admiring  the way the 
sun dashed off the diamonds in her  watch. "And I've got an idea how to do it."
  "It better be good."
  "It's more than good, it's inspired." He  kissed her hand, watching her over her knuckles.  "The American public loves 
one thing more than  they love hearing about graft and sex and violence.  Weddings," he said as he drew her gently to 
her  feet. "Big, splashy weddings--private  weddings dotted with celebrities. Marry me,  Angela." His eyes were soft. 
"I'll not only  make you happy, I'll see to it that your  picture's on every major newspaper and  magazine in the 
country."
  The flutter of her heart was quick. "And what would  you get out of it, Dan?"
  "Y." Reading her clearly, he lowered his head

to kiss her. "All I want is you."

  On the second Saturday in June,
Angela donned a Vera Wang shell-pink  gown of silk, encrusted with tiny pearls. Its  sweetheart neckline framed a 
flattering hint  of her rounded breasts, its full, elaborate  skirt accented her tiny waist. She wore a  wide-brimmed hat 
with a fingertip veil and carried  a bouquet of white orchids.
  The ceremony took place in the country home  she'd purchased in Connecticut, and was attended  by a stellar guest 
list. Some were pleased to be there,  drawn either by sentiment or the notion of having their  name and photo included 
in the press releases.  Others came because it was easier to accept than  to face Angela's fury later.
  Elaborate gifts crowded the large parlor  and, under uniformed guard, were on display for the  select members of the 
press. No one seeing  all this, Angela thought, would doubt how much she was  loved.
  The reception spilled out into the rose garden,  where a champagne fountain bubbled and white doves  cooed.
  When the event was buzzed incessantly  by helicopters crammed with paparazzi, she knew  it was a success.
  Like any new bride, she glowed. The sun  glinted off the five-carat diamond gracing her  left hand as she posed with 
Dan for photos.
  She told the reporters, regretfully, that  her mother, her only living relative, was too  ill to attend. In reality she was 
tucked in a  private clinic, drying out.
  Kate Lowell, looking young and fresh in a  billowing sundress, kissed Angela's cheek  for the benefit of the cameras. 
Her long red-gold  hair flowed down her bare back, melted copper  over sun-kissed peaches. She had a face the  
camera worshiped, ice-edged cheekbones, full    lips, huge gold eyes. The image was  completed by a sinuous body, 
killer legs and a  rich infectious giggle.
  Kate Lowell could have become a star on the  sole basis of her glorious physical  attributes. She certainly had done 
her share  of commercial endorsements. But she had something more:  talent and charm that burned every bit as hot 
as her  box-office appeal. And ambition that seared through

both.
  She enchanted the photographer by shooting him a  dazzling smile, then turned the other cheek for  Angela. "I hate 
your guts," she said  softly.
  "I know, darling." Beaming, Angela slipped  her arm around Kate's waist, fingers digging  ruthlessly into flesh as she 
turned her best side  to the camera. "Smile pretty now, show why  you're the number-one female box-office  draw."
  Kate did, with a smile that could have melted  steel at five paces. "I wish you were dead."
  "You and so many others." She hooked her arm through  Kate's and strolled off, two bosom friends  stealing a 
private moment. "Now, is it true that  you and Rob Winters are considering scripts for a  TV movie?"
  "No comment."
  "Now, now, darling." Angela's voice was a  purr, deadly feline. "Didn't we agree  to scratch each other's backs?"
  "I'd like to scratch your eyes." But she knew  she couldn't. There was much too much at stake for her  to indulge 
herself quite that blatantly. Still, there were  other weapons. Tilting her head, Kate studied  Angela's face. "That's an 
excellent  tuck, by the way. Barely noticeable." Her  smile was quick and sincere when Angela bristled.  "Don't worry, 
darling, it'll be our  secret. After all, a girl's got to do everything  necessary to maintain the illusion of youth. Especially    
when she's married to a younger man."
  Behind the flirty little veil, Angela's eyes  were as hard as marbles. It was her day, by God.  Hers. And nothing and 
no one would spoil it. "A  script's come my way, Katie dear. I think  you'll find it fascinating. And I think you'll be  able 
to pique Rob's interest as well. The two  of you have been pals for years, and it would be a friendly  boost if you 
persuaded him to do it. After all, he  doesn't have a great deal of time left to pick and  choose, does he?"
  "You bitch."
  Angela gave a trilling laugh. Nothing could  have pleased her more than seeing Kate's smug  smile fade. "The 
trouble with actors is they  need someone to write that clever dialogue. You'll  have the script by Monday, darling. I 
really would  consider it a favor if you'd read it quickly."

  "I'm getting tired of your favors,  Angela. Other people might call it  blackmail."
  "I'm not other people. It's simply a matter of  my having certain information that I'm more than happy  to keep to 
myself. A favor to you, dear. In  return, you do one for me. That's called  cooperation."
  "One day you're going to cooperate yourself right  into hell."
  "It's just business." With a sigh, Angela  patted Kate's flushed cheeks. "You've been  around long enough to know 
better than to take everything so  personally. We'll discuss terms when I get  back from my honeymoon. Now, you'll 
have  to excuse me. I can't ignore my guests."
  Although Kate's imagination didn't run  to dialogue, she had no trouble with visuals. As  Angela glided away, Kate 
saw the frothy  silk splattered with blood.
  "One day," she whispered, yanking a rose from  a bush and crushing it in her hand. "One day,  someone's finally 
going to get the guts and do it."

  "She looks wonderful." Lolling on the couch  in the cabin, Deanna studied the front cover of  P. "Radiant."
  Finn drummed up the energy to glance over. They  had finally been able to synchronize a full three  days off, 
together. If the phone didn't ring, the  fax didn't shrill and the world didn't collapse  within the next twenty-four hours, 
they would have made  it through.
  "She looks like one of those prop wedding  cakes. All fancy fake icing over the  inedible."
  "Your vision's skewed by malice."  "Yours should be, too."
  She only sighed and flipped through to the cover  story. "I don't have to like her to admit she's  lovely. And she looks 
happy, really happy.  Maybe marriage will mellow her."
  He only snorted. "Since this is her third  time at bat, that's doubtful."
  "Not if this is the right one. I don't wish her  bad luck, personally or professionally." She  peered over the top of the 
magazine. "I want  to whip her butt on merit."
  "You are whipping her butt."
  "In Chicago, and a few other markets. But

this wedding's bound to shift the tide at  least for a time."
  He stretched his arms over his head, muscles  rippling. Deanna could see the faint scar where the  bullet had sliced 
through.
  "Why do you think she did it?"
  "Oh come on, Finn, give her some credit.  A woman doesn't get married so that she can  get her picture on a few 
covers."
  "Kansas." Amazed that she could still be so  naive, he took the magazine from her. "When  you're slipping down the 
ladder, you grab hold of  any handy rope."
  "I think that's a mixed metaphor."  "You think this is for love?" Laughing, he sent  the magazine sailing. Angela, the 
happy  bride, landed facedown. "She's had six  weeks of free publicity since the day her  secret engagement 
mysteriously leaked."
  "It could have leaked." She gave him a friendly  shove with her stockinged foot. "And even if she  planted it, it doesn't 
change the bottom  line. She's a beautiful, vibrant woman who  fell for a gorgeous, magnetic man."
  "Gorgeous?" Finn snagged her foot by the  ankle. "You think he's gorgeous?"
  "Yes, he's--" She shrieked, twisting as  he tickled her foot. "Stop that."
  "And magnetic?"
  "Sexy." Giggling helplessly, she reared up  to try to free herself. "Sinfully attractive."  She tried biting when he 
wrestled her down.
  "You fight like a girl."
  She blew her hair out of her eyes and tried  to buck him off. "So what?"
  "I like it. And I'm now honor-bound to erase  Dan What's-his-name from your mind."
  "Dan Gardner," she said primly. "And I  don't know if you can. I mean, he's so  elegant, so polished, so ..." She gave 
a  mock shiver. "So romantic."
  "We'll shoot for a contrast."
  With one swipe, he dragged his hand down her  breezy cotton blouse and sent buttons  flying.
  "Finn!" Caught between shock and amusement, she  started to shove him back. The laughing protest  ended on a 
strangled gasp as he fastened his mouth  to her breast.
  Instant heat. Instant need. It burst through

her like light, blindingly bright. The hands  that had playfully pressed against his shoulders  tightened like vises, short, 
neat nails digging  crescents into his flesh. Her heart stuttered  beneath his greedy mouth, losing its pace, then racing  
ahead in a wild sprint.
  His hands were already tugging aside the remains of  her blouse, then streaking over bared skin to arouse and  
demand. The strong summer sun streamed through the  windows, fell over her in hot white light.  Her skin was moist 
from it, from his rough, impatient  touch. With his mouth still feasting on her, he slid his  hand under the baggy leg of 
her shorts and drove her  ruthlessly to a fast, violent climax.
  "Again." Driven himself, he fixed his mouth on  hers, swallowing her cry as he pushed her higher.
  He wanted her like this. So often he was content  to let them take each other slowly, savoring each  touch, each 
taste on the long, lazy journey  toward fulfillment. He loved the way her body  grew sinuous and soft, the way his own 
pleasures  built layer by layer.
  But now he wanted only the fast, molten  ride, the mindlessness of hurried, urgent sex.  He wanted to possess her, 
to brand her, to feel  her body rock fitfully under his, until he  was sunk deep.
  He tore at her clothes even as she tugged and  yanked at his. Her breath was hot on his  flesh, her mouth streaking 
hungrily over him,  sounds of desperate excitement humming in her  throat.
  He shifted, gripping her hips and lifting her  up so that the muscles in his arms quivered. Then  he was sheathed in 
her. Their twin cries of  triumph shivered on the sultry air.
  With her head thrown back, her long, slim  body glistening with sweat, she took him deeper,  drove him as he had 
driven her. Ruthlessly,  relentlessly. She gripped his hands, guiding them  over her damp body, urging him to claim 
more  while her heart galloped in a mad race of its  own.
  The orgasm struck, a sweaty fist that  pummeled and pummeled and left her body a  mass of indescribably exquisite 
aches. The  air was clogged and burning in her lungs. She  sobbed to release it, sobbed to gulp it back in.
  She felt his body lunge, vaulting her over  that final, keen edge. Like wax melted in the sun,

she slid down to him and lay limp.
  His own mind cleared gradually, the static from the  storm dying to a steady quiet that was her breathing.  The dark 
haze that had covered his vision lifted so  that he closed his eyes against the hard sunlight.
  "I guess I protected my honor," he  murmured. She gave a strangled laugh.
  "I didn't know--God, I can't breathe."  She tried again. "I didn't know tweaking your  ego would be so ... rewarding."
  "Relaxed?"
  She sighed. "V."
  "Happy?"
  "Completely."
  "Then this is probably a good time to ask you  to think about something."
  "Hmmm. I don't think I can think just  now."
  "Put this in the back of your mind." His hand  gently massaged her back. "Let it stew there  for a while."
  "What am I supposed to stew about?"  "Marrying me."
  She jerked back. "Marrying you?"  "Is looking shocked another way to tweak my  ego?"
  "No." Staggered, she pressed a hand to her  cheek. "God, Finn, you know how to toss one in  from left field."
  "We'll talk baseball later--since the  Cubs are in the basement." Goddamn nerves,  he thought, while his stomach 
clenched. It was  ridiculous for him to feel these tugs of panic,  but all he could imagine was her saying no.  Absolutely 
not.
  For the first time in his life he wanted something and  someone he wasn't sure he could have.
  He levered himself up so that they sat, naked,  facing each other, both still achy and sated with sex.  The plan was, 
he reminded himself, to keep it  light, natural.
  "It shouldn't be such a surprise, Deanna.  We've been lovers for more than a year."
  "Yes, but ... we haven't even resolved  living together yet--"
  "One of my points. My strategy in getting  you to live with me; then easing you into marriage just  isn't panning out."
  "Your strategy?"
  He didn't mind the edge in her voice. It

matched the one in his own. "Kansas, the  only way to handle you is like a chess game. A  man has to think a half 
dozen moves ahead and  outflank you."
  "I don't think I care for that analogy."  "It's an accurate one." He pinched her chin  lightly between his fingers. "You 
spend so much time  thinking things through, trying to avoid making the wrong  move. I have to give you a shove."
  "Is that what this proposal is?" She batted  his hand away. "A shove?"
  "We'll call it more of a nudge, since I'm  willing to let you think it over."
  "That's generous of you," she said between her clenched  teeth.
  "Actually," he continued, "I'm giving us  both time. I can't say I'm completely sold  on the idea myself."
  She blinked. "Excuse me?"
  It was inspired, he realized. Absolutely  inspired. Two could play tweak-the-ego.  "We're coming from opposite fields 
here on this  subject. You from a big, happy family, all  those traditional trappings, where "till death do  us part" means 
something. For me, marriage has  always meant "till divorce do us part.""
  Incensed, she snatched up her blouse,  swore, then tossed it aside. "For someone so  cynical, I'm surprised you'd 
consider it."
  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 MandMore 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 Y.
       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 had set the single flower earlier. 
It was  no longer there. No longer there, she thought dully,  because it was now on her desk, joined by its mate.
  She rubbed the heel of her hand against her  breastbone as she stared at the roses. Cassie  might have done it, she 
thought. Or Simon or  Jeff or Margaret. Anyone who'd been working  late. One of them had found the second rose  
somewhere and had brought it in, slipped it in with the first.  And seeing her sleeping, had simply left them  on her 
desk.
  Seeing her sleeping. A shudder ran through her,

weakening her legs. She'd been  asleep. Alone, defenseless. As she sagged  against the arm of the chair, she saw 
the tape resting  on her blotter. She could tell from the  manufacturer's label it wasn't the type they  used on the show.
  No note this time. Perhaps a note wasn't  necessary. She thought about running, rushing pell-mell  out of the office. 
There would be people in the newsroom.  Plenty of people working the swing between the evening and the late  news.
  She wasn't alone.
  A telephone call would summon security.  An elevator ride would take her into the bustle  of activity a few floors 
below.
  No, she wasn't alone, and there was no reason  to be afraid. There was every reason to play the  tape.
  She wiped her damp palms on her hips before  taking the tape from its sleeve and sliding it into the  VCR slot.
  The first few seconds after she hit Play were  a blank, blue screen. When Deanna watched  the picture flicker on, her 
forehead creased in  concentration. She recognized her building, heard  the whoosh of traffic through the audio. A few 
people  breezed by on the sidewalk, in shirtsleeves,  indicating warm weather.
  She watched herself come through the outside door,  her hair flowing around her shoulders. Dazed, she  lifted a 
hand, combing her fingers through the short cap.  She watched herself check her watch. The camera  zoomed in on 
her face, her eyes smoky with  impatience. She could hear, hideously, the sound  of the camera operator's unsteady 
breathing.
  A CBC van streaked up to the curb. The  picture faded out.
  And faded in. She was strolling along  Michigan with Fran. Her arms were loaded with  shopping bags. She wore a 
thick sweater and a  suede jacket. As she turned her head to laugh  at Fran, the picture froze, holding steady  on her 
laughing face until dissolve.
  There were more than a dozen clips, snippets of  her life. A trip to the market, her arrival  at a charity function, a stroll 
through Water  Tower Place, playing with Aubrey in the park,  signing autographs at a mall. Her hair  short now, her 
wardrobe indicating the change of  seasons.

  Through it all, the mood-setting  soundtrack of quiet breathing.
  The last clip was of her sleeping, curled in  her office chair.
  She continued to stare after the screen sizzled with  snow. Fear had crept back, chilling her  blood so that she stood 
shivering in the slanted  light of the desk lamp.
  For years he'd been watching her, she thought.  Stalking her. Invading small personal moments  of her life and 
making them his. And she'd never  noticed.
  Now he wanted her to know. He wanted her  to understand how close he was. How much closer he  could be.
  Leaping forward, she fumbled with the Eject  button, finally pounded it with her fist. She  grabbed her bag, stuffing 
the tape inside as she  dashed from the office. The corridor was dark,  shadowy from the backwash of light from her 
office.  A pulse beat in the base of her neck as she  dashed to the elevator.
  Her breath was sobbing when she pushed the button.  She whirled around and pressed her back to the  wall, 
scanning the shadows wildly for movement.
  "Hurry, hurry." She pressed a hand to her  mouth as her voice echoed mockingly down the  empty corridor.
  The rumble of the elevator made her jump.  Nearly crying out in relief, she spun toward the  doors, then fell back 
when she saw a form  move away from the corner of the car and step toward  her.
  "Hey, Dee. Did I give you a jolt?"  Roger stepped closer as the doors slithered  closed at his back. "Hey, kid, you're 
white  as a sheet."
  "Don't." She cringed back; her eyes  flashed toward the fire door leading to the stairs.  She would have to get past 
him. She would get past  him.
  "Hey, what's going on?" The concern in  Roger's voice had her gaze sliding  cautiously back to him. "You're shaking.  
Maybe you'd better sit down."
  "I'm fine. I'm leaving now."
  "You'd better catch your breath first. Come on.  Let's--"
  She jerked back, avoiding his hand. "What do  you want?"

  "Cassie stopped downstairs on her  way out." He spoke slowly, letting his hand  fall back to his side. "She said you 
were working  late, so I thought I'd come up and see if you  wanted to catch some dinner."
  "Finn's coming." She moistened her lips.  "He'll be here any minute."
  "It was just a thought. Dee, is everything okay?  Your folks all right?"
  A new fear gripped her throat, digging in like  talons. "Why? Why do you ask that?"
  "You're rattled. I thought you'd gotten some  bad news."
  "No." Giddy with panic, she edged away.  "I've got a lot on my mind." She barely  muffled a scream as the elevator 
rumbled again.
  "Jesus, Dee, take it easy." In  reflex, he grabbed her arm as she started to race  by him toward the stairs. She swung 
back  to fight, and the elevator doors opened.
  "What the hell's going on?"
  "Oh, God." Tearing free from Roger,  Deanna fell into Finn's arms. "Thank God  you're here."
  His grip tightened protectively as his eyes  bored into Roger's. "I said, what the hell's  going on?"
  "You tell me." Shaken, Roger dragged a  hand through his hair. "I came up a minute ago,  and she was ready to 
jump out of her skin. I was  trying to find out what happened."
  "Did he hurt you?" Finn demanded of  Deanna and earned a curse of outrage from  Roger.
  "No." She kept her face buried against his  shoulder. The shaking, the horrible shaking wouldn't  stop. She thought 
she could hear her own bones  rattling together. "I was so scared. I can't think.  Just take me home."

  Finn managed to pry a disjointed explanation from  her on the drive home, then, pushing a brandy on  her, had 
watched the tape himself.
  She offered no protest when he strode to the  phone and called the police. She was calmer when  she related the 
story again. She understood the  value of details, of timetables, of clear-cut  facts. The detective who interviewed her 
in  Finn's living room sat patiently, jotting in  his notepad.

  She recognized the gray-haired  man from the tape from Greektown--he had snatched  the little girl out of the line of 
fire.
  Arnold Jenner was a quiet, meticulous  cop. His square face was offset by a nose that  had been broken, not on the 
job but by a line  drive during a precinct softball game. He  wore a dark brown suit that strained only  slightly over the 
beginnings of a paunch. His hair  was caught somewhere between brown and gray and trimmed  ruthlessly short. 
There were lines around his mouth and  eyes that indicated he either laughed or frowned  easily. His eyes, a pale, 
sleepy green,  should have been as nondescript as the rest of him.  But as Deanna stared into them, she was 
comforted by a  sense of trust.
  "I'd like to have the letters."
  "I didn't save all of them," she told  him, and felt ashamed by the tired acceptance in his  eyes. "The first few--well, it 
seemed harmless.  On-air reporters get a lot of mail, some  of it on the odd side."
  "Whatever you have, then."
  "I have some at the office, some at my  apartment."
  "You don't live here?"
  "No." She shot a look at Finn. "Not  exactly."
  "Mmm-hmmm." Jenner made another note.  "Miss Reynolds, you said that last portion of  tape would have been 
taken this evening, between  five-thirty and six-twenty."
  "Yes. I told you, I'd fallen asleep.  I was tense, so I thought I'd try this routine a  guest on the show had suggested. 
An imagery,  meditation thing." She shrugged, feeling foolish.  "I guess it's not my style. I'm either awake  or I'm 
asleep. When I woke up, I saw  the second rose on the desk. And the tape."
  He made noises in his throat. Like a  doctor, Deanna thought.
  "Who would have access to your offices at that  hour?"
  "All manner of people. My own staff, anyone  working downstairs."
  "So the building would be closed to all but CBC  personnel?"
  "Not necessarily. The rear door wouldn't be  locked at that hour. You'd have people going off shift,  others coming 
on, people picking them up or dropping them

off. Sometimes even tours."
  "Busy place."
  "Yes."
  His eyes lifted to hers again, and she realized  why they weren't nondescript. He wasn't  simply looking at her: he 
was looking in.  Finn had that ability, that same quick, scalpel  gaze that cut right through into your thoughts. Perhaps 
that was  why she found him reassuring.
  "Is there anyone you can think of? Someone you've  rebuffed? Someone who's shown a more than casual  or 
friendly interest in you?"
  "No. Really, there's no one I know who would  keep doing something like this. I'm sure it's a  stranger--a viewer, 
probably. Otherwise  I'd probably have noticed them taping me."
  "Well, the way your show's been going, that  doesn't narrow the possible suspects." In an  old habit, he doodled on 
his pad. The  doodle became Deanna's face, the frightened  eyes and the mouth that struggled to curve up. "You do  
a lot of public appearances. Have you noticed  any particular face that keeps showing up?"
  "No. I thought of that."
  "I'll take the tape with me." He rose  then, tucking his notebook neatly in his pocket.  "Someone will come by for the 
notes."
  "There's nothing else, is there?" She rose as  well. "There's really nothing else."
  "You never know what we might pick up from the  tape. Sophistication of equipment or some  small identifying 
sound. In the meantime, try not  to worry. This kind of thing happens more often than you  think." And because she 
kept trying to smile, he  wanted to reassure her. "You hear about the big  ones, like that woman who keeps breaking 
into  Letterman's house, but the truth is, it's not just  celebrities who have to deal with obsessions. Not  too long ago 
we had this woman focused on this  stockbroker. Nice-looking guy, but no  Adonis. Anyhow, she called him at work, at  
home, sent telegrams, left love notes  under the windshield wiper of his car. She even had  pictures of herself in a 
wedding dress that she had  doctored with one of him in a tux. Showed it to his  neighbors to prove they were 
married."
  "What happened?"
  "He took out a peace bond on her, and she  broke it by camping on his doorstep. She went in  for a psychiatric 
evaluation. When she got out,

she decided she wasn't in love with the  stockbroker anymore. Claims she divorced  him."
  "So the moral is, sometimes these things run their  course."
  "Could be. Thing is, some people don't have as firm  a grip on reality as they might. You'd  probably feel better if you 
tightened up your  security a little."
  "I'll do that. Thank you, Detective  Jenner."
  "I'll be in touch. A real pleasure meeting  you, Miss Reynolds, and you, Mr. Riley.  I've spent a lot of time with the two 
of you in my  living room."
  "So, that's that," she said as she closed the door  behind Jenner.
  "Not by a long shot." Finn took her firmly  by the shoulders. He hadn't interrupted her  interview with Jenner. But now 
it was his turn.  "You're not working late alone anymore."
  "Really, Finn--"
  "That's not negotiable, so don't give me  grief on this. Do you know what went through me when  I saw you standing 
in the hall, terrified, fighting  off Crowell?"
  "He was trying to help," she began, then  closed her eyes and sighed. "Yes, yes, I  think I do know. I'm sorry. I'll bring 
work  home when I have to."
  "Until this thing is resolved, you need  twenty-four-hour protection."
  "A bodyguard?" She would have laughed if she  wasn't afraid he'd take a chunk out of her.  "Finn, I won't work late in 
the building.  I'll even make sure I have a buddy when I  go on any remotes or appearances. But I'm  not hiring some 
thug named Reno to lurk over me."
  "It's not unusual for a woman in your position  to hire private security."
  "Whatever my position, I'm still Deanna  Reynolds from Topeka, and I refuse to have some  big-shouldered hulk 
frighten off the people I'm trying  to reach. I couldn't stand it, Finn. That's just too  Hollywood for me. I'm not taking this  
lightly," she continued. "Believe me, I'm  going to take very serious care of myself. But I  haven't been threatened."
  "You've been spied on, followed, taped,  harassed by anonymous notes and phone calls."

  "And it frightens me, I admit it.
You were right about the police. I should have called them  before. Now that you have, I feel like the whole situation  
has been put in the right compartment. Let's give  them a chance to do what we pay them for."
  Frustrated, he stalked down the hall and  back. "A compromise," he said at length.  "Christ, I'm always digging up 
compromises for  you."
  Judging the storm was blowing over, she moved in  to wrap her arms around him. "That's why our  relationship is so 
healthy. What's the compromise  --a bodyguard named Sheila?"
  "You move in here. I'm not budging on this,  Deanna. Keep your place; I don't care.
But you live here, with me."
  "Funny." In a subtle peace treaty, she  pressed a kiss to his cheek. "I was going  to suggest the same solution."
  He tipped her face up to his. He wanted  to ask, badly, if she was agreeing because she was  frightened or because 
she needed him. But he didn't  ask. "What about when I'm out of town?"
  "I've been thinking about asking you how you felt  about dogs." Her lips curved against his. "We  could go by the 
pound this weekend. With so many abandoned  animals, it seems the right route."

           Chapter Twenty-one

  Awards were not important. Quality work and the  satisfaction of a job well done were their own  reward. Statues and 
speeches were nothing more than  industry hype.
  Deanna didn't believe any of it.
  For a girl from Kansas whose first on-the-air  job had been reporting on a dog show, alighting  from a limo in Los 
Angeles as an Emmy  nominee was a thrill. And she didn't mind  admitting it.
  The day was perfect. There was bound to be smog,  but she didn't see it. The sky was the deep,  dreamy blue of a 
watercolor painting, dazzled  by the brilliant white sun. A balmy breeze  teased the elegant gowns and carefully 
coiffed  hair of the attendees and wafted the scents of  perfume and flowers over the enthusiastic crowd.
  "I can't believe I'm here." It took all  of her willpower not to bounce on the seat of the limo  like a kid at the circus. 
Then she gave up and

bounced anyway.
  "You've earned it." Charmed by her, Finn took  her hand and brought it to his lips.
  "I know that, up here." She tapped her  temple. "But in here"--she laid her hand on her  heart--"I'm afraid someone's 
going to pinch me  and I'll wake up and realize it's only a  dream. Ouch."
  "See, you're awake." He grinned as she  rubbed her forearm. "And you're still here."
  However giddy she felt, she slid  gracefully from the limo, tossing her head up as  she straightened and scanned the 
crowd. The sun  glinted off her short, beaded gown and scattered  light.
  Finn thought she'd chosen well; the strapless  column of glittery scarlet made her look  young and fresh and every 
inch the star. Several people in the  crowd recognized her instantly and shouted her  name.
  Their reaction obviously surprised her, he  realized with a hint of a smile. She looked  dazed, then dazzled, then 
delighted. She waved  back, not with the careless insouciance of a seasoned  veteran, but with genuine pleasure and 
enthusiasm.
  "I feel like I'm walking into a movie."  She chuckled as she linked hands with Finn. "No,  like I'm walking out of the 
last reel, and I've  got the hero."
  He pleased her, and the crowd, by kissing her. Not  just a friendly peck but a deep, lingering embrace that  gave the 
paparazzi plenty of fuel. They stood  a moment in the flashing sun, a picture-perfect  couple in evening dress. "That 
was because you're  beautiful." He kissed her again to the eruption of  cheers. "And that's for luck."
  "Thanks. On both counts."
  They started toward the building, where fans and  onlookers had been parted like the Red Sea  by police barricades. 
Celebrities and  press were mingling, creating quick bites that would be  shown on the evening news segments.
  She knew some of these people, Deanna thought. Some  had come on her show, had sat beside her and chatted 
like  old friends. Others she had met during the  benefits and events that became part of the job. She  exchanged 
greetings and good wishes, cheek  busses and handclasps as they wandered toward the  lobby.
  Mikes slashed out at them, cameras wheeled in

their direction, impeding progress.
  "Deanna, how does it feel to be here tonight?"  "Who designed your dress?"
  "Finn, what's it like to have a hit show when so many  news magazines have failed?"
  "Any marriage plans?"
  "Christ, it's like an obstacle course,"  Finn muttered as they worked their way through the gaggle  of reporters.
  "I'm loving every minute of it." She eased  closer, eyes dancing. "Don't you know when they  ask about your dress 
designer, you've made it?"
  "They didn't ask me."
  She turned, fussing with his tie. "And you look  so nice, too. Very GQ."
  He grimaced. "Please. I can't believe  I got talked into doing that photo layout."
  "It was smashing."
  "I'm a newscaster, not a model."  "But you have such cute dimples."
  They didn't flash. They didn't so much as  wink as he cornered her with one steely-eyed  glare. "Keep that up and I'll 
leak the news that  you changed your underwear three times before getting into that  dress tonight."
  "Okay, they're not cute. No matter what  Mary Hart said last week on ET."
  "She said--never mind." No way was he going  to get pulled into that one. "Let's get a drink  before we go in."
  "Considering the occasion, it'll have to be  champagne. Just one," she added, pressing a hand  to her middle. "I don't 
think my system can  handle any more."
  "Wait here. I'll fight the horde."  "I told you you were my hero."
  She turned, and would have scooted off into a  corner, where she could stand and observe, but she found  herself 
face to face with Kate Lowell.
  "Hello, Dee."
  "Hello, Kate." Deanna offered a hand and  they shook like strangers. "It's good to see you."
  "It doesn't feel as though you mean it," she  said as she straightened her shoulders. "You look  terrific, ready to win."
  "I hope so."
  "I'd like to wish you luck. Really excellent  luck, considering your competition."
  "Thanks."
  "Don't. It's purely selfish on my

part. By the way, Rob Winters said  to send his best if I ran into you."
  Deanna's stiff smile softened. "How is  he?"
  "Dying," Kate said shortly, then let out a  breath between her teeth. "Sorry. We've been  friends for a long time, and 
it's hard to watch."
  "You don't have to apologize. I understand about  friendships and loyalties."
  Kate dropped her gaze. "Direct hit,  Dee."
  "Cheap shot," she corrected. Instinctively  she took Kate's hand again. There was none of the  mannered politeness 
this time. Just support,  basic and unstudied. "I can't even imagine  what it must be like for you."
  Kate studied their joined hands, remembered how  easy it had once been. "Dee, why didn't you  announce Rob's 
condition when he told you about  it?"
  "Because he asked me not to."
  Kate shook her head. "That was always enough for you.  I'd wondered if you'd changed."
  "I have, but that hasn't."
  "I really hope you win tonight. I hope you cut  her off at the knees." With this, she turned and  walked away.
  As Deanna watched the other woman walk through  the crowd, she thought she understood the tears she'd  seen in 
Kate's eyes, but not the venom in her  voice.
  "Well, we have come up in the world." Angela  glided into Deanna's line of vision, a frothy  dream of candy-pink silk 
and icy diamonds.  "Smile for the camera, dear," she whispered as she  leaned forward to air-kiss both of Deanna's  
cheeks. "Surely you haven't forgotten everything  I taught you."
  "I haven't forgotten a thing." Deanna let  her lips curve up. She hated the fact that her  stomach jittered with nerves. 
Hated more the fact that  they were bound to show. "It's been a long time."
  "It certainly has. I don't believe  you've met my husband. Dan, this is Deanna  Reynolds."
  "A pleasure." As polished as a fine gem,  Dan took Deanna's hand in his. "You're every  bit as charming as Angela 
told me."
  "I'm sure she told you nothing of the kind, but  thanks. I saw your pre-Emmy special last

night, Angela. I enjoyed it."
  "Did you?" Angela held up a cigarette  for Dan to light. "I have so little time to watch  television myself these days."
  "That's interesting. I'd think that would insulate  you from your audience. I love to watch. I  suppose I'm really the 
average viewer."
  "Average isn't something I'd settle for."  Angela's gaze shifted over Deanna's  shoulder, smoldered. "Hello, Finn. Isn't  
it interesting that we'd all have to come to Los  Angeles to have a reunion?"
  "Angela." Smoothly, he passed
Deanna her glass of champagne, then slipped  an arm around her waist. "You're looking well."
  "He used to be much more clever with his compliments,"  Angela told Dan. She made the rest of the  introductions 
and, spotting a camera out of the  corner of her eye, angled herself into a prominent  position. "I really must powder 
my nose before we  go in. Deanna, come along with me. No woman  goes to the ladies' room alone."
  Though Finn tightened his grip, Deanna  eased away. "Sure." Better to face whatever  unpleasantness Angela had in 
mind now, she  decided, than wait for it to be played out in  public. "Finn, I'll meet you inside in a  minute."
  To offer the camera a friendly tableau, Angela  hooked her arm through Deanna's. "We haven't  had one of our 
private talks for ages, have  we?"
  "It would be a little tough, since we haven't  seen each other in two years."
  "Always so literal." With a light laugh,  Angela swung into the ladies' lounge. It was  nearly empty, as she'd hoped. 
Later it would be  full, but now people were eager to be seated. She  walked to the mirrored counter, pulled out a chair  
and did exactly what she'd said she would do. She  powdered her nose. "You've chewed off most of your  lipstick," 
she said dryly. "Nervous?"
  "Excited." Deanna remained standing, but set  her glass aside to dig a lipstick out of her  evening bag. "I imagine 
that's a natural  reaction to being nominated."
  "It becomes routine after a while. I have  several awards, you know. Interesting that you've been  nominated for that 
show on date rape. I'd  considered that more of a self-confessional hour, not a

mix of views." Angela patted her  hair searching for any out-of-place strands as she  turned her face side to side. "I 
imagine  Finn will cop one of the prime-time statues himself  when they come out. He's well liked in the  industry, and 
he's been able to create a show that  appeals to the news buffs as well as the viewer  looking for entertainment."
  "I thought you didn't watch television."  Angela's eyes sharpened. It surprised  Deanna that their reflection didn't 
leave  slices on the glass. "I glance at something now  and then, if I think it might interest me. Of  course, Finn has 
always interested me."  Slowly, with relish, she glided her tongue over  her lips. "Tell me, do his eyes still go that  
wicked cobalt shade when he's aroused?" She  dabbed perfume at her wrists. "You do manage  to arouse him 
occasionally, don't you?"
  "Why don't you ask him?"
  "I may do that--if I get him alone. Then  again, if I get him alone, he might forget  all about you." Smiling, she twirled 
up a  spiral of hot pink lipstick. "So what would be  the point?"
  Deanna wasn't nervous any longer, she was  simply irked. "The point might be that you're  married, and that Finn 
stopped being interested in you a  long time ago."
  "Do you really believe that?" Angela's laugh  was as brisk and chilly as a puff of December  air. "Darling, if I decided 
to have an affair  with Finn--and Dan's a very understanding man, so my  marriage is no obstacle--he'd not only be  
willing, he'd be grateful."
  Moving beyond irked, Deanna felt little knots  of tension twine in her stomach, but her smile  came easily. "Angela." 
There was a laugh in  her voice. "Trying to make me jealous is a  waste of time. You had sex with Finn. I know that.  
And I'm not naive enough to imagine he didn't  find you tremendously attractive and alluring.  But what I have with him 
now is on an entirely  different level. You're only embarrassing yourself  by trying to convince me he's like some 
trained mutt  who'll come running if you snap your fingers."
  Angela slapped the lid on the lipstick.  "You're very cool, aren't you?"
  "No, not really. I'm just happy." She sat  then, hoping they could bury at least the sharpest edge

of the hatchet. "Angela, we were friends  once--or at least friendly. I'm grateful for the  opportunity you gave me to 
learn and observe.  Maybe the time's passed where we can be friendly, but  I don't see why we have to snipe at each  
other. We're competitors, but there's more than enough  room for both of us."
  "Do you think you can compete with me?" Angela  began to shake, from her shoulders down to her spine.  "Do you 
really think you can come close to what I've  achieved, to what I have, to what I'm going to have?"
  "Yes," Deanna said, and rose. "Yes,
I do. And I don't have to resort to planting  lies in the tabloids or low-level  espionage to do it. You've been in the 
business  long enough to tolerate a little heat, Angela."
  "You cocky bitch. I'll bury you."
  "No, you won't." Her pulse was drumming  now, a primitive tom-tom rhythm that pumped  through her blood in 
anticipation of a fight.  "You're going to have a hell of a time keeping up with  me."
  On a cry of outrage, Angela snatched the  champagne flute and tossed the contents in  Deanna's face. Two women 
who entered the  room froze like statues as Angela followed  up with a vicious slap.
  "You're nothing," Angela shrieked, her  face as pink as the silk she wore. "Less  than nothing. I'm the best. The 
fucking best."
  She lunged, fingers curled and extended like  claws. With a haze of fury misting her vision,  Deanna struck out, her 
open palm cracking  Angela's flushed cheek. In an instant all  movement froze. For once at least, they were both  on 
equal terms. Horrified, the two women in  the doorway gasped in unison and stared.
  "Ladies, excuse us." Kate Lowell  stepped out from the stalls to the lounge, and motioned to the  women. They flew 
out again, obviously in a  hurry to bear tidings. "Well, well, and I  thought all the competition was going to be out 
there."
  Dazed, Deanna stared down at her hand, which was  still burning from the blow it had delivered. She  blinked 
against the champagne stinging her eyes. "Oh  hell."
  Kate nodded to the outside door, still swinging from  the exit of the other women. "It's going to make an  interesting 
sidebar in tomorrow's Daytime Emmy  coverage." She smiled suddenly, a

brilliant flash of perfect teeth.  "Would you like me to referee?"
  "Stay out of this." Teeth clenched, Angela  took a step toward Deanna. She'd been  humiliated now, publicly. That, 
above all, was  intolerable. "And you stay out of my way. You've  crossed the line."
  "I didn't turn the other cheek," Deanna  returned, "and I don't intend to. So why  don't we try to stay out of each 
other's way?"
  "You won't win tonight." With a hand that continued  to tremble, Angela picked up her bag. "Or  ever."
  "Lousy exit line," Kate mused as the  door swung shut behind Angela.
  "I don't know. It had potential."  Deanna closed her stinging eyes. "What now?"
  "Clean yourself up." Kate moved forward  briskly to run cold water on a snowy  washcloth. "Put yourself back 
together and get out  there."
  "I lost my temper," she began, then caught  sight of herself in the mirror. "Oh Jesus."  Her cheeks were suffused with 
heat, dripping with  wine. Her eyes were smoldering and smudged with  mascara.
  "Put the image back on," Kate  advised, handing her the damp cloth. "And when you  walk out, walk out with a 
smile."
  "I think I should--" Braced for the worst, she  spun toward the door as it swung open. Her  already hot cheeks fired 
further as Finn strolled  in.
  "I beg your pardon, ladies, but as a  reporter it's my duty to ask what the hell's  going on in here. Somebody said--" 
He broke  off, taking in the scene with one pithy glance.  "Christ, Kansas, I can't leave you alone for a  minute." He 
sighed, picked up one of the dry,  fluffy hand towels on the counter and offered it. "I  didn't think that was a maidenly 
blush I  noticed on Angela's cheek. Which one of you  slugged her?"
  "The pleasure was Deanna's."
  He leaned over to kiss her damp cheek.  "Nice going, champ." He touched his tongue  to her lip. "You're supposed to 
drink the  champagne, baby, not wear it."
  Deanna set her shoulders and turned back  to the mirror to deal with the damage. She would not be

cowed, she promised herself. She simply  would not be. "Just keep everyone out for five  minutes, will you?"
  "Your category's coming up," he said casually  as he headed for the door.
  "I'll be there."

  She was, makeup freshened, hair fluffed,  nerves raw. She sat beside Finn, her hand  clenched spasmodically over 
his. Out of camera  range, she hoped.
  Her mind was as keen as a sword as she watched  the presenters breeze or fumble their way through  scripted jokes 
and into lists of nominees. She  applauded politely, or occasionally with  enthusiasm, as winners were announced and 
made their  way to the stage.
  She filed every instant, every gesture, every word in  her memory. Because it mattered now, horribly.  She'd lost a 
good deal of the sweet excitement  she'd felt when they'd rolled up in the limo.  No, she thought, she wasn't just the 
kid from  Kansas now, dazzled by the lights and the  luminaries. She was Deanna Reynolds, and  she belonged.
  It wasn't simply an award any longer, a  pat on the back for a job well done.
  Now it was a symbol. The culmination of what  had started so long ago. It was a symbol of  triumph over the deceit, 
the manipulations, the  ugly intrigue that had flashed into pathetic spite  in a ladies' washroom.
  The camera was on her. She could feel that  cool, objective eye focus in. She could  only hope that for once her 
emotions weren't so  clearly mirrored on her face. She heard  Angela's name announced, then her own.
  She couldn't catch her breath. Then Finn  lifted their joined hands to his lips and the sharpest  edge of tension 
smoothed.
  "And the Emmy goes to ..."
  God, how could it take so long to open one  envelope?
  "Deanna Reynolds, for Deanna's
Hour, "When You Know Him.""
  "Oh." All the breath that had backed up in  her lungs came out in that one long sound. Before she  could take 
another, Finn's mouth was over hers.
  "I never had a doubt."
  "Me neither," she lied, and was laughing as she

rose out of the chair to walk through the  applause to the stage.
  The award was cool and smooth in her hands. And  solid as stone. She was afraid if she looked  at it, she'd weep. 
Instead she looked out into the  lights.
  "I want to thank my team, every one of them.  They're the best. And I want to thank the women  who appeared on 
the show, who battled back their  fears to bring a painful subject out of the dark. I  can't think of any show I've done, or 
will do, that  could be as difficult or as rewarding for me.  Thank you for giving me something to remind me. Now  I'm 
going backstage to stare at this beautiful  lady."

  After the speeches, the applause, the  interviews and the parties, Deanna lay propped  up in bed, resting in the 
curve of Finn's  shoulder. Casually, she crossed her feet at the  ankles.
  "I think mine's prettier than your National  Press Award," she said.
  "Mine's more professional."
  She pursed her lips, studying the gold  statue standing on the bureau. "Mine's shinier."
  "Deanna." He turned his head to kiss her  temple. "You're gloating."
  "Yep. And I'm going to keep right on  gloating. You've won all sorts of awards,  Overseas Press Club, the George 
Polk.  You can afford to be jaded."
  "Who says I'm jaded? And when I win my  Emmy it'll be every bit as shiny as your Emmy."
  With a delighted laugh, she rolled over to lie  on top of him. "I won. I didn't want  to admit how badly I wanted that 
statue. After  that scene with Angela, I felt I had to win.  For me, yes, but also for everybody who works with  me. 
When they called my name, I was flying.  Really flying. It was great."
  "An interesting evening all around." He ran a  hand down her spine, enjoying the way her body  curved to his touch. 
"Tell me again how you  demolished her."
  Deanna's lashes fluttered down. "I did  not demolish her. It was a particularly  effective but ladylike slap."
  "Like hell." Grinning, he tipped her face  up, then laughed out loud at the unholy glee in

her eyes.
  "I shouldn't be proud of it." She chuckled and  sat up to straddle him, her body pale and  naked. "But for just an 
instant, before I was  horrified, I felt wonderful. Then I was  numb, then I was furious all over again." She  linked her 
fingers, lifting her arms up high.  "Besides, she started it."
  "And you finished it. You can count on her coming after  you with both barrels now."
  "Let her. I feel invulnerable.  Impervious." She stretched high. "Incredible.  It just can't get any better than this."
  "Yes, it can." To prove it, he reared up,  running a line of kisses up her torso. Her  soft sigh glided through him. Her 
hands fluttered  down to cradle his head.
  "You might be right."
  The sky was pearling with dawn, chasing the shadows  from the room. Her body arched back, already fluid  and 
ready for his. They had loved once in  delirious haste, and now moved together slowly,  letting the needs smolder and 
the air spark.
  Gliding fingertips, whispering sighs, quiet  urgings for more. Torso to torso they pressed  together, tangled sheets 
pooled around them and morning  sliding softly into the room. A touch, a taste,  a subtle shift in rhythm. They lowered 
together  to roll lazily over the bed, length to length.
  No rush, no hurry. Quiet explosions  shuddered through her blood, then streamed away like  silk until others built. 
Her mouth sought  his, sighs merging, tongues dancing. Even when  he slipped into her, filling her, the flash of heat  
was as comforting as a sunbeam.

  Across town there was another hotel room bed that  hadn't been slept in, or loved in.
Angela sat on the edge of it, her robe held  protectively over her breasts. The dress she  had worn was a tattered 
heap of silk on the  floor, a victim of her temper.
  Most of that temper was spent now, and she huddled  like a child on the big bed, fighting back tears.
  "It doesn't mean anything, honey." Dan  urged champagne on her, the equivalent to a  kiss where it hurt. "Everybody 
knows the fucking  awards are a sham."
  "People watch." She stared straight ahead,  sipping the wine she'd ordered chilled for

celebration and now served as commiseration.  "Thousands of people, Dan. They saw her walk up  there, when it 
should have been me. They saw her pick  up my award. My award, goddamn her."
  "And they'll forget about it tomorrow." He stifled  both impatience and disgust. The only way to handle  Angela, and 
to keep them both riding high, was  to cajole, flatter and lie. "Nobody  remembers who got what when the glitter  
fades."
  "I remember." She tossed up her head, and  her face was icy again, eerily controlled. "I  remember. She's not getting 
away with it. With  any of it. I'm going to do whatever it takes  to make her pay. For the slap, for the award.  
Everything."
  "We'll talk about it later." He'd already  gotten word on the incident in the lounge. Too  many people--people who 
couldn't be easily bought off--had  heard that Angela struck first. "Now you've got  to relax. You have to look your best 
when we fly  home later today."
  "Relax?" she spat at him. "Relax?  Deanna Reynolds is getting my press,  my ratings, now my awards." And there 
was Finn.  Oh, no, she wouldn't forget Finn. "How the  hell can you tell me to relax?"
  "Because you can't win if you look like a resentful  has-been." He watched her eyes flare with  fury, then chill to an 
icy gleam.
  "How dare you speak to me that way? And tonight of  all nights."
  "I'm telling you this for your own good," he  continued, assured he had the upper hand when her  lips trembled. "You 
need to project dignity,  maturity, confidence."
  "She's ruining my life. It's just like when I  was a kid. Someone was always taking what I  wanted."
  "You're not a kid anymore, Angela. And  there'll be other awards."
  She wanted this award. But she held the words  back. He'd only become more remote and  disgusted. She needed 
him beside her, supporting her,  believing in her. "You're right. Absolutely  right. Tomorrow, in public, I will be 
gracious,  humble and dignified. And believe me, Deanna  Reynolds is not going to win another award that should  be 
mine." Forcing a smile, she reached out a hand and  drew him down beside her. "I'm just so disappointed,

Dan. For both of us. You worked just as  hard as I did for that Emmy."
  "We'll work harder for the next one."  Relieved, he kissed the top of her head.
  "Sometimes it takes more than work. God knows  I've had plenty of experience there." She sighed  and drank again. 
She'd drink all she wanted  tonight, she promised herself. At least she deserved  that much. "When I was a kid I did all 
the  chores around the house. Otherwise we would have  lived in a pigsty. I've always liked things  to look right, to 
look pretty. To look the best  they can. I started doing cleaning for other people. Did  I ever tell you that?"
  "No." Surprised that she had now, he rose  to fetch the bottle. He topped off her glass.  "You don't like to talk about 
your childhood. I  understand that."
  "I'm in the mood for it." She sipped again,  gesturing toward her cigarettes. Obligingly,  Dan picked them up, lighted 
one for her. "I  earned extra money that way, so I could buy  things. My own things. But I earned more than  money. 
You know ..." She took a  contemplative drag. "It's amazing what people  leave lying around their homes, tucked into 
drawers,  closed in boxes. I was always curious about people.  That's why I ended up in this business, I  suppose. 
And I found out a lot about the people I  worked for. Things they preferred to be kept  private. I might mention to a 
certain married  woman the name of a man not her husband. Then I  might admire some earrings, or a bracelet,  or a 
dress." Through the haze of smoke, she  smiled at the memory. "It was magical how  quickly what I admired became 
mine. Just for doing  the small favor of keeping information to myself."
  "You started young," Dan observed. Her voice  was only a little slurred, so he added more wine to her  glass.
  "I had to. Nobody was going to fight for me.  Nobody was going to lift me out of that hellhole  I lived in but me. Mama 
drunk; Daddy off  gambling or whoring."
  "It was tough on you."
  "It made me tough," she corrected. "I  watched the way people lived, and I saw what I  wanted. I found ways to get 
what I wanted.  I improved myself and I broke my back to be  the best. No one's going to take me off the top

of the heap, Dan. Certainly not
Deanna Reynolds."
  He tipped her face back for a kiss.  "That's the Angela I know and love."
  She smiled. Her head felt light, dizzy,  her body free. Why, she wondered, had she  been so afraid of relaxing with a 
bottle or  two? "Prove it," she invited, and slipped the  robe off her shoulders.

          Chapter Twenty-two

  The snow outside the cabin was fairy-tale  white. Rocks and shrubs caused the white  covering to heave into 
mounds and bumps so that it  resembled a blanket under which dozens of elves  might burrow, waiting for spring. No 
cloud  marred the eerie, icy blue of the sky, and the sun  glinted off the glossy bark of trees.
  From the window, Deanna watched Finn and  Richard help Aubrey build a snowman. In  her bright blue snowsuit, 
the toddler looked like a  little exotic bird who'd lost her way going  south. Curling tendrils of hair, as red as a  
cardinal's wing, escaped from her cap.
  Beside her the men were giants, bulky in their  heavy coats and boots. She watched as Richard  showed Aubrey 
how to pat and mold a snowball.  He pointed at Finn, andwitha giggle that carried  through the glass, Aubrey bounced 
it lightly off  Finn's knee, but he crumpled convincingly to the  ground as if hit by a boulder.
  The dog, the mop-haired mongrel Finn and  Deanna had dubbed Cronkite, sent up a din  of barks and a shower of 
snow in his desperation to join the  game.
  "Sounds like quite a snowman." Fran shifted her  infant daughter from her right to her left breast.  Kelsey latched on, 
suckling happily.
  "They've started a small war," Deanna  reported. "Casualties are light, but it  looks to be an extended battle."
  "You can go out and spend some of that nervous energy.  You don't have to stay in here with me."
  "No, I like watching. I'm so glad all of  you could come up for the weekend."
  "Since it's the first free one you've had in  six weeks, I'm amazed you'd share it."
  "Getting away with friends is one of those  luxuries I've had to do without too much." She

sighed a little. There was no use thinking about  all the weekends, the holidays, the quiet  evenings at home she'd 
missed. She had what  she'd asked for. "I've discovered I need things  like this to keep me centered."
  "Glad to help. Richard found the idea of  fishing in this weather just primitive and macho enough  to pique his 
interest. As for me"--she stroked her  daughter's cheek as she rocked gently in the  chair Finn had hauled in from the 
porch and scrubbed  down for just that purpose--"I was ready to go  anywhere. When we get snow this early in  
November, it's going to be a long winter."
  "And not a particularly pleasant one." Fran  was right about the nervous energy, Deanna realized.  She could feel it 
swirling inside--white water  in the bloodstream. Deanna turned away from the  window to sit on the hearth, where the 
fire crackled  hot and brightly behind her. "I feel like I've  been under siege, Fran. All this--this tabloid  crap about 
Angela and me brawling in the  ladies' lounge at the Emmys."
  "Honey, most of that's died down, and everyone  knew it was crap to begin with."
  "Most everyone." Restless, she rose again,  prowling. "All those sly allegations in the press  about her bearing up 
stoically after I supposedly  refused her offer of friendship. Friendship, my  butt." She shoved her hands in her 
pockets,  dragged them out again to gesture. "And that nasty  undertone of glee in some of the stories. "Talk  show 
divas in cat fight." "Claws bared in  ladies' room." And it was just close enough to the  truth to make us both look like 
idiots. Of  course, Loren couldn't be happier. The ratings  have skyrocketed since the Emmys, and there's no  sign of 
a downswing. People who couldn't care less  about the content of the show are tuning in to see if I  lose it and punch 
out a guest."
  Fran snickered, then caught Deanna's quick  glare. "Sorry."
  "I wish I could think it was funny." Grabbing  the poker, she stabbed viciously at the flaming  logs. "I did think it was 
funny, until I  started getting letters."
  "Oh, Dee, the majority of the mail has  been supportive, even flattering."
  "So I'm perverse." Her shoulders jerked.  Oh, she hated the fact that she was being a fool.  Hated more that she 
couldn't seem to stop thinking about the

whole ugly incident. "I keep  remembering the ones that weren't. The ones that ranged  from "You should be ashamed 
of yourself," to "You should  be horsewhipped for your lack of gratitude to a  fragile little flower like Angela Perkins.""  
Her narrowed eyes were as hot as the flames.  "Belladonna probably looks like a  fragile little flower."
  "I wouldn't know." Fran shifted the baby  to her shoulder. "Most of that's blown over. Why  don't you tell me what's 
really eating at you?"
  Deanna gave the fire one last poke.  "I'm scared." She said it quietly, as a  fresh frisson of ice skated up her spine.  "I 
got another note."
  "Oh God. When?"
  "Friday, right after I spoke to the literacy  group at the Drake."
  "Cassie was with you."
  "Yes." Deanna rubbed at the dull ache  at the back of her neck. "I don't seem to go  anywhere alone anymore. 
Always an entourage."
  "Cassie's hardly an entourage." But  Fran recognized the twist of topic as  avoidance. "Tell me about the note, Dee."
  "We ran a little long with the photo session  afterward. Cassie left--she had a few things she  wanted to finish up at 
the office before the  weekend."
  She flashed back to it, the scene as clear in  her mind as a film loop. Another handshake,  another snick of the 
camera shutter. People crowding  around for a word, for a look.
  "Just one more picture, Deanna, please. You  and the mayor's wife."
  "Just one more." Cassie spoke up, her  smile amiable, her voice firm. "Miss  Reynolds is already running late for her 
next  appointment."
  Deanna remembered feeling amusement. Her  next appointment, thankfully, was throwing a few  sweaters into her 
suitcase and heading out of the city.
  She posed again, with the mayor's wife and the  plaque for her work for literacy, then eased her  way along, with 
Cassie running interference.
  "Good job, Dee. Here, let me take that."  Cassie slipped the plaque into her briefcase  while Deanna bundled into her 
coat.
  "It didn't feel like a job. They were great."  "They were--you were." Cassie cast a leery

eye over her shoulder. The elegant  lobby of the Drake was still crowded with people. "But take  my word on this. Just 
keep walking and don't look  back or you won't get out of here until  midnight." To hurry her along, Cassie  took her 
arm and led Deanna out of the lobby and  onto the sidewalk. "Listen, I'm going  to take a cab back to the office."
  "Don't be silly. Tim can drop you off."  "Then you'll think of something you just have to do while  you're there. Go 
home," Cassie ordered.  "Pack, leave. Don't show your face in this  town until Sunday night."
  It sounded too good to argue. "Yes, ma'am."  Laughing, Cassie kissed her cheek. "Have a  great weekend."
  "You too."
  They parted there, heading in opposite directions  through the snapping wind and swirling snow.
  "Sorry I'm late, Tim."
  "No problem, Miss Reynolds." With his  long black coat flapping around his knees,  Tim opened the door of the limo. 
"How'd it go?"
  "Fine. Really fine, thanks."
  Still glowing with the energy of a job well done, she  slipped inside the cushy warmth.
  And there it was. Just that plain envelope, a  square of white against the burgundy leather seat.  ...
  "I asked Tim if someone had come up to the  car," Deanna continued, "but he hadn't seen  anyone. It was cold and 
he'd gone inside the  building for a while. He said the car was locked, and  I know how conscientious Tim is, so I'm  
sure it was."
  Too many notes, Fran thought, as her stomach  muscles jiggled. And they were coming too often in the  last couple 
of months. "Did you call the  police?"
  "I called Lieutenant Jenner from the car  phone. I don't have any control over this." Her  voice rose as much in 
frustration as fear. And it  helped, she realized, to have something, anything other  than fear coursing through her. "I 
can't analyze it  and put it in a slot. I can't tidy it up or  toss it away." Determined to calm herself, she  rubbed her 
hands over her face as if she could  massage away the panic. "I can't even  discuss this rationally. Every time I 
remind myself that I  haven't been threatened, I haven't been hurt,

I feel this little bubble of hysteria  building up. He finds me everywhere. I want  to beg him to leave me alone. To just 
leave me  alone. Fran," she said helplessly, "I'm a  mess."
  Fran got up to lay Kelsey in the  playpen. She crossed to take Deanna's hands  in hers. There was more than 
comfort in the contact--anger  simmered just beneath. "Why haven't you told me this  before? Why haven't you let me 
know how much this is  upsetting you?"
  "You've got enough to handle. Aubrey, the new  baby."
  "So you took pity on the new mother and pretended  that you were shrugging this whole business off as a  by-
product of fame?" Suddenly furious,  Fran slapped both hands on her hips. "That's  crap, Dee. Insulting crap."
  "I didn't see the point in worrying you,"  Deanna shot back. "There's so much stuff going  on right now--the show, the 
backlash from Angela;  Margaret's teenager wrecked the car, Simon's  mother died." Despising the need to defend 
herself, she  turned back to the window. "Finn's going off  to Haiti next week." Outside the dog leaped  at flying 
snowballs. Deanna wanted to weep.  Resting her head on the cool glass, she waited  until her system leveled. "I 
thought I could  handle myself. I wanted to handle it myself."
  "What about Finn?" Fran walked over to rub  her hand over Deanna's stiff back. "Does  he have a clue what's going 
on inside you right  now?"
  "He has a lot on his mind."
  Fran didn't bother to repress a disgusted  snort. "Which means you've been playing the same  game with him. Did 
you tell him about this last  note?"
  "It seemed best to wait until he got  back from this next trip."
  "It's selfish."
  "Selfish?" Her voice cracked in  surprised hurt. "How can you say that? I  don't want him worried about me when he's  
thousands of miles away."
  "He wants to worry about you. Jesus,  Dee, how can anyone so sensitive, so  compassionate, be so obstinate? 
You've got a  man out there who loves you. Who wants to share  everything with you, good and bad. He deserves to 
know

what you're feeling. If you love him  half as much as he loves you, you've got no right  to keep things from him."
  "That wasn't what I meant to do."
  "It's what you are doing. It's unfair to him,  Dee. Just like--" She cut herself off, swearing.  "I'm sorry." But her voice 
was stiff and  cool. "It's none of my business how you and  Finn deal with your relationship."
  "No, don't stop now," Deanna said,  equally cool. "Finish it. Just like what?"
  "All right, then." Fran took a deep  breath. Their friendship had lasted more than ten years.  She hoped it would 
weather one more storm. "It's  unfair for you to ask him to put his own needs on  hold."
  "I don't know what you mean."
  "For God's sake, look at him, Dee.
Look at him with Aubrey." She clamped her  hand on Deanna's arm and pushed her back to the  window. "Take a 
good look."
  She did, watching Finn spin Aubrey around  and around, snow spewing up at his feet. The child's  delighted shrieks 
echoed like a song.
  "That man wants a family. He wants you.  You're denying him both because you haven't got  everything neatly 
stacked in place. That's not just  selfish, Dee. It's not just unfair. It's  sad." When Deanna said nothing, she turned  
away. "I've got to change the baby."  Gathering Kelsey up, she left the room.
  Deanna stood where she was for a long time. She  could see Finn wrestling with the dog as Aubrey  leaped into her 
father's arms to slide a ragged cap  onto the top of the big-bellied snowman.
  But she could see more. Finn crossing the tarmac  in a torrent of rain, a cocky grin on his  face and a swagger in his 
step. Finn exhausted and  asleep on her couch, or laughing as she reeled  in her first fat fish. Gentle and sweet as he  
took her to bed. Gritty-eyed and grim as he  returned from observing some fresh disaster.
  He was always there, she realized. Always.

  She went through the motions that evening, serving up  big bowls of beef stew, laughing at Richard's  jokes. If 
someone had peeked in the kitchen  window, they would have seen a jolly group of friends  sharing a meal. Attractive 
people, comfortable with one  other. It would have been difficult to spot any

tension, any discord.
  But Finn was a trained observer. Even had that  not been the case, he could judge Deanna's  moods by the flick of 
an eyelash.
  He hadn't questioned her about the tension he sensed,  hoping she would tell him on her own. As the evening  wore 
on, he accepted, impatiently, that he  would have to push. Perhaps he would always have to push.
  He watched her settle down in the living  room, a smile on her face. Unhappiness in  her eyes.
  God, the woman frustrated him. Fascinated  him. For almost two years they had been lovers, as  physically intimate 
as it was possible to be.  Yet no matter how open she was, how honest,  she managed to tuck away little pieces. 
Closing  them off from him, locking them tight and hoarding them.
  She was doing it now, he realized.
  Her hand might reach for his, holding it with  comfortable familiarity. But her mind was elsewhere,  methodically 
working through a problem she refused  to share.
  Her problem, she would say in that reasonable  tone that by turns infuriated and amused him.  Nothing she couldn't 
handle on her own. Nothing she  needed him to deal with.
  Hurt, Finn set his glass aside and  slipped upstairs.
  He built up the fire in the bedroom,  brooding over it. He wondered how long he could  wait for Deanna to take the 
next step. Forever,  he thought, with an oath. She was as much a part of him  as his muscle and bone.
  The need that had been growing in him for family,  for a steady, rooted life, was nothing compared with his  need for 
her.
  What was much worse, as well as totally  unexpected, was that he wanted, quite desperately,  for her to need him.
  A new one for Riley, he mused, and wished  he could see the humor in this realization. The need  to be needed, to 
be tied down, to be ... settled,  he realized, wasn't a particularly comfortable  sensation, and after several months, he 
understood it  wasn't going to go away.
  And he was beginning to hate the status quo.  She found him crouched at the hearth, staring into the  flames. After 
closing the door quietly at her  back, she crossed over, brushed a hand through his  hair.

  "What the hell is going on,
Deanna?" He continued to stare into the fire.  "You've been edgy since we got here last  night, and pretending not to 
be. When I came in  before dinner, you'd been crying. And you and Fran are  circling each other like a couple of 
boxers in the  tenth round."
  "Fran's angry with me." She sat on the  hassock and folded her hands in her lap. She  could feel his tension in the 
air. "I guess you will  be, too." Lowering her eyes, she told him about  the note, answering his terse questions and 
waiting for his  reaction.
  She didn't wait long.
  He stood where he was, with the fire snapping  at his back. His gaze never left her face and  was calm, entirely too 
calm.
  "Why didn't you tell me right away?"  "I thought it was best to wait until I'd  sorted through it a bit."
  "You thought." He nodded, slipped his hands  into his pockets. "You thought it was none of my  concern."
  "No, of course not." She hated the fact that  his cool interviewing skills always put her on the  defensive. "I just didn't 
want to spoil the  weekend. There's nothing you can do anyway."
  His eyes darkened at that--the wicked cobalt  Angela had described. It was a sure sign  of passion. Yet his voice, 
when he responded,  didn't alter so much as a degree in tone. That  was control.
  "Goddamn you, Deanna, you sit there and  make me treat this like a hostile interview where  I have to drag the facts 
out of you." Fear and fury  burned through him. "I'm not tolerating this. I'm  fed up with your tucking things away and 
filing them under  "For Deanna Only."" He stepped forward  then and, with a speed that had her blinking, pulled her  to 
her feet. She'd expected him to be angry,  but she hadn't expected the rage she saw on his  face.
  "Finn," she said carefully. "You're hurting  me."
  "What do you think you're doing to me?" He  released her so quickly she staggered back a step.  He spun away, 
shoving fisted hands in his  pockets. "You don't have a clue. Don't you  know how badly I want to get my hands on 
this  creep? That I want to break him in half for

causing you one minute of fear? How  useless I feel when you get one of those goddamn  notes and the color drains 
out of your face? And  how much worse it is, how much harder it is, because  after all this time you don't trust me?"
  "It isn't a matter of trust." The violence  in his eyes had her heart jumping into her throat.  In all the time they'd been 
together, she'd never seen  him so close to the edge. "It's not, Finn. It's  pride. I didn't want to admit that I  couldn't 
handle it alone."
  He was silent for a long time, the only sound the  spit of flames eating steadily at dry logs.  "Damn your pride, 
Deanna," he said  quietly. "I'm tired of beating my head against  it."
  Panic welled up inside her like a geyser.  His words were a closing statement, a segment ender.  With an involuntary 
cry of alarm, she grabbed his  arm before he could stalk out. "Finn, please."
  "I'm going for a walk." He stepped back,  holding palms up, afraid he might cause  them both irreparable damage if 
he touched her.  "There are ways of working off this kind of mad. The  most constructive one is to walk it off."
  "I didn't mean to hurt you. I love you."  "That's handy, because I love you, too." And at  the moment, his love felt as 
though it were killing  him. "It just doesn't seem to be enough."
  "I don't care if you're mad." She reached  out again and clung. "You should be mad. You should shout  and rage."
  Gently, while he could still manage it, he  loosened her grip. "You're the shouter,  Deanna. It's in the genes, I'd say. 
And
I come from a long line of negotiators. It just  so happens I'm out of compromises."
  "I'm not asking you to compromise. I only  want you to listen to what else I have to say."
  "Fine." But he moved away from her, to the  window seat in the shadows. "Talk's your forte,  after all. Go ahead, 
Deanna, be reasonable,  objective, sympathetic. I'll be the  audience."
  Rather than rise to the bait, she sat again. "I  had no idea you were this angry with me. It's not just  about me not 
telling you about this last note, is it?"
  "What do you think?"
  She'd interviewed dozens of hostile guests  over the years. She doubted if any would be tougher

than Finn Riley with his Irish up.
"I've taken you for granted, and I've been  unfair. And you've let me."
  "That's good," he said dryly. "Start out with a  self-deprecating statement, then circle around.  It's no wonder you're 
on top."
  "Don't." She threw her head back, the  firelight glinting in her eyes. "Let me  finish. At least let me finish before you 
tell me  it's over."
  There was silence again. Though she couldn't see his  face when he spoke, she heard the weariness in his  voice. 
"Do you think I could?"
  "I don't know." A tear spilled over,  glimmering in the shifting light. "I haven't let  myself think about it until recently."
  "Christ, don't cry."
  She heard him shift, but he didn't move  toward her.
  "I won't." She brushed the tear away,  swallowed the others that threatened. She knew she  could weaken him with 
tears. And that she would despise  herself for it. "I've always thought that I could make  everything come out in order, 
if I just worked at it  diligently enough. If I planned it all  carefully enough. So I wrote lists, adhered  to timetables. I've 
cheated us both by treating our  relationship as if it were a task--a wonderful  task--but a task to be handled." She was 
talking  too fast, but couldn't stop, the words tumbling over  each other in their hurry to be said. "And I  suppose I was 
feeling pretty smug about the  job I was doing. We fit so well together, and I  loved being your lover. And then today, I 
watched you  outside, and I realized for the first time how badly  I've botched it all." God, she wished she  could see 
his face, his eyes. "You know how I  hate to make mistakes."
  "Yes, I do." He had to take a moment.  It wasn't only her pride on the line. "It  sounds as though you're the one doing 
the ending,  Deanna."
  "No." She sprang up. "No, I'm  trying to ask you to marry me."
  A log collapsed in the grate, shooting  sparks and hissing fire. When it settled again, the  only sound she heard was 
her own unsteady breathing.  He rose, crossed from shadow into light. His  eyes were as guarded and enigmatic as 
an ace  gambler calling a bluff. "Are you afraid

I'll walk if you don't do this?"
  "I imagine the hole there would be in my life  if you did, and I'm terrified. And because I'm  terrified I wonder why I've 
waited so long.  Maybe I'm wrong and you don't want  marriage anymore. If that's the way you feel,  I'll wait." She 
thought if he continued to stare  at her with that mild curiosity, she'd scream.  "Say something, damn it. Yes, no, go to 
hell.  Something."
  "Why? Why now, Deanna?"
  "Don't make this an interview."
  "Why?" he repeated. When he grabbed her  arms she realized there was nothing mild about his  mood.
  "Because everything's so complicated now." Her  voice rose, trembled, broke. "Because life  doesn't fit into any of 
my neat scheduling  plans, and I don't want being married to you to be  neat and orderly. Because with the November 
sweeps  raging, and all this crazy publicity with  Angela, and you going off to Haiti, it's  probably the worst possible 
time to think about  getting married. So that makes it the best time."
  Despite his tangled emotions, he laughed.  "For once your logic totally eludes me."
  "I don't need life to be perfect, Finn.  For once, I don't need that. It just has to be  right. And we're so absolutely 
right." She  blinked back more tears, then gave up and let them  fall. "Will you marry me?"
  He tipped her head back so that he could study  her face. And he smiled, slowly, as all those  tangled emotions 
smoothed out into one silky  sheet. "Well, you know, Kansas, this is  awfully sudden."

  News of the engagement spread quickly. Within  twenty-four hours of the official announcement,  Deanna's office 
was deluged with calls.  Requests for interviews, offers from designers,  caterers, chefs, congratulatory calls from  
friends. Curiosity calls from other reporters.
  Cassie fielded them, batting the few back  to Deanna that required the personal touch.
  Oddly there had been no calls, no notes,  no contact at all from the one person who had been  hounding her for 
years. No matter how often  Deanna told herself she should be relieved at the  respite, it frightened her more than 
seeing one of those

neat, white envelopes on her desk  or tucked under her door.

  But none came, because none were written. In the  shadowy little room where pictures of Deanna  beamed 
contentedly from walls and tabletops, there was  little sound but weeping. Hot, bitter tears fell  on the newspaper print 
that announced the engagement  of two of television's most popular stars.
  Alone, alone for so long. Waiting, waiting so  patiently. So sure that Finn would never settle  down. That Deanna 
could still be had. Now the hope  that fueled patience was smashed, a delicate cup  of fragile glass tossed aside and 
discovered  to have been empty all along.
  There was no sweet wine of triumph to be  shared. And no Deanna to fill those empty  hours.
  But even as the tears dried, the planning began.  She merely had to be shown--surely that was all--  that no one 
could love her more completely. She  needed to be shown, to be shocked into awareness. And,  she needed to be 
punished. just a little.
  There was a way to arrange it all.

  Deanna had voted for a small, simple  wedding. A private ceremony, she told Finn  as he'd finished up the last of his 
packing for  Haiti. Just family and close friends.
  And it had been he who'd tossed her the  curve.
  "Nope. We're shooting the works on this one,  Kansas." He'd zipped up his garment bag and  slung it over his 
shoulder. "A church wedding,  organ music, acres of flowers and several  weeping relatives neither one of us 
remembers.  Followed by a reception of mammoth proportions  where some of those same relatives will drink too  
much and embarrass their respective spouses."
  She chased down the steps after him. "Do you know  how long it would take to plan something like that?"
  "Yeah. You've got five months." He  dragged her close for a hard, deep kiss.  "You've got an April deadline, Deanna.  
We'll look over your list when I get  back."
  "But, Finn." She was forced to scoot down and  grab the dog by the collar before he joyfully rushed  out of the door 
Finn opened.

  "This time I want it perfect.
I'll call as soon as I can." He started  down to where his driver waited, swinging around and  walking backward with a 
grin teasing his dimples.  "Stay tuned."
  So she was now planning a full-scale wedding.  Which, of course, prompted the topic idea of  wedding preparations 
and related stress.
  "We could book couples who'd broken up because  the fighting and spats during the wedding plans  undermined 
their relationship."
  From her seat at the head of the conference table,  Deanna eyed Simon owlishly. "Thanks, I  needed that."
  "No, really." He turned his chuckle into a  cough. "I have this niece ..."
  Margaret groaned and pushed her  purple-framed glasses up her pug nose.  "He's always got a niece, or a nephew,  
or a cousin."
  "Can I help it if I've got a big  family?"
  "Children, children." Hoping to restore order, Fran  shook Kelsey's rattle. "Let's try  to pretend we're a dignified, 
organized  group with a number-one show."
  "We're number one," Jeff chanted,  grinning as others picked up the rhythm. "We're  number one."
  "And we want to stay there." Laughing,  Deanna held up both hands. "Okay, though it  doesn't do anything for my 
peace of mind,  Simon's got a good idea. How many couples  do you figure break up sometime between the Will you 
and the  I do?"
  "Plenty," Simon said with relish. "Take  my niece--" He ignored the paper airplane  Margaret sailed in his direction. 
"Really,  they'd booked the church, the hall, found the  caterer. All this time, according to my sister, they fought  like 
tigers. The big blowup came over the  bridesmaids' dresses. They couldn't agree  on the color."
  "They called off the wedding because of the  bridesmaids' dresses?" Deanna narrowed  her eyes. "You're making 
this up."
  "Swear to God." To prove it, Simon  placed a hand on his heart. "She wanted  seafoam, he wanted lavender. Of 
course, the  flowers were a contributing cause. If you can't

agree on that, how can you agree on where  to send your kids to college? Hey." He  brightened. "Maybe we can get 
them."
  "We'll keep it in mind." Deanna jotted  down notes. Among them was a warning to be  flexible over colors. "I think the 
point here  is that wedding preparations are stressful, and there are  ways of lessening the tension. We'll want an  
expert. Not a psychologist," she said quickly,  thinking of Marshall.
  "A wedding coordinator," Jeff suggested,  watching Deanna's face for signs of  approval or dismissal. "Somebody 
who  orchestrates the whole business professionally.  It is like a business," he said, glancing around  for confirmation. 
"Marriage."
  "You betcha." Fran tapped the rattle against  the table. "A coordinator's good. We could  talk about staying within 
your means and expectations.  How not to let your fantasies about perfection  cloud the real issue."
  "Cheap shot," Deanna tossed back. "We  could use the mother and father of the bride. Traditionally  they're in 
charge of the checkbook. What kind of  strain is it personally and financially? And how do  we decide, reasonably and 
happily, on  invitations, the reception, the music, the flowers,  the photographer? Do we have a buffet or a  sit-down 
meal? What about centerpieces? The  wedding party, decorations, the guest list?" The  faintest hint of desperation 
crept into her voice.  "Where the hell do you put out-of-town guests, and  how is anyone supposed to put all this 
together in  five months?"
  She lowered her head on her arms. "I think,"  she said slowly, "we should elope."
  "Hey, that's good," Simon piped up.  "Alternatives to wedding stress. I had this  cousin ..."
  This time Margaret's airplane hit him right  between the eyes.

  Within weeks, Deanna's organized desk was  jumbled with sketches of bridal gowns, from the  elaborately traditional 
to the funkily  futuristic.
  Behind her, the same homely plastic tree  Jeff had hauled into her office that first  Christmas leaned precariously to 
starboard,  overweighted by balls and garlands.

  Someone--Cassie, she assumed--had  spritzed some pine-scented air freshener around.  The cheery aroma made 
the fading dyed plastic  boughs even more pathetic. And Deanna loved it.
  It was a tradition now, a superstition. She  wouldn't have replaced the ugly tree with the richest  blue spruce in the 
city.
  "I can't quite see saying "I do" in something like  this." She held up a sketch for Fran's  perusal. The short, skinny 
dress was topped  with a headpiece that resembled helicopter  blades.
  "Well, after, Finn could give you a spin and the  two of you could glide down the aisle. Now this  one's hot." She held 
up a drawing; the  elongated model was spread-legged in a  bare-midriff mini with spike-heeled boots.
  "Only if I carry a whip instead of a  bouquet."
  "You'd get great press." She tossed it  aside. "You don't have a lot of time to decide  before April comes busting out 
all over."
  "Don't remind me." She shuffled another  sketch on top, her twin-diamond engagement  ring flashing. A diamond for 
each year it had  taken him to wear her down, he'd told her as  he'd slipped it on her finger. "This one's  nice."
  Fran peeked over her shoulder. "That one's  gorgeous." She oohed a bit over the billowing  skirts and full sleeves. 
The bodice was  snug, trimmed in pearls and lace with the design  repeating on the flowing train. The headpiece was 
a  simple circlet from which the frothy veil flowed.
  "It's really stunning. Almost medieval. A  real once-in-a-lifetime dress."
  "You think so?"
  Recognizing her interest, Fran narrowed her  eyes. "You've already decided on it."
  "I want a completely unbiased opinion.  And yes," she admitted with a laugh. "I knew  the minute I saw it." She tidied 
the pile,  laying her choice on top. "I wish the rest of  it were so simple. The photographer--"
  "I'm in charge of that."
  "The caterer."
  "Cassie's department."
  "Music, napkins, flowers, invitations," she  said before Fran could interrupt her again. "Let me  at least pretend this is 
driving me crazy."

  "Tough, when you've never looked  happier in your life."
  "I really have you to thank for it. You gave me the  kick in the butt I needed."
  "Glad to oblige. Now, we're going to get  out of here while you've got a free evening and go  down to Michigan 
Avenue for some trousseau  shopping. With Finn on a shoot across town, this is  the only chance I've got. There's not 
a minute  to waste."
  "I'm ready." She grabbed her purse as the  phone rang. "Almost." Because Cassie was already  gone for the day, 
Deanna answered herself.  "Reynolds," she said out of habit, and her  brilliant smile withered. "Angela." She  glanced 
up and caught the interest in Fran's  eye. "That's very nice of you. I'm sure Finn  and I will be very happy."
  "Of course you are," Angela cooed into the  receiver as she continued to slice through a cover photo  of Finn and 
Deanna with a letter opener. "You always were  the confident one, Deanna."
  To keep herself calm, Deanna shifted to study  the teetering Christmas tree. "Is there something  I can do for you?"
  "No, not at all. There's something I want  to do for you, dear. Let's call it an engagement  gift. A little tidbit of 
information you might be  interested in, about your fianc`e."
  "There's nothing you can tell me about Finn I'd  be interested in, Angela. I appreciate your    best wishes, and now 
I'm afraid I'm just on  my way out."
  "Don't be in such a rush. I recall your  having a healthy sense of curiosity. I doubt  you've changed so much. It really 
would be very wise,  for you and for Finn, if you listened to what I have  to say."
  "All right." Setting her teeth, Deanna  sat down again. "I'm listening."
  "Oh, no, dear, not over the phone. It so  happens I'm in Chicago. A little business, a  little pleasure."
  "Yes, your luncheon with the League of Women  Voters tomorrow. I read about it."
  "There's that, and another little matter. But I'll  be free for a chat, say, at midnight."
  "The witching hour? Angela, that's so  obvious, even for you."
  "Watch your tone, or I won't give you the

opportunity of hearing what I have to say  before I go to the press. You can consider my  generosity a combination 
engagement and Christmas  gift, darling. Midnight," she repeated. "At  the studio. My old studio."
  "I don't--damn it." Echoing Angela's  response, Deanna slammed down the phone.
  "What's she up to?"
  "I'm not sure." With her celebratory  mood in tatters, Deanna stared into space.  "She wants to meet with me. Claims 
she has  some information I need to hear."
  "She only wants to cause trouble, Dee."  The worry was in Fran's voice, in her eyes.  "She's in trouble. In the past six 
months, her  show's gone dramatically downhill with rumors  about her drinking, about her staging shows, bribing  
guests. It's hardly a surprise that she'd  want to fly out on her broomstick and hand you a  poisoned apple."
  "I'm not worried about it." Deanna shook  off the mood and rose again. "I'm not. It's time  the two of us had it out 
once and for all. In  private. There's nothing she can say or do that can  hurt me."
             PART THREE

  "All power of fancy over reason is a  degree of insanity."
    Samuel Johnson

          Chapter Twenty-three

  But someone had hurt Angela.
  Someone had killed her.
  Deanna continued to scream, high, piercing  cries that burned her throat like acid. Even when  her vision grayed, 
Deanna couldn't take her  eyes off the horror beside her. And she could smell  the blood, hot and coppery and thick.
  She had to escape before Angela reached out with that  delicate, dead hand and squeezed it around her  throat.
  With little mewling sounds of panic, she crawled  out of the chair, afraid to move too fast,  afraid to take her eyes off 
of what had been  Angela Perkins. Every move, every sound was echoed  by the monitor while the camera objectively  
recorded, its round, dark eye staring. Something  tugged her back. On a soundless gasping scream,

Deanna lifted her hands to fight what  she couldn't see, and tangled her fingers in the  wires of a lapel mike.
  "Oh God. Oh God." She tore herself  free, hurling the mike aside and fleeing the set  in a blind panic.
  She stumbled, caught a horrified glimpse  of herself in the wide wall mirror. A hot  laugh bubbled in her throat. She 
looked  insane, she thought wildly. And she bit down on  her hysteria, afraid it would slide from her  throat in a mad 
chuckle. She nearly fell,  tripping over her own feet as she ran down the  dark corridor. Someone was breathing down 
her  neck. She could feel it, she knew it, hot,  greedy breath whispering behind her.
  Sobbing, she hurtled into her dressing room,  slammed the door, threw the lock, then stood in  the dark with her 
heart pounding like a rabbit's.
  She fumbled for the light, then screamed again when  her own reflection jumped at her. A glittery  gold garland 
ringed the mirror. Like a noose, she  thought. Like a spangled noose. Boneless with  terror, she slid down against the 
door. Everything  was spinning, spinning, and her stomach heaved in  response. Clammy with nausea, she crawled  
to the phone. The sound of her own whimpering iced her  skin as she punched the number for emergency.
  "Please, please help." Dizzy and sick,  she lay on the floor, cradling the receiver. "Her  face is gone. I need help. The 
CBC
Building, Studio B. Please hurry," she  said, and let the darkness swallow her.

  It was just past one A.m. when Finn arrived  home. His first thoughts were for a hot shower and a warm  brandy. He 
expected Deanna home within the  hour, after whatever emergency meeting she had.  She'd been vague about the 
details when she'd  caught him between shoots, and he hadn't had the time  or the inclination to press. They'd both 
been in the  business too long to question midnight meetings.
  He sent his driver off and started up the walk,  both amused and embarrassed that the dog was setting  up a din that 
would wake the neighbors for blocks.
  "Okay, okay, Cronkite. Try for a little  dignity." He reached for his keys as he climbed  onto the porch, wondering why 
Deanna had  forgotten to leave on the porch light. Little  details like that never escaped her.

  Wedding plans were rattling her brain,  he thought, pleased at the idea.
  Something crunched under his foot. He glanced  down and saw the faint glitter of broken glass.    His initial 
puzzlement turned to fury when he  saw the jagged shards of the beveled glass panels  beside the door.
  Then his mouth went dry. What if her meeting  had been canceled? What if she'd come home?  He burst through the 
door in thoughtless fear, shouting  her name.
  Something crashed at the back of the house, and the  dog's frantic barking turned into a desperate  howl. Thinking 
only of Deanna, Finn hit the  lights before he sprinted toward the source of the  crash.
  He found nothing but destruction, a mindless and  brutal attack on their possessions. Lamps  and tables were 
overturned, glassware shattered.  When he reached the kitchen, his mind was cold as  ice. He thought he saw a form 
running across the  lawn. Even as he tore aside the shattered  door to give chase, the dog howled again,  scratching 
pitifully against the locked utility  room door.
  He wanted to give chase. It burned in him  to hunt down whoever had done this and throttle him.  But the possibility 
that Deanna was somewhere in the  house, hurt, stopped him.
  "Okay, Cronkite." He unlocked the  door and staggered back as the dog leaped joyously  at him. His thick body was 
shivering. "Scared you,  did he? Me too. Let's find Deanna."
  He searched every room, growing colder with every  moment. The devastation was as total as tornado  damage, 
both the priceless and the trivial  capriciously destroyed.
  But the worst, the most terrifying, was the  message scrawled in Deanna's lipstick on  the wall above the bed they 
shared.

              I loved you
             I killed for you
              I hate you

  "Thank God she wasn't here. Thank  God." Grimly he picked up the phone and  called the police.

  "Take it easy." Lieutenant Jenner

helped Deanna steady a glass of  water.
  "I'm all right now." But her teeth chattered  on the rim of the glass. "I'm sorry. I know  I was incoherent before."
  "Understandable." He'd had a good long look at  Angela Perkins's body and found Deanna's  condition 
understandable indeed. He didn't blame her  for huddling inside the locked room, needing to be    gently persuaded to 
open the door to admit him.  "You're going to want to have a doctor take a  look at you."
  "I'm fine, really."
  Shock, he imagined. It was nature's way  of closing down the system and offering the illusion of  comfort. But her 
eyes were still glassy, and even though  he'd thrown his overcoat over her shoulders, she  was shivering.
  "Can you tell me what happened?"
  "I found her. I came in and found her."  "What were you doing at the studio after  midnight?"
  "She asked me to meet her. She called--she  ..." She sipped again. "She called."
  "So you arranged to meet her here."  "She wanted to--to talk to me. She said she  had information about ..." 
Defenses clicked in.  "About something I needed to know. I wasn't going  to come, then I thought it might be best if we 
had it  out."
  "What time did you get here?"
  "It was midnight. I looked at my watch in  the parking lot." The colored lights in the distance,  the haze of Christmas 
cheer. "It was midnight.  I thought maybe she hadn't arrived yet, but she  could have had her driver drop her off. So I 
let  myself into the studio. And it was dark, so I thought she  wasn't here, and that was good. I wanted to be first.  
Then, when I started to turn on the lights, something  hit me. When I woke up I was on the set,  and I couldn't think. 
The camera was on. Oh,  God, the camera was on, and I saw, in the  monitor, I saw her." She pressed a hand  to her 
mouth to hold back the whimpers.
  "Take a minute." Jenner leaned back.  "I don't know anything else. I ran in here  and locked the door. I called the 
police, and  I passed out."
  "Did you see anybody on your way to the  studio?"

  "No. No one. The cleaning crews  would have gone by now. There would be a few people in the  newsroom, 
manning the desk overnight, but after the  last broadcast, the building clears out."
  "You need a card to get into the building, don't  you?"
  "Yes. They put in a new security system  about a year ago."
  "Is this your purse, Miss Reynolds?"  He held out a generous shoulder bag in smooth  black leather.
  "Yes, that's mine. I must have dropped it when  I--when I came in."
  "And this card." He held up a clear  plastic bag. Inside was a slim, laminated  card with her initials in the corner.
  "Yes, that's mine."
  He set the bag aside and continued to take  notes. "What time did Miss Perkins contact  you about this meeting?"
  "About five. She called my office."  "Your secretary took the call?"
  "No, she'd already gone home. I took it  myself." Something trembled through the shield of shock.  "You think I killed 
her? You think I did that  to her? Why?" She lurched to her feet, swaying like  a drunk as the overcoat slid to the floor.  
"How could I? Why would I? Do you think I  lured her here, and murdered her, then taped it all  so I could show it to all 
my loyal viewers in the  morning?"
  "Calm down, Miss Reynolds." Jenner  got cautiously to his feet. She looked as  though she might dissolve if he 
touched her. "No  one's accusing you of anything. I'm just trying to get  the facts."
  "I'll give the facts. Someone killed her.  Someone blew her face away and propped her up  on the set. Oh God." She 
pressed a hand  to her head. "This can't be real."
  "Sit down and catch your breath." Jenner  took her by the arm. There was a commotion in the  corridor behind him 
and he turned to the door.
  "Goddamn it, I want to see her." Finn  shoved his way clear of the cop trying to detain him  and burst through the 
doorway. "Deanna." He  sprinted forward as she swayed toward him. "You're  all right." He vised his arms around her, 
burying  his face in her hair. "You're all right."
  "Finn." She pressed against him, desperate

for the feel of his flesh, his warmth, his  comfort. "Someone killed Angela. I found her.  Finn, I found her."
  But he was already drawing her away, appalled  by the swelling and matted blood on the back of her  head. Relief 
twisted into a dark, keen thirst for  revenge. "Who hurt you?"
  "I don't know." She burrowed back into his  arms. "I didn't see. They think I did it.  Finn, they think I killed her."
  Over her trembling shoulder he stared stonily  at Jenner. "Are you out of your mind?"
  "Miss Reynolds is mistaken. We have  no intention of charging her at this time. Nor, in my  opinion, in the future."
  "Then she's free to go."
  Jenner rubbed his chin. "Yes. We'll need  her to sign a statement, but we can do it tomorrow.  Miss Reynolds, I know 
you've had a shock,  and I apologize for having to put you through the questioning.  I advise you to go by the hospital, 
have someone  take a look at you."
  "I'll take her. Deanna." Gently
Finn eased her back to the chair. "I want you  to wait here a minute. I need to talk  to Lieutenant Jenner."
  She clung to his hand. "Don't leave."  "No, just outside the door. Just for a minute.  Detective."
  Jenner followed Finn into the corridor, nodding  to a uniform to back off. "She's had a rough  night, Mr. Riley."
  "I'm aware of that. I don't want you to add  to it."
  "Neither do I. But certain wheels have to turn.  I've got a nasty murder, and as far as I can  tell, she's the only 
witness. You wouldn't mind  telling me where you were tonight?"
  Finn's eyes cooled. "No, I wouldn't.  I was taping a segment on the South Side.  I'd guess I'd have about a dozen 
witnesses  to place me there until about midnight. My  driver took me home, dropped me off just after  one. I put in a 
call to 911 at  one-twenty."
  "Why?"
  "Because my house had been trashed. You want  to verify that, contact your superior."
  "I don't doubt your word, Mr. Riley."  Jenner rubbed his chin again, toying with the timetable. "You

said one-twenty?"
  "Give or take a minute. Whoever broke  in left a message for Deanna on the bedroom  wall. You can check with your 
associates for  details. I'm getting Deanna out of here."
  "I'll do that." Jenner made another note.  "Mr. Riley, I'd take her out another  way. I wouldn't want her going through 
the studio."
  "Hey, Arnie!" Another plainclothes cop  signaled from the studio end of the corridor.  "M.e.'s finished here."
  "Tell him to hang on a minute. We'll be  in touch, Mr. Riley."
  Saying nothing, Finn turned back into the  dressing room. He took off his own coat,  pushing Deanna's limp arms 
through the sleeves.  He didn't want to waste time looking for hers.  "Come on, baby, let's get out of here."
  "I want to go home." She leaned heavily  against him as he led her out.
  "No way. I'm taking you to E.r."  "Don't leave me there."
  "I'm not leaving you."
  He took the long way around, circumventing the  studio, choosing the angled stairs that led to the  parking lot. 
Because he knew what to expect before  he opened the door, he kissed her brow, held  her by the shoulders.
  "The place is going to be swarming with  reporters and Minicams."
  She squeezed her eyes tight, shivered. "I  know. It's okay."
  "Just hold on tight to me."
  "I already am."
  When he shoved the door open, the flash of  klieg lights blinded her. She shielded her  eyes and saw nothing but 
eager bodies rushing  toward her, microphones stabbing out like lances and the  wide, demanding eye of the camera.
  Questions hurtled at her, making her hunch her  shoulders in defense as Finn propelled her through  the surging sea 
of reporters.
  She knew most of them, she realized. Liked  most of those she knew. Once upon a time they had  competed for 
stories. Once upon a time she would have  been among them, pressing forward, scurrying for that  one telling picture, 
that one mumbled comment.
  Then flying to the news desk to get the item--  she was an item now--on the air minutes, even  seconds, before the 
competition.

  But she was no longer the observer. She  was the observed. How could she tell them how she  felt? How could she 
tell them what she knew?  Her mind was like glass, throbbing from some deadly,  high-pitched whine. She thought if 
she couldn't have  silence, she would explode and shatter.
  "Christ, Dee."
  A hand reached for her, hesitating as she cringed  away. And she saw Joe, the Minicam on his  shoulder, his 
baseball cap askew.
  "I'm sorry," he said, and swore again.  "I'm really sorry."
  "It's all right. I've been there, remember?  It's just the job." She climbed gratefully  into Finn's car and closed her 
eyes. Tuned out.

  Jenner turned the studio over to the forensic  team. Since he'd already had two men question the  occupants of the 
building, he decided to wait  until morning before doing a follow-up there.  Instead, he left the CBC Building and drove  
to Finn Riley's home.
  He wasn't surprised, or displeased, when  Finn pulled into the driveway behind him.
  "How's Miss Reynolds?"
  "She's got a concussion," Finn said  tersely. "They're keeping her overnight for  observation. I had a feeling I'd find 
you here."
  Jenner nodded as they started up the walk.  "Chilly night," he said conversationally. "Dispatch  showed your call 
came in at one twenty-three.  First unit arrived at one twenty-eight."
  "It was a quick response." Though it hadn't  seemed quick as he'd spent that endless five  minutes looking over the 
destruction of his home.  "Are you handling B and E's, too,  Lieutenant?"
  "I like to diversify. And the truth is"--he  paused just outside the door--"I figure  I've got an interest in this. Between 
the business in  Greektown and the investigation on those letters Miss  Reynolds has been getting, I figure
I've got an interest. Does that bother you?"  Finn studied Jenner in the starlight. The man  looked tired, yet completely 
alert. It was a  combination Finn understood perfectly. "No."
  "Well then." Jenner sliced through the police  tape over the damaged door. "Maybe you'll  take me on the grand 
tour."
  Riley was a pretty snappy dresser,

Jenner mused as they moved inside. The  kind who leaned toward leather jackets and faded  jeans. Jenner had tried 
on a leather jacket  once. He'd looked like a cop. He always  did.
  "Did you mention the trouble here to Miss  Reynolds?"
  "No."
  "Can't blame you. She's had a rough night."  He glanced around. The place looked as if it  had been bombed. "So 
have you."
  "You could say that. Almost every room was trashed."  Finn gestured toward the living area off the main  hall. "I 
didn't take a lot of time going  through it."
  Jenner grunted. Word was the minute Finn had  learned of the trouble at CBC, he'd sprinted out,  leaving the 
destruction behind.
  "You must be pretty steamed." That was putting it  mildly, Jenner mused. What he saw on  Finn's face was cold 
rage. If he'd run  across the perp, he'd have sliced him into little  pieces. Though it was unprofessional, Jenner  would 
have given a great deal to see it.
  "I can replace the things," Finn said as they  started upstairs.
  "Yeah." Jenner stepped inside the bedroom,  nodded toward the wall. "So our friend's taken  to writing on walls." 
Taking out his pad, Jenner  copied the writing style onto a blank page.  This was the first time the writer had exposed 
himself this  way. "Makes a statement." One quick scan and  he'd taken in the devastation of the room.  "Forensics 
are going to have a hell of a time sorting  through this mess." He toed a broken perfume  bottle with his foot. "Tiffany," 
he commented.  "A hundred fifty an ounce. My wife, she  likes that scent. I bought her the cologne for her  birthday. 
And those sheets. Irish linen. My  grandmother had a tablecloth. I used to rub my  face over it when I was a kid."
  Nearly amused, Finn leaned on the  doorjamb and studied Jenner. "Is this how you  conduct an investigation, 
Lieutenant? Or do you  moonlight for an insurance company?"
  "Always was a sucker for quality." He  slipped his pad back in his pocket, just above the  snug weight of his weapon. 
"So, Mr.  Riley, I'd have to say we have a connection."
  "So, Lieutenant, I'd have to agree with you."

  "Murder happened by midnight." He  scratched the back of his neck. "The drive from  CBC to here takes fourteen 
minutes, at the  speed limit. He spends, say, ten minutes  setting the stage, turning on the equipment.  Another ten to 
get over here. You get home about  twenty after one. Yeah, I'd say that's enough time."
  "You're not telling me anything I don't know,  Lieutenant. What's next?"
  "We'll canvass the neighborhood tomorrow.  Somebody might have seen something."
  "You haven't had time to interview Dan  Gardner."
  "No." A ghost of a smile moved Jenner's  lips. "My next stop."
  "Mine too."
  "Mr. Riley, you'd be better off going  back to the hospital, watching over your lady.  Leave this to me."
  "I'll watch out for Deanna," Finn  returned. "And I'm going to talk to Gardner.  I'm going to use everything and 
everyone I know to get  to the root of this. I can go with you, Lieutenant,  or I can go around you."
  "That's not friendly, Mr. Riley."  "I'm not feeling friendly, Lieutenant  Jenner."
  "Don't imagine you are, but this is police  business."
  "So was Greektown."
  Jenner's brows lifted as he studied Finn.  The man knew which buttons to push, he mused.
  "I like you," Jenner said after a moment. "I  liked the way you handled yourself in Greektown.  Saw you take that hit." 
He scratched his chin,  considered. "You just kept right on reporting."
  "That's my job."
  "Yeah, and I got mine. I'm willing to bend  the rules a bit, Mr. Riley, for a couple  reasons. One, I really admire your 
lady, and  two ... I figure there's a ten-year-old  girl out there who just might owe you her life. I  might not have 
mentioned, I have a granddaughter that  age."
  "No, you didn't mention it."  "Well." Jenner simply nodded again. "You can  follow me in your car."

  When Deanna surfaced, it was midmorning.  Yet it wasn't necessary to orient herself; she

remembered everything too clearly. She  was in the hospital under observation. She wished she  could laugh at the 
term. She understood that she would  remain under all manner of observation for a long  time.
  She turned her head, mindful of the dull ache  swimming inside, and studied Finn. He was dozing  in the chair beside 
the bed, his hand covering hers.  Unshaven, exhausted and pale, he was the most  comforting sight she could 
imagine.
  Not wanting to disturb him, she shifted slowly.  But her slight movement woke him.
  "Are you hurting?"
  "No." Her voice was weak; she put an  effort into strengthening it. "You shouldn't have sat up  all night. They'd have 
found somewhere for you to stretch  out."
  "I can sleep anywhere. I'm a reporter,  remember?" He scrubbed his hands over his face,  then stretched out the 
kinks in his back. "You should  try to get some more sleep."
  "I want to go home. A mild concussion  isn't enough to keep me in the hospital." She  sat up, but cautiously, knowing 
if she so much as  sneezed he'd run for a nurse. "No double  vision, no memory lapses, no nausea."
  "You're pale as wax, Deanna."
  "You're not looking so hale and hearty yourself.  Want to crawl in here with me?"
  "Later." He scooted over to sit on the  side of the bed and touched his hand to her cheek. "I  love you."
  "I know. I don't think I could have gotten  through last night without you."
  "You don't have to get through anything without me."  She smiled, but her eyes strayed from his to the  television 
bracketed to the wall at the foot of the  bed. "I don't suppose you've heard the  morning news?"
  "No." He turned, looked at her  intently. "No," he repeated. "We'll deal  with it later."
  Yes, she thought. Later was better. "It was  horrible the way she died. Horrible the way it was  all so perfectly staged. 
I need to think about it,  but I can't seem to."
  "Then don't. Don't push it, Deanna."  He looked over as he heard Fran's voice,  lifted high in indignant rage as she 
argued with the  guard outside the door. "I'll tell her

you're resting."
  "No, please. I want to see her."
  Finn had just gone to the door to have a word with the  guard when Fran burst in. She bulleted  toward the bed and 
snatched Deanna into her arms.  "Oh God, I've been sick ever since I  heard. Are you all right? How bad are you  
hurt?"
  "Just a bump on the head." She returned the  embrace, squeezing hard. "I was just about to get  up and get 
dressed."
  "Are you sure?" Fran drew her back; she  might have been examining one of her children for  symptoms. "You're so 
pale. Finn, go get the  doctor. I think he should take another look  at her."
  "No." She took Fran's hands firmly in  hers. "They just wanted me overnight for  observation. I've been observed. 
The office?  What's going on?"
  Something flickered in Fran's eyes, then she  shrugged. "Chaos. What else? The cops are  taking statements from 
everyone."
  "I should go in, do something."
  "No." The protest came quickly, fiercely.  "I mean it, Dee. There's nothing you can do, and  if you came in at this 
point, you'd only add to the  confusion. As soon as I go back and tell  everyone you're okay, it should calm down a 
little."  Her lips trembled before she wrapped her arms  around Deanna again. "You really are okay? It  must have 
been horrible for you. Every time I think of  what could have happened--"
  "I know." Comforted, Deanna cradled her  head on Fran's shoulder. "Angela. God,  Fran, I still can't believe it. Who 
could have  hated her that much?"
  Pick a number, Fran thought. "I don't  want you to worry about the show or the office. We  ran a re-broadcast today. 
Cassie's canceling  and rescheduling guests we'd booked for the next  week."
  "That's not necessary."
  "I'm the producer, and I say it is." After  a last squeeze, Fran pulled back and  turned to Finn for support. "Are you 
going to throw  your weight in with me?"
  "It doesn't appear to be necessary, but sure.  I'm taking her up to the cabin for a while."
  "I can't just leave. Jenner's bound to want  to talk to me again. And I have to talk  to Loren, to my staff."
  Finn studied her a moment. There was pain in her  eyes as well as the dregs of terror and shock.  "Here's the way I 
see it," he said mildly.  "I can spring you out of here later today and take you  to the cabin. Or I can arrange for them 
to keep you  in that bed for another couple of days."
  "That's absurd." Deanna wanted to be  angry, but she was too tired. "Just because we're  getting married doesn't 
mean you can arrange my  life."
  "It does when you're too stubborn to do what's  best for you."
  "Well." Fran gave a satisfied nod and  kissed Finn's cheek. "Now that I know she's in  capable hands, I'm going to go 
find that doctor.  I need to talk to you," she said under her breath, then  turned back to Deanna. It was a relief  to see 
the sulky turn of her friend's mouth.  "Don't worry about the details," she told  her. "The gang and I can handle 
everything. I'll  be back in a few minutes."
  "Fine. Great." Deanna plopped back on  the pillows, wincing when the sudden movement made  her head pound. 
"Just tell everyone I decided  to go fishing."
  "Good idea." Finn walked to the door to open  it for Fran. "I'll see if I can round up  someone to put through the 
release papers. Stay in  bed," he ordered, and walked outside. "What  is it you don't want her to know?"
  "There are cops swarming all over the sixteenth  floor." Fran cast one last, worried glance  over her shoulder as they 
walked to the elevators.  "Her office has been torn apart, like someone  went through it in an insane rage. Chairs 
hurled  around, broken glass. All the lists she'd put  together for the wedding and the sketches of the dresses were  
ripped up. Somebody had written all over the  walls in red ink." As Finn watched, her  cheeks drained of color so that 
her freckles  stood out in stark relief. "It just said "I  love you," again and again and again. I don't want  her to see it, 
Finn."
  "She won't. I'm going to take care of  her."
  "I know that." Fran pressed her fingers to her  eyes. "But I'm scared. Whoever killed  Angela is so focused on Dee. I 
don't  think he'll ever leave her alone."
  Finn's eyes were sharp as a sword. "He  won't get near her. There's someone I have  to meet. You stay with her until 
I get back."
  After a two-hour catnap, Jenner rapped on  the door of Dan Gardner's hotel suite.  Beside him Finn was running 
through a mental list of  questions he wanted answered.
  "He'd better be in the mood to talk this time."  Jenner only shrugged. He didn't mind  taking the long route, as long as 
it ended in the right  place. "Hard to talk when you're sedated."
  "Conveniently," Finn murmured.  "Guy's wife gets snuffed, he's entitled  to break down."
  "Wouldn't you think he'd want some details  before he went under, Lieutenant? The way I  see it, the longer he 
delays talking to you, the  longer he has to formulate an alibi. Angela  Perkins was a wealthy woman. Care to guess  
who's the chief beneficiary?"
  "Then if he killed her, he'd have been  stupid not to have an alibi to begin with. I've got  a feeling you're a man used 
to being in charge of  things."
  "And?"
  "You're going to have to take a backseat here.  I've got an instinct about you, Mr. Riley,  so I'm letting you tag along--
that way I can  pick your brain. But you're going to have to remember  who's running this investigation."
  "Cops and reporters have a lot in common,  Lieutenant. We won't be the first who've used  each other."
  "Nope." Jenner heard the rattle of the chain.  "But that doesn't change the pecking order."
  Finn nodded grudgingly as the door opened.  Dan Gardner looked like a man who'd been on  a wild, two-day bender. 
His face was gray, his  eyes sunken, and his hair stood out in tufts.  His black silk robe and pajamas added an  
elegance that only accented his unkempt appearance,  like fresh gilt on a tattered painting.
  "Mr. Gardner?"
  "Yeah." Dan brought a cigarette to his  lips, gulping in smoke like water.
  "I'm Detective Jenner." He held up  his badge.

  Dan glanced at it, then spotted
Finn. "Hold it. What's he doing here?"  "Research," Finn said.
  "I'm not talking to any reporters,  especially this one."
  "That's funny, coming from someone who woos the  press like a lovesick suitor." Finn put a  hand on the door before 
Dan could shut it. "I'll  keep it off the record. But I can tell you,  you're better off speaking with me when you've got a  
cop around. I'm in a real bad mood."
  "I'm not well."
  "I sympathize, Mr. Gardner," Jenner  put in before Finn could comment. "You're certainly not  obliged to speak in Mr. 
Riley's presence, but  I have a feeling he'll just come back. Why  don't we try it this way, and keep this as short  as 
possible? It would be easier on you to do this here  than to come to the station."
  Dan stared at them both a moment, then with a  shrug, he turned around, leaving the door open.
  The drapes were still drawn, giving the parlor of the  suite a gloomy air. The smell of  cigarettes was strong, mixing 
uneasily with the  fragrance from the two huge vases of roses  flanking the sofa.
  Dan sat between them, blinking when Jenner  switched on a lamp.
  "I'm sorry to have to disturb you at this time,  Mr. Gardner," Jenner began. "But I need  your cooperation."
  Dan said nothing, only took another greedy  drag from the cigarette. Angela's brand, he  thought, and felt the smoke 
sting bitterly in his  throat.
  "Can you tell us what you know about your wife's  activities yesterday?"
  "Besides getting murdered?" With a humorless  laugh, he roused himself to go to the bar and pour a  generous 
portion of whiskey.
  Finn only lifted a brow as Dan drank it  down, poured again. It was barely ten A.m.
  "It would help," Jenner continued, "if we had  a clear sense of her movements throughout the day.  Where she went, 
who she had contact with."
  "She got up about ten." Dan came back  to the sofa. The whiskey helped, he realized.  He felt as though he were 
gliding an inch above the  floor. "She had a massage, had her hair and  makeup done, a manicure. All here in the

suite." He drank with one hand,  smoked with the other, his movements mechanical and  strangely rhythmic. "She did 
a print  interview, Chicago Tribune, then went    downstairs to the ballroom for the luncheon. She  had several other 
appointments through the day--  interviews, meetings. Most of them here in the  suite."
  He crushed out the cigarette, sat back with the  blue haze of smoke hovering over his head like a  dirty halo.
  "Were you with her?" Finn demanded.  Dan shot him one resentful glance, then  shrugged. "I was in and out. Mostly 
out. Angela  didn't like distractions when she was dealing with the  press. She had a dinner interview with  Premiere 
magazine to hype her next  special." In a jerky movement, he reached  over to yank another cigarette from the pack 
on the  coffee table. "She told me she didn't know  how long it would run, and that she had a later  meeting afterward, 
that I should go out to a blues bar and  amuse myself."
  "And did you?" Jenner asked.
  "I had a steak, a couple of drinks, listened  to some piano at the Pump Room."
  Jenner noted it down. "Did you have any  company?"
  "I wasn't in the mood for company. We  haven't had a lot of time to relax in the past  few months, so I took advantage 
of it."  His bloodshot eyes narrowed. "Are you looking for  Angela's schedule, or mine?"
  "Both," Jenner said pleasantly. He  doodled a bit, a quick sketch of the room, of  Dan Gardner's face. "It helps if we 
have  a clear sense of things. When did you last see  your wife, Mr. Gardner?"
  "Just before seven, when she was getting ready for  dinner."
  "And did she tell you she planned to meet  Deanna Reynolds at CBC later that  night?"
  "No." He bit the word off. "If she had,  I would have discouraged it." He leaned forward now,  enough of a showman 
to know which lines to punch. "He knows  it, too," he added, jerking his head toward Finn.  "That's why he wants in on 
the investigation,  to try to head it off. It's no secret Deanna  Reynolds hated my wife, was envious and

driven to destroy her. I have no doubt  that she killed Angela, or had her killed."
  "That's an interesting theory," Finn mused.  "Is that the line you're going to feed through your  publicist?"
  Jenner cleared his throat. "Did Miss  Reynolds make any threats against your wife that  you're aware of?"
  Dan's eyes cut back to Jenner, bored  in. "I told you, she attacked her physically  once before. Christ knows she 
attacked her  emotionally dozens of times over the years. She  wanted Angela out of the way. Now she is. That  
should be clear enough. What are you doing about it?"
  "We're looking into it," Jenner said mildly.  "Mr. Gardner, what time did you return to the  hotel last night?"
  "Twelve-thirty, one o'clock."
  "Did you meet anyone, speak with anyone who  could verify that?"
  "I resent the implication, Lieutenant.  My wife is dead." He stabbed out the  cigarette, breaking it in two. "And from 
what  I've been told, there was only one person with  her." He stared at Finn, secure that he could  say whatever he 
chose with impunity. "A person  who had every reason to hurt her. I don't  appreciate being asked to supply an alibi."
  "But can you?" Finn countered.
  His teeth snapped together. "You're really  reaching, aren't you, Riley? Do you really think you  can throw the police 
off Deanna and onto me?"
  Finn lifted a brow. "I don't believe you  answered the question."
  "It's possible one of the night clerks saw me  come in. It's also possible that the waitress at  the club would 
remember serving me, and what time I  left. What kind of alibi does Deanna  Reynolds have?"
  Was it rage? Jenner wondered. Or was it fear  that simmered in Gardner's voice? "I'm  afraid I can't discuss that at 
this time. Do you have  any idea how your wife might have gained access  to the CBC Building and Studio B?"
  "She worked there for some time," Dan said dryly.  "I imagine she walked in. She'd know the  way."
  "There's a security system that wasn't in  operation during the time your wife was based in the  building."

  "Then I'd imagine Deanna let  her in. Then she killed her." He shifted  forward, resting one hand on the black silk 
covering  his knee. "Imagine what this will do for her ratings,  Lieutenant Jenner. He knows." Dan jabbed  a finger 
toward Finn. "How many Nielsen homes  will tune in to watch a cold-blooded killer,  Riley? She'll murder the 
competition." He  laughed, rubbing a hand over and over his face. "Just  like she murdered Angela."
  "Whoever killed your wife won't benefit from  it." Jenner glanced at Finn, pleased to see he  was maintaining an 
outward calm. Jenner decided  he liked the pattern of their work together. Not something  as clich@ed as good cop-
bad cop. Just teamwork.  "Did Miss Perkins have an appointment book,  a calendar?"
  "Her secretary kept her calendar, but  Angela always carried a small date book in  her purse."
  "Would you mind if we took a look in her  room?"
  Dan pressed the heels of his hands to his  eyes. "Fuck, do what you want."
  "You ought to order up some breakfast, Mr.  Gardner," Jenner said as he rose.
  "Yeah. I ought to do that."
  Jenner took out a card and left it on the  coffee table beside the ashtray of smoldering butts.  "I'd appreciate it if you'd 
contact me if  you think of anything else. We'll be out of your  way in just a few minutes."
  The first thing Finn did in the bedroom of the  suite was open the drapes. Light spilled  relentlessly into the room. The 
bureau top was  crowded with bottles and pots, the expensive  toys of a vain woman who could afford the best. A  
champagne flute with a pale pink outline of  lipstick at the rim stood in the center. A  floral silk robe flowed gracefully 
over the  arm of a chair, its hem brushing matching  ballet-style slippers.
  The only evidence that a man shared the room was  the suit hung on the valet.
  "You didn't mention an appointment book in  her purse, Lieutenant."
  "There wasn't one." He glanced around the  room like a hound sniffing the air. "Cosmetics,  hotel key, cigarettes, 
lighter, a silk  hankie, a roll of Certs, an eelskin

wallet with ID, credit cards and  better than three hundred cash. But no date  book."
  "Interesting." Finn nodded toward the champagne  flute. "I'd say that was hers, wouldn't you,  sitting there with her 
perfumes and skin creams."
  "More than likely."
  "There's another out in the parlor, over by the wet  bar. Lipstick on that, too. Dark, hot-red  lipstick."
  "Good eye, Mr. Riley. Why don't we  see if room service knows who Angela's  drinking partner was?"

  Carla Mendez had never had much excitement in  her life. She'd been the oldest of five children  born to a shoe 
salesman and a waitress and had  lived a simple, uninspired life. At  thirty-three, she had three children and a 
husband who  was slavishly faithful and usually out of work.
  Carla didn't mind her job as a hotel  maid. She didn't like it particularly, but she  did her job well if mechanically and 
tucked  away tiny bottles of shampoo and skin cream as  religiously as she tucked away her tips.
  She was a small, sturdy woman, built like  a fireplug, with tightly permed black hair and  tiny dark eyes that were 
nearly lost in a network of  worry lines. But her eyes were bright now,  flitting from cop to reporter.
  She didn't like cops. If Jenner had  approached her alone, she would have closed up like a  clam, on principle. But 
she couldn't resist  Finn Riley. The way his dimples deepened  when he smiled at her, the gentlemanly way  he'd 
taken her hand.
  And he wanted to interview her.
  It was, for Carla, the biggest moment of her  life.
  Sensing her mood, Jenner hung back and let  Finn take the ball.
  "What time did you come into Miss Perkins's  room to turn down the bed, Mrs. Mendez?"
  "Ten o'clock. Usually I'd turn down much  earlier, but she told me not to come in, not to disturb  her before ten. She 
had appointments." Primly,  she tugged on the hem of her uniform. "I don't  like to work so late, but she was very 
nice." The  twenty-dollar tip had been even nicer.  "I've seen her on TV, too. But she

wasn't stuck-up or anything. She was  real polite. Messy, though," she added. "She  and her husband used about six 
bath towels between them  every day. And she had cigarette butts in every single  ashtray. Dishes everywhere." She 
glanced around the  parlor. "Cleaning up after people gives you insight,"  she said, and left it at that.
  "I'm sure it does." Finn gave her an  encouraging smile. "Was Miss Perkins with her  husband when you were turning 
down the bed in their  suite?"
  "Can't say. Didn't see him. Didn't  hear him. But I heard her, and the other one."
  "The other one?"
  "The other woman. They were scratching at each  other like cats." Carla tugged on her hem again,  examined her 
shoes. "Not that I listened. I mind  my own business. I've been working in this hotel  for seven years. You can't do that 
if you poke  into people's private lives. But when I heard how  she'd been murdered--Miss Perkins--I said  to Gino, 
that's my husband, I said to Gino that  I'd heard Miss Perkins going at it with this  woman in her suite only a couple 
hours before  she was dead. He said I should maybe tell my  supervisor, but I thought it might cause  trouble."
  "So you haven't told anyone about it?" Finn  prompted.
  "No. And when you came in and said you wanted  to talk to me about the people in 2403, I figured you  already 
knew." Her eyes flashed back up.  "Maybe you didn't."
  "What can you tell us about the woman who was with  Miss Perkins, Mrs. Mendez?"
  "I didn't see her, but I heard her all  right. Heard both of them. The woman said,  "I'm sick and tired of playing your 
games,  Angela. And one way or the other they're going  to stop." Then Miss Perkins laughed. I  knew it was her 
'cause like I said, I've seen  her on TV. And she laughed the way people do when  they're feeling mean. And she said 
something like,  "Oh, you'll keep playing, darling. The stakes  ..."" Carla screwed up her nose as she  concentrated. 
""The stakes are too high," she  said, "for you to do anything else." They called  each other names for a while. Then 
the other woman  said, "I could kill you, Angela. But maybe  I'll do something even better than that." Then I

heard the door slam, and Miss
Perkins was laughing again. I finished up real quick  and went out in the hall."
  "You know, Mrs. Mendez, I think you should  try my line of work." She preened and tugged on  her hem again. 
"You're very observant," he added.
  "It comes natural, I guess. You see a  lot of funny things working in a hotel."
  "I'm sure you do. I wonder ... Did you  see the woman who'd left?"
  "No. There wasn't anybody out there, but it  took me a couple of minutes to finish stacking  fresh towels, so she 
could have gotten on the  elevator. That was my last room, so I went  home after that. The next morning I heard that  
Miss Perkins had been killed. At first I  thought maybe that woman had come back and killed  her right there in my 
suite. But I found out it  didn't happen in the hotel at all. It  happened at the TV station where Deanna  Reynolds has 
her show. I like her show  better," she added guilelessly. "She has such  a nice smile."

  Deanna tried to use that smile as Finn  hesitated at the front door of the cabin.  "I'm fine," she told him. She'd told 
him  that repeatedly since she'd been released from the  hospital three days before. "Finn, you're going  to pick up a 
few things at the store; you're not  leaving me to defend the fort against marauding  hostiles. Besides"--she bent down 
to scratch the  dog's ears--"I have a champion."
  "Champion wimp." He cupped Deanna's  face in his hands. "Let me worry, okay?  It's still a new experience for me to 
fret." He  grinned. "I like fretting over you, Deanna."
  "As long as you're not fretting so much you forget  to buy me that candy bar."
  "Hershey's Big Block, no almonds."
He kissed her, relieved when her lips curved  gently, sweetly under his. The day he'd had  her to himself at the cabin 
had dulled the edge of her  horror, he knew, but she still slept poorly and  jolted at unexpected sounds. "Why don't 
you  take a nap, Kansas?"
  "Why don't you go get me that candy bar?" She  drew back, her smile securely in place.  "Then you can take a nap 
with me."
  "Sounds like a pretty good deal. I won't be

long."
  No, she thought as she watched him walk to the  car. He wouldn't be long. He hated leaving her  alone. Though what 
he expected her to do was beyond  her. Collapse in a hysterical heap? she  wondered, lifting her hand in a wave as 
he headed  down the lane. Run screaming from the house?
  With a sigh, she crouched down again to rub the dog  while he whined and scratched at the door. He  loved to go for 
rides, she thought now. But Finn had  left him behind, a canine sentry.
  Not that she could blame Finn for being  overprotective at this point. She'd been  alone with a murderer, after all. A 
murderer who  could have taken her life as quickly, as cruelly as  he had taken Angela's. Everyone was worried  
about poor Deanna, she thought. Her parents,  Fran. Simon, Jeff, Margaret,
Cassie. Roger and Joe and plenty of others from  the newsroom. Even Loren and Barlow had  called to express 
concern, to offer help.
  "Take all the time you need," Loren had  told her, without a single mention of ratings or  expenses. "Don't even think 
about coming back  until you're stronger."
  But she wasn't weak, Deanna decided.  She was alive.
  No one had tried to kill her. Surely  everyone must understand that one simple point. Yes,  she had been alone with 
a murderer, but she was  alive.
  Straightening, she wandered around the cabin, tidying  what was already competently neat. She brewed some  tea 
she didn't want, then wandered more with the cup  warming her hands. She poked at the cheerfully  blazing fire.
  She stared out the window. She sat on the couch.  She needed, desperately needed, to work.
  This wasn't one of their stolen weekends filled  to the brim with laughter and lovemaking and arguments    over 
newspaper editorials. There wasn't a  newspaper in the house, she thought in frustration.  And Finn said there was 
some trouble with the cable, so  television was out as well.
  He was doing his best to keep the outside world at  bay, she knew. To put her in a protective  bubble, where nothing 
and no one could cause her  distress.
  And she'd let him, because what had happened in  Chicago had seemed too horrible to think about;

she'd let Finn push it all to the side  for her.
  But now she needed to take some action.  "We're going back to Chicago," she told  the dog, who responded with a 
thud of his tail on  the floor. She turned to the steps, intending  to pack, when she heard the sound of a car on the  
drive. "He couldn't even have gotten to the store  yet," she muttered, heading to the door behind the  happily barking 
dog. "Look, Cronkite,
I love him, too, but he hasn't been gone  ten minutes." Deanna pushed open the screen,  laughing as the dog bulleted 
through. But when she  looked up and saw the car, the laughter died.
  She didn't recognize the car, a dull  brown sedan with dings in both fenders. But she  recognized Jenner and found 
herself tugging the collar  of her flannel shirt around her throat. She should  have felt relieved to see him, to know he 
was trying  to solve the case. Instead she felt only a  tightening of the nerves that trapped her somewhere between  
fear and resignation.
  Jenner grinned, obviously charmed  by Cronkite's yapping and dancing around his legs.  He bent down, unerringly 
finding the spot between  Cronkite's ears that sent the dog into spasms of  pleasure.
  "Hey there, boy. There's a good dog." He  chuckled when Cronkite plopped down on his  rump and extended a paw 
to shake. "Know your  manners, do you?" With the dog's dusty paw in his  hand, he glanced up when Deanna 
stepped out on  the porch. "This is quite a watchdog you've got  here, Miss Reynolds."
  "I'm afraid that's as fierce as he gets."  The brisk December breeze invaded her  bones. "You're a long way from 
Chicago,  Lieutenant."
  "Nice drive." Leaving his hand extended for the  dog to sniff, he glanced around. The snow had  melted, and the 
evergreens were glossily green. The  breeze hummed through denuded trees and threatened  to pick up and get 
mean. "Pretty place.  Must feel good to get out of the city now and then."
  "Yes, it does."
  "Miss Reynolds, I'm sorry to disturb  you, but I have some questions on the Perkins  homicide."
  "Please, come in. I've just made tea, but    I can put on coffee if you'd prefer." How

could they talk about murder without a nice,  sociable cup? Deanna thought as her stomach  turned.
  "Tea's fine." Jenner walked toward the  door with the dog prancing behind him.
  "Sit down." She gestured him inside,  toward the great room. "I'll just be a minute."
  "Mr. Riley's not with you?" Jenner took a  turn around the room, interested in the getaway  lives of the rich.
  "He went to the store. He'll be back  shortly."
  Hepplewhite. Jenner noted a side table and  ladder-back chair. The rug was Native  American. Navajo, he imagined. 
The  glassware was Irish. Waterford.
  "You have a good eye, Lieutenant." Her  face bland, Deanna carried the tea tray into the  room.
  He didn't realize he'd spoken aloud, and  smiled a little. It didn't bother him to be  caught snooping. He got paid for it. 
"I like  quality stuff. Even when I can't afford it."  He nodded to the vase on the mantel, stuffed with  early spring 
blooms. "Staffordshire?"
  "Dresden." Annoyed, Deanna set the  tray down with a snap. "I'm sure you didn't  drive all the way out here to admire 
the  bric-a-brac. Have you found out who killed  Angela?"
  "No." Jenner settled himself on the sofa with the  dog at his feet. "We're beginning to put things  together."
  "That's comforting. Sugar, lemon?"  She was playing it tough, Jenner thought.  "Black, thanks." He might have 
believed  Deanna's act, if it hadn't been for the shadows  under her eyes. "With sugar. Lots of it."
  His grin apologetic, Jenner began to spoon  sugar into the cup Deanna poured for him.  "Sweet tooth. Miss 
Reynolds, I  don't want to make you go through your whole statement  again--"
  "And I appreciate it." Deanna caught  herself snapping the words, and sighed. "I want  to cooperate, Lieutenant. I 
just don't see  what more I can tell you. I had an appointment with  Angela. I kept it. Someone killed her."
  "Didn't it strike you as odd that she'd want  to meet so late?"

  Deanna eyed Jenner over the rim of  her cup. "Angela was fond of making odd  demands."
  "And were you fond of going along with them?"  "No, I wasn't. I didn't want  to meet her at all. It's no secret that we  
weren't on friendly terms, and I knew we'd  quarrel. The fact that we would made me  nervous." Deanna set down her 
cup, curled  up her legs. "I don't like confrontations,  Lieutenant, but I don't run away from them,  as a rule. Angela and 
I had a history that  I'm sure you're aware of."
  "You were competitors." Jenner inclined his head  a fraction. "You didn't like each other."
  "No, we didn't like each other, and it was very  personal on both sides. I was ready to have it out  with her, and a part 
of me hoped that we could settle  things amicably. Another part was looking forward  to yanking out a few handfuls of 
her hair. I  won't deny I wanted her out of my way, but I  didn't want her dead." She looked back at  Jenner, calmer 
now, steadier. "Is that why you're  here? Am I a suspect?"
  Jenner rubbed a hand over his chin. "The  victim's husband, Dan Gardner, seems  to think you hated her enough to 
kill her. Or have her  killed."
  "Have her killed?" Deanna blinked at that and  nearly laughed. "So now I hired a convenient  hit man, paid him to 
murder Angela, knock  me unconscious and roll tape. Very inventive  of me." She sprang up, color washing back  into 
her cheeks. "I don't even know Dan  Gardner. It's flattering that he should consider me  so clever. And what was my 
motive? Ratings  points? It seems to me I should have arranged it so  that I didn't miss the November sweeps."
  The bruised, helpless look was gone, Jenner  noted. She was fired up, burning on indignation  and disgust. "Miss 
Reynolds, I didn't  say we agreed with Mr. Gardner."
  She stared for a moment, eyes kindling. "Just  wanted a reaction? I hope I satisfied  you."
  Jenner cocked a brow. "Miss Reynolds,  did you visit Miss Perkins at her hotel  on the night she was murdered?"
  "No." Frustrated, Deanna raked a hand  through her hair. "Why should I have? We were meeting

at the studio."
  "You might have gotten impatient." Jenner  knew he was reaching. Deanna's fingerprints  hadn't been found in the 
suite, certainly they  weren't on the extra champagne flute.
  "Even if I had, Angela told me that  she'd be busy until midnight. She had  meetings."
  "Did she mention with whom?"
  "We weren't chatting, Detective, and I  had no interest in her personal or her business  plans."
  "You knew she had enemies?"
  "I knew she wasn't particularly well  liked. Part of that might have been her personality,  and part of it was because 
she was a woman with a great deal  of power. She could be hard and vindictive. She  could also be charming and 
generous."
  "I don't imagine you found it charming when she  arranged for you to walk in on her and Dr. Pike,  in compromising 
circumstances."
  "That's old news."
  "But you were in love with him?"
  "I was almost in love with him," Deanna  corrected. "A very large difference." Oh, what  was the point of all this? she 
wondered, and rubbed at  the headache brewing dead center of her forehead.  "I won't deny it hurt me, and it 
infuriated  me, and it changed my feelings about both of them  irrevocably."
  "Dr. Pike tried to continue your  relationship."
  "He didn't look on the incident in the  same way I did. I wasn't interested in  continuing anything with him, and I made 
that clear."
  "But he did persist for quite a while."  "Yes."
  Jenner recognized the emotion behind the clipped  response. "And the notes, the ones you've been  receiving with 
some regularity for several years. Did  you ever consider that he was sending them?"
  "Marshall?" She shook her head. "No.  They're not his style."
  "What is?"
  Deanna's eyes shut. She remembered the  photographs, the detective's report.  "Perhaps you should ask him."
  "We will. Have you been involved with anyone other  than Dr. Pike? Anyone who might have been so  disturbed by 
the announcement of your engagement to Mr.

Riley that they would break into your office,  or Mr. Riley's home?"
  "No, there's been--what do you mean, break  in?" She gripped the wing of the chair she stood  beside.
  "It seems logical that whoever sent the notes  is also responsible for the destruction of your office  and the house 
you share with Mr. Riley," Jenner  began. And, he believed, for Angela's  murder.
  "When?" Deanna could barely whisper the word.  "When did this happen?"
  Intrigued, Jenner stopped tapping his pencil  on his pad. The rosy glow anger had brought  to Deanna's cheeks had 
drained, leaving her  face white as bone. Riley hadn't told her  yet, he realized. And the man wasn't going to be  
pleased to have been scooped. "The night Angela  Perkins was shot, Finn Riley's house was  broken into."
  "No." Still gripping the chair, she shifted,  lowered herself before her legs buckled. "Finn  didn't--no one told me." She 
squeezed her  eyes shut, fighting the kick of nerves in her  stomach. When she opened them again, they were dark as  
pitch and burning dry. "But you will. I want to know  what happened. Exactly what happened."
  There was going to be more than a little tiff when  Finn Riley returned, Jenner decided. As  he related the facts, he 
watched her take them  in. She winced once, as though the words were darts,  then went very still. Her eyes remained 
level, and  curiously blank until he had finished.
  She said nothing for a moment, leaning forward to pour  more tea. Her hand was steady. Jenner admired her  poise 
and control, particularly since he'd seen  the ripple of horror cross her face.
  "You think that whoever's been sending the notes,  whoever broke into my office and my home, killed  Angela."
  It was a reporter's voice, Jenner noted.  Cool and calm and without inflection. But her eyes  weren't blank any longer. 
They were terrified.  For some reason he remembered a report she'd  done years before, a woman in the suburbs 
who'd  been shot to death by her husband. Her eyes hadn't  been blank then, either.
  "It's a theory," he said at length. "It  makes more sense for only one person to be  involved."

  "Then why not me?" Her voice  broke, and she shook her head impatiently.  "Why Angela and not me? If he was so 
angry,  so violently angry with me, why did he kill  her and leave me alive?"
  "She was in your way," Jenner said briskly,  and watched as the full impact struck Deanna  like a blow.
  "He killed her for me? Oh Jesus, he  did it for me."
  "We can't be sure of that." Jenner began, but  Deanna was already shoving out of her chair.
  "Finn. Good God, he could come after Finn.  He broke into the house. If Finn had been  there, he would have ..." She 
pressed a hand to her  stomach. "You have to do something."
  "Miss Reynolds--"
  But she heard the sound of tires on gravel.  She whirled, racing the dog to the door, shouting for    him.
  Finn was already cursing the other car in the drive  when he heard her call his name. His annoyance at  the intrusion 
faded as he saw her sprint out of the  house. She leaped trembling into his arms, choking  back sobs.
  Finn gathered her close, his eyes hot and  lethal as they skimmed over her shoulder to where  Jenner stood on the 
porch. "What the hell have you  done?"

  "I'm sorry." It was the best Finn could think  of to say as he faced Deanna across the living  room. Jenner had left 
them alone. After, Finn  thought bitterly, he'd dropped his bomb.
  "What for? Because I found out from Jenner? Or  because you didn't trust me enough to tell me in the first  place?"
  "That it happened at all," he said carefully.  "And it wasn't a matter of trust, Deanna.  You're barely out of the 
hospital."
  "And you didn't want to upset my delicate  mental balance. That's why the television is  conveniently on the blink. 
That's why you wanted to go  to the store alone, and didn't bring back the  paper. We wouldn't want poor little Deanna  
to hear any news that might upset her."
  "Close enough." He plunged his hands into his  pockets. "I thought you needed some time."
  "You thought. Well, you thought wrong." She  spun around, headed for the stairs. "You had no right

to keep this from me."
  "I did keep it from you. Damn it, if  we're going to fight, at least do it face  to face." He stopped her on the landing, 
grabbing  her arm, turning her around.
  "I can fight when I'm packing." She shook  him off and stalked into the bedroom.
  "You want to go back, fine. We'll go back  after we've settled this."
  She dragged an overnight case out of the  closet. "We don't have to go anywhere. I'm  going." She tossed the case 
onto the bed, threw  open the lid. "Alone." In quick, jerky moves,  she plucked bottles and jars from the dresser.  "I'm 
going hack to my apartment. I can get  whatever I've left at your house later."
  "No," he said, very calmly, "you're not."  She heaved a perfume bottle toward the open  case. It bounced merrily on 
the bed.
  "That's exactly what I'm doing." With her  eyes on his, she pried his fingers loose. "You  lied to me, Finn. If Jenner 
hadn't come out here  for some follow-up questions, I wouldn't have known about the  break-in, or that you'd 
interviewed Dan Gardner  and that hotel maid. I wouldn't have known anything."
  "No, and you might have gotten a few nights'  sleep."
  "You lied," she repeated, refusing to see past  that. "And don't tell me keeping the truth from me  is different than 
lying. It's the same. I  won't continue in a relationship that isn't  honest."
  "You want honest. That's fine." He turned,  shut the door with a quiet click. A final  click. "I'll do anything and 
everything in my power  to protect you. That's a fact." Eyes steady,  he walked back to her. "You're not walking out on  
me, Deanna. That's a fact. And you're not  using some bullshit about rights and trust as your  escape hatch. If you 
want out, then at least be  honest."
  "All right." She shifted so that he couldn't  see the way her hands shook as she packed. "I  made a mistake when I 
agreed to marry you, and  I've had time to think it through. I need  to concentrate on my career, on my own life.  I can't 
do that if I'm trying to make a  marriage work, if I'm starting a family. I  talked myself into thinking I could do it all, but I 
was  wrong." The diamonds on her finger winked

mockingly at her. She couldn't quite bring  herself to take the ring off. Not yet. "I don't  want to marry you, Finn, and it's 
not fair to either of  us to continue this way. My priority right now is  my work, and getting it back on track."
  "Look at me, Deanna. I said look at  me." With his hands firm on her shoulders, he  turned her to face him. The 
sensation of panic  faded into steely confidence. "You're lying."
  "I know you don't want to believe--"  "Jesus Christ, Deanna, don't you know that  I can see it in your face. You could 
never lie  worth a damn. Why are you doing this?"
  "I don't want to hurt you any more than  necessary, Finn." She held herself rigid in his  arms, stared over his 
shoulder. "Let me go."
  "Not a chance in hell."
  "I don't want you." Her voice cracked.  "I don't want this. Is that clear enough?"
  "No." He jerked her forward, covered her  mouth with his. She trembled immediately, her body  shuddering against 
his, her lips heating. "But that  is."
  "It's not the answer." But her body yearned for  his, for the warmth, the strength.
  "You want me to apologize again?" Gently  now, he stroked a hand over her hair. "Fine.  I'm sorry, and I'd do exactly 
the same  thing. If you want to call it lying to you, then I'd  lie. I'd do whatever I had to do to keep you  safe."
  "I don't want to be protected." She  broke away, curled her hands into impotent  fists. "I don't need to be protected. 
Can't  you see? Don't you understand? He used me  to kill her. He used me. He isn't going  to hurt me; I don't need to 
be protected.  But God knows who else he might hurt because of  me."
  "Me," he said quietly, furiously.  "That's what this is all about. You think he might  try for me. The best way to prevent 
that is  to dump me, right? To make sure everyone knows  you've broken it off."
  Her lips trembled before she pressed them together.  "I'm not going to argue with you, Finn."
  "You're absolutely right about that." He  picked up her case and upended the contents.  "Don't ever try that with me 
again. Don't ever  use my feelings on me like that again."

  "He'll try to kill you," she said  dully. "I know he will."
  "So you lied, to try to protect me." When she  opened her mouth, shut it again, he smiled.  "Quid pro quo, Deanna. 
We'll call it  even. So you don't want to be protected--neither  do I. What do you want?"
  She lifted her fisted hands to her cheeks, then  let them fall. "I want you to stop watching me  as though I were going 
to fall apart."
  "Done. What else?"
  "I want you to swear you won't keep anything  from me, no matter how much you think it'll upset  me."
  "Deal, and same goes."
  She nodded slowly, watching him. "You're still  angry."
  "Yeah, I'm still angry. It's a residual  effect when the woman I love cuts me in  half."
  "You still want me."
  "God, yes, I still want you."
  "You haven't made love with me since this  happened. Whenever I'd turn to you, you'd soothe and  you'd cuddle, but 
you haven't touched me."
  "No, I haven't." He felt the blood  begin to swim in his veins. "I wanted to give you  time."
  "I don't want time!" she shouted at him,  felt the first sweet snap of release. "I'm not  fragile or weak or delicate. I 
want you  to stop looking at me as though I were, as though  I'd crumble. I'm alive. I want to feel  alive. Make me feel 
alive."
  He reached out, brushed his knuckle down her  cheek. "You should have asked for something more  difficult."
  He kissed her. She could feel the sparks of  fury he was struggling to bank, taste the hot  frustration, the searing 
need.
  "Don't," she murmured. "Don't be  gentle. Not now."
  He wanted to be. But she was pulling him down  on the bed, her hands already frantic as they tugged  at his clothes. 
He couldn't be gentle, couldn't  tap the well of tenderness when her mouth was driving  him beyond caution into 
madness.
  Her body vibrated against his as she arched and  strained and writhed. More was all she could think. More  of him. 
More of that simmering violence she had watched

him fight to chain for days. She wanted  him to release it now, inside her.
  She could hear her own heart drum heavily in  her ears, feel each separate pulse throb.  Her muffled cry was one of 
triumph as he  ripped her shirt aside, seeking flesh.
  The wind kicked against the windows, rattling  glass. It hooted down the chimney, struggling  to puff smoke into the 
room. But the fire blazed  in the hearth and burned brighter with the threat of the storm.
  On the bed they rolled like thunder.
  His mouth was on her, ravenous, teeth scraping  skin already damp with passion. His breath was hot and  quick, his 
hands bruising in their hurry to possess.  She reared up to meet him, her head falling  back, her moan long and feral.
  Faster. Faster. The desperation peaked as he  yanked at her jeans, his hungry mouth racing  down her shuddering 
torso toward the violent heat.  Her hands dived into his hair, pressed him  closer, closer. Her nails scraped unfelt  
down his back as the first orgasm pummeled her.
  "Now." She nearly wept it, dragging him  up, frantic for him to fill her. Her hands  clutched at his hips, her legs 
wrapped around his  waist. "Now," she said again, then cried out when he  drove himself into her.
  "M." He yanked her body up, plunged  deeper, thrusting hard, still harder while the ferocity  of pleasure racked 
through him. His body felt like  an engine, tireless, primed to run. He mated  it with hers, steel cased in velvet, 
pumping  faster each time he felt her muscles contract  like a moist fist around him.
  When she arched, straining, he pulled her to him  until they were torso to torso. Her teeth sank  into his shoulder 
even as her body moved like wet  silk against his. Again she went rigid, her  body stiffening, then breaking into 
shudders. Her eyes  sprang open, staring glazed into his while she  went limp.
  "I can't."
  He shoved her back, grasping her hands and  dragging them over her head. "I can."
  He devoured her, letting the animal take  over, ripping each new response from her with  impatient teeth, enticing 
new fires with tongue  and lips.
  His breath was burning in his throat, his blood  pounding in his head, in his loins. The final wave of

sensation swamped him, flooded through his  system like light--white and blinding. He thought she  cried out again, 
just his name, as he emptied himself  into her.

          Chapter Twenty-four

  Marshall Pike's office looked like an  elegant living room. But no one lived there.  It reminded Finn of an ambitious 
model  home, decorated for prospective buyers who  would never slouch on the brocade sofa or wrestle  on the 
Aubusson rug. There would certainly never  be a careless ring left by a careless glass set  on the Chippendale coffee 
table. No child would ever  play hide-and-seek behind the formal silk  draperies or cuddle up to read in one of the  
deep-cushioned chairs.
  Even Marshall's desk seemed more of a prop  than a usable fixture. The oak was highly  polished, the brass fittings 
gleamed. The desk  set of burgundy leather fit seamlessly into the  color scheme of wines and ferns. The ficus  tree 
by the window wasn't plastic, but it was so  perfect, its leaves so radically dust-free, it  might as well have been.
  Finn had lived with easy wealth all of his  life, and the material trappings it could buy, but  he found Marshall Pike's 
pristine office, with  its low hum of an air filter discreetly  sucking impurities, soulless.
  "I would, naturally, be happy to cooperate  with the police." Piously, Marshall tugged the  sleeves of his jacket over 
the monogrammed  cuffs of his crisp white shirt. "As I  explained to you, they haven't found it necessary to question  
me. Why would they? I have nothing to say to the  press."
  "As I explained to you, I'm not here as a  member of the press. You're not obligated to talk  to me, Pike, but if you 
don't ..." Finn  spread his hands. Jenner was going to be pissed, he  thought, that he hadn't cleared this interview with 
the  police. But this particular contact was personal.  "Some of my associates might appreciate  having their memory 
jogged about a certain incident  between you and Angela. One that slipped through the  cracks a couple of years 
ago?"
  "I can't imagine that something so trivial would be  of interest to anyone."

  "It's amazing, isn't it, what  grabs the viewer's attention? And what, if  presented with a certain angle, will intrigue the  
police."
  The man was reaching, of course, Marshall  assured himself. There was nothing, absolutely  nothing to connect him 
with Angela but a momentary  lapse of judgment. And yet ... a word to the  wrong person could result in publicity his  
practice couldn't afford.
  A few questions, he decided, a few answers  wouldn't matter. He was, after all, an expert  at communication. If he 
couldn't handle an  overexposed reporter, he didn't deserve the  degrees hanging prominently on the wall behind  him.
  More, he would enjoy outwitting the man Deanna  had chosen over him.
  "My last appointment for the day canceled." He  shook his head as if in pity for the unhappy couple  who wouldn't 
benefit from his skills. "I don't  have another engagement until seven. I can spare  you a few moments."
  "That's all I'll need. When did you hear  about Angela's death?"
  "On the news, the morning after the murder. I  was shocked. I understand that Deanna was with her in the  studio. 
As you know, Deanna and I had a  relationship. Naturally, I'm concerned about her."
  "I'm sure that will help her sleep easy at  night."
  "I have tried to contact her, to offer my  support."
  "She doesn't need it."  "Territorial, Mr. Riley?" Marshall  asked with a curve of the lips.
  "Absolutely, Dr. Pike," Finn  answered.
  "In my profession, it's essential to be  fair-minded." He continued to smile. "Deanna  meant a great deal to me at one 
time."
  With some interviews you prodded, with others you  planted. In Marshall's case, Finn noted that  the shorter the 
question, the more expansive the answer.
  "Did she?"
  "A great deal of time has passed. And  Deanna is engaged to you. Regardless, I would still  offer whatever support 
or help I could to someone  I was fond of, particularly under such shocking  circumstances."

  "And Angela Perkins?" Finn  leaned back in his chair. However relaxed his  pose, he was alert, watching every flick 
of  Marshall's eye. "Were you fond of her?"
  "No," he said shortly. "I was not."  "Yet it was your affair with Miss Perkins which  ended your relationship with 
Deanna."
  "There was no affair." Marshall linked his hands  on the desktop. "There was a momentary lapse of  control and 
common sense. I came to understand rather  quickly that Angela had orchestrated the entire  incident for her own 
reasons."
  "Which were?"
  "In my opinion? To manipulate Deanna  and to cause her distress. She was successful."  His smile was thin and 
humorless. "Although Deanna  did not accept the position Angela had offered  her in New York, she did sever ties 
with  me."
  "You resent that?"
  "I resent, Mr. Riley, that Deanna  refused to see the incident for what it was.  Less than nothing. A mere physical 
reaction  to deliberate stimuli. There was no emotion  involved, none at all."
  "Some people are more emotional about sex than  others." Finn smiled wider, deliberately  baiting him. "Deanna's 
very emotional."
  "Indeed," he said, and left it at that. When  Finn remained silent, annoyance pushed him on.  "I don't understand how 
my unfortunate misstep  could be related to the investigation."
  "I didn't say it was," Finn said  pleasantly. "But, just to clear up that matter, why  don't you tell me where you were on 
the night of the  murder? Between the hours of eleven and two?"
  "I was home."
  "Alone?"
  "Yes, alone." Confident now, Marshall  relaxed. His eyes were mild. "I'm sure you'd  agree, if I'd been planning on 
murder I  would have had the simple intelligence to provide  myself with an alibi. However, I had dinner,  alone, spent 
a few hours working on case  studies, then went to bed."
  "Did you speak with anyone? Receive any phone  calls?"
  "I let the service take my calls. I  don't like to be interrupted when I'm working--barring  emergencies." He smiled 
cockily. "Do you

advise me to contact my lawyer, Mr.  Riley?"
  "If you think you need one." If he was lying,  Finn mused, he was cool about it. "When was the  last time you saw 
Angela?"
  For the first time in the interview there was a flash of  genuine pleasure in Marshall's eyes. "I  haven't seen Angela 
since she made the move  to New York. That would be over two years  ago."
  "Have you had any contact with her since that time?"  "Why would I? We did not have a love  affair, as I explained."
  "You didn't have one with Deanna, either," Finn  commented, and had the satisfaction of wiping the smile  from 
Marshall's face. "But you've continued  to contact her."
  "Not for nearly a year. She is not forgiving."  "But you have sent notes. Made calls."
  "No, I haven't. Not until I heard about  this. She hasn't returned my calls, so I  must assume she neither wants nor 
needs my  help." Assured he'd been more than reasonable,  he tapped his cuff again, rose. "As I said,  I do have an 
appointment at seven, and I need  to go home and change for the evening. I must say, this  was an interesting 
interlude. Be sure to give  Deanna my best."
  "I don't think so." Finn rose as well,  but made no move to leave. "I've got another  question. You can call this one 
from reporter  to psychologist."
  Marshall's lips jerked into a sneer. "How  could I refuse?"
  "It's about obsession." Finn let the word  hang a moment, watching for any sign: an  avoidance of eye contact, a tic, 
a change in  tone. "If a man, or a woman, was fixed on  someone, long-term, say, two or three years,  and he had 
fantasies but he couldn't bring himself  to approach this person, face to face, and in these  fantasies he felt he'd been 
betrayed, what  would he be feeling? Love? Or hate?"
  "A difficult question, Mr. Riley, with such  little information. I can say that love and hate are as  intricately entwined as 
the poets claim. Either  one can take control, and either one, depending on  circumstances, can be dangerous. 
Obsessions are  rarely constructive, for either party. Tell me,  are you planning a show on the topic?"

  "Could be." Finn reached for his coat.  "As a layman, I wonder if someone who was  dealing with that kind of 
obsession might be able to hide  it. Go through the day-to-day motions without letting the  mask slip." He studied 
Marshall's face  now. "The old John Smith who mows down  half a dozen people in a K Mart. The  neighbors say what 
a nice, quiet guy he  was."
  "It happens, doesn't it? Most people are very  clever at allowing others to see only what they  wish to be seen. And 
most people only see what they  choose in any case. If the human race were  simpler, both of us would be looking for 
other means  of employment."
  "You have a point. Thanks for your time."  As Finn walked out of the office, through the  reception area and to the 
bank of elevators, he  wondered if Marshall Pike was the type who could  calmly blow a woman's face off and walk  
away. There was cold blood there. That much he was  sure of.
  Smarm under the polish, Finn mused. It could have  been pure animal reaction, he supposed, a  territorial instinct. 
No, Finn concluded, that  unease came from the reporter in him. The man was  hiding something, and it was up to him 
to ferret it out.
  It wouldn't hurt to take a run by the hotel and  see if anyone had spotted Marshall in the area  on the night of 
Angela's death.

  In his office, Marshall sat behind his desk.  He waited, and waited until he heard the  faint rumble of the elevator. And 
he waited again  until he heard nothing at all. Snatching up  the phone, he punched in numbers, wiped his damp  
palm over his face.
  He heard Finn's voice relay the information  he already knew: Deanna wasn't there.  Marshall slammed down the 
phone and buried his  head in his hands.
  Goddamn Finn Riley. Goddamn
Angela. And goddamn Deanna. He had  to see her. And he had to see her now.

  "You shouldn't have come back yet." Jeff stood  in Deanna's office, his pleasant, homely  face set in stubborn lines 
of worry. The  smell of paint was still fresh.
  They both knew why the walls had been

painted, the rug replaced. There were  long, jagged scratch marks marring the surface of  Deanna's desk. The police 
had unsealed the  room only forty-eight hours before and there hadn't  been time to repair or replace everything.
  "I was hoping you'd be glad to see me."  "I am glad to see you, but not here." Since it  was just past eight in the 
morning, they were alone.  Jeff felt obligated to convince her to give  herself more time. When the rest of the staff 
arrived, he  had no doubt they would add their weight. But now it  was up to him to watch out for her. "You've been 
through a  nightmare, Dee, and it hasn't even been a  week."
  Yes it had, she thought. One week tonight. But  she didn't correct him. "Jeff, I've  already been through this with 
Finn--"
  "He shouldn't have let you come in."
  Her hackles rose, but she bit back the first  furious retort. Perhaps her nerves were still raw,  she decided, if she was 
ready to snarl at poor  Jeff. "Finn doesn't let me anything.
If it makes you feel better, he agrees with  you completely about my taking more time. I don't."  She eased a hip down 
on the wide sill of the  plate-glass window. Behind her, wet snow fell  in thick, listless sheets. "I need to work,  Jeff. 
Angela's death was horrible, but hiding  my head under the covers isn't going to make it,  or my part in it, go away. 
And I need my  pals." She held out a hand. "I really do."
  She heard him sigh, but he crossed to her and  took her hand. "We wanted to be there for you,  Dee. All of us."
  "I know you did." She squeezed his hand,  urging him down on the sill with her. "I guess  this hasn't been easy on 
anyone. Did you have  to talk to the police?"
  "Yeah." He grimaced, shoving at his  glasses. "That Detective Jenner. "Where were  you on the night in question?"'" 
Jeff demanded in such  a perfect mimic of Jenner that Deanna  laughed. "We all got the treatment. Simon was  
sweating bullets. You know how he is under  pressure. Wringing his hands, gulping audibly.  He got so worked up that 
Fran made him lie  down, then tore into the cop for harassment."
  "Sorry I missed it." She leaned her head  against Jeff's shoulder, content to be back with  friends. "What else did I 
miss?" She could

feel his body tense and she squeezed his  hand in reassurance. "I'd feel better if I  knew, Jeff. I've only gotten some  
sketchy details about how the office was torn  up. I miss our Christmas tree." Her  smile was brief and sad. "Silly, isn't 
it?  When you think of everything that was destroyed in here, I  miss that stupid tree."
  "I'll get you another one. Just as ugly."  "Impossible." But she let it go. "Tell  me."
  He hesitated a moment. "The office was  pretty messed up, Dee. But it was mostly  cosmetic damage. Once the 
cops let us  in, Loren had it cleaned out, repainted,  recarpeted. He was royally pissed. Not at you,"  he said quickly. 
"It was the whole deal, you know. The  fact that somebody got in and ... did what they  did."
  "I'll call him."
  "Deanna ... I'm sorry. I don't know  what else to say. I'm so damn sorry you had  to go through all that. I wish I could 
say I'm  sorry about Angela, but I'm not."
  "Jeff--"
  "I'm not," he repeated, and tightened his grip  on her hand. "She wanted to hurt you. She did  everything she could to 
ruin your career. Using Lew,  making up lies, dragging that whole business with that  creep football player into the 
public. I  can't be sorry she won't be around to try something  else." He let out a long breath. "I guess  that makes me 
pretty cold."
  "No, it doesn't. Angela didn't  inspire great love and devotion."
  "You do."
  She lifted her head and turned to smile at  him, when a sound in the doorway made them both  jump.
  "Oh, God." Cassie stood, a  paperweight in one hand, a brass sculpture in  the other. "I thought someone had 
broken in again."  She pressed the hefty glass paperweight to her  heart.
  On watery legs, Deanna managed the two  steps to a chair. "I came in early," she said,  trying desperately to sound 
calm and in control.  "I thought I might start catching up."
  "I guess that makes three of us." With her  eyes on Deanna, Cassie set the

sculpture and paperweight aside.
"Are you sure you're okay?"
  "No." Deanna closed her eyes for a  moment. "But I need to be here."

  Perhaps her nerves were raw and her temper short,  but by midmorning Deanna found some comfort in the  basic 
office routine. Bookings had to be  rearranged and rescheduled, others fell through  completely due to the time lapse. 
New story  ideas were devised and discussed. Once word spread  that Deanna was back in harness, the phones 
began  to shrill. People from the newsroom popped upstairs,  out of both genuine concern and pure curiosity.
  "Benny's hoping you'll do an interview,"  Roger told her. "An exclusive for old  times' sake."
  Deanna passed him half the sandwich she was  nibbling at her now overburdened desk. "Benny  thinks a lot of old 
times' sake."
  "It's news, Dee. And pretty hot when you  consider it happened right here at CBC and involved  two major stars."
  A major star, she thought. What was the  difference between a major star and a minor one? She  knew what Loren 
would have said: A minor star sought  airtime. A major star sold it.
  "Give me some time, will you?" She rubbed at the  tension in the back of her neck. "Tell him  I'm thinking about it."
  "Sure." His gaze wandered from hers to his own  hands. "I'd appreciate it, if you decide  to do it, if you let me do the 
interview." His  eyes cut back to her, then away again. "I could  use the boost. There are rumors of cutbacks in  the 
newsroom again."
  "There are always rumors of cutbacks in the  newsroom." She resented the favor he was  asking, and wished she 
didn't. "All right,  Roger, for old times' sake. Just give me a  couple of days."
  "You're a peach, Dee." And he felt like  sludge. "I'd better get down. I've got  some bumpers to tape." He rose, 
leaving the  sandwich untouched. "It's good to have you back. You  know if you need a friendly ear, I've got two."
  "Off the record?"
  He had the grace to flush. "Sure. Off the  record."
  She held up both hands as if to gesture the

words back. "Sorry. I'm touchy,
I guess. I'll have Cassie set up an  interview in a day or two, all right?"
  "Whenever you're ready." He walked to the  door. "This really sucks," he murmured as he  shut the door behind him.
  "You bet." Deanna leaned back in her  chair, closing her eyes, letting herself hear  only the impersonal murmur of 
the television  across the room. Angela was dead, she thought, and that  made her a hotter news item than she had 
ever  been when she was alive.
  The really horrid bottom line, Deanna  knew, was that she was now hot news as well. And  hot news made for hot 
ratings. Since the  murder, Deanna's Hour--reruns of  Deanna's Hour, she corrected--had  spurted up in points, 
pummeling the competition.  No game show or daytime drama could hope to withstand  the mighty weight of murder 
and scandal.
  Angela had given her greatest rival the  success she'd hoped to take away. She'd  only had to die to do it.
  "Deanna?"
  Her heart flew to her throat, her eyes  sprang open. On the other side of her desk,  Simon jumped as violently as 
she.  "Sorry," he said quickly. "I guess you  didn't hear me knock."
  "That's okay." Disgusted with her reaction, she  chuckled weakly. "My nerves don't seem  to be as strong as I 
thought. You look exhausted."
  He tried to smile, but couldn't bring it off.  "Having trouble sleeping." He tumbled out a  cigarette.
  "I thought you'd quit."
  "Me too." Embarrassed, he moved his  shoulders. "I know you said you wanted to start taping  on Monday."
  "That's right. Is there a problem?"  "It's just that ..." He trailed off, puffing  hard on the cigarette. "I thought, under the  
circumstances--but maybe it doesn't matter    to you. It just seemed to me ..."
  Deanna wondered if she grabbed onto his  tongue and pulled, if the words would spill out.  "What?"
  "The set," he blurted out, and passed a  nervous hand over his thinning hair. "I thought you  might want to change 
the set. The chairs ... you

know."
  "Oh God." She pressed a fist to her mouth  as the vision of Angela, sitting cozily,  sitting dead in the spacious white 
chair, flashed  into her mind. "Oh God, I haven't thought."
  "I'm sorry, Deanna." For lack of  something better he patted her shoulder. "I  shouldn't have said anything. I'm an 
idiot."
  "No. No. Thank God you did. I  don't think I could have handled ..." She imagined  herself striding out on the set, 
then freezing in shock  and horror. Would she have run screaming, as she had  done before? "Oh, Simon. Oh, sweet  
Jesus."
  "Dee." Helplessly he patted her shoulder  again. "I didn't mean to upset you."
  "I think you just saved my sanity. Put the  set decorator on it, Simon, please? Have  him change everything. The 
color scheme, the  chairs, tables, the plants. Everything. Tell  him--"
  Simon had already taken out a notebook  to scribble down her instructions. The simple,  habitual gesture somehow 
cheered Deanna.
  "Thanks, Simon."
  "I'm the detail man, remember?" He  tapped out the half-smoked cigarette. "Don't  worry about it. We'll have a whole 
new look."
  "But keep it comfortable. And why don't you  knock off early? Go get yourself a massage."
  "I'd rather work."
  "I know what you mean."
  "I didn't know it would affect me like this."  He tucked the pad away. "I worked with her for  years. I can't say I liked 
her much, but I  knew her. I stood right here, in this spot, when  she was sitting there." He glanced up again, meeting  
Deanna's eyes. "Now, she's dead. I can't  stop thinking about it."
  "Neither can I."
  "Whoever did it was in here, too." Warily,  he scanned the room, as if he expected someone  to lunge out of a corner 
wielding a gun.  "Jesus, I'm sorry. All I'm doing is  scaring the shit out of both of us. I guess it's  eating on me because 
her memorial service is  tonight."
  "Tonight? In New York?"
  "No, here. I guess she wanted to be  buried in Chicago, where she got her big

break. There's not going to be a viewing  or anything, because ..." He remembered why and  swallowed hard. "Well, 
there's just going to be a  service at the funeral parlor. I think I should  go."
  "Give the details to Cassie, will you? I  think I should go, too."

  "This isn't just stupid," Finn said with barely  controlled fury. "It's insane."
  Deanna watched the windshield wipers sweep  at the ugly, icy sleet. The snow that had  fallen throughout the day 
had turned to oily gray  slop against the curbs. The sleet that replaced it  battered down, cold and mean.
  It was a good night for a funeral.  Her chin came up and her jaw tightened. "I  told you that you didn't have to come 
with me."
  "Yeah, right." He spotted the crowd of  reporters huddled outside the funeral parlor and  drove straight down the 
block. "Goddamn  press."
  She nearly smiled at that, felt a giddy  urge to laugh out loud. But she was afraid it would  sound hysterical. "I won't 
mention anything about  pots and kettles."
  "I'm going to park down the block," he said  between his teeth. "We'll see if we can find a  side or a back entrance."
  "I'm sorry," she repeated when he'd  parked. "Sorry to have dragged you out to this tonight." She  had a headache 
she didn't dare mention. And a  raw sick feeling in her stomach that promised  to worsen.
  "I don't recall being dragged."
  "I knew you wouldn't let me come alone. So  it amounts to the same thing. I can't even explain  to myself why I feel I 
have to do this. But I have to do  it."
  Suddenly, she twisted toward him, gripping his  hand hard. "Whoever killed her could be in there. I  keep wondering 
if I'll know him. If I  look him in the face, if I'll know. I'm  terrified I will."
  "But you still want to go inside."
  "I have to."
  The sleet helped, she thought. Not only was it  cold, but it demanded the use of long, disguising  coats and shielding 
umbrellas. They walked in  silence, against the wind. She caught sight of the

CBC van before Finn ducked around the  side of the building. He hustled her inside,  drenching them both as he 
snapped the umbrella  closed.
  "I hate goddamned funerals."  Surprised, she studied his face as she tugged  off her gloves, shed her coat. She 
could see it  now. More than annoyance with her for insisting on  attending, more than concern or even fear, there 
was  dread in his eyes. "I'm sorry. I didn't  realize."
  "I haven't been to one since ... in years.  What's the point? Dead's dead. Flowers and  organ music don't change it."
  "It's supposed to comfort the living."  "Not so I've noticed."
  "We won't stay long." She took his hand,  surprised that it would be he rather than she who needed  comfort.
  He seemed to shudder, once. "Let's get it  over with."
  They walked out of the alcove. They could already  hear the murmur of voices, the muted notes of a  dirge. Not 
organ music, he realized,    horribly relieved, but piano and cello in  somber duet. The air smelled of lemon oil,  
perfume, flowers. He would have sworn he  smelled whiskey as well, sharp as a blade  cutting through the overly 
sweetened air.
  The thick carpet was a riot of deep red  roses and muffled their footsteps as they walked  down a wide hall. On both 
sides heavy  oak doors were discreetly shut. At the end they  were flung open. Cigarette smoke added to the  miasma 
of scent.
  When he felt her tremble, Finn tucked his  arm more firmly around her waist. "We can turn  around and leave, 
Deanna. There's no shame in  it."
  She only shook her head. Then she saw the  first video camera. The press, it seemed,  wasn't merely huddled 
outside. Several had  been allowed in, complete with camera crews,  microphones and lights. Cables were strewn 
over  the garden of carpet in the main viewing room.
  In silence, they slipped inside.
  The cathedral ceiling with its painted mural of  cherubim and seraphim tossed the murmuring  voices and chinking 
glasses everywhere.
  The room was crowded with people. As Deanna

looked from face to face, she wondered  if she would see grief or fear or simply  resignation. Would Angela feel she 
was being  mourned properly? And would her killer be here,  to observe?
  No one wept, Finn noted. He did see  shock and sober eyes. Voices were muted  respectfully. And the cameras 
recorded it all.  Would they, he wondered, inadvertently record  one face, one that couldn't quite hide the knowledge, 
and the  triumph? He kept Deanna close to his  side, knowing that the murderer could be in the room,  watching.
  There was a photograph of Angela in a  gold frame. The flattering publicity shot  sat atop a gleaming mahogany 
coffin.
  It reminded Finn, much too vividly, of  what lay inside the discreetly closed lid.  Feeling Deanna shudder beside him, 
he  instinctively drew her closer.
  "Let's get the hell out of here."  "No."
  "Kansas--" But when he looked at her he  saw more than the shock and fear. He saw what was  missing on so many 
of the other faces that crowded the  room: grief.
  "Whatever her motives," Deanna said  quietly, "she helped me once. And whoever  did this to her used me." Her 
voice broke.  "I can't forget that."
  Neither could he. That was what terrified him. "It  would be better if Dan Gardner doesn't spot  either one of us."
  Deanna nodded, spotting him at the front  of the room, accepting condolences. "He's using her  too, even though 
she's dead. It's horrible."
  "He'll ride her press for a while. She'd  have understood that."
  "I suppose."
  "An interesting scene, isn't it?" Loren  commented when he joined them. He gave Deanna a  hard, searching look, 
then nodded. "You're looking  well."
  "No I'm not." Grateful for the lie, she  kissed his cheek. "I didn't think you'd come."
  "I could say the same." He warmed her  chilled hands between his. "It seemed necessary somehow,  but I'm already 
regretting it." His expression  changed to one of disgust as he looked over his  shoulder at Dan Gardner. "Rumor is he

plans to air clips from this viewing along  with the special Angela taped for next May.  And he's demanding another 
five thousand a minute  from sponsors. The son of a bitch will get it,  too."
  "Bad taste often costs more than good,"  Deanna murmured. "There must be five hundred  people in here."
  "Easily. A handful are even sorry she's  dead."
  "Oh, Loren." Deanna's stomach clenched  like a fist.
  "I hate to admit I'm one of them." Then  he sighed and shrugged off the mood. "She'd have  gotten an ego boost out 
of that piece of news."  To clear the emotion from his voice, Loren coughed  gently into his hand. "You know, I can't 
decide  if Angela deserved Dan Gardner or not.  It's a tough call."
  "I'm sure she didn't deserve you." The  tears burning in her eyes made Deanna feel  like a hypocrite since they 
weren't for Angela.  "We're not staying, Loren. Why don't you come  with us?"
  "No, I'm going to see this through. But I think  you should avoid any publicity here tonight. Slip out  quietly."
  When they were back in the alcove, Deanna  turned into Finn's arms. "I had no idea he  still loved her."
  "I don't think he did, either." He tipped  her face up until their eyes were level. "Are  you all right?"
  "Actually, I'm better." She turned her  head until her cheek rested on his shoulder.  Most of the fear had ebbed, she 
realized. That  jittering panic she'd nearly grown accustomed  to feeling in her stomach had quieted. "I'm  glad we 
came."
  "Excuse me." Kate Lowell's sultry  voice had Deanna turning her head. She  stood in the doorway, sleek and somber 
in  black silk, her hair waves of flame over  her shoulders. "I'm sorry to interrupt."
  "You haven't," Deanna responded. "We  were just leaving."
  "So am I." She glanced over her shoulder  toward the sounds of voices and music. "It's not  my kind of party." She 
smiled slightly. "She  was a bitch," Kate said. "And I hated her

guts. But I'm not sure even
Angela deserved to be used quite so blatantly."  She sighed once, moving her shoulders as if  to shrug it all away. "I'd 
like a drink. And  I need to talk to you." She looked at Finn and  frowned. "I suppose it'll have to be both of you,  and it 
hardly matters at this point." She watched  Finn's brow rise, and smiled again, with more    feeling. "Really gracious, 
aren't I? Listen,  why don't you find us a bar? I'll buy us all  a drink and tell you a little story you might find  interesting."

          Chapter Twenty-five

  "To Hollywood," Kate said as she raised  her glass of scotch. "Land of illusions."
  Puzzled, Deanna nursed her wine while  Finn stuck with coffee.
  It wasn't the sort of bar where one would  expect to find one of Hollywood's major  stars. The piano player was 
glumly noodling out  the blues so that the notes rose sluggishly on  air thick with smoke. Their corner was dim, as  
Kate had requested. On the table scarred with  nicks their drinks rested near a chipped amber  glass ashtray.
  "You came a long way for the funeral of someone  you didn't like." Deanna watched Kate's  elegant nails tap the 
table in time with the piano.
  "I was in town. But if I hadn't been,  I'd have made the trip. For the pleasure of making  sure she was dead." Kate 
sipped her scotch  again, then set the glass aside. "I don't  imagine you cared for her any more than I did, but  this 
might be rougher on you, since you found her."  Kate's eyes softened as she stared  into Deanna's. "As the story 
goes, it wasn't  a pretty sight."
  "No, it wasn't."
  "I wish it had been me," Kate said under her  breath. "You're a softer touch, always were. Even  after everything she 
did, and tried to do, to you. I know  a lot more about that than you might imagine," she  added when Deanna studied 
her. "Things that  didn't make it into the press. Angela liked    to brag. She hated you." She inclined the glass  toward 
Finn. "Because you didn't come to heel when  she snapped her fingers. And she wanted you for  exactly the same 
reason. She figured

Deanna was in her way, from all manner  of angles. She'd have done anything to remove  you."
  "This isn't news." Noting that Kate's  glass was dry, Finn signaled for another. The  lady, he concluded, was stalling.
  "No, it's just my little prelude." She  stretched back, but the sinuous gesture was all  nerves. "I don't suppose you'd 
be  surprised to know that Angela went to some trouble and  expense to dig up that business from your past,  
Deanna. The date rape. It backfired, of  course." Her lips curved into a lovely  smile. "Some of her projects did. That's  
what she called them. Not blackmail." She  sulked a moment, fingers tapping, tapping,  tapping. "Rob Winters was 
one of her  projects. So was Marshall Pike." She  didn't glance at the waitress, but nudged the  glass aside even as it 
was set in front of  her. "There are plenty more. Names that would astonish  you. She used a P.i. named Beeker. He's  
in Chicago. Angela kept him very busy  documenting data for her projects. It cost me  five thousand dollars to 
shoehorn his name out of  Angela's secretary. But then, everybody has  a price. I had mine," she added quietly.
  "You're saying Angela blackmailed people?"  Deanna leaned forward. "She traded secrets  for money?"
  "Occasionally. She preferred trading secrets  for favors. Her terms again." Absently, she  reached into the plastic 
bowl of mixed nuts. ""Do  me a little favor, darling, and I'll keep this  tidbit of information all to myself." "Your wife  has 
a drug problem, Senator. Don't  worry, I won't breathe a word if you just do me  a favor." What multi-Grammy winner 
was a  victim of incest? What popular television star  has ties to the KKK? Ask Angela. She  made it her business to 
know what skeleton was in  what closet. And if she was confident she had her  hooks in you deeply enough, she 
might tell you  what closet. It was a way of flexing her power.  She was confident she had her hooks in me."
  "And now she's dead."
  Kate acknowledged Finn's comment with a nod.  "Funny, now that she's no longer a threat to me,    I feel compelled 
to do what she always threatened  to do. I'm going public. Actually, I'd

decided to do so on the very night she was  murdered. The police might find that convenient,  don't you think? Like a 
bad script. I saw  her that night." She read the horror in  Deanna's eyes. "Not at the studio. At her  hotel. We argued. 
Since there was a maid in the  next room, I imagine the police already know  about it."
  She lifted a brow at Finn. "Yes, I can  see at least you knew about it. Well then. I'm  going to go in and make a 
statement before they come to me.  I believe I even threatened to kill her."  Kate closed her eyes. "There's that bad  
script again. I didn't kill her, but you'll have  to decide whether to believe me when I'm  finished."
  "Why are you telling us?" Deanna demanded.  "Why don't you go directly to the police?"
  "I'm an actress. I like the chance to choose  my audience. You were always a good one, Dee."  She reached out 
then in a quick, fleeting gesture of  friendship. "And, in any case, I think you're  entitled to know the whole story. Didn't 
you ever  wonder why I backed out of coming on your show? Why  I've never been available to appear on it?"
  "Yes. But I think you've answered that.  Angela was blackmailing you. And the favor was for  you to boycott my 
program."
  "That was one of them. I was in a precarious and  fascinating position a couple of years ago, when  you approached 
me. I had two whopping  box-office successes. And the critics loved  me. The wholesomely sexy girl-next-door.  Don't 
believe that hype about stars not reading their  reviews. I pored over mine. Every word," she  said with a long, dreamy 
smile. "I could  probably still quote a few of the best ones.  All I ever wanted was to be an actor. A  star," she 
corrected with an easy shrug. "And  that's what they called me. The first movie star of the  new generation. A 
throwback to Bacall and  Bergman and Davis. And it didn't take me  years. One supporting role in a film that  took off 
like a rocket, and an Academy  nomination. Then I costarred with Rob and we  burned up the screen, we broke 
hearts. The  next movie, my name was over the title. My  image was locked in. A woman who charms with a  smile." 
She laughed at that, drank again. "The  good girl, the heroine, the woman you'd like your son

to bring home for dinner. That's the image.  That's what Hollywood wants from me, that's  what the public expects. 
And that's what I've  delivered. They've given me plenty of credit  for talent, but the image is every bit as  important."
  Her eyes slitted. "Do you think the top  producers and directors, the players, the men  who decide what project flies 
and what  project gets buried would flood my agent with  offers if they knew their perfect heroine, the  woman who 
won an Oscar for playing the  desperately devoted mother, had gotten  pregnant at seventeen, and had given up the 
child  without a second thought?"
  She laughed when Deanna's mouth opened. But  it wasn't a merry sound. "Doesn't fit,  does it? Even in these 
enlightened times, how many of  those ticket buyers would shell out seven bucks  to watch me play the long-suffering 
or feisty  heroine?"
  "I don't ..." Deanna stopped, waiting  for her thoughts to settle. "I don't see why it  should matter. You made a choice, 
one I'm  sure was anything but easy for you. And you were a child  yourself."
  Amused, Kate glanced at Finn. "Is she  really that naive?"
  "About some things." He was, despite his  pride in being a sharp judge of character, doing some  rapid mental 
shuffling. "I can see why an  announcement like that would have shaken things up. You'd have  taken some knocks in 
the press. But you'd have  pulled out of it."
  "Maybe. I was afraid. Angela knew  that. And I was ashamed. She knew that, too. She  was very sympathetic at first. 
"How hard it must have  been on you, dear. A young girl, with her whole  life in flux because of one tiny mistake. How  
difficult it must have been for you to do what you thought was  best for the child.""
  Annoyed with herself, Kate flicked a tear  away. "And you see, since it had been  difficult, even horrible, and because 
she was  sympathetic, I broke down. Then she had me.  She reminded me that it wouldn't do for certain  Hollywood 
brass to discover that I'd made this  tiny mistake. Oh, she understood, she  sympathized completely. But would they? 
Would the  ticket-buying public who'd crowned me their

valiant princess understand?"
  "Kate, you were seventeen."
  Very slowly, Kate lifted her gaze  to Deanna's. "I was old enough to make a child, old  enough to give her away. Old 
enough to pay for it. I  hope I'm strong enough now to face the consequences."  She frowned at her glass. If she didn't  
survive, if she crashed and burned, it would  kill her. Angela had known that. "A few  years ago, I wasn't. It's as simple 
as  that. I don't think I could have survived the hate  mail then, or the tabloids, or the bad  jokes." She smiled again, 
but Deanna saw her  pain. "I can't say I'm looking forward to it  now. But the simple fact is, the cops are bound  to 
track me down. Sooner or later they'll  dig up Beeker and all of Angela's nasty  files. I'm going to choose my own time 
and  place for my public announcement. I'd like to do  it on your show."
  Deanna blinked. "Excuse me?"
  "I said I'd like to do it on your show."  "Why?"
  "Two reasons. First, for me it would be the  ultimate payback to Angela. You don't like  that one," she murmured, 
seeing the disapproval in  Deanna's eyes. "You'll like this better. I  trust you. You've got class, and compassion. This  
isn't going to be easy for me, and I'm going  to need both. I'm scared." She set her drink  down. "I hate that reason, 
but I might as    well admit it. I lost the child through my  ambition," she said quietly. "That's gone," she  said fiercely. "I 
don't want to lose what  I've got, Deanna. What I've worked for.  Angela's just as dangerous to me dead as she was  
alive. At least I can pick my time and place  this way. I've got a lot of respect for you.  I always have. I'm going to have 
to talk about my  private life, my personal griefs. I'd  like to start off talking with someone I respect."
  "We'll juggle the schedule," Deanna said  simply. "And do it Monday morning."
  Kate closed her eyes a moment, gathered  what resources she had left. "Thanks."

  The sleet had stopped by the time they arrived  home, leaving the air chill and damp and gloomy.  Clouds hovered, 
thick and black. There was a  light on in one of the front windows, streaming

gold through the glass in cozy welcome.  The dog began to bark the moment Finn slipped the  key into the lock.
  It should have been a homecoming. But there was the  ever-present smell of paint reminding them their  home had 
been violated. Drop cloths were  spread in the hallway, and the dog's barking echoed  emptily. So many of the rooms 
had been cleared out  of broken crockery, damaged furniture. It  was like being greeted by a mortally ill friend.
  "We can still go to a hotel."
  Deanna shook her head. "No, that's only  another way of hiding. I can't help feeling  responsible for this."
  "Then work on it."
  She recognized the impatience in his voice.  She stooped to pet the dog as Finn peeled off his  coat. "They were 
your things, Finn."
  "Things." He shoved his coat on the hall  rack. In the mirrored surface he saw her  head bent over the dog's. "Just 
things, Deanna.  Insured, replaceable."
  She stayed where she was but lifted her head. Her  eyes were wide and weary. "I love you so much.  I hate knowing 
he was here, that he touched anything that  was yours."
  He crouched beside her, causing the dog to roll  belly up in anticipation. But Finn took  Deanna by the shoulders, his 
eyes suddenly  fierce. "You are the only thing I have that's  irreplaceable. The first time I met you, the first  time, I 
knew that nothing that had happened to me before,  or that would happen after, would mean as much. Can you  
understand that?" His hand moved roughly into her hair.  "It's overwhelming what I feel for you. It's  terrifying. And it's 
everything."
  "Yes." She brought her hands to his face,  guided his mouth to hers. "I can understand that."  Emotions welled up, 
pouring into the kiss so that her  lips were urgent and edgy. Even as Finn tugged  at her coat, the dog wriggled 
between them, whining.
  "We're embarrassing Cronkite," he  murmured, drawing Deanna to her feet.
  "We should find him a wife."
  "You just want to go to the pound again and liberate  another mutt."
  "Now that you mention it ..." But her smile  faded quickly. "Finn, I have to talk to you about  something."
  "Sounds serious."

  "Can we go upstairs?"
  She wanted the bedroom, since it was almost  fully restored. He'd seen that the work there had  been completed 
first. The things that hadn't been    destroyed had been placed there. Above the bed, where  she knew a desperate 
message had been  scrawled, the paint was fresh and clean. He'd  hung the painting there--the one he had bought 
out from under  her in the gallery so long ago.
  Awakenings. All those vivid splashes of  color. That energy and verve. He'd known she'd  needed it there, a reminder 
of life. And so the  room had become a haven.
  "Are you upset about Kate?"
  "Yes." She kept her hand in his as they  climbed the stairs. "But this is about something  else." She walked into the 
bedroom, moved to the  fireplace, the window, then back. "I love  you, Finn."
  The tone put him on guard. "We've  established that."
  "Loving you doesn't mean I have the right  to intrude in every area of your life."
  Curious, he tilted his head. He could read  her like a book. She was worried. "Which areas do you  consider off 
limits?"
  "You're annoyed." Baffled, she tossed up  her hands. "I can never quite understand how easily I  can set you off, 
especially when I'm trying to be  reasonable."
  "I hate it when you think you're being reasonable.  Just spill it, Deanna."
  "Fine. What did Angela have on you?"  His expression altered subtly, from impatience  to utter confusion. "Huh?"
  "Don't do that." She ripped off her coat and  tossed it aside. In her tasteful black suit  and damp shoes, she paced 
the room. "If you  don't want to tell me, just say so. I'll  agree that anything you've done in the past isn't  necessarily 
connected to our relationship."
  "Slow down, and stop stalking around the room.  What do you think I've done?"
  "I don't know." Her voice sounded shrill  to herself. "I don't know," she said more calmly.  "And if you think I don't 
need to know, I'll  try to accept it. But once the police question this  Beeker character, your secret is bound to come 
out  anyway."
  "Hold on." He held up both hands as she

unbuttoned her suit jacket. "If
I'm reading this correctly--and stop me anytime  if I veer off--you think that Angela was  blackmailing me. Have I got 
that part?"
  Marching to the closet, she yanked out a padded  hanger. "I said I wouldn't intrude if you  didn't want me to. I was 
being reasonable."
  "You certainly were." He came over,  clamped his hands on her shoulders and steered her  rigid body to a chair. 
"Now sit down. And  tell me why you think I was being blackmailed."
  "I went to meet Angela that night because she  said she knew something about you. Something that could hurt  you."
  He sat himself then, on the edge of the bed, as a  new kind of fury ate at him. "She lured you  to the studio by 
threatening me?"
  "Not directly. Not exactly." She dragged  a hand through her hair. "There was nothing she could  tell me that would 
change my feelings for you. I  wanted to make sure she understood that. That she  left us both alone."
  "Deanna, why didn't you come to me?"  She winced from the simple, rational question. "Because  I wanted to handle 
her myself," she shot back.  "Because I don't need you or anyone running  interference for me."
  "Isn't that precisely what you misguidedly  tried to do for me?"
  That shut her up, but again, only for a moment. It  was, she knew, master interviewer against master  interviewer. 
And it was a competition she didn't  mean to lose. "You're evading the issue. What  would she have told me, Finn?"
  "I don't have a clue. I'm not gay; I  don't use drugs; I've never stolen anything.  Except a couple of comic books when 
I was  twelve--and nobody could prove it."
  "I don't think this is funny."
  "She wasn't blackmailing me, Deanna.
I had an affair with her, but that was no secret.  She wasn't the first woman I'd been involved  with, but there haven't 
been any deviant sexual  encounters I'd want to hide. I don't have any  ties to organized crime, never embezzled.  I'm 
not hiding any illegitimate children. I  never killed anyone."
  He broke off abruptly, and the impatient  amusement drained out of his face. "Oh  Jesus." He brought both hands to 
his face,

pressing the heels to his eyes.
"Jesus Christ."
  "I'm sorry." Competition forgotten, she  sprang up to go to him. "Finn, I'm sorry,  I should never have brought it up."
  "Could she have done that?" he said to himself. "Could  even she have done that? And for what?" He let his  hands 
drop, and his eyes were haunted. "For what?"
  "Done what?" Deanna asked quietly, her  arms still around him.
  Finn drew back, just a little, as if what was  working inside him might damage her. "My best  friend in college. Pete 
Whitney. We got  hooked on the same girl. We got drunk one  night, really plowed, and tried to beat the crap out  of 
each other. Did a pretty good job. Made  sure it was off campus. Then we decided,  hell, she wasn't worth it, and we 
drank some  more."
  His voice was cool, detached. His  newscaster's voice. "That's the last time I've  been drunk. Pete used to joke that it 
was the  Irish in me. That I could drink or fight or  talk my way out of anything." He remembered the  way he'd been 
then--angry, rebellious,  belligerent. Determined to be absolutely  nothing like his chilly and civilized parents. "I'm  not 
much of a drinker anymore, and I've figured  out that words are generally a better weapon than  fists. He gave me 
this." Finn tugged the  Celtic cross out from under his shirt, closed his  hand around it. "He was my closest friend, the  
closest thing to family I ever had."
  Was, Deanna thought, and ached for him.  "We forgot about the girl. She wasn't as  important to either of us as we 
were to each other. We  killed off another bottle. My eye was  swollen up like a rotten tomato, so I tossed  him the 
keys, climbed into the passenger seat,  passed out. We were twenty, and we were stupid. The  idea of getting into a 
car filthy drunk didn't  mean anything to us. When you're twenty, you're going  to live forever. But Pete didn't.
  "I woke up when I heard him scream.  That's it. I heard him scream and the next thing I  remember is waking up with 
all these lights and  all these people and feeling as if I'd been run over  by a truck. He'd taken a turn too fast,  hit a 
utility pole. We'd both been thrown  from the car. I had a concussion, a broken

collarbone, broken arm, lots of cuts  and bruises. Pete was dead."
  "Oh, Finn." She wrapped her arms around  him again, held on.
  "It was my car, so they figured I'd been  driving. They were going to charge me with vehicular  manslaughter. My 
father came down, but by the time  he got there they'd already found several witnesses  who had seen Pete take the 
wheel. He  wasn't any more or any less dead, of course.  It didn't change that, or the fact that I'd  been drunk and 
stupid, criminally careless."
  He tightened his fingers around the silver cross.  "I wasn't hiding it, Deanna. It's just not  something I like to 
remember. Funny, I thought about  Pete tonight, when we walked into Angela's  funeral. I haven't been to one since  
Pete's. His mother always blamed me. I could see  her point."
  "You weren't driving, Finn."
  "Does it really matter?" He looked at  her then, though he already knew the answer. "I could  have been. My father 
gave the Whitneys a  settlement, and that was pretty much the end of it. I  wasn't charged with anything. I wasn't held  
responsible."
  He turned his face into Deanna's hair.  "But I was. I was just as responsible as  Pete. The only difference is I'm alive 
and  he's not."
  "The difference is, you were given a second chance  and he wasn't." She closed her hand over his,  so that they 
both held the cross. "I'm so  sorry, Finn."
  So was he. He'd spent his adult life  making himself into the man he was, as much for Pete  as for himself. He wore 
the cross every day as a  talisman, yes, and as a reminder.
  "Angela could have dug up the facts easily  enough," Finn said. "She could even have made it  appear that the Riley 
money and power influenced the  outcome. But she would have blackmailed you, not me.  She'd have known if she'd 
come to me, I'd have  told her to take out an ad."
  "I want to tell the police."
  He eased her back on the bed so that they were  curled together, wrapped close. "We'll tell  them a lot of things. 
Tomorrow." Gently, he tipped  her face toward his. "Would you have protected  me, Deanna?"

  She started to deny it, but caught the  gleam in his eye. She knew he'd recognize  a lie. "Yes. So?"
  "So, thanks."
  She smiled as she lifted her mouth toward  his.

  Not so far away someone was weeping. The tears were  hot and bitter, scalding the throat, the eyes, the  skin. 
Photographs of Deanna looked on,  smiling benignly at the sobbing form. Three  candles tossed the only light, their 
flames,  straight and true, highlighting the pictures, the  single earring, the lock of hair bound in gold  thread. All of the 
treasures on the altar of  frustrated desire.
  There were stacks of videotapes, but the  television screen was silent and dark tonight.
  Angela was dead, but still that wasn't enough.  Love, deep, dark and demented, had triggered the  gun, but it wasn't 
enough. There had to be more.
  The candleglow shot the shadow of a form hunched  into a ball, racked with despair. Deanna would  see, had to see 
that she was loved, cherished,  adored.
  There was a way to prove it.

  Finn would have preferred to handle the interview  alone. Jenner would have preferred to do the same.  Since 
neither of them could manage to shake the other  loose, they drove to Beeker's office together.
  "Might as well make the best of it," Jenner  said. "I'm doing you a favor, Mr. Riley,  letting you tag along."
  That statement earned Jenner a frigid stare.  "I don't tag along, Lieutenant. And let  me remind you that you wouldn't 
know about Kate  Lowell or Beeker if we hadn't come to you with the  information."
  Jenner grinned and rubbed his chin, which he'd  nicked shaving. "And I get the feeling you wouldn't  have come to 
me if Miss Reynolds hadn't  insisted."
  "She feels easier knowing the police are on  top of things."
  "And how does she feel about your being involved  in the investigation?" Silence. "Doesn't know,"  Jenner 
concluded. "As a man married  thirty-two years last July, let me mention  that you're skating on thin ice."

  "She's terrified. And she's going  to continue to be terrified until you have Angela's  killer under wraps."
  "Can't argue with that. Now, this Kate Lowell  business. Being a reporter, you might not agree,  but I think she's 
entitled to her privacy."
  "It's tough to argue for privacy when you make  your living in the public eye. I believe in the  right to know, 
Lieutenant. But I don't believe  in blackmail, or in poking telescopic  lenses into someone's bedroom window."
  "Got your dander up." Pleased, Jenner  scooted through a yellow light. "Me, I feel  sorry for her. She was a kid, 
probably  scared."
  "You're a soft touch, Lieutenant."  "Like hell. You can't be a cop and be a soft  touch." But he was, damn it. And since 
it  embarrassed the hell out of him, he took the  aggressive route. "She still could've killed  Angela Perkins."
  Finn waited as Jenner doubled-parked, then  flipped the officer-on-duty sign over on the  dash. "Entertain me."
  "She argues with Angela at the hotel.  She's fed up with Angela, enraged at being  made to suffer for something that 
happened when she was still  wet behind the ears."
  "There's that soft touch again. Keep going,"  Finn prompted as he climbed out of the car.
  "She's tired of Angela holding it over her  head and threatens her. She hears the maid in the    bedroom so she 
leaves. But she follows  Angela to CBC, confronts her in the studio,  murders her. Then Deanna comes in, and she  
gets creative. She's been in films for  years. She knows how to set up a camera."
  "Yes." There was a quick, nippy breeze that  smelled of the lake. Finn drew it in, the easy  freshness of it as they 
crossed the street. "Then  she decides to disguise her motive by going  public with exactly what she killed Angela  
over. Better the world knows she's an unwed mother  than a murderer."
  "It doesn't play," Jenner concluded.  "Not for me. If Beeker has half the dirt  Kate thinks, we'll have a dozen more 
scenarios  by dinnertime." They walked into the office building,  Jenner flashing his badge at the security guard  in the 
lobby.

  Upstairs, Jenner scanned the wide  corridor. The oil paintings were originals and very  good. The carpet was thick. 
Tall, leafy  plants were tucked into niches every few feet.
  The doors of Beeker Investigations were glass  and whispered open into an airy reception area  complete with a tidy 
miniature spruce for the  holiday season.
  A trim, thirtyish brunette piloted a  circular reception desk fashioned from glass  blocks. "May I help you?"
  "Beeker." Jenner offered the receptionist his  ID for inspection.
  "Mr. Beeker is in conference, Lieutenant.  Will one of his associates be able to help you?"
  "Beeker," he said again. "We'll wait, but  I'd buzz him if I were you."
  "Very well." Her friendly smile chilled a  few degrees. "May I ask what this is in  reference to?"
  "Murder."
  "Nice touch," Finn murmured when they wandered  over to the deep-cushioned chairs in the waiting  area. "Real Joe 
Friday stuff." He took    another look around. "Very elegant surroundings,  for a P.i."
  "A couple of clients like Angela Perkins  means this guy nets in a month what I do in a  year."
  "Lieutenant Jenner?" The receptionist,  obviously miffed, stood in the center of the room.  "Mr. Beeker will see you 
now." She guided them  through another set of glass doors, past several  offices. She knocked lightly on the door at  
the end of the hall, and opened it.
  Clarence Beeker was like his office, trim,  subtly elegant and serviceable. He stood, a  man of average height and 
slim build, behind his  Belker desk. The hand he extended was  fine-boned.
  His hair was graying dashingly at the temples,  and he had a finely drawn face that was more handsome  with the 
lines and crevices etched by time. His body was  obviously trim beneath his Savile Row suit.
  "Might I see some identification?" His  voice was smooth, like cool cream over rich  coffee.
  Jenner was disappointed. He'd expected  Beeker to be sleazy.
  He examined the shield after slipping on

silver-framed reading glasses. "I  recognize you, Mr. Riley. I often watch  your show on Tuesday nights. Since you've  
brought a reporter along, Detective Jenner,  I assume this is an unofficial visit."
  "It's official enough," Jenner corrected.  "Mr. Riley's here as a special liaison  of the mayor's." Not by a flicker did 
Jenner or  Finn react to the glib lie.
  "I'm honored. Please sit. Tell me  what I can do for you."
  "I'm investigating Angela Perkins's  murder," Jenner began. "She was a client of  yours."
  "She was." Beeker settled behind his desk.  "I was shocked and distressed to read about her death."
  "We have information leading us to believe that the  deceased was blackmailing a number of people."
  "Blackmail." Beeker's graying brows  rose. "It seems a very unattractive term  to be connected to a very attractive 
woman."
  "It's also an attractive motive for  murder," Finn put in. "You investigated people for  Miss Perkins."
  "I handled a number of cases for Miss  Perkins over our ten-year association. Given the  nature of her profession, it 
was advantageous  for her to be privy to details, backgrounds, the  personal habits of those she would interview."
  "Her interest, and her use of those personal  habits, might have led to her death."
  "Mr. Riley, I investigated and reported  for Miss Perkins. I'm sure you understand both  those functions. I had no 
more control over her  use of the information I provided than you do over the  public's use of the information you 
provide to them."
  "And no responsibility."
  "None," Beeker agreed pleasantly. "We  provide a service. Beeker Investigations  has an excellent reputation 
because we are  skilled, discreet and dependable. We abide by the  law, Detective, and a code of ethics.  Whether or 
not our clients do so is their business,  not ours."
  "One of your clients got her face shot  off," Jenner said shortly. "We'd like to see  copies of the reports you wrote for 
Miss  Perkins."
  "I'm afraid, as much as I prefer  to cooperate with the police, that would be impossible.

Unless you have a warrant," he said  pleasantly.
  "You don't have a client to protect, Mr.  Beeker." Jenner leaned forward. "What's left  of her is in a coffin."
  "I'm aware of that. However, I do have a  client. Mr. Gardner has this company under  retainer. As the deceased's 
husband and  beneficiary, I am morally bound to accede to his  wishes."
  "Which are?"
  "To investigate his wife's murder. To be  frank, gentlemen, he's dissatisfied with the  police investigation to date. And 
as he was my  client during his wife's life, and continues to be  after her death, I can't ethically turn over my  files 
without the proper warrant. I'm sure you  understand my position."
  "And you'll understand mine," Finn said  pleasantly. "Liaison or not, I am a  reporter. As such, I have an obligation to 
inform the  public. It would be interesting to inform the public  of the kind of work you did for Angela. I wonder  how 
many of your other clients would appreciate that  connection."
  Beeker had stiffened. "Threats, Mr.  Riley, aren't appreciated."
  "I'm sure they're not. But that doesn't  make them any less viable." Finn glanced at  his watch. "I think I have enough 
time to squeeze in a  quick feature on the evening news. We'd be able  to do an in-depth version tomorrow."
  Jaw clenched, Beeker lifted his phone,  buzzed his secretary. "I'll need copies of  Angela Perkins's files. All of them."  
He cradled the phone again, linked his fingers. "It  will take a little time."
  "We've got plenty," Jenner assured him.  "While we're waiting, why don't you tell us  where you were on the night 
Angela Perkins was  shot?"
  "I'd be happy to. I was at home, with my  wife and my mother. As I recall, we played  three-handed bridge until about 
midnight."
  "Then you won't object to us questioning your wife and  your mother?"
  "Of course not." Though he wasn't pleased  at being out-maneuvered, Beeker was a practical  man. "Perhaps I can 
offer you gentlemen coffee  while we wait for the files?"

  Chapter Twenty-six

  Marshall Pike had been waiting in his car in  the CBC parking lot for more than an hour when  Deanna finally walked 
out. He felt the quick,  unbidden tightening of his muscles in response  at the sight of her: part anger, part lust. For the  
past two years, he had been forced to content himself  with images of her on the TV screen. Seeing  her now in the 
gloom of dusk, short-skirted,  her legs flashing as she hurried toward a dark  sedan, exceeded his memories.
  "Deanna," he called to her, climbing quickly  out of his own car.
  She stopped, glanced toward him, peering through the  rapidly deepening night. The quick, friendly smile  of greeting 
faded. "Marshall, what do you  want?"
  "You never returned any of my calls." He  cursed himself for sounding petulant. He wanted  to appear strong, 
dynamic.
  "I wasn't interested in speaking with you."  "You're going to speak with me." He clamped his  hand over her arm. His 
gesture made Deanna's  driver spring out of the car.
  "Call off your dog, Deanna. Surely you  can spare five minutes?"
  "It's all right, Tim." But she removed  Marshall's hand before turning to her driver. "I  won't keep you waiting long."
  "No problem, Miss Reynolds." He  gave Marshall a measured look, then tipped his  cap. "No problem at all."
  "If we could be private." Marshall  gestured across the lot. "Your guard will be able  to see you, Deanna. I'm sure he'll 
leap  to your rescue should I try to manhandle you."
  "I think I can handle you alone." She  crossed the lot with him, hoping the meeting would be  brief. The wind was 
bitterly cold and she  didn't relish speaking with him. "Since I can't  think of anything we'd have to discuss on a 
personal  level, I assume you wanted to talk to me about  Angela."
  "It would have been difficult for you. Finding  her."
  "Yes, it was."
  "I could help you."  "Professionally?" Her brow quirked. The

wind, and anger, brought color to her  cheeks, a snap to her eyes. "No thanks.  Tell me what you want."
  For the moment, he stared at her. She was still  perfect. Fresh, seductive. All luminous  eyes and moist lips. "Have 
dinner with me," he  said at last. "The French place you always liked  so much."
  "Marshall, please." There was no anger in her  voice, only pity. It scraped like rusty  blades over his ego.
  "Oh yes, I seem to have forgotten  to congratulate you on your engagement to our dashing  correspondent."
  "Thank you. Is that all?"
  "I want the file." At her blank look  he tightened his grip. "Don't pretend you  don't understand. I know Angela gave 
you a  copy of her investigator's report on me.  She told me. She gloated over it. I  didn't ask for it before because I'd 
hoped that you'd  come to realize what I could offer you. Now, under the  circumstances, I need it."
  "I don't have it."
  Rage darkened his face. "You're lying. She  gave it to you."
  "Yes, she did." Her arm was throbbing now, but  she refused to struggle. "Do you really think I  would have kept it all 
this time? I destroyed it  ages ago."
  He gripped both her arms now, nearly  lifting her off her feet. "I don't believe  you."
  "I don't give a damn what you believe.  I don't have it." More furious than frightened, she  struggled against him. 
"Can't you understand I didn't  care enough to keep it? You weren't important  enough."
  "Bitch." Too incensed to think clearly, he  dragged her toward his car. "You won't hold that  file over my head." He 
grunted, his wing  tips skittering on the pavement as he was yanked  from behind. He went down painfully, bruising 
his  hip and his dignity.
  "No, Tim, don't." Though she was shaking,  Deanna grabbed her driver's arm before he could  haul Marshall to his 
feet and knock him down  all over again.
  Tim adjusted his bulky coat, seeing  Marshall was quelled. "You okay, Miss

Reynolds?"
  "Yes, I'm fine."
  "Hey!" A baseball cap shielding his  eyes, a camera on his shoulder, Joe raced  across the lot. "Dee? You okay?"
  "Yes." She pressed a hand to her temple as  Marshall got to his feet. Perfect, she  thought. Pictures at ten. "Yes, I'm  
okay."
  "I was just pulling into the lot when I saw this  guy hassling you." Joe's eyes narrowed. "The  shrink, right?" He 
slapped a hand on  Marshall's chest before Marshall could step toward his  car. "Hold on, pal. Dee, you want me  to 
call the cops, or should Tim and I just show this  creep what happens to men who push women around?"
  "Just let him go."
  "Sure?"
  She looked into Marshall's eyes. There was  something dead in them now, but she couldn't find any  pity. "Yes. Let 
him go."
  "The lady's giving you a break," Joe  muttered. "If I catch you bothering her again, I  won't be so nice."
  Silently, Marshall got into his car. He  locked the doors, fastened his seat belt, before  driving out of the lot.
  "Are you sure he didn't hurt you, Miss  Reynolds?"
  "No, he didn't. Thank you, Tim."  "No problem." Tim sauntered proudly  back to the car.
  "I wish you'd let me punch him." Joe  gave a regretful sigh before looking back at  Deanna. "Spooked you, huh?" He 
glanced  at the camera on his shoulder, grimaced. "I  got so pissed I didn't get any tape of  it."
  That, at least, was something. "I guess there's  no point in my asking you not to mention this in the  newsroom."
  He grinned as he walked her to her car. "No  point at all. News is news."

  She didn't want to tell Finn, but they'd  made a deal. No holding back. She'd hoped  Finn would have to work late, 
but as luck would have it,  he opened the door and greeted her with a long,  sloppy kiss.
  "Hiya."

  "Hi yourself." She rocked back on  her heels and gave Cronkite the caress he was  whining for.
  "We had a change in schedule, so I got  home a little early." The change in schedule had  been canceling all of his 
appointments and spending his  afternoon with Jenner reading through Beeker's files.  "Made dinner."
  Cooperating, Deanna sniffed the air.  "Smells great."
  "New recipe." With one brow cocked, he  tipped a finger under her chin. "What?"
  "What, what?"
  "You're upset."
  She scowled and pushed his hand away. "Damn  it, Finn, that's irritating. Don't you know a  woman likes to think she 
has some mystery?" Still  hoping to stall, she peeled out of her coat and  hung it on the hall rack.
  "What happened, Kansas?"
  "We'll talk about it later. I'm starving."  He merely shifted and blocked her path.  "Spill it."
  She could argue, but since an argument was  precisely what she was hoping to avoid, what was  the point?
  "Will you promise to hear me out and not  overreact?"
  "Sure." He smiled at her as he swung  an arm around her shoulders and led her to the steps.  They sat together near 
the bottom landing, with the dog  happily at their feet. "Is it about  Angela?"
  "Not directly." She blew out a long  breath. "It was Marshall. He sort of ambushed  me in the parking lot."
  "Ambushed?"
  His icy tone alerted her. But when she looked  up at Finn, his eyes seemed calm enough.  Curious, a little annoyed, 
but calm. "Just a  figure of speech. He was upset. You know I  haven't returned his calls." When Finn said  nothing, 
she let the rest tumble out. "He was just  angry and upset, that's all. About that. And about the  files Angela had sent 
to me. I told you about  them. Marshall has it in his head that I kept  them. Of course, with the investigation going on 
he's  worried. Naturally."
  "Naturally," Finn said pleasantly.  He'd hear about the rest anyway, Deanna

reminded herself. From Joe, or someone  else in the newsroom. That would be worse. "We  had a little scuffle."
  There was a dangerous light in Finn's eyes.  "Did he put his hands on you?"
  Deanna shrugged, hoping to lighten the mood.  "In a manner of speaking. It was really just one of  those push-shove 
sort of things. But Tim was there,"  she added quickly. "And Joe. So it was nothing. It  was really nothing."
  "He put his hands on you," Finn repeated.  "And he threatened you?"
  "I don't know that I'd call it a threat.  It was just--Finn!" He was already up, removing his  coat from the rack. "Finn, 
damn it, you said you'd  be reasonable."
  He shot her one look, one stunningly  frigid look that had her heart stopping. "I  lied."
  Her knees were knocking together, but she was on his  heels as he strode out of the house. The cold and the  look in 
Finn's eye had her teeth chattering as  she struggled into her coat. "Stop this now. Right  now! What are you going to 
do?"
  "I'm going to go explain to Pike why he should  keep his hands off my woman."
  "Your woman?" That tore it. She bounded  ahead of him, slapping both hands onto his chest.  "Don't you pull that 
macho bullshit on me,  Finn Riley. I'm not going to ..."
  Her voice slid back down her throat when  he propped his hands under her elbows and lifted her  off the ground. His 
eyes were blazing.
  "You are my woman, Deanna. That's not an  insult, that's a fact. Anybody who  manhandles you, anybody who 
threatens you has  to deal with me. That's another fact. Got a  problem with it?"
  "No. Yes." Her feet hit the ground with a  thump and she ground her teeth. "I don't know."  How was she supposed to 
think when all she could see  were those furious, deadly eyes boring into her.  "Let's go back inside and talk this 
through  reasonably."
  "We'll talk when I get back."
  She raced to the car after him. "I'm going with  you." There was still a chance, a slim one, that she could  talk him 
down.
  "Go inside, Deanna."
  "I'm going with you." She opened the door,

climbed in and slammed it shut. He  wasn't the only one who could slice flesh with a  look. "If my man's going to go 
make a  fool of himself, I'm going to be there. Got a  problem with that?"
  Finn slammed the door and turned the key.  "Hell no."

  The best Deanna could hope for now was that  Marshall wouldn't be home.
  The wind had picked up and held a fresh  threat of snow. It raced through Finn's hair,  sent it flying around his face 
as he stalked up  to Marshall's door. He had only one thing on  his mind and, like a skilled reporter, easily  blocked out 
all distractions: Deanna's mumbled  curses, the occasional swish of tires on the  street, the numbing chill in the air.
  "He's not worth it," Deanna said for the  hundredth time. "He's just not worth your making a  scene."
  "I have no intention of making a scene. I'm  going to talk to him, and he's going to listen. And  then, unless I'm very 
much mistaken, you'll never  see or hear from him again."
  He had been wanting a confrontation since the  day Deanna had rushed out of the CBC Building  in tears, and into 
his arms. Finn could already feel    the grim satisfaction of pleasure postponed.
  Deanna saw his eyes slit like a  predator's as the door opened. Her stomach  clenched and she had one wild 
thought: to jump between  them.
  But Finn didn't lunge, as she'd been  half terrified he would. He simply strolled  across the threshold and into the 
foyer.
  "I don't believe I invited you in."  Marshall ran a finger over the black tie of his  tuxedo. "And I'm afraid I'm on my way  
out."
  "We'll make this as quick as possible, since  I don't believe Deanna's comfortable being  here."
  "Deanna's always welcome in my home,"  Marshall said stiffly. "You are not."
  "What you don't seem to understand is that we're  a team. When you threaten her, you threaten me. I  don't react 
well to threats, Dr. Pike."
  "My conversation with Deanna was personal."  "Wrong again." Finn stepped closer. The

feral gleam in his eyes had Marshall  stepping back. "If you come near her again, if you  ever put your hands on her 
again, I'll bury you,  in every way you can imagine."
  "There are laws to protect a man against a  physical attack in his own home."
  "I have better ways of dealing with you.  Angela's file on you made very interesting  reading, Pike."
  Marshall's eyes slid to Deanna. "She  doesn't have the file. She destroyed it."
  "No, Deanna doesn't have it. But you  don't know what I have, do you?"
  Marshall's attention snapped back to Finn.  "You have no right--"
  "I've got the First Amendment. Steer clear,  Pike, way clear. Or I'll break you in  half with it."
  "You bastard." Fear of exposure propelled  Marshall forward. He swung out, more in panic  than design. Finn easily 
avoided the blow and  followed it by one punishing fist to the midsection.
  It was over in seconds. Deanna had done  no more than squeak in response. Marshall had  done no more than 
moan. And Finn, she realized  as she gaped, had made no sound at all.
  Then he crouched down, impossibly graceful  and smooth. "Listen carefully. Don't ever come  near Deanna again. 
Don't call, don't  write, don't send a telegram. Are you  getting this?" He was satisfied when Marshall  blinked. "That 
should conclude our little interview."  He stepped back to where Deanna still stood,  openmouthed, on the stoop. 
Quietly, he shut the  door. "Let's go."
  Her legs were jelly. She had to lock her  knees to keep from swaying. "Good God, Finn.  Good God."
  "We're going to have to reheat dinner," he said as  he guided her to the car.
  "You just--I mean you--" She didn't know what  she meant. "We can't just leave him there."
  "Of course we can. He doesn't need  paramedics, Deanna. I only wrinkled his  tux and bruised his ego."
  "You hit him." Once she was seated, strapped  in, she pressed both hands to her mouth.
  His black mood had passed. He felt almost  sunny as he drove fast through the windswept  night. "Not exactly my 
style, but since he

swung first, it worked for me."
  She turned her head away. She couldn't  explain, couldn't believe what she was feeling.  The way he'd sliced 
Marshall with words. Sharp  and cold as a sword. Then he'd shifted his  body aside, graceful as a dancer. She  hadn't 
seen the blow coming any more than Marshall  had. He'd moved so fast, so stunningly. She  pressed a hand to her 
stomach and bit back a little  moan.
  "Pull over," she said in a muffled voice.  "Right now."
  He did, terrified she was about to be sick,  disgusted because he hadn't reined in his temper long enough  to make 
her stay home. "Take it easy,  Deanna. I'm sorry you had to see that, but--"
  Whatever else he'd intended to say was lost as  she lunged at him. In one fluid move, she  tore off her seat belt and 
whipped toward him.  Her mouth was hot and wet and hungry. Through his  shock, and instant arousal, he felt the 
violent  thud of her heart.
  And her hands. Jesus. Her hands.
  Cars sped by them. He could only groan as she  dived deeper into his mouth, her tongue greedy,  her teeth vicious.
  Both of them were panting for air when she leaned  back.
  "Well," he managed, but his mind was wiped as  clean as glass. "Well."
  "I'm not proud of it." She flopped back in  her seat, face flushed, eyes bright. "I  don't approve of intimidation or 
fighting. I  absolutely don't. Oh God." With a half  laugh, she squeezed her eyes shut. Her body  was vibrating like an 
overheated engine.  Intellect, she discovered, could be completely  overpowered by glands. "I'm going to explode.  
Drive fast, will you?"
  "Yeah." His aching hand trembled a bit as he  turned the key again. Then, as he punched the  accelerator, he started 
to grin. The grin became  a hard, deep-throated laugh. "Deanna,  I'm crazy about you."
  She had to curl her fingers into fists to keep  herself from tearing at his clothes. "We're both  crazy," she decided. 
"Drive faster."

  Marshall comforted himself as best he could, pampering  his bruised stomach muscles, taking a

painkiller. Shame and fury had driven  him out of the house. He opted for a drink first, then  two, before keeping his 
date at the opera.
  He hadn't thought he'd enjoy the music, or  the company. But both had soothed him. He was a  civilized man, he 
reminded himself. A  respected man. He would not be intimidated by some  grandstanding reporter like Finn Riley. He 
would  simply bide his time, calmly.
  Enchanted by the diva's final aria, he still  felt peaceful when he pulled in to his  driveway, even though his stomach 
ached dully.  Another dose of painkiller would take the edge  off, he knew. Fury and frustration had been  eased by 
Mozart's music. Humming lightly,  Marshall set the security on his car. If  Deanna had the file, and he could no longer 
be  sure, he would convince her to return it to him. But  he'd wait until Riley was away on  assignment.
  They would talk, he promised himself, and finally  set the past behind them. As Angela was behind them.
  His eyes gleamed as he reached for his keys.  He thought he sensed a movement to his left.  He had time to turn, 
time to understand. He didn't  have time to scream.

  Finn was watching Deanna sleep when the phone  rang. They'd started on each other in the foyer,  worked their way 
up the steps. Halfway up they'd  decided, tactically, that they'd made it far  enough.
  It made him grin to remember how she'd torn  at his clothes. Attacked him, he thought  smugly. Of course, he'd been 
a willing  victim, but she'd shown surprising energy, and  amazing resilience. He almost thought it a shame  he hadn't 
dealt so satisfactorily with Pike  before.
  He dismissed all thoughts of Pike as he  settled back, pleasantly aroused when Deanna  curled her body against his.
  He wouldn't wake her, though it was very tempting  to do so. He was too relieved that she no longer  tossed and 
turned or awakened quaking as she had  for several nights after Angela's murder.  Instead, he simply enjoyed the way 
her body  fit to his.
  He swore when the phone rang and she woke.  "Take it easy." Like Deanna, he

expected to hear nothing but breathing when he  lifted the receiver.
  "Finn? It's Joe."
  "Joe." He saw the tension dissolve from  Deanna's shoulders. "I guess it would be  pointless to mention it's after one 
A.m."
  "Got a tip for you, pal. I was whiling away  some time with Leno and monitoring my police  scanner. We had us a 
murder over at  Lincoln Park."
  "I'm not on the crime beat."
  "I checked it out, Finn. Figured you'd  want to know right away, instead of catching it on the  early news. It was Pike. 
You know, the shrink  who hassled Dee today. Somebody did him."
  Finn's gaze cut to Deanna's. "How?"  "The same way as Angela. In the face.  My police connection wouldn't give me 
much. But  he bought it right on his own doorstep. A  neighbor reported hearing gunshots around  midnight. A black-
and-white checked it out and  found him. I'm calling from the cop shop. We've  got a unit on it. Story'll break top of the  
hour on Sunrise."
  "Thanks."
  "I figured Dee would take it better from  you."
  "Yeah. Keep me posted?"
  "You bet."
  He hung up, dispirited.  "Something's wrong." She could see it in his  face, in the way the air had seemed to thicken  
around him. "Just tell me straight out, Finn."
  "Okay." He covered her hands with his.  "Marshall Pike's been murdered."
  Her hands jerked once, then went still. "How?"  "He was shot."
  She already knew, but had to ask. "The same as  Angela? It was the same as Angela, wasn't  it?"
  "It looks that way."
  She made a strangled sound in her throat, but  eased back when he reached for her. "I'm all  right. We need to tell 
the police about what  happened after work today. It has to be connected."
  "It's possible."
  "Don't circle around it," she snapped out,  and pushed off the bed. "Marshall harassed me today,  and we went over 
there. Hours later, he's shot.  We can't pretend that one had nothing to do with the

other."
  "And if it is connected, what can you do?"  "Whatever I can." She dragged a sweater over  her head, snatched 
trousers from the closet.  "Even though I didn't pull the trigger, I  am the cause, and there has to be something I can 
do."
  She didn't resist when he put his arms around  her, but clung to him, pressing her face to his  shoulder.
  "I have to do something, Finn. I can't bear it  otherwise."
  "We'll go see Jenner." He cupped her  face in his hands, kissed her. "We'll figure  something out."
  "Okay." She finished dressing in silence.  She was sure he wouldn't feel guilty about  facing down Marshall only 
hours before, because he  would see what he had done as pure and simple  justice. And perhaps he was right.
  Is that what whoever had leveled a gun at  Marshall's face had thought as well?
  The idea sickened her. "I'll wait  downstairs," she said as he pulled out his boots.
  She saw the envelope before she reached the  bottom landing. It lay crisp and white against the  glossy floor of the 
foyer, inches inside the  door. There was a quick pain, a twist in the gut like  a fist punching muscle. Then she went 
numb,  crossing the polished wood, bending down.
  She opened the envelope as Finn came down  behind her.
  "Goddamn it." He took it from her limp  fingers, and read.

        He'll never hurt you again.

  When they left the house, someone was watching, a  heart bursting with love and need and terrible grief.  Killing for 
her had been nothing. It had been done  before, and needed to be done again.
  Perhaps she would see, at last.

          Chapter Twenty-seven

  Jeff stood in the control booth overlooking the  studio, biting his lip in agitation. Deanna was  about to film her first 
show since Angela's death.
  "Camera Three, on Dee." He barked out  orders. "Take Two, zoom out. Wider on  One, pan. Give me Dee tight, 
Three,

music in. Great, great applause.
Start the playback tape."
  He applauded himself, as did the others in the  booth. From their perch overlooking the stage they could  see the 
audience surge to its feet and cheer.
  "Ride it," Jeff ordered. Oh yeah, he  thought, sharing the triumph. She's back. "Ride  the applause."
  Down below Deanna stood on the new set with  its jewel tones and banks of cheery holly  bushes and let the waves 
of applause wash over  her. It was, she knew, a show of support, a  welcoming home. When her eyes filled she  didn't 
bother to blink back the tears. She  didn't think about it.
  "Thanks." She let out a long, unsteady  breath. "It's really good to be back. I ..."  She trailed off while she scanned 
the crowd.  There were familiar faces dotted among the  strangers. Faces from the newsroom, from  production. 
Pleasure glowed on her face.  "It's really good to see you. Before we get  rolling, I'd like to thank you all for your letters 
and  phone calls over the past week. Your support  has helped me, and everyone involved with the show, through  a 
difficult time."
  And that, she thought, was all the space she could  give, would give, to the past.
  "Now I'd like to bring out a woman who's given  us all so many hours of entertainment. She's  incandescent. 
Luminous. With a talent as golden as  her eyes. According to Newsweek, Kate Lowell  can "ignite the screen with a 
sweep of the eyelash,  by the flash of her signature smile." She's  proven both her popular and her critical  appeal by 
holding the number-one box-office  position for two straight years, and by winning an  Oscar for her portrayal of the 
heroic,  unforgettable Tess in Deception. Ladies and  gentlemen, Kate Lowell."
  Again, the applause erupted. Kate swept  into it, looking confident and fresh and every bit the star.  But when 
Deanna took her hand, she found it  cold and trembling. Deliberately Deanna  wrapped her in an embrace.
  "Don't do anything you're not ready to do," she  murmured in Kate's ear. "I'm not going to push  you into any 
revelations."
  Kate hesitated a moment. "Oh God,
I'm glad you're here, Dee. Let's sit

down, okay? My knees are shaking."
  It wasn't an easy show, from any angle.  Deanna was able to guide the first ten minutes through  juicy Hollywood 
chitchat, keeping the    audience amused to the point where she assumed  Kate had changed her mind about the 
announcement.
  "I like playing women of strength, and character." In  a fluid movement that rustled silk, Kate  crossed her long, 
million-dollar legs. "And  there do seem to be more scripts being written for  strong women, women who are not just 
bystanders but who  have beliefs and standards they're willing to fight for.  I'm grateful for the chance to play those 
women, because  I didn't always fight for what I wanted."
  "So you feel as though you're able to do that now, through  your work?"
  "I relate to many of the characters I've played.  Tess in particular. Because she was a woman who  sacrificed 
everything, risked everything for the sake of  her child. In an odd sort of way, I mirrored  Tess. Mirror images are 
opposites. And
I sacrificed my child, my chance with my child, when  I gave it up for adoption ten years ago."
  "Damn." In the control booth, Jeff's  eyes popped wide. The audience had dropped  into stunned silence. "Damn," he 
said again.  "Camera Two, tight on Kate. Man, oh  man."
  But even as he worriedly bit his lip again,  he focused on Deanna's face. She'd  known, he realized, and let out a 
long, calming  breath. She'd known. ...
  "An unplanned pregnancy at any time,  under any circumstances, is frightening." Deanna  wanted her audience to 
remember that. "How old were  you?"
  "I was seventeen. I had, as you know, Dee,  a supportive family, a good home. I'd just  begun my modeling career, 
and I thought the world was  at my feet. Then I discovered I was  pregnant."
  "The father? Do you want to talk about him?"  "Was a nice, sweet boy who was every bit as  terrified as I. He was my 
first." She smiled  a little now, remembering him. "I was his. We were  dazzled by each other, by what we felt for each  
other. When I told him, we just sat there,  numb. We were in LA, and we'd gone to the beach.  We sat there and 
watched the surf. He offered  to marry me."

  "Some people might feel that would have been the  answer. You didn't?"
  "Not for me, or the boy, or the child." Kate  continued, using all of her skill to keep her  voice level. "Do you 
remember the way we  used to talk about what we wanted to do when we  grew up?"
  "Yes. I do." Deanna linked her fingers with  Kate's. "You never had any doubts."
  "I'd always wanted to be an actress. I'd  made some progress modeling, and I was going  to conquer Hollywood 
come hell or high water.  Then I was pregnant."
  "Did you consider abortion? Discuss the option  with the father, with your family?"
  "Yes, I did. As difficult as it was,  Dee, I remember how supportive my  parents were. I'd hurt them, disappointed 
them.  I didn't realize how much until I was older  and had some perspective. But they never wavered.  I can't explain 
to you why I decided the way I  did. It was a purely emotional decision, but  I think my parents' unflagging support 
helped  me make it. I decided to have the baby and give  it away. And I didn't know, not until it  came time to do just 
that, how hard it would be."
  "Do you know who adopted the baby?"  "No." Kate dashed a tear away. "No,
I didn't want to know. I'd made a deal.  I had chosen to give the child to people who would love and  care for it. And it 
wasn't my baby any longer,  but theirs. She would be ten years old now, nearly  eleven." Eyes swimming, she looked 
toward the  camera. "I hope she's happy. I hope she  doesn't hate me."
  "Thousands of women face what you faced. Each  choice they make is theirs to make, however  difficult it is. I think 
one of the reasons you  play admirable, accessible women so well is that  you've been through the hardest test a 
woman can  face."
  "When I played Tess, I wondered how  everything would have worked out if I'd chosen  differently. I'll never know."
  "Do you regret your choice?"
  "A part of me always will regret I couldn't be  a mother to that child. But I think I've finally  realized, after all these 
years, that it really was the  right one. For everybody."
  "We'll be back in a moment," Deanna said

to the camera, then turned to Kate. "Are  you all right?"
  "Barely. I didn't think it would be so  hard." She took two deep breaths, but kept  her eyes on Deanna rather than 
look out at the  audience. "The questions are going to come fast and  furious. And God, the press tomorrow."
  "You'll get through it."
  "Yes, I will. Dee." She leaned forward and  gripped Deanna's hand. "It meant a lot  to me, to be able to do this here, 
with you. It seemed, for a  minute or two, as if I were just talking to you. The  way we used to."
  "Then maybe this time you'll keep in touch."  "Yeah, I will. You know, I realized while  I was talking why I hated 
Angela so much. I  thought it was because she was using me. But it was because she was  using my baby. It helps 
knowing that."

  "Hell of a show." Fran fisted her hands on  her hips as Deanna walked into the dressing  room. "You knew. I could 
tell you knew. Why  the hell didn't you tell me? Me, your  producer and your best friend."
  "Because I wasn't sure she'd go through with it."  The strain of the past hour had Deanna's shoulders  aching. 
Rolling them in slow circles, she went  directly to the lighted mirror to change  makeup. Fran was miffed. She 
understood that,  expected it. Just as she understood and expected it  would wear off quickly. "And I didn't feel it was  
right to talk about it until she did. Give me a  gauge on audience reaction, Fran."
  "After the shock waves died off? I'd say  about sixty-five percent were in her corner,  maybe ten percent never got 
past the stunned  stage, and the remaining twenty-five were ticked off  that their princess stumbled."
  "That's about how I figured it. Not bad."  Deanna slathered her face with moisturizer.  "She'll be all right." She lifted a 
brow at  Fran's reflection. "Where do you stand?"
  After a moment of stilted silence, Fran  exhaled hard, fluttering her choppy bangs.  "In her corner, one hundred 
percent. It must  have been hell for her, poor kid. God, Dee,  what made her decide to go public that way?"
  "It all has to do with Angela," Deanna  began, and told her.
  "Blackmail." Too intrigued now for even

mild annoyance, Fran let out a low  whistle. "I knew she was a bitch, but I never  thought she'd sunk that low. I guess 
the list of  suspects just expanded by several dozen." Her  eyes widened. "You don't think Kate--"
  "No, I don't." Not that she hadn't  considered it, thoroughly, Deanna thought,  logically, and she hoped objectively. 
"Even  if I thought she killed Angela, which I  don't, she doesn't have any reason to have killed  Marshall. She didn't 
even know him."
  "I guess not. I wish the cops would figure  it out and lock this lunatic up. It worries me  sick that you're still getting 
those notes." Now that  all was forgiven, she moved over, automatically  massaging Deanna's stiff shoulders. "At  
least I can rest easier knowing Finn won't be  going out of town until this is over."
  "How do you know that?"
  "Because--" Fran caught herself, looked quickly  at her watch. "Gosh, what am I doing sitting  around here talking? 
I've got a hundred  things--"
  "Fran." Deanna stood and stepped in  front of her. "How do you know that Finn's not going  out of town until this is 
over? The last I heard  he was scheduled to go to Rome right after Christmas."
  "I, ah, I must have gotten mixed up."  "Like hell."
  "Damn it, Dee, don't get that warrior  look on your face."
  "How do you know?"
  "Because he told me, okay?" She tossed up  her hands in disgust. "And I was supposed to keep  my big mouth shut 
about the fact that he's canceled  the Rome shoot and anything else that takes him out  of Chicago."
  "I see." Deanna lowered her eyes,  brushed a speck of lint from her teal silk  skirt.
  "No, you don't see because you've got your  blinders on. Do you really expect the man to fly  gleefully across the 
Atlantic while this is going  on? For Christ's sake, he loves you."
  "I'm aware of that." But her spine was rigid.  "I have things to do myself," she said, and stormed out.
  "Good going, Myers." Muttering oaths,  Fran snatched up the dressing room phone and  called up to Finn's office. If 
she'd  inadvertently started a war, the least she could do was

tell him to be fully armed.

  In his office above the newsroom, Finn  replaced the receiver and sent a scowl at Barlow  James. "You're about to 
get some reinforcements.  Deanna's on her way up."
  "Fine." Pleased, Barlow settled back in  his chair, stretched his burly arms. "We'll  get all this settled once and for all."
  "It is settled, Barlow. I'm not traveling  more than an hour away from home until the  police make an arrest."
  "Finn, I understand your concerns for Deanna.  I have them as well. But you're short-sheeting the  show. You're 
overreacting."
  "Really?" Finn's voice was cool,  deceptively so. "And I thought I was taking  two murders and the harassment of the 
woman I love  so well."
  Sarcasm didn't deflate Barlow. "My  point is that she can obtain round-the-clock  protection. Professionals. God 
knows a  woman in her financial position can afford the very  best. Not to slight your manhood, Finn, but  you're a 
reporter, not a bodyguard. And," he  continued before Finn could respond, "as skilled a  reporter as you are, you are 
not a detective.  Let the police do their job and you do yours. You have  a responsibility to the show, to the people 
who work with you.  To the network, to the sponsors. You have a contract,  Finn. You're legally bound to travel 
whenever and  wherever news is breaking. You agreed to those terms.  Hell, you demanded them."
  "Sue me," Finn invited, eyes gleaming in  anticipation of a bout. He glanced up as the  door slammed open.
  She stood there in her snazzy silk suit,  eyes flashing, chin angled. Each stride a  challenge, she marched to his 
desk, slapped her  palms on the surface.
  "I won't have it."
  He didn't bother to pretend he didn't  understand. "You don't have any say in this,  Deanna. It's my choice."
  "You weren't even going to tell me. You were just  going to make some lame excuse about why the trip  was 
canceled. You'd have lied to me."
  He'd have killed for her, he thought, and shrugged.  "Now that's not necessary." He leaned back in the  chair, 
steepled his fingers. Though he was wearing a

sweater and jeans, he looked every inch the  star. "How did the show go this morning?"
  "Stop it. Just stop it." She whirled, jabbing  a finger at Barlow. "You can order him to go, can't  you?"
  "I thought I could." He lifted his hands, let  them fall. "I came from New York hoping  to make him see reason. I 
should have known  better." With a sigh, he rose. "I'll be in the  newsroom for the next hour or so. If you fare  any 
better than I did, let me know."
  Finn waited until the door clicked shut.  The sound was as definitive as that of the bell in a  boxing ring. "You won't, 
Deanna, so you might  as well accept it."
  "I want you to go," she said, spacing each word  carefully. "I don't want our lives to be  interfered with. It's important 
to me."
  "You're important to me."
  "Then do this for me."
  He picked up a pencil, ran it through his  fingers once, twice, then snapped it neatly in  two. "No."
  "Your career could be on the line."  He tilted his head as if considering it. And  damn him, his dimples winked at her. 
"I  don't think so."
  He was, she thought, as sturdy, as unshakable  and as unmovable as granite. "They could cancel your  show."
  "Throw out the baby with the bathwater?" Though he  wasn't feeling particularly calm, he levered  back, propped his 
feet on the desk. "I've  known network execs to do dumber things, so let's  say they decide to cancel a highly rated,  
profitable and award-winning show because I'm not going  on the road for a while." He stared up at her,  his eyes 
darkly amused. "I guess you'd have  to support me while I'm unemployed. I  might get to like it and retire completely. 
Take  up gardening or golf. No, I know. I'll be  your business manager. You'd be the star--you know, like  a country-
western singer."
  "This isn't a joke, Finn."
  "It isn't a tragedy, either." His phone  rang. Finn picked up the receiver, said,  "Later," and hung up again. "I'm 
sticking,  Deanna. I can't keep up with the investigation if  I'm off in Europe."
  "Why do you need to keep up with it?" Her eyes

narrowed. "Is that what you've been doing?  Why there was a rerun last Tuesday night?  All those calls from Jenner. 
You're not working on  In Depth, you're working with him."
  "He doesn't have a problem with it. Why should  you?"
  She spun away. "I hate this. I hate that  our private and professional lives are becoming  mixed and unbalanced. I 
hate being scared this  way. Jumping every time there's a noise in the  hall, or bracing whenever the elevator door  
opens."
  "That's my point. That's exactly how I  feel. Come here." He held out a hand, gripping  hers when she walked around 
the desk. With his eyes  on hers, he drew her into his lap. "I'm  scared, Deanna, right down to the bone."
  Her lips parted in surprise. "You never said  so."
  "Maybe I should have. Male pride's a  twitchy business. The fact is, I need to be  here, I need to be involved, to know 
what's  happening. It's the only way I've got  to fight back the fear."
  "Just promise me you won't take any  chances, any risks."
  "He's not going after me, Deanna."
  "I want to be sure of that." She closed her  eyes. But she wasn't sure.

  After Deanna left, Finn went down to the  video vault. An idea had been niggling at  him since Marshall's murder, the 
notion that he'd  forgotten something. Or overlooked it.
  All Barlow's talk about responsibili-  ties, loyalties, had triggered a memory.  Finn skimmed through the black forest 
of video  cases until he found February 1992.
  He slipped the cassette into the machine,  fast-forwarding through news reports, local, world,  weather, sports. He 
wasn't sure of the  precise date, or how much coverage there had  been. But he was certain Lew Mcationeil's  
previous Chicago connection would have warranted at  least one full report on his murder.
  He got more than he'd hoped for.
  Finn slowed the tape to normal, eyes narrowing  as he focused in on the CBC reporter standing  on the snowy 
sidewalk.
  "Violence struck in the early morning hours in

this affluent New York  neighborhood. Lewis Mcationeil, senior  producer of the popular talk show Angela's,  was 
gunned down outside his home in Brooklyn  Heights this morning. According to a police source,  Mcationeil, a 
Chicago native, was apparently  leaving for work when he was shot at close range.  Mcationeil's wife was in the 
house. ..." The  camera did its slow pan. "She was awakened  shortly after seven A.m. by the sound of a  gunshot."
  Finn listened to the rest of the report, eyes  fixed. Grimly, he zipped through another week  of news, gathering 
snippets on the Mcationeil  murder investigation.
  He tucked his notes away and headed into the  newsroom. He found Joe as the cameraman was  heading out on 
assignment.
  "Question."
  "Make it a quick one. I'm on the clock."  "February ninety-two. Lew Mcationeil's  murder. That was your camerawork 
on the New York  stand-up, wasn't it?"
  "What can I say?" Joe polished his nails  on his sweatshirt. "My art is distinctive."
  "Right. Where was he shot?"
  "As I recall, right outside his house." As  he thought back, Joe reached into his hip  pocket for a Baby Ruth. "Yeah, 
they said it  looked like he was cleaning off his car."
  "No, I mean anatomically. Chest, gut,  head? None of the reports I reviewed said."
  "Oh." Joe frowned, shutting his eyes as if  to bring the scene back to mind. "They'd cleaned up  pretty good by the 
time we got there. Never saw the  stiff." He opened his eyes. "Did you know  Lew?"
  "Some."
  "Yeah, me too. Tough." He bit off a  hefty section of chocolate. "Why the interest?"
  "Something I'm working on. Didn't your  reporter ask the cops for details?"
  "Who was that--Clemente, right? Didn't last  around here very long. Sloppy, you know? I can't  say if he did or not. 
Look, I've got  to split." He headed for the stairs, then rapped his  knuckles on the side of his head. "Yeah,  yeah." He 
headed up the steps backward,  watching Finn. "Seems to me I heard one of the  other reporters talking. He said Lew 
caught

the bullet in the face. Nasty, huh?"
  "Yeah." A grim satisfaction swam through  Finn's blood. "Very nasty."

  Jenner munched a midmorning danish, washing  down the cherry filling with sweetened coffee. As  he ate and 
sipped, he studied the grisly  photos tacked to the corkboard. The conference  room was quiet now, but he'd left the 
blinds open  on the glass door that separated it from the bull  pen of the precinct.
  Angela Perkins. Marshall Pike. He  stared at what had been done to them. If he stared  long enough, he knew he 
could go into a kind of  trance--a state of mind that left the brain clear  for ideas, for possibilities.
  He was just annoyed enough at Finn for emotion  to interfere with intellect. The man should have told  him the details 
of his conversation with Pike. However  slight it had been, it had been police  business. The idea of Finn interviewing 
Pike  alone burned Jenner more bitterly than the station  house coffee.
  He remembered their last meeting, in the early  hours of the morning that Pike had been murdered.

  "We're clear that the shooter knows Miss  Reynolds." Jenner ticked the fact off on a  finger. "Was aware of her 
relationship, or at  least her argument, with Pike." He held up a  second finger. "He or she knows Deanna's  address, 
knew Pike's and had enough knowledge of the studio  to set up the camera after killing Angela  Perkins."
  "Agreed."
  "The notes have shown up under Deanna's  door, on her desk, in her car, in the apartment  she still keeps in Old 
Town." Jenner had  lifted a brow, hoping that Finn would offer some  explanation for that interesting fact. But he 
hadn't.  Finn knew how to keep information to himself. It was one  of the things Jenner admired about him. "It has to 
be  someone who works at CBC," Jenner concluded.
  "Agreed. In theory." Finn smiled when  Jenner let out a huff of breath. "It could be  someone who worked there. It's 
possible it's a fan  of Deanna's who's been in the studio. A  regular audience member. Lots of people have enough  
rudimentary knowledge of television to work a camera for a still  shot."

  "I think that's stretching it."
  "So let's stretch it. He sees her every day  on TV."
  "Could be a woman."
  Finn let that cook a moment, then shook his  head. "A remote possibility. Let's  shuffle that aside for a minute and try 
out this theory:  It's a man, a lonely, frustrated man. He  lives alone, but every day Deanna slips through the  
television screen right into his living room.  She's sitting right there with him, talking to him,  smiling at him. He's not 
lonely when she's there.  And he wants her there all the time. He  doesn't do well with women. He's a little  afraid of 
them. He's a good planner,  probably holds down a decent job, a  responsible one, because he knows how to think 
things  through. He's thorough, meticulous."
  Impressed, Jenner pursed his lips.  "Sounds like you've done your homework."
  "I have. Because I'm in love with Deanna I  think I understand him. Thing is, he's got this  temper, this rage. He didn't 
kill in a  rage. I think he did that coolly." And that was  what chilled Finn's blood. "But he trashes  my house, Deanna's 
office. He writes his  feelings of betrayal on the wall. All but  splatters them there. How did she betray him?  What 
changed from the time she got the first note  to Angela's murder?"
  "She hooked up with you?"
  "She'd been involved with me for two years."  Finn leaned forward. "We got engaged, Jenner.  The official 
announcement had barely hit the  streets when we had Angela's murder and the  break-ins."
  "So he killed Angela because he was ticked  at Deanna Reynolds?"
  "He killed Angela, and Pike, because he  loves Deanna Reynolds. What better  way to show his devotion than to 
remove people who  upset or annoy her? He trashed her things,  taking special care with the wedding-gown sketches,  
the newspaper reports of the engagement,  photographs of Deanna and me. He was  enraged because she'd 
announced, publicly, that she  preferred another man to him. That she was willing  to take vows to prove it."
  Nodding slowly, Jenner doodled on a sheet  of paper. "Maybe you didn't get your

psychiatrist's degree at Sears.
Why hasn't he gone after you?"  Instinctively, Finn reached up to run his  fingers over his sleeve. Beneath it was a 
scar from a  bullet. A bullet that hadn't come from the sniper  or the SWAT team. But he couldn't be sure.  "Because I 
haven't done anything to hurt  Deanna. Marshall did, on the day he was  killed, and a couple of years ago, when he 
fell  into Angela's trap."
  "I should have talked to him." Jenner tapped a  fist lightly on his files. "He could have known  something, seen 
something. It's possible he'd received  threats."
  "I doubt that. He was the type who'd have come  running to the cops. Or he would have told me when  I talked with 
him."
  "You were too busy beating him up."  "I didn't beat him up." Finn folded his  arms across his chest. "He swung, I 
swung.  Once. In any case, I meant he would have  told me when I talked to him at his office a  few days ago."
  Jenner stopped doodling. "You went to see him  about Angela Perkins's murder?"
  "It was a theory."
  "One you didn't feel necessary to share?"  "It was personal."
  "Nothing's personal on this, nothing." Jenner  edged forward, eyes narrowed. "I've let you in  on this investigation 
because I think you're a smart  man, and I sympathize with your position. But you  cross me and you're out."
  "I'll do what I have to do, Lieutenant, with  or without you."
  "Reporters aren't the only ones who can  harass. Keep that in mind." Jenner closed his  file, rose. "Now I have work 
to do."

  No, Jenner thought now, sympathy and admiration  aside, he wasn't about to let Finn go off on  his own. He might be 
wearing blinders to the fact that  his life was in danger, but Jenner knew better.
  He rose to refill his coffee cup, and  glanced through the glass door. "Speak of the  devil," he murmured. Jenner 
pulled open the  door. "Looking for me?" he asked Finn, and  waved away the uniform who was blocking Finn's  path. 
"It's all right, officer. I'll see  Mr. Riley." He nodded briefly at

Finn. "You've got five minutes."
  "It's going to take a little longer." Finn  studied the police photos on the board  dispassionately. There were 
snapshots of both  victims taken prior to and after death. Side  by side, they were like before-and-after shots gone  
desperately wrong. "You're going to need to put  one more set up there."

  Twenty minutes later, Jenner completed his  conversation with the detective in Brooklyn  Heights. "They're faxing us 
the file," he  told Finn. "Okay, Mr. Riley, who  knew that Mcationeil was passing information on  to Angela?"
  "Deanna's staff. I'd be certain of that.  I'd also give odds that it would have leaked  downstairs." There was an 
excitement brewing in  him now. The kind he recognized as energy from a  puzzle nearly solved. "There's always 
been a  lot of interaction between Deanna's people and the  newsroom. Are we on the same wavelength  here? Three 
people are dead because they threatened  Deanna in some way."
  "I can't comment about that, Mr. Riley."  Finn shoved back from the table. "Damn it,  I'm not here as a reporter. I'm 
not looking for a  scoop, the latest tidbit from an unnamed  police source. You want to frisk me for a  mike?"
  "I don't think you're after a story, Mr.  Riley," Jenner said calmly. "If I'd ever  thought that, you never would have 
gotten your foot in the  door. But maybe I think you're too used  to doing things your own way, to running your own 
show  to handle the delicate matter of cooperation."
  Finn slammed his hands down on the table. "If  you think you're going to brush me off, you're wrong.  You're right 
about the harassment, Lieutenant. One  phone call and I can have a dozen cameras dogging  your every move. I can 
put so much pressure on you  that you won't be able to sneeze without someone sticking  a mike up your nose. 
Before you catch your next  breath Chicago will be buzzing about a serial  killer. The commissioner and the mayor will 
love that,  won't they?" He waited half a beat. "You  use me, or I'll use you. It's your  choice."
  Jenner folded his arms on the table, leaned  forward against them. "I don't like threats."

  "Neither do I. But I'll do a lot  more than threaten if you try to block me out now."  He looked at the victims on the 
board. "He  could lose it." He spoke quietly now,  carefully. "He could lose it anytime and try  to put her up there. 
You're pissed because I did  some tracking on my own, fine. Be pissed. But  use me. Or by God I'll use you."
  Objectively, Jenner buried his irritation,  calculating how much damage would be done by a  media war. Too much, 
he mused. It was always  too much.
  "Let's do this, Mr. Riley. Let's say  we theorize that Mcationeil was the first victim of  three--and we'll want to keep 
that under our hat."
  "I told you I'm not interested in a story."  "Just laying down the ground rules. We'll  theorize that, and that only a 
limited number of people  had the knowledge that would lead to motive for his murder."  He gestured to a chair, 
waiting for Finn to sit  again. "Tell me about those people. Start with Loren  Bach." In the spirit of compromise, Jenner 
opened  the file on Loren that Angela had commissioned from  Beeker.

  Cassie walked into Deanna's office, then  let out a long, long sigh. Deanna stood on  a stool in the center of the 
room, the seamstress at  her feet. Yards of shimmering white silk  billowed.
  "It's gorgeous."
  "It's barely started." But Deanna was almost  sighing herself as she brushed a hand over the sweeping  skirt neatly 
pinned to the lacy bodice. Irish  lace, she mused. For Finn. "But you're right."
  "I've got to get my camera." Inspired,  Cassie bolted for the door. "Don't move."
  "I'm not going anywhere."
  "You must be still," the seamstress complained over a  mouthful of pins. Her voice was raspy, as if  she'd already 
swallowed more than her share.
  Deanna used all her willpower not to shift from  foot to foot. "I am being still."
  "You're vibrating like a spring."  "Sorry." Deanna took a long, steadying  breath. "I guess I'm nervous."
  "The bride-to-be," Cassie recited as  she walked back in with a Palmcorder blocking  her face. "Deanna Reynolds, 
the reigning

queen of daytime TV, has chosen an  elegant gown of ..."
  "Italian silk," the seamstress prompted.  "With touches of Irish lace and a sea of  freshwater pearls."
  "Exquisite," Cassie said soberly. "And  tell us, Miss Reynolds--" with an  expert's touch, she zoomed in on Deanna's  
face--"how do you feel on this exciting occasion?"
  "Terrified." She crossed her eyes. If  the fitting took five minutes over the allotted  hour, she'd be making up time all 
week. "And  partially insane. Other than that I'm enjoying every  minute of it."
  "If you'll just stand perfectly still, I'll do a  little circle around so that our viewers can get the  full effect." Cassie 
sidestepped, panned  back. "This'll go in my growing library of  life behind Deanna's Hour."
  Deanna felt her smile stiffen. "Do you have  a lot of tape?"
  "Oh, a little of this, a little of that. Simon  pulling what's left of his hair out. Margaret  tossing spitballs. You racing for 
the elevator."
  Beneath the sparkling bodice, Deanna's heart  thudded thickly. "I guess I've never paid much  attention. So many 
cameras around. You always keep  that at hand, don't you?"
  "You never know what historical, or  humiliating, moment you might capture."
  Someone had captured her, Deanna  remembered, while she'd slept at her desk.  Coming to work, going from, 
shopping, playing with Fran's  baby in the park.
  They'd captured her unconscious in the  studio beside Angela's body.
  Cassie, who was in and out of the office dozens of  times a day. Cassie, who knew every detail of  Deanna's 
schedule. Cassie, who had dated  one of the studio camera operators.
  "Turn it off, Cassie."
  "One more second."
  "Turn it off." Her voice sharpened, and  Deanna set her teeth to steady it.
  "Sorry." Obviously baffled, Cassie  lowered the camera. "I guess I got carried  away."
  "It's all right. I'm just edgy." Deanna  managed to smile again. It was ridiculous, she  told herself. It was insane even 
to speculate that

Cassie would be capable of murder.
  "It's your first day back." Cassie touched  her hand and Deanna had to force herself not to jerk  away. "God knows it 
was a madhouse around here  after the show with all those calls coming in about Kate  Lowell. Why don't you give 
yourself a break after  you've finished the fitting, and go home? I can  reschedule the rest of the afternoon's business."
  "I think that's a good idea." She spoke  slowly over the erratic thud of her heart.  "I've got a lot of things to deal with 
at  home."
  Cassie's mouth thinned. "I didn't mean you  should jump out of one madhouse into another. You're  not going to get 
any work done there, with all those  painters and carpenters slogging away. I think--"  She saw that Deanna's eyes 
had focused behind  her and turned. "Jeff." Her mouth softened at  the admiration on his face. "She looks  fabulous, 
doesn't she?"
  "Yeah. Really." He glanced at the camera  Cassie held. "You got pictures?"
  "Sure. Capture the moment. Listen, unless  it's a crisis, hold it off, will you? This is a  momentous occasion. Dee's 
going home early."
  "Oh, good idea. Finn called, Deanna.  He said to tell you he had a meeting and he'd  see you at home. He thought 
he might get there  by four."
  "Well, that's lucky. Maybe I'll beat  him there."
  "Not if you don't hold still," the seamstress  muttered.

  But it was barely three-thirty when Deanna  slipped into her shoes and grabbed her briefcase.  "Cassie, can you call 
Tim?"
  "Already done. He should be waiting downstairs."  "Thanks." She stopped by the desk, feeling  ashamed and foolish 
about her earlier thoughts. "I'm  sorry about before, Cassie. The camera  business."
  "Don't worry about it." Cassie zipped  open one of the daily letters that heaped on her desk.  "I know I'm a nuisance." 
She chuckled. "I  like being a nuisance with it. See you tomorrow."
  "Okay. Don't stay late."
  More at ease, Deanna walked to the  elevator, checking her watch as she punched the  Down button. With any luck, 
she could

surprise Finn by arriving first. It  wouldn't take much effort, she knew, to persuade  him to fix some blackened chicken 
and pasta. She was  in the mood for something spicy to cap off her first day  back in harness.
  She could deal with a mountain of paperwork and phone  calls there. Then, if she scheduled a break, she  could 
slink into something designed to drive Finn  crazy.
  They'd have dinner late. Very late, she  decided, and swung out of the elevator.
  Maybe she'd wrap a few last-minute  Christmas gifts, or talk Finn into baking some  cookies. She could run a couple 
of the new  segment ideas by him.
  The flash of sunlight had her reaching  automatically for her tinted glasses. Slipping  them on, she climbed into the 
back of the waiting  limo.
  "Hi, Tim." She closed her eyes and  stretched. The limo was beautifully warm.
  "Hi, Miss Reynolds."
  "Turned out to be a beautiful day." Out of  habit, she reached for the bottle of chilled juice  that was always stocked 
for her. She looked up idly  at the back of her driver. Despite the car's  warmth, he was huddled inside his coat, his 
cap  tipped low.
  "Sure did."
  Sipping the juice, she flipped open her  briefcase. She set the file neatly labeled  "Wedding Plans" aside and 
reached for the daily  correspondence Cassie had culled for her  to read. She'd always considered the drive to and 
from the  office part of the workday. In this case, she had  to make up the time she'd taken with the fitting, and for  
knocking off early.
  But by the third letter, the words were blurring. There was  no excuse for being so tired so early in the day.  
Annoyed, she slid her fingers under her glasses  to rub her eyes clear. But they blurred all the  more, as if she'd 
swabbed them with oil. Her head  spun once, sickly, and her arm fell heavily  to the seat beside her.
  So tired, she thought. So hot. As if in slow  motion, she tried to shrug out of her coat. The  papers fluttered to the 
floor, and the effort of reaching  for them only increased the dizziness.
  "Tim." She leaned forward, pressed a hand  against the back of the front seat. He didn't

answer, but the word had sounded dim and far  away to her own ears. As she struggled to focus  on him the half-
empty bottle of juice  slipped from her numbed fingers.
  "Something's wrong," she tried to tell him as  she slid bonelessly to the plushly carpeted floor  of the car. 
"Something's very wrong."
  But he didn't answer. She imagined herself  falling through the floor of the limo and into a dark,  bottomless pit.

          Chapter Twenty-eight

  Deanna dreamed she was swimming up through  red-tinted clouds, slowly, sluggishly pulling  herself toward the 
surface, where a faint, white  light glowed through the misty layers. She moaned as  she struggled. Not from pain but 
nausea that rolled  up, burning in her throat.
  In defense, she kept her eyes closed,  taking long, deep breaths and willing the sickness  back. Drops of clammy 
sweat pearled on her  skin so that her thin silk blouse clung nastily  to her arms and back.
  When the worst had passed, she opened her eyes  cautiously.
  She had been in the car, she remembered. Tim  had been driving her home and she'd become ill.  But she wasn't 
home now. Hospital? she  wondered dully when she let her eyes  cautiously open. The room was softly lit with  
delicate violets trailing up the wallpaper.  A white ceiling fan gently stirred the air with a  whispering sound of blades. A 
glossy  mahogany bureau held a collection of  pretty, colored bottles and pots. A  magnificent poinsettia and a 
miniature blue  spruce decorated with silver bells added  seasonal flair.
  Hospital? she thought again. Groggily, she  tried to sit up. Her head spun again,  hideously, shooting that fist of 
nausea back  into her stomach. Her vision doubled. When she tried  to bring her hand to her face, it felt weighted  
down. For a moment she could only lie still, fighting  back the sickness. She saw that the room was a  box, a closed, 
windowless box. Like a coffin.
  A spear of panic sliced through the shock. She  reared up, shouting, stumbling drunkenly from the bed.  Staggering 
to a wall, she ran her fingers over the

delicate floral wallpaper in a  dizzy search for an opening. Trapped. She  wheeled around, eyes wide. Trapped.
  She saw then what was on the wall over the bed.  It was enough to crush the bubbling hysteria. A huge  photograph 
smiled sassily down at her. For  several stunned moments Deanna stared at  Deanna. Slowly, with the sound of her 
own  heartbeat thudding in her ears, she scanned the rest  of the room.
  No, there were no doors, no windows, just  flowers, bowers of them, wall to wall. But there were  other photographs. 
Dozens of pictures of  her were lined on the side walls. Candid shots,  magazine covers, press photos stood cheek  
by jowl against the dainty wallpaper.
  "Oh God. Oh God." She heard the  whimpering panic in her own voice and bit down  fiercely on her lip.
  Looking away from her own images, her eyes  glassy with shock, she stared at the refectory  table, its snowy white 
runner stiff with starch as a  backdrop for silver candle holders, glossy  white tapers. Dozens of little treasures had  
been arranged there: an earring she'd lost months  before, a tube of lipstick, a silk scarf  Simon had given her one 
Christmas, a glove  of supple red leather--one of a pair that had  disappeared the winter before.
  There was more. She eased closer, straining against the  tidal wave of fear as she studied the  collection. A memo 
she'd handwritten  to Jeff, a lock of ebony hair wrapped in  gold cord, other photographs of her, always of  her, in 
elegant and ornate frames. The shoes  she'd been wearing in the limo were there as well,  along with her jacket, 
neatly folded.
  The place was like a shrine, she realized with a  shudder. The sound in her throat was feral and  frightened. There 
was a television in the corner, a  shelf of leather-bound albums. And most  terrifying, cameras bracketed the upper 
corners  of the room. The pinpoints of their red lights beamed  like tiny eyes.
  She stumbled back, fear soaring like a slickly  coated bird. Her gaze sliced from one camera  to the other.
  "You're watching me." She fought back the  terror in her voice. "I know you are. You can't  keep me here. They'll 
look. You know they'll

find me. They're probably looking  already."
  She looked down at her wrist to check the time,  but saw that her watch was gone. How long? she  wondered 
frantically. It might have been  minutes, or days, since she'd passed out in the  car.
  The car. Her breath began to hitch. "Tim."  She pressed her lips together until the ache  snapped through the need to 
weep. "Tim, you have to let  me go. I'll try to help you. I promise that.  I'll do whatever I can. Please, come in here,  
talk to me."
  As though only her invitation had been  required, a section of the wall slid open. In  reflex, Deanna surged forward, 
only to bite  back a moan of despair as her head spun in  sickening circles from the drug. Still, she  straightened her 
shoulders and hoped that she hid the  worst of her fear.
  "Tim," she began, then only stared in  confusion.
  "Welcome home, Deanna."
  His face flushed with shy pleasure, Jeff  stepped into the room. He carried a silver tray  on which rode a wineglass, a 
china plate of  herbed pasta and a single red rosebud.
  "I hope you like the room." In his unhurried  and efficient way, he set the tray on the  bureau. "It took a long time for 
me to get it just  right. I didn't want you to be just comfortable. I  wanted you to be happy. I know there's no  view." He 
turned toward her, eyes too bright  though apology quavered in his voice. "But it's  safer this way. No one will bother 
us when we're in  here."
  "Jeff." Calm, she ordered herself. She had  to stay calm. "You can't keep me here."
  "Yes I can. I've planned it all  carefully. I've had years to work it out. Why  don't you sit down, Dee? You're probably  
feeling a little groggy, and I want you to be  comfortable while you eat."
  He stepped forward, and though she braced, he  didn't touch her.
  "Later," he continued, "after you understand everything,  you'll feel a lot better. You just need time."  He lifted a hand 
as if to touch her cheek, but  drew it away again as if he didn't want  to frighten her.

  "Please try to relax. You never  let yourself relax. I know you might be a little  afraid right now, but it's going to be all 
right.  If you fight me, I'll have to ..." Because he  couldn't bear to say the words, he slipped a hypo  out of his pocket. 
"I don't want to." Her  instant recoil had him pushing the needle out of  sight again. "Really, I don't. And you wouldn't  
be able to get away."
  Smiling again, he moved a table and chair  closer to the bed. "You need to eat," he said  pleasantly. "You always 
worried me when it came  to taking care of yourself. All those hurried or  skipped meals. But I'll take good care of you.  
Sit down, Deanna."
  She could refuse, she thought. She could scream  and rant and threaten. And for what? She'd known  Jeff, or 
thought she'd known him, for years. He  could be stubborn, she reminded herself. But she'd  always been able to 
reason with him.
  "I am hungry," she told him, and hoped    her stomach wouldn't rebel. "You'll talk to me  while I eat? Explain things to 
me?" She  gave him her best interviewer's smile.
  "Yes." The smile burned across his face like  a fever. "I thought you might be angry at first."
  "I'm not angry. I'm afraid."
  "I'd never hurt you." He took one of her  limp hands in his and squeezed lightly. "I  won't let anyone hurt you. I know 
you might be  thinking about getting past me, Deanna. Getting  through the panel. But you can't. I'm really very  
strong, and you're still weak from the drug. No matter  what you do, you'll still be locked in. Sit down."
  As if in a dream, she did as he told her.  She wanted to run, but even as the thought  communicated from brain to 
body, her legs folded.  How could she run when she could barely stand? The  drug was still in charge of her system. It 
was  precisely the kind of detail he would have thought  of. Precisely the kind of detail that had made  him such an 
invaluable part of her team.
  "It's wrong to keep me here, Jeff."
  "No, it's not." He set the tray on the  table in front of her. "I've thought about it for a  long, long time. And this is for the 
best. For you.  I'm always thinking of you. Later on, we can  travel together. I've been looking into villas in  the south of 
France. I think you'd like it there." He  touched her then, just a brushing caress on her

shoulder. Beneath her blouse her skin  crawled. "I love you so much."
  "Why didn't you ever tell me? You could have  talked to me about the way you felt."
  "I couldn't. At first I thought it was just because I  was shy, but then I realized that it was all like a  plan. A life plan. 
Yours and mine."
  Anxious to explain, he pulled up another  chair. As he leaned forward, his glasses slid  down his nose. While her 
vision blurred, then  cleared, she watched him shove them up again--an  old habit, once an endearing one, that now  
chilled her blood.
  "There were things you needed to do, experiences--and men  --you had to get out of your system before we could be  
together. I understood that, Dee. I never blamed you  for Finn. It hurt me." Resting his hands on his  knees, he let out 
a sigh. "But I didn't  blame you. And I couldn't blame him." His  face brightened again. "How could I when I knew  how 
perfect you were? The first time I saw you on  TV, I couldn't get my breath. It scared me  a little. You were looking 
right at me, into me. I'll  never forget it. You see, I was so lonely before.  An only child. I grew up in this house. You're  
not eating, Deanna. I wish you would."
  Obediently, she picked up her fork. He  wanted to talk. Seemed eager to. The best  way to escape, she calculated, 
was to understand.  "You told me you grew up in Iowa."
  "That's where my mother took me later. My mother  was wild." The apology crept back into his  voice. "She would 
never listen to anyone, never  obey the rules. So naturally, Uncle
Matthew had to punish her. He was older, you  see. He was head of the family. He'd keep  her in this room, trying to 
make her see that there were  proper ways to do things, and improper ways." His  face changed as he spoke, 
tightening around the  mouth and eyes, growing somehow older, sterner. "But  my mother never learned, no matter 
how hard my  uncle tried to teach her. She ran away and got  pregnant. When I was six, they took her  away. She had 
a breakdown, and I came  to live with Uncle Matthew. There was no one  else to take me in, you see. And it was his  
family duty."
  Deanna choked down a bite of pasta. It  stuck like paste in her throat, but she was afraid  to try the wine. He could 
have drugged it, she thought,

like the bottle of juice. "I'm  sorry, Jeff, about your mother."
  "It's okay." He shrugged it off like a  snake shedding skin. His face smoothed out again like  a sheet stroked with 
careful hands. "She didn't  love me. No one's ever loved me but Uncle  Matthew. And you. It's just wine, Dee. Your  
favorite kind." Grinning at the joke, he  picked up the glass and sipped to show her. "I  didn't put anything in it. I didn't 
have to,  because you're here now. With me."
  Drugged or not, she avoided the wine, unsure  how it would mix with the drugs in her system. "What  happened to 
your mother?"
  "She had dementia. She died. Is your dinner  all right? I know pasta's your favorite."
  "It's fine." Deanna slipped another  bite through her stiff lips. "How old were you when  she died?"
  "I don't know. Doesn't matter, I was  happy here, with my uncle." It made him  nervous to talk about his mother, so 
he didn't. "He  was a great man. Strong and good. He hardly ever  had to punish me, because I was good, too. I  
wasn't a trial to him, like my mother was. We  took care of each other." He spoke quickly  now, fresh excitement 
blooming. "He was proud  of me. I studied hard and I didn't hang out  with other kids. I didn't need them. I mean,  all 
they wanted to do was ride in fast cars and  listen to loud music and fight with their parents. I  had respect. And I 
never forgot things like cleaning  my room or brushing my teeth. Uncle  Matthew always told me I didn't need  
anybody but family. And he was the only  family I had. Then, when he died, there was you.  So I knew it was right."
  "Jeff." Deanna used all her skills  to keep the conversation flowing, to steer it in the  direction she wanted. "Do you 
think your uncle  would approve of what you're doing now?"
  "Oh, absolutely." He beamed, his face  sunny and innocent and terrifying. "He talks  to me all the time, up here." He 
tapped his head,  winked. "He told me to be patient, to wait  until the time was right. You know when I first started  
sending you letters?"
  "Yes, I remember."
  "I dreamed about Uncle Matthew for the first time  then. Only it wasn't like a dream. It was so

real. He told me I had to court you,  the way a gentleman would. That I had to be  patient. He always said that good 
things take time.  He told me that I would have to wait, and that I had  to look out for you. Men are supposed to 
cherish their  women, to protect them. People have forgotten that. No  one seems to cherish anyone anymore."
  "Is that why you killed Angela, Jeff?
To protect me?"
  "I planned that for months." He leaned back  again, rested one bent leg across his knee.  Conversations with 
Deanna had always been a high  point of his life. And this, he thought, was the very  best. "You didn't know that I let 
her think I  was taking Lew's place."
  "Lew's? Lew Mcationeil's?"
  "After I killed him--"
  "Lew." Her fork rattled against the china when it  slipped through her fingers. "You killed Lew."
  "He betrayed you. I had to punish him. And  he used Simon. Until I started to work with you,  I never really had 
friends. Simon's my friend. I  was going to kill him, too, but I realized he'd  been used. It wasn't really his fault, was it?"
  "No." She said it quickly, punctuating the word  by laying her hand over Jeff's. "No, Jeff,  it wasn't Simon's fault. I 
care very much  about Simon. I wouldn't want you to hurt him."
  "That's what I thought." He grinned, a child  praised by an indulgent adult. "You see, I  know you so well, Deanna. I 
know everything about  you. Your family, your friends. Your favorite  foods and colors. Where you like to shop. I know  
everything you're thinking. It's as though I were right  inside your head. Or you're inside mine," he  added slowly. 
"Sometimes I'd think you were inside  mine. I knew you wanted Angela to go away.  And I knew you'd never hurt her 
yourself. You're  too gentle, too kind." He turned his hand  over to squeeze hers. "So I did it for you. I  arranged to 
meet her in the parking lot at CBC.  She sent her driver away, just like I'd told  her to. I let her in, took her down to the  
studio. I'd told her that I had copied  papers from the office. Story ideas, guests,  plans for remotes. She was going to 
buy them from  me. Only she didn't tell me you were coming."  Incredibly, his bottom lip poked out in a  pout. "She lied 
to me about that."
  "You killed her. And you turned the cameras

on."
  "I was angry with you." His mouth quivered, his  eyes lowered. Deanna gripped her fork again with  some idea of 
using it as a weapon. The effects  of the drug were wearing off, and she felt stronger.  She thought she could thank 
fear for that. But his eyes  lifted to hers and the searing light in them had her  fingers going numb.
  "I knew it was wrong, but I wanted to hurt  you. I nearly wanted to kill you. You were going  to marry him, Dee. I 
could understand your sleeping with  him. Weak flesh. Uncle Matthew explained  all about how sex can pervert, and 
how weak people can  be. Even you." The hand that covered hers tightened,  tightened, until bone rubbed bone. "So I  
understood, and I was patient, because I always knew  you'd come to me. But you couldn't marry him, you  couldn't 
take vows. I knew it was you when you  opened the door. I always know when it's you. I  hit you. I wanted to hit you 
again, but I couldn't.  So I carried you to the chair, and I put  Angela in the other one and turned on the camera.  I 
wanted you to see what I'd done for you. I'd  already been upstairs, in your office." He  compressed his lips, sighed 
and gently released her  throbbing hand. "It was wrong of me to wreck your  office. I shouldn't have gone to Finn's 
house,  either. I'm sorry."
  He said it as though he'd neglected to keep a  luncheon appointment.
  "Jeff, have you ever told anyone about your  feelings?"
  "Just my uncle, when we talk in my head.  He was sure you'd understand soon, and come home with  me. And after I 
heard what that creep did to you in  the parking lot, I knew it was nearly time."
  "Marshall?"
  "He tried to hurt you. Joe told me how  he'd acted, so I waited for him. I killed  him the same way I'd killed the others. 
It was  symbolic, Deanna. My vision destroyed their  vision. It's almost holy, don't you think?"
  "It's not holy to kill, Jeff."
  "You're too forgiving." His eyes scanned her  face, adoringly. "If you forgive people who've  hurt you, they'll only hurt 
you again. You have  to protect what's yours."
  He remembered the dog that had come into their yard  time after time, digging up Uncle Matthew's  flowers, spoiling 
the grass. He'd cried when his

uncle had poisoned the dog. Cried  until Uncle Matthew had explained to him why  it was right and honorable to 
defend your own against any  intruder. With that in mind, he got up and went to the  bureau. He opened the top 
drawer and took out a  list.
  "I've planned it," he told her. "You and  I always make lists and plan things out. We're  not the type who run off 
without thinking, are we?"  Beaming again, he offered the list to her.

LEW MCNEIL
ANGELA PERKINS
MARSHALL PIKE
DAN GARDNER
JAMIE THOMAS
FINN RILEY?

  "Finn," was all she could say.  "He's not for sure. I put him down in  case he hurt you. I nearly did it once  before. 
Nearly. But at the last minute I  realized I was only going to kill him because I was  jealous. It was like Uncle Matthew 
was there, and he  jerked the rifle at the last minute. I was really  glad I didn't kill him when I saw how  upset you were 
that he'd been shot."
  "In Greektown," Deanna said through  trembling lips. "That day in Greektown. You  shot him?"
  "It was a mistake. I'm really sorry."  "Oh God." Horrified, she cringed back.  "Oh my God."
  "It was a mistake." His voice was sulky,  dangerously so. Jeff looked away from her.  "I said I was sorry. I won't do 
anything  to him unless he hurts you."
  "He hasn't. He won't."
  "Then I won't have to do anything about him."  Her palm dampened against the paper, and her  heart began to beat 
heavily in her throat.  "Promise me you won't, Jeff. It's  important to me that Finn's safe. He's been  very good to me."
  "I'm better for you."
  There was a child's petulance on his face now.  Deanna exploited the moment. "Promise me,  Jeff, or I'll be very 
unhappy. You don't  want that, do you?"
  "No." He struggled between her needs and his own.

"I guess it doesn't matter now.
Not now that you're here."
  "You have to promise." She clamped her teeth  together to keep the desperation from her voice.  Reason, she told 
herself. Calm reason. "I  know you wouldn't break your word to me."
  "All right. If it makes you happy." To show  his sincerity, he took out a pen and scratched  Finn's name off the list. 
"See?"
  "Thank you. And Dan Gardner--"
  "No." His voice sharp, he folded the  page. "He's already hurt you, Dee. He's  said terrible things about you; he 
helped Angela  try to ruin you. He has to be punished."
  "But he doesn't matter, Jeff. He's  nothing." Calm, she reminded herself. Calm but  firm. Adult to child. "And Jamie 
Thomas, that  was years and years ago. I don't care about  them."
  "I do. I care. I'd have killed him first,  right away, but he was in Europe. Hiding out,"  he said scornfully. "It's not easy 
to get a  weapon through customs, so I was patient." Now  he beamed. "He's back now, you know. He's in  New 
Hampshire. I'll be going there soon."
  The drug was no longer making her ill, but the  nausea rolled greasily in her stomach. "I  don't care about him. About 
any of them, Jeff.  I don't want you to hurt them for me."
  He turned his face away, sulking. "I  don't want to talk about this anymore."
  "I want--"
  "You have to think about what I want, too." He  shoved the list back in the drawer, slammed it  hard enough to rattle 
bottles. "I'm only thinking  of you."
  "Yes, I know. I know you are. But if you go  to New York to kill Gardner, or New  Hampshire for Jamie, I'll be all alone  
here. I don't want to be locked up alone,  Jeff."
  "Don't worry." His tone gentled. "I've  got plenty of time, and I'll be very careful.  I'm so glad you're here."
  "Would you let me go outside please? I need  some air."
  "I can't. Not yet. It isn't part of the  plan." He sat again, leaning forward. "You need  three months."
  Horror drained her blood. "You can't keep

me locked up like this for three months."
  "It's all right. You'll have everything you need.  Books, TV, company. I'll rent movies  for you, cook your meals. I've 
bought clothes for  you." He sprang up to slide open another  panel. "See? I spent weeks choosing just the  right 
things." He gestured inside to the closet  full of slacks and dresses and jackets. "And  there's shirts and sweaters, 
nightclothes and underthings  in the bureau. Over here ..." He pushed open  another hidden door. "The bathroom."
  He flushed, stared at his shoes. "There aren't  any cameras in there. I swear. I wouldn't spy  on you in the bathroom. 
I stocked your favorite  bath oils and soaps, your cosmetics. You'll  have everything you need."
  Everything you need. Everything you need. The  words spun around and around in her head. She couldn't  keep the 
hitch out of her voice. "I don't  want to be locked up."
  "I'm sorry. That's the only thing I can't  give you right now. Soon, when you've really come  to understand, it'll be 
different. But anything else you  want, I'll get for you. Whenever I have to leave,  you'll be all right here. The room's 
secure,  soundproofed. Even if someone came into the house,  they wouldn't find you. Outside the door is a  
bookcase. It's really cool. I designed it  myself. No one would ever guess there was a room in  here, so you'll be safe 
and sound whenever I'm gone.  And when I'm busy around the house, I can watch  you." He pointed toward the 
cameras. "So if you  need me, I'll know."
  "They'll come and find me, Jeff. Sooner  or later. They won't understand. You have to let me  go."
  "No, I have to keep you. Do you want to watch  TV?" He crossed over, picked up the  remote from the nightstand. 
"We have full cable."
  Fighting back a hysterical laugh, she  pressed her fingers to her eyes. "No, no, not  now."
  "You can watch whenever you want. And the shelf is  full of videos. Movies, and tapes I've  taken of you. And the 
scrapbooks." He bustled  around the room, an energetic host anxious  to entertain. "I've kept them for you. Everything  
that's ever been written up on you is in here. Or  there's the stereo. I have all your favorite  music. There's a little 
refrigerator in the

bathroom that I stocked with drinks and  snacks."
  "Jeff." She could reel that bubble of panic  swelling. Her hands shook as she stood. "You've  gone to a lot of trouble. 
I understand that. And I  understand that you've done what you thought you had to do. But  this is wrong. You're 
keeping me prisoner."
  "No, no, no." He came to her quickly,  grabbing her hands when she jerked back. "You're like  the princess in the 
fairy tale, and I'm  protecting you. I'm cherishing you. It's like you're  under a spell, Dee. One day you'll wake up  and 
I'll be here. And we'll be happy."
  "I'm not under a spell." She yanked away,  fury simmering under fear like an exotic stew.  "And I'm not a goddamn 
princess. I'm a  human being, with the right to make my own choices. You  can't lock me up and expect me to be 
grateful  because I've got bathroom privileges."
  "I knew you'd be angry at first."  Disappointment sighed through his voice as he reached  down for her dinner dishes. 
"But you'll calm  down."
  "The hell I will." She leaped at him,  striking out with her free hand. The first blow glanced  off his cheekbone. China 
shattered on the floor and  flew like bullets. Snarling, she scrambled after  a shard.
  She screamed, fighting like a madwoman as he  wrestled her to the floor. He was strong, so much  stronger than he 
looked with those long, gangly  arms. He made no sound, no sound at all,  simply clamped a hand painfully on her 
wrist  until her fingers opened to release the makeshift  weapon.
  He dragged her to the bed, stoically suffering her  flailing feet and fists. When she was pressed under  him, his 
erection hard against her thigh, her terror  doubled.
  There were worse things than being locked in.  "No!" She tried to buck him off, her fingers  fisting and unfisting while 
he clamped her hands  over her head.
  "I want you, Deanna. God, I want  you." His fumbling kiss dampened her jaw. The  sensation of her body writhing 
beneath his had a red  haze of need cloaking his vision. Her heart was  chugging like a piston against his, and her 
skin was soft  as water, hot as fire. "Please, please."  He was almost weeping as his mouth covered hers. "Just

let me touch you."
  "No." Sickened, she turned her head.  Control. She grasped onto her only hope.  "You'd be no better than Jamie. 
You're  hurting me, Jeff. You have to stop hurting me."
  Tears tracked down his cheeks when he lifted  his head. "I'm sorry. Deanna, I'm so  sorry. It's just that I've waited so 
long. We  won't make love until you're ready. I  swear it. Don't be afraid of me."
  "I am afraid." He wouldn't rape her,  she realized, and was almost ashamed that she was willing  to settle for that. 
"You have me locked up. You've  told me no one can find me. What if something  happened to you? I could die here."
  "Nothing's going to happen. I've planned  everything, every detail. I love you, Deanna, and  I know under it all, you 
love me too. You've  shown me in hundreds of ways. The way you  smile at me. The way you touch me, or laugh.  
The way you'll catch my eye across the room. You  made me your director. I can't begin  to explain what that meant to 
me. You trusted me  to guide you. You believed in me. In us."
  "It's not love. I don't love you."  "You're just not ready yet. Now you need  to rest." He braceleted her wrists in one 
hand,  fought the hypo free with the other.
  "No. Don't." She twisted, wrenched,  begged. "Please don't. I can't go anywhere.  You've said I can't get away."
  "You need to rest," he said quietly, and slid  the needle under her skin. "I'll watch out for you,  Deanna."
  Her head lolled back, and his tears fell  to mix with hers. He waited, miserably, until  her struggles to fight off the drug 
ceased. When  her body went limp, he clamped down on the  urge to stroke his hands over it.
  Not until she's ready, he reminded himself,  content to brush the dampness from her cheeks.  Gently, he shifted her 
onto the pillows and  placed a chaste kiss on her brow.
  His princess, he thought, studying her as she  slept. He'd built her an ivory tower.  They'd live there together. 
Forever.
  "Isn't she perfect, Uncle Matthew?  Isn't she beautiful? You'd have loved her too.  You'd have known she was the 
one, the only one."
  He sighed. Uncle Matthew wasn't speaking

to him. He'd been wrong to allow sex  to twist his plans. He'd have to be punished.  Bread and water only for two 
days. That's what  his uncle would have done. Meekly he crouched down  to clean up the broken dishes. He tidied the  
room, turned the lights down. With one last,  longing glance at Deanna, he slipped out of the  room, shutting the panel 
silently.

  "I think it would be best if you'd take Miss  Reynolds home." Jenner rode up in the  elevator with Finn. He still 
resented Finn's  earlier pressuring but he covered it with quiet  dignity. "I'd prefer that she was out of the office  when 
we re-interrogate her staff."
  "The minute she finds out that's what you intend  to do, she won't budge." Pleased that matters  seemed to be 
moving forward, Finn leaned against the  wall. "I'll do what I can to convince her to stay  out of the way, but that's the 
best I can offer.  Deanna's fiercely loyal. She won't  want to accept that one of her own people is involved."
  "She may have to." Jenner headed out of the car the  moment the doors opened. "If she kicks up  too much of a 
fuss, we can take her people in to the  station. She'll like that less."
  "You can try. You don't know her the way I  do, Lieutenant. Cassie," he said as he  walked into the reception area. 
"She in?"
  "No." Baffled, she stopped gathering the  stacks of mail she'd intended to post on the way  home. "What are you 
doing here?"
  "Cassie Drew?" Jenner inclined his head.  "We'd like to ask you some more questions. I wonder if  you could get the 
rest of Miss Reynolds's  staff together?"
  "I--I don't know who's still in the building.  Finn?"
  "Why don't you buzz everyone," he suggested.  "And find Deanna for me, will you?" He wanted  to get her out, and 
quickly. Some instinct told him  to hurry. He intended to heed it. "Tell her  I'm in the mood to cook."
  "She's gone home. She left right after you  called."
  "I called?" He felt uneasy. "Did
Deanna tell you I called?"
  "No, you left a message about a meeting, and  getting home early. It came in during her  fitting, and she left as soon 
as she was done."

  Finn shoved open the door  to Deanna's office, took one quick scan.  "Did you take the message?"
  "No, I was in with her when it came in.  Jeff took it."
  His eyes were like blue ice when he turned  back. "Did he say he spoke to me?"
  "Yes--I guess. Is something wrong?"  Fear began to gnaw through confusion. Cassie's  gaze darted from Jenner to 
Finn and back again.  "Is something wrong with Deanna?"
  Rather than answer, Finn grabbed the phone and  punched in his home number. Two rings later,  he heard the 
answering machine click on. With his  teeth set, he waited through the message.  "Deanna? Pick up if you're there. 
Pick  up the phone, damn it."
  "She'd have to be home by now. She left more  than an hour ago. Finn, what's going on?"
  "What did Jeff tell her?"
  "That you'd called, just as I said."  "Why didn't you answer the phone?"
  "I--" Frightened, and not knowing why, she put a  hand on the desk to keep her balance. "I  didn't hear the phone. I 
didn't hear it."
  "Where's Jeff?"
  "I don't know. He--"
  But Finn was already racing down the hall. He  burst into one room, found Simon in consultation with  Margaret. 
"Hey, Finn. Don't bother  to knock."
  "Where's Jeff?"
  "He wasn't feeling well. He went  home." Simon was rising from the desk as he  spoke. "What's the problem?"
  "Finn." Though her hands were stiff with cold,  Cassie tugged on Finn's sleeve. "I  called for Tim myself. I talked to 
him. He  met her downstairs."
  "Get him on the line. Now."
  "Mr. Riley." Jenner spoke calmly as  Cassie rushed off to obey. "I've got a  black-and-white on its way to your house 
right now.  Odds are Miss Reynolds wasn't answering  the phone. That's all."
  "What the hell's going on?" Simon  demanded. "What's happened now?"
  "Tim doesn't answer his page." Cassie  stood in the hallway, a hand at her throat.  "I got his machine on his home 
phone."

  "Give me the address," Jenner said  briskly.

          Chapter Twenty-nine

  "Mr. Riley, I know you're upset, but  you're going to have to let me handle this."
  Jenner stood on the sidewalk in front of  Jeff's suburban home, aware he was only  temporarily blocking Finn from 
storming the door.
  "She's in there. I know it."
  "Not to belittle your instincts, but we can't know that.  We only know that Jeff Hyatt delivered a  message. We're 
going to check everything out,"  Jenner reminded him. "The same way we checked  out the driver, Tim O'Malley."
  "Who wasn't home," Finn ground out, staring  at the windows behind Jenner. "And the company car  wasn't in the lot. 
And no one's seen  O'Malley since sometime in the afternoon." His  gaze, icy still, cut like a blade back  to Jenner. "So 
where the hell is he? Where the  hell is Deanna?"
  "That's what we're going to try to find out.  I'm not going to waste my time telling you to get  back in your car and go 
home, but I am telling you  to let me handle this with Hyatt."
  "So handle it."
  His voice might have been cold, his eyes  frosty, but Jenner recognized a powder keg  ready to explode. The 
melodious sound of church  bells rang out when Jenner pressed the  doorbell. Beneath his feet was a mat with the 
word  WELCOME woven in black. In the center of the  door was a glossy Christmas wreath topped by a  bright red 
bow. Colored lights had been neatly  strung around the frame. Jeff Hyatt appeared  ready for the holidays.
  He'd known they would come, and he was ready.  Clad comfortably in a tattered sweater and baggy  sweats, Jeff 
descended the stairs. He'd  watched them arrive from his bedroom window. He  smiled to himself as he paused 
before the door. This,  he knew, was the next step toward freeing  Deanna. Toward binding her.
  He pulled open the door. "Hey, Finn."  Confusion clouded his eyes as he looked at his  visitors. "What's up?"
  "Where is she?" Finn spaced each word  precisely. Yes, there was a powder keg inside

him, and only the knowledge that it could explode  over Deanna kept it tapped. "I want to know  where she is."
  "Hey." His grin tilted inffconfusion. Jeff  stared blankly at Finn, then at Jenner.  "What's going on? Is something 
wrong?"
  "Mr. Hyatt." Jenner stepped neatly between  the two men. "I need to ask you some questions."
  "Okay." Jeff rubbed his fingertips against his  temple. "No problem. Do you want to come in?"
  "Thank you. Mr. Hyatt," Jenner began,  "did you relay a message to Miss  Reynolds at approximately three o'clock 
this  afternoon?"
  "Yeah. Why?" Wincing, Jeff continued  to massage his temple. "Jesus. Can we sit  down? I've got this monster 
headache." He  turned into the living area. The furnishings were  straight out of a catalogue. Matching tables,  
matching chairs, twin lamps, a soulless,  practical suite favored by uninspired  bachelors or newlyweds on a strict  
budget. Only Jeff sat.
  "You told her I called?"
  "Sure I did." Jeff's smile was  cautious. His eyes were wary. "Your assistant  said to tell Dee you had this meeting 
and were planning  on getting home early."
  "You didn't talk to Mr. Riley?" Jenner  demanded.
  "No. I thought it was kind of weird that the  call came through my office, but when I went  to tell Dee, I saw that she 
and Cassie were  all involved. Dee was getting her wedding dress  fitted. She looked incredible."
  "Why did you leave the office early?"  "This headache. I haven't been able to ditch it  all day. It makes it hard to 
concentrate.  Listen." He stood again, obviously impatient  and bewildered. "What's this all about? Is it some  kind of 
crime to deliver a phone message?"
  "What time did you leave the office?"  "Right after I talked to Dee. I came home  --well, I went to the store first, picked 
up some  more heavy-duty aspirin. I thought if I laid  down awhile ..." His voice trailed off.  "Something's happened to 
Dee." As if his legs  wouldn't support him, he lowered slowly to the couch  again. "Oh my God. Is she hurt?"
  "She hasn't been seen since she left the

office," Jenner told him.
  "Oh God. Jesus. Have you talked to Tim?  Didn't he drive her home?"
  "We're unable to locate Mr.  O'Malley."
  On a shaking breath, Jeff rubbed his hands  over his face. "It wasn't a message from your  assistant, was it, Finn? I 
didn't ask any  questions. I wasn't paying attention." His jaw  quivered when he dropped his hands again. His eyes  
were dark with an emotion disguising itself as fear.  "All I could think about was getting home and going  to bed. I just 
said, sure, I'll tell her. And  I did."
  "I don't believe you." Finn didn't  move a muscle, but the words cracked toward  Jeff like a slap. "You're a meticulous  
man, Jeff. That's how Deanna describes  you." And the minutes were ticking away. "Why would  you, with everything 
that's been going on, pass along a  half-baked message like that?"
  "It was supposed to be from you," Jeff shot  back. The way Finn studied him, as if he could  see all the secrets 
swimming in his brain, put  Jeff on edge. "Why wouldn't I pass it  along?"
  "Then you won't mind if we go through the house."  Finn turned to Jenner. "Through every inch of it."
  "You think I--" Jeff snapped his mouth  shut, pushed himself from the couch. "Go ahead," he  said to both men. 
"Search it. Go through every room. I  want you to."
  "We appreciate your cooperation, Mr.  Hyatt. It would be best if you came with us while  we do."
  "Fine." Jeff stood for a moment, staring at  Finn. "I know how you feel about her, and I  guess I can't really blame you 
for this."
  They went through every room, searching through closets,  cupboards, through the garage, where Jeff's  
undistinguished sedan was parked. It took less  than twenty minutes.
  Finn noted the tidy, practical  furnishings, the well-pressed, practical  clothes. As a director for a number-one show,  
he'd be well compensated financially. And Finn  could see that he sure as hell wasn't spending  any money on 
himself.
  Just what, he wondered, was Jeff Hyatt  saving his pennies for?

  "I wish she was here." Jeff felt  a quick, gleeful surge as they walked past the  bookcase. "At least she'd be safe. I  
want to help. I want to do something. We can start  with the press. We can get national coverage.  By morning we'll 
have everyone in the country looking  for her. Everybody knows her face." He looked  beseechingly at Finn. 
"Someone will see her. He  can't keep her locked in a tower somewhere."
  "Wherever he has her"--Finn never took his  eyes off Jeff's--"I'll find her."
  Without a backward glance, Finn strode out of the  house. Seconds later, the sound of his engine  roared.
  "I can't blame him," Jeff muttered. He  looked toward Jenner. "No one could."
  He locked up carefully behind the policeman.  His smile grew wider, wider, wider as he  climbed the stairs. They 
might come back. A  small, grinning part of him hoped they would. Because  he would lead them right through the 
house, right by the hidden  room where his princess slept.
  They would never find her. And eventually they would  go away. He and Deanna would be alone. Always.
  He turned on the television in his room. The  evening news didn't interest him. He flipped  a switch on the splitter 
behind the set and settled  down to watch Deanna.
  She slept on, still as a doll behind the glass  of the screen. The tears he wept now were of  simple joy.

  Jenner caught up with Finn at home. He  made no mention of the speed limits Finn had  ignored. "We'll be checking 
out Hyatt and  O'Malley thoroughly. Why don't you be a  reporter and get the story on the air?"
  "It'll be on the air." Standing in the chill  December wind, Finn struggled to stave off  panic. "Hyatt looked as innocent 
as a  newborn lamb, didn't he?"
  "Yes, he did." Jenner blew out a smoky  breath. Three days until Christmas, he  thought. He would do everything in 
his power to be certain  it was a day of celebration.
  "I had some trouble with that house," Finn said after  a moment.
  "What kind?"
  "Nothing out of place. Not a crooked  picture, not a dustball. Books and

magazines lined up like soldiers,  furniture all but geometrically arranged.  Everything centered, squared and bandbox 
clean."
  "I noticed. Obsessive."
  "That's how it strikes me. He fits the  pattern."
  Jenner acknowledged that with a slight nod. "A  man can be obsessively neat without being  obsessively homicidal."
  "Where was the Christmas tree?" Finn  muttered.
  "The Christmas tree?"
  "He's got the wreath, he's got the lights.  But no tree. You'd think he'd have a tree  somewhere."
  "Maybe he's one of those traditionalists who  don't put it up until Christmas Eve."  But the omission was interesting.
  "One more thing, Lieutenant. He claims he  came home early to lie down. The bed in his  room was the only thing 
mussed up. Pillow  scrunched a bit, bedspread wrinkled. We got  him up from his nap."
  "So he says."
  "Why did he have his shoes on?" Finn's  eyes gleamed in the lowering light. "The laces were  tied in double knots. 
Someone that neat doesn't  lie down on his bed with his shoes on."
  He'd missed that clue, damn it, Jenner  thought. "I believe I mentioned this before, Mr.  Riley, you have a good eye."

  He couldn't stay at home. Not without her.  Finn did the only thing that seemed possible. He  went back to the 
station, avoiding the newsroom.  He couldn't bear to answer questions, to be asked  questions. He went to his office, 
brewed a pot of  strong coffee. He added a healthy dose of  whiskey to the first cup.
  He booted up his computer.
  "Finn." Fran stood in the doorway, her  face splotchy, her eyes swollen and red. Before  he'd risen completely, she 
took a stumbling  step forward. "Oh God, Finn."
  He stroked her shaking shoulders, though he  felt no well of comfort that he could offer. It was just  the routine, the 
show of comfort that meant nothing  to anyone.
  "I had to take Kelsey to the pediatrician  for her checkup. I wasn't here. I wasn't

even here."
  "You couldn't have changed anything."  "I might have." She shoved away, eyes  fierce now. "How did he get to her? 
I've  heard a dozen different stories."
  "This is the place for them. Truth or  accuracy, which do you want?"
  "Both."
  "One's not the same as the other, Fran.  You've been in the game long enough.  Accurately, we don't know. She left  
early, went out to the lot where her car and driver were  supposed to be waiting. Now she's gone. Her  driver seems to 
have vanished into thin air."
  She didn't like the cool control of his voice  or the workaday hum of his computer. "Then what's the  truth, Finn? Why 
don't you tell me what the  truth is?"
  "The truth is that whoever has been sending her  those notes, whoever killed Lew Mcationeil,  Angela and Pike, has 
Deanna. They've  got an APB out on her, and one on  O'Malley and the car."
  "Tim wouldn't. He couldn't."
  "Why?" The single word was like a bullet. "Because  you know him? Because he's part of Deanna's  extended 
family? Fuck that. He could have."  Finn sat down, drained half his coffee. The  shock of caffeine and whiskey spread 
through him like  velvet lightning. "But I don't think he  did. I can't be sure until he turns up.  If he turns up."
  "Why wouldn't he?" Fran demanded. "He's  worked for Dee for two years. He's never missed  a single day."
  "He's never been dead before, has he?" He  swore at her, at himself when her color faded  to paste. Rising, he 
poured her whiskey,  straight. "I'm sorry, Fran. I'm half  out of my mind."
  "How can you sit in here and say things like that? How  can you work, think about work, when Dee's out there  
somewhere? This isn't some international disaster you're  covering, goddamn it, where you're the steady,  unflappable 
journalist. This is Dee."
  He jammed useless hands in his pockets.  "When something's important, vital, when the  answer means everything, 
you sit, you work, you think it  through, you take all the facts and create a  scenario that plays. Something that's 
accurate. I

think Jeff's got her."
  "Jeff." Fran choked on whiskey.  "You're crazy. Jeff's devoted to Dee, and  he's harmless as a baby. He'd never hurt  
her."
  "I'm counting on that," he said dully. "I'm  betting my life on it. I need everything you've  got on him, Fran. Personnel 
records,  memos, files. I need your impressions, your  observations. I need you to help me."
  She said nothing, only studied his face. No,  his eyes weren't cold, she realized. They were  burning up. And there 
was terror behind them. "Give  me ten minutes," she said, and left him alone.
  She came back in less than her allotted  time with a stack of files and a box of computer  disks. "His employment 
record,  resume, application for employment. Tax  info." Fran smiled weakly. "I lifted his  desk calendars. He keeps 
them from year to year.  They were all filed."
  Meticulous. Obsessive. Though his blood  iced, Finn accessed the first disk.
  "That's his personnel file from CBC. I  hope you don't mind breaking the law."
  "Not a bit. This application is from April  eighty-nine. When did Dee go on air at  CBC?"
  "About a month before that." Fran reached for the  whiskey to unclog her throat. "It doesn't  prove anything."
  "No, but it's a fact." The first he could  build on. "Same address he's got now.  How'd he afford a house like that 
when he'd been  working as a radio gofer?"
  "He inherited it. His uncle left it to him.  Finn, I had to call Dee's family." She  pressed a hand to her mouth. "They're 
getting the  first flight out in the morning."
  "I'm sorry." He stared hard at the  screen. Families. He'd never had one  to worry about before. "I should have done 
it."
  "No, I didn't mean that. I just--I  don't know what to say to them."
  "Tell them we're going to get her back.  That's the truth. Fran, see if you can find the  date in his calendar when Lew 
Mcationeil was  killed. It was February ninety-two."
  "Yeah, I remember." She opened the book,  flipped through the pages, skimming Jeff's neat,

precise notations. "We had a show that  day. Jeff was directing. I remember because we  had snow and everybody 
was worried that the audience  would be thin."
  "Do you remember if he came in?"  "Sure, he was here. He never missed.  Looks like he had a ten o'clock meeting 
with  Simon."
  "He'd have had time," Finn murmured.  "Christ Almighty, do you really think he could  have gone to New York, shot 
Lew, come back and  waltzed into the studio to direct a show, all before  lunch?"
  Yes, Finn thought coldly. Oh yes, he  did. "Fact: Lew was killed about seven--that's  Central time. There's an hour's 
time difference  between Chicago and New York. Speculation:  He flies in and out, maybe he charters a  plane. I need 
his receipts."
  "He doesn't keep his personal stuff  here."
  "Then I'll have to get back in his house. You  make sure he comes in tomorrow morning. And you make  sure he 
stays."
  She got up, poured coffee into her whiskey.  "All right. What else?"
  "Let's see what else we can find."

  She'd lost track of time. Day or night,  there was no difference in the claustrophobic world  Jeff had created for her. 
Her head was cotton  from the drug, her stomach raw, but she ate the  breakfast he'd left for her. She didn't open  the 
plain white envelope he'd left on her  tray.
  For a timeless, sweaty interlude, she tried  to find an opening in the wall, had pried and poked  with a spoon until her 
fingers had cramped  uselessly. All she'd accomplished was to mar the  pristine wallpaper.
  She couldn't be sure if he was gone, or how  long she'd been alone. Then she remembered the  television and 
jumped like a cat on the remote.
  Still morning, she thought, her eyes filming with  tears as she scanned the channels. How easy it  was to time your 
life around the familiar schedule of  daytime TV. The bright laughter of a familiar  game show was both mocking and 
soothing.
  She'd slept through her own show, she realized,  and choked back a bitter laugh.

  Where was Finn? What was he doing?  Where was he looking for her?
  She rose mechanically, walked into the  bathroom. Though she'd already checked once, she  repeated the routine of 
standing on the lip of the tub,  climbing onto the lid of the toilet and searching for  hidden cameras.
  She had no choice but to trust Jeff that he  wouldn't pry in this room. She slid the door  closed, tried not to think 
about the lack of a lock.  And she stripped.
  She had to bite back the fear that he would come in  when she was most vulnerable. She needed the cold,  bracing 
spray to help clear her mind. She  scrubbed hard, letting her thoughts focus as she  soaped and rinsed, soaped and 
rinsed.
  He hadn't missed a detail, she thought.  Her brand of shampoo, of powder, creams. She  used them all, finding some 
comfort in the daily  routine. Wrapped in a bath sheet, she walked  back into the bedroom to go through the drawers.
  She chose a sweater, trousers. Just the sort  of outfit she would pick for a day of relaxing at  home. Ignoring the 
fresh shudder, she carried the  outfit, and the lacy underwear he'd provided, into the  bathroom.
  Dressed, she began to pace. Pacing, she  began to plan.

  Finn parked his car half a block down, then  backtracked on foot. He walked straight  to Jeff Hyatt's front door. He 
didn't  bother to knock. Since he'd just hung up his car  phone with Fran, he knew Jeff was in the  office.
  Finn had the extra set of keys Fran had  taken from Jeff's bottom desk drawer. There  were three locks. A lot of 
security, he  mused, for a quiet neighborhood. He  unbolted all three and, once inside, took the  precaution of locking 
up again.
  He started upstairs first, clamping down on the  urge to dive wildly into desk and files.  Instead he searched 
meticulously, going through each  drawer, each paper with his reporter's eye keen  for any tiny detail. He wanted a 
receipt,  some proof that Jeff had traveled to New York  and back on the day of Lew's murder.
  The police might overlook his reporter's  instinct, but they wouldn't overlook facts. Once

they had Jeff in custody, they would  sweat out of him Deanna's whereabouts. He kept  his eyes open, too, for some 
proof that Jeff had  another house, a room, an apartment. He might  be holding her there.
  He wouldn't believe she was dead.
  The pattern so far was to kill people in public  places.
  He shut the last drawer of the desk and moved  to the files.
  By the time he'd finished, his palms were damp.  Biting back the taste of despair, he strode  from the office into Jeff's 
bedroom. He'd found  nothing, absolutely nothing except proof that  Jeff Hyatt was an organized, dedicated  employee 
who lived quietly and well, almost  too well, within his means.

  While Finn searched the bedroom, Deanna  paced the floor beneath him. She knew she would have  only one 
chance, and that failure would be more than  risky. It might be fatal.

  In the room above, Finn scanned row after row  of videotapes. The man was beyond a buff, Finn  mused. He was 
fanatical. The neat labels  indicated television series, movies, news  events. Over a hundred black cases lined the  
wall beside the television. Finn juggled the  remote in his hand, deciding if he had time after  searching the house, 
he'd screen a few to see if  there was anything more personal on tape.
  He set the remote down, only a push of a  button away from bringing Deanna to life on  screen. He turned to the 
closet.
  The scent of mothballs, an old woman's  odor, tickled his nostrils. Slacks hung  straight and true, jackets graced 
padded  hangers. The shoes were stretched on trees. The  photo album he found on the shelf revealed  nothing but 
snapshots of an elderly man, sometimes  alone, sometimes with Jeff beside him. His jaw  seemed permanently 
clenched, his lips withered to a  scowl. Beneath each shot was a careful notation.
  Uncle Matthew on 75th birthday. June  1983. Uncle Matthew and Jeff, Easter  1977. Uncle Matthew, November 
1988.
  There was no one else in the book. Just a man,  young, a little thin, and his hard-faced uncle. Never  a young girl or 
a laughing child, a romping pet.

  The book felt unhealthy, diseased, in  his hand. Finn slid it back on the shelf,  careful to align the edges.
  Details, he thought grimly. Two could  play.
  Underwear was tucked into the top dresser drawer.  All snowy white boxers, pressed and folded.  There was nothing 
beneath them but plain white paper,  lightly scented with lilac.
  It was almost worse than the mothballs, Finn  thought, and moved down to the next drawer.
  None of the usual hiding places was utilized.  He found no papers, no packets taped to the  undersides or backs of 
drawers, no valuables  tucked into the toes of shoes. The nightstand drawer  held a current TV Guide with selected  
programs highlighted in yellow. A pad and a  sharpened pencil and an extra handkerchief joined  it.
  He'd been in the house for nearly an hour when  he hit pay dirt. The diary was under the pillow.  It was leather-
bound, glossy and locked. Finn was  reaching in his pocket for his penknife when he heard  the rattle of a key in the 
lock.
  "Goddamn it, Fran." He glanced back  at the closet, rejecting it instantly not only  as a clich`e, but also as a 
humiliating one.  He'd rather face a foe than hide from one. He  stepped forward toward the bedroom door just as  Jeff 
walked down the hallway, whistling on his  way to the kitchen.
  "Don't seem too devastated, do you? You  son of a bitch." Muttering under his breath, Finn  slipped toward the stairs.

  He couldn't wait to see her. Jeff knew  he was taking a chance leaving the office when Fran  was so insistent that he 
stay. But he'd slipped out,  antsy to get home. To get to Deanna. The  office was in an uproar, he thought. No one 
could  work, and he could always claim to have needed to be  alone. Nobody would blame him.
  He poured a glass of milk, arranged  fancy tea cookies on a china plate and put  them all on a tray with another 
single rose.
  She'd be rested now, he was certain. She'd be  feeling better, more at home. And soon, very  soon, she would see 
how well he could care for  her.
  Finn waited at the top of the stairs. He

heard Jeff whistling and the sound of dishes  ringing together. He heard the footsteps, a quiet  click, followed 
moments later by another.
  Then he heard nothing at all.
  Where did the bastard go? he wondered. Moving  quietly, he descended the stairs. He  slipped like a shadow from 
room to room. By the time  he reached the kitchen, he was baffled. He saw the  bakery box of cookies, caught the 
candy scent  of icing. But the man had vanished like smoke.

  "You look wonderful." Secure in the  soundproofed room, Jeff smiled shyly at  Deanna. "Do you like the clothes?"
  "They're very nice." She willed herself  to smile back. "I took a shower. I can't  believe you went to all the trouble to 
pick out all  my favorite brands."
  "You saw the towels? I had them monogrammed  with your initials."
  "I know." Her stomach rolled. "It was very  sweet of you, Jeff. Cookies?"
  "They're the ones you like best."  "Yes, they are." Watching him, she walked  over, fighting not to grit her teeth. She 
kept  her eyes on his as she chose a cookie, bit in  delicately. "Wonderful." She saw his gaze  lower to her mouth as 
she licked at a crumb. "You  were gone a long time."
  "I came back as soon as I could. I'm  going to turn in my resignation next week. I  have plenty of money put away, 
and my uncle  invested. I won't have to leave you again."
  "It's lonely here. By myself." She sat on the  edge of the bed. "You'll stay with me now, won't  you?"
  "As long as you want."
  "Sit with me." In a subtle invitation, she  touched the bed beside her. "I think if you explain  things to me now, I'd be 
ready to understand."
  His hands trembled as he set the tray down.  "You're not angry?"
  "No. I'm still a little scared. It frightens me  to be locked in here."
  "I'm sorry." He eased down beside her,  careful to keep an inch of space between them. "One  day it'll be different."
  "Jeff." She made contact by laying her hand  over his. "Why did you decide to do this? How  did you know this was 
the time?"

  "I knew it had to be soon, before the  wedding. When I came in yesterday and saw you in  your wedding dress--I 
couldn't wait any longer.  It was like a sign. You were so beautiful, Dee."
  "But it was a terrible risk. Tim was  downstairs waiting."
  "It was me. I was waiting. I used his hat and  his coat, the sunglasses. I had to get Tim  out of the way."
  "How?" When he looked down, staring at their  joined hands, her heart dropped. "Jeff. Is  Tim dead?"
  "I didn't do it the way I did the others."  Eager, anxious, he looked back at her, his  eyes as hopeful as a child's. "I 
wouldn't have done  that. Tim didn't hurt you. But I had to get  him out of the way, and fast. I liked him, too,  really. So 
I was real quick. He didn't suffer.  I put him in the trunk of the car after--and then when  I'd brought you here, I drove 
the car to a parking  lot downtown. I left it there and I came  home. To be with you." His face crumbled when she  
turned hers away. "You've got to understand,  Deanna."
  "I'm trying to." Oh, God. Tim.
"You haven't hurt Finn?"
  "I promised I wouldn't. He's had you all  this time, and I've been waiting."
  "I know. I know." Instinctively she  soothed. "They're looking for me, aren't they?"
  "They won't find you."
  "But they're looking."
  "Yes!" His voice rose as he pushed off the  bed. Everything had gone perfectly up till now,  he reminded himself. 
Perfectly. But he felt as  though he were standing on the edge of a cliff, and  couldn't see the bottom. "And they'll look 
and  look. And then they'll stop. And nobody will  bother us. Nobody."
  "It's all right." She rose, too, though her  legs trembled. "You know how curious I am about  everything. Always 
asking questions."
  "You won't miss being on television,  Dee." He used his sleeve to wipe a tear  away. "I'm your best audience. I could 
listen  to you for hours and hours. I do. But now I won't  have to watch a tape. Now it can be real."
  "You want it to be real, don't you?"  "More than anything."
  Her heart slammed against her ribs as she

reached out to stroke his cheek. "And you  want me."
  "You're all I've ever wanted." His face  twitched under her palm. "All these years, you're  all I've wanted. I've never 
been with another  woman. Not like Pike. Not like Riley. I was  waiting for you."
  She wished she could harden her heart, but part of  her wept for him. "You want to touch me." She  steeled herself 
and lifted his hand, placed it on her  breast. "Like this."
  "You're soft. So soft." There was something  pathetic and terrifying about the way his hand shook  against her, even 
as his fingers moved to caress.
  "If I let you touch me, the way you want,  will you let me go outside?"
  He jerked back as though she'd burned him.  Bitter betrayal welled in his throat. "You're  trying to trick me."
  "No, Jeff." It was all right for her  desperation to show, she told herself. Let him see  her weakness. "I don't like being 
closed in. It  frightens me. I only want to go outside for a  few minutes, get some air. You want me to be  happy, don't 
you?"
  "It's going to take time." His mouth set in a  stubborn line. "You're not ready."
  "You know how I have to keep busy, Jeff."  She stepped toward him, careful to keep her eyes  fixed on his. When 
she slid her arms up his  chest, his eyes clouded, darkened. "Sitting here like  this, hour after hour, is upsetting me. I 
know how  much you've done for me." And she felt the outline  of the syringe in his pocket. "I know you want us  to be 
together."
  "We are together." He brought his unsteady hand  back to her breast. When she didn't flinch, he  smiled. "We'll 
always be together."
  He lowered his head to kiss her. She slipped  the needle from his pocket.
  "Deanna," he murmured.
  Her sharp indrawn breath betrayed her. She  twisted, fighting to plunge the needle into him as they  grappled to the 
floor.

  Searching for Jeff finally brought Finn back  to the bookcase. He had seen what he and Jenner  had missed on their 
first search. The dimensions, he  thought, as the spit in his mouth dried to dust. The  dimensions were wrong. The 
bookcase couldn't be an

end wall. Couldn't be.
  She was in there, he realized. Deanna was in  there. And she wasn't alone. He had one  panicked notion of hurling 
himself bodily against the  shelves. His body quivered with the effort of holding  back. It wasn't the way. God knew 
what
Jeff would do to her in the time it took him to break  through.
  Struggling for calm, he began to search  methodically for a mechanism.

  She was losing. The hypo squirted out of her  fingers when he rolled over her. She screamed as  her head rapped 
hard against the floor. Though her  vision blurred, she could see him above her, his  face distorted, his tears running. 
And she knew  he could kill. Not only others, but her.
  "You lied," he cried out in an agony of  despair. "You lied. I have to punish you. I have  to." And sobbing, he closed 
his hands around her  throat.
  She used her nails to rake his face. The  blood surged to the surface and ran like his tears.  When he howled in pain, 
she squirmed free.  Her fingers brushed over the syringe as he snagged  her ankle.
  "I loved you. I loved you. Now I have  to hurt you. It's the only way you'll understand.  It's for your own good. That's 
what Uncle  Matthew says. It's for your own good. You'll have  to stay in here. You'll have to stay and have bread and  
water until you're ready to behave." He  chanted the words as he dragged her back toward the  bed. "I'm doing my 
best for you, aren't I? I  gave you a roof over your head. I put clothes  on your back. And this is the way you thank 
me?  You'll just have to learn. I know best."
  He snagged her hand, yanked up her arm.  She plunged the needle into him.

  Finn heard the sound of sirens in the distance, but  they meant nothing. Every ounce of concentration was  focused 
on the puzzle at hand. There was a way  in. There was always a way. And he would find it.
  "It's here," he murmured to himself. "Right here.  The son of a bitch didn't walk through the wall."  His finger hit a 
nub. He twisted. The panel  opened in well-oiled silence.
  Deanna stood beside the bed, the syringe gripped  in one hand. Eyes glazed, murmuring her name,

Jeff crawled across the mattress  toward her.
  "I love you, Deanna." His hand brushed  hers before he went limp.
  "Oh, Jesus. Deanna." In one leap,  Finn had her in his arms.
  She swayed, the needle dropping from her loose  fingers. "Finn." His name burned her bruised  throat and felt like 
heaven. From what seemed like a  long, long distance, she heard him swear when her  body jerked with a shudder.
  "Did he hurt you? Tell me if you're  hurt."
  "No. No, he wanted to take care of me."  She buried her face in Finn's shoulder. "He  only wanted to take care of 
me."
  "Let's get out of here." He carried her through  the opening, down the hall, where he dragged at the  locks.
  "I kept asking him to let me go outside."  She breathed in the raw air like wine. "He shot  you, Finn. He was the one 
who shot you. And he  killed Tim."
  She jolted at the sound of screeching brakes.  "Well." Jenner climbed out of his car,  moments ahead of two black-
and-whites. The  picture of Finn carrying Deanna down the  front steps wasn't what he'd expected  to see after he'd 
gotten the frantic call from  Fran Myers. But it was an image that  satisfied. "Went off on your own again, Mr.  Riley."
  "You can't trust a reporter, Lieutenant."  "Guess not. Good to see you, Miss  Reynolds. Merry Christmas."

  Deanna studied her reflection in the dressing  room mirror. The bruises had faded from her  throat, and the haunted 
look had ebbed from her  eyes.
  But her heart was still sore.
  As Joe had often told her during her  reporting days, she had one that bled too  easily.
  She couldn't afford for it to bleed now. She had  a show to do in thirty minutes.
  "Hey."
  She glanced over, saw Finn. Smiled.  "Hey back."
  "Can you spare a minute?"
  "I've got several for you." She  swiveled in her chair, held out her hands.  "Don't you have a plane to catch?"
  "I called the airport. My flight is  delayed two hours. I've got time on my  hands."
  Suspicion gleamed in her eyes. "You're not  going to miss that plane."
  "I know, I know. You've already laid down the  law. I've got a job to do, and you're not going  to support me if I screw 
it up. I'm going  to Rome. Only a week off schedule." He  bent down, kissed her. "I figured I had time  to give one 
more shot at talking you in!coming with me."
  "I've got a job to do, too."
  "The press is going to be all over you."  She arched her brows. "Promises,  promises." She stepped off the chair, 
turned  a circle. "How do I look?"
  "Like something I don't want to be several  thousand miles away from." He tipped up her  chin, looked deep into her 
eyes. "You're  hurting."
  "I'm better. Finn, we've been through this."  She saw his face change, harden. "Don't."
  "I don't know how long it's going to take before  I close my eyes and stop seeing you in that  room. Knowing you 
were there all those hours, and I'd  walked right by you." He pulled her roughly against  him. "I still want to kill him."
  "He's sick, Finn. All those years of  emotional abuse. He needed to escape, and he  used television. And one day, 
the day he found his  uncle dead, I walked out of the screen and into his  life."
  "I don't give a damn how sick he is,  how warped or how pathetic." He drew her  back. "I can't, Deanna. I don't have 
it in  me to care. And I can't stand hearing you blame  yourself."
  "I'm not. Really, I'm not. I know it  wasn't my fault. Nothing he did was my  fault." Still, she thought of Tim, whose 
body had  been found in the trunk of her company car in a  downtown parking lot. "I was never real to him,  Finn. Even 
all the time we worked together, I was  never anything but an image, a vision. Everything  he did he did because he'd 
twisted that image.  I can't blame myself for that. But I can still be  sorry."
  "Dee." Fran stepped into the  doorway, winked at Finn. "We need the star in  five."
  "The star's ready."
  "I can postpone the flight, stick around for the  press conference after the show."
  "I can handle reporters." She kissed Finn  firmly, on the mouth. "I've had plenty of  experience."
  "Want to get married, Kansas?" With his arm  around her, he walked her into the corridor, down  toward the set.
  "You bet I do. April third. Be there."  "I never miss a deadline." He turned her  around to face him. "I'm crazy about 
you." And  winced. "Bad choice of words."
  She wasn't surprised that she could laugh.  Nothing surprised her now. "Call me from  Rome." Marcie leaped forward 
to repair  Deanna's lipstick. "And don't forget, you have  to handle the flowers for the church and reception. You have  
the list I made you?"
  Behind her back, he rolled his eyes. "Which  one?"
  "All of them."
  "No you don't." Marcie threw up a hand  before Deanna could lean into another kiss. "You've  got thirty seconds, and 
I don't want my  work smeared."
  "Stay tuned, Kansas. I'll be back."  Deanna took another step toward stage.  "The hell with it." She whirled around, 
flew  into Finn's arms. Over Marcie's groan, she  clamped her lips to his. "Hurry back," she  told him, and rushed 
toward the stage, nailing her  cue.
  The floor director stabbed a finger toward  her. Over the sound of applause, she smiled  into the camera's glass eye 
and slipped seamlessly  into millions of lives.
  "Good morning. It's good to be home."

               THE END