Private Scandals Read online

  “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. “Cancún, 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.

  Overa
ll, 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