Private Scandals by Nora Roberts

  “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.
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  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