Private Scandals (10 page)

“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 protégée—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.”