Private Scandals (11 page)

“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.

“
M
aui,” 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.