Private Scandals (15 page)

“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 café 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 maître d’, 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.”