Private Scandals (16 page)

“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.”

B
y 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.

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 her generosity later.”

“Deanna, you make the show work, that’ll be payment enough. Now, let’s talk business.”

Twenty minutes later, with a headache just beginning to brew behind her eyes, she hung up. What had ever made her think she was good with details? Deanna wondered. What had ever made her think she wanted the responsibility of helming a talk show?

“Deanna?” Cassie entered with a tray. “I thought you’d like some coffee.”

“You read my mind.” Deanna set aside papers to make room for the pot. “Do you have time for any? We might want to tank up before the rest of the day’s schedule hits.”

“I brought two cups.” She poured both before she took a chair. “Do you want to go over your agenda for today?”

“I don’t think so.” The first sip of hot black coffee punched its caffeine-laced fist straight into her bloodstream. “It’s engraved on my forehead. Have we set up a lunch for the baseball wives after the show?”

“Simon and Fran will play host. Reservations are confirmed. And Jeff thought it might be nice to have roses in the green room when they arrive. I wanted to run it by you.”

“Good old Jeff. Very classy idea. Let’s put cards on each bunch with a personal thank-you from the staff.” After another sip, she pressed a hand to her jittery stomach. “Christ, Cassie, I’m scared to death.” Setting the cup aside, she took a deep, calming breath and leaned forward. “I want to ask you something, and I really want you to be brutally honest, okay? No sparing feelings, no false pep talk.”

“All right.” Cassie laid her steno pad on her lap. “Shoot.”

“You worked for Angela a long time. You probably know as much about the ins and outs of this sort of a show as any producer or director. I imagine you have an opinion of why
Angela’s
works. And I want to know, candidly, if you believe we have a shot at this.”

“You want to know if we can make
Deanna’s Hour
competitive?”

“Not even that,” Deanna said, shaking her head. “If we can get through the first half a dozen shows without being laughed out of the business.”

“That’s easy. After next week, people are going to do a lot of talking about
Deanna’s Hour.
And more people are going to tune in to see what the deal is. They’re going to like it, because they’re going to like you.” She chuckled at Deanna’s expression. “That’s not sucking up. The thing is, the average viewer won’t see or appreciate the work that’s gone into making it all look good and run smoothly. They won’t know about the long hours or the sweat. But you know, so you’ll work harder. The harder you work, the harder everyone else will. Because you do something Angela didn’t. Something I guess she just couldn’t. You make us feel important. That
makes all the difference. Maybe it won’t put you on top of the ratings heap right away, but it puts you on top with us. That counts.”

“It counts a lot,” Deanna said after a moment. “Thanks.”

“In a couple of months, when the show’s cruising and the budget opens up, I’m going to come back in here. That’s when I’m going to suck up.” She grinned. “And hit you for a raise.”

“If the damn budget ever opens up, everyone’s getting a raise.” Deanna blew at her bangs. “In the meantime, I need to see the tapes on the promos for the affiliates.”

“You need a promotion manager.”

“And a unit manager, and a publicity director, a permanent director and a few production assistants. Until that happy day, I’m wearing those hats, too. Have the newspapers come in yet?”

“I passed them on to Margaret. She’s going to screen them for ideas and make clippings.”

“Fine. Try to get me the clippings before lunch. We’re going to want something really hot for the second week in September. Bach just told me we’ll be going up against a new game show in three cities during fall premiere week.”

“Will do—oh, and your three o’clock with Captain Queeg is rescheduled for three-thirty.”

“Captain—oh, Ryce.” Not bothering to hide the smile, Deanna noted it down on her calendar. “I know he’s a little eccentric, Cassie.”

“And overbearing.”

“And overbearing,” Deanna agreed. “But he’s a good director. We’re lucky to have him for the few opening weeks.”

“If you say so.” She started out, then hesitated and turned back. “Deanna, I didn’t know if I should mention it, then I figured it wouldn’t be right to start censoring your calls.”

“What?”

“Dr. Pike. He called when you were on with Mr. Bach.”

Thoughtfully, Deanna set aside her pen. “If he calls back, put him through. I’ll take care of it.”

“Okay. Oops.” She grinned and stepped back to avoid running into Finn. “ ’Morning, Mr. Riley.”

“Hey, Cassie. I need a minute with the boss.”

“She’s all yours.” Cassie closed the door behind her.

“Finn, I’m sorry, I’m swamped.” But she wasn’t quite quick enough to avoid the kiss when he skirted the desk. She wasn’t sure she wanted to.

“I know, I’ve only got a minute myself.”

“What is it?” She could see the excitement in his eyes, feel it in the air sparking around him. “It’s big.”

“I’m on my way to the airport. Iraq just invaded Kuwait.”

“What?” Her reporter’s adrenaline made her spring up. “Oh, Jesus.”

“Blitzkrieg style. An armored thrust, helicopter-supported. I have a couple of contacts at Green Ramp in North Carolina, a couple of guys I got to know during the fighting at Tocumen airfield in Panama a few months ago. Odds are we’ll go with diplomatic and economic pressure first, but there’s a damn good chance we’ll deploy troops. If my instincts are worth anything, it’s going to be big.”

“There are blowups over there all the time.” Weakly she sat on the arm of her chair.

“It’s land, Kansas. And it’s oil, and it’s honor.” He lifted her to her feet, caught her hair in his hand to draw it away from her face. He wanted—needed, he admitted—a long look at her. A good long look. “I may be gone for a while, especially if we send troops.”

She was pale, struggling to be calm. “They think he has nuclear capabilities, don’t they? And certainly access to chemical weapons.”

Dimples flashed recklessly. “Worried about me?”