Private Scandals (20 page)

“Like a rock. I don’t know whether to be embarrassed or apologetic, but if you share that coffee, I’ll be anything you want.”

“There’s nothing to be embarrassed or apologetic about.” But she couldn’t meet his eyes as she reached for the mug. “You were exhausted.”

He lightly stroked a hand over her hair. “How angry are you?”

“I’m not.” But her gaze cut away from his when she pushed the mug into his hand. “Do you want cream or sugar?”

“No. If not angry, what?”

“It’s hard to explain.” There wasn’t enough room in the kitchen, she realized. And he was blocking the way out. “I’ve really got to go, Finn. My driver will be here in a few minutes.”

He stood his ground. “Try to explain.”

“This isn’t easy for me.” Unnerved, she snapped out the words and turned away. “I’m not experienced in morning-after conversation.”

“Nothing happened.”

“That’s not the point, not really. I wasn’t thinking last night. I couldn’t. When I saw you, I was overwhelmed by what was happening, what I was feeling. No one’s ever wanted me the way you did last night.”

“And I blew it.” No longer interested in coffee, he set the mug carefully on the counter. “I’m sorry. Maybe I shouldn’t have stopped that first mad rush, but I was afraid I’d hurt you.”

She turned slowly, her eyes reflecting her confusion. “You weren’t hurting me.”

“I would have. Christ, Deanna, I could have eaten you alive. And tearing into you on the floor, it was . . .” He thought bitterly of Angela. “It was too careless.”

“That’s my point. Not on your side, Finn, on mine. I was careless, and that’s not like me.” There seemed to be nothing she could do with her hands. She lifted them, let them fall as he continued to stand and study her. “The feelings you’ve stirred up aren’t like me. And the way things turned out . . .” She tugged at her earlobe. “It gave me time to think.”

“Great.” He snatched up the mug again and took a long drink. “Terrific.”

“I haven’t changed my mind,” she said as she watched his eyes darken. “But we need to talk, before this goes any further. Once I explain, once you understand, I hope we can keep going.”

There was a plea in her eyes, something she needed from him. He didn’t have to know what it was to respond. Crossing to her, he cupped her chin in his hands and kissed her lightly. “Okay. We’ll talk. Tonight?”

Nerves vanished in relief. “Yes, tonight. Fate must be looking out for me. It’s the first free weekend I’ve had in two months.”

“Come to my place.” As her body softened beautifully against his, he kissed her again, lingering, persuasive. “There’s something I very much want to do.” He nipped at her lip until her eyes fluttered closed.

“Yes.”

“I very, mmm, very much . . .” He traced her lips with his tongue, dipped slowly inside to savor. “Want to cook for you.”

“So, what’s he going to cook?”

“I didn’t ask.” Briskly, Deanna checked over her wardrobe list, noting the dates that certain skirts, blazers, blouses and accessories had been worn. She had a production assistant who dated and tagged each piece, listing not only when it had been worn, but in combination with what other items.

“It’s pretty serious when a man cooks for you—especially on a Friday night.” Fran kept one eye on Aubrey, who was taking a peaceful nap in the Portacrib. “Very high-powered wooing.”

“Maybe.” Deanna smiled at the idea. Meticulously, she began to arrange her choices for the following week’s line-up of shows. “I plan on enjoying it.”

“My instincts tell me he’s good for you. I’d like a little more time to check him out personally, but the look on your face when you came in this morning was almost enough.”

“What kind of look?”

“Happiness. Strictly feminine happiness. Different from the gleam in your eye when Delacort renewed us, or when we got picked up by six new stations.”

“How about when we moved into first place in Columbus?”

“Even different from that. This is all-important. The show, what you’re able to do with it. The way you’ve shifted things around so I can bring Aubrey to work.”

“I want her here, too,” Deanna reminded her. “Nobody on staff is going to have to make the choice between parenthood
and career. Which brings up a topic idea I had.”

Fran picked up her clipboard. “Shoot.”

“Finding ways to incorporate day care into the workplace. Right in office buildings and factories. I read an article about this restaurant, family-run. They have what amounts to a preschool right off the kitchen. I’ve already given Margaret the clipping.”

“I’ll check it out.”

“Good. Now let me tell you my idea about Jeff.”

“Jeff? What about him?”

“He’s doing a good job, wouldn’t you say?”

“I’d say he’s doing a great one.” Fran glanced over as Aubrey sighed in her sleep. “He’s totally devoted to you and the show, and he’s a wizard at cutting through the fat.”

“He wants to direct.” Pleased that she’d been able to surprise Fran, Deanna sat back. “He hasn’t said anything to me, to anyone. He wouldn’t. But I’ve watched him. You can see it by the way he hangs around the studio, talking to the cameramen, the techs. Every time we get a new director, Jeff all but interrogates him.”

“He’s an editor.”

“I was a reporter,” Deanna pointed out. “I want to give him a shot. God knows we need a permanent director, somebody who can slide into the groove, who understands my rhythm. I think he’ll fit the bill. What, as executive producer, do you think?”

“I’ll talk to him,” Fran said after a moment. “If he’s interested, we’ve got a show scheduled for next week on video dating. It’s light. We could test him out on it.”

“Good.”

“Deanna.” Cassie stood in the doorway, a newspaper rolled tight in her hand.

“Don’t tell me. I’ve only got twenty minutes before shooting the new promo, and after that I’ve got to get across town and charm the Chicago chapter of NOW. I swear, warden, I wasn’t trying to make a break for it.”

“Deanna,” Cassie repeated. There was no humor in her eyes. Only distress. “I think you should see this.”

“What is it? Oh, not the tabloids again.” Prepared to be mildly irked, she took the paper from Cassie, unfolded it and glanced at the screaming headline. “Oh my God.” Her knees went to jelly as she groped behind her for a chair. “Oh, Fran.”

“Take it easy, honey. Let me see.” Fran eased Deanna down into a chair and took the paper.

SECRET LIFE OF AMERICA
’
S GIRL NEXT DOOR
Midwest’s Darling a Party-Hardy College Girl
Deanna’s Former Lover Tells All!

There was a big red
EXCLUSIVE
! bannering the corner, and a sidebar hinting at
WILD NIGHTS
!
DRUNKEN ORGIES
!
SEX ON THE FIFTY
-
YARD LINE
! beneath a recent photo of Deanna. Beside her was a grainy photograph of a man she’d tried to forget.

“That son of a bitch!” Fran exploded. “That lying bastard. Why the hell did he go to the tabs with this? He’s dripping with money.”

“Who knows why anyone does anything.” Sickened, Deanna stared at the bold headlines. The frightened, broken girl she had been resurfaced. “He got his picture in the paper, didn’t he?”

“Honey.” Fran quickly turned the paper over. “Nobody’s going to believe that trash.”

“Of course they are, Fran.” Her eyes were bright and hard. “They’ll believe it because it makes titillating copy. And most people won’t get past the headlines anyway. They’ll scan them when they’re checking out in the supermarket. Maybe they’ll read the copy on the front page, even flip through to the inside. Then they’ll go home and chat about the story with their neighbors.”

“It’s crap. Exploitive crap, and anybody with a working brain knows it.”

“I just thought you should know.” Cassie handed Deanna a cup of water. “I didn’t want you finding out from someone else.”

“You were right.”

Cassie pressed her lips together. “You’ve gotten some calls on it.” Including one, which she would not pass on, from Marshall Pike.

“I’ll handle them later. Let me see, Fran.”

“I’m going to fucking burn this rag.”

“Let me see,” Deanna repeated. “I can’t deal with it if I don’t know what it says.”

Fran reluctantly handed the paper to her. As with the worst of tabloid press, there was just enough truth mixed in with the lies to have impact. She had indeed gone to Yale. And she had dated Jamie Thomas, a star tackle. Yes, she had attended a postgame party with him in the autumn of her junior year. She’d danced, she’d flirted. She’d consumed more alcohol than might have been wise.

She certainly had taken a walk to the playing field with him on that cool, clear night. And she had laughed as he’d rushed over the grass, tackling invisible opponents. She’d even laughed when he’d tackled her. But the story didn’t say that she’d stopped laughing very quickly. There was no mention of fear, of outrage, of sobbing.

In Jamie’s recollection she hadn’t fought. She hadn’t screamed. In his version he hadn’t left her alone, her clothes torn, her body bruised. He didn’t say how she’d wept on that chilly grass, her spirit shattered and her innocence violently stolen.

“Well.” Deanna brushed a tear from her cheek. “He hasn’t changed his story over the years. Maybe he’s embellished it a little more, but that’s to be expected.”

“I think we should contact Legal.” It took all of Fran’s control to speak calmly. “You should sue Jamie Thomas and the paper for libel, Dee. You’re not going to let him get away with it.”

“I let him get away with a lot worse, didn’t I?” Very neatly, very deliberately, she folded the paper, then tucked it into her purse. “Cassie, please clear my schedule after the NOW meeting. I know it may cause some problems.”

“No problem,” Cassie said instantly. “I’ll take care of it.”

“Cancel everything,” Fran told her.

“No, I can do what I have to do.” Deanna picked up her sweater. However steady her voice, her movements, her eyes were devastated.

“Then I’ll go with you. You’re not going home alone.”

“I’m not going home at all. There’s someone I need to talk to. I’ll be fine.” She squeezed Fran’s arm. “Really. I’ll see you Monday.”

“Damn it, Dee, let me help.”

“You always have. I really have to do this one thing alone. I’ll call you.”

She didn’t expect the explanation to be easy. But she hadn’t known she would find herself sitting in the driveway beside Finn’s beautiful old house, fighting for the courage to walk up and knock on the door.

She sat watching the bare limbs of the spreading maples tremble in the high March wind. She wanted to watch the strong, white sunlight flash and gleam off the tall, graceful windows, and glint off the tiny flecks of mica in the weathered stone.

Such a sturdy old house, she thought, with its curving gables and arrow-straight chimneys. It looked like a dependable place, a haven against storms and wind. She wondered if he’d chosen to give himself some personal calm away from the chaos of his work.

She wondered if it would offer her any.

Bracing herself, she stepped from the car, walked along the walkway of stones and stepped up onto the covered porch he’d had painted a deep, glossy blue.

There was a brass knocker in the shape of an Irish harp. She stared at it a long time before she knocked.

“Deanna.” He smiled, holding out a hand in welcome. “It’s a little early for dinner, but I can fix you a late lunch.”

“I need to talk to you.”

“So you said.” He let his hand drop when she didn’t take it, then closed the door. “You look pale.” Hell, he thought, she looked as fragile as glass. “Why don’t you sit down?”

“I’d like to sit.” She followed him into the first room off the hallway.

Her first distracted glimpse of the room simply registered man. No frills, no flounces, just sturdy, dignified old pieces that murmured of easy wealth and masculine taste. She chose a high-backed chair in front of the fire that burned low. The warmth was comforting.

Without asking, he walked to a curved cabinet and chose a decanter of brandy. Whatever was preying on her mind went deep enough to make her withdraw.

“Drink this first, then tell me what’s on your mind.”

She sipped, then started to speak.

“Finish it,” he interrupted impatiently. “I’ve seen wounded soldiers with more color than you have right now.”

She sipped again, more deeply, and felt the heat fight with the ice shivering in her stomach. “There’s something I want to show you.” She opened her bag, took out the paper. “You should read this first.”

He glanced down. “I’ve already seen it.” In a gesture of disdain, he tossed it aside. “You’ve got more sense than to let that kind of tripe get to you.”

“Did you read it?”

“I stopped reading poorly written fiction when I was ten.”

“Read it now,” Deanna insisted. “Please.”

He studied her another minute, concerned and confused. “All right.”

She couldn’t sit after all. While he read, Deanna got up to wander around the room, her hands reaching nervously for mementos and knickknacks. She heard the paper rattle in his hands, heard him swear quietly, viciously under his breath, but she didn’t look back.

“You know,” Finn said at length, “at least they could hire people who can write a decent sentence.” A glance at her rigid back made him sigh. He tossed the paper aside again. He rose, crossing to lay his hands on her shoulders. “Deanna—”

“Don’t.” She stepped away quickly, shaking her head.

“For Christ’s sake, you’ve got too much sense to let some sloppy journalism turn you inside out.” He couldn’t stem
the impatience, or the vague disappointment in her reaction. “You’re in the spotlight. You chose to be. Toughen up, Kansas, or go back and stick with the noon news.”

“Did you believe it?” She whirled around, her arms folded tight across her chest.

For the life of him he couldn’t figure out how to handle her. He tried for mild amusement. “That you were some sort of nubile nymphomaniac? If you were, how could you have resisted me for so long?”

He was hoping for a laugh, and would have settled for an angry retort. He got nothing but frozen silence. “It’s not all a lie,” she said at length.