Private Scandals (32 page)

“What the hell is going on, Deanna?” He continued to stare into the fire. “You’ve been edgy since we got here last night, and pretending not to be. When I came in before dinner, you’d been crying. And you and Fran are circling each other like a couple of boxers in the tenth round.”

“Fran’s angry with me.” She sat on the hassock and folded
her hands in her lap. She could feel his tension in the air. “I guess you will be, too.” Lowering her eyes, she told him about the note, answering his terse questions and waiting for his reaction.

She didn’t wait long.

He stood where he was, with the fire snapping at his back. His gaze never left her face and was calm, entirely too calm.

“Why didn’t you tell me right away?”

“I thought it was best to wait until I’d sorted through it a bit.”

“You thought.” He nodded, slipped his hands into his pockets. “You thought it was none of my concern.”

“No, of course not.” She hated the fact that his cool interviewing skills always put her on the defensive. “I just didn’t want to spoil the weekend. There’s nothing you can do anyway.”

His eyes darkened at that—the wicked cobalt Angela had described. It was a sure sign of passion. Yet his voice, when he responded, didn’t alter so much as a degree in tone. That was control.

“Goddamn you, Deanna, you sit there and make me treat this like a hostile interview where I have to drag the facts out of you.” Fear and fury burned through him. “I’m not tolerating this. I’m fed up with your tucking things away and filing them under ‘For Deanna Only.’ ” He stepped forward then and, with a speed that had her blinking, pulled her to her feet. She’d expected him to be angry, but she hadn’t expected the rage she saw on his face.

“Finn,” she said carefully. “You’re hurting me.”

“What do you think you’re doing to me?” He released her so quickly she staggered back a step. He spun away, shoving fisted hands in his pockets. “You don’t have a clue. Don’t you know how badly I want to get my hands on this creep? That I want to break him in half for causing you one minute of fear? How useless I feel when you get one of those goddamn notes and the color drains out of your face? And how much worse it is, how much harder it is, because after all this time you don’t trust me?”

“It isn’t a matter of trust.” The violence in his eyes had her heart jumping into her throat. In all the time they’d been together, she’d never seen him so close to the edge. “It’s not, Finn. It’s pride. I didn’t want to admit that I couldn’t handle it alone.”

He was silent for a long time, the only sound the spit of flames eating steadily at dry logs. “Damn your pride, Deanna,” he said quietly. “I’m tired of beating my head against it.”

Panic welled up inside her like a geyser. His words were a closing statement, a segment ender. With an involuntary cry of alarm, she grabbed his arm before he could stalk out. “Finn, please.”

“I’m going for a walk.” He stepped back, holding palms up, afraid he might cause them both irreparable damage if he touched her. “There are ways of working off this kind of mad. The most constructive one is to walk it off.”

“I didn’t mean to hurt you. I love you.”

“That’s handy, because I love you, too.” And at the moment, his love felt as though it were killing him. “It just doesn’t seem to be enough.”

“I don’t care if you’re mad.” She reached out again and clung. “You should be mad. You should shout and rage.”

Gently, while he could still manage it, he loosened her grip. “You’re the shouter, Deanna. It’s in the genes, I’d say. And I come from a long line of negotiators. It just so happens I’m out of compromises.”

“I’m not asking you to compromise. I only want you to listen to what else I have to say.”

“Fine.” But he moved away from her, to the window seat in the shadows. “Talk’s your forte, after all. Go ahead, Deanna, be reasonable, objective, sympathetic. I’ll be the audience.”

Rather than rise to the bait, she sat again. “I had no idea you were this angry with me. It’s not just about me not telling you about this last note, is it?”

“What do you think?”

She’d interviewed dozens of hostile guests over the years.
She doubted if any would be tougher than Finn Riley with his Irish up. “I’ve taken you for granted, and I’ve been unfair. And you’ve let me.”

“That’s good,” he said dryly. “Start out with a self-deprecating statement, then circle around. It’s no wonder you’re on top.”

“Don’t.” She threw her head back, the firelight glinting in her eyes. “Let me finish. At least let me finish before you tell me it’s over.”

There was silence again. Though she couldn’t see his face when he spoke, she heard the weariness in his voice. “Do you think I could?”

“I don’t know.” A tear spilled over, glimmering in the shifting light. “I haven’t let myself think about it until recently.”

“Christ, don’t cry.”

She heard him shift, but he didn’t move toward her.

“I won’t.” She brushed the tear away, swallowed the others that threatened. She knew she could weaken him with tears. And that she would despise herself for it. “I’ve always thought that I could make everything come out in order, if I just worked at it diligently enough. If I planned it all carefully enough. So I wrote lists, adhered to timetables. I’ve cheated us both by treating our relationship as if it were a task—a wonderful task—but a task to be handled.” She was talking too fast, but couldn’t stop, the words tumbling over each other in their hurry to be said. “And I suppose I was feeling pretty smug about the job I was doing. We fit so well together, and I loved being your lover. And then today, I watched you outside, and I realized for the first time how badly I’ve botched it all.” God, she wished she could see his face, his eyes. “You know how I hate to make mistakes.”

“Yes, I do.” He had to take a moment. It wasn’t only her pride on the line. “It sounds as though you’re the one doing the ending, Deanna.”

“No.” She sprang up. “No, I’m trying to ask you to marry me.”

A log collapsed in the grate, shooting sparks and hissing fire. When it settled again, the only sound she heard was her own unsteady breathing. He rose, crossed from shadow into light. His eyes were as guarded and enigmatic as an ace gambler calling a bluff. “Are you afraid I’ll walk if you don’t do this?”

“I imagine the hole there would be in my life if you did, and I’m terrified. And because I’m terrified I wonder why I’ve waited so long. Maybe I’m wrong and you don’t want marriage anymore. If that’s the way you feel, I’ll wait.” She thought if he continued to stare at her with that mild curiosity, she’d scream. “Say something, damn it. Yes, no, go to hell. Something.”

“Why? Why now, Deanna?”

“Don’t make this an interview.”

“Why?” he repeated. When he grabbed her arms she realized there was nothing mild about his mood.

“Because everything’s so complicated now.” Her voice rose, trembled, broke. “Because life doesn’t fit into any of my neat scheduling plans, and I don’t want being married to you to be neat and orderly. Because with the November sweeps raging, and all this crazy publicity with Angela, and you going off to Haiti, it’s probably the worst possible time to think about getting married. So that makes it the best time.”

Despite his tangled emotions, he laughed. “For once your logic totally eludes me.”

“I don’t need life to be perfect, Finn. For once, I don’t need that. It just has to be right. And we’re so absolutely right.” She blinked back more tears, then gave up and let them fall. “Will you marry me?”

He tipped her head back so that he could study her face. And he smiled, slowly, as all those tangled emotions smoothed out into one silky sheet. “Well, you know, Kansas, this is awfully sudden.”

News of the engagement spread quickly. Within twenty-four hours of the official announcement, Deanna’s office
was deluged with calls. Requests for interviews, offers from designers, caterers, chefs, congratulatory calls from friends. Curiosity calls from other reporters.

Cassie fielded them, batting the few back to Deanna that required the personal touch.

Oddly there had been no calls, no notes, no contact at all from the one person who had been hounding her for years. No matter how often Deanna told herself she should be relieved at the respite, it frightened her more than seeing one of those neat, white envelopes on her desk or tucked under her door.

But none came, because none were written. In the shadowy little room where pictures of Deanna beamed contentedly from walls and tabletops, there was little sound but weeping. Hot, bitter tears fell on the newspaper print that announced the engagement of two of television’s most popular stars.

Alone, alone for so long. Waiting, waiting so patiently. So sure that Finn would never settle down. That Deanna could still be had. Now the hope that fueled patience was smashed, a delicate cup of fragile glass tossed aside and discovered to have been empty all along.

There was no sweet wine of triumph to be shared. And no Deanna to fill those empty hours.

But even as the tears dried, the planning began. She merely had to be shown—surely that was all—that no one could love her more completely. She needed to be shown, to be shocked into awareness. And, she needed to be punished. Just a little.

There was a way to arrange it all.

Deanna had voted for a small, simple wedding. A private ceremony, she told Finn as he’d finished up the last of his packing for Haiti. Just family and close friends.

And it had been he who’d tossed her the curve.

“Nope. We’re shooting the works on this one, Kansas.” He’d zipped up his garment bag and slung it over his shoulder. “A church wedding, organ music, acres of flowers and
several weeping relatives neither one of us remembers. Followed by a reception of mammoth proportions where some of those same relatives will drink too much and embarrass their respective spouses.”

She chased down the steps after him. “Do you know how long it would take to plan something like that?”

“Yeah. You’ve got five months.” He dragged her close for a hard, deep kiss. “You’ve got an April deadline, Deanna. We’ll look over your list when I get back.”

“But, Finn.” She was forced to scoot down and grab the dog by the collar before he joyfully rushed out of the door Finn opened.

“This time
I
want it perfect. I’ll call as soon as I can.” He started down to where his driver waited, swinging around and walking backward with a grin teasing his dimples. “Stay tuned.”

So she was now planning a full-scale wedding. Which, of course, prompted the topic idea of wedding preparations and related stress.

“We could book couples who’d broken up because the fighting and spats during the wedding plans undermined their relationship.”

From her seat at the head of the conference table, Deanna eyed Simon owlishly. “Thanks, I needed that.”

“No, really.” He turned his chuckle into a cough. “I have this niece . . .”

Margaret groaned and pushed her purple-framed glasses up her pug nose. “He’s always got a niece, or a nephew, or a cousin.”

“Can I help it if I’ve got a big family?”

“Children, children.” Hoping to restore order, Fran shook Kelsey’s rattle. “Let’s try to pretend we’re a dignified, organized group with a number-one show.”

“We’re number one,” Jeff chanted, grinning as others picked up the rhythm. “We’re number one.”

“And we want to stay there.” Laughing, Deanna held up both hands. “Okay, though it doesn’t do anything for my peace of mind, Simon’s got a good idea. How many couples
do you figure break up sometime between the
Will you
and the
I do
?”

“Plenty,” Simon said with relish. “Take my niece—” He ignored the paper airplane Margaret sailed in his direction. “Really, they’d booked the church, the hall, found the caterer. All this time, according to my sister, they fought like tigers. The big blowup came over the bridesmaids’ dresses. They couldn’t agree on the color.”

“They called off the wedding because of the bridesmaids’ dresses?” Deanna narrowed her eyes. “You’re making this up.”

“Swear to God.” To prove it, Simon placed a hand on his heart. “She wanted seafoam, he wanted lavender. Of course, the flowers were a contributing cause. If you can’t agree on that, how can you agree on where to send your kids to college? Hey.” He brightened. “Maybe we can get them.”

“We’ll keep it in mind.” Deanna jotted down notes. Among them was a warning to be flexible over colors. “I think the point here is that wedding preparations are stressful, and there are ways of lessening the tension. We’ll want an expert. Not a psychologist,” she said quickly, thinking of Marshall.

“A wedding coordinator,” Jeff suggested, watching Deanna’s face for signs of approval or dismissal. “Somebody who orchestrates the whole business professionally. It
is
like a business,” he said, glancing around for confirmation. “Marriage.”

“You betcha.” Fran tapped the rattle against the table. “A coordinator’s good. We could talk about staying within your means and expectations. How not to let your fantasies about perfection cloud the real issue.”

“Cheap shot,” Deanna tossed back. “We could use the mother and father of the bride. Traditionally they’re in charge of the checkbook. What kind of strain is it personally and financially? And how do we decide, reasonably and happily, on invitations, the reception, the music, the flowers, the photographer? Do we have a buffet or a sit-down meal? What about centerpieces? The wedding party, decorations,
the guest list?” The faintest hint of desperation crept into her voice. “Where the hell do you put out-of-town guests, and how is anyone supposed to put all this together in five months?”

She lowered her head on her arms. “I think,” she said slowly, “we should elope.”

“Hey, that’s good,” Simon piped up. “Alternatives to wedding stress. I had this cousin . . .”

This time Margaret’s airplane hit him right between the eyes.

Within weeks, Deanna’s organized desk was jumbled with sketches of bridal gowns, from the elaborately traditional to the funkily futuristic.

Behind her, the same homely plastic tree Jeff had hauled into her office that first Christmas leaned precariously to starboard, overweighted by balls and garlands.