Songbird (2 page)

“
Here’s the latest, fresh off the wire.” Tom handed her the stack of newsprint.

“
Anything good?”

“
What do you think this is,
Sixty Minutes
?”

Desiree leafed through the pile of news briefs, reading some of the titles aloud. “‘New smoking control law giving people nicotine fits.’ Cute, but no cigar. ‘Millionaire owner of laundromat chain taken to the cleaners in palimony suit.”’ She winced. “Why do we do these, anyway? We’re not a news station.”

“
Don’t ask me.” Tom shrugged as he turned to leave. “Sam likes this kind of stuff. And one must never argue with the P.D.” Before shutting the door, he scrunched up his face and mimicked their program director’s gravelly voice. “Above all else—
Be Entertaining
.”

Desiree laughed as she slipped on her headphones. “I’ll give it my best shot. Today’s news can use all the help it can get.” A familiar refrain signaled the end of the song. She pushed the start button on the deck to the left of the console. A glance at the digital countdown timer told her she had fifteen seconds. Just then Tom pressed his face up against the glass of the window above the console, staring in at her with distorted fleshy lips and huge bug-eyes.

She smothered another laugh, dropping her voice an octave as she said into the mike, “If you’re sitting in traffic out there right now, feeling that tension creeping up your spine, here’s the perfect way to get rid of all that stress. Just imagine that I’m sitting right next to you, giving your shoulders a nice, long, intimate massage.” As soon as she said the words, she cringed inwardly.
Nice, long, intimate massage? Good grief! Did I really just say that?

The commercial break began. Desiree again plucked off her headphones and glanced up at Tom, who was rolling his eyes as he walked away, mouthing the word “outrageous” at her through the glass.

Outrageous. That’s what the reporter from the Los Angeles Times had written about her in this morning’s review of her new afternoon show. “One outrageous, sexy woman, whose luscious, lusty voice could, with one well-placed sigh, bring half the male population of Southern California to its knees.”

She laughed softly to herself. Luscious? Lusty? Hardly. She believed she was reasonably attractive. Steve, her ex-husband, had once told her she had eyes like molten gold and a face like a cameo. Her hair seemed to match her personality. It brushed her shoulders in unruly waves, a blend of vibrant shades from light brown to red to dark mahogany. But somehow, she’d found, her deep voice led people to expect someone entirely different: a tall, voluptuous blond bombshell who walked, talked, and breathed sex. No way on earth could she ever hope to fit that image.

She was petite in every sense of the word. She possessed curves in all the right places, but no matter how hard she tried, she didn’t quite reach the five-foot-one-inch mark. Thirty years old, she had endured a lifetime of jokes about the discrepancy between her voice and her looks. She’d seen the disappointment in people’s eyes too many times when they met her and discovered she wasn’t the sex symbol they’d imagined.

Still, her voice was her biggest asset. Sam insisted that teasing banter meant higher ratings. The listeners couldn’t see her, after all. What harm could there be in playing along?

She scanned the news brief she’d selected, waiting for the commercial break to end, then threw the mike switch to program and turned up the volume.

“
Here’s an item of interest for all you soda-pop guzzlers out there. Looks like the new diet soft drink, Sparkle Light, is losing steam. In an unexpected move yesterday, the parent corporation, privately owned, multimillion dollar Harrison Industries, announced plans for Sparkle Light Bottling Company to go public.” She went on to read the experts’ analysis, which pointed a finger at a suspected drop in product sales, then laid the news bulletin up on the counter.

“
If you’ve always wanted to own stock in a soft-drink company, this might be your big chance. But let’s hope Sparkle Light picks up in a hurry, or you may find yourself making a big deposit, no-return investment on a warehouse full of pop without any fizz.”

She played a groaning sound-effects tape. Next, grabbing a large pink index card from the board above her console, she announced it was time to play the Trivia Game. “I hope you’re all next to your phones. The number to call is 555-KICK. I’ll take caller number twelve.”

All five lines on the multi-tap phone in her studio lit up with magical precision. Desiree smiled. The immediate response to contests on the afternoon drive never ceased to amaze her. This was the time of day to be on the air!

“
The caller who can answer today’s trivia question correctly will receive a complimentary dinner for two at Maximilian’s in Huntington Beach.” She read a blurb about the restaurant, then punched the buttons on the phone one at a time, counting out loud and disconnecting each line in sequence.

“
Hi, you’re on the air,” she said when she reached the twelfth caller. “Who’s this?”

“
This is Kyle Harrison.” The voice, obscured slightly by faint background noise, sounded low, smooth, and deeply masculine. She found herself sitting up straight on the stool, listening attentively.

“
Hello, Kyle.” She conjured up a quick mental image to fit the voice. Tall, athletically built, thirty-five, and devilishly handsome?
No. People never look the way they sound. And you ought to know that better than anyone.
Odds are he was old and fat, with bad teeth. “Did you know you’ve got a terrific radio voice, Kyle?”

“
Thanks. Yours isn’t bad either.” He sounded irritated. “Listen, I’m calling—”

“
Are you as good-looking as you sound?” she teased.

A split-second pause. Then, he replied curtly, “Are you?”

Oh, God. Open mouth, insert foot. She glanced down at her worn, tight-fitting cutoffs and clinging pink T-shirt. What kind of woman was he imagining? A gorgeous blonde in a sexy billboard or magazine cover shot? Think fast.
Be Entertaining.

“
Just let your imagination go wild,” she said in her most velvety voice. “If only you could see the wicked little dress I’ve got on today. Electric-blue silk. Open in the back. Cut just off the shoulder. Terribly chic. And these silver spiked heels are positively sinful.”

“
I’ll bet.” He laughed suddenly, a deep pleasant sound which set her spine tingling.

What a gorgeous laugh, she thought. Maybe he isn’t quite so old or so ugly after all. Get to the trivia question, an inner voice warned. You’ve talked to him too long already. But instead, she leaned forward on the console, resting her chin on her hand. “Where are you from, Kyle?”

“
Seattle.”

“
Seattle! That’s a thousand miles away. KICK’S coverage must be even more widespread than I thought.”

He laughed again. “Sorry to disappoint you. I’m only about thirty miles away, near the L.A. airport. At this moment I’m crawling along on the San Diego freeway, bumper-to-bumper, at the incredible speed of three miles per hour.”

“
A car-phone executive!” she announced with delight. “My very first one on the air. You just made my day.” Mobile phones cost thousands of dollars. A new image of the man formed in her mind: a cigar-smoking corporate executive in a dark blue suit, three diamond rings flashing on each stubby hand. Age: sixty. Eyes: watery-gray. Hair: none. “Well, Kyle, I hope you can think trivia and drive at the same time, because—”

“
Hold on,” he interrupted. “I know this is a contest line, but I called for another reason—to comment on a news item you gave about a company of mine a few minutes back. Sparkle Light.”

She opened her mouth to reply, then froze.
Sparkle Light.
In a flash of belated understanding, she realized the significance of his name. Kyle Harrison. Harrison Industries—the privately-owned parent corporation. Desperately, she began to riffle through the stack of newsprint on her counter, her mind racing, trying to remember what she’d said about Sparkle Light. Something about a no-return investment, the product losing its fizz. Had she sounded overly sarcastic? Defamatory? If only we had a seven-second delay system, she thought, so I could bleep out his comments if he starts to get nasty.

“
The information you gave was essentially correct. Sparkle Light is going public. But the so-called expert analysis you read was completely off base. Since you popped up with your phone number so conveniently, I thought I’d call and set the record straight.”

“
Thank you, Mr. Harrison,” she said, hoping her voice sounded as light and sparkling as his product. “We always welcome a little inside information from the business world.” Why did she suddenly feel as if she had to call him mister? From now on, she told herself, I’m going to start screening calls. To hell with spontaneity!

“
We’re going public to raise capital for other investments. It’s that simple. The move is no reflection on the sales record of Sparkle Light. In fact, the product has far exceeded our sales projections, and—”

“
That’s wonderful,” Desiree cut in quickly. “I apologize if I gave out any information that was incorrect or misleading. Our news comes straight from UPI in New York, and we can’t verify every—”

“
Your commentary doesn’t come from New York.”

Her stomach tightened into a knot. Sam would kill her for this. Absolutely kill her. “True. Thanks so much for calling to straighten that out.” She cued up the next song, struggling to keep her voice calm. “And now, we—”

“
I’ll take that trivia question now.”

“
What?”

“
This is supposed to be a trivia contest, isn’t it? Something about a free dinner for two?”

“
Oh. Yes...” Quickly, she reached for a small box with the words THE TRIVIA GAME emblazoned across the lid. He really got a kick out of putting her on the spot, didn’t he? Well, she’d give the jerk a hard one. Taking a deep breath to steady herself, she pulled a bright green card from the game box. “Are you ready, Mr. Harrison?”

“
Ready.”

This’ll get him, she thought. “What was the name of the first successful helicopter, and in what year was it built?”

Without a moment’s hesitation, he said, “The FW-61. Germany built it in 1936.”

Desiree’s mouth dropped open. How did he know that? The damn obnoxious man had to be a trivia king on top of everything else. “That’s correct! You’re our winner for today.” Trying to sound enthusiastic, she added, “Congratulations. If you’ll stay on the line, I’ll have someone explain where you can pick up your prize.” She punched the hold button on the phone. Play the next song, she instructed herself, going through the motions mechanically. And for God’s sake, don’t try to say anything cute. “Okay, coming up, three great tunes in a row from KICK 102 FM, your mellow music station.”

Blowing out a relieved breath, Desiree punched another phone line and called the receptionist in the front office. “Barbara? The contest winner’s on line one. Would you take care of him, please?” She hung up without waiting for a reply. The radio broadcast was piped throughout the building; she could count on Barbara to assess the situation.

Just then the studio door burst open. It was Sam.

“
Since when did you become a stockbroker?” he bellowed, eyes blazing in a tanned face surrounded by thinning, dark hair. “No one asked for your advice about Sparkle Light. We play music around here, not the stock market!”

“
I know. I’m sorry. I just—”

“
Stick to sports and the weather, and leave Wall Street to the experts. Got it?” The door slammed.

Terrific, she thought.

The door opened again. “And another thing!” Sam yelled. “Don’t chitchat with people on the air. We’re a music station. If you want to do talk radio, get a job at KTLK. ”

She sighed deeply as the door slammed once more. She should never have commented on the news release. And she certainly shouldn’t have talked so long on the air with Kyle Harrison. Whatever had possessed her? She was lucky Sam hadn’t fired her. One false move and a deejay was usually out the door. It’s going to take a lot more than one rave newspaper review to keep me on the afternoon drive now, she thought with a frown.

Dejectedly, she studied the rotation chart taped to the window above the console. A hit tune—or type “A” song—was next. Reaching aside to the revolving music rack, she pulled the next cartridge in sequence from the row marked “A” and slipped it into the deck. It was a new Anne Murray hit—a real heartbreaker, and one of her favorites.

Suddenly the lyrics of the song on the air caught her attention. The tone was tender, with an underlying melancholy.

Desiree’s eyes crinkled with a familiar pang of sadness. She felt an affinity with the singer, as if the words about long and lonely nights were being sung solely to her, about her. She heaved a little sigh. Her career demanded that she be self-sufficient and independent, and over the past five years she’d come to terms with that. In fact, she now preferred being on her own. So why was she partial to these tear-jerking love songs? Why did they always bring a lump to her throat?

She grabbed a pencil and scratch pad to jot down the titles of the songs coming up, so she could list them later on the air. But for some reason her pencil stood poised and motionless as a smooth, deeply masculine voice drifted into her consciousness. A voice that set her spine tingling. A voice that a prince would be proud of. Too bad he’d turned out to be such a toad.