Starlight in Her Eyes (2 page)

“Now, now, children. Play nice.” Marla sprayed his hair with something from an oversized aerosol can.

Wrinkling his nose, Colin couldn't stop his sneeze. “Bless me all the way to Canterbury,” he mumbled under his breath. He waved one arm to stop Marla's continued assault. “I think that's quite enough, love. How many showers will I need to rinse this shellac from my hair?”

“It's a new formula. Trust me, honey. Your lady friend won't have any problems running her fingers through your hair.” After giving him one final spritz, Marla whipped the plastic cape from his shoulders. Twisting the chair around so he could see his reflection in the mirror, she raked her fingers through his hair. “What'd I tell you?
Voilà
. Touchable softness and it falls right back in place.”

“Right. A bona fide miracle in a can.” Colin slid out of the chair. “Thank you, Marla. Always a pleasure.”

She might be surprised to know he hadn't enjoyed the company of a “lady friend” in well over a year. Since coming to faith through Jesus, he'd adopted an entirely new set of rules for personal conduct. Not that it'd been easy, and it was a day-by-day process, but moving from Iowa to Pennsylvania and his new co-host position had helped to keep his mind focused and otherwise occupied.

Serena hadn't bothered to wait for him—no surprise there—and she was already halfway down the hall as he darted around the corner. He didn't relish being made to feel like a puppy nipping at her heels. After the makeup artist had dutifully powdered his nose, as per their morning routine the past two weeks, Colin and Serena entered the large wardrobe room with its endless racks of dresses, blouses, jackets, and skirts for his female co-host, Gabrielle Shanahan.

Across the room sat rows of suits, shirts, slacks, and sweaters worn by his unfortunate predecessor, Graham Preston. He was surprised they hadn't donated the lot to charity after Graham's untimely death from a car accident eighteen months ago. Keeping the clothing struck Colin as somewhat morbid, but they'd had a succession of interim hosts before he'd been hired. If they'd hoped he might
fit into the man's clothes, they'd have been wrong, not to mention a couple of inches short in the length of the trousers.

At slightly over six feet tall, Colin's shoulders were broader and he stood taller than Graham, at least in terms of physical size. The son of a New York network anchor, Graham had become a legend in his own right in the Philadelphia broadcast community.

Colin's gaze drifted to the shelves containing Graham's shoes. Big shoes to fill, metaphorically speaking. He doubted Graham had ever bounced around the television station with jingle bells on his impeccable leather shoes.

After setting down her clipboard and purse, Serena sifted through a nearby rack before pulling out a garment bag. Colin caught his name emblazoned on the front of the bag before she unzipped it and drew out a well-tailored, dark double-breasted suit. Walking to the one shoe rack with his name on it, Serena selected burgundy leather shoes and handed them to him.

“I'm guessing the high-tops are out for the show?”

“That would be correct.” Serena moved to a short rack of dress shirts and selected a white one with thin blue pinstripes. From a small jewelry box, she chose a pair of gold cuff links and a tie clip and deposited them in his open palm. Somehow he'd always thought a woman choosing his wardrobe would be fun. With Serena, it seemed clinical.

Next, she chose a bright red silk tie.

“Appropriately patriotic and all-American,” he said. “Please don't feel the need to babysit me, Miss Monroe. At
Wake Up, Des Moines!
I was more than capable of getting to the studio of my own free will each morning. On time, no less.”

Offering the shirt and tie to him, Serena blew out a sigh. “Capability's not the issue, Colin. Believe it or not, I'm here to make your life less complicated.”

“While I can appreciate that—and in spite of my sometimes childlike tendencies—I've been dressing myself since I was four.” Taking the garment bag from her, Colin motioned for her to either turn around or leave. They went through this same routine every day. She'd choose his wardrobe and then he'd dismiss her for a time. Modesty wasn't the issue, but he had standards. Limitations. “Surely the esteemed Mr. Preston didn't allow you to help him dress.”

The pink drained from Serena's face. “As a matter of fact, he did. Be sure to brush your teeth. And you have peanut butter on your mouth.” Using her thumb, she swiped it over his bottom lip.

“Yes, Mum,” he said, irritated that she felt the need to remind him of the simple necessities. Still, he couldn't shake the unexpected warmth Serena's touch shot through him. He found himself off-guard, but not in an unpleasant way.

“I'll be back in ten minutes to help with your tie.” She was right. If left to his own devices, his tie would forever hang askew. Nicole “Nikki” Reardon, now Nikki Kingsfield—his former co-host in Des Moines, and his best friend, then and now—had helped him with his tie before every show. Now Serena was paid to push him from Point A to Point B. How odd, but he'd try to view it as a perk of his more high-profile position.

When she returned, Serena gave him an approving once-over which pleased him more than it should have.

“Very nice.” She stepped forward without hesitation and turned up the collar of his starched shirt, something she'd never done before. Although he knew it was innocent on her part, the brush of her long, slender fingers on his neck filled Colin with an unexpected sense of intimacy. His pulse ticked faster, and his collar suddenly felt a little snug. Serena would be appalled if she could read his thoughts.

“You've also done this before,” he said.

“Of course. It's my job.” Beneath the glasses, Serena's blue-eyed gaze briefly met his before dropping to his tie. But not before he caught the flicker of something indefinable. Hurt, perhaps? After focusing on her right ear with its delicate pearl earring, Colin moved his gaze to her neck. With her hair pulled back, it showcased how long and lovely it was.

“You do it considerably well,” he said. Too
well at the moment, if it were possible. He was beginning to strongly dislike the words “of course” from this woman. Likewise when she told him it was her job to do something or other. Her nails were buffed to a high shine and devoid of color. Being this close to Serena, Colin noted a small stain on the collar of her dress. He caught a whiff. Grape jam? Best not to tease or mention it lest he incur her ire. Could it be he'd discovered a small chink in this woman's armor? Needing a new focal point, he stared at an ugly abstract painting on the far wall.

Concentrated on finishing her task, Serena smoothed his tie and then stepped back. “Please don't fiddle with the tie. This one doesn't play musical tunes. We learned that lesson with the one you wore the other day. Your interview questions are on a card on the table if you need to refer to them. Look for the yellow highlights.”

“I'm ready, Serena,” Colin assured her. “No need for cues or prompts. You'll learn I'm very good at ad-libbing if the situation warrants.”

“I know. You're a master at it.” Serena turned and headed toward the studio. “I'll be waiting for you after the show to brief you about tomorrow's guests,” she said over one slender shoulder.

An idea popped into his mind, irrational or not. Catching up to her, Colin put his hand on her arm. “Here's a thought. Let's shake it up a bit. Live dangerously. You can brief me over lunch instead.” Where had that suggestion come from? Obviously from some subliminal part of him. Or perhaps it was the Holy Spirit at work?

Serena looked down at his hand on her arm; he released his hold on her. From what he'd observed, she closeted herself in her office while the others often indulged in three-hour lunches, which sometimes extended into happy hour as they slurped margaritas and flirted with one another and assorted business types from Center City. He'd once lived in the middle of that world, but no more. Funny how he didn't miss it. Not at all.

Serena eyed him, and Colin could tell she was weighing her options. He needed to sweeten the deal. “I'll have my assistant order some of those humongous hoagie sandwiches and, for our dessert, I can offer you delicious strawberries dipped in Belgian chocolate, courtesy of a generous station sponsor. Please say you'll join me.”

Removing her glasses, Serena met his gaze squarely. “Colin, your reputation as a consummate professional on-camera is without question, but your history with women precedes you. If I agree to lunch, it's solely for the purpose of discussing business. Just so we're clear, I have no interest in being anything to you other than a work colleague.”

“Understood.” To Colin's regret, he'd come by the womanizing reputation honestly. Since moving to Philadelphia, he'd kept a low profile, spending most of his evenings alone in his new downtown loft. He must be getting soft, or old—or both—since he could now fully appreciate the merits of staying in and reading or tinkering about in the kitchen.

Finally, Serena spoke again. “I'll meet you here in the studio at noon. Once the show tapes, everyone clears out and it's very quiet.”

“I'll see you then. Thank you, Serena.”

While he'd been making a concerted effort to listen to Christian music, singing “What a Friend We Have in Jesus” in the halls of the station early on had done nothing to quell the rumors about him. His behavior had probably been misinterpreted as flippant or irreverent when nothing could be further from the truth. Based on his former lifestyle and public persona, he couldn't blame them. The idea of getting a dog, as Nikki had suggested, was growing on him.

A little more than an hour later, once the
ON AIR
light ceased blinking and the show wrapped, Colin stood to his feet beside Gabrielle. In her heels, she was nearly his same height, whereas the top of Serena's head only reached his shoulders. A warning signal sounded in the back of Colin's mind, which he promptly ignored.

Gabrielle eyed him with a quirked brow. “I noticed the way you looked at Serena this morning, my friend. A word of advice? You'd be better off to steer clear of her in terms of anything other than station business.”

Colin stiffened. “No worries, love. She's already told me as much.”

Even if Serena should decide to encourage his attentions—a highly unlikely prospect—pursuing the comely assistant would not be advisable.

Gabrielle's dark eyes widened. “You don't know, do you?” Tucking a few strands of her medium-length blonde hair behind one ear, her expression was difficult to read. The woman was affable, and their professional chemistry was undeniable, but Gabrielle was no Nikki Reardon. Off the air, his new co-host was more detached and impersonal.

Colin resisted the urge to cross his arms. “I know Serena's very good at what she does, almost to a fault.”

“Forget I said anything. It's not my place.” Gabrielle turned to leave.

“Not quite so fast.” Colin kept his voice low so the crew wouldn't overhear their conversation. “While I don't wish to engage in idle office gossip, can you give me a bit of a heads-up?”

Gabrielle stepped closer. “Steer away from personal issues with Serena and you'll be fine. She has some…baggage.”

“Is that all? In my estimation, we've all accumulated some sort of baggage if we've lived a life that's actually worth living. As long as she's not a suspected murderer or a candidate for the loony bin, I'm not worried.”

Gabrielle gave him a small smile. “Enjoy the rest of your day, Colin.”

“I'll do that. You, too.” Watching her go, Colin puzzled over Gabrielle's warning.

All the while, he couldn't shake the image of a pair of blue eyes. Challenging him. Drawing him in.

“As iron sharpens iron, so one person sharpens another,” he quoted under his breath. He liked that particular verse of scripture. He enjoyed his sparring sessions with Serena as a way to begin each morning. In some ways, it invigorated and energized him.

As much as anything, Colin could use a friend. He suspected Serena could, too.

2

The Next Day

Swiveling in his chair, Lawrence Cahill—Serena's immediate boss and senior producer of
Wake Up, Philadelphia!
—gave her his best
I need you to do something for me
smile.

She suspected what he was going to ask and preferred to make a hasty dash for the door. But no, she remained firmly planted in her seat.

With the business portion of their afternoon meeting concluded, the team of staffers, producers, and the station's general manager, William Staunton, departed the conference room as a group. They'd seemed more jovial and prone to agreement than usual today, which could perhaps be attributed to the bottles of wine they'd shared around the table combined with the festive holiday mood about the station.

“Serena, I'm needed elsewhere for the marketing meeting,” Lawrence said. “If you would, please fill Colin in on the details for the Liberty Bell Ball and make all the arrangements.”

“Yes, sir. I'll take care of it.”

Lawrence joined the others and their voices faded, leaving Serena and Colin to stare at one another over the wide expanse of the conference room table.

He spoke first. “If you would, start by telling me about this Liberty Bell Ball.”

“It's an annual event with cocktails, dinner, and dancing, and benefits a number of local charities,” she said. “Very swanky, high profile, and all the movers and shakers of Philadelphia society will be in attendance. The ball is held on the last Saturday before Christmas, and this year it's being held at the Hyatt at The Bellevue, on the Avenue of the Arts.”

“Not that the new guy in town wants to balk tradition, but why am I getting the strong impression that my attendance at the Liberty Bell Ball is more a command performance rather than a mere suggestion?”