Songbird

by Syrie James

  “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 p
referred 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.

  Several minutes later, a tall brunette in a gaily striped sundress hurried into the studio, waving a candy bar. “Sugar break. I know you like peanut butter cups, but the machine was out.” Her nose was slightly crooked, her accent unmistakably Brooklyn. “Hey, what’s the frown for? Did Sam read you the riot act?”

  Desiree shrugged as she slid off her stool, grabbed the candy bar, and tore off its wrapper. “Yeah. But apparently I’m still employed. For today, anyway.” She knew she shouldn’t be eating this, but after what had just happened on the air, she needed something to cheer her up. She took a bite of the chocolaty goodness and smiled with pleasure. “Mmmm. Hits the spot. Thanks, Barb. I’ve been eating celery all week. Another piece and I’d probably turn green.”

  Barbara pursed her lips in mock irritation. “As if you need to watch what you eat, you skinny thing.”

  “I do. Constantly. It’s a cross all short people must bear. You Amazons don’t know how lucky you are.”

  Barbara laughed and handed her a phone message. “Listen, I just got a call from a lady at Barney’s, a new restaurant in Orange. They want to know if you’ll host their opening-night party next month.”

  As she stared at the note, Desiree felt a stab of disappointment like a knife between the ribs. She couldn’t do it, of course. It was impossible. “You gave her the usual polite refusal, I hope?”

  Barbara shook her head. “No, I didn’t. I told her you’d think about it.”

  “What’s there to think about?” She handed back the note. “Just thank her and tell her I’m busy.”

  “You’ve got to stop hiding from your fans, Des. The lady raved about your voice. It’d be great publicity for you.”

  “Some great publicity. They’re expecting Candice Bergen and instead they get Shirley Temple.”

  “Would you come off it? You might be short, but with your hair up, in the right kind of dress, you’d look glamorous as hell.” She gestured emphatically with both hands. “And besides, you’re gorgeous. I’d give a million bucks for a face like yours.”

  “For this face?” Desiree thrust out her front teeth and wiggled her jaw in chipmunk fashion. “Well, I’d give a million bucks to be about seven inches taller, have your tan, and wear your bra size.”

  Barbara laughed. “Desiree, you’re so dense. You don’t know a good thing when you’ve got it. Plenty of men go gaga over petite women.”

  “I don’t want men to go gaga over me. I’m perfectly happy the way I am.”

  “The hell you are. Only a nun would be happy living the way you do. When’s the last time you went on a date? Two years ago? Three?”

  “What’s the point? You know what happened to my one attempt at marriage. Look at Dave. Look at Mike and John. Divorced, every one of them.” Desiree finished the last bite of the candy bar and sighed. “Relationships and radio don’t mix.”

  “Who’s talking about relationships? I’m talking date here. A simple night out with a guy.” Barbara shook her head in disgust. “Just because that husband of yours was a moron doesn’t mean you should swear off men for the rest of your life. The other jocks sure haven’t sworn off women.”

  Steve wasn’t a moron, Desiree thought. But there was no sense arguing with Barbara about it. She glanced back at the digital countdown timer on the console. “I hate to eat and run, Barb, but I’m on in thirty seconds.”

  “Okay. Bye.” Barbara backed up and paused in the doorway. “By the way, no matter what Sam said, I think you handled the guy on the phone like a pro.”

  “Thanks a bunch.”

  “No, I mean it. He pulled a dirty trick, calling on the contest line and springing all that stuff on you over the air. When he comes in to pick up his free dinner pass tonight, I promise I’ll be as nasty as possible.”

  Desiree grinned as Barbara pulled the door shut. “Do that.”

  ***

  Five-thirty. Desiree began to hum to herself. A half hour more and I’m out the door, she thought. And I know exactly what I’m going to do when I get home. Take my phone off the hook and curl up in bed with a glass of wine and a good book.

  She waited for her cue, then said into the mike, “That was ‘Songbird,’ by Barbra Streisand. It’s always been a special favorite of mine.”

  Behind her, she heard the studio door open quietly and thought, Barbara again? Didn’t she see the red warning light? She knows better than to come in while I’m on the air!

  “I hope you’re taking advantage of the beautiful weather we’re having this evening.” The door clicked shut softly behind her. “The summer equinox is next week, the longest day of the year. So take a walk on the beach with your loved one this evening. Enjoy all those extra hours of day¬light. And tell him…or her…that Desiree sent you.” She took off her headphones as the commercial break began. Three more tunes, she thought. Then the traffic report.

  “You do that well.”

  The voice from behind startled her so much that she jumped up from her stool. Instinctively, she knew who it was—there was no mistaking the deep, resonant Radio Voice. But what was he doing back here?

  She whirled around and froze, clutching her headphones. Surprise rendered her speechless. This was Kyle Harrison?

  Two

  Where was the fat, balding business executive she’d envisioned, the man who smoked cigars and wore half a dozen diamond rings? Desiree had been certain Kyle Harrison would look exactly the opposite of the way he sounded. But even in her wildest dreams, her most outlandish fantasies, she would never have imagined anyone quite this handsome. Simply put, the man was…devastating.

  He stood with his back against the closed door of the studio, his arms crossed over his broad chest, studying her through dark-green eyes twinkling with what seemed like mingled curiosity and amusement. He must be in his mid-thirties, she decided, incredibly young to be the sole owner of a multimillion-dollar corporation like Harrison Industries.

  At first glance he seemed tall, at least six feet. But then, judging the difference in their heights to be closer to nine inches, she attributed his apparent tallness to the way his chest tapered to a narrow waist and hips, and to the slim fit of his light grey dress slacks over long, well-proportioned legs. The short sleeves of his white dress shirt exposed muscular forearms. His conservatively cut, rusty-brown hair fell in thick, natural waves. An upturned nose reigned over lips which, at this moment, were twitching slightly, as if he was enjoying some private joke at her expense.

  “I’m glad to see there really is a beautiful woman behind the beautiful voice.”

  She saw a curiously stunned look in his dancing green eyes as they traveled the length of her slender figure, from her bare legs to her tight-fitting cutoffs and T-shirt.

  “I was afraid I was going to find an old man operating some sort of electronic synthesizer,” he went on, “like in The Wizard of Oz.”

  Desiree felt herself blushing under his scrutiny. Funny. She’d expected him to be an old man, too.

  “Thanks for letting me come back here. I wasn’t sure if you would, after what I said on the air a while back. I wanted to apologize in person for getting you in trouble. Your receptionist told me what happened.”

  She tried to speak, but her tongue had uncooperatively glued itself to the roof of her mouth. Say something, you idiot, she screamed silently. Tell him you didn’t let him come back here. Tell him it was clearly Barbara’s idea—the traitor. Tell him to get out! Instead she found her eyes drawn to the riot of curly brown hair peeking out above the open neck of his shir
t. A tie should be there, she thought. A monogrammed silk tie.

  “I know you talk. I just heard you.” His eyes seemed to search her face for an explanation of her silence.

  What had he called her before? A beautiful woman? Hah! He’s just being polite, she thought, to mask his disappointment on seeing the real me. If he said one word about the electric-blue silk dress and the silver spiked heels, she’d kill him.

  But he didn’t. He took a step forward, smiling warmly. He leaned one elbow on the high counter running the length of the small room.

  “I understand your boss had a minor coronary after my call, and threatened to transfer you to Siberia.”

  She felt a smile start and fought to tighten her lips into a firm, straight line. I’m angry with this man, she reminded herself. He embarrassed me on the air and caused my employer to scream at me. I will not let him charm me. I will not smile.

  “But I understand there are a few radio stations in Siberia, so you should be all right. If they’re enlightened enough to hire female deejays in Russia.”

  Against her will, a small laugh bubbled up from inside her chest. She curbed it, shot him a wary glance. “I’m afraid I’d be out of luck in that market. I don’t speak Russian.”

  “You never know. There are lots of English speakers in Russia. Maybe you could convince them to start an English language radio station.”

  “May be.” She studied him for a moment. When he smiled, his eyes twinkled and lit up his entire face. It was a nice smile.

  “When do you have to go back on the air?” he asked suddenly.

  Oh God, she thought, whirling back to the console with a rush of panic. To her horror, the commercial break was nearly over—another three seconds and she’d have had dead air. She was in enough trouble already without that. Quickly, she turned up the volume in the studio and made a smooth transition into the next tune.

  She sighed with relief. “That was a close call.” Lowering the volume again, she pulled out two cartridges from the music rack, feeling extremely self-conscious as she set up the next songs. What was this man doing, standing in her booth and talking to her? It was totally against the rules! She ought to be furious with Barbara for sending him back here.