by Jo Leigh
He was still amazed that Nelson Berg had gotten out of his way and agreed to this. Mitch was the one who had the information at his fingertips. He knew the talent. But primarily, he was the most heavily invested in winning.
With everything up in the air-his job, the show, his future-the only thing he had left to hang on to was Eve’s simple admission of her feelings. As far as he was concerned, that was worth taking a chance on. That was worth figuring out the logistics of time and distance for. He could probably hub out of Atlanta for most of his trips instead of Chicago or Dallas, so he’d be able to see her once or twice a week. Lots of relationships survived on less than that.
“Mr. Hayes!”
Mitch blinked and raised his head. Dylan Moore stood in the doorway, panting.
“I’ve been searching the station for you. Come on-it’s showtime.”
Puzzled, he got up. “I’m not going to be in the audience for Just Between Us. I’m doing a video link in the newsroom.”
Dylan made a rolling movement with his hand. “I know, I know. It’s started and there’s a panel of suits waiting for you.”
“But it’s only two-thirty. I’ve got an hour yet.”
Dylan shook his head. “Not according to them, Mr. Hayes. I don’t know what time zone they’re in, but it’s not eastern.”
“Shit!”
He took the stairs three at a time and skidded into the small studio, which held not much more than a couple of lights, a stationary camera and a desk behind which someone could transmit breaking news or a timely interview. A technician nodded at him and pointed at a monitor, where-thank you, God-Cole Crawford had loaded his presentation.
He only hoped he hadn’t left his carefully thought-out arguments back there at the top of the stairs.
He knew most of the network’s execs by sight. Three men and two women. As he slid into the chair and Nelson introduced him-without editorial comments on his tardiness-he made careful note of each name and position, so he could target his appeal personally. His aptitude for memorizing music came in handy in these kinds of applications.
And then he went to work.
With the right amount of detail, he explained to the people on the big flat-panel screen why Just Between Us worked so well in the regional market. Looking steadily into the camera, he outlined the team approach, and the talents of each of Eve’s production people that gave the show its own distinct flavor.
“Remember what happened with The X-Files when it went to Los Angeles?” he said. “The Vancouver production team had created that unique atmosphere and mood that was almost a third character in the show. When it moved, a vital element seeped away and it changed. And, I might point out, it only lasted a couple more seasons. We don’t want that to happen to Just Between Us.”
The execs looked at each other, and the woman on the left nodded. The others shrugged, and Mitch tapped the keyboard in front of him to move on to the financial projections. As he might have expected, the numbers got more attention than a discussion of production values, but that was okay.
A move to New York was wrong on so many levels that every point he could make only added to the solidity of his case.
At last, he wound up with, “You should know that CBS and SBN have made very lucrative offers to Eve and her team, and she turned them down in favor of CWB simply because the others wanted her to move to New York. Please reconsider this move, ladies and gentlemen. It would not be in the best interests of the show, its personnel, the network…or our viewers.”
With that, he sat back and prepared himself to field the inevitable barrage of difficult questions. But to his surprise, Nelson Berg stepped into view as the execs began to pack up their notepads and laptops.
“Thanks, Mitch. You’ve been very helpful in laying out the case. Don’t terminate the connection, please. I want to have a word, since I’ve got you here.”
Mitch took some deep breaths while he watched five people file out of camera range and waited for the adrenaline to stop zooming through his system.
Off camera, Mitch heard a door close, and Nelson seated himself at the table, smack in the middle of the screen. The guy was impossible to read on the best of days-that face was usually set in a frown of disapproval. Mitch resisted the urge to ask-beg-for information.
Nelson sighed and steepled his fingers over his stomach. “You made a good pitch.”
“Thanks.”
“I couldn’t have done better myself. The video link was a good idea. Nice cost-saving measure. Shows you’re a team player. Unfortunately, it didn’t change their minds.”
What? How could it not?
“It’s insane to bring that show to New York and you know it.” Mitch felt hope draining out of him with every word. “Is there anything I can do that will convince them?”
“Afraid not. They were shaking their heads before they even left the studio.”
“I could run the numbers again. Do some more research.”
“It won’t do any good. It’s unanimous, Mitch. Stop beating your head against the wall.”
“This is going to kill them.”
“Who? The people there?”
“Yes. They won’t come. I can guarantee you’ll lose this deal if you make me walk down that hall and tell them this.”
“I can guarantee you’ll lose your job if you don’t.” The words, as usual, were brutal. Like being hammered over the head. But Nelson’s expression was less sour than usual. “I’m sorry, Mitch, but sometimes we have to take it on the chin. You were a big success at getting Eve to commit the show to CWB against the odds. You can do it again. I have faith in you.”
Eve had faith in him, too. Cold despair touched his heart as he thought of those long talks in the park, when he’d come to understand that a simple conversation about the workings of this business was nearly impossible for a woman like her. How happy he’d been to fill that need-and all her other needs, too. He thought of Eve, head thrown back on her pillow as she groaned in ecstasy under him just last night, opening up to him utterly, making herself vulnerable for the sake of the pleasure they made together.
How could he find her and tell her that all the plans they’d agreed to would be snatched out from under her? Would she ever trust the network again?
To hell with that. Would she ever trust him again?
“I can’t do it, Nelson.” The words came out of his mouth before he could bite them back.
“It’s a dirty job, but it’s your job.” He leaned forward, his gaze stony. “You and I don’t make these decisions, Mitch. We just make ’em happen.”
“Well, this one isn’t going to happen. Not with me.”
“Is that a threat?” Nelson sounded amazed. It wasn’t Nelson’s fault-he was simply the messenger. Mitch couldn’t remember the last time he’d stood up to what the network’s management wanted. Maybe he never had. Maybe that’s why he was so damned unhappy with his job. And why he didn’t have a life.
“Of course not,” he said. “I’m offering you my resignation.”
Nelson’s jaw-well, it didn’t drop, but its usual grim clamp got looser. “You’re overreacting. Pull it together, Hayes. We have work to do.”
“No, Nelson. What we have here is a lose-lose situation. You told me before that if I didn’t complete this acquisition, you’d be forced to give me my walking papers. If you send me out of here with these terms, I’ll lose the deal. So whether I resign now or you fire me tomorrow, I’m still out of a job.” It wouldn’t take long to compose a resignation letter and send it. “I prefer to leave on my own terms. I’ll have an official letter on your desk in half an hour, and I’ll take the two weeks’ vacation I have coming in lieu of notice.”
“You’re making a mistake,” Nelson warned. “You can’t leave this deal half-baked. Who’s going to go down there and finish it?”
Mitch looked into the camera, knowing his face must look as grave
as Nelson’s did on the screen. “Someone who doesn’t give a rat’s ass about Eve and her people, that’s who.”
18
EVE COULDN’T HAVE moved out of the studio doorway if the building had been burning down.
She watched as Mitch closed his laptop and put it in his briefcase. He nodded his thanks to the technician in the control booth, and the video screen went dark.
And then he turned toward the door and saw her.
Their gazes collided, and it seemed to Eve that a silent explosion happened right there in the middle of the room. How could she bear the pain in that gaze? And how could she put into words this maelstrom of emotion whirling inside her as she realized what he’d just done?
He’d thrown away his career for her.
The enormity of it staggered her. Humbled her. And showed her the depth of her own feelings for him. Instead of reaching out hesitantly, throwing out hints and signals the way she’d been doing, he’d gambled his whole future in one grand act for her sake. Could she really have underestimated him that much? How blind could she be?
“How long have you been standing there?”
Eve leaned on the door and the On Air light went out as the technician exited the back of the booth and moved on to his next task. They were alone-and the studio was soundproof.
“A few minutes. I slipped in when you were running the financials.”
“So you heard Nelson Berg.”
“And I heard you. Oh, Mitch, you don’t have to do this.” Her voice trembled, and she swallowed.
“What else could I have done? They had me between a rock and a hard place. Either way, I would lose-because I know damn well you aren’t going to New York. Or am I wrong?”
Why was he still standing there behind the desk? Why wasn’t he pulling her into his arms? “No, you aren’t wrong. In fact, you’re amazingly right.” Maybe he only had one grand gesture in him. Maybe it was up to her to take this the rest of the way. Eve gathered her courage and circled the desk.
“Right for the show, and right for me,” she said softly. “When I heard you say that, I-”
“Eve, ten minutes,” Cole said in her ear. “Guest’s in the green room waiting for you.”
Ten minutes that could change her life.
She reached out to lay a hand on Mitch’s sleeve, but he picked up his briefcase instead. “Mitch, don’t go. I want to talk to you, but I just got my ten-minute call.”
“I’m unemployed. I have all the time in the world.”
His voice was hollow. What did he expect from her? She had to say something, quick.
“I appreciate that you’d do such a thing for my sake. I know what it must have cost you. And I want you to know that it-it just makes me love you all the more.”
“What?”
“I mean it. But I’ve got to go. Please don’t leave. Meet me in my office after the show. Promise.”
What did that look in his eyes mean? Pain, wonder, confusion. Oh God, why did this have to happen seven minutes before showtime? Why did he look like that?
If it were up to her, she’d stay right here in this studio and show him exactly what she meant-preferably horizontally on the news desk. But the two hundred and fifty people in Studio One would probably stage a riot.
Briefcase nothwithstanding, she grabbed him by his lapels and planted a kiss on his mouth as full of promise as she could make it. “In my office,” she repeated, and ran.
With no time to process what had just happened, she thought she’d make a complete hash of the show, but instead, she found herself drawn right into the topic: the chemistry of love. Nicole had produced a researcher from the local university, and the man was only too happy to explain his life’s work to her. And in view of the last half hour, it was illuminating.
“It’s a well-known fact that job loss is one of the greatest contributors to male depression,” the guy said. “But what we’ve discovered is that rejection-which is what losing a job really is, right?-causes the production of testosterone in a man’s body to drop. That’s what leads to depression, withdrawal and loss of self-esteem.”
“So what can he do to come out of it?” Eve leaned in to ask. Was this a sign from heaven, or what? Bless Nicole. She was getting a raise for this.
“Well, he can go down to the gym and shoot some baskets,” the researcher said, “or he can make love to his wife.”
“Hear that, ladies?” Eve asked the audience. “If any of you have unemployed partners out there, your duty to his testosterone is clear.”
The audience cracked up, and she finished with her monologue, feeling as though a lightbulb had gone off in her head. She couldn’t do anything about Mitch’s decision to end it with CWB, but by God, she could help him through what had to be the most stressful afternoon of his life.
Boy, could she help. He’d already said he had plans for her desk, hadn’t he?
She sprinted up the stairs and arrived in her office breathing fast with anticipation. Would he be there? He had to be. He couldn’t have gone off to his cave at a moment like this, not when she had the cure for what ailed him-
“Eve?”
He turned from the window when she burst in. “Oh, thank God. I was convinced you’d be on that plane.”
“I should be. I need to start networking. Putting out feelers. Talking to people. You know the drill.”
He sounded so distant. But she wouldn’t let him get away with it. Not with your testosterone levels circling the drain. Have I got a cure for you. The marvels of modern-and very ancient-chemistry.
“I have a better idea.” She wrapped her arms around him and pressed up against his back. “Seems to me you made some rash promises about my desk. Want me to lock the door?”
He chuckled and turned, and his arms went around her. This was more like it. “Believe me when I say I’d like nothing better-if I can take a rain check. You understand, don’t you? I’m shell-shocked right now. My brain is zooming at top speed-only it’s going in circles.”
“Mine is, too,” she said against the soft wool of his suit jacket. “But you’re in the middle. I meant what I said down there in the studio, Mitch. About-” Do it. Dive right in, like he did. “-about loving you. I want to make sure that, at least, is clear between us.”
He drew back to look into her eyes. “How can you love an unemployed failure? A woman like you-beautiful, the one everyone wants? The self-made woman who pulled herself up from tragedy to be a celebrity? Trust me, Eve, you have a whole world of choices out there. You don’t need to settle for what’s at hand.”
Loss of self-esteem. She was going to have to invite that researcher back. The man was a gold mine.
“You’ve been reading too many headlines. A woman would be crazy not to grab a guy who would sacrifice himself and his career to protect her happiness. And believe me, I ain’t crazy.”
Gently, he set her away from him, and a chill prickled over her skin. Withdrawal.
“I need some time alone. We both do. I think it would be best if-”
A muffled sound from behind her closed office door made them both turn. “No! I absolutely forbid it,” Dylan said outside.
“She’s got to know,” a female voice said. “Better I tell her than she gets blindsided in the hall or worse, during town hall tomorrow.”
“Girl, you ain’t goin’ in there and showin’ her that. What kind of a friend are you?”
Whatever it was must be serious if it made Dylan revert to what he called “informal speech.”
“Dylan?” Eve called. “What’s going on?”
“Nothing.” A torrent of hissed whispering ensued, and something thumped against the wood.
Eve crossed the room and jerked the door open. Nicole practically fell into her office, Dylan right behind. Each of them hung onto a side of a rag-mag that Eve recognized as the Peachtree Free Press.
Nicole gave a final yank and r
ipped the tabloid out of Dylan’s hands. Flushed with triumph, she glared at him, then turned to Eve.
“Some people might think it’s better to keep you in the dark, but I thought you’d want to see this,” she said.
“What?” Eve took the paper.
And then everything seemed to fall away as time ground to a halt.
TV MILLIONAIRE’S SECRET REVEALED
EVE BEST IS TYCOON’S DAUGHTER
Eve Best, the darling of daytime talk shows, Atlanta’s go-to girl for everything the city wants to know about sex and relationships, has been hiding a relationship of her own. No, not the handsome executive arm candy from CWB recently seen squiring her about town. This relationship goes deeper into the dark secrets of her past.
A recent investigation has revealed that Eve, supposed daughter of the late Gibson Best, who died tragically in a car accident in 1990, is not Gibson’s daughter at all. Rather, she is the illegitimate child of tycoon Roy Best, Gibson’s brother, who married socialite and Atlanta Ballet Theatre director Anne Delancey in 1985.
A close family friend, who declined to be named, has known the ugly truth for years and only recently was prevailed on to bring it to light. “I’m no gossip, mind,” says the source, “but those boys confided in me right up until they went away to college. I’ve kept my mouth closed for nearly thirty years, but that poor girl deserves to know that her father did not die in that crash. Her real father, that is.”
All Atlanta knows that, as a member of the old-money set, Best used her social connections and obligations to pull some golden strings, propelling her from the obscure position of junior weathergirl to that of Atlanta’s most popular TV star. But how far will she go now that it’s known she’s not entitled to the Best name in quite the way she thought?
According to our source, Loreen Calvert Best became pregnant by Roy Best just before he went away to Yale. Gibson went to school, too, but before he left, he married the deserted Loreen in a secret ceremony attended only by our source as witness. When Roy came home, he went into business, trading on the Best name to attain a fortune in the electronics and then the real estate markets. He married Anne Delancey in what was then billed as the Wedding of the Year, and two other children followed immediately.
