The Novels of Nora Roberts Volume 1

by Nora Roberts

  She had two ex-husbands who had learned that. They hadn’t broken free. They had been dispatched.

  “Angela?”

  “Deanna.” Angela flung out a hand in welcome. “I was just thinking about you. Your notes are wonderful. They’ll add so much to the show.”

  “Glad I could help.” Deanna lifted a hand to toy with her left earring, a sign of hesitation she’d yet to master. “Angela, I feel awkward asking you this, but my mother is a huge fan of Deke Barrow’s.”

  “And you’d like an autograph.”

  After a quick, embarrassed smile, Deanna brought out the CD she was holding behind her back. “She’d love it if he could sign this for her.”

  “You just leave it to me.” Angela tapped one perfect, French-manicured nail along the edge of the CD. “And what is your mother’s name again, Dee?”

  “It’s Marilyn. I really appreciate it, Angela.”

  “Anything I can do for you, sweetie.” She waited a beat. Her timing had always been excellent. “Oh, and there is a little favor you could do for me.”

  “Of course.”

  “Would you make reservations for dinner for me tonight, at La Fontaine, seven-thirty, for two? I simply don’t have time to deal with it myself, and I forgot to tell my secretary to handle it.”

  “No problem.” Deanna pulled a pad out of her pocket to make a note.

  “You’re a treasure, Deanna.” Angela stood then to take a final check of her pale blue suit in a cheval glass. “What do you think of this color? It’s not too washed-out, is it?”

  Because she knew that Angela fretted over every detail of the show, from research to the proper footwear, Deanna took time for a serious study. The soft drape of the fabric suited Angela’s compact, curvy figure beautifully. “Coolly feminine.”

  The tension in Angela’s shoulders unknotted. “Perfect, then. Are you staying for the taping?”

  “I can’t. I still have copy to write for Midday.”

  “Oh.” The annoyance surfaced, but only briefly. “I hope helping me out hasn’t put you behind.”

  “There are twenty-four hours in the day,” Deanna said. “I like to use all of them. Now, I’d better get out of your way.”

  “ ‘Bye, honey.”

  Deanna shut the door behind her. Everyone in the building knew that Angela insisted on having the last ten minutes before she took the stage to herself. Everyone assumed she used that time to go over her notes. That was nonsense, of course. She was completely prepared. But she preferred that they think of her brushing up on her information. Or even that they imagine her taking a quick nip from the bottle of brandy she kept in her dressing table.

  Not that she would touch the brandy. The need to keep it there, just within reach, terrified as much as it comforted.

  She preferred they believe anything, as long as they didn’t know the truth.

  Angela Perkins spent those last solitary moments before each taping in a trembling cycle of panic. She, a woman who exuded an image of supreme self-confidence; she, a woman who had interviewed presidents, royalty, murderers and millionaires, succumbed, as she always did, to a vicious, violent attack of stage fright.

  Hundreds of hours of therapy had done nothing to alleviate the shuddering, the sweating, the nausea. Helpless against it, she collapsed in her chair, drawing herself in. The mirror reflected her in triplicate, the polished woman, perfectly groomed, immaculately presented. Eyes glazed with the terror of self-discovery.

  Angela pressed her hands to her temples and rode out the screaming roller coaster of fear. Today she would slip, and they would hear the backwoods of Arkansas in her voice. They would see the girl who had been unloved and unwanted by a mother who had preferred the flickering images on the pitted screen of the tiny Philco to her own flesh and blood. The girl who had wanted attention so badly, so desperately, she had imagined herself inside that television so that her mother would focus those vague, drunken eyes just once, and look at her.

  They would see the girl in the secondhand clothes and ill-fitting shoes who had studied so hard to make average grades.

  They would see that she was nothing, no one, a fraud who had bluffed her way into television the same way her father had bluffed his way into an inside straight.

  And they would laugh at her.

  Or worse, turn her off.

  The knock on the door made her flinch.

  “We’re set, Angela.”

  She took a deep breath, then another. “On my way.” Her voice was perfectly normal. She was a master at pretense. For a few seconds longer, she stared at her reflection, watching the panic fade from her own eyes.

  She wouldn’t fail. She would never be laughed at. She would never be ignored again. And no one would see anything she didn’t allow them to see. She rose, walked out of her dressing room, down the corridor.

  She had yet to see her guest and continued past the green room without a blink. She never spoke to a guest before the tape was rolling.

  Her producer was warming up the studio audience. There was a hum of excitement from those fortunate enough to have secured tickets to the taping. Marcie, tottering in four-inch heels, rushed up for a last-minute check on hair and makeup. A researcher passed Angela a few more cards. Angela spoke to neither of them.

  When she walked onstage, the hum burst open into a full-throttle cheer.

  “Good morning.” Angela took her chair and let the applause wash over her while she was miked. “I hope everyone’s ready for a great show.” She scanned the audience as she spoke and was pleased with the demographics. It was a good mix of age, sex and race—an important visual for the camera pans. “Anyone here a Deke Barrow fan?”

  She laughed heartily at the next round of applause. “Me too,” she said, though she detested country music in any form. “I’d say we’re all in for a treat.”

  She nodded, settled back, legs crossed, hands folded over the arm of her chair. The red light on the camera blinked on. The intro music swung jazzily through the air.

  “ ‘Lost Tomorrows,’ ‘That Green-Eyed Girl,’ ‘One Wild Heart.’ Those are just a few of the hits that made today’s guest a legend. He’s been a part of country-music history for more than twenty-five years, and his current album, Lost in Nashville, is zooming up the charts. Please join me in welcoming, to Chicago, Deke Barrow.”

  The applause thundered out again as Deke strode out onstage. Barrel-chested, with graying temples peeking out from beneath his black felt Stetson, Deke grinned at the audience before accepting Angela’s warm handshake. She stood back, letting him milk the moment by tipping his hat.

  With every appearance of delight, she joined in the audience’s standing ovation. By the end of the hour, she thought, Deke would stagger offstage. And he wouldn’t even know what had hit him.

  Angela waited until the second half of the show to strike. Like a good host, she had flattered her guest, listened attentively to his anecdotes, chuckled at his jokes. Now Deke was basking in the admiration as Angela held the mike for excited fans as they stood to ask questions. She waited, canny as a cobra.

  “Deke, I wondered if you’re going by Danville, Kentucky, on your tour. That’s my hometown,” a blushing redhead asked.

  “Well now, I can’t say as we are. But we’ll be in Louisville on the seventeenth of June. You be sure to tell your friends to come on by and see me.”

  “Your Lost in Nashville tour’s going to keep you on the road for several months,” Angela began. “That’s rough on you, isn’t it?”

  “Rougher than it used to be,” he answered with a wink. “I ain’t twenty anymore.” His broad, guitar-plucking hands lifted and spread. “But I gotta say I love it. Singing in a recording studio can’t come close to what it’s like to sing for people.”

  “And the tour’s certainly been a success so far. There’s no truth, then, to the rumor that you may have to cut it short because of your difficulties with the IRS?”

  Deke’s congenial grin slipped several notch
es. “No, ma’am. We’ll finish it out.”

  “I feel safe in speaking for everyone here when I say you have our support in this. Tax evasion.” She rolled her eyes in disbelief. “They make you sound like Al Capone.”

  “I really can’t talk about it.” Deke shuffled his booted feet, tugged at his bola tie. “But nobody’s calling it tax evasion.”

  “Oh.” She widened her eyes. “I’m sorry. What are they calling it?”

  He shifted uncomfortably on his chair. “It’s a disagreement on back taxes.”

  “ ‘Disagreement’ is a mild word for it. I realize you can’t really discuss this while the matter’s under investigation, but I think it’s an outrage. A man like you, who’s brought pleasure to millions, for two generations, to be faced with potential financial ruin because his books weren’t in perfect order.”

  “It’s not as bad as all that—”

  “But you’ve had to put your home in Nashville on the market.” Her voice dripped sympathy. Her eyes gleamed with it. “I think the country you’ve celebrated in your music should show more compassion, more gratitude. Don’t you?”

  She hit the right button.

  “Seems like the tax man doesn’t have much to do with the country I’ve been singing about for twenty-five years.” Deke’s mouth thinned, his eyes hardened like agates. “They look at dollar signs. They don’t think about how hard a man’s worked. How much he sweats to make something of himself. They just keep slicing at you till most of what’s yours is theirs. They turn honest folk into liars and cheaters.”

  “You’re not saying you cheated on your taxes, are you, Deke?” She smiled guilelessly when he froze. “We’ll be back in a moment,” she said to the camera, and waited until the red light blinked off. “I’m sure most of us here have been squeezed by the IRS, Deke.” Turning her back on him, she held up her hands. “We’re behind him, aren’t we, audience?”

  There was an explosion of applause and cheers that did nothing to erase the look of sickly shock from Deke’s face.

  “I can’t talk about it,” he managed. “Can I get some water?”

  “We’ll put the matter to rest, don’t you worry. We’ll have time for a few more questions.” Angela turned to her audience again as an assistant rushed out with a glass of water for Deke. “I’m sure Deke would appreciate it if we avoided any more discussion on this sensitive subject. Let’s be sure to give him plenty of applause when we get back from commercial, and give Deke some time to compose himself.”

  With this outpouring of support and empathy, she swung back toward the camera. “You’re back with Angela’s. We have time for just a couple more questions, but at Deke’s request, we’ll close the door on any discussion of his tax situation, as he isn’t free to defend himself while the case is still pending.”

  And of course, when she closed the show moments later, that was exactly the subject on every viewer’s mind.

  Angela didn’t linger among her audience, but joined Deke onstage. “Wonderful show.” She took his limp hand in her firm grasp. “Thank you so much for coming. And the best of luck.”

  “Thank you.” Shell-shocked, he began signing autographs until the assistant producer led him offstage.

  “Get me a tape,” Angela ordered as she strode back to her dressing room. “I want to see the last segment.” She walked straight to her mirror and smiled at her own reflection.

  Chapter Two

  D eanna hated covering tragedies. Intellectually she knew it was her job as a journalist to report the news, and to interview those who had been wounded by it. She believed, unwaveringly, in the public’s right to know. But emotionally, whenever she pointed a microphone toward grief she felt like the worst kind of voyeur.

  “The quiet suburb of Wood Dale was the scene of sudden and violent tragedy this morning. Police suspect that a domestic dispute resulted in the shooting death of Lois Dossier, thirty-two, an elementary school teacher and Chicago native. Her husband, Dr. Charles Dossier, has been taken into custody. The couple’s two children, ages five and seven, are in the care of their maternal grandparents. At shortly after eight A.M. this morning, this quiet, affluent home erupted with gunfire.”

  Deanna steadied herself as the camera panned the trim two-story dwelling behind her. She continued her report, staring straight at the lens, ignoring the crowd that gathered, the other news teams doing their stand-ups, the sweet spring breeze that carried the poignant scent of hyacinth.

  Her voice was steady, suitably detached. But her eyes were filled with swirling emotion.

  “At eight-fifteen A.M., police responded to reports of gunfire, and Lois Dossier was pronounced dead on the scene. According to neighbors, Mrs. Dossier was a devoted mother who took an active interest in community projects. She was well liked and well respected. Among her closest friends was her next-door neighbor, Bess Pierson, who reported the disturbance to the police.” Deanna turned to the woman at her side, who was dressed in purple sweats. “Mrs. Pierson, to your knowledge, was there any violence in the Dossier household before this morning?”

  “Yes—no. I never thought he would hurt her. I still can’t believe it.” The camera zoomed in on the swollen, tear-streaked face of a woman pale with shock. “She was my closest friend. We’ve lived next door to each other for six years. Our children play together.”

  Tears began to spill over. Despising herself, Deanna clutched the woman’s hand with her free one, and continued. “Knowing both Lois and Charles Dossier, do you agree with the police that this tragedy was a result of a domestic dispute that spiraled out of control?”

  “I don’t know what to think. I know they were having marital problems. There were fights, shouting matches.” The woman stared into the void, shell-shocked. “Lois told me she wanted to get Chuck to go into counseling with her, but he wouldn’t.” She began to sob now, one hand covering her eyes. “He wouldn’t, and now she’s gone. Oh God, she was like my sister.”

  “Cut,” Deanna snapped, then wrapped her arm around Mrs. Pierson’s shoulders. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. You shouldn’t be out here now.”

  “I keep thinking this is a dream. That it can’t be real.”

  “Is there somewhere you can go? A friend or a relative?” Deanna scanned the trim yard, crowded with curious neighbors and determined reporters. A few feet to the left another crew was rolling tape. The reporter kept blowing the takes, laughing at his own twisting tongue. “Things aren’t going to quiet down here for a while.”

  “Yes.” After a last, sobbing breath, Mrs. Pierson wiped at her eyes. “We were going to the movies tonight,” she said, then turned and dashed away.

  “God.” Deanna watched as other reporters stabbed their microphones toward the fleeing woman.

  “Your heart bleeds too much,” her cameraman commented.

  “Shut up, Joe.” She pulled herself in, drew a breath. Her heart might have been bleeding, but she couldn’t let it affect her judgment. Her job was to give a clear, concise report, to inform and to give the viewer a visual that would make an impact.

  “Let’s finish it. We want it for Midday. Zoom up to the bedroom window, then come back to me. Make sure you get the hyacinths and daffodils in frame, and the kid’s red wagon. Got it?”

  Joe studied the scene, the White Sox fielder’s cap perched on his wiry brown hair tipped down to shade his eyes. He could already see the pictures, cut, framed, edited. He squinted, nodded. Muscles bunched under his sweatshirt as he hefted the camera. “Ready when you are.”

  “Then in three, two, one.” She waited a beat while the camera zoomed in, panned down. “Lois-Dossier’s violent death has left this quiet community rocked. While her friends and family ask why, Dr. Charles Dossier is being held pending bond. This is Deanna Reynolds in Wood Dale, reporting for CBC.”

  “Nice job, Deanna.” Joe shut down the camera.

  “Yeah, dandy.” On her way to the van, she put two Rolaids in her mouth.

  CBC used the tape again on the local por
tion of the evening news, with an update from the precinct where Dossier was being held on charges of second-degree murder. Curled in a chair in her apartment, Deanna watched objectively as the anchor segued from the top story into a piece on a fire in a South Side apartment building.

  “Good piece, Dee.” Sprawled on the couch was Fran Myers. Her curly red hair was lopsidedly anchored on top of her head. She had a sharp, foxy face accented by eyes the color of chestnuts. Her voice was pure New Jersey brass. Unlike Deanna, she hadn’t grown up in a quiet suburban home in a tree-lined neighborhood, but in a noisy apartment in Atlantic City, New Jersey, with a twice-divorced mother and a changing array of step-siblings.

  She sipped ginger ale, then gestured with her glass toward the screen. The movement was as lazy as a yawn. “You always look so great on camera. Video makes me look like a pudgy gnome.”

  “I had to try to interview the victim’s mother.” Jamming her hands in the pockets of her jeans, Deanna sprang up to pace the room, wiry energy in every step. “She wouldn’t answer the phone, and like a good reporter, I tracked down the address. They wouldn’t answer the door, either. Kept the curtains drawn. I stayed outside with a bunch of other members of the press for nearly an hour. I felt like a ghoul.”

  “You ought to know by now that the terms ‘ghoul’ and ‘reporter’ are interchangeable.” But Deanna didn’t smile. Fran recognized the guilt beneath the restless movements. After setting down her glass, Fran pointed to the chair. “Okay. Sit down and listen to advice from Auntie Fran.”

  “I can’t take advice standing up?”

  “Nope.” Fran snagged Deanna’s hand and yanked her down onto the sofa. Despite the contrasts in backgrounds and styles, they’d been friends since freshman orientation in college. Fran had seen Deanna wage this war between intellect and emotion dozens of times. “Okay. Question number one: Why did you go to Yale?”