by Nora Roberts
her generosity later.”
“Deanna, you make the show work, that’ll be payment enough. Now, let’s talk business.”
Twenty minutes later, with a headache just beginning to brew behind her eyes, she hung up. What had ever made her think she was good with details? Deanna wondered. What had ever made her think she wanted the responsibility of helming a talk show?
“Deanna?” Cassie entered with a tray. “I thought you’d like some coffee.”
“You read my mind.” Deanna set aside papers to make room for the pot. “Do you have time for any? We might want to tank up before the rest of the day’s schedule hits.”
“I brought two cups.” She poured both before she took a chair. “Do you want to go over your agenda for today?”
“I don’t think so.” The first sip of hot black coffee punched its caffeine-laced fist straight into her bloodstream. “It’s engraved on my forehead. Have we set up a lunch for the baseball wives after the show?”
“Simon and Fran will play host. Reservations are confirmed. And Jeff thought it might be nice to have roses in the green room when they arrive. I wanted to run it by you.”
“Good old Jeff. Very classy idea. Let’s put cards on each bunch with a personal thank-you from the staff.” After another sip, she pressed a hand to her jittery stomach. “Christ, Cassie, I’m scared to death.” Setting the cup aside, she took a deep, calming breath and leaned forward. “I want to ask you something, and I really want you to be brutally honest, okay? No sparing feelings, no false pep talk.”
“All right.” Cassie laid her steno pad on her lap. “Shoot.”
“You worked for Angela a long time. You probably know as much about the ins and outs of this sort of a show as any producer or director. I imagine you have an opinion of why Angela’s works. And I want to know, candidly, if you believe we have a shot at this.”
“You want to know if we can make Deanna’s Hour competitive?”
“Not even that,” Deanna said, shaking her head. “If we can get through the first half a dozen shows without being laughed out of the business.”
“That’s easy. After next week, people are going to do a lot of talking about Deanna’s Hour. And more people are going to tune in to see what the deal is. They’re going to like it, because they’re going to like you.” She chuckled at Deanna’s expression. “That’s not sucking up. The thing is, the average viewer won’t see or appreciate the work that’s gone into making it all look good and run smoothly. They won’t know about the long hours or the sweat. But you know, so you’ll work harder. The harder you work, the harder everyone else will. Because you do something Angela didn’t. Something I guess she just couldn’t. You make us feel important. That makes all the difference. Maybe it won’t put you on top of the ratings heap right away, but it puts you on top with us. That counts.”
“It counts a lot,” Deanna said after a moment. “Thanks.”
“In a couple of months, when the show’s cruising and the budget opens up, I’m going to come back in here. That’s when I’m going to suck up.” She grinned. “And hit you for a raise.”
“If the damn budget ever opens up, everyone’s getting a raise.” Deanna blew at her bangs. “In the meantime, I need to see the tapes on the promos for the affiliates.”
“You need a promotion manager.”
“And a unit manager, and a publicity director, a permanent director and a few production assistants. Until that happy day, I’m wearing those hats, too. Have the newspapers come in yet?”
“I passed them on to Margaret. She’s going to screen them for ideas and make clippings.”
“Fine. Try to get me the clippings before lunch. We’re going to want something really hot for the second week in September. Bach just told me we’ll be going up against a new game show in three cities during fall premiere week.”
“Will do—oh, and your three o’clock with Captain Queeg is rescheduled for three-thirty.”
“Captain—oh, Ryce.” Not bothering to hide the smile, Deanna noted it down on her calendar. “I know he’s a little eccentric, Cassie.”
“And overbearing.”
“And overbearing,” Deanna agreed. “But he’s a good director. We’re lucky to have him for the few opening weeks.”
“If you say so.” She started out, then hesitated and turned back. “Deanna, I didn’t know if I should mention it, then I figured it wouldn’t be right to start censoring your calls.”
“What?”
“Dr. Pike. He called when you were on with Mr. Bach.”
Thoughtfully, Deanna set aside her pen. “If he calls back, put him through. I’ll take care of it.”
“Okay. Oops.” She grinned and stepped back to avoid running into Finn. “ ’Morning, Mr. Riley.”
“Hey, Cassie. I need a minute with the boss.”
“She’s all yours.” Cassie closed the door behind her.
“Finn, I’m sorry, I’m swamped.” But she wasn’t quite quick enough to avoid the kiss when he skirted the desk. She wasn’t sure she wanted to.
“I know, I’ve only got a minute myself.”
“What is it?” She could see the excitement in his eyes, feel it in the air sparking around him. “It’s big.”
“I’m on my way to the airport. Iraq just invaded Kuwait.”
“What?” Her reporter’s adrenaline made her spring up. “Oh, Jesus.”
“Blitzkrieg style. An armored thrust, helicopter-supported. I have a couple of contacts at Green Ramp in North Carolina, a couple of guys I got to know during the fighting at Tocumen airfield in Panama a few months ago. Odds are we’ll go with diplomatic and economic pressure first, but there’s a damn good chance we’ll deploy troops. If my instincts are worth anything, it’s going to be big.”
“There are blowups over there all the time.” Weakly she sat on the arm of her chair.
“It’s land, Kansas. And it’s oil, and it’s honor.” He lifted her to her feet, caught her hair in his hand to draw it away from her face. He wanted—needed, he admitted—a long look at her. A good long look. “I may be gone for a while, especially if we send troops.”
She was pale, struggling to be calm. “They think he has nuclear capabilities, don’t they? And certainly access to chemical weapons.”
Dimples flashed recklessly. “Worried about me?”
“I was just wondering if you were taking a gas mask as well as a camera crew.” Feeling foolish, she stepped back. “I’ll watch for your reports.”
“Do that. I’m sorry I’ll miss your premiere.”
“That’s okay.” She managed a smile. “I’ll send you a tape.”
“You know.” He toyed with a strand of her hair. “Technically, I’m going off to war. The old ‘I’m shipping out, babe, and who knows what tomorrow might bring.’ ” He smiled into her dark, serious eyes. “I don’t suppose I could convince you to lock that door over there and give me a memorable send-off.”
She was afraid he could. “I don’t fall for tired old lines. Besides, everyone knows Finn Riley always brings back the story alive.”
“It was worth a shot.” But he slipped his arms around her waist. “At least give me something to take into the desert with me. I hear it gets pretty cold at night.”
There was a part of her that feared. And a part that yearned. Listening to both, she wrapped her arms around his neck. “All right, Riley. Remember this.”
For the first time, she pressed her lips to his without hesitation. There was more than the quick, familiar thrill when her mouth opened to his, more than the slow, grinding ache she’d tried so hard to deny. There was need, yes, to taste, to absorb and, curiously, to comfort.
When the kiss deepened, she let herself forget everything else, and just feel.
She could smell him—soap and light, clean sweat. His hair was soft and full, and seemed to beckon her fingers to comb through and hold on. When his mouth became less patient, when she heard his quiet groan of pleasure, she responded heedles
sly, mating her tongue with his, nipping at his lip to add the dark excitement of pain to the pleasure.
She thought he trembled, but could no longer find the will to soothe.
“Deanna.” Desperately, he took his mouth over her face, along her throat, where her pulse beat like wings. “Again.”
His lips crushed down on hers again, absorbing the flavor, the warmth. Shaken, he drew back just enough to rest his brow against hers, to hold her another moment where he felt so oddly centered, so curiously right.
“Goddamn,” he whispered. “I’m going to miss you.”
“This wasn’t supposed to happen.”
“Too late.” He lifted his head, brushed his lips over her forehead. “I’ll call when I can.” As soon as he’d said it, Finn realized he’d never made that promise before. It was the kind of unstated commitment that had him stepping back, tucking his hands safely in his pockets. “Good luck next week.”
“Thanks.” She took a step back herself so that they took each other’s measure like two boxers after a blood-pumping round in the ring. “I know it’s a useless thing to say, but be careful.”
“I’ll be good.” His grin was quick and reckless. “That’s more important.” He walked to the door, then stopped, his hand on the knob. “Listen, Deanna, if that asshole shrink does happen to call back—”
“You were eavesdropping.”
“Of course I was, I’m a reporter. Anyway, if he does call back, brush him off, will you? I don’t want to have to kill him.”
She smiled, but the smile faded quickly. Something in Finn’s eyes told her he was serious. “That’s a ridiculous thing to say. It happens that I’m not interested in Marshall, but—”
“Lucky for him.” He touched a finger to his brow in salute. “Stay tuned, Kansas. I’ll be back.”
“Arrogant idiot,” Deanna muttered. When her eyes began to sting, she turned to stare out at Chicago. There might be a war on the other side of the world, she thought as the first tear spilled over. And a show to produce right here.
So what in the hell was she doing falling in love?
“Okay, Dee, we’re nearly ready for you.” Fran scooted back into the dressing room. “The studio audience is all in.”
“Great.” Deanna continued to stare blindly at the mirror as Marcie put the finishing touches on her hair. “Just great.”
“They’re wearing Cubs hats and White Sox T-shirts. Some people even brought banners, and they’re waving them around. I’m telling you, they’re revved.”
“Great. Just great.”
Smiling to herself, Fran glanced down at her clipboard. “All six of the wives are in the green room. They’re really chummy. Simon’s in there now, going over the setup with them.”
“I went in to introduce myself to them earlier.” Her voice was a monotone. She could feel the nausea building like a tidal wave. “Oh God, Fran, I really think I’m going to be sick.”
“No, you’re not. You don’t have time. Marcie, her hair looks fabulous. Maybe you can give me some tips on mine later. Come on, champ.” Fran gave Deanna a tug that brought her out of the chair. “You need to go out and give the audience a pep talk, get them on your side.”
“I should have worn the navy suit,” Deanna said as Fran dragged her along. “The orange and kiwi is too much.”
“It’s gorgeous—and it’s bright and young. Just the right combo. You look hip, but not trendy, friendly but not homespun. Now look.” Making a little island of intimacy in the midst of backstage chaos, Fran took Deanna by the shoulders. “This is what we’ve all been slaving for over the last couple of months—what you’ve been aiming toward for years. Now go out there and make them love you.”
“I keep thinking about all this stuff. What if a fight breaks out? You know how rabid Sox and Cubs fans can be. What if I run out of questions? Or can’t control the crowd? What if someone asks why the hell I’m doing a silly show about baseball when we’re sending troops to the Middle East?”
“Number one, nobody’s going to fight because they’re going to be having too much fun. Number two, you never run out of questions, and you can control any crowd. And finally, you’re doing this show on baseball because people need to be entertained, especially during times like these. Now pull it together, Reynolds, and go do your job.”
“Right.” She took a deep breath. “You’re sure I look okay?”
“Go.”
“I’m going.”
“Deanna.”
She turned, surprised, then infuriated to see Marshall standing an arm’s length behind her. Fran’s snarl had her stepping forward. “What are you doing here?”
His smile was easy, though his eyes held regret. “I wanted to wish you luck. In person.” He held out a bouquet of candy pink roses. “I’m very proud of you.”
She didn’t reach for the flowers, but she kept her eyes level with his, “I’ll accept the wish for luck. Your pride is your business. Now, I’m afraid only staff is allowed back here.”
Very slowly, he lowered the flowers. “I didn’t know you had it in you to be cruel.”
“It seems we were misled. I have a show to do, Marshall, but I’ll take a moment to tell you once again that I have no desire to resume any sort of relationship with you. Simon?” She called out without taking her eyes from Marshall’s. “Show Dr. Pike out, will you? He seems to have made a wrong turn.”
“I know the way,” he said between clenched teeth. He let the roses fall to the floor, reminding her how she had dropped a similar bouquet. The scent of them turned her stomach. “I won’t always be turned away so easily.”
He stalked off with Simon nervously dogging his heels. Deanna allowed herself one long, calming breath.
“Creep,” Fran muttered, lifting a hand automatically to soothe the tension in Deanna’s shoulders. “Bastard. To come here like this right before a live show. Are you going to be all right?”
“I’m going to be fine.” She shook off the fury. There was too much riding on the next hour for her to indulge herself. “I am fine.” She headed out, taking the hand mike from Jeff as she passed.
Jeff smiled broadly as he watched her. “Break a leg, Deanna.”
She straightened her shoulders. “Hell, I’m going to break two.” She stepped onto the set, smiled at the sea of faces. “Hi, everyone, thanks for coming. I’m Deanna. In about five minutes we’re going to get this show rolling. I hope you’re going to help me out. It’s my first day on the job.”
* * *
“Put in the damn tape.” In her towering New York office, Angela stubbed out one cigarette and immediately lit another.
“I went out on a limb to get a copy of this,” Lew told her as he slipped the tape into the VCR.
“You told me, you told me.” And she was sick of hearing it. Sick, too, with fear of what she might see on the monitor in the next few minutes. “Cue it up, damn it.”
He hit the Play button and stepped back. Eyes narrowed, Angela listened to the intro music. Too close to rock, she decided with a smirk. The average viewer wouldn’t like it. The pan of the audience—people in baseball caps, applauding and waving banners. Middle-class, she decided, and leaned back comfortably.
It was going to be all right after all, she assured herself.
“Welcome to Deanna’s Hour.” The camera did a close-up of Deanna’s face. The slow, warm smile, the hint of nerves in the eyes. “Our guests today, here in Chicago, are six women who know all there is to know about baseball—and not just about squeeze plays and Texas Leaguers.”
She’s jittery, Angela thought, pleased. She’d be lucky to make it through to commercial. Anticipating the humiliation, Angela allowed herself to feel sorry for Deanna. After all, she thought with a soft, sympathetic sigh, who knew better than she what it was like to face that merciless glass eye?
She’d taken on too much, too soon, Angela realized. It would be a hard lesson, but a good one. And when she failed, as she certainly would, and came knocking on the doo
r looking for help, Angela decided she would be gracious enough, forgiving enough to give her a second chance.
But Deanna made it to commercial, segueing into the break over applause. After the first fifteen minutes, the pleasant flavor of gloating sympathy had turned bitter in her throat.
She watched the show through to the closing credits, saying nothing.
“Turn it off,” she snapped, then rose to go to the wet bar. Rather than her usual mineral water, she reached for a split of champagne, spilling it into a flute. “It’s nothing,” she said, half to herself. “A mediocre show with minimal demographic appeal.”
“The response from the affiliates was solid.” With his back to her, Lew ejected the tape.
“A handful of stations in the dust bowl of the Midwest?” She drank quickly, her lips tightening on the gulp. “Do you think that worries me? Do you think she could play that in New York? It’s what works here that matters. Do you know what my share was last week?”
“Yes.” Lew set the tape aside and played the game. “You’ve got
