by K. N. Casper
She pulled away, breathless, hardly able to get words out. “We shouldn’t.”
She could feel his reluctance when he released his hold, and wished he hadn’t. She shivered, not from the cool night breeze coming in off the lake, but from the absence of his warmth pressing against her, surrounding her.
His lips curved. His eyes danced. “Ready for coffee?”
Her head was swimming, her body tingling. Again, she was aware of the aroma of lilac on the air, but it was the scent of Renn that lingered in her mind. The allure of a man. It had been a long time since she’d experienced the excitement of intimacy, the kind that started with a kiss.
“One cup,” she said, and hugged her arms around her waist. “And then I need to go home.”
“One cup,” he echoed.
Sunday, April 13
WHAT HAD HE DONE? He’d kissed Marlee Reid, not once but twice. Forget that she was his subordinate. Forget that he’d committed himself to getting her Van Pelt’s job as the sports director and anchor for KNCS-TV. He’d done something far more serious than compromise his professionalism. He’d opened a door and let in a tempest. The peaceful, secure, serene world he’d created was being shattered, and he wasn’t sure he’d be able to put all the pieces put back together again.
He couldn’t afford to have a woman complicating his world. He didn’t need hormones distorting his judgment. Maybe if she wasn’t in the industry, he could entertain the notion of letting her into a compartmented corner of his life, the way he had from time to time with other women. But he’d vowed never again to get involved with anyone in the media. There wasn’t room for two of them, not in his house or his heart, because it was his heart that would suffer. Call him greedy. Call him selfish, but he didn’t want to expose himself, lay himself open once more to the pain of disappointment and loss.
He’d watched his parents’ marriage writhe and finally break because they were so rarely together, because when they were his mother had questioned his father’s fidelity and because in truth his old man had been unfaithful. When Renn had met Pamela, he’d convinced himself they could do better. He’d been a news reporter at a local television station; she’d been freelancing for one of the networks. Their love affair had been an exciting series of stolen moments from both their jobs. Eventually, they’d accumulated enough time together to decide they were deeply in love.
They’d set a wedding date, then postponed it because she latched on to a feature story halfway across the country that she just couldn’t pass up. Since they’d opted not to have a big church wedding, delaying the small private civil ceremony was no great inconvenience. They set a new date, and again, a plum assignment—this one overseas—popped up. He was beginning to have serious second thoughts about the wisdom of their union, when he received word that she wouldn’t be coming back. The peaceful demonstration she’d set out to cover had turned violent, and she’d been killed.
At work on Monday, Renn decided, he’d ignore Marlee. He’d forget about the kisses, go about his job and let her go about hers. They were dedicated, ambitious professionals, after all. A kiss or two couldn’t change that.
Could it?
MARLEE TOSSED and turned, dozed off once or twice, but reawakened each time with the phantom sensation of Renn kissing her. As if she’d never kissed or been kissed by a man before. She had. Plenty of times. What was it about Renn Davis that made his kisses linger on her lips, in her mind, in her dreams?
She slept late the next morning, crawled out of bed, showered, dressed and fixed herself a cup of instant coffee. She rarely used her coffeemaker. What was the point for just one person? Renn had used his machine last evening for two cups, but that was different. He was entertaining a guest. Did he normally brew a pot, or did he use instant as she did? Did he have company very often?
It was Sunday. Audrey had invited her over for dinner, but that wasn’t until late this afternoon. She went for her morning run. The ankle had healed long ago, but she was still being extra careful. Afterward, she combed the sports page in the newspaper, checked scores and flipped through the TV channel that carried national and international athletic events. Channel surfing used to drive her parents crazy when she lived at home, but it was a way of life for people in the media.
Forget about Renn, she told herself, as she drove to the studio. She’d missed Quint Randolph’s sportscast the previous night and wanted to review the tape to see how he had done. Forget Renn’s kisses and the way he made her feel when he held her in his arms. What they had in common was the same thing that would drive them apart, just as it had with Barry.
CHAPTER TEN
Wednesday, April 16
RENN WAS WALKING through the newsroom Wednesday afternoon when he overheard an exchange between Taggart and the producer for his analysis show.
“Where are the highlights from the Yankees game?”
Lacy Ewell lifted her chin. “You said the Giant game because it was going to be so close.” Her tone was a mixture of defensiveness and apprehension.
Taggart screwed up his mouth scornfully. “If you’d taken the time to notice the score, you’d have seen it wasn’t anywhere near close, and I didn’t say it was going to be. I said it might be if they lost their starting pitcher, which they didn’t.”
“I did exactly what you told me to do,” she insisted.
“You did what was easy,” he countered. “The Yankees were on a roll. Too bad you didn’t bother to check.”
“You weren’t here,” she enunciated between clenched teeth.
“What’s the problem?” Renn asked, as he stepped into the editing bay.
Taggart scowled. “I’m all set to comment on the Yankees, and what she gives me is boring shots of the Giants getting trounced.”
Lacy was a widow in her midthirties, trying to support her two kids and ailing mother. The woman appeared tired and upset.
“He told me to get clips of the Giants. I did exactly that, and now he’s complaining because he doesn’t have footage on the Yankees. He never said anything about wanting coverage of them. I’m not a mind reader.”
Renn regarded Taggart, who seemed oblivious to the woman’s frustration. “Is that what you asked for?”
“She’s supposed to get me interesting material, not snoozers.” He took a deep put-upon breath.
“Did you tell her to edit the Giants?” Renn asked him pointedly.
Taggart rolled his eyes. “I said to check them out, and if the game looked close, to get me a few clips.”
“He didn’t say if it looked close,” Lacy retorted, her normally pale face bright with color. “He said to tape the Giants, and that’s what I did.”
“The Yankees game was an upset. That’s the one everyone’s going to be interested in.”
Renn had to agree about the Giants game—it was a drag—but that wasn’t the issue. He’d never known Lacy to screw up an assignment—or to lie. She was conscientious about her work and asked for clarification if something wasn’t clear. She had good instincts, too, and wasn’t afraid to go with her gut. Working with anyone else, she probably would have taken the initiative and switched coverage. Taggart, Renn suspected, was a victim of malicious obedience.
“Is there still time to edit the Yankees feed?” Renn asked her.
The woman glanced up at the clock on the wall. “I’ll find something.”
“That’s right. You will,” Taggart said disdainfully.
They watched him stride away. Down the hall, Renn caught a glimpse of Marlee coming through the main entrance, balancing a shallow white box.
“He’s driving me crazy,” Lacy told Renn. “I tried to call him yesterday, to see if he wanted me to switch coverage, but he wasn’t home.”
Renn placed his hand on her shoulder and squeezed gently. “Hang in there. We’ll get through this.”
“I sure hope so,” she said despairingly. “And it better be soon. I’ve enjoyed my job till recently, but without Clark to run interference, it’s been hell
around here.”
“Wow. Pineapple upside-down cake.” They both turned at Peggy Faykus’s exclamation.
Marlee was standing at the coffee bar with a glass platter in her hands. The tangy aroma of pineapple and brown sugar wafting through the air was enough to bring a sudden surge of people toward the reception area. Taggart came out and leaned cross-armed against the wall.
“Playing homemaker?” he asked sarcastically. “Smells like you’ve finally found your real talent.”
Renn had an urge to connect his fist with the guy’s face, but he’d never been a violent man. Instead, he watched Marlee for her reaction and was inordinately pleased when her shoulders didn’t stiffen or her composure falter. She simply ignored him.
Peggy removed paper plates from the compartment under the coffeemaker. “What’s the occasion?”
“I couldn’t sleep last night, so I thought I’d do something productive.”
“Your insomnia is definitely to our advantage,” Renn commented, as he stepped forward.
She jerked around and stared at him. He smiled. She blushed, then quickly redirected her attention to cutting the moist cake into neat squares. She held out a generous piece, complete with a cherry and half a pineapple ring.
“Brave enough to try a piece?” she asked.
“Haven’t I told you? I can resist anything but temptation.” He accepted the paper plate and plastic fork with both hands. Their fingers briefly touched. “Looks and smells sinful.”
“Buttering up the boss?” Taggart sneered, as he moved forward.
“Nope, telling him to stuff it.” She handed another piece to Lacy and resumed cutting. Trish, Quint and Wayne joined them. “I’d offer some to you, too, Tag, but I’m afraid the caloric overload might put you in cardiac arrest or diabetic shock, or you’d get a big belly.”
“To go with his big head,” Trish muttered.
“Still, if you’re willing to take a chance—” Marlee said, holding out an equally large portion to him.
“I don’t eat sweets.” He scrunched up his mouth, turned on his heel and retreated.
The women all had the good grace to wait until he’d returned to his office before they cackled.
Peggy snickered. “I could see him drooling. The guy’s a real jerk.”
“I was just teasing,” Marlee said innocently. “I really didn’t mean to offend him.”
“Honey,” Peggy said, “to do that, he’d have to have feelings.”
“He’s still bent out of shape because the guy in the control room Sunday night was slow with his clips,” Wayne explained. “Every time he introduced a play, it took like three seconds for the footage to appear on screen.”
Three seconds didn’t seem like much, but in a business in which every second counted, the delay felt like an eternity. The audience would forgive one such occurrence, but a pattern of miscues had the effect of making the person on the screen appear disorganized.
Renn understood what was happening. People at the station were voting for their candidate for sports anchor in the only way they knew how. While Marlee brought in homemade cake, Taggart was complaining about things not going smoothly enough for him. Some of his charges were probably legitimate, such as producers cuing him in late or too early, but many of them were of his own doing, such as this problem with coverage of the Giants versus the Yankees.
What Taggart obviously didn’t understand was that when the people he depended on had no reason to like or respect him, they could figure out all sorts of subtle ways to undermine him. From now on, Renn would make it a point to be very visible during live broadcasts, but he couldn’t be everywhere at the same time. He just hoped the staff’s attempts to promote Marlee didn’t backfire.
“SHE OWES ME,” Taggart snarled a little while later. “Big-time.”
Barely half an hour remained before going on the air, and the esteemed sports analyst insisted he needed two minutes of Marlee’s broadcast to properly analyze the footage Lacy had culled of the Yankees game and their prospects for a pennant later in the year.
“She doesn’t owe you anything,” Renn shot back. They were standing in the middle of the newsroom. Nobody was overtly watching them, but everyone was tuned in.
Marlee stepped out of the tape library, several cassettes in her hands. Renn waved to her to join them.
“What do you have lined up for today’s show?” he asked her.
She rattled off a list of national and local events she was featuring.
“Are you covering the Yankees game?”
She shook her head. “Only the scores. Then I have a spot on Hayley Wickenhauser, the Canadian woman who’s playing on the Finnish men’s hockey team.”
Taggart snorted derisively.
“Followed by a promo for the local golf tourney this weekend at the country club for the rehabilitation center.”
“Can’t cut that.” Renn was about to tell Taggart to go climb a rope, when Mickey Grimes returned to his desk. “Mickey, how tight is your coverage this evening?”
He eyed Taggart warily. “What do you need?”
“Two minutes.”
“That’s pushing it.” He pursed his lips in thought. “I can cut a little from the Middle East story and maybe a few seconds from the South American summit, since it’s been in session for three days and is expected to go on for a couple more.”
“How much time?” Renn asked.
“A minute and half.”
“Good.” Renn turned to Taggart. “There you go.”
“I need two minutes.”
“That’s the best I can do. Take it or leave it. I really don’t care. Which will it be?”
Taggart clicked his tongue. “I’ll take it.” He walked away.
“You’re welcome,” Renn called after him, but got no response. “Thanks,” he said to Grimes.
“To help Marlee, it’s a pleasure.”
Friday, April 18
MARLEE SPENT most of the next two days putting together her Friday night wrap-up and highlights of local high school sports. It was the most popular segment of the week, watched by virtually every parent of a teenager in town. Having your name mentioned on the air set off a glow in people that could last almost indefinitely. Those ten or fifteen seconds of glory might be recounted at reunions for years to come. Marlee understood that and treated it with respect. Following Clark’s example, she did her best to be as inclusive as possible. She also knew the Friday-night sportscast was the one that would gain her the most community support. Mention kids in a positive way and she’d have their parents and friends in her pocket.
Because of the popularity of this particular segment, she had a full eleven minutes, instead of the usual seven. The top two of the stack of tapes she handed Wayne to deliver to the control room were of national coverage. The last five were local.
With a microphone clipped to her blouse and notes clutched in her hand, she stood in the Live Center, greeted the television audience and gave them the teaser for the stories to follow. During the two-minute commercial break, she quickly reviewed her notes, though the text was on the teleprompter. The two national stories were short but mandatory. Texans loved to hear about home teams, even if the games themselves were uneventful. When she was cued in again, she covered them quickly, checking the monitor facing her as the tapes she’d selected were run.
“Turning now to local sports…”
She talked about the high-school baseball game, naming the two players who’d hit homeruns back-to-back. One was a new outfielder with an impressive batting average and potential to go pro someday.
On the screen, she saw girls’ volleyball, which was supposed to be her second story. Trying to remain unfazed, she simply apologized for the mix-up, explained what the audience had just seen and went on to the next story—about the college men’s swimming team. Except the tape that ran was of a varsity soccer match.
She smiled into the camera and again apologized for the mistake, once more explaining what had ju
st been presented and being very careful to credit names.
She went into her third story, this time commenting wryly before the tape was run, “Let’s see what comes up this time.”
It was the first clip on the baseball team.
She laughed good-naturedly into the camera. “Does anyone know what the term FUBAR means? For the uninitiated, it stands for Fouled Up Beyond All Recognition.” She grinned mischievously. “I think we’re seeing it in action. Okay, I have an idea. Let’s show the tape first, then I’ll give you the story that matches. Who knows, we might start a new trend.” Viewers saw her nod to someone off screen. “Run the next video, please.”
She waited until it appeared on her monitor, then went into her spiel. The downside was that she had to speed up her delivery to make up for lost time.
“How much was I over?” she asked the producer.
“Fifteen seconds,” Shelley Chester told her. “No problem. Mickey can adjust. After all, he recouped Tag’s half-minute overrun the other day. What I really want to know is what the hell happened?”
Marlee’s stomach jittered now more than when she’d been on camera. “I’d like an answer to that question myself. Who’s working the control booth?”
“Dexter Lamont.”
Renn joined them. “Somebody want to explain to me what’s going on?” He eyed Marlee with concern.
“No idea. I went over my script three times and verified the sequence before sending the tapes to the control booth. Let’s go talk to Dex.”
The three of them marched down the hall toward the control booth and were almost there, when Faye appeared at the other end of the hallway.
“Uh-oh,” Shelley murmured. “I smell trouble.”
The vice president strode toward them. “Renn, Marlee, in my office. Now.”
“Let me check—” Renn began.
“Now,” she repeated imperiously.
With a barely perceptible shrug, he nodded and followed. Marlee trailed behind him.
“By the way,” he said, as they marched up the steps side by side, “I think you did a great job recovering. Clark would have been proud of you.”