by Nora Roberts
She crawled back into consciousness, moaning. Her head, heavy with pain, lolled back against a chair. Groggy, disoriented, she lifted a hand to the worst of the ache. Her fingers came away lightly smeared with blood.
She struggled to focus, baffled to find herself sitting in her own chair, on her own set. Had she missed a cue? she wondered, dizzy, staring back at the camera where the red light gleamed.
But there was no studio audience beyond the camera, no technicians working busily out of range. Though the lights flooded down with the familiar heat, there was no show in progress.
She’d come to meet Angela, Deanna remembered.
Her vision wavered again, like water disturbed by a pebble, and she blinked to clear it. It was then her gaze latched on to the two images on the monitor. She saw herself, pale and glazed-eyed. Then she saw, with horror, the guest sitting in the chair beside hers.
Angela, her pink silk suit decorated with pearl buttons. Matching strands of pearls around her throat, clustered at her ears. Angela, her golden hair softly coiffed, her legs crossed, her hands folded together over the right arm of the chair.
It was Angela. Oh yes, there was no mistaking it. Even though her face had been destroyed.
Blood was splattered over the pink silk and joined by more that ran almost leisurely down from where that lovely, canny face should be.
It was then Deanna began to scream.
Chapter One
Chicago, 1990
I n five, four, three . . .
Deanna smiled at the camera from her corner of the set of Midday News. “Our guest this afternoon is Jonathan Monroe, a local author who has just published a book titled I Want Mine.” She lifted the slim volume from the small round table between the chairs, angling it toward Camera Two. “Jonathan, you’ve subtitled this book Healthy Selfishness. What inspired you to write about a trait most people consider a character flaw?”
“Well, Deanna.” He chuckled, a small man with a sunny smile who was sweating profusely under the lights. “I wanted mine.”
Good answer, she thought, but it was obvious he wasn’t going to elaborate without a little prompting. “And who doesn’t, if we’re honest?” she said, trying to loosen him up with a sense of comradeship. “Jonathan, you state in your book that this healthy selfishness is quashed by parents and caregivers, right from the nursery.”
“Exactly.” His frozen, brilliant smile remained fixed while his eyes darted in panic.
Deanna shifted subtly, laying her hand over his rigid fingers just under camera range. Her eyes radiated interest, her touch communicated support. “You believe the demand of adults that children share toys sets an unnatural precedent.” She gave his hand an encouraging squeeze. “Don’t you feel that sharing is a basic form of courtesy?”
“Not at all.” And he began to tell her why. Though his explanations were delivered in fits and starts, she was able to smooth over the awkwardness, guiding him through the three-minute-fifteen-second spot.
“That’s I Want Mine, by Jonathan Monroe,” she said to the camera, winding up. “Available in your bookstores now. Thank you so much for joining us today, Jonathan.”
“It was a pleasure. As a side note, I’m currently working on my second book, Get Out of My Way, I Was Here First. It’s about healthy aggression.”
“Best of luck with it. We’ll be back in a moment with the rest of the Midday News.” Once they were into commercial, she smiled at Jonathan. “You were great. I appreciate your coming in.”
“I hope I did okay.” The minute his mike was removed, Jonathan whipped out a handkerchief to mop his brow. “First time on TV.”
“You did fine. I think this will generate a lot of local interest in your book.”
“Really?”
“Absolutely. Would you mind signing this for me?”
Beaming again, he took the book and pen she offered. “You sure made it easy, Deanna. I did a radio interview this morning. The DJ hadn’t even read the back blurb.”
She took the autographed book, rising. Part of her mind, most of her energy, was already at the news desk across the studio. “That makes it hard on everyone. Thanks again,” she said, offering her hand. “I hope you’ll come back with your next book.”
“I’d love to.” But she’d already walked away, maneuvering nimbly over snaking piles of cable to take her place behind the counter on the news set. After slipping the book under the counter, she hooked her mike to the lapel of her red suit.
“Another screwball.” The comment from her co-anchor, Roger Crowell, was typical.
“He was very nice.”
“You think everyone’s very nice.” Grinning, Roger checked his hand mirror, gave his tie a minute adjustment. He had a good face for the camera—mature, trustworthy, with distinguished flecks of gray at the temples of his rust-colored hair. “Especially the screwballs.”
“That’s why I love you, Rog.”
This caused snickering among the camera crew. Whatever response Roger might have made was cut off by the floor director signaling time. While the TelePrompTer rolled, Roger smiled into the camera, setting the tone for a soft segment on the birth of twin tigers at the zoo.
“That’s all for Midday. Stay tuned for Let’s Cook! This is Roger Crowell.”
“And Deanna Reynolds. See you tomorrow.”
As the closing music tinkled in her earpiece, Deanna turned to smile at Roger. “You’re a softy, pal. You wrote that piece on the baby tigers yourself. It had your fingerprints all over it.”
He flushed a little, but winked. “Just giving them what they want, babe.”
“And we’re clear.” The floor director stretched his shoulders. “Nice show, people.”
“Thanks, Jack.” Deanna was already unhooking her mike.
“Hey, want to get some lunch?” Roger was always ready to eat, and countered his love affair with food with his personal trainer. There was no disguising pounds from the merciless eye of the camera.
“Can’t. I’ve got an assignment.”
Roger rose. Beneath his impeccable blue serge jacket, he wore a pair of eye-popping Bermuda shorts. “Don’t tell me it’s for the terror of Studio B.”
The faintest flicker of annoyance clouded her eyes. “Okay, I won’t.”
“Hey, Dee.” Roger caught up with her on the edge of the set. “Don’t get mad.”
“I didn’t say I was mad.”
“You don’t have to.” They walked down the single wide step from the glossy set to the scarred wood floor, skirting around camera and cable. They pushed through the studio doors together. “You are mad. It shows. You get that line between your eyebrows. Look.” He pulled her by the arm into the makeup room. After flicking on the lights, he stood behind her, his hands on her shoulders as they faced the mirror. “See, it’s still there.”
Deliberately, she eased it away with a smile. “I don’t see anything.”
“Then let me tell you what I see. Every man’s dream of the girl next door. Subtle, wholesome sex.” When she scowled, he only grinned. “That’s the visual, kid. Those big, trust-me eyes and peaches and cream. Not bad qualities for a television reporter.”
“How about intelligence?” she countered. “Writing ability, guts.”
“We’re talking visuals.” His smile flashed, deepening the character lines around his eyes. No one in television would dare refer to them as wrinkles. “Look, my last co-anchor was a Twinkie. All blow-dried hair and bonded teeth. She was more worried about her eyelashes than she was punching the lead.”
“And now she’s reading the news at the number-two station in LA.” She knew how the business worked. Oh yes, she did. But she didn’t have to like it. “Rumors are, she’s being groomed for network.”
“That’s the game. Personally, I appreciate having someone at the desk with a brain, but let’s not forget what we are.”
“I thought we were journalists.”
“Television journalists. You’ve got a face that was made for t
he camera, and it tells everything you’re thinking, everything you’re feeling. Only problem is, it’s the same off camera, and that makes you vulnerable. A woman like Angela eats little farm girls like you for breakfast.”
“I didn’t grow up on a farm.” Her voice was dry as a Midwest dust bowl.
“Might as well have.” He gave her shoulders a friendly squeeze. “Who’s your pal, Dee?”
She sighed, rolled her eyes. “You are, Roger.”
“Watch your back with Angela.”
“Look, I know she has a reputation for being temperamental—”
“She has a reputation for being a stone bitch.”
Stepping away from Roger, Deanna uncapped a pot of cold cream to remove her heavy makeup. She didn’t like having her coworkers pitted against one another, competing for her time, and she didn’t like feeling pressured into choosing between them. It had been difficult enough juggling her responsibilities in the newsroom and on set with the favors she did for Angela. And they were only favors, after all. Done primarily on her own time.
“All I know is that she’s been nothing but kind to me. She liked my work on Midday and the ‘Deanna’s Corner’ segment and offered to help me refine my style.”
“She’s using you.”
“She’s teaching me,” Deanna corrected, tossing used makeup pads aside. Her movements were quick and practiced. She hit the center of the wastebasket as consistently as a veteran free-throw shooter. “There’s a reason Angela has the top-rated talk show in the market. It would have taken me years to learn the ins and outs of the business I’ve picked up from her in a matter of months.”
“And do you really think she’s going to share a piece of that pie?”
She pouted a moment because, of course, she wanted a piece. A nice big one. Healthy selfishness, she thought, and chuckled to herself. “It’s not as though I’m competing with her.”
“Not yet.” But she would be, he knew. It surprised him that Angela didn’t detect the ambition glinting just behind Deanna’s eyes. But then, he mused, ego was often blinding. He had reason to know. “Just some friendly advice. Don’t give her any ammunition.” He took one last study as Deanna briskly redid her makeup for the street. She might have been naive, he mused, but she was also stubborn. He could see it in the way her mouth was set, the angle of her chin. “I’ve got a couple of bumpers to tape.” He tugged on her hair. “See you tomorrow.”
“Yeah.” Once she was alone, Deanna tapped her eye pencil against the makeup table. She didn’t discount everything Roger said. Because she was a perfectionist, because she demanded, and received, the best for her show, Angela Perkins had a reputation for being hard. And it certainly paid off. After six years in syndication, Angela’s had been in the number-one spot for more than three.
Since both Angela’s and Midday News were taped at the CBC studios, Angela had been able to exert a little pressure to free up some of Deanna’s time.
It was also true that Angela had been nothing but kind to Deanna. She had shown Deanna a friendship and a willingness to share that were rare in the highly competitive world of television.
Was it naive to trust kindness? Deanna didn’t think so. Nor was she foolish enough to believe that kindness was always rewarded.
Thoughtfully, she picked up the brush marked with her name and pulled it through her shoulder-length black hair. Without the cover of heavy theatrical makeup necessary for the lights and camera, her skin was as elegantly pale as porcelain, a dramatic contrast to the inky mane of hair and the smoky, slightly slanted eyes. To add another touch of drama, she’d painted her lips a deep rose.
Satisfied, she pulled her hair back in a ponytail with two quick flicks of her wrist.
She never planned to compete with Angela. Although she hoped to use what she learned to boost her own career, what she wanted was a network spot, someday. Maybe a job on 20/20. And it wasn’t beyond the realm of possibility that she could expand the weekly “Deanna’s Corner” segment on the noon news into a full-fledged syndicated talk show of her own. Even that would hardly be competing with Angela, the queen of the market.
The nineties were wide open for all manner of styles and shows. If she succeeded, it would be because she’d learned from the master. She would always be grateful to Angela for that.
“If the son of a bitch thinks I’m going to roll over, he’s in for an unpleasant surprise.” Angela Perkins glared at the reflection of her producer in her dressing room mirror. “He agreed to come on the show to hype his new album. Tit for tat, Lew. We’re giving him national exposure, so he’s damn well going to answer some questions about his tax evasion charges.”
“He didn’t say he wouldn’t answer them, Angela.” The headache behind Lew McNeil’s eyes was still dull enough to keep him hoping it would pass. “He just said he won’t be able to be specific as long as the case is pending. He’d like it if you would concentrate on his career.”
“I wouldn’t be where I am if I let a guest dictate my show, would I?” She swore again, ripely, then wheeled in the chair to snarl at the hairdresser. “Pull my hair again, sweetie, and you’ll be picking up curlers with your teeth.”
“I’m sorry, Miss Perkins, but your hair is really too short . . .”
“Just get it done.” Angela faced her own reflection again, and deliberately relaxed her features. She knew how important it was to relax the facial muscles before a show, no matter how high the adrenaline. The camera picked up every line and wrinkle, like an old friend a woman meets for lunch. So she breathed deeply, closing her eyes a moment in a signal to her producer to hold his tongue. When she opened them again, they were clear, a diamond bright blue surrounded by silky lashes.
And she smiled as the hairdresser swept her hair back and up into a wavy blond halo. It was a good look for her, Angela decided. Sophisticated but not threatening. Chic but not studied. She checked the style from every angle before giving the go-ahead nod.
“It looks great, Marcie.” She flashed the high-powered smile that made the hairdresser forget the earlier threat. “I feel ten years younger.”
“You look wonderful, Miss Perkins.”
“Thanks to you.” Relaxed and satisfied, she toyed with the trademark pearls around her throat. “And how’s that new man in your life, Marcie? Is he treating you well?”
“He’s terrific.” Marcie grinned as she gave Angela’s hair a large dose of spray to hold the style. “I think he might be the one.”
“Good for you. If he gives you any trouble, you let me know.” She winked. “I’ll straighten him out.”
With a laugh, Marcie backed away. “Thanks, Miss Perkins. Good luck this morning.”
“Mmm-hmmm. Now, Lew.” She smiled and lifted a hand for his. The squeeze was encouraging, feminine, friendly. “Don’t worry about a thing. You just keep our guest happy until airtime. I’ll take care of the rest.”
“He wants your word, Angela.”
“Honey, you give him whatever he wants.” She laughed; Lew’s headache sprang into full-blown agony. “Don’t be such a worrier.” She leaned forward to pluck a cigarette from the pack of Virginia Slims on the dressing table. She flicked on a gold monogrammed lighter, a gift from her second husband. She blew out one thin stream of smoke.
Lew was getting soft, she mused, personally as well as professionally. Though he wore a suit and tie, as dictated by her dress code, his shoulders were slumped as if pulled down by the weight of his expanding belly. His hair was thinning out, too, she realized, and was heavily streaked with gray. Her show was known for its energy and speed. She didn’t enjoy having her producer look like a pudgy old man.
“After all these years, Lew, you should trust me.”
“Angela, if you attack Deke Barrow, you’re going to make it tough for us to book other celebrities.”
“Bull. They’re six deep waiting for a chance to do my show.” She jabbed her cigarette in the air like a lance. “They want me to hype their movies and their TV specials and
their books and their records, and they damn well want me to hype their love lives. They need me, Lew, because they know that every day millions of people tune in.” She smiled into the mirror, and the face that smiled back was lovely, composed, polished. “And they tune in for me.”
Lew had worked with Angela for more than five years and knew exactly how to handle a dispute. He wheedled. “Nobody’s denying that, Angela. You are the show. I just think you should tread lightly with Deke. He’s been around the country-music scene a long time, and this comeback of his has a lot of sentiment behind him.”
“Just leave Deke to me.” She smiled behind a mist of smoke. “I’ll be very sentimental.”
She picked up the note cards that Deanna had finished organizing at seven that morning. It was a gesture of dismissal that had Lew shaking his head. Angela’s smile widened as she skimmed through the notes. The girl was good, she mused. Very good, very thorough.
Very useful.
Angela took one last contemplative drag on her cigarette before crushing it out in the heavy crystal ashtray on her dressing table. As always, every pot, every brush, every tube was aligned in meticulous order. There was a vase of two dozen red roses, which were brought in fresh every morning, and a small dish of multicolored coated mints that Angela loved.
She thrived on routine, at being able to control her environment, including the people around her. Everyone had their place. She was enjoying making one for Deanna Reynolds.
Some might have thought it odd that a woman approaching forty, a vain woman, would have taken on a younger, lovely woman as a favored apprentice. But Angela had been a pretty woman who with time, experience and illusion had become a beautiful one. And she had no fear of age. Not in a world where it could be so easily combated.
She wanted Deanna behind her because of her looks, because of her talent, because of her youth. Most of all, because power scented power.
And for the very simple reason that she liked the girl.
Oh, she would offer Deanna tidbits of advice, friendly criticism, dollops of praise—and perhaps, in time, a position of some merit. But she had no intention of allowing someone she already sensed as a potential competitor to break free. No one broke free from Angela Perkins.