by Nora Roberts
Tears were close, perilously close. She battled them back and sipped the tea like medicine.
She wanted a drink.
“It’s not hurting us. Your lead-in to the six o’clock news has come up in five markets. And the viewers loved your remote at Andrews Air Force Base last week.”
“Well, I’m sick of it.” She hurled the teacup at the wall, sending shards flying and drops splattering over the silk wallpaper. “And I’m sick of that little bitch in Chicago trying to undermine my ratings.”
“She’s a flash in the pan.” He hadn’t even jolted at the explosion. He’d been expecting it. Now that it was done, he knew she could begin to calm. And when she’d calmed, she’d be needy.
He’d been seeing to Angela’s needs for several months.
“In a year she’ll be old news, and you’ll still be number one.”
She sat behind her desk, leaning back, eyes shut. She was slipping. Nothing seemed to be going the way she’d planned when she’d formed her production company. She was in charge, yes, but there was so much to do. So many demands, so many, many ways to fail.
But she couldn’t fail, could never face that. She calmed herself by taking long, slow breaths, just as she did during bouts of stage fright. It was much more productive, she reminded herself, to focus on someone else’s failure.
“You’re right. Once Deanna bottoms out, she’ll be lucky-to get a gig on public access.” And she had something that might hurry that fine day along.
As the smile curved Angela’s lips, Dan walked behind the chair to massage the tension from her shoulders. “You just relax. Let me do all the worrying.”
She liked the feel of his hands on her—gentle, competent, sure. They made her feel protected, safe. She so desperately needed that now.
“They love me, don’t they, Dan?”
“Of course they do.” His hands trailed up to her neck, then brushed down over her breasts. They were soft and heavy and never failed to arouse him. His voice thickened as he felt her nipples harden between the light pinch of his thumb and forefinger. “Everybody loves Angela.”
“And they’ll keep watching.” She sighed, relaxing as his hands molded her.
“Every day. Coast to coast.”
“Every day,” she murmured, and her smile widened. “Go lock the door, Dan. Tell Lorraine to hold my calls.”
“I’d love to.”
Chapter Fourteen
During the frigid nights in the desert, it was hard to remember the blazing heat of day. Just as after the first bombs exploded it was difficult to remember the deadly tedium of the long weeks of Desert Shield.
Finn had been through other wars, though he’d never been so hamstrung by military regulations. There were ways, however, for the enterprising reporter to stretch them. He would never have denied that certain sensitive intelligence data couldn’t be broadcast without endangering troops. But he wasn’t a fool, nor was he blindly ambitious. He saw his job, and his duty, as finding out what was happening, not just what the official reports claimed was happening.
Twice he and Curt climbed into his rented truck with a portable satellite dish bracketed in the bed, and headed out. Over the poorly marked roads and the shifting sand, they managed to link up with U.S. troops. Finn listened to complaints and to hopes, and returned to base to report both.
He watched Scuds fly and Patriots intercept them. He slept in snatches and lived with the possibility of a chemical assault.
When the ground war began, he was ready, eager, to follow it into Kuwait City.
It would be called the Mother of Battles, the hundred hours of fierce fighting to liberate Kuwait. While allied troops took up positions along the Euphrates River, along the highways linking Kuwait to other cities, Iraqis fled. Hustling, as one trooper told Finn, “to get out of Dodge.”
There were massive traffic jams, trapped tanks, abandoned possessions. From a dusty truck heading toward the city, Finn observed the wreckage. Mile after mile of shattered vehicles lined the road. Cars, stripped for parts, tilted on crates. Personal possessions littered the roadway, mattresses, blankets, frying pans and ammo clips. Incredibly, a chandelier, its crystals gleaming in the sun, lay on the sand like scattered jewels. And worse, much worse, was the occasional corpse.
“Let’s get some tape of this.” Finn stepped out of the truck, his boots crunching down on one of the cassette tapes that were blowing across the highway.
“Looks like the garage sale from hell,” Curt commented. “Crazy bastards must have been looting on their way out.”
“It always comes down to getting your own, doesn’t it?” Finn pointed toward a swatch of hot pink flapping from beneath an overturned truck. The evening gown shimmered with sequins. “Where the hell did she expect to wear that?”
Finn prepared for a stand-up as Curt set up his equipment. He hadn’t thought anything else could surprise him. Not after seeing the pathetically gaunt Iraqi soldiers wearily surrendering to allied troops. Seeing the fear and fatigue, and the relief, on their faces as they emerged from their foxholes in the desert. He hadn’t thought anything else about war could affect him, not the torn bodies, the atrocities of scavengers or the stink of death cooking under the merciless sun.
But that flap of pink silk, rustling seductively in the desert wind, turned his stomach.
It was worse inside the city. The raw nerves, the anger, the devastation, all coated in a layer of oily soot from the fires that depleted Kuwait’s lifeblood of oil.
When the wind blew toward the city, the sky would darken with smoke. Midday would become midnight. The seaside was dotted with mines, and explosions rocked the city several times a day. Gunfire continued, not only in celebratory bursts, but in savage drive-by attacks on Kuwaiti soldiers. Survivors searched the cemetery for the remains of loved ones, many of whom had suffered torture and worse.
Through all he observed, through all he reported, Finn continued to think of a sequined evening gown billowing out of the sand.
Like the rest of the world, Deanna watched the end of the war on television. She listened to the reports on the liberation of Kuwait, the official cease-fire, the statistics of victory. It became a habit to drop into the newsroom before she left the CBC Building, hoping for a few scraps of information that hadn’t yet been aired.
But the reality of day-to-day responsibilities kept her grounded. Whenever she had a free night, she watched the late news, then slipped in a tape of that morning’s show. In the privacy of her apartment, she could watch herself critically, searching for ways to improve her on-air skills or to tighten the overall format.
She sat cross-legged on the floor, comfortable in sweatshirt and jeans, a notepad open across her knees. The earrings were wrong, she noted. Every time she moved her head they swung—a distraction for the viewer, she thought, and wrote: No more dangling earrings.
And the hand gestures were too broad. If she didn’t watch it, she’d end up being parodied on Saturday Night Live. She should be so lucky, she thought with a grin, and scribbled on her pad.
Did she touch people too much? Nibbling her lips, Deanna watched. She always seemed to be laying a hand on a guest’s arm or circling an audience member’s shoulder. Maybe she should—
The knock on the door had her swearing. Her schedule didn’t allow for unexpected visitors after ten. Grudgingly, she switched off the VCR. She glimpsed through the peephole. Then she was tugging at locks, dragging at the chain.
“Finn! I didn’t know you were back!”
She didn’t know who moved first. In a heartbeat, they were wrapped together, his mouth hard on hers, her hands fisted in his hair. The explosion of need rattled them both, the swell of heat, the blast of power. The bomb detonated inside her, leaving emotions shattered, needs raw. Then he was kicking the door closed as they tumbled to the floor.
She didn’t think. Couldn’t think. Not with his mouth burning on hers and his hands already urgently possessing. Like tussling children, they rolled over the
rug, the only sounds incoherent murmurs and strained breathing.
It wasn’t dreamlike, but stark reality. The only reality that mattered. His hands were rough, streaking under the fleece of her shirt to take, digging into her hips to press her fiercely against him.
She seemed to be erupting beneath him, with short, static bursts of energy. Her skin was hot, smooth, unbearably soft. He wanted to taste it, to devour it, to consume the flavor of her flesh and blood and bone. Her mouth wasn’t enough—her throat, her shoulder, where he dragged the shirt down. He felt like an animal, rabid and starving, and wanted to glory in it. Yet he knew he could hurt her, would hurt her, if he didn’t harness the worst of the need.
“Deanna.” He wished he could find some spark of tenderness within the furnace that roared inside him. “Let me . . .” He lifted his head, struggling to clear his vision. He’d barely looked at her, he realized. The moment she’d opened the door and said his name, his control had snapped.
Now she was vibrating like a plucked string beneath him, her eyes huge and dark, her mouth swollen. And her skin . . . He brought his fingertips to her cheek, stroking over the flushed, damp flesh.
Tears. He’d always considered them a woman’s greatest weapon. Shaken, he brushed them away and cleared his throat. “Did I knock you down?”
“I don’t know.” She felt like a jumble of nerve ends and sparks. “I don’t care.” Slowly, beautifully, her smile bloomed. She framed his face in her hands. “Welcome home.” She let their slow, quiet kiss soothe them both.
“I’ve been told I have considerable finesse with women.” Taking her hand, he closed it into a loose fist and pressed it to his lips. “Though it might be hard for you to believe at the moment.”
“I’d rather not ask for corroboration.”
His grin flashed. “Look, why don’t we . . .” He trailed off as he stroked a hand over her hair. Confused, he pulled back, eyes narrowed, and studied her. “What in the hell did you do to your hair?”
In automatic defense, she combed her fingers through it. “I cut it. New Year’s Eve.” Her smile wavered. “The viewers like it—three to one. We did a poll.”
“It’s shorter than mine.” With a half laugh, he moved back to squat on his haunches. “Come here, let me get a good look.” Without waiting for assent, he hauled her to a sitting position.
She sat, pouting a little, her eyes daring him, and the lamplight glowing over the glistening cap. “I was tired of dealing with it,” she muttered when he only continued his silent study. “This saves me hours a week, and it suits the shape of my face. It looks good on camera.”
“Um-hmm.” Fascinated, he reached out to toy with her earlobe, then skimmed his finger down the side of her throat. “Either several months of celibacy is playing hell with my libido, or you’re the sexiest woman alive.”
Delighted, flustered, she hugged her knees. “You look pretty good yourself. You know they’re calling you the Desert Hunk.”
He winced. After the ribbing he’d taken from his associates, he was hard-pressed to find the humor in it. “It’ll pass.”
“I don’t know. There’s already a fan club here in Chicago.” Seeing that he could be embarrassed only amused her. “You did look pretty hunky with Scuds flying in the sky behind you, or with tanks rolling across the sand at your back. Especially since you didn’t shave for a couple of days.”
“Once the ground war started, water was at a premium.”
Her amusement faded. “Was it bad?”
“Bad enough.” He took her hand, gently now, remembering to appreciate the elegance. That was what he needed, the warm reality of her. Maybe, in a day or two, the things he’d seen, the things he’d heard would fade a little.
“Do you want to talk about it?”
“No.”
“You look tired.” She could see now how drawn he was beneath the desert tan. “When did you get back?”
“About an hour ago. I came straight here.”
Even as her heart picked up rhythm, she responded to the weariness in his eyes. “Why don’t I fix you something to eat? You can get your bearings.”
He kept her hand in his, wishing he could explain to her, to himself, how much steadier he felt being here. Being close. “I wouldn’t turn down a sandwich, especially if it came with a beer.”
“I can probably handle that.” She got to her feet, gave his hand a tug. “Come on, stretch out on the couch, relax with Carson. While you’re eating, I’ll fill you in on all the news and gossip from CBC.”
He rose, waiting until she’d punched the remote. “Are you going to let me stay tonight, Deanna?”
She looked back at him, her eyes huge, but steady. “Yes.”
Turning quickly, she walked into the kitchen. Her hands were trembling, she realized. And it was wonderful. Her whole body was quivering in response to that long, last look he’d given her before she’d rushed away. She didn’t know what it would be like, but she knew that she’d never wanted anyone more. The months of separation hadn’t stunted the emotions that had begun growing inside her.
And that first greedy kiss as they’d tumbled heedless to the floor had been more stunning, more erotic than any fantasy she’d woven while she’d waited for him to come back.
He’d come to her. She pressed a hand to her stomach. Nerves were jittering, she thought. But they were good nerves, hot and strong, not cold, cowardly ones.
Tonight, she would take the step. She would reclaim herself. Because she wanted, Deanna thought. Because she chose.
Putting a sandwich of cold ham and cheese on a platter, she added a pilsner of beer. She lifted the tray and smiled to herself. Desire was as basic and human as hunger. Once they had satisfied the latter, she would take him to her bed, into her body.
“I could put together something hot,” she said as she carried the tray back into the living room. “There’s a can of soup in the—” Deanna broke off and stared.
Carnac the Magnificent was on a roll. Ed was hooting in response. And Finn Riley, the Desert Hunk, was sleeping like a baby.
He’d pried off his battered hightops, but hadn’t bothered to remove his jacket. Unrelenting work, travel and jet lag had finally taken their toll. He lay flat on his stomach, his face smashed into one of Deanna’s satin pillows, his arm dangling limply over the edge of the couch.
“Finn?” Deanna set the tray aside and put a hand on his shoulder. When she shook him, he didn’t stir, a hundred and sixty pounds of exhausted male.
Resigned, she went for a spare blanket and tucked it around him. She locked the front door, secured the chain. Switching the lamp to low, she sat down on the floor in front of him. “Our timing,” she said quietly and kissed his cheek, “continues to suck.” With a sigh, she picked up the sandwich and tried to fill the void of sexual frustration with food and television.
Finn pulled out of the dream, chilled with sweat. The fading vision behind his eyes was horrid—the body riddled with bullets at his feet, blood and gore staining the pink silk and sequins of the tattered evening gown. In the quiet light of morning, he struggled to sit up, rubbing his hands over his face.
Disoriented, he tried to get his bearings. Hotel room? What city? What country? A plane? A taxi?
Deanna. Remembering, Finn let his head fall back against the cushions and moaned. First he’d tossed her to the floor, then he’d passed out. A rousing segment in the frustrating journal of their romance.
He was surprised she hadn’t dragged him out of the apartment by the feet and left him snoring in the hall. Fighting free of the blanket, he staggered up. He swayed a moment, his body still floating with fatigue. He’d have killed for coffee. He supposed that was why he thought he smelled some brewing. After months in the desert, he knew that mirages weren’t only the result of heat, but of desperate human desires.
He rolled his stiff shoulders and swore. Christ, he didn’t want to think about desires.
But maybe it wasn’t too late. A quick injection of in
stant coffee, and he could slip into bed with Deanna and make up for his neglect the night before.
Bleary-eyed, he stumbled toward the kitchen.
She was no mirage, standing there in a beam of sunlight, looking fresh and lovely in slacks and a sweater, pouring gloriously scented coffee into a red ceramic mug.
“Deanna.”
“Oh!” She jolted, nearly upending the mug. “You startled me. I was concentrating on some mental notes for the show.” She set the pot down, brushed suddenly damp hands down her hips. “How’d you sleep?”
“Like a rock. I don’t know whether to be embarrassed or apologetic, but if you share that coffee, I’ll be anything you want.”
“There’s nothing to be embarrassed or apologetic about.” But she couldn’t meet his eyes as she reached for the mug. “You were exhausted.”
He lightly stroked a hand over her hair. “How angry are you?”
“I’m not.” But her gaze cut away from his when she pushed the mug into his hand. “Do you want cream or sugar?”
“No. If not angry, what?”
“It’s hard to explain.” There wasn’t enough room in the kitchen, she realized. And he was blocking the way out. “I’ve really got to go, Finn. My driver will be here in a few minutes.”
He stood his ground. “Try to explain.”
“This isn’t easy for me.” Unnerved, she snapped out the words and turned away. “I’m not experienced in morning-after conversation.”
“Nothing happened.”
“That’s not the point, not really. I wasn’t thinking last night. I couldn’t. When I saw you, I was overwhelmed by what was happening, what I was feeling. No one’s ever wanted me the way you did last night.”
“And I blew it.” No longer interested in coffee, he set the mug carefully on the counter. “I’m sorry. Maybe I shouldn’t have stopped that first mad rush, but I was afraid I’d hurt you.”