by Nora Roberts
thought he deserved some R and R.”
Deanna wasn’t sure a small, bloody war should be called “that nasty business,” but she nodded.
“Since it’s all so impulsive, I really need some help putting everything together. The caterers, the flowers, the music—and of course, the party itself. Making sure everything runs smoothly. My secretary just can’t handle it all, and I really want it to be perfect. If you could give me a couple of hours later today—and tomorrow, of course.”
Deanna battled back the sense of resentment, and obligation. “Angela, I’d love to help you out, but I’m booked.”
Angela’s persuasive smile never altered, but her eyes chilled. “You’re not scheduled for Saturday.”
“No, not here—though I am on call. But I have plans.” Deanna began to tap a finger on her notes. “A date.”
“I see.” Angela’s hand went to her pearls, where her fingers rubbed one smooth, glowing sphere. “Rumor has it that you’ve been seeing a lot of Dr. Marshall Pike.”
The evening news might run on facts and verified information, but Deanna understood that newsrooms and television studios ran on gossip. “We’ve been out a few times in the last couple of weeks.”
“Well, I wouldn’t want to interfere—and I hope you won’t take this the wrong way, Dee.” To add intimacy to the statement, Angela rested a hip on Deanna’s desk. “Do you really think he’s your type?”
Torn between manners and her own schedule, Deanna chose manners. “I don’t really have one. A type, I mean.”
“Of course you do.” With a light laugh, Angela tilted her head. “Young, well built, the outdoorsy type. Athletic,” she continued. “You need someone who can keep up with the vicious pace you set for yourself. And a good intellect, naturally, but not overly cerebral. You need someone who can make his point in quick, fifteen-second bites.”
She really didn’t have time for any of this. Deanna picked up one of her sharpened pencils and ran it through her fingers. “That makes me sound sort of shallow.”
“Not at all.” Angela’s eyes widened in protest even as she chuckled. “Darling, I only want the very best for you. I’d hate to see a passing interest interfere with the momentum of your career, and as for Marshall . . . He’s a bit slick, isn’t he?”
Temper glinted in Deanna’s eyes, and was quickly suppressed. “I don’t know what you mean. I enjoy his company.”
“Of course you do.” Angela patted Deanna’s shoulder. “What young woman wouldn’t? An older man, experienced, smooth. But to let him interfere with your work—”
“He’s not interfering with anything. We’ve gone out a few times in the last couple of weeks, that’s all. I’m sorry, Angela, but I really have to get back on schedule here.”
“Sorry,” she said coolly. “I thought we were friends. I didn’t think a little constructive advice would offend you.”
“It hasn’t.” Deanna fought back a sigh. “But I’m on deadline. Listen, if I can squeeze out some time later today, I’ll do what I can to help you with the party.”
As if a switch had been thrown, the icy stare melted into the warmest of smiles. “You’re a jewel. Tell you what, just to prove there’s no hard feelings, you bring Marshall tomorrow night.”
“Angela—”
“Now, I won’t take no for an answer.” She slid off the desk. “And if you could get there just an hour or two early, I’d be so grateful. No one organizes like you, Dee. We’ll talk about all of this later.”
Deanna leaned back in her chair when Angela strolled away. She felt as though she’d been steamrolled with velvet.
With a shake of her head, she looked down at her notes, her fingers poised over her keyboard. Frowning, she relaxed them again. Angela was wrong, she thought. Marshall wasn’t interfering with her work. Being interested in someone didn’t have to clash with ambition.
She enjoyed going out with him. She liked his mind—the way he could open it to see both sides of a situation. And the way he laughed when she dug in on an opinion and refused to budge.
She appreciated the fact that he was letting the physical end of their relationship develop slowly, at her pace. Though she had to admit it was becoming tempting to speed things up. It had been a long time since she’d felt safe enough, and strong enough, with a man to invite intimacy.
Once she did, Deanna thought, she would have to tell him everything.
She shook the memory away quickly, before it could dig its claws into her heart. She knew from experience it was best to cross one bridge at a time, then to prepare to span the next.
The first bridge was to analyze her relationship with Marshall, if there was a relationship, and to decide where she wanted it to go.
A glance at the clock made her moan.
She would have to cross that personal bridge on her own time. Setting her fingers on the keyboard, she got to work.
Angela’s staff privately called her suite of offices “the citadel.” She reigned like a feudal lord from her French provincial desk, handing out commands and meting out reward and punishment in equal measures. Anyone who remained on staff after a six-month probationary period was loyal and diligent and kept his or her complaints private.
She was, admittedly, exacting, impatient with excuses and demanding of certain personal luxuries. She had, after all, earned such requirements.
Angela stepped into the outer office, where her executive secretary was busily handling details for Monday’s taping. There were other offices—producers, researchers, assistants—down the quiet hallway. Angela had long since left the boisterous bustle of newsrooms behind. She had used reporting not merely as a stepping-stone, but as a catapult for her ambitions. There was only one thing she wanted, and she had wanted it for as long as she could remember: to be the center of attention.
In news, the story was king. The bearer of the tale would be noticed, certainly, if she was good enough. Angela had been very good. Six years in the pressure cooker of on-air reporting had cost her one husband, netted her a second and paved the way for Angela’s.
She much preferred, and insisted on, the church-like silence of thick carpets and insulated walls.
“You have some messages, Miss Perkins.”
“Later.” Angela yanked open one of the double doors leading to her private office. “I need you inside, Cassie.”
She began to pace immediately. Even when she heard the quiet click of the door closing behind her secretary, she continued to move restlessly, over the Aubusson, past the elegant desk, away from the wide ribbon of windows, toward the antique curio cabinet that held her collection of awards.
Mine, she thought. She had earned them, she possessed them. Now that she did, no one would ever ignore her again.
She paused by the framed photos and prints that adorned a wall. Pictures of Angela with celebrities at charity events and award ceremonies. Her covers of TV Guide and Time and People. She stared at them, drawing deep breaths.
“Does she realize who I am?” she murmured. “Does she realize who she’s dealing with?”
With a shake of her head, she turned away again. It was a small mistake, she reminded herself. One that could be easily corrected. After all, she was fond of the girl.
As she grew calmer, she circled her desk, settled into the custom-made pink leather chair the CEO of her syndicate—her former husband—had given her when her show hit number one in the ratings.
Cassie remained standing. She knew better than to approach one of the mahogany chairs with their fussy needlepoint cushions until invited.
“You contacted the caterer?”
“Yes, Miss Perkins. The menu’s on your desk.”
Angela glanced at it, nodded absently. “The florist.”
“They confirmed everything but the calla lilies,” Cassie told her. “They’re trying to find the supply you want, but suggested several substitutes.”
“If I’d wanted a substitute, I’d have asked for one.” She waved her hand. �
�It’s not your fault, Cassie. Sit down.” Angela closed her eyes. She was getting one of her headaches, one of those pile-driving thumpers that came on in a rush of pain. Gently, she massaged the center of her forehead with two fingers. Her mother had gotten headaches, she remembered. And had doused them with liquor. “Get me some water, will you? I’ve got a migraine brewing.”
Cassie got up from the chair she’d just taken and walked across the room to the gleaming bar. She was a quiet woman, in looks, in speech. And was ambitious enough to ignore Angela’s faults in her desire for advancement. Saying nothing, she chose the crystal decanter that was filled with fresh spring water daily and poured a tumblerful.
“Thanks.” Angela downed a Percodan with water, and prayed for it to kick in. She couldn’t afford to be distracted during her luncheon meeting. “Do you have a list of acceptances for the party?”
“On your desk.”
“Fine.” Angela kept her eyes closed. “Give a copy of it, and everything else, to Deanna. She’ll be taking care of the details from here.”
“Yes, ma’am.” Aware of her duties, Cassie walked behind Angela’s chair and gently massaged her temples. Minutes clicked by, counted off by the quiet tick of the long case clock across the room. Musically, it announced the quarter-hour.
“You checked on the weather forecast?” Angela murmured.
“It’s projected to be clear and cool, a low in the mid-forties.”
“Then we’ll need to use the heaters on the terrace. I want dancing.”
Dutifully, Cassie stepped away to note the instructions down. There was no word of thanks for her attentiveness; none required. “Your hairdresser is scheduled to arrive at your home at two. Your dress will be delivered by three at the latest.”
“All right, then, let’s put all that aside for the moment. I want you to contact Beeker. I want to know everything there is to know about Dr. Marshall Pike. He’s a psychologist with a private practice here in Chicago. I want the information as Beeker collects it, rather than waiting for a full report.”
She opened her eyes again. The headache wasn’t in full retreat, but the pill was beating it back. “Tell Beeker it isn’t an emergency, but it is a priority. Understood?”
“Yes, Miss Perkins.”
By six that evening, Deanna was still going full steam ahead. While she juggled three calls, she beefed up copy that would be read on the late news. “Yes, I understand your position. But an interview, particularly a televised interview, would help show your side.” Deanna pursed her lips, sighed. “If you feel that way, of course. I believe your neighbor is more than willing to tell me her story on the air.” She smiled when the receiver squawked in indignation. “Yes, we’d prefer to have both sides represented. Thank you, Mrs. Wilson. I’ll be there at ten tomorrow.”
She spotted Marshall coming toward her and lifted a hand in a wave as she punched down the next blinking light on her phone. “Sorry, Mrs. Carter. Yes, as I was saying, I understand your position. It is a shame about your tulips. A televised interview would help show your side of the dispute.” Deanna smiled as Marshall stroked a hand down her hair in greeting. “If you’re sure. Mrs. Wilson has agreed to tell me her story on the air.” Tipping the receiver a safe inch from her ear, Deanna rolled her eyes at Marshall. “Yes, that would be fine. I’ll be there at ten. ’Bye.”
“Hot breaking story?”
“Hot tempers in suburbia,” Deanna corrected as she disconnected. “I have to put in an hour or two tomorrow after all. A couple of neighbors are engaged in a pitched battle over a bed of tulips, an old, incorrect survey and a cocker spaniel.”
“Sounds fascinating.”
“I’ll give you the scoop over dinner.” She didn’t object when he lowered his head, and met his lips willingly. The kiss was friendly, without the pressure of intimacy. “You’re all wet,” she murmured, tasting rain and cool skin.
“It’s pouring out there. All I need is a nice warm restaurant and a dry wine.”
“I’ve got one more call waiting.”
“Take your time. Want anything?”
“I could use a cold drink. My vocal cords are raw.”
Deanna cleared her mental decks and punched in the next button. “Mr. Van Damme, I’m terribly sorry for the interruption. There seems to be a mix-up with Miss Perkins’s wine order for tomorrow night. She’ll need three cases of Taittinger’s, not two. Yes, that’s right. And the white wine?” Deanna checked off her list as the caterer recited from his. “Yes, that’s right. And can I ease her mind about the ice sculpture?” She sent Marshall another smile when he returned with a cold can of 7-Up. “That’s wonderful, Mr. Van Damme. And you do have the change from tarts to petits fours? Terrific. I think we’ve got it under control. I’ll see you tomorrow, then. ’Bye.”
With a long exhale, Deanna dropped the phone on its hook. “Done,” she told Marshall. “I hope.”
“Long day for you?”
“Long, and productive.” Automatically she began to tidy her desk. “I appreciate your meeting me here, Marshall.”
“My schedule was lighter than yours.”
“Mmm.” She took a deep drink, then set the can aside before shutting down her workstation. “And I owe you one for changing plans for tomorrow to accommodate Angela.”
“A good psychologist should be flexible.” He watched her as she straightened papers and organized notes. “Besides, it sounds like a hell of a party.”
“It’s turning out that way. She’s not a woman to do anything halfway.”
“And you admire that.”
“Absolutely. Give me five minutes to freshen up, then I promise to focus all my energy on relaxing with you over dinner.”
When she stood, he shifted so that his body just brushed hers. It was a subtle move, a subtle suggestion. “You look very fresh to me.”
She felt the trickle of excitement run down her spine, the warmth of awareness bloom in her stomach. Tilting her head to meet his eyes, she saw the desire, the need and the patience, a combination that sent her pulse skipping.
She had only to say yes, she knew, and they would forget all about dinner, and all about relaxing. And for one moment, one very long, very quiet moment, she wished it could be that simple.
“I won’t be long,” she murmured.
“I’ll wait.”
He would, she thought when he moved aside to let her by. And she would have to make up her mind, soon, whether she wanted to continue along the comfortable, companionable road of this relationship, or shift gears.
“Having your head shrunk, Dee?”
She spotted the cameraman by the door, biting into a Milky Way. “That’s so lame, Joe.”
“I know.” He grinned around the chocolate. There was a button that said AVAILABLE pinned to his tattered denim vest. He had holes in the knees of his jeans. Techs didn’t have to worry about appearance. That was just the way Joe liked it. “But somebody’s got to say it. Did you set up those two interviews for the morning? The tulip wars?”
“Yeah. Sure you don’t mind giving up your Saturday morning?”
“Not for overtime pay.”
“Good. Delaney’s still at the desk, isn’t he?”
“I’m waiting for him.” Joe bit off more candy. “We’ve got a poker game tonight. I’m going to hose him for the double shift he stuck me with last week.”
“Do me a favor, then, and tell him we’re set, both women, ten o’clock.”
“Will do.”
“Thanks.” Deanna hurried away to do quick repairs on her hair and makeup. She was applying fresh lipstick when Joe burst into the ladies’ room. The door slammed back against the wall, echoing as he lunged at her.
“Jesus, Joe, are you nuts?”
“Get your butt in gear, Dee. We’ve got an assignment, and we’ve got to move fast.” He grabbed her purse from the sink with one hand and her arm with the other.
“What, for God’s sake?” She tripped over the threshold as he hauled her out the doo
r. “Did somebody start a war?”
“Almost as hot. We’ve got to get out to O’Hare.”
“O’Hare? Damn it, Marshall’s waiting.”
Fighting impatience, Joe let Deanna tug her arm free. If he had any complaints about her, it was that her vision wasn’t quite narrow enough. She always saw the peripheral when the camera needed a tight shot.
“Go tell the boyfriend you’ve got to go be a reporter. Delaney just got word there’s a plane coming in, and it’s in trouble. Big time.”
“Oh, God.” She made the dash back into the newsroom with Joe on her heels. Bursting through the pandemonium, she snatched a fresh notebook from her desk. “Marshall, I’m sorry. I have to go.”
“I’ve already gathered that. Do you want me to wait?”