by Nora Roberts
courtesy.” She spun on her heel. “Let’s get pictures.”
It was after nine when they returned to CBC, where Finn was greeted with a hero’s welcome. Someone handed him a bottle of Jameson, seal intact. Shivering, Deanna headed straight for her desk, turned on her machine and started writing copy.
This, she knew, would go national. It was a chance she didn’t intend to miss.
She tuned out the shouting and laughing and back-slapping and wrote furiously, referring now and then to the sketchy notes she’d scribbled in the back of the van.
“Here.” She looked down and saw a hand, wide-palmed, long-fingered, scarred at the base of the thumb, set down a glass on her desk. The glass held about an inch of deep amber liquid.
“I don’t drink on the job.” She hoped she sounded cool, not prim.
“I don’t think a swallow of whiskey’s going to impair your judgment. And,” he said, drifting easily into a rich Pat O’Brien brogue, “it’ll put some heat in your belly. You don’t plan on operating heavy machinery, do you?” Finn skirted her chair and sat on the edge of her desk. “You’re cold.” He handed her a towel. “Knock it back. Dry your hair. We’ve got work to do.”
“That’s what I’m doing.” But she took the towel. And after a moment’s hesitation, the whiskey. It might have been only a swallow, but he was right, it put a nice cozy fire in her stomach.
“We’ve got thirty minutes for copy. Benny’s already editing the tape.” Finn craned his head around to scan her screen. “That’s good stuff,” he commented.
“It’ll be better if you’d get out of my way.”
He was used to hostility, but he liked to know its source. “You’re ticked because I kissed you? No offense, Deanna, but it wasn’t personal. It was more like primal instinct.”
“I’m not ticked because you kissed me.” She spoke between her teeth and began to type again. “I’m ticked because you stole my story.”
Hooking his hands around his knee, Finn thought about it and decided she had a small, if not particularly salient point. “Let me ask you a question. Which makes better film? You doing a stand-up, or me giving a play-by-play of the flight minutes after evacuation?”
She spared him one heated glance, and said nothing.
“Okay, while you’re thinking it over, we’ll print out my copy and see how it reads with yours.”
She stopped. “What do you mean, your copy?”
“I wrote it on the plane. Got a quick interview with my seatmate, too.” The reckless amusement was back in his eyes. “Should be good for human interest.”
Despite her annoyance, she nearly laughed. “You wrote copy while your plane was going down?”
“Those portable computers will work anywhere. You’ve got about five minutes before Benny comes along and starts tearing his hair out.”
Deanna stared after him when Finn walked off to commandeer a desk.
The man was obviously a lunatic.
And a damned talented one, she decided thirty minutes later.
The edited tape was completed, the graphics set less than three minutes before airtime. The copy, reworked, rewritten and timed, was plugged into the TelePrompTer. And Finn Riley, still in his sweater and jeans, was seated behind the anchor desk, going national with his report.
“Good evening. This is a special report on flight 1129. I’m Finn Riley.”
Deanna knew he was reading the news, since she had written the first thirty seconds herself. Yet it felt as though he were telling a story. He knew exactly which word to punch, when to pause. He knew exactly how to go through the camera and into the home.
It wasn’t an intimacy, she mused, worrying her earring. He wasn’t settling in for a cozy chat. He was . . . bringing tidings, she decided. Carrying the message. And somehow staying aloof from it.
Neat trick, she thought, since he had been on the very plane he was describing.
Even when he read his own words, words he had written while plunging through the sky in a crippled plane with its port engine smoking, he was removed. The storyteller, not the story.
Admiration snuck past her defenses.
She turned to the monitor when they switched to film, and saw herself. Hair dripping, eyes huge, face pale as the water that rained over her. Her voice was steady. Yes, she had that, Deanna throught. But she wasn’t detached. The fear and terror were there, transmitted as clearly as her words.
And when the camera shifted to capture the plane skidding on the runway, she heard her own whispered prayer.
Too involved, she realized, and sighed.
It was worse when she saw Finn on the monitor, taking over the story minutes after escaping the damaged plane. He had the look of a warrior fresh from battle—a veteran warrior who could discuss each blow and thrust concisely, emotionlessly.
And he had been right. It made better film.
At commercial, Deanna went up into the control booth to watch. Benny was grinning like a fool even as sweat popped onto his wide, furrowed brow. He was fat and permanently red-faced and made a habit of tugging on tufts of his lank brown hair. But he was, Deanna knew, a hell of a producer.
“We beat every other station in town,” he was telling Finn through the earpiece. “None of them have any tape of the landing, or the initial stages of evacuation.” He blew Deanna a kiss. “This is great stuff. You’re back in ten, Finn. We’ll be going to the tape of passenger interviews. And cue.”
Through the last three and a half minutes, Benny continued to murmur to himself, pulling at his hair.
“Maybe we should have put him in a jacket,” he said at one point. “Maybe we should have found him a jacket.”
“No.” There was no use being resentful. Deanna put a hand on Benny’s shoulder. “He looks great.”
“And in those last moments in the air, some, like Harry Lyle, thought of family. Others, like Marcia DeWitt and Kenneth Morgenstern, thought of dreams unfulfilled. For them, and all the others aboard flight 1129, the long night ended at seven-sixteen, when the plane landed safely on runway three.
“This is Finn Riley for CBC. Good night.”
“Up graphics. Music. And we’re clear!”
A cheer erupted in the control booth. Benny leaned back in his swivel chair and lifted his arms in triumph. Phones started to shrill.
“Benny, it’s Barlow James on two.”
A hush fell over control, and Benny stared at the receiver as though it were a snake. Barlow James, the president of the news division, rarely phoned.
Every eye was on Benny as he swallowed and took the phone. “Mr. James?” Benny listened a moment, his ruddy face going ghostly, then flushing hot candy pink. “Thank you, sir.” Opening his mouth wide, Benny flashed a thumb’s up and set the cheering off again. “Yes, sir, Finn’s one in a million. We’re glad to have him back. Deanna Reynolds?” He swiveled in his chair and rolled his eyes at Deanna. “Yes, sir, Mr. James, we’re proud to have her on our team. Thank you very much. I’ll let them know.”
Benny replaced the receiver, stood and did a fast boogie that sent his belly swaying over his belt. “He loved it,” Benny sang. “He loved it all. They want the whole eight minutes for the affiliates. He loved you.” Benny grabbed Deanna’s hands and spun her around. “He liked your fresh, intimate style—that’s a quote. And the fact that you looked good soaking wet.”
With a choked laugh, Deanna stepped back and rammed straight into Finn.
“Two pretty good qualities in a reporter,” Finn decided. He caught a whiff of her hair as he steadied her, rain and apple blossoms. “Nice job, guys.” He released Deanna to shake hands with the control crew. “Really terrific.”
“Mr. James said welcome back, Finn,” Benny said. As he relaxed again, the pudge of his belly sagged comfortably at his belt. “And he’s looking forward to beating your butt at tennis next week.”
“In his dreams.” Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Deanna descending the stairs. “Thanks again.”
He caught up with her in the newsroom just as she was shrugging into her coat.
“It was a good piece,” he said.
“Yes, it was.”
“Reading copy isn’t one of my priorities, but reading yours was a pleasure.”
“It’s certainly a night for compliments.” She swung her purse over her arm. “Thanks, and welcome back to Chicago.”
“Need a lift?”
“No, I’ve got my car.”
“I don’t.” He flashed her a smile. Dimples winked out, charmingly. “Probably hell getting a cab in this weather.”
She studied him. In her heels, she was about the same height he was, and she got a good, close look at those innocent blue eyes. Too innocent, she thought, especially in combination with that quick, dashing grin and the wink of dimples. He wanted to look innocent, she decided. Therefore he did. Neat trick.
“I suppose, as a professional courtesy, I could give you a ride home.”
Her hair was still wet, he noted, and she hadn’t bothered to repair her makeup. “Are you still ticked at me?”
“No, actually, I’m down to mildly miffed.”
“I could buy you a burger.” He reached out to toy with one of the buttons on her jacket. “Maybe I could talk you down to slightly steamed.”
“These things generally run their course. In any case, I think your homecoming’s been exciting enough. I’ve got a call to make.”
She was involved with someone, Finn realized. It was too bad. Really too bad. “Just the lift, then. I appreciate it.”
Chapter Five
For some, organizing a party was a casual affair. Food, drink, music and good company were tossed together and left to mix in their own way.
For Deanna, it was a campaign. From the moment Cassie had passed the torch to her barely twenty-four hours earlier, no detail was left unattended to, no list unfulfilled. Like a general rousing troops, she inspected the caterer, the florist, the bartender, the housekeeping staff. She arranged, rearranged and approved. She counted stemware, discussed the playlist with the band and personally tasted Van Damme’s chicken kabobs in peanut butter sauce.
“Incredible,” she murmured, her eyes closed, her lips just parted as she savored the flavor. “Really, really incredible.”
When she opened her eyes, she and the slim young caterer beamed at each other.
“Thank God.” Van Damme offered her a glass of wine as they stood in the center of Angela’s enormous kitchen. “Miss Perkins wanted cuisine from around the world as her theme. It took a great deal of thought and preparation, in a short amount of time, to come up with flavors that would complement one another. The ratatouille, the deep-fried mushrooms à la Berlin, the tiny spanakopita . . .” The list went on.
Deanna didn’t know ratatouille from tuna fish, but made appropriate noises. “You’ve done a wonderful job, Mr. Van Damme.” Deanna toasted him and drank. “Miss Perkins and all of her guests will be delighted. Now I know I can leave all of this in your hands.”
She hoped. There were half a dozen people in the kitchen, rattling pans, arranging trays, bickering. “We have thirty minutes.” She took one last glance around. Every inch of Angela’s rose-colored counters was filled with trays and pots. The air was thick with delicious smells. Van Damme’s assistants rushed about. Marveling that anyone could function amid the confusion, Deanna escaped.
She hurried toward the front of the house. Angela’s lofty living room was all pastels and flowers. Delicate calla lilies streamed out of crystal vases. Fairy roses swam in fragile bowls. The floral theme was continued with the tiny violets dotting the silk wallpaper and the pale pattern of the Oriental carpets spread over the floor.
The room, like all of Angela’s trim two-story home, was a celebration of feminine decorating, with soft colors and deep cushions. Deanna’s practiced eye scanned over the sherbet-colored pillows on the curved-back sofa, the arrangement of slender tapers, the presentation of pale pink and green mints in crystal candy dishes. She could hear the faint sounds of the band tuning up through the closed terrace doors.
For a moment, she imagined the house as hers. More color, she thought. Fewer frills. But she would definitely enjoy the lofty ceilings and curved windows, the cozy fireplace set with apple wood.
She’d want some art on the walls. Bold prints, sinuous sculptures. And a few well-chosen antiques to mix with edgy modern pieces.
One day, she mused, and shifted a vase an inch on a tabletop.
Satisfied, she took a final tour of the main level. She had just started across the foyer to the staircase when the door chimes pealed. Too early for guests, she thought as she turned to answer. She sincerely hoped it wasn’t a last-minute delivery she’d have to deal with.
Finn stood on the porch with dusk gathering behind him. A breeze wafted up, played with his hair and brought Deanna the scent of man and nightfall. He grinned at her, letting his gaze roam up from the toes of her sneakers to her tousled hair.
“Well, hi. Are you covering tonight’s event?”
“So to speak.” He’d shaved, she noted. And though he hadn’t bothered with a tie, the slate-gray jacket and trousers made the casual look elegant. “You’re early.”
“By request.” He stepped inside and shut the door at his back. “I like your party dress.”
“I was just going up to change.” And he was blowing a hole in her schedule. She caught herself playing with her earring and dropped her hand hastily. “Why don’t you come in and sit down. I’ll tell Angela you’re here.”
“What’s your hurry?” he asked as he followed her into the living room.
“No hurry. Do you want a drink? The bartender’s in the kitchen, but I can handle something simple.”
“Don’t bother.”
He sat on the arm of the sofa as he glanced around speculatively. Deanna was no more suited to the ornate femininity of the room than he was, Finn decided. She made him think of Titania. And, though he couldn’t say why, Titania made him think of wild sex on a damp forest floor.
“Nothing’s changed around here in the last six months. I always feel as though I’m walking into the royal gardens.”
Deanna’s lips twitched. She quashed the disloyal urge to laugh and agree. “Angela’s fond of flowers. I’ll go get her.”
“Let her primp.” Finn snagged Deanna’s hand before she could walk out. “She’s fond of that, too. Do you ever sit down?”
“Of course I sit down.”
“I mean when you’re not driving a car or writing copy.”
She didn’t bother to tug her hand free. “Occasionally I sit down to eat.”
“That’s interesting, so do I. Maybe we could do it together sometime.”
Deanna lifted a brow, tilted her head. “Mr. Riley, are you coming on to me?”
He sighed, but the laughter stayed in his eyes. “Miss Reynolds, I thought I was being so subtle.”
“No.”
“No, I’m not being subtle?”
“No, you’re not. And no.” Now she did slide her hand from his. “It’s a nice offer, but I’m involved with someone.” Maybe, she added to herself. “And if I weren’t, I don’t think it’s wise to mix personal and professional relationships.”
“That sounds very definite. Are you always very definite?”
“Yes.” But she smiled. “Definitely.”
Angela paused in the doorway, set her teeth against temper. The picture of her protégée and her lover smiling intimately at each other in her living room had her gorge rising. Though the taste of fury was familiar, even pleasant, she took a deep breath, fixed a smile on her lips.
“Finn, darling!” She flew across the room, a curvy golden blossom stemmed in pale blue silk. Even as Finn rose from the sofa, she threw herself into his arms and fastened her mouth possessively on his. “Oh, I’ve missed you,” she murmured, sliding her fingers up into the thick tangle of his hair. “So much.”
She had an impact, Finn thought. She always did. The offer of
unapologetic sex was there in the press of her body, the heat of her mouth. His body responded even as his mind took a wary step in retreat.