by Nora Roberts
“I saw you didn’t have a glass, and thought you might like some champagne.”
“Thanks. You never miss a detail. I pulled a coup of my own when I stole Jeff away from the news department,” she told Roger. “We’d never get Deanna’s Hour on the air without him.”
He beamed with pleasure. “I just pick up the loose ends.”
“And tie them up in a bow.”
“Excuse me.” Barlow James slipped behind Deanna and circled her waist with his arm. “I need to steal the star for a moment, gentlemen. You’re looking fit, Roger.”
“Thanks, Mr. James.” With a wan smile, Roger held up another carrot. “I’m working on it.”
“I won’t keep her long,” Barlow promised, and led Deanna toward the open terrace doors. “You look more than fit,” he commented. “You look luminous.”
She laughed. “I’m working on it.”
“I believe I have something that might add to the glow. Finn contacted me this morning.”
Relief came one heartbeat before pleasure. “How is he?”
“In his element.”
“Yes.” She looked out at the lake, where pale fingers of moonlight nudged past clouds to brush the water. The silhouettes of boats rocked gently in the current. “I suppose he is.”
“You know, between the two of us, we might be able to apply enough pressure to convince him to do that news magazine and keep his butt in Chicago.”
“I can’t.” Though she wished she could. “He has to do what suits him best.”
“Don’t we all,” Barlow said with a sigh. “Now, I’ve dulled some of that glow. This should bring it back.” He took a long slim box from his inside jacket pocket. “Finn asked me to pick this up for you. Something he had made before he was called away. I’m to tell you he’s sorry he can’t give it to you himself.”
She said nothing as she stared at its contents. The bracelet was delicately fashioned of oval gold links, cut to catch the light and joined together by the rainbow hue of multicolored gems. Emerald, sapphire, ruby, tourmaline fired and flashed in the moonlight. At the center a filigreed D and R flanked a brilliant array of sizzling diamonds that shaped a star.
“The star’s self-explanatory, I believe,” Barlow told her. “It’s to commemorate your first year. We’re confident there’ll be many more.”
“It’s beautiful.”
“Like the woman it was made for,” Barlow said, slipping it from the box to clasp it around her wrist. “The boy certainly has taste. You know, Deanna, we need a strong hour on Tuesday nights. You may not feel comfortable using your influence to persuade him to fill it. But I do.” He winked and, patting her shoulder, left her alone.
“You’re too damn far away,” she said quietly, rubbing a fingertip over the bracelet.
She had so much that she wanted, she reminded herself. So much that she’d worked toward. So why was she still so unsettled? Very much like the boats on the water below, she mused. Anchored, yes, but still shifting, still tugging against the tide.
Her show was rapidly becoming national. But she had yet to select a new apartment. She was enjoying national exposure in the media, most of it flattering. And she was standing alone at a party thrown in her honor, feeling lost and discontented.
For the first time in her life her professional goals and personal ones seemed out of balance. She knew exactly what she wanted for her career, and could see the steps toward achieving it so clearly. She felt capable and confident when she thought of pushing Deanna’s Hour to the top of the market. And whenever she stood in front of the audience, the camera on and focused, she felt incredibly alive, completely in control, with just enough giddy pleasure thrown in to make it all a continual thrill.
She wasn’t taking success for granted, for she knew too well the caprices of television. But she knew that if the show was canceled tomorrow, she would pick up, go on and start over.
Her personal needs weren’t so clear-cut, nor was the route she wanted to take. Did she want the traditional home and marriage and family? If it was possible to mix that kind of ideal with a high-powered and demanding career, she would find a way.
Or did she want what she had now? A place of her own, a satisfying yet strangely independent relationship with a fascinating man. A man she was madly in love with, she admitted. And who, though the words hadn’t been said, she was certain loved her as deeply.
If they changed what they had, she might lose this breathless, stirring excitement. Or she might discover something more soothing and equally thrilling to replace it.
And because she couldn’t see the answer, because the confusion in her heart blinded her vision, she struggled all the harder to separate intellect from emotion.
“There you are.” Loren Bach strode out on the balcony, a bottle of champagne in one hand, a glass in the other. “The guest of honor shouldn’t be hiding in the shadows.” He topped off her glass before setting the bottle aside on the glass table beside him. “Particularly when the media is in attendance.”
“I was just admiring your view,” she countered. “And giving that media a chance to miss me.”
“You’re a sharp woman, Deanna.” He clicked his glass against hers. “I’m taking this evening to feel very smug about going with my instincts and signing you.”
“I’m feeling pretty smug about that myself.”
“As long as you don’t let it show. That wide-eyed enthusiasm is what sells, Dee. That’s what the audience relates to.”
She grimaced. “I am wide-eyed and enthusiastic, Loren. It’s not an act.”
“I know.” He couldn’t have been happier. “That’s why it’s so perfect. What did I read about you recently—” He tapped a finger against his temple as if to shake the memory loose. “ ‘Midwest sensibilities, an Ivy-League brain, a face that makes a man yearn for his high school sweetheart, all coated with a quiet sheen of class.’ ”
“You left out my quick, sexy laugh,” she said dryly.
“Complaining, Deanna?”
“No.” She leaned comfortably against the railing to face him. The scent of hibiscus from the bold red blooms in the patio pots mixed exotically with the fragrance of champagne and lake water. “Not for a minute. I love every bit of it. The spread in Premiere, the cover on McCall’s, the People’s Choice nomination—”
“You should have won that,” he muttered.
“I’ll beat Angela next time.” She smiled at him, her bangs fluttering in the light breeze, the diamonds at her wrist glinting in the starlight. “I wanted that Chicago Emmy, and I’ve got it. I intend to win a national one, when the time comes. I’m not in a hurry, Loren, because I’m enjoying the ride. A lot.”
“You make it look easy, Dee, and fun.” He winked. “That’s the way I sell computer games. And that’s the way you slip right through the television screen into the viewer’s living room. That’s the way you up the ratings.” His smile hardened, glinted in the shadowy light. “And that’s the way you’re going to knock Angela out of first place.”
Because the gleam in Loren’s eye made her uneasy, Deanna chose her response carefully. “That’s not my primary goal. As naive as it may sound, Loren, all I want is to do a good job and provide a good show.”
“You keep doing that, and I’ll handle the rest.” It was odd, he thought, that he hadn’t realized just how much revenge against Angela burned in him. Until Deanna. “I’m not going to claim that I made Angela number one, because it’s more complex than that. But I speeded the process along. My mistake was to be deluded enough by the screen image and marry someone who didn’t exist off camera.”
“Loren, you don’t have to tell me this.”
“No, no one has to tell you anything, but they do. That’s part of your charm, Deanna. I can tell you that Angela shed me as carelessly as a snake sheds its skin when she’d decided she’d outgrown me. It’s going to give me a lot of satisfaction to help you gun her down, Deanna.” He drank again, with relish. “A great deal of deep satisfact
ion.”
“Loren, I don’t want to go to war with Angela.”
“That’s all right.” He touched his glass to hers again. “I do.”
Lew McNeil was as obsessed with Angela’s success as Loren Bach was with her failure. His future depended on it. He had hopes to retire in another decade, with his nest egg securely in place. He had no hopes of remaining with Angela’s for that long. His best chance was to work out his contract while the show remained a number-one hit, then slide gently into another producing slot.
He had some reason to worry. While Angela’s was still in command of the top rung, and the show had added another Emmy to its collection, its star was fraying at the edges. In Chicago she had managed to command her staff using her iron will and her penchant for perfection, and leavening them with doses of considerable charm.
Since the move to New York, a great deal of the charm had been shaken by stress, and the stress was doused with French champagne.
He knew—had made it his business to know—that she had poured a great deal of her own money into the fledgling A.P. Productions. The veteran show kept the company out of the red, but Angela’s dabbling in television movies had been disastrous thus far. Her last special had received lukewarm reviews, but the ratings had put the show into the top ten of the week.
That was fortunate, but her daily ratings had plummeted in August, when she had insisted on running repeats while she took an extended vacation in the Caribbean.
No one could deny that she deserved the break. Just as no one could deny that the timing had been poor with Deanna’s Hour steadily closing the distance in points.
There were other mistakes, other errors in judgment, the largest being Dan Gardner. As the power shifted gradually from Angela’s hands to those of her lover and executive producer, the tone of the show altered subtly.
“More complaints, Lew?”
“It’s not a complaint, Angela.” He wondered how many hours of his life he’d spent standing beside her chair in her dressing room. “I only wanted to say again that I think it’s a mistake to have a homeless family on the program with a man like Trent Walker. He’s a shark, Angela.”
“Really?” She took a slow drag on her cigarette. “I found him quite charming.”
“Sure, he’s charming. He was real charming when he bought that shelter then turned the building into high-priced condos.”
“It’s called urban renewal, Lew. In any case, it should be fascinating to see him debate with a family of four who are currently living in their station wagon. Not only topical”—she crushed out the cigarette—“but excellent TV. I hope he wears the gold cuff links.”
“If it goes the wrong way, it may look as though you’re unsympathetic to the plight of the homeless.”
“And what if I am?” Her voice cracked like a whip. “There are jobs out there. Too many of these people would rather take a handout than earn an honest living.” She thought of the way she’d waited tables and cleaned up slop to pay for her education. The humiliation of it. “Not all of us were born to the good life, Lew. When my book comes out next month, you can read along with everyone else how I overcame my modest beginnings and worked my way to the top.” With a sigh, she dismissed the hairdresser. “That’s fine, dear, run along. Lew, let me say first that I don’t appreciate your second-guessing me in front of members of my staff.”
“Angela, I wasn’t—”
“And second,” she interrupted, still frigidly pleasant. “There’s no need for concern. I have no intention of letting anything go wrong, or of giving the soft-hearted public an unflattering opinion on my stand. Dan’s already seeing to it that it leaks that I, personally, will sponsor the family we’re highlighting on the show. I will at first modestly decline to comment, then, reluctantly, will agree that I have found employment for both parents, along with six months’ rent and a stipend for food and clothing. Now . . .” She gave her hair one last fluff as she rose. “I’d like to look them over before we go on the air.”
“They’re in the green room,” Lew murmured. “I decided to put Walker elsewhere for the time being.”
“Fine.” She swept by him and into the corridor. All graciousness and warm support, she greeted the family of four who sat nervously huddled together on the sofa in front of the television. Waving away their thanks, she pressed food and drink on them, patted the little boy on the head and tickled the toddler under the chin.
Her smile snapped off like a light when she started back to her dressing room. “They don’t look like they’ve been living on the street for six weeks to me. Why are their clothes so neat? Why are they so clean?”
“I—they knew they were going on national TV, Angela. They put themselves together as best they could. They’ve got pride.”
“Well, dirty them up,” she snapped. She had a headache coming on like a freight train and wanted her pills. “I want them to look destitute, for Christ’s sake, not like some middle-class family down on their luck.”
“But that’s what they are,” Lew began.
She stopped, turned, freezing him with eyes as cold as a doll’s. “I don’t care if the four of them have fucking MBA’s from Harvard. Do you understand me? Television is a visual medium. Perhaps you’ve forgotten that. I want them to look like they just got swept off the street. Put some dirt on those kids. I want to see holes in their clothes.”
“Angela, we can’t do that. It’s staging. It crosses the line.”
“Don’t tell me what you can’t do.” She jabbed one frosty pink nail into his chest. “I’m telling you what’s going to be done. It’s my show, remember. Mine. You’ve got ten minutes. Now get out of here and do something to earn your salary.” She shoved him out, slamming the door behind him.
The panic attack had nearly overtaken her in the hall. Chills raced over her skin; she leaned back against the door shuddering. She would have to go out there soon. Go out and face the audience. They would be waiting for her to make the wrong move, to say the wrong words. If she did, if she made one mistake, they would leap at her like wild dogs.
And she would lose everything. Everything.
On wobbly legs, she lunged across the room. Her hands shook as she poured the champagne. It would help, she knew. She’d discovered after years of denial that just one small glass before a show could chase away those cold, clammy chills. Two could ease all those gnawing fears.
She swallowed greedily, draining the glass, then poured the second with a steadier hand. A third glass wouldn’t hurt, she assured herself. Just smoothing out the rough edges. Where had she heard that before? she wondered as she brought the crystal to her lips.
Her mother. Good God, her mother.
Just smoothing out the rough edges, Angie. A couple sips of gin smooths them all right out.
Horrified, she dropped the full glass, spilling bubbling wine over the rug. She watched it spread, like blood, and turned away shivering.
She didn’t need it. She wasn’t like her mother. She was Angela Perkins. And she was the best.
There would be no mistakes. She promised herself that as she turned to the mirror so that her image, glossy and elegant, could calm her. She would go out and do what she did best. And she would keep those wild dogs at bay yet again. She would tame them, and make them love her.
“Satisfied, Lew?” Still riding on the echoes of applause, Angela dropped into the chair behind her desk. “I told you it would work.”
“You were great, Angela.” He said it because it was expected.
“No, she was fabulous.” Dan sat on the edge of her desk and leaned over to kiss her. “Having that kid sit on your lap was inspired.”
“I like kids,” she lied. “And that one seemed to have some brains. We’ll see to it that he gets in school. Now . . .” She sat back, letting the family slip from her mind as casually as she slipped out of her shoes. “Let’s get down to business. Who is she looking to book next month?”
Resigned, Lew passed Angela a list. He didn’t h
ave to be told they were discussing Deanna. “The names with the asterisks have already booked.”
“She’s going after some heavy hitters, isn’t she?” Angela mused. “Movies, fashion. Still steering clear of politics.”
“Fluff over substance,” Dan said, knowing that comment would please her.
“Fluff or not, we wouldn’t want her to get lucky. She’s already snagged too much press. That damn Jamie Thomas affair.” Her mouth tightened into a thin line of disgust as she thought of him hiding out in Rome.
“We still have the data on him,” Dan reminded her. “Easy enough to leak his drug problem to the press.”
“Leaking that gains us nothing, and would only drum up more sympathetic press for Deanna. Let it go.” She scanned the sheet of paper. “Let’s see who we know well enough on here to persuade to give Deanna a pass.” She glanced up and gave Lew a bland smile. “You can go. I won’t need you.”
When Lew closed the door quietly behind him, Dan lighted Angela’s cigarette. “That hangdog face of his gets old fast,” he commented.
“But he has his uses.” Pleased, she tapped the list with one lacquered nail. “It’s very satisfying to know what our little Dee is planning almost before she does.” Angela checked two names on the list. “I can take care of both of these with a casual phone call. It’s so gratifying to have important people owe you. Ah, now, look here. Kate Lowell.”