Hard News

forty-four, compact, with short salt-and-pepper hair curling over his forehead in bangs. He was not—like Piper Sutton or Lee Maisel or his predecessor Lance Hopper—a newsman. He’d sold advertising time for local stations, then for the Network, and eventually he had moved into entertainment and then news programming. The lack of reporting experience was irrelevant; Semple’s talent was for money—making it and saving it. No one in the television business was naive enough to believe that high-quality journalism alone was enough to make a network a success. And, with a few exceptions, no one was surprised when Semple was given Hopper’s job as director of Network News. The similarities were obvious: Hopper had been a great newsman in the incarnation of a son of a bitch; Dan Semple was a great businessman in the body of a cruel megalomaniac.
    Although one thing he wasn’t the least bit cold about was Piper Sutton.
    She had had affairs with various Network executives in the past—only those men, however, who were on a corporate level equal to hers and only those men whom she desired physically or because she truly enjoyed their company. Sutton didn’t give a shit about rumors and gossip but one of her few rules of ethics was that she wouldn’t use her body to advance her career; there were plenty of other ways to fuck those you worked for.
    The affair with Semple had lasted one year, when they were both on the ascendancy in the Network. But that had been several years ago. Then came Hopper’s death, one consequence of which was what Sutton had predicted would happen: Semple was named Hopper’s replacement. The day after the board announced the appointment she walked into his office to say how happy she was for him. Sutton had then taken Semple’s hand, kissed his cheek and ended the affair.
    Since then Semple’d waged an almost adolescent campaign to win her back. Although they saw each other often and dined together and attended benefits and formal functions she’d decided that their intimate days were over. He didn’t believe her when she said it was a hard decision for her as well, though it was. She was attracted to him physically and she was attracted to him for his strength and brilliance and decisiveness. Sutton had settled for weak men in the past and had learned her lesson; she had a number of exes to prove it.
    This romantic tension was an undercurrent in every conversation she and Semple had. It troubled her that although Semple respected her immensely for her ability he
desired
her only on the most visceral level. The power she had over him was the power of a mistress, not a reigning queen, and that infuriated her—at the same time her continual refusal to resume the affair stung him.
    “How was Paris?” she asked.
    “Comme ci, comme ça
. How is it always? The same. Paris never changes.”
    The coffee arrived. The executive vice presidents had their own dining room, which delivered their requests for food or beverages on Villeroy & Bosch china, carried on parent-company-logoed lacquer trays. Semple poured a cup and sipped it
    “Tell me about this story.”
    Sutton did, quickly, without emotion.
    “Her name is Rune? First or last?”
    “Some kind of stage name bullshit. She’s a cameraman with the O&O here in Manhattan.”
    “What does Lee think?” Semple asked.
    “Slightly more in favor of doing the story than I am. But not much.”
    “Why are we doing it, then?” he asked coolly. Semple’s dark eyes scanned Sutton’s blouse. She was glad she’d worn the wool suit jacket over the white silk. But only a part of his eyes was seeing her body. What the other part was considering and what was happening in the brain behind those eyes were a complete mystery to her. It was one of his most magnetic qualities—that she hadn’t been able to fathom him. It was also one of his more frightening.
    She answered, “The girl said, in effect, that if she didn’t produce it for
Current Events
she’d do it independently and sell it elsewhere.”
    “Blackmail,” he snapped.
    “Closer to youthful fervor.”
    “I don’t like it,” Semple said. “There’s no point to the story.” He sipped more coffee. Sutton remembered that he liked to sit naked in bed in the morning, a tray resting on his lap, the cup and saucer directly over his penis. Did he like the warmth? she used to wonder.
    He asked, “What does she have so far? Anything?”
    “Nope. Nothing substantial. Lots of background