Private Scandals

Chicago, 1994
    I t was a moonless midnight in Chicago, but to Deanna, the moment had all the makings of High Noon. It was easy to see herself in the quietly dignified, stalwart Gary Cooper role, preparing to face down the canny, vengeance-seeking gunslinger.
    But damn it, Deanna thought, Chicago was her town. Angela was the outsider.
    It suited Angela’s sense of the dramatic, Deanna supposed, to demand a showdown in the very studio where they both had climbed ambition’s slippery ladder. But it was Deanna’s studio now, and it was her show that garnered the lion’s share of the ratings points. There was nothing Angela could do to change that, short of conjuring up Elvis from the grave and asking him to sing “Heartbreak Hotel” to the studio audience.
    A ghost of a smile flitted around Deanna’s lips at the image, but there wasn’t much humor in it. Angela was nothing if not a worthy opponent. Over the years she had used gruesome tactics to keep her daily talk show on top.
    But whatever Angela had up her sleeve this time wasn’tgoing to work. She had underestimated Deanna Reynolds. Angela could whisper secrets and threaten scandal all she wanted, but nothing she could say would change Deanna’s plans.
    She would, however, hear Angela out. Deanna thought she would even attempt, one last time, to compromise. To offer, if not friendship, at least a cautious truce. There was little hope the breach could be spanned after all this time and all the hostility, but hope, to Deanna’s mind, sprang eternal.
    At least until it dried up.
    Focusing on the matter at hand, Deanna pulled into the CBC Building’s parking lot. During the day, the lot would be crammed with cars—technicians, editors, producers, talent, secretaries, interns. Deanna would be dropped off and picked up by her driver, avoiding the hassle. Inside the great white building, people would be rushing to put out the news—at seven A . M ., noon and five and ten P.M.—and Let’s Cook! with Bobby Marks, the weekly In Depth with Finn Riley, and the top-rated talk show in the country, Deanna’s Hour.
    But now, just after midnight, the lot was nearly empty. There were half a dozen cars belonging to the skeleton crew who were loitering in the newsroom, waiting for something to happen somewhere in the world. Probably hoping any new wars would wait to erupt until the lonely night shift ended.
    Wishing she were somewhere else, anywhere else, Deanna pulled into an empty space and shut off the engine. For a moment she simply sat, listening to the night, the swish of cars on the street to the left, the rumble of the huge air-conditioning system that kept the building and the expensive equipment cool. She had to get a handle on her mixed emotions and her nerves before she faced Angela.
    Nerves were second nature in the profession she’d chosen. She would work with them, or through them. Her temper was something she could and would control, particularly if losing it would accomplish nothing. But those emotions, the ones that ran so strong and so contradictory, were another matter.Even after all this time, it was difficult to forget that the woman she was about to face was one she had once admired and respected. And trusted.
    From bitter experience Deanna knew that Angela was an expert in emotional manipulation. Deanna’s problem—and many said her talent—was an inability to hide her feelings. They were there, up front, shouting to anyone who cared to listen. Whatever she felt was mirrored in her gray eyes, broadcast in the tilt of her head or the expression of her mouth. Some said that’s what made her irresistible, and dangerous. With a flick of her wrist, she turned the rearview mirror toward her. Yes, she mused, she could see the sparks of temper in her own eyes, and the simmering resentment, the dragging regret. After all, she and Angela had been friends once. Or almost friends.
    But she could also see the pleasure of anticipation. That was a matter of pride. This bout had been a long time coming.
    Smiling a little, Deanna took out a tube of lipstick and carefully painted her mouth. You didn’t go one-on-one with your arch rival without the most basic of shields. Pleased that her hand was rock steady, she dropped the lipstick back in her purse, climbed out of the car. She stood a moment, breathing in the balmy night while she asked herself one question.
    Calm, Deanna?
    Nope, she thought. What she was, was revved. If the energy was fueled by nerves,