Private Scandals

a chance to make up for that now.”
    “It’ll hurt you.”
    “Not the way it once did.” She reached for him then. “Not anymore.”
    His grip on her tightened. Damn it, he needed to protect her. And she needed to stand on her own. The one thing he could do was track down Jamie Thomas and have a nice, long . . . chat. “If you decide to do the show, let me know. I want to be there if I can.”
    “Okay.” She tilted her head back to kiss him beforedrawing away. “Why don’t I open some wine? Let’s forget about all this for a while.”
    She needed to. He could see the tension creeping back, like a thief, into her eyes. “As long as you’re going to let me stay. And this time I won’t fall asleep on the couch.”
    “I won’t give you the chance,” she told him, and walked into the kitchen.
    Out of habit, he moved to the television first, switching it on just as the late news began. He turned toward the couch, intending to take his boots off and put his feet up. He spotted the envelope lying on the rug just inside the door.
    “I’ve got some chips.” Deanna carried out a tray and set it on the coffee table. “The drive gave me an appetite.” Her smile froze when she spotted the envelope in his hand. “Where did you get that?”
    “It was inside the door.” He’d started to hold it out to her, but drew it back now. She’d gone pale. “What’s the problem?”
    “It’s nothing.” Annoyed with herself, she shook off the vague, niggling fear. “It’s silly, that’s all.” Trying to convince them both she was unconcerned, she took the envelope and split it open.
    Deanna,
nothing they say would ever change my feelings.
I know it’s all a lie
I’ll always believe you.
I’ll always love you.
    “A shy fan,” she said with a shrug that came off as more of a defensive jerk. “Who needs to get a life.”
    Finn took the sheet from her, scanned it. “Response to the tabloids, I’d say.”
    “Looks like.” But the anonymous faith didn’t cheer her.
    “I take it you’ve gotten one of these before.”
    “I’d have a whole collection if I’d kept them.” She picked up her glass of wine. “They’ve been coming on and off for a year.”
    “A year?” He looked at her, his eyes intense. “Like this?”
    “Here, at the newsroom, at my office.” She moved her shoulders again, restless. “Always the same format and same type of message.”
    “Have you reported it?”
    “To whom? The police?” Whatever unease she’d felt vanished in a laugh. “Why? What could I tell them? Officer, I’ve been receiving anonymous love letters. Call out the dogs.”
    “A year makes it more than harmless love letters. It makes it obsession. Obsessions are not healthy.”
    “I don’t think a dozen or so sappy notes over a year constitutes an obsession. It’s just someone who watches me on TV, Finn, or who works in the building. Someone who’s attracted to the image but too shy to approach me in person for an autograph.” She thought about the calls, those silent messages in the middle of the night. And that he had been able to slip a note under her door. “It’s a little spooky, but it’s not threatening.”
    “I don’t like it.”
    She took his hand to draw him down on the couch with her. “It’s just your reporter’s instinct working on overdrive.” Because his mouth was much more intoxicating, she set the wine aside. “Of course, if you want to be a little jealous . . .”
    Her eyes were laughing at him. Finn smiled back, letting her set the mood. But he thought about the single sheet of paper lying open on the coffee table, its message of devotion as red as blood.
     
    “Not one statement.” Angela chuckled to herself and stretched on her stomach over the pink satin sheets of her big bed. The television was on, and newspapers and magazines littered the floor around her.
    It was a beautiful room, majestic and museum-like with its curved and gilded antiques and fussy, feminine flounces. One of the maids had griped to a friend that she was surprised there wasn’t a velvet rope across the door and a charge for admission.
    There were mirrors on every wall, oval and square and oblong, reflecting both the taste she’d purchased and her own image.
    The only colors other than the gold and wood tones were pink and white, a candy cane she could savor in long, greedy licks.
    There were banks of roses, dewy fresh, so that she never had to breathe without drawing in the rich,