Private Scandals

closed again.
    “You know, Angela, you could be walking on thin ice here.”
    Her head snapped up. “You sound like Lew.”
    “I’m not advising you against doing it. I’m just suggesting that you watch out for the cross fire.”
    “I know what I’m doing.” She’d seen Finn’s report, as had nearly every other American with a television set. Now she was going to outdo him as well as Deanna. “We need something hot, and the timing couldn’t be better. The country’s in an uproar about race, and the city’s a mess.”
    “You’re not worried about Deanna Reynolds.” He smiled, knowing he had to defuse the tantrum he saw building in her eyes.
    “She’s climbing up my back, isn’t she?”
    “She’ll slip off.” He took her rigid hands in his. “What you need now is a boost in publicity. Something that will focus the public’s attention on you.” He lifted her hand, admiring the way the sun dashed off the diamonds in her watch. “And I’ve got an idea how to do it.”
    “It better be good.”
    “It’s more than good, it’s inspired.” He kissed her hand, watching her over her knuckles. “The American public loves one thing more than they love hearing about graft and sex and violence. Weddings,” he said as he drew her gently to her feet. “Big, splashy weddings—private weddings dotted with celebrities. Marry me, Angela.” His eyes were soft. “I’ll not only make you happy, I’ll see to it that your picture’s on every major newspaper and magazine in the country.”
    The flutter of her heart was quick. “And what would you get out of it, Dan?”
    “You.” Reading her clearly, he lowered his head to kiss her. “All I want is you.”
     
    On the second Saturday in June, Angela donned a Vera Wang shell-pink gown of silk, encrusted with tiny pearls. Its sweetheart neckline framed a flattering hint of her rounded breasts, its full, elaborate skirt accented her tiny waist. She wore a wide-brimmed hat with a fingertip veil and carried a bouquet of white orchids.
    The ceremony took place in the country home she’d purchased in Connecticut, and was attended by a stellar guest list. Some were pleased to be there, drawn either by sentiment or the notion of having their name and photo included in the press releases. Others came because it was easier to accept than to face Angela’s fury later.
    Elaborate gifts crowded the large parlor and, under uniformed guard, were on display for the select members of the press. No one seeing all this, Angela thought, would doubt how much she was loved.
    The reception spilled out into the rose garden, where a champagne fountain bubbled and white doves cooed.
    When the event was buzzed incessantly by helicopters crammed with paparazzi, she knew it was a success.
    Like any new bride, she glowed. The sun glinted off the five-carat diamond gracing her left hand as she posed with Dan for photos.
    She told the reporters, regretfully, that her mother, her only living relative, was too ill to attend. In reality she was tucked in a private clinic, drying out.
    Kate Lowell, looking young and fresh in a billowing sundress, kissed Angela’s cheek for the benefit of the cameras. Her long red-gold hair flowed down her bare back, melted copper over sun-kissed peaches. She had a face the camera worshiped, ice-edged cheekbones, full lips, huge gold eyes. The image was completed by a sinuous body, killer legs and a rich infectious giggle.
    Kate Lowell could have become a star on the sole basis of her glorious physical attributes. She certainly had done her share of commercial endorsements. But she had something more: talent and charm that burned every bit as hot as her box-office appeal. And ambition that seared through both.
    She enchanted the photographer by shooting him a dazzling smile, then turned the other cheek for Angela. “I hate your guts,” she said softly.
    “I know, darling.” Beaming, Angela slipped her arm around Kate’s waist, fingers digging ruthlessly into flesh as she turned her best side to the camera. “Smile pretty now, show why you’re the number-one female box-office draw.”
    Kate did, with a smile that could have melted steel at five paces. “I wish you were dead.”
    “You and so many others.” She hooked her arm through Kate’s and strolled off, two bosom friends stealing a private moment. “Now, is it true that you and Rob Winters are considering scripts for a TV movie?”
    “No comment.”
    “Now, now, darling.”