Private Scandals

experience the joys of motherhood. Swollen feet, indigestion, stretch marks and the ever-popular weak bladder.”
    “You’re making it so appealing.”
    “The trouble—and the reason I am once again approaching the size of a small planet—is that it is appealing.” She pressed a hand to her side as the baby—once again dubbed Big Ed—tried out a one-two punch. “There’s nothing quite like it,” she murmured. The doors opened. “So, are you going to marry the guy or what?”
    “I’m thinking about it.”
    “You’ve been thinking about it for weeks.” Fran braced a hand on her spine as they walked to Deanna’s office.
    “He’s thinking, too.” She knew it sounded defensive. Annoyed, she sailed through the empty outer office into her own. “And things are complicated right now.”
    “Things are always complicated. People who wait for the perfect moment usually die first.”
    “That’s comforting.”
    “I wouldn’t want to push you.”
    “Wouldn’t you?” Deanna smiled again.
    “Nudge, sweetie pie, not push. What’s this?” Fran picked up the single white rose that lay across Deanna’s desk. “Classy,” she said, giving it a sniff. “Romantic. Sweet.” She glanced at the plain white envelope still resting on the blotter. “Finn?”
    No, Deanna thought, her skin chilled. Not Finn. She struggled for casualness and picked up a pile of correspondence Cassie had typed. “Could be.”
    “Aren’t you going to open the note?”
    “Later. I want to make sure Cassie gets these letters out before the end of the day.”
    “God, you’re a tough sell, Dee. If a guy sent me a single rose, I’d be putty.”
    “I’m busy.”
    Fran’s head jerked up at the change in her tone. “I can see that. I’ll get out of your way.”
    “I’m sorry.” Instantly contrite, Deanna reached out. “Really, Fran, I didn’t mean to bite your head off. I guess I’m a little wired. The Daytime Emmy business is coming up. That stupid tabloid story about my secret affair with Loren Bach hit last week.”
    “Oh, honey, you’re not letting that get to you. Come on. I think Loren got a kick out of it.”
    “He can afford to. It didn’t make him sound as though he was sleeping his way to a thirty-percent share.”
    “Nobody believes those things.” She huffed at Deanna’s expression. “Well, nobody with an IQ in the triple digits. As far as the Emmys go, you’ve got nothing to worry about there either. You’re going to win.”
    “That’s what they keep telling Susan Lucci.” But she laughed and waved Fran away. “Get out of here—and go home this time. It’s nearly five anyway.”
    “Talked me into it.” Fran laid the rose back on the desk, not noticing Deanna’s instinctive recoil. “See you tomorrow.”
    “Yeah.” Alone, Deanna reached cautiously for the envelope. She took the ebony-handled letter opener from her desk set and slit it cleanly open.
    DEANNA, I’D DO ANYTHING FOR YOU.
IF ONLY YOU’D LOOK AT ME, REALLY LOOK.
I’D GIVE YOU ANYTHING. EVERYTHING.
I’VE BEEN WAITING SO LONG.
    She was beginning to believe the writer meant every word. She slipped the note neatly back into the envelope, opened her bottom desk drawer to place it on the mounting stack of similar messages. Determined to handle the matter practically, she picked up the rose, studying its pale, fragile petals as if they held a clue to the identity of the sender.
    Obsession. A frightening word, she thought, yet surely some forms of obsession were harmless enough. Still, the flower was a change in habit. There’d been no tokens before, only the messages in deep red. Surely a rose was a sign of affection, esteem, fragrant and sweet. Yet the thorns marching up the slender stem could draw blood.
    Now she was being foolish, she told herself. Rising, she filled a water glass and stuck the rose inside. She couldn’t stand to see a beautiful flower wither and die. Still, she set it on a table across the room before she went back to her desk.
    For the next twenty minutes, she signed correspondence. She still had the pen in her hand when her intercom buzzed.
    “Yes, Cassie.”
    “It’s Finn Riley on two.”
    “Thanks. I’ve finished these letters. Can you mail them on your way home?”
    “Sure thing.”
    “Finn? Are you downstairs? I’m sorry, we had a couple of glitches here and I’m running behind.” She glanced at her watch, grimaced. “I’ll never make dinner at seven.”
    “Just as well. I’m across