Private Scandals

scouted the area and led her away from the heart of the crowd. “You’re being a good sport about this.”
    “Coming here? It’s interesting.”
    She laughed and kissed him again. “A very good sport. I’d just like to make a quick pass through, and congratulate Myra.” Deanna looked around. “If I can find her.”
    “Take your time. Why don’t I see if I can find us some canapés.”
    “Thanks.”
    Deanna threaded her way through the crowd. She enjoyed the press of bodies, the undertones of excitement, the snippets of overheard conversations. She’d made it halfway around the room when a bold painting stopped her. Sinuous lines and bold splashes against a textured background of midnight blue, it turned the canvas into an explosion of emotion and energy. Fascinated, Deanna moved closer. The label beneath the sleek ebony frame read AWAKENINGS . Perfect, Deanna thought. Absolutely perfect.
    The colors were alive and seemed to be fighting their way free of the canvas, away from the night. Even as she studied the work, she felt her pleasure turn to desire, and desire to determination. With a little juggling of her budget . . .
    “Like it?”
    She felt jolted into awareness. But she didn’t bother to turn around to face Finn.
    “Yes, very much. Do you spend much time in galleries?”
    “Now and then.” He stepped up beside her, amused at the way she stared at the painting. Every thought in her head was reflected in her eyes. “Actually, your spot this afternoon convinced me to drop in.”
    “Really?” She looked at him then. He was dressed much as he’d been when he’d crossed the runway. His expensive leather jacket unsnapped, his jeans comfortably worn, boots well broken in.
    “Yes, really. And I owe you one, Kansas.”
    “Why is that?”
    “This.” He nodded toward the painting. “I just bought it.”
    “You—” She looked from him to the painting and back again. Her teeth locked together. “I see.”
    “It really caught me.” He dropped a hand on her shoulder and faced the painting. If he continued to look at her, Finn knew he’d break out in a grin. It was all there in her eyes—the disappointment, the desire, the irritation. “And the price was right. I think they’re going to find out very soon that they’re underselling her.”
    It was hers, damn it. She’d already imagined it hanging above her desk at home. She couldn’t believe he’d snapped it out from under her. “Why this one?”
    “Because it was perfect for me.” With the lightest of pressure on her shoulder, he turned her to face him. “I knew the moment I saw it. And when I see something I want . . .” He trailed a finger up the side of her throat, feather light, while his eyes stayed on hers. “I do what I can to have it.”
    Her pulse jumped like a rabbit, surprising her, annoying her. They were standing toe to toe now, their eyes and mouths lined up. And too close, just an inch too close, so that she could see herself reflected in the dreamy blue of his eyes.
    “Sometimes what we want is unavailable.”
    “Sometimes.” He smiled, and she forgot the crowd pressing them together, the coveted painting at her back, the voice in her head telling her to back away. “A good reporter has to know when to move fast and when to be patient. Don’t you think?”
    “Yes.” But she was having a hard time thinking at all. It was his eyes, she realized, the way they focused as if there were nothing and no one else. And she knew, somehow, that he would continue to look at her just that way, even if the ground suddenly fell away beneath her.
    “Want me to be patient, Deanna?” His finger roamed over her jawline, lingered.
    “I—” The air backed up in her lungs. And for a moment, one startled moment, she felt herself swaying toward him.
    “Oh, I see you found refreshments already,” Marshall said.
    She saw the wry amusement on Finn’s face. “Yes, Marshall.” Her voice was unsteady. Fighting to level it, she gripped his arm as though he were a rock in the stormy sea. “I ran into Finn. I don’t think you’ve met. Dr. Marshall Pike, Finn Riley.”
    “Of course. I know your work.” Marshall offered a hand. “Welcome back to Chicago.”
    “Thanks. You’re a psychologist, right?”
    “Yes. I specialize in domestic counseling.”
    “Interesting work. The statistics seem to point to the end of the traditional family, yet the overall trend, if you look at advertising, entertainment, seems to be