Private Scandals

about you?”
    “I work here.”
    “Here?” The remnants of the warm smile vanished. “For Angela?”
    “No, downstairs. In the newsroom. Midday, with Roger Crowell and Deanna Reynolds.”
    “Don’t tell me two of my favorite people know each other.” Angela stepped out, the gracious hostess. “Kate, dear, I’m sorry you had to wait. Cassie didn’t tell me you were here.”
    “I just got in.” The hand still gripping Deanna’s stiffened, then relaxed. “My plane was delayed this morning, so I’ve been running behind all day.”
    “Awful, isn’t it? Even a woman with your talents is subject to the whims of technology. Now tell me . . .” She strolled over to lay a proprietary hand on Deanna’s shoulder. “How do you know our Dee?”
    “My aunt lived across the street from Deanna’s family. I spent a couple of summers in Kansas as a child.”
    “And you were playmates.” Angela’s laugh was delighted. “That’s charming. And Deanna’s been keeping her brush with fame all to herself. Shame on you.”
    In a subtle move, no less potent for its polish, Kate shifted. The gesture eased Angela out of the circle. “How’s your family?”
    “They’re fine.” Baffled by the tension snapping in the air, Deanna tried to find the source of it in Kate’s eyes. All she could see—was allowed to see—was the soft, tawny gold. “They never miss one of your movies. Neither do I. I remember how you’d put on plays in your aunt’s backyard.”
    “And you’d write them. Now you’re reporting the news.”
    “And you’re making it. You were incredible in Deception, Kate. I cried buckets.”
    “There’s Oscar talk.” Smoothly, Angela moved forward to drape an arm around Kate’s shoulders. “How could there not be when Kate so effectively played the heroic young mother fighting to keep her child.” A look passed between them, sharp as a razor. “I attended the premiere. There wasn’t a dry eye in the house.”
    “Oh, I imagine there was one.” Kate’s smile was brilliant, and curiously feline. “Or two.”
    “I’d love to give you girls time to catch up.” Angela pressed her fingers warningly on Kate’s shoulder. “But we’re running late.”
    “I’ll let you go.” Tucking Angela’s speech under her arm, Deanna stepped back. “How long will you be in Chicago?”
    “I’m leaving tomorrow.” Kate stepped back as well. “It was good to see you.”
    “And you.” Oddly hurt, Deanna turned and walked away.
    “Isn’t that sweet?” Angela gestured Kate into her office, shut the door. “You running into a childhood friend—who just happens to be my protégée—right in my office. Tell me, Kate, have you kept in touch with Dee? Shared all your secrets with her?”
    “Only a fool shares secrets willingly, Angela. Now let’s not waste time on small talk. Let’s get down to business.”
    Satisfied, Angela sat behind her desk. “Yes, let’s.”
     
    To Finn Riley, New York was like a woman: A long-legged, slick-skinned siren who knew her way around the block. She was sexy; she was by turns tacky and chic. And God knew she was dangerous.
    Perhaps that was why he preferred Chicago. Finn loved women, and had a weakness for the long-legged, dangerous type. But Chicago was a big, burly man, with sweat on his shirt and a cold brew in his fist. Chicago was a brawler.
    Finn trusted an honest fight more than he ever would a seduction.
    He knew his way around Manhattan. He’d lived there briefly with his mother during one of his parents’ trial separations. He’d lost track of how many trial separations there had been before the inevitable divorce.
    He remembered how reasonable they both had been. How bloodless and civilized. And he remembered being shuffled off to housekeepers, secretaries, prep schools, to spare him, supposedly, from that well-choreographed discord. In reality, he knew neither of his parents had been comfortable with a young boy who had asked direct questions and hadn’t been satisfied with logical, gutless answers.
    So he had lived in Manhattan, and on Long Island, and in Connecticut and Vermont. He’d summered in Bar Harbor and on Martha’s Vineyard. He’d done time in the hallowed halls of three of New England’s top prep schools.
    Perhaps that was why he still had such restless feet. The minute roots started to dig in, he felt honor-bound to rip them out and move on.
    Now he was back in New York. Temporarily. Where he knew the underbelly as well as