Private Scandals

something?”
    “Not at the moment. I figured I’d stick around awhile. Then I could head back to the newsroom with the scoop. Tell me.” He put a hand on her shoulder to slow her down. “Are you doing this for yourself, or to irritate Angela?”
    “Both.” She pressed a fist to her stomach to try to quiet it. “But for me first.”
    “Okay.” He could feel the energy, and the nerves vibrating against his palm. He wondered what it would be like to tap it, when they were alone. “And what’s the next step?”
    She sent him a sidelong look, hesitated. “Off the record?”
    “Off the record,” he agreed.
    “A meeting with Barlow James. And if I manage to get his endorsement, I’m going to Bach.”
    “So, you don’t intend to pitch in the minors.”
    “Not for long.” She let out a long breath. “A minute ago I was sure I was going to be sick.” She tossed her hair back.“Now I feel great. Really great.”
    “Dee!” Holding her headset in place, Fran rushed down the narrow corridor. “We’ve got a full house.” She snatched Deanna’s hand and squeezed. “Every seat. The three women we picked out from the Cook County Historical Society are psyched. They can’t wait to start.”
    “Then let’s not.”
    “Okay.” Fran looked sick. “Okay,” she said again. “We can go whenever you’re ready.”
    She left the warm-up to Fran, standing just off set and listening to the laughter and applause. The nerves were gone. In their place was a burst of energy so huge she could barely hold still. Pushed by it, she made her entrance, settled into her chair under the lights, in front of the camera.
    The theme music, compliments of Vinnie, Richard’s nephew and an aspiring musician, danced out. Off camera, Fran signaled for applause. The red light shone steadily.
    “Good morning, I’m Deanna Reynolds.”
    She knew there was chaos off set—the scrambling wardrobe changes, the barking of orders, the inevitable glitches. But she felt completely in control, chatting amiably with the perky, detestable Karyn, then roaming the audience for comments as the models strutted their stuff.
    She could almost forget it was a career move instead of a lark as she giggled with an audience member over a pair of polka-dot micro shorts.
    She looked like a woman entertaining friends, Finn mused as he loitered at the back of the studio. It was an interesting angle, because it wasn’t an angle at all. As a hard newsman with a natural disdain for fluff, he couldn’t say he was particularly interested in the topic. But his tastes aside, the audience was enchanted. They cheered and applauded, let out the occasional “ooh” and “aah,” then balanced it with cheerful groans over an outfit that didn’t hit the mark.
    Most of all, they related to Deanna. And she to them, in the way she slipped an arm around an audience member, made eye contact or stepped back to let her guests take the spotlight.
    She’d walked through the door, he decided, and smiled to himself. He slipped out thinking it wouldn’t hurt to put in a call to Barlow James, and hold that door open a little wider.
     
    Angela swept through the lofty living room of her new penthouse apartment. Her heels clicked over parquet floors, muffled on carpet, clicked over tile as she stalked from airy window seat to gleaming breakfront. As she paced, she smoked in quick, ragged jerks, struggling with temper, fighting for control.
    “All right, Lew.” Calmer, she stopped beside a pedestal table, stabbing out the cigarette in a crystal ashtray and tainting the scent of roses with smoke. “Tell me why you think I’d be interested in some little homemade tape of a second-rate newsreader?”
    Lew shifted uncomfortably on the velvet settee. “I thought you’d want to know.” He heard the whine in his own voice and lowered his eyes. He detested what he was doing: crawling, belly-rolling for scraps. But he had two kids in college, a high-dollar mortgage and the threat of unemployment urging him on. “She rented a studio, hired techs, called in favors. She got some time off from the newsroom and put together a fifty-minute show, plus an audition tape of some of her old stuff.” Lew tried to ignore the ulcer burning in his gut. “I hear it’s pretty good.”
    “Pretty good?” Angela’s sneer was as sharp as a scalpel. “Why would I have any interest in ‘pretty good’? Why would anyone? Amateurs try to push their way into the market all the time. They