Private Scandals

it’s news, not a movie-of-the-week.”
    He was right, but it only made it harder to swallow. “Take it out, Jeff.”
    While he ran tape, editing and marking time, she sat with her arms folded. It was going to be one of the last pieces she did for CBC News. It was a matter of ego, as well as pride, that made her want it perfect.
    “I need to do the voice-over,” she said with a telling look at Finn.
    “Pretend I’m not here,” he suggested.
    When Jeff was set, she took a moment to study the script. Holding a stopwatch in one hand, she nodded, then began to read.
    “A parent’s worst nightmare was resolved early this morning when sixteen-year-old Ruthanne Thompson, missing for eight days, returned home to her family in Dayton . . . .”
    For the next several minutes, she forgot Finn as she and Jeff worked on perfecting the segment. At last, satisfied, she murmured a thanks to the editor and rose.
    “Good piece,” Finn commented as he walked out of Editing with her. “Spare, solid and touching.”
    “Touching?” She stopped to angle a look at him. “I didn’t think that counted with you.”
    “It does if it’s news. I heard you’re moving upstairs next week.”
    “You heard right.” She turned into the newsroom.
    “Congratulations.”
    “Thanks—but you might want to hold off on that until after the first show.”
    “I’ve got a feeling you’ll pull it off.”
    “Funny, so do I. Up here.” She tapped her head. “It’s my stomach that doubts.”
    “Maybe you’re just hungry.” Casually, he twined a lock of her hair around his finger. “How about dinner?”
    “Dinner?”
    “You’re off the schedule at six. I looked. I’m clear until eight A . M ., when I have to catch a plane for Kuwait.”
    “Kuwait? What’s up there?”
    “Rumblings.” He gave her hair a little tug. “Always rumblings. So how about a date, Kansas? Some spaghetti, some red wine. A little conversation?”
    “I’ve sort of given up dating for a while.”
    “Are you going to let that shrink control your life?”
    “It has nothing to do with Marshall,” she said coolly. But, of course, it did. And because it did, she executed a quick about-face. “Listen, I like to eat, and I like Italian. Why don’t we just call it dinner?”
    “I won’t argue over semantics. Why don’t I pick you up at seven? That’ll give you time to go home and change. The place I have in mind is casual.”
     
    She was glad she’d taken him at his word. She’d been tempted to fuss, at least a little, then had settled on a roomy blouse and slacks that suited the midsummer mugginess. Comfort seemed to be the tone of the evening.
    The place he’d chosen was a small, smoky café that smelled of garlic and toasting bread. There were cigarette burns in the checkered tablecloths and hacks in the wooden booth that would have played hell with panty hose.
    A stubby candle stuck out of the mouth of the obligatory Chianti bottle. Finn shoved it to the side as they slid into abooth. “Trust me. It’s better than it looks.”
    “It looks fine.” The place looked comforting. A woman didn’t have to be on her guard in a restaurant that looked like someone’s family kitchen.
    He could see her relaxing, degree by degree. Perhaps that was why he’d brought her here, he thought. To a place where there was no hovering maître d’, no leather-bound wine list.
    “Lambrusco okay with you?” he asked as a T-shirt-clad waitress approached their booth.
    “That’s fine.”
    “Bring us a bottle, Janey, and some antipasto.”
    “Sure thing, Finn.”
    Amused, Deanna rested her chin on her cupped hand. “Come here often?”
    “About once a week when I’m in town. Their lasagna’s almost as good as mine.”
    “You cook?”
    “When you get tired of eating in restaurants, you learn to cook.” His lips curved just a little as he reached across the table to play with her fingers. “I thought about cooking for you tonight, but I didn’t think you’d go for it.”
    “Oh, why?” She moved her hands out of reach.
    “Because cooking for a woman, if you do it right, is a surefire seduction, and it’s clear you like to take things one cautious, careful step at a time.” He tilted his head when the waitress returned with the bottle, filled their glasses. “Am I right?”
    “I suppose you are.”
    He leaned forward, lifting his glass. “So, here’s to the first step.”
    “I’m not sure what I’m drinking to.”
    Watching her, his