Private Scandals

neck in his hand. He held her there, his eyes on hers as he closed the distance between them.
    The kiss was slow, deliberate and devastating. She’d expected more of a one-two punch from a man whose eyes could bore a hole in the brain. Perhaps that was why the soft, lazy romance of the kiss disarmed her so completely.
    She lifted a hand to his shoulder, but rather than easing him away, as she had intended, her fingers dug in. Held on. Her heart took a long, seamless somersault before it thudded against her ribs.
    When her mouth yielded under his, he deepened the kiss. Slowly still, teasing a response from her until her hand slid from his shoulder to cling at his waist.
    Dozens of thoughts struggled to form in her head, then skittered away. For here was heat, and pleasure and the undeniable promise, or threat, of much more.
    More was what he wanted. Much more desperately than he had anticipated. However simple he’d intended the kiss to be, he was almost undone by it. He eased her away. The small, baffled sound she made as her eyes blinked open had him gritting his teeth against a quick, vicious ache.
    It was important to keep steady—though at the moment she couldn’t have said why. Instinct alone had her stepping back an inch.
    “What was that for?”
    “Other than obvious reasons?” He should be amused by the question. “I figured if we got that done here, you wouldn’t project what could, should or might happen when I took you home.”
    “I see.” She realized her purse had dropped to the floor, and bent to retrieve it. “I don’t plan every aspect of my life out like a feature story.”
    “Sure you do.” He ran a finger down her cheek. It was hot and flushed and made him long for another taste. “But that’s okay with me. Just consider that your lead. We’ll pick up the rest of the copy when I get back.”

Chapter Eleven
    B y the end of July, Deanna had what could loosely be called a staff. In addition to Fran and Simon, she had a single researcher and a booker, overseen by Cassie. They were still in dire need of bodies and brains—and a budget to pay for them.
    The technical end was solid. At one of the endless meetings Deanna attended, it was agreed that Studio B would be fully staffed and carefully lit. Production values would be top-notch.
    All she had to do was give them something to produce.
    She’d temporarily moved two desks into Angela’s old office. One for herself, one for Fran: they divided the work, and brainstormed ideas.
    “We’ve got the first eight shows booked.” Fran paced the office, a clipboard in one hand. “Cassie’s handling travel and lodging. She’s doing a good job, Dee, but she’s ridiculously overworked.”
    “I know.” Deanna rubbed her gritty eyes and struggled to clear her brain. “We need an assistant producer, and another researcher. And a general dogsbody. If we can get the first dozen shows under our belt, we might be able to swing it.”
    “Meantime, you’re not getting enough sleep.”
    “Even if I had the time, I couldn’t.” She reached out for the ringing phone. “My stomach’s in a constant state of turmoil, and my mind just won’t shut off. Reynolds,” she said into the receiver. “No, I haven’t forgotten.” She glanced at her watch. “I have an hour.” She blew out a breath as she listened. “All right, tell them to send the wardrobe up. I’ll pick what suits and be down for makeup in thirty minutes. Thanks.”
    “Photo shoot?” Fran remembered.
    “And the promos. I can’t accuse Delacort of chintzing on the advertising. But damn, I don’t have time. We need a staff meeting, and we still have to go through those responses to the eight-hundred number and the write-in.”
    “I’ll schedule it for four.” Fran grinned. “Wait until you read some of the stuff from the write-in. Margaret’s idea on why ex-husbands should be shot down like a dog is a hoot.”
    Deanna’s smile was strained. “We did tone that down, didn’t we?”
    “Yeah. It went out ‘Why Your Ex-Husband Is Your Ex.’ Tame enough, but the responses weren’t. We’ve got everything from serious abuse cases to guys who cleaned engine parts in the kitchen sink. We’ll need an expert. I thought a lawyer instead of a counselor. Divorce lawyers have terrific stories, and Richard has plenty of contacts.”
    “Okay, but—” She broke off as a clothes rack wheeled through the doorway. “Come on, Fran, help me play closet.” A head peeked around