Private Scandals

demographic appeal.”
    “The response from the affiliates was solid.” With his back to her, Lew ejected the tape.
    “A handful of stations in the dust bowl of the Midwest?” She drank quickly, her lips tightening on the gulp. “Do you think that worries me? Do you think she could play that in New York? It’s what works here that matters. Do you know what my share was last week?”
    “Yes.” Lew set the tape aside and played the game. “You’ve got nothing to worry about, Angela. You’re the best, and everyone knows it.”
    “Damn right I’m the best. And when my first prime-time special hits during the November sweeps, I’ll start getting the respect I deserve.” Grimacing, she drained the champagne. It no longer tasted celebratory, but it thawed all the little ice pockets of fear. “I’ve already got the money.” She turned around, steadier. She could afford to be generous, couldn’t she? “We’ll let Deanna have her moment, and why not? She won’t last. Leave the tape, Lew.” Angela went back to her desk, settled down and smiled. “And ask my secretary to come in. I have a job for her.”
    Alone, Angela swiveled in her chair to study the view of her new home. New York was going to do more than make her a star, she mused. It was going to make her an empire.
    “Yes, Miss Perkins.”
    “Cassie—damn it, Lorraine.” Spinning around, she glared at her new secretary. She hated breaking in new employees, being expected to remember their names, their faces. Everyone always expected too much from her. “Get me Beeker on the phone. If he can’t be reached, leave a message with his service. I want a call-back ASAP.”
    “Yes, ma’am.”
    “That’s all.” Angela glanced toward the champagne, then shook her head. Oh no, she wasn’t going to fall into thattrap. She wasn’t her mother. She didn’t need liquor to get through the day. Never had. What she needed was action. Once she lit a fire under Beeker and had him digging deeper and harder for dirt on Deanna Reynolds, she’d have all the action she could handle.

PART TWO

    “All fame is dangerous.”
    Thomas Fuller

Chapter Twelve
    “ C ooked beneath a blazing sun, an enemy of rainfall, of plant life, of human beings, are the shifting sands of the Saudi desert.” Finn did his best not to squint into the camera as that merciless sun beat down on him. He wore an olive-drab T-shirt, khakis and a faded bush hat. “Sandstorms, unrelenting heat and mirages are common in this hostile environment. Into this world the forces of the United States have come to draw their line in the sand.
    “It has been three months since the first men and women of the armed forces were deployed under Desert Shield. With the efficiency and ingenuity of the Yankee, these soldiers are adjusting to their new environment, or in some cases, adjusting their environment to suit them. A wooden box, a liner of Styrofoam and an air-conditioner blower.” Finn rested his hand on a wooden crate. “And a few industrious GIs have created a makeshift refrigerator to help combat the one-hundred-and-twenty-degree heat. And with boredom as canny an enemy as the climate, off-duty soldiers spend their time reading mail from home, trading the precious few newspapers that get through the censors and setting up lizard races. But the mails are slow, and the days are long. While parades and picnics back home celebrate Veterans Day, themen and women of Desert Shield work, and wait.
    “For CBC this is Finn Riley, in Saudi Arabia.”
    When the red light blinked off, Finn unhooked his sunglasses from his belt loop and slipped them on. Behind him was an F-15C Eagle and men and women in desert fatigues. “I could go for some potato salad and a brass band, Curt. How about you?”
    His cameraman, whose ebony skin gleamed like polished marble with his coat of sweat and sun block, rolled his eyes to heaven. “My mama’s homemade lemonade. A gallon of it.”
    “Cold beer.”
    “Peach ice cream—and a long, slow kiss from Whitney Houston.”
    “Stop, you’re killing me.” Finn took a deep drink of bottled water. It tasted metallic and overwarm, but it washed the grit out of his throat. “Let’s see what they’ll let us take pictures of, and we’ll try for some interviews.”
    “They ain’t going to give us much,” Curt grumbled.
    “We’ll take what we can.”
    Hours later, in the relative comfort of a Saudi hotel, Finn stripped to the skin. The shower washed away the layers of