Private Scandals

suited his boyish face, accented by dark blue eyes and subtly clefted chin.
    He had a shrewd mind and a simple goal: to ride to the top on whatever vehicle could get him there the fastest.
    “Angela, everyone knows reviews are crap.” He poured her a soothing cup of tea. It was a pity, he thought, that their strategy of allowing no previews of the first show had failed. “Those jerks always take cheap shots at whoever’s on top. And that’s just where you are.” He handed her the delicate china cup. “On top.”
    “Damn right I am.” Tea slopped over into the saucer as she whirled away. Fury was better than tears, she knew. No one, absolutely no one would have the satisfaction of seeing how hurt she was. She’d been so proud, showing off her new home, sharing her life with her audience.
    They had called it “simpering.”
    “And the ratings would have proved it,” she snapped back, “if it hadn’t been for this damn war. The goddamn viewers just can’t get enough of the fucking thing. Day and night, night and day, we’re bombarded. Why don’t we just blowthe damn country off the map and be done with it?”
    Tears were close, perilously close. She battled them back and sipped the tea like medicine.
    She wanted a drink.
    “It’s not hurting us. Your lead-in to the six o’clock news has come up in five markets. And the viewers loved your remote at Andrews Air Force Base last week.”
    “Well, I’m sick of it.” She hurled the teacup at the wall, sending shards flying and drops splattering over the silk wallpaper. “And I’m sick of that little bitch in Chicago trying to undermine my ratings.”
    “She’s a flash in the pan.” He hadn’t even jolted at the explosion. He’d been expecting it. Now that it was done, he knew she could begin to calm. And when she’d calmed, she’d be needy.
    He’d been seeing to Angela’s needs for several months.
    “In a year she’ll be old news, and you’ll still be number one.”
    She sat behind her desk, leaning back, eyes shut. She was slipping. Nothing seemed to be going the way she’d planned when she’d formed her production company. She was in charge, yes, but there was so much to do. So many demands, so many, many ways to fail.
    But she couldn’t fail, could never face that. She calmed herself by taking long, slow breaths, just as she did during bouts of stage fright. It was much more productive, she reminded herself, to focus on someone else’s failure.
    “You’re right. Once Deanna bottoms out, she’ll be lucky-to get a gig on public access.” And she had something that might hurry that fine day along.
    As the smile curved Angela’s lips, Dan walked behind the chair to massage the tension from her shoulders. “You just relax. Let me do all the worrying.”
    She liked the feel of his hands on her—gentle, competent, sure. They made her feel protected, safe. She so desperately needed that now.
    “They love me, don’t they, Dan?”
    “Of course they do.” His hands trailed up to her neck,then brushed down over her breasts. They were soft and heavy and never failed to arouse him. His voice thickened as he felt her nipples harden between the light pinch of his thumb and forefinger. “Everybody loves Angela.”
    “And they’ll keep watching.” She sighed, relaxing as his hands molded her.
    “Every day. Coast to coast.”
    “Every day,” she murmured, and her smile widened. “Go lock the door, Dan. Tell Lorraine to hold my calls.”
    “I’d love to.”

Chapter Fourteen
    D uring the frigid nights in the desert, it was hard to remember the blazing heat of day. Just as after the first bombs exploded it was difficult to remember the deadly tedium of the long weeks of Desert Shield.
    Finn had been through other wars, though he’d never been so hamstrung by military regulations. There were ways, however, for the enterprising reporter to stretch them. He would never have denied that certain sensitive intelligence data couldn’t be broadcast without endangering troops. But he wasn’t a fool, nor was he blindly ambitious. He saw his job, and his duty, as finding out what was happening, not just what the official reports claimed was happening.
    Twice he and Curt climbed into his rented truck with a portable satellite dish bracketed in the bed, and headed out. Over the poorly marked roads and the shifting sand, they managed to link up with U.S. troops. Finn listened to complaints and to hopes, and returned to base to report