Nora Roberts - Private scandals

"Where are you going?"

"New York." In an easy, practiced move, Finn slung the bag over his shoulder. "I'm putting in a few days as substitute host on Wake Up Call. Kirk

Brooks's allergies are acting up." Deanna arched a brow. She knew that CBC'S Wake Up Call was performing poorly, lagging well behind Good Morning America and Today. "You mean the ratings are acting up."

Finn shrugged and took one of the candy-coated almonds from the bowl on her desk. "That's the bottom line. The brass figures the viewers will think somebody who's been through a few firefights and earthquakes is glamorous." Disgust crossed his face as he swallowed. "So, I'll get up early for a few days and wear a tie."

"It's a little more than that. It's a complicated show. Interviews, breaking stories—"

"Chitchat." The phrase was ripe with contempt.

"There's nothing wrong with chitchat. It involves the viewer, brings them into the picture. And it opens doors."

His lips curved into something between a smile and a sneer. "Right. The next time I interview Qaddafi I'll be sure to ask how he feels about Madonna's new video."

Intrigued, she tilted her head back to study him. She thought she'd pegged him as the reckless rebel who did precisely as he chose and kept the executives groping for the Maalox. "If you hate it so much, why are you doing it?"

"I work here," he said simply, and helped himself to a handful of candy.

Deanna lowered her eyes, toyed with papers on her desk. So did she, she thought miserably. So did she. "Then it's a matter of loyalty."

"First." What was going on inside that head of hers? he wondered. It was a pity he didn't have time to hang around and dig it out. "Then you can expand it. If Wake Up Call goes in the sewer, the revenue suffers. What's the first place that feels it?"

"The news department."

"Damn right. You've got the morning show scraping the bottom of the ratings barrel, and the fact that a couple of fatheaded idiots can't seem to program a decent Tuesday night, and before you can say Nielsen, we've got cutbacks."

"Monday and Friday are strong," she murmured. "And we've got Angela's."

"It's a little tough knowing that Angela and a handful of sitcoms are saving our ass." Then he smiled, shrugged. "Screwy business. I don't suppose you'd kiss me goodbye."

"I don't suppose I would."

"But you'll miss me." There was enough laughter in his eyes to make her grin back at him.

"You're not going off to war, Finn." "Easy for you to say. Stay tuned." He sauntered off. Deanna watched him walk up to another woman reporter. The woman laughed, then planted an exaggerated kiss on his mouth. As applause erupted, he turned, grinned at Deanna. With a final salute to the newsroom, he swung through the doors.

Deanna was still chuckling when she returned to her copy. The man might have his flaws, she mused, but at least he could make her laugh.

And, she admitted, he could make her think. Mentally, she pulled out her list. Two columns, neatly typed, specifying her reasons to accept and decline Angela's offer. There was a hard copy in the top drawer of her desk at home. It was a simple matter to visualize it. With a sigh, she added one word to the "decline" column.

Loyalty.

"Miss Reynolds?"

She blinked and focused. Behind a porcelain pot of lush red hibiscus was a round, cheerful face. It took her a moment to click it in. But when he shoved a pair of wire-rimmed glasses up his pug nose, she remembered.

"Jeff, hi. What's all this?"

"For you." He set it on her desk, then immediately shoved his hands in his pockets. As an editorial assistant, Jeff Hyatt was more comfortable with equipment than with people. He gave Deanna a fleeting smile, then stared at the flowers. "Nice. I ran into the delivery boy, and since I was on my way in…"

"Thanks, Jeff."

"No problem."

Deanna had already forgotten him as she reached for the card tucked among the blooms.

How about Hawaii?

Smiling, she reached out to stroke a blossom. One more on the "decline" list, she mused. Marshall. "Miss Reynolds to see you, Miss Perkins."

"Ask her to wait." With a cigarette smoldering between her fingers, Angela frowned over Beeker's report on Marshall Pike. It was certainly interesting reading, and demanded her full attention. His credentials were well earned — the doctorate from Georgetown, the year studying abroad. And financially, the psychologist did well for himself counseling socialites and politicians on their floundering marriages and dysfunctional families. He offset his lucrative practice by donating three afternoons a week to social services.

Overall, a nice, upstanding profile of a man who had studied well and worked hard and was devoted to preserving family life.

Angela knew all about profiles, and the illusions they fostered.

His own marriage had failed. A quiet, civilized divorce hadn't caused much of a ripple in Chicago society, and certainly hadn't harmed his practice. Still, it was interesting. Interesting because Beeker had discovered that the size of Marshall's settlement with his ex-wife was a whopper, as were the alimony payments. Much more than a brief, childless marriage warranted.

He hadn't contested it, Angela mused. A smile lifted the corners of her mouth as she continued to read. Perhaps he hadn't dared. When a thirty-five-year-old man was caught entertaining his secretary's very lovely, very naked and very young daughter at two A.m., he didn't have a lot of room for negotiations. A minor, however willing, was still a minor. And adultery, particularly with a sixteen-year-old, carried a hefty price tag.

He'd been clever in covering himself, Angela mused, scanning Beeker's file. The secretary had taken a fat lump sum and a glowing reference and moved her family to San Antonio. The wife had taken a great deal more, but barely a whisper about the good doctor had escaped. And when it had — and Angela admired him for his boldness — rumor tied him obliquely with the secretary, not her nubile daughter…

So, the elegant Dr. Pike continued his practice as one of Chicago's most eligible bachelors. The eminent family counselor with a weakness for teenagers. An interesting topic for a show, she decided, and laughed out loud. No, no, they would keep this one private. Some information was worth a great deal more than ratings. Angela closed the file and slipped it into a drawer. She wondered how much Deanna knew.

"Send her in, Cassie."

Angela was all smiles when Deanna walked in. "Sorry I kept you waiting. I had a little something to finish up."

"I know you're busy." Deanna briefly tugged on her earring. "Do you have a few minutes?"

"Of course." She rose, gesturing to a chair. "How about some coffee?"

"No, don't bother." Deanna sat, made herself fold her hands quietly in her lap.

"No trouble. Something cold instead?" Delighted, for the moment, to serve, Angela crossed to the bar and poured them both a mineral water. "If I didn't have a dinner tonight, I'd have Cassie bring in some of those fudge cookies I know she's got in her desk." She laughed lightly. "She doesn't think I know about them. But then, I make it a policy to know everything about my people." After handing Deanna a glass, she dropped into a chair and stretched out her legs. "It's been quite a day so far. And I'm off at dawn for California."

"California? I didn't know you were going on location."

"No, I'm speaking at the commencement exercises at Berkeley." Not bad, Angela thought, for someone who waited tables to get through Arkansas State. "I'll be back for Monday's tapings. You know, Dee, since you stopped by, you might take a look at my speech. You know how I value your input."

"Sure." Miserable, Deanna sipped at the water. "I can't do it until after five, but—"