Private Scandals (23 page)

“She can’t come close to you, Angela.” Dan approached her slowly, making sure his eyes were filled with understanding and desire. “You’re the best there is. In public.” Gently, he turned her so that they faced the full-length mirror. “In private,” he murmured, watching her watching his hands caress. “You’re so beautiful. She’s built like a boy, but you . . . You’re a woman.”

Desperate for reassurance, she clasped her hands over his, tightening her grip until he squeezed her breasts painfully. “I need to be wanted, Dan. I need to know people want me. I can’t survive without that.”

“They do. I do.” He was used to her outbursts, accustomed to her neediness. And he knew how to use both to his advantage. “When I see you on the set, so cool, so controlled, you dazzle me.” He slipped his hand between her thighs, patiently stroking until she was damp, until she quivered. Until he did. “And I can hardly wait until I can get you alone, like this.”

Her breath grew shallow, but her vision was clear, focused hard on the glass as his busy hands worked over her. The flavor of champagne was still on her tongue, making her yearn for more. Crave more. She swallowed it and concentrated on what she saw in the glass.

“You’d do anything for me.”

“Anything.”

“And to me.”

He laughed. He knew where the power was. The more she needed, the more she plotted, the more she placed in his hands. And the truth was, sex with Angela was like a dark, violent ride into an irresistible hell.

“What do you want me to do, Angela?”

“Take me here, right here, so I can watch.”

He laughed again. She was quivering like a bitch in heat, her eyes riveted on her own body. Her vanity, the pathetic insecurity of it, was one more hold he had on her. But when he started to shift, she shoved him back.

“No.” She could barely breathe now. Her full white breasts still carried the angry red marks from his hands. She wanted them there, wanted them as proof that she was desired. “From behind. Like an animal.”

His mouth watered at the image. His erection ached like a wound. Desperate to take, he shoved her roughly to her knees. Eyes feral, teeth bared, she watched him crouch over her. He jerked her head back by the hair, hissing when she growled low in her throat.

“I won’t stop. Even if you beg.”

“Fuck me.” Her smile glinted like a sword already bloodied. “And when you’re done, we’re going to find a new way to make her pay.”

“Watch.” He held her head still with one hand. “I want you to watch.”

He drove himself into her viciously, the blood all but bursting in his veins when she cried out in pain and shock and greedy pleasure. His fingers dug hard into her hips while he rammed inside her again and again until the sweat ran off both of them like rain, and his vision dimmed.

But hers stayed clear. She saw the blood on her lip where her teeth had dug in, the sheen of sweat and tears on her face. And as the horrible, loveless orgasm slammed through the agony and need, Dan’s face dissolved into Finn’s. And she smiled as he cried out her name and shuddered, shuddered, shuddered.

She was wanted. She was desired. She was the best.

“Deanna, are you sure you want to do this?” Fran nibbled on her thumbnail, a habit she’d broken years before, as she stood beside Deanna’s desk.

“Absolutely sure.” She continued to sign the outgoing mail. Her signature was quick and neat and automatic. “It’s a show I want to do. How many carts did we get back?”

Fran frowned down at the forms in her hand, the carts they passed to the audience after each program. These had been typed simply: Do you know of anyone who has experienced date rape? Is this a topic you would be willing to discuss on
Deanna’s Hour?

There was room for comments, for names and phone numbers. Out of the two hundred carts Fran had surveyed, she had chosen only two.

“These are the ones I thought you should see.” Reluctantly, Fran laid them on the desk. “It’s going to be painful for you, Deanna.”

“I can handle it.”

She skimmed the first cart, then went back and read each word again.

He said I asked for it. I didn’t. He said it was my own fault. I’m not sure. I’d like to try to talk about it, but I don’t know if I can.

Setting the cart aside, she reached for the second.

It was my first date after my divorce. It was three years ago, and I haven’t been with a man since. I’m still afraid, but I trust you.

“Two women,” Deanna murmured. Yes, it was painful. There was a tight, angry fist lodged in her chest. “Right out of the studio audience. How many more, Fran? How many more are out there wondering if it was their fault? How many more are afraid?”

“I can’t stand to see you hurt this way. You know if you do this, you’re going to have to bring up Jamie Thomas.”

“I know that. I’ve already run it by Legal.”

“And if he sues?”

Deanna sighed, barely refrained from rubbing her eyes and smearing makeup. She hadn’t slept well—and with Finn in Moscow, she’d slept alone. But it hadn’t been doubt keeping her wakeful. It had been anticipation.

“Then he sues. To encapsulate what I got from Legal, he’s already gone public with his version. Since it’s a matter of his word against mine, I’m going public with my version. I could have done so in a dozen interviews since the tabloids
hit. Two dozen,” she corrected, with a grim smile. “I prefer to do it this way, my way, on my own show.”

“You know the press will jump all over it.”

“I know.” She was calm now, dead calm. “That’s why we’re going to schedule it during the May sweeps.”

“Jesus, Dee—”

“I’m going public with this, Fran, and I hope to God even one woman who watches is helped by what I’m doing.” She used the heels of her hands to rub the dampness from her cheek. “And by Christ, I’m going to kill the competition in the ratings while I’m at it.”

Deanna’s nerves were steady as stone before the show. In her precise manner, she had gone over her scripted question cards while Marcie put the finishing touches on her makeup. Prepared, even eager, she swiveled in her chair toward Loren Bach.

“Now, are you here to observe, Loren, or to offer advice?”

“Some of both.” He folded his long, white fingers together. “As you know, I don’t make it a habit to interfere with the content of the show.”

“I do know that, and I appreciate it.”

“But I do make a habit out of protecting my people.” He sat silently a moment, gathering his thoughts while he studied the orderly room filled with stacks of newspapers, magazines, all current, a shelf of neatly marked videos that could be slipped into the VCR for viewing. The room smelled lightly of cosmetics and lotions. Feminine, yes, he mused, but also tools of the trade. The dressing room was as much a work space as her office.

“It’s possible for you to do this show, and do an excellent job, without bringing your personal experience into it.”

“Possible, yes.” She rose then to close the door Marcie had left open. “Are you asking me to do that, Loren?”

“No. I’m reminding you of it.”

“Then I’ll remind you that I’m part of the show, not just a host. An intimate part; that’s what makes it work for me and, I think, for the viewing audience.”

He smiled, and his eyes remained keen. She looked polished and poised, he mused. “I wouldn’t argue with that. But Deanna, if you have any doubts about what you’re doing, there is no need to go ahead.”

“I don’t have doubts, Loren. I have fears. I think, at least I hope, that facing them is the answer. You may have concerns that Jamie Thomas will try some sort of legal retribution, but—”

Loren waved that away. “I have lawyers to deal with that. In any case, it seems the brunt of the publicity backfired on him. He is, at the moment, on an extended vacation in Europe.”

“Oh, I see.” She took a deep breath. “Well then.”

“You don’t mind if I stay to watch the show?” He rose as she did.

“I’d appreciate it.” On impulse she leaned forward and kissed his cheek. When he blinked in surprise, she smiled. “That wasn’t for my business associate. It was for your support.”

When she opened the door, she found herself instantly scooped up into Finn’s arms.

“You’re supposed to be in Moscow.”

“I’m back.” He’d pulled every string he could grab to arrive in Chicago in time for the show. “You look good, Kansas. How do you feel?”

“Shaky.” She pressed a hand to her stomach. “Ready.”

“You’ll be fine.” He kept an arm around her shoulders and nodded to Loren. “Good to see you.”

“And you. You can keep me company while Deanna goes to work.”

“Fine.” Finn walked Deanna toward the set. “Working tonight?”

“I have a network dinner at seven. But I think I can get out by ten.”

“Want to come by my place?”

“Yes.” She gripped his hand, hard. The closer she got to the set, the more her stomach twisted. She shot one look at Fran, braced herself. “Like diving into a cold pool.”

“What?”

She forced a smile as she glanced up at Finn. “Just some advice I got once. See you in an hour, huh?”

“I’ll be here.”

Deanna took her place with the three women already fidgeting onstage. She spoke quietly to each one of them, then miked, waited for her cue.

Music. Applause. The objective red eye of the camera.

“Welcome to
Deanna’s Hour.
Our show today deals with a painful subject. Rape in any form is tragic and horrible. It takes on a different dimension when the victim knows and trusts her attacker. Every woman on this stage has been a victim of what is called date, or acquaintance, rape. And we all have a story to tell. When it happened to me nearly ten years ago, I did nothing. I hope I’m doing something now.”

T
o celebrate Deanna’s first year on the air, Loren Bach threw a party in his penthouse overlooking Lake Michigan. Over the low music and chink of glasses, voices buzzed. Faintly, from the adjoining game room, came the beeps and bells of video games.

In addition to the staff of the show and CBC and Delacort executives, he had invited a handful of carefully selected columnists and reporters. The publicity on Deanna since the May sweeps showed no sign of abating. Loren had no intention of allowing it to.

While the ratings climbed, so did the advertising revenue. As Chicago’s darling rapidly became America’s darling, Deanna’s growing celebrity opened the doors to booking stellar names who breezed on the show to hype their hot summer movies and concert tours. She continued to mix the famous with segments on dealing with jealous spouses, choosing the right swimwear and computer dating.

The result was a carefully crafted show with an appealing, casual, homey look. Deanna was at the core, as awestruck as her audience by the appearance of a glamorous movie star, as amused as they by the notion of choosing a mate with a machine, as wary and unnerved as any woman of stripping down to a bikini on a public beach.

The girl-next-door image drew the audience. The sharp, practical mind behind it structured the vision.

“Looks like you made it, kid.”

Deanna smiled at Roger as she kissed his cheek. “Through the first year, anyway.”

“Hey, in this business that’s a minor miracle.” He chose a baby carrot from his buffet plate and bit in with a sigh. He’d put on a few pounds over the past months. The camera gleefully advertised every ounce. “Too bad Finn couldn’t be here.”

“The Soviets would pick my anniversary to stage a coup.” She tried not to worry about Finn, back in Moscow.

“Have you heard from him?”

“Not for a couple of days. I saw him on the news. Speaking of which, I caught your new promo. Very sharp.”

“Our news team is your news team,” Roger said in his announcer’s voice. “Keeping Chicago informed.”

“You and your new partner have a nice rhythm.”

“She’s all right.” He switched to celery, found it just as bland. “Good voice, good face. But she doesn’t get my jokes.”

“Rog, nobody gets your jokes.”

“You did.”

“No.” She patted his cheek. “I pretended I did, because I love you.”

There was a quick pinch around his heart. “We still miss you around the newsroom.”

“I miss you too, Roger. I’m sorry about you and Debbie.”

He shrugged, but the wounds of his recent divorce were still tender. “You know what they say, Dee. Shit happens. Maybe I’ll be looking into that computer dating.”

She gave a snort of laughter and squeezed his hand. “I have one word of advice on that. Don’t.”

“Well, since Finn’s busy hopping all over the globe, maybe you’d be interested in a stable, slightly older man.”

She would have laughed again, but she wasn’t entirely sure he was joking. “There happens to be this stable, slightly older man whose friendship means a lot to me.”

“Hi, Dee.”

“Jeff.”

“I saw you didn’t have a glass, and thought you might like some champagne.”

“Thanks. You never miss a detail. I pulled a coup of my own when I stole Jeff away from the news department,” she told Roger. “We’d never get
Deanna’s Hour
on the air without him.”

He beamed with pleasure. “I just pick up the loose ends.”

“And tie them up in a bow.”

“Excuse me.” Barlow James slipped behind Deanna and circled her waist with his arm. “I need to steal the star for a moment, gentlemen. You’re looking fit, Roger.”

“Thanks, Mr. James.” With a wan smile, Roger held up another carrot. “I’m working on it.”

“I won’t keep her long,” Barlow promised, and led Deanna toward the open terrace doors. “You look more than fit,” he commented. “You look luminous.”

She laughed. “I’m working on it.”

“I believe I have something that might add to the glow. Finn contacted me this morning.”

Relief came one heartbeat before pleasure. “How is he?”

“In his element.”

“Yes.” She looked out at the lake, where pale fingers of moonlight nudged past clouds to brush the water. The silhouettes of boats rocked gently in the current. “I suppose he is.”

“You know, between the two of us, we might be able to apply enough pressure to convince him to do that news magazine and keep his butt in Chicago.”

“I can’t.” Though she wished she could. “He has to do what suits him best.”

“Don’t we all,” Barlow said with a sigh. “Now, I’ve dulled some of that glow. This should bring it back.” He took a long slim box from his inside jacket pocket. “Finn asked me to pick this up for you. Something he had made before he was called away. I’m to tell you he’s sorry he can’t give it to you himself.”

She said nothing as she stared at its contents. The bracelet was delicately fashioned of oval gold links, cut to catch the light and joined together by the rainbow hue of multicolored gems. Emerald, sapphire, ruby, tourmaline fired and flashed in the moonlight. At the center a filigreed
D
and
R
flanked a brilliant array of sizzling diamonds that shaped a star.

“The star’s self-explanatory, I believe,” Barlow told her. “It’s to commemorate your first year. We’re confident there’ll be many more.”

“It’s beautiful.”

“Like the woman it was made for,” Barlow said, slipping it from the box to clasp it around her wrist. “The boy certainly has taste. You know, Deanna, we need a strong hour on Tuesday nights. You may not feel comfortable using your influence to persuade him to fill it. But I do.” He winked and, patting her shoulder, left her alone.

“You’re too damn far away,” she said quietly, rubbing a fingertip over the bracelet.

She had so much that she wanted, she reminded herself. So much that she’d worked toward. So why was she still so unsettled? Very much like the boats on the water below, she mused. Anchored, yes, but still shifting, still tugging against the tide.

Her show was rapidly becoming national. But she had yet to select a new apartment. She was enjoying national exposure in the media, most of it flattering. And she was standing alone at a party thrown in her honor, feeling lost and discontented.

For the first time in her life her professional goals and personal ones seemed out of balance. She knew exactly what she wanted for her career, and could see the steps toward achieving it so clearly. She felt capable and confident when she thought of pushing
Deanna’s Hour
to the top of the market. And whenever she stood in front of the audience, the camera on and focused, she felt incredibly alive, completely in control, with just enough giddy pleasure thrown in to make it all a continual thrill.

She wasn’t taking success for granted, for she knew too
well the caprices of television. But she knew that if the show was canceled tomorrow, she would pick up, go on and start over.

Her personal needs weren’t so clear-cut, nor was the route she wanted to take. Did she want the traditional home and marriage and family? If it was possible to mix that kind of ideal with a high-powered and demanding career, she would find a way.

Or did she want what she had now? A place of her own, a satisfying yet strangely independent relationship with a fascinating man. A man she was madly in love with, she admitted. And who, though the words hadn’t been said, she was certain loved her as deeply.

If they changed what they had, she might lose this breathless, stirring excitement. Or she might discover something more soothing and equally thrilling to replace it.

And because she couldn’t see the answer, because the confusion in her heart blinded her vision, she struggled all the harder to separate intellect from emotion.

“There you are.” Loren Bach strode out on the balcony, a bottle of champagne in one hand, a glass in the other. “The guest of honor shouldn’t be hiding in the shadows.” He topped off her glass before setting the bottle aside on the glass table beside him. “Particularly when the media is in attendance.”

“I was just admiring your view,” she countered. “And giving that media a chance to miss me.”

“You’re a sharp woman, Deanna.” He clicked his glass against hers. “I’m taking this evening to feel very smug about going with my instincts and signing you.”

“I’m feeling pretty smug about that myself.”

“As long as you don’t let it show. That wide-eyed enthusiasm is what sells, Dee. That’s what the audience relates to.”

She grimaced. “I am wide-eyed and enthusiastic, Loren. It’s not an act.”

“I know.” He couldn’t have been happier. “That’s why it’s so perfect. What did I read about you recently—” He
tapped a finger against his temple as if to shake the memory loose. “ ‘Midwest sensibilities, an Ivy-League brain, a face that makes a man yearn for his high school sweetheart, all coated with a quiet sheen of class.’ ”

“You left out my quick, sexy laugh,” she said dryly.

“Complaining, Deanna?”

“No.” She leaned comfortably against the railing to face him. The scent of hibiscus from the bold red blooms in the patio pots mixed exotically with the fragrance of champagne and lake water. “Not for a minute. I love every bit of it. The spread in
Premiere,
the cover on
McCall’s,
the People’s Choice nomination—”

“You should have won that,” he muttered.

“I’ll beat Angela next time.” She smiled at him, her bangs fluttering in the light breeze, the diamonds at her wrist glinting in the starlight. “I wanted that Chicago Emmy, and I’ve got it. I intend to win a national one, when the time comes. I’m not in a hurry, Loren, because I’m enjoying the ride. A lot.”

“You make it look easy, Dee, and fun.” He winked. “That’s the way I sell computer games. And that’s the way you slip right through the television screen into the viewer’s living room. That’s the way you up the ratings.” His smile hardened, glinted in the shadowy light. “And that’s the way you’re going to knock Angela out of first place.”

Because the gleam in Loren’s eye made her uneasy, Deanna chose her response carefully. “That’s not my primary goal. As naive as it may sound, Loren, all I want is to do a good job and provide a good show.”

“You keep doing that, and I’ll handle the rest.” It was odd, he thought, that he hadn’t realized just how much revenge against Angela burned in him. Until Deanna. “I’m not going to claim that I made Angela number one, because it’s more complex than that. But I speeded the process along. My mistake was to be deluded enough by the screen image and marry someone who didn’t exist off camera.”

“Loren, you don’t have to tell me this.”

“No, no one has to tell you anything, but they do. That’s part of your charm, Deanna. I can tell you that Angela shed me as carelessly as a snake sheds its skin when she’d decided she’d outgrown me. It’s going to give me a lot of satisfaction to help you gun her down, Deanna.” He drank again, with relish. “A great deal of deep satisfaction.”

“Loren, I don’t want to go to war with Angela.”

“That’s all right.” He touched his glass to hers again. “I do.”

Lew McNeil was as obsessed with Angela’s success as Loren Bach was with her failure. His future depended on it. He had hopes to retire in another decade, with his nest egg securely in place. He had no hopes of remaining with
Angela’s
for that long. His best chance was to work out his contract while the show remained a number-one hit, then slide gently into another producing slot.

He had some reason to worry. While
Angela’s
was still in command of the top rung, and the show had added another Emmy to its collection, its star was fraying at the edges. In Chicago she had managed to command her staff using her iron will and her penchant for perfection, and leavening them with doses of considerable charm.

Since the move to New York, a great deal of the charm had been shaken by stress, and the stress was doused with French champagne.

He knew—had made it his business to know—that she had poured a great deal of her own money into the fledgling A.P. Productions. The veteran show kept the company out of the red, but Angela’s dabbling in television movies had been disastrous thus far. Her last special had received lukewarm reviews, but the ratings had put the show into the top ten of the week.

That was fortunate, but her daily ratings had plummeted in August, when she had insisted on running repeats while she took an extended vacation in the Caribbean.

No one could deny that she deserved the break. Just as no one could deny that the timing had been poor with
Deanna’s
Hour
steadily closing the distance in points.

There were other mistakes, other errors in judgment, the largest being Dan Gardner. As the power shifted gradually from Angela’s hands to those of her lover and executive producer, the tone of the show altered subtly.

“More complaints, Lew?”

“It’s not a complaint, Angela.” He wondered how many hours of his life he’d spent standing beside her chair in her dressing room. “I only wanted to say again that I think it’s a mistake to have a homeless family on the program with a man like Trent Walker. He’s a shark, Angela.”

“Really?” She took a slow drag on her cigarette. “I found him quite charming.”

“Sure, he’s charming. He was real charming when he bought that shelter then turned the building into high-priced condos.”

“It’s called urban renewal, Lew. In any case, it should be fascinating to see him debate with a family of four who are currently living in their station wagon. Not only topical”—she crushed out the cigarette—“but excellent TV. I hope he wears the gold cuff links.”

“If it goes the wrong way, it may look as though you’re unsympathetic to the plight of the homeless.”

“And what if I am?” Her voice cracked like a whip. “There are jobs out there. Too many of these people would rather take a handout than earn an honest living.” She thought of the way she’d waited tables and cleaned up slop to pay for her education. The humiliation of it. “Not all of us were born to the good life, Lew. When my book comes out next month, you can read along with everyone else how I overcame my modest beginnings and worked my way to the top.” With a sigh, she dismissed the hairdresser. “That’s fine, dear, run along. Lew, let me say first that I don’t appreciate your second-guessing me in front of members of my staff.”