Loren Bach’s office capped the lofty silver tower that was home for Delacort’s Chicago base. Its glass walls offered a view that stretched beyond the Monopoly board of downtown. On a clear day, he could see into misted plains of Michigan. Loren liked to say he could stand guard over hundreds of the stations that carried Delacort’s programming, and thousands of homes that watched.
The suite of offices reflected his personality. Its main area was a streamlined, masculine room designed for serious work. The deep green walls and dark walnut trim were pleasant to the eye, an uncluttered backdrop for the sleek, modern furnishings and recessed television screens. He knew that it was sometimes necessary to entertain in an office, as well as do business. As a concession and a convenience, there was a semicircular sofa in burgundy leather, a pair of padded chrome chairs and a wide smoked-glass table. The contents of a fully stocked refrigerator catered to his addiction to Classic Coke.
One of his walls was lined with photographs of himself with celebrities. Stars whose sitcoms and dramas had moved into syndication, politicians running for office, network bigwigs. The one telling omission was Angela Perkins.
Adjoining the office was a washroom in dramatic black and white, complete with a whirlpool and sauna. Beyond that was a smaller room that held a Hollywood bed, a big-screen TV and a closet. Loren had never broken the habit of his lean years, and continued to work long hours, often catching a few hours’ sleep and a change of clothing right in the workplace.
But his sanctuary was an area that had been converted from office space. It was cluttered with colorful arcade games where he could save worlds or video damsels in distress, electronic pinball machines that whirled with light and sound, a talking Coke machine.
Every morning he allowed an hour to indulge himself with the bells and whistles and often challenged network executives to beat his top scores. No one did.
Loren Bach was a video wizard, and the love affair had begun in childhood in the bowling alleys his father had owned. Loren had never had any interest in tenpins, but he’d had an interest in business, and in the flash of the silver ball.
In his twenties, with his degree from MIT still hot, he’d expanded the family business into arcades. Then he’d begun to dabble in the king of video: television.
Thirty years later, his work was his play, and his play was his work.
Though he had allowed a few decorative touches in the office area—a Zorach sculpture, a Gris collage—the core of the room was the desk. So it was more of a console than a traditional desk. Loren had designed it himself. He enjoyed the fantasy of sitting in a cockpit, controlling destinies.
Simple and functional, its base was fitted with dozens of cubbyholes rather than drawers. Its work surface was wide and curved, so that when Loren sat behind it, he was surrounded by phones, computer keyboards, monitors.
An adept hacker, Loren could summon up any desired information skillfully and swiftly, from advertising rates for any of Delacort’s—or its competitors’—programs, to the current exchange rate of dollar to yen.
As a hobby, he designed and programmed computer games for a subsidiary of his syndicate’s.
At fifty-two, he had the quiet, aesthetic looks of a monk, with a long, bony face and a thin build. His mind was as sharp as a scalpel.
Seated behind his desk, he tapped a button on his remote. One of the four television screens blinked on. Eyes mild and thoughtful, he sipped from a sixteen-ounce bottle of Coke and watched Deanna Reynolds.
He would have viewed the tape without the call from Barlow James—Loren took at least a cursory study of anything that crossed his desk—but it was doubtful that he would have slotted time for it so quickly without the endorsement.
“Attractive,” he said into his mini-recorder, in a voice as soft and cool as morning snow. “Good throat. Excellent camera presence. Energy and enthusiasm. Sexy but nonthreatening. Relates well to audience. Scripted questions don’t appear scripted. Who does her writing? Let’s find out. Production values need improvement, particularly the lighting.”
He watched the full fifty minutes, reversing the tape occasionally, freeze-framing, all the while making his brief comments into the recorder.
He took another long sip from the bottle, and he was smiling. He’d lifted Angela from minor local celebrity into a national phenomenon.
And he could do it again.
With one hand he froze Deanna’s face on the screen; with the other, he punched his intercom. “Shelly, contact Deanna Reynolds at CBC, Chicago news division. Set up an appointment. I’d like to have her come in as soon as possible.”
Deanna was used to worrying about her appearance. Working in front of the camera meant that part of the job dealt with looking good. She would often discard a perfectly lovely suit that appealed to her because the cut or the color wasn’t quite right for TV.
But she couldn’t remember agonizing over the image she projected more than she did when preparing to meet Loren Bach.
She continued to second-guess herself as she sat in the reception area outside his office.
The navy suit she’d chosen was too severe. Leaving her hair down was too frivolous. She should have worn bolder jewelry. Or worn none at all.
It helped somehow to focus on clothes and hairstyles. Twinkie habits, she knew. But it meant she didn’t obsess about what this meeting could mean to her future.
Everything, she thought as her stomach clutched. Or nothing.
“Mr. Bach will see you now.”
Deanna only nodded. Her throat tightened up like a vise. She was afraid any word that fought its way free would come out as a squeak.
She stepped through the doors the receptionist opened, and into Loren Bach’s office.
He was behind his desk, a sloped-shouldered, skinny man with a face that reminded Deanna of an apostle. She’d seen photographs and television clips, and had thought he’d be bigger somehow. Stupid, she thought. She of all people knew how different a media image could be from reality.
“Ms. Reynolds.” He rose, extending a hand over the curved Lucite. “It’s nice to meet you.”
“Thank you.” His grip was firm, friendly and brief. “I appreciate your taking the time.”
“Time’s my business. Want a Coke?”
“I . . .” He was already up and striding across the room to a full-sized, built-in refrigerator. “Sure, thanks.”
“Your tape was interesting.” With his back to her, Loren popped the caps on two bottles. “A little rough on some of the production values, but interesting.”
Interesting? What did that mean? Smiling stiffly, Deanna accepted the bottle he handed her. “I’m glad you think so. We didn’t have a great deal of time to put it together.”
“You didn’t think it necessary to take the time?”
“No. I didn’t think I had the time.”
“I see.” Loren sat behind his desk again, took a long swig from the bottle. His hands were white and spidery, the long, thin fingers rarely still. “Why not?”
Deanna followed his lead and drank. “Because there are plenty of others who’d like to slip into Angela’s slot, at least locally. I felt it was important to get out of the gate quickly.”
He was more interested in how she’d do coming down the stretch. “Just what is it you’d like to do with Deanna’s Hour?”
“Entertain and inform.” Too glib, she thought immediately. Slow down, Dee, she warned herself. Honesty’s fine, but put a little thought into it. “Mr. Bach, I’ve wanted to work in television since I was a child. Since I’m not an actress, I concentrated on journalism. I’m a good reporter. But in the last couple of years, I’ve realized that doing the news doesn’t really satisfy my ambitions. I like to talk to people. I like to listen to them—and I’m good at both.”
“It takes more than conversational skills to carry an hour show.”
“It takes a knowledge of how television works, how it communicates. How intimate, and how powerful, it can be. And making the subject forget, while the light’s on, that he or she is talking to anyone but me. That’s my strong point.” She shifted, her body edging forward. “I did some summer-interning at a local station in Topeka while I was in high school, and I interned for four years at a station in New Haven during college. I worked as a news writer in Kansas City before my first on-air job. Technically, I’ve been working in television for ten years.”
“I’m aware of that.” He was aware of every detail of her professional life, but he preferred getting his own impressions, face to face. He appreciated the fact that she kept her eyes and her voice level. He remembered his first meeting with Angela. All those sexual spikes, that manic energy, that overpowering femininity. Deanna Reynolds was a different matter altogether.
Not weaker, he mused. Certainly not less potent. Simply . . . different.
“Tell me, other than fashion shows, what sort of topics did you plan to do?”
“I’d like to concentrate on personal issues rather than front-page ones. And I’d like to avoid shock television.”
“No redheaded lesbians and the men who love them?”
She relaxed enough to smile. “No, I’ll leave those to someone else. My idea is to balance shows like the demo with more serious ones, but to keep it very personal, involving the audience—studio and the home audience. Topics like step-families, sexual harassment in the workplace, how men and women cope with middle-age dating. Issues that target in on what the average viewer might be experiencing.”
“And you see yourself as a spokesperson for the average viewer?”
She smiled again. Here, at least, she could be confident. “I am the average viewer. I’m certainly going to watch a special on PBS that interests me, but I’m more than happy to pull up a bar stool with the gang at Cheers. I share my first cup of coffee in the morning with the Chicago Tribune and Kirk Brooks on Wake Up Call. And unless I have an early call, I go to bed with The Tonight Show—unless Arsenio looks better that night.” Now she grinned and sipped again. “And I’m not ashamed of it.”
Loren laughed, then drained his Coke. She’d very nearly described his own viewing habits. “I’m told you moonlighted for Angela.”
“Not moonlighting exactly. It wasn’t as structured or formal as that. And I was never on her payroll. It was more of an . . . apprenticeship.” Deanna screened the emotion from her voice. “I learned quite a bit.”
“I imagine you did.” After a moment, Loren steepled his hands. “It’s no secret that Delacort is unhappy about losing Angela’s. And anyone involved in the business would know that we don’t wish her well.” His eyes were dark as onyx against his Byronically pale skin. Yes, an apostle, Deanna thought again, but not one who would have gone cheerfully to the Roman lions. “However,” he continued, “given her track record, she should continue to dominate the market. We’re not ready to go head to head with her, nationally, with another talk-show format.”
“You’ll counter-program,” Deanna said, making Loren stop, raise a brow. “Go against her with game shows, high-rated reruns, soaps, depending on the demographics.”
“That would be the idea. I had considered spot-testing a talk-show format, in a handful of CBC affiliates.”
“I only need a handful,” she said evenly, but gripped the soft-drink bottle with both hands to hold it steady. Sink or swim, she decided. “To start.”
Perhaps it was personal, Loren mused. But what of it? If he could use Deanna Reynolds to take a small slice out of Angela, he could afford the cost. If the project failed, he would write it off as experience. But if he could make it work, if he could make Deanna work, the satisfaction would be worth more, much more than advertising revenue.
“Do you have an agent, Ms. Reynolds?”
“No.”
“Get one.” His dark, mild eyes sharpened. “I’d like to welcome you to Delacort.”
“Tell me again,” Fran insisted.
“A six-month contract.” No matter how many times she said it aloud, the words still echoed gleefully in Deanna’s ears. “We’ll tape right here at CBC, one show a day, five days a week.”
Still dazed even after two weeks of negotiations, she wandered Angela’s office. All that was left were the pastel walls and carpet and the steely view of Chicago. “I’ll be able to use this office, and two others in accordance with CBC’s end of the deal, during the probationary period. We’ll be carried by ten affiliates in the Midwest—live in Chicago, Dayton and Indianapolis. We have six weeks to put it together before we premiere in August.”
“You’re really doing it.”
With a half laugh, Deanna turned back. She wasn’t smiling like Fran, but her eyes were glowing. “I’m really doing it.” She took a deep breath, grateful that none of Angela’s signature scent remained in the air. “My agent said the money they’re paying me is a slap in the face.” Now she grinned. “I told him to turn the other cheek.”
“An agent.” Fran shook her head and sent her cowbell earrings dancing. “You’ve got an agent.”
Deanna turned toward the window and grinned out at Chicago. She’d chosen a small, local firm, one that could focus on her needs, her goals.
“I’ve got an agent,” she agreed. “And a syndicate—at least for six months. I hope I’ve got a producer.”
“Sweet pea, you know—”
“Before you say anything, let me finish.” Deanna turned back. Behind her, the spears and towers of the city shot up into the dull gray sky. “It’s a risk, Fran, a big one. If things don’t work out, we could be out on our butts in a few months. You’ve got a solid job at Woman Talk, and a baby on the way. I don’t want you to jeopardize that for friendship.”
“Okay, I won’t.” Fran shrugged, and because there was no place to sit, settled on the floor, grateful for the give of elastic over her expanding waist. “I’ll do it for ego. Fran Myers, Executive Producer. Has a nice ring.” She circled her knees with her arms. “When do we start?”
“Yesterday.” Laughing, Deanna sat beside her, slung an arm over her shoulders. “We need staff. I might be able to lure in some of Angela’s who got pink-slipped or didn’t want to relocate. We need story ideas and people to research them. The budget I have to work with is slim, so we’ll have to keep it simple.” She stared at the bare, pastel walls. “Next contract, it’ll be a hell of a lot bigger.”
“The first thing you need is a couple of chairs, a desk and a phone. As producer, I’ll see what I can beg, borrow or steal.” She scrambled to her feet. “But first, I have to go tender my resignation.”
Deanna caught her hand. “You’re sure?”
“Damn right. I already discussed the possibility with Richard. We looked at it this way: If things go belly-up in six months, I’d be ready for maternity leave anyway.” She patted her stomach and grinned. “I’ll call you.” She paused at the doorway. “Oh, one more thing. Let’s paint these damn walls.”
Alone, Deanna pulled her knees up to her chest and lowered her head. It was all happening so fast. All the meetings, the negotiations, the paperwork. She didn’t mind the long hours; she thrived on them. And the realization of an ambition brought with it a burst of energy that was all but manic. But beneath the excitement was a small, very cold ball of terror.
It was all going in the right direction. Once she adjusted to the new pace, she’d get her bearings. And if she failed, she would simply go back a few steps and start again.
But she wouldn’t regret.
“Ms. Reynolds?”
Thoughts scattering, Deanna looked up and saw Angela’s secretary in the doorway. “Cassie.” With a rueful smile, she glanced around. “Things look a little different these days.”
“Yeah.” Cassie’s own smile came and went. “I was just getting some things out of the outer office. I thought I should let you know.”
“That’s all right. It won’t be my territory officially until next week.” She rose and smoothed down her skirt. “I heard you’d decided not to make the move to New York.”
“My family’s here. And I guess I’m Midwest through and through.”
“It’s rough.” Deanna studied her, the short, tidy curls, the sad eyes. “Do you have something else?”
“Not yet. I’ve got some interviews lined up, though. Miss Perkins made the announcement, and a week later she’s gone. I haven’t gotten used to it.”
“I’m sure you’re not alone there.”
“I’ll get out of your way. I just had some plants to take home. Good luck with your new show.”
“Thanks. Cassie.” Deanna stepped forward, hesitated. “Could I ask you something?”
“Sure.”
“You worked for Angela for about four years, right?”
“It would have been four years in September. I started as a secretarial assistant straight out of business college.”
“Even down in the newsroom we’d hear occasional grumbling from her staff. Some complaints, some gossip. I don’t recall ever hearing anything from your direction. I wondered why that was.”
“I worked for her,” Cassie said simply. “I don’t gossip about people I work for.”
Deanna lifted a brow, kept her eyes steady. “You don’t work for her anymore.”
“No.” Cassie’s voice cooled. “Ms. Reynolds, I know that the two of you had . . . a disagreement before she left. And I understand that you’d feel some hostility. But I’d rather you didn’t draw me into a discussion about Miss Perkins, personally or professionally.”
“Loyalty or discretion?”
“I’d like to think it’s both,” Cassie said stiffly.
“Good. You know I’m going to be doing a similar type of program. You may not repeat gossip, but you certainly can’t help but hear it around here, so you’d know that my contract is of short term. I may not get beyond the initial six months or ten affiliates.”
Cassie thawed a bit. “I’ve got some friends downstairs. The newsroom pool’s running in your favor about three to one.”
“That’s nice to know, but I imagine that’s a matter of loyalty as well. I need a secretary, Cassie. I’d like to hire someone who understands that kind of loyalty, one who knows how to be discreet as well as efficient.”
Cassie’s expression altered from polite interest to surprise. “Are you offering me a job?”
“I’m sure I won’t be able to pay you what Angela did, unless—no, damn it, until—we can make this thing fly. And you’ll probably have to put in some very long, tedious hours initially, but the job’s yours if you want it. I hope you’ll think about it.”
“Ms. Reynolds, you don’t know if I was in on what she did to you. If I helped set it up.”
“No, I don’t,” Deanna said calmly. “I don’t need to know. And I think, whether we work together or not, you should call me Deanna. I don’t intend to run a less efficient organization than Angela did, but I hope to run a more personal one.”
“I don’t have to think about it. I’ll take the job.”
“Good.” Deanna held out a hand. “We’ll start Monday morning. I hope I can get you a desk by then. Your first assignment’s going to be to get me a list of who Angela laid off, and who on it we can use.”
“Simon Grimsley would be on top of it. And Margaret Wilson from Research. And Denny Sprite, the assistant production manager.”
“I’ve got Simon’s number,” Deanna muttered, dragging out her address book to note down the other names.
“I can give you the others.”
When Deanna saw Cassie take out a thick book and flip it open, she laughed. “We’re going to be fine, Cassie. We’re going to be just fine.”
It was difficult for Deanna to believe that she was leaving the newsroom behind. Particularly since she was huddled in Editing reviewing a tape.
“How long is it now?” she asked.
Jeff Hyatt, in the editor’s chair, glanced at the digital clock on the console. “Minute fifty-five.”
“Hell, we’re still long. We need to slice another ten seconds. Run it back, Jeff.”
She leaned forward in her swivel chair, like a runner off the mark, and waited for him to cue it up. The report of a missing teenager reunited with her parents had to fit into its allotted time. Intellectually, Deanna knew it. Emotionally, she didn’t want to cut a second.
“Here.” Jeff tapped the monitor with one blunt, competent finger. “This bit of them walking around the backyard. You could lose it.”
“But it shows the emotion of the reunion. The way her parents have her between them, their arms linked.”
“It’s not news.” He shoved up his glasses and smiled apologetically. “It’s nice, though.”
“Nice,” she muttered under her breath.
“Anyway, you’ve got that together-again business in the interview portion. When they’re all sitting on the couch.”
“It’s good film,” Deanna muttered.
“All you need’s a rainbow arching around them.”
Deanna turned at Finn’s voice and scowled. “I didn’t have one handy.”
Despite her obvious annoyance, he stepped over, dropped his hands on her shoulders and finished watching the tape. “It has more impact without it, Deanna. You soften the interview and the emotion you’re after by having them take a stroll together. Besides, it’s news, not a movie-of-the-week.”
He was right, but it only made it harder to swallow. “Take it out, Jeff.”
While he ran tape, editing and marking time, she sat with her arms folded. It was going to be one of the last pieces she did for CBC News. It was a matter of ego, as well as pride, that made her want it perfect.
“I need to do the voice-over,” she said with a telling look at Finn.
“Pretend I’m not here,” he suggested.
When Jeff was set, she took a moment to study the script. Holding a stopwatch in one hand, she nodded, then began to read.
“A parent’s worst nightmare was resolved early this morning when sixteen-year-old Ruthanne Thompson, missing for eight days, returned home to her family in Dayton . . . .”
For the next several minutes, she forgot Finn as she and Jeff worked on perfecting the segment. At last, satisfied, she murmured a thanks to the editor and rose.
“Good piece,” Finn commented as he walked out of Editing with her. “Spare, solid and touching.”
“Touching?” She stopped to angle a look at him. “I didn’t think that counted with you.”
“It does if it’s news. I heard you’re moving upstairs next week.”
“You heard right.” She turned into the newsroom.
“Congratulations.”
“Thanks—but you might want to hold off on that until after the first show.”
“I’ve got a feeling you’ll pull it off.”
“Funny, so do I. Up here.” She tapped her head. “It’s my stomach that doubts.”
“Maybe you’re just hungry.” Casually, he twined a lock of her hair around his finger. “How about dinner?”
“Dinner?”
“You’re off the schedule at six. I looked. I’m clear until eight A.M., when I have to catch a plane for Kuwait.”
“Kuwait? What’s up there?”
“Rumblings.” He gave her hair a little tug. “Always rumblings. So how about a date, Kansas? Some spaghetti, some red wine. A little conversation?”
“I’ve sort of given up dating for a while.”
“Are you going to let that shrink control your life?”
“It has nothing to do with Marshall,” she said coolly. But, of course, it did. And because it did, she executed a quick about-face. “Listen, I like to eat, and I like Italian. Why don’t we just call it dinner?”
“I won’t argue over semantics. Why don’t I pick you up at seven? That’ll give you time to go home and change. The place I have in mind is casual.”
She was glad she’d taken him at his word. She’d been tempted to fuss, at least a little, then had settled on a roomy blouse and slacks that suited the midsummer mugginess. Comfort seemed to be the tone of the evening.
The place he’d chosen was a small, smoky café that smelled of garlic and toasting bread. There were cigarette burns in the checkered tablecloths and hacks in the wooden booth that would have played hell with panty hose.
A stubby candle stuck out of the mouth of the obligatory Chianti bottle. Finn shoved it to the side as they slid into a booth. “Trust me. It’s better than it looks.”
“It looks fine.” The place looked comforting. A woman didn’t have to be on her guard in a restaurant that looked like someone’s family kitchen.
He could see her relaxing, degree by degree. Perhaps that was why he’d brought her here, he thought. To a place where there was no hovering maître d’, no leather-bound wine list.
“Lambrusco okay with you?” he asked as a T-shirt-clad waitress approached their booth.
“That’s fine.”
“Bring us a bottle, Janey, and some antipasto.”
“Sure thing, Finn.”
Amused, Deanna rested her chin on her cupped hand. “Come here often?”
“About once a week when I’m in town. Their lasagna’s almost as good as mine.”
“You cook?”
“When you get tired of eating in restaurants, you learn to cook.” His lips curved just a little as he reached across the table to play with her fingers. “I thought about cooking for you tonight, but I didn’t think you’d go for it.”
“Oh, why?” She moved her hands out of reach.
“Because cooking for a woman, if you do it right, is a surefire seduction, and it’s clear you like to take things one cautious, careful step at a time.” He tilted his head when the waitress returned with the bottle, filled their glasses. “Am I right?”
“I suppose you are.”
He leaned forward, lifting his glass. “So, here’s to the first step.”
“I’m not sure what I’m drinking to.”
Watching her, his eyes dark and focused, he reached out, rubbed his thumb over her cheekbone. “Yes, you do.”
Her heart stuttered. Annoyed at herself, she exhaled slowly. “Finn, I should make it clear that I’m not interested in getting involved, with anyone. I have to put all my energies, all my emotions into making the show work.”
“You look like a woman with enough emotion to go around to me.” He sipped, studying her over the rim. “Why don’t we just see what develops?”
The waitress slid the platter of antipasto on the table. “Ready to order?”
“I’m ready.” Finn smiled again. “How about you?”
Flustered, Deanna picked up the plastic-coated menu. Odd, she thought, she couldn’t seem to comprehend a thing written there. It might as well have been in Greek. “I’ll go for the spaghetti.”
“Make it two.”
“Gotcha.” The waitress winked at Finn. “White Sox are up by two in the third.”
“White Sox?” Deanna arched a brow as the waitress toddled off. “You’re a White Sox fan?”
“Yeah. You into baseball?”
“I played first base in Little League, batted three thirty-nine my best season.”
“No shit.” Impressed, and pleased, he tapped a thumb to his chest. “Shortstop. Went all-state in high school. Three-fifty my top season.”
With deliberate care, she chose an olive. “And you like the Sox. Too bad.”
“Why?”
“Seeing as we’re in the same profession, I’ll overlook it. But if we go out again, I’m wearing my Cubs hat.”
“Cubs.” He shut his eyes and groaned. “And I was nearly in love. Deanna, I thought you were a practical woman.”
“Their day’s coming.”
“Yeah, right. In the next millennium. Tell you what. When I get back in town, we’ll take in a game.”
Her eyes narrowed. “At Comiskey or Wrigley?”
“We’ll flip for it.”
“You’re on.” She nibbled on a pepperoncini, enjoying the bite. “I’m still ticked about them putting lights in at Wrigley.”
“They should have done it years ago.”
“It was tradition.”
“It was sentiment,” he corrected. “And you put sentiment up against ticket sales, sales win every time.”
“Cynic.” Her smile froze suddenly. “Maybe I could get baseball wives on the show. Cubs and Sox. You’d have viewer interest right off, people taking sides. God knows all you have to do is mention sports or politics in this town to get people going. And we could talk about being married to someone who’s on the road weeks at a time during the season. How they deal with slumps, injuries, Baseball Annies.”
“Hey.” Finn snapped his fingers in front of her face and made her blink.
“Oh, sorry.”
“No problem. It’s an education to watch you think.” It was also, to his surprise, arousing. It made a man wonder—hope—that she would concentrate as fiercely on sex. “And it’s a good idea.”
Her smile spread inch by inch until her face glowed with it. “It’d be a hell of a kickoff, wouldn’t it?”
“Yeah, but you’re mixing your sports metaphors.”
“I’m going to love this.” With her wine in one hand, she settled back against the booth. “I’m really going to love this. The whole process is so fascinating.”
“And news wasn’t?”
“It was, but this is more—I don’t know. Personal and exciting. It’s an adventure. Is that how you feel about flying off to one country after another?”
“Most of the time. Different place, different people, different stories. It’s hard to get into a rut.”
“I can’t imagine you worrying about that.”
“It happens. You get cozy, lose the edge.”
Cozy? In war zones, disaster areas, international summits? She didn’t see how. “Is that why you didn’t stay in London?”
“Part of it. When I stop feeling like a foreigner, I know it’s time to come home. Have you ever been to London?”
“No. What’s it like?”
It was easy to tell her, easy for her to listen. They talked over pasta and red wine, over cappuccino and cannoli until the candle in the bottle beside them began to gutter, and the juke fell silent. It was the lack of noise that made Deanna glance around. The restaurant was almost empty.
“It’s late,” she said, surprised when she glanced at her watch. “You have a plane to catch in less than eight hours.”
“I’ll manage.” But he slid out of the booth as she did.
“You were right about the food. It was fabulous.” But her smile faded when he reached out and cupped the nape of her 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.”