it this way.”
“Ten fucking seconds.” Roger took a last glimpse in his hand mirror. “If we have to fill, I’m dumping on you, babe.”
“We’re going to be fine.” Her jaw was set stubbornly. She’d make it fine, by God. She’d make it the best damn one-minute-ten the station had ever aired. The swearing in the control room turned to a pandemonium of cheers as thefloor director began his countdown. “Got it.” She glanced smugly in Roger’s direction, then faced the camera.
“Good afternoon, this is Midday. I’m Roger Crowell.”
“And I’m Deanna Reynolds. The passenger count on flight 1129 from London last Friday was two hundred and sixty-four. Early this morning, that number rose by one. Matthew John Carlyse, son of passengers Alice and Eugene Carlyse, made his first appearance at five-fifteen this morning. Though six weeks premature, Matthew weighed in at a healthy five pounds.”
As the tape rolled, to the accompaniment of the crooning “Baby, Baby,” Deanna let out a relieved breath and grinned at the monitor. Her idea, she reminded herself. And it was perfect. “Great pictures.”
“Not bad,” Roger agreed, and was forced to smile when the monitor focused on the tiny form squirming and squawling in the incubator. There was a small set of wings pinned to his blanket. “Almost worth the ulcer.”
“The Carlyses named their son after Matthew Kirkland, the pilot who landed flight 1129 safely at O’Hare Friday night despite engine failure. Mr. Carlyse said that neither he nor his wife were concerned about making the return flight to London at the end of the month. Young Matthew had no comment.”
“In other news . . .” Roger segued into the next segment.
Deanna glanced down at her copy, reviewing her pacing. When she looked up again, she spotted Finn in the rear of the studio. He rocked back on his heels, his thumbs hooked in his front pockets, but he gave her a nod of congratulations.
What the hell was he doing there, watching, evaluating? The man had a full week’s free time coming to him. Why wasn’t he at the beach, the mountains, somewhere? Even as she turned to the camera again and picked up her cue, she could feel his eyes on her, coolly blue and objective.
By the time they broke for the last commercial before “Deanna’s Corner,” her nerves had evolved into bubbling temper.
Deanna pushed back from the news desk, descended thestep and marched across the snaking cables. Before she could greet her guest for the day, Finn stepped in front of her.
“You’re better than I remember.”
“Really?” She gave the hem of her jacket a quick tug. “Well, with a compliment like that, I can die happy.”
“Just an observation.” Curious, he wrapped his fingers around her arm to hold her in place. “I can’t make up my mind about you. Am I still on the blacklist because I bumped you off the story the other night?”
“You’re not on any list. I just don’t like being watched.”
He had to grin. “Then you’re in the wrong business, Kansas.”
He let her go. Impulsively he took one of the folding chairs out of camera range. He hadn’t intended to stay, and knew he did so simply to irritate her. He’d come in that afternoon, as he’d come in the evening before, because he enjoyed being back in the Chicago studios.
He didn’t have much in his life at the moment other than his career. He preferred it that way. He watched Deanna ease her guest’s nerves with off-camera chitchat, and considered. Would she be relieved or annoyed to know he hadn’t given her a thought over the remainder of the weekend? Years in the business had made him an expert at compartmentalizing his life. Women didn’t interfere with his work, the sculpting of a story or his ambitions.
The months in London had added to his reputation and his credibility, but he was happy to be back.
His thoughts swung back to Deanna as he heard her laugh. A good, smoky sound, he thought. Subtle sex. It
“Ten fucking seconds.” Roger took a last glimpse in his hand mirror. “If we have to fill, I’m dumping on you, babe.”
“We’re going to be fine.” Her jaw was set stubbornly. She’d make it fine, by God. She’d make it the best damn one-minute-ten the station had ever aired. The swearing in the control room turned to a pandemonium of cheers as thefloor director began his countdown. “Got it.” She glanced smugly in Roger’s direction, then faced the camera.
“Good afternoon, this is Midday. I’m Roger Crowell.”
“And I’m Deanna Reynolds. The passenger count on flight 1129 from London last Friday was two hundred and sixty-four. Early this morning, that number rose by one. Matthew John Carlyse, son of passengers Alice and Eugene Carlyse, made his first appearance at five-fifteen this morning. Though six weeks premature, Matthew weighed in at a healthy five pounds.”
As the tape rolled, to the accompaniment of the crooning “Baby, Baby,” Deanna let out a relieved breath and grinned at the monitor. Her idea, she reminded herself. And it was perfect. “Great pictures.”
“Not bad,” Roger agreed, and was forced to smile when the monitor focused on the tiny form squirming and squawling in the incubator. There was a small set of wings pinned to his blanket. “Almost worth the ulcer.”
“The Carlyses named their son after Matthew Kirkland, the pilot who landed flight 1129 safely at O’Hare Friday night despite engine failure. Mr. Carlyse said that neither he nor his wife were concerned about making the return flight to London at the end of the month. Young Matthew had no comment.”
“In other news . . .” Roger segued into the next segment.
Deanna glanced down at her copy, reviewing her pacing. When she looked up again, she spotted Finn in the rear of the studio. He rocked back on his heels, his thumbs hooked in his front pockets, but he gave her a nod of congratulations.
What the hell was he doing there, watching, evaluating? The man had a full week’s free time coming to him. Why wasn’t he at the beach, the mountains, somewhere? Even as she turned to the camera again and picked up her cue, she could feel his eyes on her, coolly blue and objective.
By the time they broke for the last commercial before “Deanna’s Corner,” her nerves had evolved into bubbling temper.
Deanna pushed back from the news desk, descended thestep and marched across the snaking cables. Before she could greet her guest for the day, Finn stepped in front of her.
“You’re better than I remember.”
“Really?” She gave the hem of her jacket a quick tug. “Well, with a compliment like that, I can die happy.”
“Just an observation.” Curious, he wrapped his fingers around her arm to hold her in place. “I can’t make up my mind about you. Am I still on the blacklist because I bumped you off the story the other night?”
“You’re not on any list. I just don’t like being watched.”
He had to grin. “Then you’re in the wrong business, Kansas.”
He let her go. Impulsively he took one of the folding chairs out of camera range. He hadn’t intended to stay, and knew he did so simply to irritate her. He’d come in that afternoon, as he’d come in the evening before, because he enjoyed being back in the Chicago studios.
He didn’t have much in his life at the moment other than his career. He preferred it that way. He watched Deanna ease her guest’s nerves with off-camera chitchat, and considered. Would she be relieved or annoyed to know he hadn’t given her a thought over the remainder of the weekend? Years in the business had made him an expert at compartmentalizing his life. Women didn’t interfere with his work, the sculpting of a story or his ambitions.
The months in London had added to his reputation and his credibility, but he was happy to be back.
His thoughts swung back to Deanna as he heard her laugh. A good, smoky sound, he thought. Subtle sex. It
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