"It's a nice town."
Barlow let out a sigh. "Let's hit the showers."
Twenty minutes later, they were stretched out on massage tables being pummeled.
"Damn good show this morning," Barlow commented. "You've got a good crew, solid writers. Give it a little time and you'll be competitive."
"Time is shorter than it used to be in this business. I used to hate the goddamn bean counters." He bared his teeth in a grimace. "Now I'm a goddamn bean counter."
"At least you're a bean counter with imagination." Barlow said nothing. Finn held his silence, knowing there was a purpose to this informal meeting.
"Give me an opinion on the Chicago bureau."
"It's tight," Finn said cautiously. "Hell, Barlow, you were bureau chief there for more than ten years, you know what we're working with. You've got a solid combination of experience and fresh blood. It's a good place to work."
"Ratings for the local evening news are weak. What we need is a stronger lead-in. I'd like to see them shift Angela's to four, pull her audience along."
Finn shrugged. He didn't ignore ratings, but he did detest their importance. "She's been at nine in Chicago and most of the Midwest for years. You might have a tough time pulling it off." "Tougher than you think," Barlow murmured. "You and Angela… ah, there's nothing going on there anymore?"
Finn opened his eyes, cocked a brow. "Are we going to have a father-son chat, Pop?"
"Wiseass." Barlow chuckled, but his eyes were keen. Finn knew the look. "I wondered if you two had picked up where you left off."
"Where we left off was in the toilet," Finn said dryly. "And no."
"Hmmm. So are relations friendly or strained?" "Publicly, friendly. Realistically, she hates my guts."
Barlow grunted again. It was good news, he thought, because he was fond of the boy. It was bad news because it meant he might not be able to use him. Making up his mind, he shifted on the table, wrapping the sheet around him and dismissing both masseuses.
"I've got a problem, Finn. A nasty little rumor that came buzzing in my ear a couple of days ago."
Finn pushed himself up. At any other time he would have made a crack about two grown men having an intense conversation while they were half naked and smelling of ginseng. "You want it to buzz in my ear?"
"And stop there."
"All right."
"Word is Angela Perkins is pulling up stakes — in Chicago and with CBC and Delacort."
"I haven't caught wind of that." Considering, Finn pushed the hair away from his face. Like any reporter, he hated getting news secondhand. Even if the news was only a rumor. "Look, it's contract time, right? She probably started the hum herself to get the brass to offer another truckload of money."
"No. Fact is, she's keeping it quiet. Real quiet. What I hear is that her agent's making negotiating noises, but they don't ring true. The leak came from Starmedia. If she leaves, Finn, it'll be a big hole."
"That's the entertainment division's problem." "Their problem's our problem. You know that."
"Fuck."
"Well said. I only mention it because I thought if you and Angela were still…"
"We're not." Finn frowned. "I'll see what I can find out when I get back."
"Appreciate it. Now, let's get some lunch. We'll talk about news magazines."
"I'm not doing a news magazine." It was an old argument, one they continued with perfect amiability as they trailed sheets into the locker room.
"Hawaii sounds perfect," Deanna said into the phone.
"I'm glad you think so. How about the second week in June?"
Pleased with the idea, Deanna poured a mug of coffee. She carried it and her portable phone to the table where she'd set up her laptop. "I'll put in for it. I haven't taken any time since I started at the station, so I don't think it'll be a problem."
"Why don't I stop by? We can talk about it, look at some brochures."
She closed her eyes, knowing she couldn't ignore the insistent blip on her computer screen. "I wish we could. I've got work. I had something come in at the last minute that held me up." She didn't mention the hour she'd spent punching up Angela's speech. "Pulling the anchor desk this weekend's really tied me up. How about brunch on Sunday?"
"Say about ten? I could meet you at the Drake. We can look over the brochures and decide on what suits us."
"Perfect. I'll be looking forward to it." "So will I."
"I'm sorry about tonight."
"Don't be. I've got some work myself. Good night, Deanna."
"Good night."
Marshall hung up. Mozart was playing on the stereo, a quiet fire was burning in the hearth and the scent of lemon oil and fragrant smoke hung in the air.
After polishing off his brandy, he walked up the stairs to his bedroom. There, with the sound of violins lilting through the recessed speakers, he stripped out of his tailored suit. Beneath, he wore silk.
It was a small affectation. He liked soft, expensive things. He liked, admittedly and without shame, women. His wife had often joked about it, he remembered, had even appreciated his admiration for the opposite sex.
Until, of course, she'd found him intimately admiring young Annie Gilby.
He winced at the memory of his wife arriving home a full day early from a business trip. The look on her face when she'd walked into the bedroom and discovered him making loud, boisterous love to Annie. It had been a horrible mistake. A tragic one. His argument, perfectly justified, that his wife's preoccupation with her career and her lack of occupation in their bedroom had made him easy game, had fallen on deaf ears.
It hadn't mattered to her that the girl had utterly and deliberately seduced him, had played on his weaknesses, his frustrations. There had been other women, yes. But they had been momentary diversions, discreet sexual releases when his wife was away or involved with her own decorating business. And not worth mentioning.
He would never have hurt Patricia, Marshall assured himself now as he chose dark slacks and a shirt. He had loved her completely, and he missed her miserably.
He was a man who needed to be married, who needed a woman to talk to, to share his life and home with. A bright, intelligent woman, like Patricia. True, he needed the stimulation of beauty. That wasn't a flaw. Patricia had been beautiful, and ambitious; she had a sense of style and taste that was faultless.
In short, she'd been perfect for him. Except for her inability to understand a few very human flaws.
When she had discovered them, she'd been unforgiving as stone. And he had lost her.
Though he still missed her, he understood life continued.
Now he had found someone else. Deanna was beautiful, ambitious, intelligent. She was as perfect a companion as he could want. And he wanted her — had wanted her since he had first seen her face on the television screen. Now she was more than an image, she was reality. He was going to be very careful with her.
Sexually, she was a bit repressed, but he could be patient. The idea of taking her away from Chicago, away from the pressures and distractions, had been brilliant. Once she was relaxed, secure, she would belong to him. Until that time he would harness his needs, his frustrations.
But he hoped it wouldn't be much longer.
Chapter Eight
"Maui," Fran said over a mouthful of cheeseburger. "For the weekend. That's so un-Deanna."
"Is it?" Deanna paused over her own meal and considered. "Maybe it is, and I'm going to enjoy every minute of it. We're getting a suite in a hotel right on the beach where the brochure says you can see whales. Binoculars," she said suddenly, and dug in her purse for a pad. "I need a good pair."