She thought he trembled, but could no longer find the will to soothe.
"Deanna." Desperately, he took his mouth over her face, along her throat, where her pulse beat like wings. "Again."
His lips crushed down on hers again, absorbing the flavor, the warmth. Shaken, he drew back just enough to rest his brow against hers, to hold her another moment where he felt so oddly centered, so curiously right.
"Goddamn," he whispered. "I'm going to miss you."
"This wasn't supposed to happen."
"Too late." He lifted his head, brushed his lips over her forehead. "I'll call when I can." As soon as he'd said it, Finn realized he'd never made that promise before. It was the kind of unstated commitment that had him stepping back, tucking his hands safely in his pockets. "Good luck next week."
"Thanks." She took a step back herself so that they took each other's measure like two boxers after a blood-pumping round in the ring. "I know it's a useless thing to say, but be careful."
"I'll be good." His grin was quick and reckless. "That's more important." He walked to the door, then stopped, his hand on the knob. "Listen, Deanna, if that asshole shrink does happen to call back—"
"You were eavesdropping."
"Of course I was, I'm a reporter. Anyway, if he does call back, brush him off, will you? I don't want to have to kill him."
She smiled, but the smile faded quickly. Something in Finn's eyes told her he was serious. "That's a ridiculous thing to say. It happens that I'm not interested in Marshall, but—"
"Lucky for him." He touched a finger to his brow in salute. "Stay tuned, Kansas. I'll be back."
"Arrogant idiot," Deanna muttered. When her eyes began to sting, she turned to stare out at Chicago. There might be a war on the other side of the world, she thought as the first tear spilled over. And a show to produce right here.
So what in the hell was she doing falling in love?
"Okay, Dee, we're nearly ready for you." Fran scooted back into the dressing room. "The studio audience is all in."
"Great." Deanna continued to stare blindly at the mirror as Marcie put the finishing touches on her hair. "Just great."
"They're wearing Cubs hats and White Sox T-shirts. Some people even brought banners, and they're waving them around. I'm telling you, they're revved."
"Great. Just great."
Smiling to herself, Fran glanced down at her clipboard. "All six of the wives are in the green room. They're really chummy. Simon's in there now, going over the setup with them."
"I went in to introduce myself to them earlier." Her voice was a monotone. She could feel the nausea building like a tidal wave. "Oh God, Fran, I really think I'm going to be sick."
"No, you're not. You don't have time. Marcie, her hair looks fabulous. Maybe you can give me some tips on mine later. Come on, champ." Fran gave Deanna a tug that brought her out of the chair. "You need to go out and give the audience a pep talk, get them on your side."
"I should have worn the navy suit," Deanna said as Fran dragged her along. "The orange and kiwi is too much."
"It's gorgeous — and it's bright and young. Just the right combo. You look hip, but not trendy, friendly but not homespun. Now look." Making a little island of intimacy in the midst of backstage chaos, Fran took Deanna by the shoulders. "This is what we've all been slaving for over the last couple of months — what you've been aiming toward for years. Now go out there and make them love you."
"I keep thinking about all this stuff. What if a fight breaks out? You know how rabid Sox and Cubs fans can be. What if I run out of questions? Or can't control the crowd? What if someone asks why the hell I'm doing a silly show about baseball when we're sending troops to the Middle East?"
"Number one, nobody's going to fight because they're going to be having too much fun. Number two, you never run out of questions, and you can control any crowd. And finally, you're doing this show on baseball because people need to be entertained, especially during times like these. Now pull it together, Reynolds, and go do your job."
"Right." She took a deep breath. "You're sure I look okay?"
"G."
"I'm going."
"Deanna."
She turned, surprised, then infuriated to see Marshall standing an arm's length behind her. Fran's snarl had her stepping forward. "What are you doing here?"
His smile was easy, though his eyes held regret. "I wanted to wish you luck. In person." He held out a bouquet of candy pink roses. "I'm very proud of you."
She didn't reach for the flowers, but she kept her eyes level with his. "I'll accept the wish for luck. Your pride is your business. Now, I'm afraid only staff is allowed back here."
Very slowly, he lowered the flowers. "I didn't know you had it in you to be cruel."
"It seems we were misled. I have a show to do, Marshall, but I'll take a moment to tell you once again that I have no desire to resume any sort of relationship with you. Simon?" She called out without taking her eyes from Marshall's. "Show Dr. Pike out, will you? He seems to have made a wrong turn."
"I know the way," he said between clenched teeth. He let the roses fall to the floor, reminding her how she had dropped a similar bouquet. The scent of them turned her stomach. "I won't always be turned away so easily."
He stalked off with Simon nervously dogging his heels. Deanna allowed herself one long, calming breath.
"Creep," Fran muttered, lifting a hand automatically to soothe the tension in Deanna's shoulders. "Bastard. To come here like this right before a live show. Are you going to be all right?"
"I'm going to be fine." She shook off the fury. There was too much riding on the next hour for her to indulge herself. "I am fine." She headed out, taking the hand mike from Jeff as she passed.
Jeff smiled broadly as he watched her. "Break a leg, Deanna."
She straightened her shoulders. "Hell, I'm going to break two." She stepped onto the set, smiled at the sea of faces. "Hi, everyone, thanks for coming. I'm Deanna. In about five minutes we're going to get this show rolling. I hope you're going to help me out. It's my first day on the job."
"Put in the damn tape." In her towering New York office, Angela stubbed out one cigarette and immediately lit another.
"I went out on a limb to get a copy of this," Lew told her as he slipped the tape into the VCR.
"You told me, you told me." And she was sick of hearing it. Sick, too, with fear of what she might see on the monitor in the next few minutes. "Cue it up, damn it."
He hit the Play button and stepped back. Eyes narrowed, Angela listened to the intro music. Too close to rock, she decided with a smirk. The average viewer wouldn't like it. The pan of the audience — people in baseball caps, applauding and waving banners. Middle-class, she decided, and leaned back comfortably.
It was going to be all right after all, she assured herself.
"Welcome to Deanna's Hour." The camera did a close-up of Deanna's face. The slow, warm smile, the hint of nerves in the eyes. "Our guests today, here in Chicago, are six women who know all there is to know about baseball — and not just about squeeze plays and Texas Leaguers."
She's jittery, Angela thought, pleased. She'd be lucky to make it through to commercial. Anticipating the humiliation, Angela allowed herself to feel sorry for Deanna. After all, she thought with a soft, sympathetic sigh, who knew better than she what it was like to face that merciless glass eye?
She'd taken on too much, too soon, Angela realized. It would be a hard lesson, but a good one. And when she failed, as she certainly would, and came knocking on the door looking for help, Angela decided she would be gracious enough, forgiving enough to give her a second chance.