"Right. If I'm going to bomb, I might as well look my best doing it."

Deanna's dressing room was the size of a closet, but it boasted a sink, a john and a mirror. She grinned when she saw the big gold star Fran had taped to the door.

Maybe it was just a symbol, she mused as she ran a fingertip over the foil, but it was her symbol. Now she was going to have to earn it.

Even if everything fell apart, she'd have three weeks' worth of incredible memories. The rush and thrill of putting the show together, the fascination and strain of handling all the details. And the knowledge, the absolute certainty that this was exactly what she wanted to do with her life. Added to that, astoundingly, was the fact that so many people believed she could.

There had been tips from the floor director at CBC, advice from Benny and several others on the production end. Joe had agreed to head up the camera crew and had persuaded a few of his pals to help with the sound and lighting end. Jeff Hyatt had arranged for editing and graphics.

Now she would either earn their faith in her — or blow it.

She was fastening on an earring and giving herself a final pep talk when the knock sounded on the door.

"Don't tell me," she called out. "The eggplant won't do either, and we have to dash back for tomato."

"Sorry." Finn pushed open the door. "I didn't bring any food."

"Oh." She dropped the back of her earring and swore. "I thought you were in Moscow."

"I was." He leaned against the jamb as she retrieved the little gold clasp. "And look what happens when I go away for a couple of weeks. You're the top story in the newsroom gossip pool." "Great." Her stomach sank as she fought the earring into place. "I must have been out of my mind to start this."

"I imagine you were thinking clearly." She looked fabulous, he realized. Nervous, but revved and ready. "You saw an open door and decided you could walk through first."

"It feels like an open window. On the top floor."

"Just land on your feet. So what's your topic?"

"It's a fashion show, with audience participation."

His grin broke out, dimples winking. "A fashion show? That kind of fluff, with your news background?"

"This isn't news." She elbowed past him. "It's entertainment. I hope. Don't you have a war to cover or something?"

"Not at the moment. I figured I'd stick around awhile. Then I could head back to the newsroom with the scoop. Tell me." He put a hand on her shoulder to slow her down. "Are you doing this for yourself, or to irritate Angela?"

"Both." She pressed a fist to her stomach to try to quiet it. "But for me first."

"Okay." He could feel the energy, and the nerves vibrating against his palm. He wondered what it would be like to tap it, when they were alone. "And what's the next step?"

She sent him a sidelong look, hesitated. "Off the record?"

"Off the record," he agreed.

"A meeting with Barlow James. And if I manage to get his endorsement, I'm going to Bach."

"So, you don't intend to pitch in the minors." "Not for long." She let out a long breath. "A minute ago I was sure I was going to be sick." She tossed her hair back. "Now I feel great. Really great."

"Dee!" Holding her headset in place, Fran rushed down the narrow corridor. "We've got a full house." She snatched Deanna's hand and squeezed. "Every seat. The three women we picked out from the Cook County Historical Society are psyched. They can't wait to start."

"Then let's not."

"Okay." Fran looked sick. "Okay," she said again. "We can go whenever you're ready."

She left the warm-up to Fran, standing just off set and listening to the laughter and applause. The nerves were gone. In their place was a burst of energy so huge she could barely hold still. Pushed by it, she made her entrance, settled into her chair under the lights, in front of the camera.

The theme music, compliments of Vinnie, Richard's nephew and an aspiring musician, danced out. Off camera, Fran signaled for applause. The red light shone steadily.

"Good morning, I'm Deanna Reynolds."

She knew there was chaos off set — the scrambling wardrobe changes, the barking of orders, the inevitable glitches. But she felt completely in control, chatting amiably with the perky, detestable Karyn, then roaming the audience for comments as the models strutted their stuff.

She could almost forget it was a career move instead of a lark as she giggled with an audience member over a pair of polka-dot micro shorts.

She looked like a woman entertaining friends, Finn mused as he loitered at the back of the studio. It was an interesting angle, because it wasn't an angle at all. As a hard newsman with a natural disdain for fluff, he couldn't say he was particularly interested in the topic. But his tastes aside, the audience was enchanted. They cheered and applauded, let out the occasional "ooh" and "aah," then balanced it with cheerful groans over an outfit that didn't hit the mark.

Most of all, they related to Deanna. And she to them, in the way she slipped an arm around an audience member, made eye contact or stepped back to let her guests take the spotlight.

She'd walked through the door, he decided, and smiled to himself. He slipped out thinking it wouldn't hurt to put in a call to Barlow James, and hold that door open a little wider.


Angela swept through the lofty living room of her new penthouse apartment. Her heels clicked over parquet floors, muffled on carpet, clicked over tile as she stalked from airy window seat to gleaming breakfront. As she paced, she smoked in quick, ragged jerks, struggling with temper, fighting for control.

"All right, Lew." Calmer, she stopped beside a pedestal table, stabbing out the cigarette in a crystal ashtray and tainting the scent of roses with smoke. "Tell me why you think I'd be interested in some little homemade tape of a second-rate newsreader?"

Lew shifted uncomfortably on the velvet settee. "I thought you'd want to know." He heard the whine in his own voice and lowered his eyes. He detested what he was doing: crawling, belly-rolling for scraps. But he had two kids in college, a high-dollar mortgage and the threat of unemployment urging him on. "She rented a studio, hired techs, called in favors. She got some time off from the newsroom and put together a fifty-minute show, plus an audition tape of some of her old stuff." Lew tried to ignore the ulcer burning in his gut. "I hear it's pretty good."

"Pretty good?" Angela's sneer was as sharp as a scalpel. "Why would I have any interest in "pretty good"? Why would anyone? Amateurs try to push their way into the market all the time. They don't worry me."

"I know — I mean there's talk around the job how the two of you had words."

"Oh?" She smiled frostily. "Did you fly all the way from Chicago to feed me the latest CBC gossip, Lew? Not that I don't appreciate it, but it seems a little extreme."

"I figured…" He took a steadying breath, ran a hand through his thinning hair. "I know you offered Deanna my job, Angela."

"Really? Did she tell you that?"

"No." Whatever pride he had left surfaced. He met her eyes squarely. "But it leaked. Just like it leaked that she turned you down." He saw the familiar flash in her eyes. "And I know," he hurried on, "after working with you for so many years, I know you wouldn't like to see her benefit from your generosity."

"How could she?"

"By turning it into a matter of loyalty to the station. By soliciting Barlow James."

He had her interest now. To conceal it, she turned, flipping open an enamel box and taking out a cigarette. Her eyes flicked over toward the bar, where champagne was always chilling. Frightened by the depth of longing for one small swallow, she moistened her lips and looked away again. "Why should Barlow get involved?"

"He likes her work. He's made a point of calling the station a few times to say so. And when he came to visit the Chicago bureau last week, he made time for a meeting with her."

Angela snapped on her lighter.

"Word is he took a look at the tape. He liked it."

"So he wants to flatter one of his young female reporters?" Angela tossed her head back, but her throat tightened against the smoke. Just one swallow, she thought. One cool, frothy sip.

"She sent the tape to Loren Bach." Very slowly, Angela lowered the cigarette and left it to smolder in the ashtray. "Why, that little bitch," she said softly. "Does she really think she can begin to compete with me?"

"I don't know if she's aiming that high. Yet." He let that idea simmer. "I do know that some of the Midwest affiliates are concerned about the cost of your new show. They might be willing to plug into something cheaper, and closer to home."

"Then let them. I'll bury whatever they put up against me." Giving a bark of a laugh, she strode over to survey her view of New York. She had everything she'd wanted. Needed. At last, at long last, she was the queen overlooking her subjects from her high, impregnable tower. No one could touch her now. Certainly not Deanna. "I'm on top here, Lew, and I'm damn well going to stay there. Whatever it takes."

"I can use my connections, find out what Loren Bach decides."

"That's fine, Lew," she murmured, staring over the tops of the trees of Central Park. "You do that."

"But I want my job back." His voice quavered with emotion, with self-disgust. "I'm fifty-four years old, Angela. At my age, and the way things are out there right now, I can't afford to be sending out resumes. I want a firm, two-year contract. By that time both my kids'll be out of college. I can sell the house in Chicago. Barbara and I can buy a smaller one out here. We don't need the room now. I just need a couple of years to make sure I have something to fall back on. That's not too much to ask." "You've certainly thought this through." Angela sat on the window seat, lifting her arms and laying them atop the flowered cushion. Her throat had opened again, all on its own. That pleased her. She didn't need a drink when she had the taste of power.