She personally oversaw every detail of her set design, pored over press clippings for program ideas and spent hours reviewing responses to the ads for topic guests.

It left little time for a social life. And it certainly provided a good excuse to avoid Finn. She'd meant what she'd said when she'd told him she didn't want to get involved. She couldn't afford to, she'd decided. Emotionally or professionally. How could she trust her own judgment when she'd been so willing to believe in Marshall?

But Finn Riley wasn't easily avoided. He dropped into her office, stopped by her apartment. Often he carried take-

out pizza or white cartons filled with Chinese food. It was hard to argue with his casual comment that she had to eat sometime. In a weak moment, she agreed to go out to the movies with him. And found herself just as charmed, and just as uneasy, as before.

"Loren Bach on one," Cassie told her. It was still shy of nine o'clock, but Deanna was already at her desk. "Good morning, Loren."

"Countdown, five days," he said cheerfully. "How are you holding up?"

"By my knuckles. The publicity's generated a lot of local interest. I don't think we'll have any problem filling the studio."

"You're getting some interest on the East Coast as well. There's a nice juicy article in the National Enquirer about the "All About Eve" of talk shows. Guess who's playing Margo Channing?"

"Oh hell. How bad is it?" "I'll fax you the article. They spelled your name right, Eve — ah, Deanna." He chuckled, tickled with his own humor. "From one who knows our heroine well, I can tell you she leaked this little tidbit. Makes it sound as though she all but picked you up out of the street, played big sister and mentor, then was stabbed in the back for her generosity."

"At least they didn't claim I'd been dropped from a spaceship into her front yard."

"Maybe next time. In the meantime, you got some national press. And whether she knows it or not, linked your name with hers in such a way that'll make people curious. I think we can get some play out of this. A tag in Entertainment Weekly, maybe another squib in Variety."

"Great. I guess."

"Deanna, you can buck the tabloids when you've built the muscle. For now, just consider it free press."

"Courtesy of Angela."

"Word is she's negotiating a contract to write her autobiography. You might be worth a chapter."

"Now I'm excited." Her chair squeaked as she leaned back, reminding her she'd forgotten to oil the springs. That made her lean forward again and add the chore to her growing list on the corner of her desk. "I hope you don't mind if I just concentrate on pulling off the first show. I'll worry about repaying Angela for her generosity later."

"Deanna, you make the show work, that'll be payment enough. Now, let's talk business."

Twenty minutes later, with a headache just beginning to brew behind her eyes, she hung up. What had ever made her think she was good with details? Deanna wondered. What had ever made her think she wanted the responsibility of helming a talk show?

"Deanna?" Cassie entered with a tray. "I thought you'd like some coffee."

"You read my mind." Deanna set aside papers to make room for the pot. "Do you have time for any? We might want to tank up before the rest of the day's schedule hits."

"I brought two cups." She poured both before she took a chair. "Do you want to go over your agenda for today?"

"I don't think so." The first sip of hot black coffee punched its caffeine-laced fist straight into her bloodstream. "It's engraved on my forehead. Have we set up a lunch for the baseball wives after the show?"

"Simon and Fran will play host. Reservations are confirmed. And Jeff thought it might be nice to have roses in the green room when they arrive. I wanted to run it by you."

"Good old Jeff. Very classy idea.

Let's put cards on each bunch with a personal thank-you from the staff." After another sip, she pressed a hand to her jittery stomach. "Christ, Cassie, I'm scared to death." Setting the cup aside, she took a deep, calming breath and leaned forward. "I want to ask you something, and I really want you to be brutally honest, okay? No sparing feelings, no false pep talk."

"All right." Cassie laid her steno pad on her lap. "Shoot."

"You worked for Angela a long time. You probably know as much about the ins and outs of this sort of a show as any producer or director. I imagine you have an opinion of why Angela's works. And I want to know, candidly, if you believe we have a shot at this."

"You want to know if we can make Deanna's Hour competitive?"

"Not even that," Deanna said, shaking her head. "If we can get through the first half a dozen shows without being laughed out of the business."

"That's easy. After next week, people are going to do a lot of talking about Deanna's Hour. And more people are going to tune in to see what the deal is. They're going to like it, because they're going to like you." She chuckled at Deanna's expression. "That's not sucking up. The thing is, the average viewer won't see or appreciate the work that's gone into making it all look good and run smoothly. They won't know about the long hours or the sweat. But you know, so you'll work harder. The harder you work, the harder everyone else will. Because you do something Angela didn't. Something I guess she just couldn't. You make us feel important. That makes all the difference. Maybe it won't put you on top of the ratings heap right away, but it puts you on top with us. That counts."

"It counts a lot," Deanna said after a moment. "Thanks."

"In a couple of months, when the show's cruising and the budget opens up, I'm going to come back in here. That's when I'm going to suck up." She grinned. "And hit you for a raise."

"If the damn budget ever opens up, everyone's getting a raise." Deanna blew at her bangs. "In the meantime, I need to see the tapes on the promos for the affiliates."

"You need a promotion manager." "And a unit manager, and a publicity director, a permanent director and a few production assistants. Until that happy day, I'm wearing those hats, too. Have the newspapers come in yet?"

"I passed them on to Margaret. She's going to screen them for ideas and make clippings."

"Fine. Try to get me the clippings before lunch. We're going to want something really hot for the second week in September. Bach just told me we'll be going up against a new game show in three cities during fall premiere week."

"Will do — oh, and your three o'clock with Captain Queeg is rescheduled for three-thirty."

"Captain — oh, Ryce." Not bothering to hide the smile, Deanna noted it down on her calendar. "I know he's a little eccentric, Cassie."

"And overbearing."

"And overbearing," Deanna agreed. "But he's a good director. We're lucky to have him for the few opening weeks."

"If you say so." She started out, then hesitated and turned back. "Deanna, I didn't know if I should mention it, then I figured it wouldn't be right to start censoring your calls."

"What?"

"Dr. Pike. He called when you were on with Mr. Bach."

Thoughtfully, Deanna set aside her pen. "If he calls back, put him through. I'll take care of it."

"Okay. Oops." She grinned and stepped back to avoid running into Finn. "'Morning, Mr. Riley."

"Hey, Cassie. I need a minute with the boss."

"She's all yours." Cassie closed the door behind her.

"Finn, I'm sorry, I'm swamped." But she wasn't quite quick enough to avoid the kiss when he skirted the desk. She wasn't sure she wanted to.

"I know, I've only got a minute myself." "What is it?" She could see the excitement in his eyes, feel it in the air sparking around him. "It's big."

"I'm on my way to the airport. Iraq just invaded Kuwait."

"What?" Her reporter's adrenaline made her spring up. "Oh, Jesus."

"Blitzkrieg style. An armored thrust, helicopter-supported. I have a couple of contacts at Green Ramp in North Carolina, a couple of guys I got to know during the fighting at Tocumen airfield in Panama a few months ago. Odds are we'll go with diplomatic and economic pressure first, but there's a damn good chance we'll deploy troops. If my instincts are worth anything, it's going to be big."

"There are blowups over there all the time." Weakly she sat on the arm of her chair.

"It's land, Kansas. And it's oil, and it's honor." He lifted her to her feet, caught her hair in his hand to draw it away from her face. He wanted — needed, he admitted — a long look at her. A good long look. "I may be gone for a while, especially if we send troops."

She was pale, struggling to be calm. "They think he has nuclear capabilities, don't they? And certainly access to chemical weapons."

Dimples flashed recklessly. "Worried about me?"

"I was just wondering if you were taking a gas mask as well as a camera crew." Feeling foolish, she stepped back. "I'll watch for your reports."

"Do that. I'm sorry I'll miss your premiere."

"That's okay." She managed a smile. "I'll send you a tape."

"You know." He toyed with a strand of her hair. "Technically, I'm going off to war. The old "I'm shipping out, babe, and who knows what tomorrow might bring."" He smiled into her dark, serious eyes. "I don't suppose I could convince you to lock that door over there and give me a memorable send-off." She was afraid he could. "I don't fall for tired old lines. Besides, everyone knows Finn Riley always brings back the story alive."