confidence; she, a woman who had interviewed presidents, royalty, murderers and millionaires, succumbed, as she always did, to a vicious, violent attack of stage fright.

Hundreds of hours of therapy had done nothing to alleviate the shuddering, the sweating, the nausea. Helpless against it, she collapsed in her chair, drawing herself in. The mirror reflected her in triplicate, the polished woman, perfectly groomed, immaculately presented. Eyes glazed with the terror of self-discovery.

Angela pressed her hands to her temples and rode out the screaming roller coaster of fear. Today she would slip, and they would hear the backwoods of Arkansas in her voice. They would see the girl who had been unloved and unwanted by a mother who had preferred the flickering images on the pitted screen of the tiny Philco to her own flesh and blood. The girl who had wanted attention so badly, so desperately, she had imagined herself inside that television so that her mother would focus those vague, drunken eyes just once, and look at her.

They would see the girl in the secondhand clothes and ill-fitting shoes who had studied so hard to make average grades.

They would see that she was nothing, no one, a fraud who had bluffed her way into television the same way her father had bluffed his way into an inside straight.

And they would laugh at her.

Or worse, turn her off.

The knock on the door made her flinch. "We're set, Angela."

She took a deep breath, then another. "On my way." Her voice was perfectly normal. She was a master at pretense. For a few seconds longer, she stared at her reflection, watching the panic fade from her own eyes.

She wouldn't fail. She would never be laughed at. She would never be ignored again. And no one would see anything she didn't allow them to see. She rose, walked out of her dressing room, down the corridor.

She had yet to see her guest and continued past the green room without a blink. She never spoke to a guest before the tape was rolling. Her producer was warming up the studio audience. There was a hum of excitement from those fortunate enough to have secured tickets to the taping. Marcie, tottering in four-inch heels, rushed up for a last-minute check on hair and makeup. A researcher passed Angela a few more cards. Angela spoke to neither of them.

When she walked onstage, the hum burst open into a full-throttle cheer.

"Good morning." Angela took her chair and let the applause wash over her while she was miked. "I hope everyone's ready for a great show." She scanned the audience as she spoke and was pleased with the demographics. It was a good mix of age, sex and race — an important visual for the camera pans. "Anyone here a Deke Barrow fan?"

She laughed heartily at the next round of applause. "Me too," she said, though she detested country music in any form. "I'd say we're all in for a treat."

She nodded, settled back, legs crossed, hands folded over the arm of her chair. The red light on the camera blinked on. The intro music swung jazzily through the air.

""Lost Tms," "That Green-Eyed

Girl," "One Wild Heart." Those are just a few of the hits that made today's guest a legend. He's been a part of country-

music history for more than twenty-five years, and his current album, Lost in Nashville, is zooming up the charts. Please join me in welcoming, to Chicago, Deke Barrow."

The applause thundered out again as Deke strode out onstage. Barrel-chested, with graying temples peeking out from beneath his black felt Stetson, Deke grinned at the audience before accepting Angela's warm handshake. She stood back, letting him milk the moment by tipping his hat.

With every appearance of delight, she joined in the audience's standing ovation. By the end of the hour, she thought, Deke would stagger offstage. And he wouldn't even know what had hit him.


Angela waited until the second half of the show to strike. Like a good host, she had flattered her guest, listened attentively to his anecdotes, chuckled at his jokes. Now

Deke was basking in the admiration as Angela held the mike for excited fans as they stood to ask questions. She waited, canny as a cobra.

"Deke, I wondered if you're going by Danville, Kentucky, on your tour. That's my hometown," a blushing redhead asked.

"Well now, I can't say as we are. But we'll be in Louisville on the seventeenth of June. You be sure to tell your friends to come on by and see me."

"Your Lost in Nashville tour's going to keep you on the road for several months," Angela began. "That's rough on you, isn't it?"

"Rougher than it used to be," he answered with a wink. "I ain't twenty anymore." His broad, guitar-plucking hands lifted and spread. "But I gotta say I love it. Singing in a recording studio can't come close to what it's like to sing for people."

"And the tour's certainly been a success so far. There's no truth, then, to the rumor that you may have to cut it short because of your difficulties with the IRS?"

Deke's congenial grin slipped several notches. "No, ma'am. We'll finish it out."

"I feel safe in speaking for everyone here when I say you have our support in this. Tax evasion." She rolled her eyes in disbelief. "They make you sound like Also Capone."

"I really can't talk about it." Deke shuffled his booted feet, tugged at his bola tie. "But nobody's calling it tax evasion."

"Oh." She widened her eyes. "I'm sorry. What are they calling it?"

He shifted uncomfortably on his chair. "It's a disagreement on back taxes."

""Disagreement" is a mild word for it. I realize you can't really discuss this while the matter's under investigation, but I think it's an outrage. A man like you, who's brought pleasure to millions, for two generations, to be faced with potential financial ruin because his books weren't in perfect order."

"It's not as bad as all that—"

"But you've had to put your home in Nashville on the market." Her voice dripped sympathy. Her eyes gleamed with it. "I think the country you've celebrated in your music should show more compassion, more gratitude. Don't you?"

She hit the right button. "Seems like the tax man doesn't have much to do with the country I've been singing about for twenty-five years." Deke's mouth thinned, his eyes hardened like agates. "They look at dollar signs. They don't think about how hard a man's worked. How much he sweats to make something of himself. They just keep slicing at you till most of what's yours is theirs. They turn honest folk into liars and cheaters."

"You're not saying you cheated on your taxes, are you, Deke?" She smiled guilelessly when he froze. "We'll be back in a moment," she said to the camera, and waited until the red light blinked off. "I'm sure most of us here have been squeezed by the IRS, Deke." Turning her back on him, she held up her hands. "We're behind him, aren't we, audience?"

There was an explosion of applause and cheers that did nothing to erase the look of sickly shock from Deke's face.

"I can't talk about it," he managed. "Can I get some water?"

"We'll put the matter to rest, don't you worry. We'll have time for a few more questions." Angela turned to her audience again as an assistant rushed out with a glass of water for Deke. "I'm sure Deke would appreciate it if we avoided any more discussion on this sensitive subject. Let's be sure to give him plenty of applause when we get back from commercial, and give Deke some time to compose himself."

With this outpouring of support and empathy, she swung back toward the camera. "You're back with Angela's. We have time for just a couple more questions, but at Deke's request, we'll close the door on any discussion of his tax situation, as he isn't free to defend himself while the case is still pending."

And of course, when she closed the show moments later, that was exactly the subject on every viewer's mind.

Angela didn't linger among her audience, but joined Deke onstage. "Wonderful show." She took his limp hand in her firm grasp. "Thank you so much for coming. And the best of luck."

"Thank you." Shell-shocked, he began signing autographs until the assistant producer led him offstage.

"Get me a tape," Angela ordered as she strode back to her dressing room. "I want to see the last segment." She walked straight to her mirror and smiled at her own reflection.

Chapter Two

Deanna hated covering tragedies. Intellectually she knew it was her job as a journalist to report the news, and to interview those who had been wounded by it. She believed, unwaveringly, in the public's right to know. But emotionally, whenever she pointed a microphone toward grief she felt like the worst kind of voyeur.

"The quiet suburb of Wood Dale was the scene of sudden and violent tragedy this morning. Police suspect that a domestic dispute resulted in the shooting death of Lois Dossier, thirty-two, an elementary school teacher and Chicago native. Her husband, Dr. Charles Dossier, has been taken into custody. The couple's two children, ages five and seven, are in the care of their maternal grandparents. At shortly after eight A.m. this morning, this quiet, affluent home erupted with gunfire."

Deanna steadied herself as the camera panned the trim two-story dwelling behind her. She continued her report, staring straight at the lens, ignoring the crowd that gathered, the other news teams doing their stand-ups, the sweet spring breeze that carried the poignant scent of hyacinth.

Her voice was steady, suitably detached. But her eyes were filled with swirling emotion.