"Not one statement." Angela chuckled to herself and stretched on her stomach over the pink satin sheets of her big bed. The television was on, and newspapers and magazines littered the floor around her.

It was a beautiful room, majestic and museum-like with its curved and gilded antiques and fussy, feminine flounces. One of the maids had griped to a friend that she was surprised there wasn't a velvet rope across the door and a charge for admission.

There were mirrors on every wall, oval and square and oblong, reflecting both the taste she'd purchased and her own image.

The only colors other than the gold and wood tones were pink and white, a candy cane she could savor in long, greedy licks.

There were banks of roses, dewy fresh, so that she never had to breathe without drawing in the rich, satisfying scent she equated with success. At the head of the giltwood bed was a mountain of pillows, all slick silks and frothy lace. She tapped her pink-tipped toes against them, and gloated.

Near the bed was a fauteuil, where she had carelessly tossed one of her many negligees.

Once, long ago, she had envied others their beautiful possessions. She had, as a child, as a young woman, stared through shop windows and wished. Now she owned, or could own, whatever she desired.

Whomever.

Naked, his subtle muscles gleaming, Dan Gardner straddled her hips and rubbed fragrant oil into her back and shoulders.

"It's been over a week," she reminded him, "and she hasn't made a peep."

"Do you want me to contact Jamie Thomas?" "Hmmm." Angela stretched luxuriously under his hands. She was feeling pampered and victorious. And calm, beautifully calm. "Go ahead, and tell him to keep talking to reporters, maybe expand on the story a bit. Remind him that if he doesn't make enough trouble for our little Dee, we'll have to leak the story about his love affair with China White."

"That should do it." Dan admired the body under his as much, or nearly as much, as he admired Angela's mind. "If it comes out he's earmarking business funds for cocaine, his career will bottom out. Even if it is in Daddy's firm."

"Remind him of that if he balks. Rich boy's going to pay," she murmured. She would have hated him for being born into wealth and privilege and squandering it all on a weakness like drugs. But the pathetic way he'd folded after her first threat made her despise him.

"Oh, and send a case of Dom Perignon to Beeker." Angela examined her nails, scowling at a minute flaw in the candy-pink polish. "He did a good job. But keep him on the case. If we find enough of the dirt our little Dee's brushed under the rug, we can bury her in it."

"I love your mind, Angela." And aroused by it, he bit her sharply on the shoulder. "It's so beautifully twisted."

"I don't give a damn what you think of my mind." With a low chuckle, she levered herself so that he could slip his oil-slicked hands over her breasts. "And in this case it's focused straight and true. However it happened, she's sneaking up in the ratings. I'm not going to allow that, Dan, not after she betrayed my friendship. So you just keep—" She scrambled suddenly to her knees, letting out a howl of protest as a clip of Deanna and Finn rolled over the screen.

"In other entertainment news," the announcer continued, "talk-show star Deanna Reynolds accompanied CBC foreign correspondent Finn Riley to a National Press Club banquet in Chicago, where Riley was honored for his work during the Gulf War. The inside word is that Riley, America's Desert Hunk, is considering an offer to head a weekly news magazine for CBC. Riley had no comment about the project, or his personal relationship with Chicago's darling Deanna."

"No!" Angela exploded from the bed, a compact, golden missile detonating. "I took her in. I offered her opportunities, gave her my affection. And she moves in on me."

She stalked naked to an open bottle of champagne and poured lavishly. There were tears, as genuine and as painful as her bitterness, stinging her eyes.

"And that son of a bitch turned on me, too." In one violent gesture, she tossed the sparkling wine back. Its heat burst into her stomach like love. "He turned on me, and he turned to her. To her. Because she's younger." Enraged, and suddenly frightened when she saw the glass was empty, she hurled it toward the television. It slapped the corner of the cabinet and sliced delicately in two. "She's nothing. Less than nothing. A pretty face and a tight body. Anybody can have those. She won't keep Finn. He'll shake her off, and so will the viewers." She dashed the tears aside with a vicious hand, but her mouth continued to tremble. "They'll want me. They always want me."

"She can't come close to you, Angela." Dan approached her slowly, making sure his eyes were filled with understanding and desire. "You're the best there is. In public." Gently, he turned her so that they faced the full-length mirror. "In private," he murmured, watching her watching his hands caress. "You're so beautiful. She's built like a boy, but you… You're a woman."

Desperate for reassurance, she clasped her hands over his, tightening her grip until he squeezed her breasts painfully. "I need to be wanted, Dan. I need to know people want me. I can't survive without that."

"They do. I do." He was used to her outbursts, accustomed to her neediness. And he knew how to use both to his advantage. "When I see you on the set, so cool, so controlled, you dazzle me." He slipped his hand between her thighs, patiently stroking until she was damp, until she quivered. Until he did. "And I can hardly wait until I can get you alone, like this."

Her breath grew shallow, but her vision was clear, focused hard on the glass as his busy hands worked over her. The flavor of champagne was still on her tongue, making her yearn for more. Crave more. She swallowed it and concentrated on what she saw in the glass.

"You'd do anything for me."

"Anything."

"And to me."

He laughed. He knew where the power was. The more she needed, the more she plotted, the more she placed in his hands. And the truth was, sex with Angela was like a dark, violent ride into an irresistible hell.

"What do you want me to do, Angela?" "Take me here, right here, so I can watch."

He laughed again. She was quivering like a bitch in heat, her eyes riveted on her own body. Her vanity, the pathetic insecurity of it, was one more hold he had on her. But when he started to shift, she shoved him back.

"No." She could barely breathe now. Her full white breasts still carried the angry red marks from his hands. She wanted them there, wanted them as proof that she was desired. "From behind. Like an animal."

His mouth watered at the image. His erection ached like a wound. Desperate to take, he shoved her roughly to her knees. Eyes feral, teeth bared, she watched him crouch over her. He jerked her head back by the hair, hissing when she growled low in her throat.

"I won't stop. Even if you beg."

"Fuck me." Her smile glinted like a sword already bloodied. "And when you're done, we're going to find a new way to make her pay."

"Watch." He held her head still with one hand. "I want you to watch."

He drove himself into her viciously, the blood all but bursting in his veins when she cried out in pain and shock and greedy pleasure. His fingers dug hard into her hips while he rammed inside her again and again until the sweat ran off both of them like rain, and his vision dimmed.

But hers stayed clear. She saw the blood on her lip where her teeth had dug in, the sheen of sweat and tears on her face. And as the horrible, loveless orgasm slammed through the agony and need, Dan's face dissolved into Finn's. And she smiled as he cried out her name and shuddered, shuddered, shuddered.

She was wanted. She was desired. She was the best.


"Deanna, are you sure you want to do this?" Fran nibbled on her thumbnail, a habit she'd broken years before, as she stood beside Deanna's desk.

"Absolutely sure." She continued to sign the outgoing mail. Her signature was quick and neat and automatic. "It's a show I want to do. How many carts did we get back?"

Fran frowned down at the forms in her hand, the carts they passed to the audience after each program. These had been typed simply: Do you know of anyone who has experienced date rape? Is this a topic you would be willing to discuss on Deanna's Hour?

There was room for comments, for names and phone numbers. Out of the two hundred carts Fran had surveyed, she had chosen only two.

"These are the ones I thought you should see." Reluctantly, Fran laid them on the desk. "It's going to be painful for you, Deanna."

"I can handle it."

She skimmed the first cart, then went back and read each word again.

He said I asked for it. I didn't. He said it was my own fault. I'm not sure. I'd like to try to talk about it, but I don't know if I can.

Setting the cart aside, she reached for the second.

It was my first date after my divorce. It was three years ago, and I haven't been with a man since. I'm still afraid, but I trust you.

"Two women," Deanna murmured. Yes, it was painful. There was a tight, angry fist lodged in her chest. "Right out of the studio audience. How many more, Fran? How many more are out there wondering if it was their fault? How many more are afraid?"

"I can't stand to see you hurt this way. You know if you do this, you're going to have to bring up Jamie Thomas."

"I know that. I've already run it by Legal." "And if he sues?"