"You've got a passport, don't you?" "Sure. I even renewed it recently, a habit from my reporting days, when I nursed the vague hope of copping some exciting foreign assignment."

"So, I'll be your exciting foreign assignment."

"If I could clear my schedule… I will clear my schedule." She twisted around to throw her arms around him.

"Where are you going?" he demanded, tightening his grip when she started to wriggle away.

"I have to make a list. I have to get a Berlitz tape and a guidebook, and—"

"Later." He laughed his way into the kiss. "God, you're predictable, Kansas. Whatever I toss at you, you make a list."

"I'm organized." She thumped a fist against his chest. "That doesn't mean I'm predictable."

"You can write up six lists later. I haven't told you about my meeting with Barlow."

But she wasn't listening. She'd need one of those mini video recorders, she decided. Like Cassie had. And a phrase book. "What?" She blinked when Finn tugged on her hair. "The meeting with Barlow," she said, tucking her mental list aside. "You just said he was sending you to Paris."

"That's not what the meeting was about. It was a continuation of discussions we've been having on and off for about a year."

"The news magazine." She grinned. "He won't give up, will he?"

"I'm going to do it."

"I think it's — you're what!" She jerked upright again. "You're going to do it?"

He'd expected her to be surprised. Now he was hoping she'd be pleased. "It's taken us a while to agree on terms and format."

"But I didn't think you were interested at all. You like being able to plug into any story that comes along. Toss your garment bag over your shoulder, pick up your laptop and go."

"The paladin of newscasters." He toyed with her earring. "I'd still do that, to an extent. When something breaks, I'd go, but I'd be covering it for the show. We'd do remotes whenever they were called for, but we'd base here in Chicago." That had been a sticking point, since Barlow had wanted him in New York. "I'd be able to take a story and explore all the angles instead of fitting it into a three-minute piece on the news. And I'd spend more time here. With you." "I don't want you to do this for me." She got to her feet quickly. "I won't deny that it's hard for me to say goodbye so often, but—"

"You've never said so."

"It wouldn't have been fair. God, Finn." She dragged both hands through her hair. "What could I have said? Don't go. I know there are world-altering events taking place, but I'd rather you stay home with me?"

He rose as well, brushed a knuckle down her cheek. "It wouldn't have hurt my ego to hear it."

His quiet words shivered through her. "It wouldn't have been fair to either of us. And you changing the thrust of your career because of me won't be fair either."

"I'm not just doing this for you. I'm doing it for myself, too."

"You said you didn't want to put down roots." She was distressed, because she realized she was near tears. She wouldn't have been able to explain them to him, or to herself. "I remember that. Finn, we're professionals, and we both understand the demands of the career. I don't want to make you feel pressured."

"You don't get it, do you?" His impatience was back. "There's nothing I wouldn't do for you, Deanna. Things have changed for me in this past year. It's not as easy for me to pick up and go. It's not a snap for me to fall asleep in some hotel halfway around the world. I miss you."

"I miss you too," she said. "Does that make you happy?"

"Damn straight it does." He eased her forward, kissed her softly, gently, until her mouth grew greedy and hot under his. "I want you to miss me. I want it to kill you every time I go away. And I want you to feel as baffled and uncomfortable and as frustrated as I am with this whole mess we've gotten ourselves into."

"Well, I do, so that's just fine for both of us."

"Fine and dandy." He released her. If she wanted to fight with reason, he'd give her plenty of it. Objective words were, after all, his stock-in-trade. "I'll still have to go. I'll have more control over where and when, but I'll have to go. And I want you to suffer whenever I do."

"You," she said precisely, "can go to hell." "Not without you." He caught her face in his hand, holding tight when she would have jerked away. "Goddamn it, Deanna. I love you."

When his hand went limp, she stepped back on shaky legs. Her eyes were huge and fixed on his face. It took her a moment before she could breathe again. Another moment before she could form coherent words. "You've never said that before."

Her reaction wasn't precisely what he'd hoped for. Then again, he had to admit that his declaration hadn't been exactly polished. "I'm saying it now. You have a problem with it?"

"Do you?"

"I asked you first."

She only shook her head. "I don't suppose I do. It makes it kind of handy, because I love you too." She let out a quick, catchy sigh. "I didn't realize how much I needed the words."

"You're not the only one who has to take things in stages." He reached out, touched her cheek. "Pretty scary, huh?"

"Yeah." She took his wrist, held tight while the first flood of pleasure poured through her. "I don't mind being scared. In fact, I like it, so if you'd like to tell me again, it's okay."

"I love you." He scooped her up, making her laugh as they tumbled onto the couch. "You'd better hold on to me," he warned her, and tugged her sweater over her head. "I'm about to scare you to death."

Chapter Eighteen

In Depth with Finn Riley premiered in January, a mid-season replacement for a disastrous hospital drama. The network had high hopes that a weekly news magazine featuring a recognizable face could drag the time slot out of the ratings basement. Finn had experience and credibility, and most important, he was wildly popular with women, particularly in the coveted eighteen-to-forty category.

CBC ushered the show onto the air with plenty of hype. Promos were run, ads were designed, theme music was composed. By the time the set, with its three-dimensional world map and sleek glass counter, was constructed, Finn and the three reporters on his team were already hard at work.

His vision of the project was much simpler than jazzy promotion spots or expensive props. He was, as he told Deanna, doing something he'd always fantasized about. He was coming in as relief pitcher after the seventh-inning stretch. All he had to do was throw strikes.

With his first program, he managed to strike out the competition with a thirty-percent share. Around water coolers the next morning, Americans chatted about the U.s. chances for Olympic gold, and Finn Riley's cagey interview with Boris Yeltsin.

In the spirit of friendly competition, Deanna scheduled a program featuring Rob Winters, a veteran film actor whose directorial debut was winning critical and popular acclaim.

Charming, handsome and cozily at home in front of the camera, Rob kept both the studio and viewing audiences entertained. His final anecdote, involving the filming of a steamy love scene and an unexpected invasion of sea gulls, closed the show with a roar of laughter.

"I can't thank you enough for doing the show." Deanna clasped his hand warmly after he'd finished signing autographs for lingering members of the audience.

"I nearly didn't." While security ushered the last of the audience from the studio, he studied Deanna carefully. "To be frank, the only reason I agreed to come on was because I was pressured not to." He flashed his famous grin. "That's why I have a reputation for being difficult."

"I'm not sure I understand. Your agent advised you against doing this?"

"Among others." Deanna studied him, confused. "Got a minute?" he asked.

"Of course. Would you like to go upstairs to my office?"

"Fine. I could use a drink." His quick smile was back. "You'd last about twenty minutes in Hollywood with eyes like that." He put a friendly hand on her arm as they walked on set toward the elevator. "If you let enough people see what you're thinking, you'll be gobbled up and swallowed whole."

Deanna stepped inside the elevator, pushed the button for the sixteenth floor. "And what am I thinking?"

"That it's barely ten o'clock in the morning and I'm going to start knocking back doubles." His grin was as fast and potent as a jigger of whiskey. "You're thinking I should have stayed at Betty Ford a little longer."

"You did tell me during the show that you didn't drink any longer."

"I don't — alcohol. My newest addiction is Diet Pepsi with a twist of lime. A little embarrassing, but I'm man enough to handle it."

"Deanna—" Cassie turned from her workstation. When she saw the man beside Deanna, her eyes popped wide open.

"Did you need me for something, Cassie?" "What?" She blinked, flushed, but didn't take her eyes off Rob's face. "No — no, it's nothing."

"Rob, this is Cassie, my secretary and sergeant at arms."

"Nice to meet you." Rob took her limp hand in both of his.

"I enjoy your work, Mr. Winters. We're all thrilled you could do the show today."

"My pleasure."

"Cassie, hold my calls, please. I'll fix you that drink," she told Rob as she led him into her office.

The room had changed considerably from the early days. The walls were painted a bold teal, and the carpet had been replaced by oak flooring and geometric rugs. The furniture was streamlined and built for comfort. Gesturing Rob to a chair, she opened a compact refrigerator.