He felt like a man locked behind bars of velvet. The house was crowded with people, friends, coworkers, network brass, associates, all happily celebrating his return. The food was fabulous and exotic, the music low and bluesy. He wanted to escape.
He didn't mind being rude, but understood if he attempted to leave, Angela would create a scene that would reverberate from coast to coast. There were too many people in the business here for an altercation to go unreported. And he much preferred reporting news, rather than being reported on. With that in mind, he opted to tough it out, even with the inevitable messy showdown with her at the end of the interminable party.
At least the air was clear and fresh on the terrace. He was a man who could appreciate the scent of spring blossoms and newly cut grass, of mingling women's perfumes and spicy food. Perhaps he would have enjoyed being alone to absorb the night, but he'd learned to be flexible when there was no choice.
And he had the talent for listening and exchanging conversation while his mind wandered. For now he let it trail to his cabin, where he would sit by the fire with a book and a brandy, or hunch over his bait box making new lures. Alone. The fantasy of being alone kept him sane through discussions of ratings and programming.
"I tell you, Riley, if they don't beef up Tuesday nights, we're going to face another cutback in the news division. Makes me sick to think about it."
"I know what you mean. Nobody's forgotten the body count from two years ago." He spotted Deanna. "Excuse me a minute, there's something I have to do." He squeezed through the crowd on the terrace and slipped his arms around her. When she stiffened, he shook his head. "This isn't a come-on, it's a diversion."
"Oh?" Automatically, she matched her steps to his as he danced. "From what?"
"From a diatribe on network politics. Tuesday night's schedule."
"Ah." She ran her tongue around her teeth. "We're a little weak there, as I'm sure you know. Our lead-in for the late news is—"
"Shut up." He smiled at her when she laughed, and enjoyed the fact that they were eye to eye. "You're a long one, aren't you?"
"So I've been told. You know, of course, that as the guest of honor, you're required to mingle." "I hate rules."
"I live for them."
"Then consider this dance mingling. We'll even make small talk. I like your dress." It was true. The Adolfo gown's simple lines and bold red color were a welcome change from Angela's overly fussy pastels and lace.
"Thank you." Curiously she studied his face. She could almost see the pain rapping at his temples. "Headache?"
"No, thanks, I have one already." "Let me get you some aspirin."
"It's all right. It'll pass." He drew her closer, laid his cheek against hers. "Better already. Where are you from?"
"Topeka." She'd nearly sighed, nearly closed her eyes before she snapped back to attention. He was entirely too smooth, she decided, though the adjective seemed odd when she was pressed tight to a body that was tough as iron.
"Why Chicago?"
"My roommate from college settled here after she got married. She talked me into relocating. The position with CBC made the move easy."
She smelled fabulous, he mused. The scent of her hair and skin made him think of spiced wine and quiet smoke. He thought of his lake, dappled in starlight, and the musical call of crickets in high grass. "Do you like to fish?"
"Excuse me?"
"Fish. Do you like to fish?"
She drew back to look at his face. "I have no idea. What sort of fishing?"
He smiled. It wasn't just the puzzlement in her eyes that caused his lips to curve. It was the fact that she was so obviously considering his question as seriously as one on world politics.
"You made the right move, Kansas. Curiosity like that should take you right to the top in this business. God knows you've got the face for it."
"I prefer to think I've got the brains for it."
"If you do, then you know that looks matter in television news. The public likes their death, destruction and dirty politics delivered by an attractive medium. And why the hell not?"
"How long did it take you to get that cynical?"
"About five minutes after I landed my first on-the-air job at the number-three station in Tulsa." Finn's thoughts veered forward; it would take only an inch to taste her ripe, sexy and serious mouth. "I beat out two other candidates because I looked better on tape."
"And your work had nothing to do with it?" "It does now." He toyed with the ends of the hair that rained over her shoulders.
His fingers felt entirely too good against her skin, Deanna realized, and shifted gears. "Where did you get the scar?"
"Which one?"
"This one." She moved his hand between them, tilted the scar up.
"Oh. Bar fight. In…" His eyes narrowed as he tried to place the incident. "Belfast. A charming little pub that caters to the IRA."
"Mmm." As a precaution she kept his hand in hers. However intimate the gesture looked, it prevented him from touching her. "Don't you think it's undignified for a well-known television correspondent to brawl in bars?"
"I'm entitled to some entertainment, but it was a long time ago." The scarred thumb brushed gently up the side of hers, down again, toward the wrist, where her pulse began to stutter. "I'm much more dignified now." And he smiled, drawing her closer.
Every muscle in her body turned to water. "I don't think so."
"Try me." It was a low, murmured challenge she had no answer for. "Someone's looking for you."
Shaking off the mood, she glanced over her shoulder and spotted Marshall. When their eyes met, he smiled and held up two glasses of champagne.
"I guess that's my cue to let you go." Finn did, then captured her hand for one last moment. "Just how seriously involved are you?"
She hesitated, looking down at their joined hands. The desire to link fingers was very strong. "I don't know." She met his eyes squarely. "I haven't decided."
"Let me know when you do." He released her hand, and watched her walk away.
"I'm sorry I'm late." Marshall kissed her briefly before he offered Deanna a flute of champagne. "It's all right." She sipped, surprised that her throat felt so dry.
"It's a little chilly out here, isn't it?" Concerned, he touched her hand. "You're cold. Come inside."
"All right." She glanced back toward Finn as Marshall led her away. "I'm sorry the evening was spoiled yesterday."
"Don't worry about it." After a quick scan of the room, Marshall guided her toward a quiet corner. "We both face emergencies in our work."
"I did call you after I got in." "Yes, I got the message from my service." His eyes flicked down to his glass before he drank. "I decided to make it an early night."
"Then you didn't see the report." "Last night? No. But I did catch pieces of it on the morning news. Wasn't that Finn Riley you were dancing with just now?"
"Yes."
"He's had quite a homecoming all in all. I can't imagine being that concise and detached after being so close to death. I suppose he's hardened to it."
Deanna frowned. "I'd say it's more a mater of instinct and training."
"I'm glad your instinct and training haven't made you so cold. Your report from the airport was very passionate, very genuine."
She smiled weakly. "It was supposed to be objective and informative."
"It was very informative." He kissed her again. "And you looked beautiful in the rain." Lingering over the kiss, he missed her wince of annoyance. "Barring news bulletins," he said quietly, "can we plan on slipping away early, having some time alone?"
Twenty-four hours before, she would have said yes, she realized. Now, with the murmur of conversation around them, the music drifting in through the terrace doors, the fizz of champagne on her tongue, she hesitated. Marshall tipped a finger under her chin, a gesture she'd once found endearing.