"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 The walls were painted a bold teal, and the carpet had been replaced by oak flooring and geometric rugs.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.
"I haven't been up here in four or five years, I guess." He stretched out his long legs and glanced around. "It's an improvement." He looked back at Deanna. "But then, pastel pinks probably aren't your style."
"I suppose not." She sliced lime and added it to two iced soft drinks. "I'm curious why your agent advised you against doing the show." Curious wasn't the word, but she kept her voice mild. "We do our best to make our guests comfortable."
"It probably had something to do with a call from New York." He accepted the glass, waited until Deanna took a seat. "From Angela Perkins."
"Angela?" Baffled, she shook her head. "Angela called your agent about your coming on my show?"
"The day after your people contacted him." Rob took a long sip. "She said a little bird had told her that I was considering a stop in Chicago."
"Sounds like her," Deanna muttered. "But I don't know how she could have found out so quickly."
"She didn't say." Watching Deanna's face, he rattled the ice in his glass. "And she didn't bring it up when she spoke to me, either. Two days later. With my agent she used charm, reminding him that she'd booked me on Angela's when my career was floundering, and that if I agreed to go on with you, she wouldn't be able to welcome me to New York as she'd hoped to. She wanted me for her next special, and guaranteed that she would use her influence to add weight to my Oscar nomination. Which meant talking the film up in public and in private and contributing to the ad campaign."
"Some not-so-subtle bribery." Her voice tightened with anger held under strict control. "But you're here."
"I might not have been if she'd stayed with bribery. I want that award, Deanna. A lot of people, including me, thought I was washed up when I went into rehab. I had to beg for money to make this film. I made deals and promises, told lies. Whatever it took. Halfway through production, the press was saying that the public was going to stay away in droves because nobody gave a shit about an epic love story. I want that award."
He paused, drank again. "I'd just about made up my mind to take my agent's advice and give you a pass. Then Angela called me. She didn't use charm, she threatened me. And that was her mistake."
Deanna rose to refill his glass. "She threatened not to support the film if you came on my show?"
"She did better than that." He took out a cigarette, shrugged. "Do you mind? I haven't kicked this vice yet."
"Go ahead."
"I came here because I was pissed." He struck a match, blew out smoke. "My little way of telling Angela to get fucked. I wasn't going to bring any of it up, but there's something about the way you handle yourself." He narrowed his eyes. "You've just got to trust that face of yours."
"So I'm told." She managed a smile, though bitterness was bubbling in her throat. "Whatever the reason you came on, I'm glad you did."
"You're not going to ask me what else she threatened me with?"
Her smile fluttered again, more easily. "I'm trying not to."
He gave a short laugh and set the Pepsi aside. "She told me you were a manipulative, scheming monster who'd use any means necessary to stay in the spotlight. That you'd abused her friendship and trust, and that the only reason you were on the air was that you were screwing Loren Bach."
Deanna merely lifted a brow. "I'm sure Loren would be surprised to hear it."
"It sounded more like a self-portrait to me." He took another drag, tapped his cigarette restlessly in the ashtray. "I know what it is to have enemies, Deanna, and since it seems we now have a mutual one, I'm going to tell you what Angela held over my head. I'll need you to keep it to yourself for twenty-four hours, until I get back to the coast and arrange a press conference."
Something cold skittered up her spine. "All right."
"About six months ago I went in for a routine exam. I was worn out, but then I'd been working pretty much around the clock for more than a year, doing the film, overseeing the editing, gearing up for promotion. I'd been a pretty regular customer of the medical profession during my drinking days, and my doctor is very discreet. Discretion aside, Angela managed to get wind of the test results." He took one last drag on the cigarette, crushed it out. "I'm HIV'-POSITIVE."
"Oh, I'm sorry." Instantly she reached out and gripped his hand hard in hers. "I'm so sorry."
"I always figured the booze would get me. Never figured it would be sex."
He lifted the glass. The ice rattled musically when his hand shook. "Then again, I spent enough time drunk that I didn't know how many women there were, much less who they were."
"We're finding out more every day—" She cut herself off. It was so trite, she thought, so pathetically useless. "You're entitled to your privacy, Rob."
"An odd statement from an ex-reporter." "Even if Angela leaks this, you don't have to confirm."
He sat back again, looking amused. "Now you're pissed."
"Of course I am. She used me to get to you. It's just television, for God's sake. It's television. We're talking about ratings points here, not world-altering events. What kind of business is this that someone would use your tragedy to shake down the competition?"
In a lighter mood, he sipped at his drink. "It's show business, babe. Nothing's closer to life and death than life and death." He smiled wryly. "I ought to know."
"I'm sorry." She closed her eyes and fought for control. "A temper tantrum isn't going to help you. What can I do?"
"Got any friends who are voting members of the Academy?"
She smiled back. "Maybe a couple." "You might give them a call, use that sexy, persuasive voice to influence their vote. And after that, you can go back in front of the camera and beat the pants off Angela's."
Her eyes kindled. "You're damn right I will."
She called a staff meeting that afternoon in her own office and sat behind her desk to project the image of authority. The anger was still with her, simmering deep. As a result, her voice was clipped, cool and formal.
"We have a problem, a serious one, that just recently came to my attention." She scanned the room as she spoke, noting the puzzled faces. Staff meetings were often tiresome, sometimes heated, but always informal and essentially good-natured.
"Margaret," she continued. "You contacted Kate Lowell's people, didn't you?"
"That's right." Unnerved by the chill in the air, Margaret nibbled on the earpiece of her reading glasses. "They were very interested in having her come on. We had the hook that she'd lived in Chicago for a few years when she was a teenager. Then they switched off. Scheduling conflicts."
"How many other times has that happened in the last six months?"
Margaret blinked. "It's hard to say right off. A lot of the topic ideas don't pan out."
"I mean specifically celebrity-oriented shows."
"Oh, well." Margaret shifted in her seat. "We don't do a lot of those because the format generally runs to civilian guests, the everyday people you do so well. But I'd guess that five or six times in the last six months we've had somebody wiggle off the hook."
"And how do we handle the projected guest list. Simon?"