Falling Star (22 page)

Her heart rate sped up. "What sources are
those?"

"Let's just say they're impeccable." All of a
sudden he grinned. "Here." He tossed her what looked like a
travel-agency ticket packet.

She opened it up. It
was
a
travel-agency ticket packet. "Airline tickets to Nice, France?
Departing tomorrow? And a suite at Monaco's Hotel de Paris? Where
did this come from? Why—" Realization dawned. "Oh, my God." Her
hand flew to her throat.

"You got it," Tony said. "I don't know what
you slipped in her Evian bottle but Hope Dalmont is convinced
you're the one and only gal in the US of A who can interview her.
Something about Big Sisters. I don't know. I don't get this women's
stuff. But go ahead, Daniels." He spread his arms wide, still
grinning. "Go ahead and start thanking me."

She stared at him, one idea after another
crashing around in her brain like pinballs in a machine gone
haywire. She was so happy, so stunned, she couldn't even manage to
be mad at him.

She'd done it. Somehow, some way, she'd
gotten through to Hope. Somehow in that lunatic episode, she'd
convinced Hope Dalmont that Natalie Daniels was the one TV
journalist who could tell her story.

It was unfathomable. She felt tears prick
behind her eyes and rapidly looked down so Tony couldn't see.
Apparently those old instincts about how to go after a story were
still there. Apparently she hadn't gone soft after all. She looked
up at Tony again. "So I guess going after Hope turned out to be a
damn good idea. My judgment must not be so bad after all."

He waved his hand dismissively. "Doesn't
matter whose idea it was. All that matters is that this interview
will air fucking everywhere and that KXLA will get credit every
time."

He explained the entire arrangement then and
it rapidly became clear how much responsibility would be riding on
her shoulders. True, a Hope Dalmont interview might be
"celebrity-fawning horseshit" as Geoff had put it, but it was also
the hottest interview of the year.

Her heart began to pound. This interview was
likely to air on most of the television stations in the country. It
was more exposure than she'd ever had in eighteen years of
television news and she'd damn well better do a good job on it. "I
want Ruth to produce for me," she announced.

"I've already decided that," Tony said. "And
I'll tell you what I'm gonna tell her. I want three reports a day.
One for each of the morning shows and one for the prime-time news.
And live shots—"

"Slow down. I don't want to have to file so
many reports that the quality suffers. Two a day, morning and
evening. That'll be hellacious enough. Given the time difference,
I'll have to file for the morning shows midafternoon Monaco time
and for prime time in the early morning. As it is, Ruth and I will
be working constantly."

He fought her for a while but eventually he
agreed, then eyed her narrowly. "So, Daniels, you up to it?"

"I'm more than up to it, Tony," she
bristled.

"Good." The challenge in his eyes was
unmistakable. "Because I'd say you have a lot riding on this
trip."

She stood up. "I'd say we both do." She
walked out, her pulse racing. Why did he always get her so lathered
up? It irritated her. It also irritated her that there was a grain
of truth in his pronouncement that he was the one who'd fired her
up to go after Hope in the first place. In a way he had, by telling
her he didn't plan to renew her contract. Management by fear. It
had worked.

But now you'll have to renew me, Tony
,
she told herself.
Maybe you'll even have to hike my salary to
keep me.

She made tracks getting back to her office.
She had a huge amount to do. Get her passport out of that damn
safe-deposit box. Get her hair highlighted. Pack the perfect on-air
wardrobe. And troll the Web for every last shred of information she
could gather on Hope Dalmont.

She reached her office and stopped dead, a
thought smashing into her brain. This was an excuse to call Geoff.
In fact, she reasoned, she was
obliged
to call him. This was
huge career news and he was her agent. He needed to hear it. She
ran for the phone, only to remember that he was in New York until
that night.

Fine
, she told herself.
I'll stop
by Dewey, Climer tomorrow on my way to the airport
. No matter
that it was well out of the way.

*

Kelly poured a packet of Equal into her iced
tea and gazed over her Jackie O sunglasses at the well-dressed
hordes populating the outdoor food court at the Century City Mall.
Dressed in casual California chic, their wealth was evident in
everything from their soft leather accessories to their
just-out-of-the-gym physiques to their flawlessly highlighted
hair.

Kelly swizzled her straw, studying the crowd
carefully. This was where she belonged. Or where she
wanted
to belong. Among the privileged locals from the sun-kissed acres of
Beverly Hills, Holmby Hills, and Bel Air. She wanted to understand
what they did, what they bought, what they said. She'd wanted to
understand that ever since she'd been a kid back in Fresno. After
all, a beautiful woman like her deserved to be one of them, and
usually got to be after marrying some rich asshole. But she'd do it
all on her own, so no one could ever take it away from her. And TV
news was her ticket. Not some rich jerk she'd have to fuck six ways
to Sunday.

Kelly speared an asparagus from her salad.
She was tired from all the shopping. What with filling in for
Natalie, she needed new anchor outfits in the worst way. She
glanced down at the three shopping bags arrayed around her sandaled
feet, stuffed to the gills. She'd worry about the bills later: her
credit cards were so maxed out anyway, another few thou hardly
mattered. Although, she realized, all this buying was keeping her
from putting together a down payment. And if she really wanted to
be like these people, she should live among them. How to achieve
that, she had no idea.

Dispiritedly, Kelly polished off her salad,
swabbing up the last bits of dressing with the one slice of
unbuttered French bread she allowed herself, and reached into her
purse for a cigarette. Thank God for nicotine. Without it, she'd be
two hundred pounds. Her eating regimen left no leeway for extra
calories: she prided herself on being rail-thin, regardless of the
near-starvation required. Not to mention the workouts: five weekly,
at least an hour per. She'd started dieting at fourteen and smoking
at fifteen, deciding the greatest single threat to her future
wasn't cancer, but fat.

The beeper attached to the waistband of her
white capri pants buzzed. Shit. Was it Howard wanting something?
She glanced at the readout. 212-555-8697.

Her eyes widened.
Hard Line
! She
recognized the number from when they called before.

Instantly she stubbed out her cigarette and
pulled out her cell phone. What did they want? They must've gotten
the dub by now. Wasn't it good enough?

"This is Kelly Devlin responding to your
page," she said as soon as the receptionist answered.

"Yeah," the woman rasped. She sounded bored
as hell. "We're getting ready to air the killer natural disasters
special and wanted to confirm that you have a signed release from
the Mann family allowing the video to be aired."

"A signed release," Kelly repeated.

"Right. Hold on."

The receptionist put her on hold. Kelly's
mind whirled. Of course she didn't have a signed release! It was
just her luck that
Hard Line
would want one, to cover their
butt in case anybody got mad at what aired. But no way could she
could get the Manns to sign anything! She might as well try to
drive her new Beemer to the moon.

She smashed her fist down hard on the table,
making everything on it jump. This was her big chance! If
Hard
Line
liked her, who knew what could happen? They might offer
her a national anchor job!

The receptionist came back on the line.
"Still there?"

"Yes." She bit her lip. "I have a release,"
she lied.

"Fax it to us. You know the number?"

Kelly cringed. "Yes."

"We'll let you know when the special
airs."

"Please do that," Kelly tried to get out, but
the woman had already hung up.

Kelly slapped her cell phone shut. Her hands
were shaking. Why did that have to happen?

She dropped the cell phone back into her
satchel and pulled out another cigarette, thinking fast

I'll just ignore it
, she decided. She
flicked her lighter and lit the cigarette, closing her eyes behind
her sunglasses and letting the nicotine work its relaxing magic.
You had to take risks to play in the big leagues. You
had
to. It was just that simple.

*

"That's fantastic, Natalie. Really, I'm
thrilled for you," Geoff repeated. From across his office Natalie
watched him at his desk as his eyes dropped from hers and he began
to shuffle some papers. He hadn't emerged from behind his desk the
entire quarter hour she'd been there. And though he'd offered
numerous variations on the congratulations theme for her Hope
Dalmont coup, he seemed oddly lacking in . . . warmth.

She flushed. Or was it heat?

Maybe another tack. "So how are you?" She
made her voice light and friendly. "How was the trip to New
York?"

"Quick. Fine." Still he didn't meet her eyes.
"I'll be doing a lot of traveling over the next few weeks,
actually. I'm flying to London later today—" He stopped.

Today?
Her brain cranked into
overdrive. "So you'll be in London while I'm in Monaco?"
We
won't be that far apart. Maybe we could …

"Seems so." He punched a few computer keys,
then stared at the screen, his chin in his hand.

Natalie felt a surge of disappointment,
quickly replaced by annoyance. That was certainly a nonstarter. And
it bordered on rudeness, didn't it, that he was going about his
business as if she weren't even there? "Maybe I should get out of
your hair," she offered coolly, though she didn't move a muscle. "I
don't want to be late for my flight and you seem preoccupied."

"I'm swamped, frankly." But at that he did
raise his eyes to hers.

She flinched. Not a flicker of the old Geoff
there. Just the aloof gaze of an agent toward a rather pesky
client.

"Really," he said, the distance in his hazel
eyes belying his words, "I couldn't be more pleased about your
news. I'll be eager to hear how it goes in Monaco."

She nodded, tremendously hurt. She bent to
retrieve her briefcase but couldn't quite make herself go.
You
have to say something now or you're never going to stop
wondering.
Without giving herself time to think she pivoted on
her heels and faced him.

His eyes rose from his paperwork, with
apparent reluctance.

"You've been very standoffish since"—she
paused—"since the day of my arrest."

A look of guilt flashed across his face,
unmistakable. He cleared his throat. "I'm very sorry about that,
Natalie."

Her breath caught.
No
. "Sorry about
what, exactly? That we've barely spoken since? Or that—"

"Sorry that it happened."

"That the arrest happened?" She tried to
sound joking.

He threw down his pen, then pinched the
bridge of his nose, sagging in his chair.

She watched him, frozen.
No
.

"Natalie, that was reprehensible behavior on
my part. You're my client. We've known each other a long time, and
I took advantage of you in a vulnerable moment." He shook his head.
"I hope you can forgive me."

"There's nothing to forgive—" she began, but
he was speaking again, as if he were delivering a rehearsed
speech.

"I put an extremely high value on our
business relationship, not to mention on our friendship, and I
would hate for one idiotic mistake to jeopardize that."

Idiotic mistake
. That cut deeply. She
wished desperately that she'd left when she had the chance, that
she hadn't had to hear any of this.
Don't ask a question unless
you're sure you want to know the answer.
She took one last
stab, though her pride was screeching at her to stop. "I'm not
sorry," she said firmly. "I don't consider it a mistake." But the
words bouncing off Geoff's office walls sounded increasingly
pointless.
It's over. Before it even started.

He looked shaken and said nothing for a few
moments. Then he said quietly, "I'm afraid I do."

No
. She forced her voice to be strong.
"Geoff, that afternoon was not my imagination. There was
something—"

He cut her off. "That doesn't mean it was
right." A pained expression crossed his face. "I'm seeing
someone."

"What?"

"I'm seeing someone."

Her heart battered against her ribs. It was
Miles all over again, in their bedroom, packing a suitcase. That
terrible, horrible Sunday afternoon.
"I've met someone."

No. Not Geoff, too
.

Geoff spoke again. "I've betrayed her trust
as well. I've been a cad all around and I'm terribly sorry. Please
forgive me."

"You keep saying that!" Anger was taking
over. It felt good, actually, better than the pain shooting through
her. "Who is she? Does she know what happened?"

He shook his head.

"Do I know her?"

"I don't believe so."

"How old is she?"

He threw up his hands. "Natalie, that's
hardly relevant." He sounded exasperated. "The only thing that
matters now is that you and I get past this. The sooner the
better."

She was infuriated. "The better for
whom?"

That shut him up, but only temporarily. "Both
of us. Our relationship is beneficial to both of us."