скачать книгу бесплатно
He shook his head and smiled. "You kidding? This has been the worst week of my life. Between bailing Katrina Favor out of jail in the middle of the night and dealing with the tabloids, it's been hell."
I tried to hold back a smile as I recalled the local front pages the day after she'd been arrested. "When you've got stripper name like Favor, it's a hanging curveball over the middle of the plate for the headline writers. Some of those were pretty brutal."
"Yeah, but you have to admit they were clever. We all got a kick out of Party Favor."
"She put you in a tough position."
"She put herself in a tough position. Pun intended."
"Hey, you could moonlight writing headlines. But seriously, I guess it must have been tough to let her go."
"Actually, it was an easy call to fire her. Thank God for the morals clause in her contract." He looked around to see if anyone in the half-empty restaurant was paying attention, then leaned forward a bit and dropped his voice. "Between you and me, we were going to replace her anyway when her contract expired next year."
"Really? After ten years?"
"Her favorability ratings were slipping, she was a bear to work with and her salary was way out of line. Then again, I'm not the one who signed her to that ridiculous deal."
"Oh, so this gig no longer pays twenty million." I playfully tossed my napkin on the table. "I'm outta here."
"It still pays a helluva lot. More than you're making now."
I replaced my napkin, took a sip of water, then glanced at the menu, which, of course, did not include prices. "Hell, I'm sure these entrees cost more than I'm making now. So what's good here?"
He looked quizzically at me, as if wondering why I was more interested in food than begging for the job. (Because I actually was more interested in the food.) "Uh, everything. I always get the broiled salmon with dill sauce. Save room for tiramisu."
"Sounds good. Make it two," I said, snapping my menu shut as I leaned back in my chair. "So, I'm sure people have been beating a path to your door since the news broke."
"Women will eat their young for this job. No offense."
"None taken. Hell, I agree with you. Last time we had an anchor opening we could have made a fortune with a pay-per-view catfight between a few of our reporters."
"Anyway, with sweeps coming up we need to have the replacement in the chair soon. I don't need weeks of speculation in the papers or the newsroom."
"I'm sure you have many qualified candidates."
"We do. You're one of them."
I couldn't help but smile. "I'm flattered. But I must admit I'm curious as to why you're talking to me. I mean, I'm not exactly someone with a morning show or anchoring background. And I'm not known outside of the tri-state area."
His smart phone lit up and vibrated. He looked at it, didn't answer, and turned back to me. "Well, the day after Katrina got arrested, we all sat down and threw out names of possible replacements. Yours was one that came up a few times. You're an excellent journalist, and our co-anchor said you've got a sharp wit. I had no idea you two went to college together and are close friends."
"Yeah, Scott and I go way back. We just don't see each other much because of the hours. I'm getting off work when he's coming in. Ships passing in the night."
"Well, anyway, he thought you'd be a good choice, and I think it's important that co-anchors actually like each other. Scott and Katrina were oil and water."
"So I've heard. He was about to shoe polish the toilet seat in her private bathroom and Saran Wrap the bowl. Splish-splash."
He laughed a bit. "I would have paid good money to see that. Anyway, we've been thinking of adding a harder edge to the show. So we need a real journalist as opposed to a traditional morning show host."
I sat up straight and widened my eyes, feigning interest. "Harder edge as in … "
"More political interviews, investigative pieces. We would get you out in the field to do stories, so you wouldn't be chained to the desk."
"Hmmm. By the way, you said my name came up a few times. May I ask who else thought I might make a good replacement?"
"You may ask," he said, with a wicked smile.
I shook my head as I rolled my eyes. "Typical management. You should know Jedi Mind Tricks don't work on me. Besides, I can just ask Scott."
"I figured you would. Anyway, we're doing a few tryouts tomorrow morning starting at nine when no one's around. Attempting to make the search as quiet as possible while keeping the knife throwing in the newsroom to a minimum. Scott's coming in and we're going to do a mock show with Friday's script. I'd really like you to come in if you're interested."
I wasn't, but turning down this man was career suicide. I'd never be considered for anything at the network again. I knew the "harder edge" was bogus, just a carrot to try to gain my interest. I'd just bomb the tryout and be on my way back to my real job. I forced a little excitement into my eyes and smiled. "Sure, I'll be happy to," I said, as I picked up my water glass.
"Great, I'll email you the script so you can look it over. Oh, one more thing that might pique your interest. One reason we want Katrina's replacement to do hard news is that this is the stepping stone to the evening anchor position. We see the person we hire as the heir apparent."
My glass froze in midair. Whatever attempt I was making at being casual went right out the window as my jaw dropped. That dream job I mentioned earlier? Yeah, this was it. Known as The Chair, the job was referred to with reverence by reporters, as if it could be spoken in italics. Gavin had dangled the ultimate carrot. "The morning show anchor will eventually replace Bill Recker?"
He nodded and smiled as he licked his lips, now having my attention and soul firmly tucked away in his pocket. Ruthless bastard. "He's retiring in three and a half years. That's not common knowledge by the way, but he's sixty-one and tired of the grind. Wants to sail around the world on his yacht before he's too old to do it. But he wants one more presidential election, and then he's gone. So the plan is to keep Katrina's replacement on mornings till he walks out with a gold watch, then slide that person into The Chair. Well, actually, it would be three years on the morning show, and then … "
And then he dropped another enticing piece of produce.
"Six months covering Senator Dixon's presidential campaign."
And just like that, the job in which I had no interest was now a job I had to have.
***
"I forbid you to take this job."
My latest boyfriend's words out of the blue stopped me just as I was about to apply the whipped cream to his washboard abs. I sat up and put the can of Reddi-Wip on the nightstand. Obviously my plan for round two on this Saturday afternoon human dessert bar had been doused with a bucket of cold water. "Excuse me?"
"You heard me," said Alexander Dumont, my significant other for the past four months. He put his hands behind his head and locked his fingers. "I forbid it."
The night's dinner reservations at the city's trendiest restaurant went right out the window. I got off the bed, stood up, folded my arms in front of me and stuck out one foot like an angry teacher even though I was wearing nothing but a bright red thong. "Who the hell are you to forbid me to do anything that pertains to my career?"
"I'm your boyfriend, the man who is going to take care of you. And if you take this job and start getting up at two o'clock in the morning, we won't be able to continue our relationship. I already put up with you working nights."
I raised one eyebrow. "Oh, you put up with that, do you?"
"Every other guy I know has a girlfriend who works normal hours. Or a wife who stays home."
"Well, these are the normal hours for my job. And I'll never be a Stepford wife. I don't need someone to take care of me. I can take care of myself. Always have."
"You could get them to put you on the day shift."
"The eleven o'clock newscast is the station's signature broadcast, and I'm the lead reporter—"
"Yeah, yeah, I've heard about how important it is for viewers to go to bed watching your channel so that's what they're watching when they turn the TV on in the morning. Real rocket science."
"What I do for a living is important, Alexander. And I love what I do. You should know that by now."
"I just figured at some point your biological clock would kick in and this little fling with broadcasting would be over."
Now he'd crossed the line. My pulse spiked as my eyes widened. "Little fling?"
"You tell stories for a living. C'mon, it's not a real job."
Annndddd… cue the anger. "And you sell stocks to people. You're nothing more than a legalized bookie taking bets that companies will make money. Wall Street is a glorified casino."
"Don't change the subject. You're not taking this morning show job. You're not a morning person anyway."
"You don't get it. This will lead to the main network anchor job in three and a half years. You know how many people have sat in that chair in the last half century? Three. I'll be the face of the network at thirty-five. And I'll get to cover Sydney Dixon's campaign, and she's a lock to be the next President. I'll get to travel the world, have the President of the United States on speed dial, take trips on Air Force One—"
"Great, I'll see even less of you."
"It's my dream job."
"It doesn't work for me. Or my plan for us. You're not taking the job. End of story. C'mon, get back in bed."
He reached out for me and I shoved his hand away. My blood reached its boiling point, but I'm one of those people who can still think rationally even when I'm seriously pissed off. Reporters often see things in black and white, with very few gray areas. And at that moment, I knew I had to step back and look at the situation as a reporter, not as a girlfriend. I took a long look at the thirty-five year old man my friends considered to be an incredible catch. Tall, classically handsome with (ironically) an anchorman's square jaw, deep set dark brown eyes that matched the color of his short hair, a rugged face. A seriously buffed body to die for and sex that was off the charts. But the realization hit me that the man I had planned to turn into a hundred and eighty pound chocolate sundae didn't even know me.
Or didn't want to.
And just like that, I reached a decision. I knew it was time to cut my losses. "Get out."
"Excuse me?"
"You heard me. Get your underwear off the trapeze and your toothbrush out of my bathroom and whatever other stuff you've got around here and get out. You've got thirty minutes and after that anything I find that belongs to you is going down the garbage chute. We're done."
He reached out for me again. "C'mon, babe, calm down."
I glared at him. "Oh, I'm very calm. You just showed your true colors. You have absolutely no respect for my career, or for what I want to do with my life. Which, since you obviously didn't get the memo, is not yours to mold. And in case you haven't been to a wedding in a while, they took the obey part out of the vows, so you can't forbid me to do anything. You put up with me for the past few months? Well now you won't have to put up with anything. Go get yourself a nine-to-five girlfriend."
"You're serious."
I nodded. "We're done, Alexander. As you would say, end of story."
CHAPTER TWO (#u84c8cafb-cb45-5112-8795-f6e4f243f555)
Scott Winter is known as "America's boy next door." One look at him tells you why.
Not classically handsome but beyond cute, he's got a mop of always-tousled black hair that leaves the impression it's been styled by some babe who ran her fingers through it after having her way with him. Combine that with devilish olive green eyes that make him look like he's up to something, a permanent five o'clock shadow, and a lean face accented by dimples that run the length of his cheeks, and you've got a guy with the highest "Q" rating in television.
That means viewers like him more than anyone else. On any network.
Women really like him. And they all want to sleep with him, even though he's happily married to his high school sweetheart and would never, ever cheat.
At five-foot-ten he's the biggest thing on television.
And he's been my friend for fourteen years since the day we met freshman year.
He stepped off the set to greet me as I entered the studio. "Hey, it's The Spitfire!" he said, using my nickname.
"Hi, Scott," I said, as he gave me a strong hug and almost lifted my hundred and thirty-five pounds off the floor.
"There's something I haven't seen between our co-anchors in awhile," said Gavin Karlson.
"Do we have to do a tryout?" asked Scott, as he wrapped one arm around my shoulders. "Can't we just hire her right now?"
"Sorry," said the producer. "This one's not my call. But you've got as much input as I do."
"Yeah, I know," said Scott.
Gavin looked at me. "So, you go by Spitfire?"
"My dad gave me that nickname when I was a little girl since he said I was an out of control ball of fire."
"Nothing's changed," said Scott. I playfully slapped his shoulder. "So, you ready to become the next morning show It Girl?"
"I don't know if I'd get that title, but I'd love to work with you."
"It would be nice to see you more. And my wife would be thrilled if you were my partner. She got a little tired of my bitching about Katrina."
"Well, thank goodness for the NYPD Vice Squad."
Gavin interrupted our little reunion. "You guys ready?"
Scott nodded, then took me by the hand and led me up the riser to the set, a grouping featuring a red leather couch and matching chair, a mahogany coffee table and a couple of giant flat screens hanging off the back wall which was painted royal blue. "We haven't anchored together since college. Remember how we always planned to work together?"
I nodded as we both sat down in the anchor chairs. "I'd forgotten about that, but maybe this is it. Just took ten years to get there."
"Why don't you read through the script a few times before we roll tape," said Gavin, who headed out of the studio. "I'll get someone to run the prompter and leave you two to practice."
"Sure," said Scott, who turned to me. "When was the last time you anchored?"
"I filled in a few times this year, but never more than two days in a row."
"Well, just think back to our college days. Like riding a bike. And remember, this is different than a regular newscast. It's more about personality than anything else."
I couldn't help but smile as the memory of our college newscast flashed through my mind. We had incredible chemistry that only works in television if the anchors like each other. I wondered if it would still show up after a decade apart.
A young brunette entered the studio and sat down at the teleprompter control station.
"That's Mandy," said Scott. "Mandy, this is Veronica."
She waved and gave me a cheerful smile. "Hi!"
"Hi, Mandy," I said, smiling back.
