"Roberts, Nora - Private Scandals" - читать интересную книгу автора (Roberts Nora)

Deanna would have agreed. As Finn strode toward his car, she was yawning in the elevator as it climbed toward her
apartment. She was grateful she had the entire next day off. It would give her time to recover, and time to think
through her situation with Marshall.
But the only thing on her schedule now was a long, soothing bath and a good night's sleep.
She had her keys out of her purse before the elevator doors opened. Humming to herself, she unlocked both the
standard lock and the dead bolt. Out of habit, she hit the light switch beside the door as she crossed the threshold.
Quiet, she thought. Wonderful, blessed silence. With the door locked again behind her, she crossed automatically to
her phone machine to check messages. As she played them back, she slipped out of her black satin pumps and
wriggled her cramped toes. She was smiling at the recording of Fran's voice reciting possible baby names when she
spotted the envelope near the door.
Odd, she mused. Had that been there when she'd come in? She crossed the room, glancing through the security
peephole before bending to scoop up the note.
There was nothing written on the sealed envelope. Puzzled, and fighting off another yawn, she tore it open, unfolded
the single sheet of plain white stationery.
There was only one sentence, typed in bold red ink.

Deanna, I adore you.



Chapter Six

"We've got thirty seconds to air." "We'll make it." Deanna slipped into her chair beside Roger on the news set.
Through her earpiece she heard the frantic overlapping voices in the control room. A few feet away, the floor director
was shouting demands for information and dancing in place. One of the camera crew was smoking lazily and chatting
with a grip.
"Twenty seconds. Jesus." Roger wiped his damp palms on his knees. "Where did Benny get the bright idea to add
music to the tape?"
"From me." Deanna gave Roger a brief apologetic smile. "It was just a toss-off idea when I was previewing it. It really
will make the piece perfect." Someone was shouting obscenities through her earpiece, and her smile turned a little
sickly. Why did she always want perfection? "Honestly, I didn't know he'd grab onto it this way."
"Ten fucking seconds." Roger took a last glimpse in his hand mirror. "If we have to fill, I'm dumping on you, babe."
"We're going to be fine." Her jaw was set stubbornly. She'd make it fine, by God. She'd make it the best damn one-
minute-ten the station had ever aired. The swearing in the control room turned to a pandemonium of cheers as the
floor director began his countdown. "Got it." She glanced smugly in Roger's direction, then faced the camera.
"Good afternoon, this is Midday. I'm Roger Crowell."
"And I'm Deanna Reynolds. The passenger count on flight 1129 from London last Friday was two hundred and sixty-
four. Early this morning, that number rose by one. Matthew John Carlyse, son of passengers Alice and Eugene
Carlyse, made his first appearance at five-fifteen this morning. Though six weeks premature, Matthew weighed in at a
healthy five pounds."
As the tape rolled, to the accompaniment of the crooning "Baby, Baby," Deanna let out a relieved breath and grinned
at the monitor. Her idea, she reminded herself. And it was perfect. "Great pictures."



"Not bad," Roger agreed, and was forced to smile when the monitor focused on the tiny form squirming and
squawling in the incubator. There was a small set of wings pinned to his blanket. "Almost worth the ulcer."
"The Carlyses named their son after Matthew Kirkland, the pilot who landed flight 1129 safely at O'Hare Friday night
despite engine failure. Mr. Carlyse said that neither he nor his wife were concerned about making the return flight to