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

"And you." Oddly hurt, Deanna turned and walked away.
"Isn't that sweet?" Angela gestured Kate into her office, shut the door. "You running into a childhood friend--who just
happens to be my prot@eg@ee--right in my office. Tell me, Kate, have you kept in touch with Dee? Shared all your
secrets with her?"
"Only a fool shares secrets willingly, Angela. Now let's not waste time on small talk. Let's get down to business."
Satisfied, Angela sat behind her desk. "Yes, let's."


To Finn Riley, New York was like a woman: A long-legged, slick-skinned siren who knew her way around the block.
She was sexy; she was by turns tacky and chic. And God knew she was dangerous.
Perhaps that was why he preferred Chicago. Finn loved women, and had a weakness for the long-legged,
dangerous type. But Chicago was a big, burly man, with sweat on his shirt and a cold brew in his fist. Chicago was a
brawler.
Finn trusted an honest fight more than he ever would a seduction.
He knew his way around Manhattan. He'd lived there briefly with his mother during one of his parents' trial
separations. He'd lost track of how many trial separations there had been before the inevitable divorce.
He remembered how reasonable they both had been. How bloodless and civilized. And he remembered being
shuffled off to housekeepers, secretaries, prep schools, to spare him, supposedly, from that well-choreographed
discord. In reality, he knew neither of his parents had been comfortable with a young boy who had asked direct
questions



and hadn't been satisfied with logical, gutless answers.
So he had lived in Manhattan, and on Long Island, and in Connecticut and Vermont. He'd summered in Bar Harbor
and on Martha's Vineyard. He'd done time in the hallowed halls of three of New England's top prep schools.
Perhaps that was why he still had such restless feet. The minute roots started to dig in, he felt honor-bound to rip
them out and move on.
Now he was back in New York. Temporarily. Where he knew the underbelly as well as he knew his mother's elegant
penthouse on Central Park West.
He couldn't even say if he preferred one to the other. Any more than he could say that he minded putting in a few
days on Wake Up
Call.
At the moment, Finn put New York out of his mind and concentrated on the ball whizzing toward his nose. It wasn't
self-defense nearly as much as it was the spirit of competition. And God knew the exertion of the court was a
welcome change from the hours he'd spent sitting on a sofa on the set the last four days.
He sliced out with his racket, letting out a grunt of effort that was lost as the ball caromed off the wall. The power
sang up his arm, the echo of the smash reverberated in his head. Adrenaline raced through him as his opponent
cracked the ball back.
He met it with a solid backhand. The sweat dribbled satisfactorily down his back, dampening his ragged CBC T-shirt.
For the next five minutes, there was only the smash and echo of the ball, the smell of sweat and the sound of labored
breathing.
"Son of a bitch." Barlow James sagged against the wall as Finn blew one by him. "You're killing me."
"Shit." Finn didn't bother with the wall. He slid straight down to the floor of the Vertical Club. Every muscle in his body
was weeping. "Next time I'll bring a gun. It'll be easier on both of us." He groped for a towel, mopped his soaking face.
"When the hell are you going to get old?"
Barlow's laugh barked off the walls of the racquetball court. He was a brawny six-foot-four, flat of stomach, broad of
chest, with shoulders like concrete blocks. At