Read Online Private Scandals by Nora Roberts - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Nora Roberts
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producer ordered. “We’re cutting back to Martin to give you time to get closer.”
“We’ll move closer to the scene, and bring you more on flight 1129, which has just landed at O’Hare. This is Deanna Reynolds for CBC.”
“You’re clear,” her producer shouted. “Go.”
“Goddamn!” Excitement pitched Joe’s voice up an octave. “What pictures. What pictures. It’s fucking Emmy time.”
She shot him a look, but was too used to the cameraman’s style to comment. “Come on, Joe. Let’s see if we can get some interviews.”
They dashed toward the runway as more passengers slid down the emergency chute into the arms of waiting rescue workers. By the time they reached the huddle of vehicles, and reset for broadcast, there were half a dozen people safely out. One woman sat on the ground, weeping into her folded arms. With the singlemindedness of a newsman, Joe rolled tape.
“Benny, we’re at the scene. Are you getting this?”
“Absolutely. It’s good film. We’ll be putting you back live. Get me one of the passengers. Get me—”
“Riley,” Joe shouted. “Hey, Finn Riley.”
Deanna glanced back toward the chute in time to see Finn make his slide to earth. On hearing his name called, he turned his head. Eyes narrowed against the driving rain, he focused on the camera. And grinned.
He landed easily, despite the metal case he clutched. Rain dripped from his hair, skimmed down his leather jacket and soaked his boots.
In an easy lope he covered the ground from chute to camera.
“You lucky son of a bitch.” Joe beamed and punched Finn on the shoulder.
“Good to see you, Joe. Excuse me a minute.” Without warning, he grabbed Deanna and planted a hard kiss on her mouth. She had time to feel the heat radiating from his body, to register the shock of electricity from his mouth to hers, a quick burst of power, before he released her.
“Hope you don’t mind.” He gave her a charming smile. “I thought about kissing the ground, but you look a hell of a lot better. Can I borrow these a minute?”
He was already tugging her earpiece free. “Hey.”
“Who’s producing?”
“Benny. And I—”
“Benny?” He snagged her mike. “Yeah, it’s me. So, you got my call.” He chuckled. “My pleasure. Anything I can do for the news department.” He listened a moment, nodded. “No problem. We’re going live in ten,” he told Joe. “Keep an eye on that for me,” he asked Deanna, and set his case down at her feet. He dragged the hair out of his face and looked into the camera.
“This is Finn Riley, reporting live from O’Hare. At six thirty-two this evening, flight 1129 from London was struck by lightning.”
Deanna wondered why the rain running off her clothes didn’t sizzle as she watched Finn make his report. Her report,she corrected. Two minutes after hitting the ground and the sneaky bastard had usurped her, stolen her piece and delegated her to gofer.
So he was good, Deanna fumed as she watched him leading the viewers on the odyssey of flight 1129 from London. That was no surprise. She’d seen his reports before—from London, yes, and from Haiti, Central America, the Middle East.
She’d even intro’d a few of them.
But that wasn’t the point.
The point was that he’d snatched her piece away from her. Well, Deanna decided, he might have upstaged her, but he was going to discover that stealing her newspiece wasn’t a snap.
Interviews were her strong point, she reminded herself. That was her job, she told herself, struggling to cool off. And that’s what she would do. Brilliantly.
Turning her back on Finn, she hunched her shoulders against the downpour and went to look for passengers.
Moments later, there was a tap on her back. She turned, lifted a brow. “Did you need something?”
“Brandy and a roaring fire.” Finn wiped rain from his face. He was in gear, fueled by the chaos and the immediacy of the report. And the simple fact that he wasn’t a dead man.
“We’ll move closer to the scene, and bring you more on flight 1129, which has just landed at O’Hare. This is Deanna Reynolds for CBC.”
“You’re clear,” her producer shouted. “Go.”
“Goddamn!” Excitement pitched Joe’s voice up an octave. “What pictures. What pictures. It’s fucking Emmy time.”
She shot him a look, but was too used to the cameraman’s style to comment. “Come on, Joe. Let’s see if we can get some interviews.”
They dashed toward the runway as more passengers slid down the emergency chute into the arms of waiting rescue workers. By the time they reached the huddle of vehicles, and reset for broadcast, there were half a dozen people safely out. One woman sat on the ground, weeping into her folded arms. With the singlemindedness of a newsman, Joe rolled tape.
“Benny, we’re at the scene. Are you getting this?”
“Absolutely. It’s good film. We’ll be putting you back live. Get me one of the passengers. Get me—”
“Riley,” Joe shouted. “Hey, Finn Riley.”
Deanna glanced back toward the chute in time to see Finn make his slide to earth. On hearing his name called, he turned his head. Eyes narrowed against the driving rain, he focused on the camera. And grinned.
He landed easily, despite the metal case he clutched. Rain dripped from his hair, skimmed down his leather jacket and soaked his boots.
In an easy lope he covered the ground from chute to camera.
“You lucky son of a bitch.” Joe beamed and punched Finn on the shoulder.
“Good to see you, Joe. Excuse me a minute.” Without warning, he grabbed Deanna and planted a hard kiss on her mouth. She had time to feel the heat radiating from his body, to register the shock of electricity from his mouth to hers, a quick burst of power, before he released her.
“Hope you don’t mind.” He gave her a charming smile. “I thought about kissing the ground, but you look a hell of a lot better. Can I borrow these a minute?”
He was already tugging her earpiece free. “Hey.”
“Who’s producing?”
“Benny. And I—”
“Benny?” He snagged her mike. “Yeah, it’s me. So, you got my call.” He chuckled. “My pleasure. Anything I can do for the news department.” He listened a moment, nodded. “No problem. We’re going live in ten,” he told Joe. “Keep an eye on that for me,” he asked Deanna, and set his case down at her feet. He dragged the hair out of his face and looked into the camera.
“This is Finn Riley, reporting live from O’Hare. At six thirty-two this evening, flight 1129 from London was struck by lightning.”
Deanna wondered why the rain running off her clothes didn’t sizzle as she watched Finn make his report. Her report,she corrected. Two minutes after hitting the ground and the sneaky bastard had usurped her, stolen her piece and delegated her to gofer.
So he was good, Deanna fumed as she watched him leading the viewers on the odyssey of flight 1129 from London. That was no surprise. She’d seen his reports before—from London, yes, and from Haiti, Central America, the Middle East.
She’d even intro’d a few of them.
But that wasn’t the point.
The point was that he’d snatched her piece away from her. Well, Deanna decided, he might have upstaged her, but he was going to discover that stealing her newspiece wasn’t a snap.
Interviews were her strong point, she reminded herself. That was her job, she told herself, struggling to cool off. And that’s what she would do. Brilliantly.
Turning her back on Finn, she hunched her shoulders against the downpour and went to look for passengers.
Moments later, there was a tap on her back. She turned, lifted a brow. “Did you need something?”
“Brandy and a roaring fire.” Finn wiped rain from his face. He was in gear, fueled by the chaos and the immediacy of the report. And the simple fact that he wasn’t a dead man.
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