Private Scandals by Nora Roberts Read Free Book Online Page B

was to analyze her relationship with Marshall, if there was a relationship, and to decide where she wanted it to go.
    A glance at the clock made her moan.
    She would have to cross that personal bridge on her own time. Setting her fingers on the keyboard, she got to work.
     
    Angela’s staff privately called her suite of offices “the citadel.” She reigned like a feudal lord from her French provincial desk, handing out commands and meting out reward and punishment in equal measures. Anyone who remained on staff after a six-month probationary period was loyal and diligent and kept his or her complaints private.
    She was, admittedly, exacting, impatient with excuses and demanding of certain personal luxuries. She had, after all, earned such requirements.
    Angela stepped into the outer office, where her executive secretary was busily handling details for Monday’s taping. There were other offices—producers, researchers, assistants—down the quiet hallway. Angela had long since left the boisterous bustle of newsrooms behind. She had used reporting not merely as a stepping-stone, but as a catapult for her ambitions. There was only one thing she wanted, and she had wanted it for as long as she could remember: to be the center of attention.
    In news, the story was king. The bearer of the tale would be noticed, certainly, if she was good enough. Angela had been very good. Six years in the pressure cooker of on-air reporting had cost her one husband, netted her a second and paved the way for Angela’s.
    She much preferred, and insisted on, the church-like silence of thick carpets and insulated walls.
    “You have some messages, Miss Perkins.”
    “Later.” Angela yanked open one of the double doors leading to her private office. “I need you inside, Cassie.”
    She began to pace immediately. Even when she heard the quiet click of the door closing behind her secretary, she continued to move restlessly, over the Aubusson, past the elegant desk, away from the wide ribbon of windows, toward the antique curio cabinet that held her collection of awards.
    Mine, she thought. She had earned them, she possessed them. Now that she did, no one would ever ignore her again.
    She paused by the framed photos and prints that adorned a wall. Pictures of Angela with celebrities at charity events and award ceremonies. Her covers of TV Guide and Time and People. She stared at them, drawing deep breaths.
    “Does she realize who I am?” she murmured. “Does she realize who she’s dealing with?”
    With a shake of her head, she turned away again. It was a small mistake, she reminded herself. One that could be easily corrected. After all, she was fond of the girl.
    As she grew calmer, she circled her desk, settled into the custom-made pink leather chair the CEO of her syndicate—her former husband—had given her when her show hit number one in the ratings.
    Cassie remained standing. She knew better than to approach one of the mahogany chairs with their fussy needlepoint cushions until invited.
    “You contacted the caterer?”
    “Yes, Miss Perkins. The menu’s on your desk.”
    Angela glanced at it, nodded absently. “The florist.”
    “They confirmed everything but the calla lilies,” Cassie told her. “They’re trying to find the supply you want, but suggested several substitutes.”
    “If I’d wanted a substitute, I’d have asked for one.” She waved her hand. “It’s not your fault, Cassie. Sit down.” Angela closed her eyes. She was getting one of her headaches, one of those pile-driving thumpers that came on in a rush of pain. Gently, she massaged the center of her forehead with two fingers. Her mother had gotten headaches, she remembered. And had doused them with liquor. “Get me some water, will you? I’ve got a migraine brewing.”
    Cassie got up from the chair she’d just taken and walked across the room to the gleaming bar. She was a quiet woman, in looks, in speech. And was ambitious enough to ignore Angela’s