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The only event to receive as much news coverage was that same baby's death three months later.

The world was plunged into shock and grief. No one wanted to believe it.

No one could believe it. America mourned.

Barrie finished her wine, rewound the videotape for the third time, and watched again as the funeral scenes sadly unfolded.

Looking pale and tragically beautiful in her mourning suit, Vanessa Merritt was unable to stand without assistance. It was obvious to all that her heart was broken. It had taken years for her to conceive a child, another personal aspect of her life that had been explored and exploited in great detail by the media. To lose the child she'd struggled to bear made her a truly tragic heroine.

The President looked courageously stoic as tears streaked his lean cheeks and ran into the attractive furrows on either side of his mouth. Pundits commented on his attentiveness to his wife. On that day, David Merritt was seen primarily as a husband and father who happened also to be the chief executive.

Senator Armbruster wept unashamedly into a white handkerchief. His contribution to his grandson's small coffin was a tiny Mississippi state flag, sticking up among the white roses and baby's breath.

Had Barrie been in the First Lady's situation, she would have wanted to grieve privately. She would have resented the cameras and commentators.

Even though she knew her colleagues were only doing their jobs-indeed, Barrie herself had been in the thick of it-the funeral had been a pub-18 Sandra Brown

lic spectacle, shared via satellite with the entire world. How had Vanessa Merritt held up even as well as she had?

Barrie's doorbell rang.

She glanced at the clock. "Damn! Twenty-four minutes, thirty-nine seconds.

You know, Cronkite," she said as they went down the stairs, "I think they do that on purpose just to build our hopes up."

Luigi himself delivered. He was a short, rotund Italian with a rosy sweating face, fleshy cherub lips, and a mop of curly black hair-on his chest. His head was completely bald.

"Miss Travis," he said, tsking as he took in her attire. "I was hoping the extra pizza tonight was for a lover."

"Nope. The meatball one's for Cronkite. Hope you didn't go too heavy on the garlic. It gives him gas. How much?"

"I put it on your bill."

"Thanks." She reached for the two boxes, whose aroma was causing Cronkite to do an ecstatic do-si-do around her feet. Cronkite's circles, the merlot, and hunger were making her dizzy.

Luigi, however, wasn't going to relinquish the pizzas without the lecture that came as a standing side order. "You're a movie star-"

"I'm on TV news."

"Same thing," he argued. "I say to the missus, `Miss Travis is a good customer. Two, three nights a week, she calls us. Good for us, but bad for her. She's alone too much.' And the missus says-"

"That maybe Miss Travis prefers being alone."

"No. She says that you don't meet men because all the time you work."

"I meet men, Luigi. But all the good ones are taken. The ones I meet are either married, gay, creepy, or otherwise out of the question. But I appreciate your concern." Again she reached for the pizzas. Again they were withheld.

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"You're pretty, Miss Travis."

"I don't stop traffic."

"You got nice hair. Nice reddish color. Good skin, too. And very unusual green eyes."

"Very ordinary hazel." Not spectacular at all. Not like, say, Vanessa Merritt's limpid sapphire pools.

"Kinda small up here." Luigi's eyes moved to her breasts. Barrie knew from long experience that if she allowed it, he would now begin an evaluation of her figure.

"But not too small," he reassured her hastily. "You're slim all over."

"And getting slimmer." She snatched the pizza boxes. "Thanks, Luigi. Add a good tip for yourself to my bill, and give my regards to your wife." She closed the door before he could launch into another lament on her lacking love life.

Cronkite was whipping himself into a frenzy, so she served him his pizza, box and all. Then she sat down at the kitchen table with her pizza, another glass of wine, and the library books she'd checked out that afternoon. The pizza, as always, was scrumptious. The second glass of wine went down even smoother than the first. The research on SIDS was fascinating.

Of the three, the research was the one she finished completely, craving more.

Frowning skeptically, Howie Fripp dug into his ear canal with the jagged tip of his car key. "I dunno."

Barrie had a primal urge to leap across his desk and tear out his throat with her teeth. No one else unleashed this feral aspect of her personality. Only Howie. It wasn't only his disgusting personal habits and his flagrant chauvinism that aroused such savage instincts. It was his whining gutlessness and lack of vision.

"What don't you like about it?"

"It's depressing," he replied, executing a shiver for effect. "Babies dying in their beds. Who wants to watch a series about that?"

"New parents. Prospective parents. Parents to whom it's happened. Anyone who wants to be informed and enlightened, which I hope includes at least a portion of our viewing audience."

"You live in a dream world, Barrie. Our audience watches because Cheers reruns come on after the news."

Barrie tried to keep the impatience out of her voice. If he knew she was getting riled, he would become even more

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obtuse. "Because of the subject matter, the series won't be jolly. But it doesn't have to be maudlin, either. I've contacted a couple who lost a child to SIDS two years ago. They've since had another baby, and they're willing to do an on-camera interview about how they've coped."

Coming to her feet, she tried to close the sale. "The thrust will be light at the end of the tunnel. Victory over adversity. It could be very uplifting."

"You already lined up an interview?"

"Subject to your approval, of course," she said, giving him a stroke. "I wanted to get my ducks in a row before I came to you, Howie. I've been researching this for a week, talking to pediatricians and psychologists.

It's a timely topic, especially since the death of the Merritt baby."

"Everybody's sick of hearing about that."

"But I'm approaching it from several unique angles."

This wasn't just part of the sales pitch. The more she'd researched Sudden Infant Death Syndrome, the more fascinated she'd become by spin-off subjects that were just as interesting and worthy of exploration as the core. As she'd studied, she'd come to realize that a single, ninety-second piece wouldn't begin to cover them.

Only Howie stood in her way. "I dunno," he repeated. The ignition key was doing a Roto-Rooter on his other ear as he reread her outline. It was detailed but brief. Surely someone of even his limited mental capacity could comprehend it.

She'd asked for three segments, to air on consecutive nights during the two evening newscasts. Each would focus on a different element of SIDS.

She'd proposed that they be heavily promoted well in advance.

Ultimately-of course, this wasn't in the proposal-a news producer in the viewing audience would appreciate her work and offer to hire her away from the leper colony of

22 Sandra Brown

broadcast journalism, otherwise known as the WVUE news department.

Howie belched. The key had produced a glob of brown wax, which he wiped on the top sheet of her outline. "I'm not convinced-"

"I've got an interview with Mrs. Merritt."

He dropped the gooey key. "Huh?"

It was a lie, of course. But desperate times . . . "We recently had coffee together."

"You and the First Lady?"

"That's right. At her invitation. During the course of our conversation, I mentioned doing a series. She endorsed the idea and agreed to share her thoughts."

"On camera?"

Barrie had a sudden vision of Vanessa Merritt trying to hide behind her RayBans, holding a forbidden cigarette with shaking hands-a vision of the woman as an emotional wreck.

"Of course on camera," she said, rolling her eyes.

"You don't say anything about the First Lady in your outline."

"I was saving her as a surprise."

"Okay, I'm surprised," he said dryly.

She'd never been a good liar, but then Howie wasn't an exceptionally good judge of character, so she thought she was safe.

He leaned forward across his desk. "If Mrs. Merritt consents to an interview-"

"She will."

"You still gotta turn out one regular story each day." With that, he sat back and scratched his crotch.

She weighed the condition, then shook her head firmly. "This deserves my full attention, Howie. I'd really like to devote all my time to it."

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"And I'd really like to fuck Sharon Stone. But we don't always get what we want, do we?"

Barrie reconsidered. "Okay. Provision accepted."

"Barrie Travis."

"Who?"

The First Lady cleared her throat before repeating the name. "Barrie Travis. She's a reporter for WVUE."

"Oh, yeah. Sort of a breathy voice?" David Merritt, President of the United States, affixed a cuff link bearing the presidential seal. "I called on her at a recent press conference. Her reports on the White House are usually favorable, aren't they?"

"Very."

"So what about her?"

Vanessa, already dressed and seated on a chaise, took a swallow of white wine. "She's doing a series on SIDS and wants to include an interview with me."

Merritt slipped on his tuxedo jacket and checked his reflection in the mirror. When he took office, he had decided against having a personal valet. Not even the most experienced haberdasher knew how to take advantage of his physique better than he himself. The cut of his jacket accentuated his broad shoulders and narrow waist. He kept his hair well trimmed but never lacquered into place. Secretly, he preferred it rakishly windblown. He wore formal clothes with elegance and grace. In blue jeans, he was the boy next door.

Liking what he saw in the mirror, he turned to his wife. yd?"

"And she'll be at the reception tonight. Dalton has promised her an answer."

Dalton Neely was the White House press secretary. He 24 Sandra Brown

had been handpicked and well trained by Merritt and his top adviser, Spencer Martin.

"Actually, the formal request came through Dalton's office." Vanessa shook out a Valium from the prescription bottle in her beaded evening bag.

"Barrie Travis has been calling my office for several days. I haven't taken her calls, but she's very persistent."

"Reporters make their living by being persistent."

"Well, her persistence has put me on the spot. Dalton approached me this afternoon with her request. Both want an answer from me tonight."

Quickly closing the distance between them, the President grasped her hand and took the small yellow tablet from her palm. He removed the prescription bottle from her evening bag and dropped the pill back into it, then pocketed the bottle.

"I need that, David."

"No, you don't. No more of this, either." He took the wineglass from her and set it aside. "It counteracts your medication."

"That's only my second glass."

"It's your third. You're lying to me, Vanessa."

"Okay, so I lost count. Big deal. I-"

"Not about the wine. About this reporter. She didn't put you in a spot-you did that yourself. She didn't start calling your office until your outing with her a couple of weeks ago. Isn't that the way it happened?"

He'd been informed of their meeting the day it occurred, so he wasn't surprised by Barrie Travis's request for an interview. What bothered him was that, without his consent, Vanessa had initiated a conversation with a member of the media. Vanessa and a reporter, especially one reputed to be less than reliable, was a dangerous combination.

"Did you have me spied on?" she fired.

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"Why'd you make that date with her, Vanessa?"

"I needed someone to talk to. Is that a crime?"

"You chose a reporter to confide in?" He laughed skeptically.

"She wrote me a touching note. I thought she'd be nice to talk to."

"Next time try a priest."

"You're making a big deal out of nothing, David."

"If it wasn't a big deal, then why didn't you tell me about it?"

"It wasn't important until she asked for this on-camera interview. Before, our visit wasn't worth mentioning. She promised that anything I said that afternoon was off the record. I needed someone-a woman-to talk to."

"About what?"

"What do you think?" she shouted.

She jumped off the chaise, grabbed the glass of wine, and defiantly drained it.

He struggled to rein in his temper. "You're not yourself, Vanessa."

"You're damn right, I'm not. So you'll be much better off going without me tonight."

The reception, honoring a goodwill delegation from the Scandinavian countries, was to be her first official function since Robert Rushton's tragic death. The small, formal gathering seemed well suited for Vanessa's reemergence into public life. She'd retreated from it following the baby's death. Three months was enough time. The voting public needed to see her back in action.

"Of course you're coming," the President said. "You'll be the belle of the ball. You always are."

"But-"

"No buts. I'm tired of making excuses for you. We have to work through this, Vanessa. It's been twelve weeks."

26 Sandra Brown

"Is there a time limit on grief?"

He ignored the sting in her voice. "Tonight you'll come through like the Thoroughbred you are. Just be your charming, smiling self, and everything will be fine."

"I hate all those people, looking at me with pity and remorse and not knowing what to say. And when someone does say something, it's so trite, I want to scream."

"Just thank them for the sentiment and leave it at that."

"God!" she cried, her voice cracking. "How can you just resume-"