Money Shot (8 page)

"I'm really sorry, Madison," I said. "I
should have--"

"Actually I'm glad you didn't tell me
because I'm terrible at keeping secrets." She leaned forward and
lowered her voice, even though the office door was closed. "So tell
me, how'd you get Scott to go along with it?"

Now I'm really
confused
.

"Go… along…"

"Syd, the phones have been ringing off the
hook. Half the women calling are congratulating you and the other
half want to know how to get into news management." Then she held
up a printout that I recognized as the daily ratings chart. "And
the overnights for this past Friday are through the roof."

"So, you mean, you're not--"

"What? Mad? Are you
kidding
? We're the talk
of the industry. You proved that women don't have to be put out to
pasture at forty." She flipped the ratings printout to me. "The
young women love him, the old women love him, and they all love you
for giving him a mature co-anchor and letting them know the rules
can be the same for women as men. You've empowered us, Syd. You
turned back the clock to the 1950's so we can make up for lost time
and chase the cute men around the desk. Frankly, I'm wondering why
the hell I have a female assistant."

I exhaled for perhaps the first time in
three days.

"Just one more thing, Syd."

"Yes?"

"I know you were the one who found Scott and
all, but I was wondering if--"

"Yeah?"

Madison's smile grew, bringing out her
perfect cheekbones. "Maybe one Friday when you're out of town.
Would you be willing to… share?"

***

The leading candidate to anchor our new five
o'clock newscast weaved his way past the tables, leaving a trail of
hanging female tongues in his wake. The dark gray pinstripe vest
draped from Jason Deller's broad shoulders, while his slim hips
carried him through the room.

Here we go again.

I sat up straight on my barstool, crossing
my left leg over my right to take advantage of the slit on that
side of my royal blue dress.

Just in time for the six-foot-three slice of
prime beef to notice.

He extended his hand as he reached the bar.
"Sydney?"

"Yes," I said as I shook his hand.

"What's a nice News Director like you doing
in a place like this?" he asked.

Good. Sense of humor.

"It's a good place to relax after work," I
said.

His cobalt blue eyes stole a glance at my
legs, then locked on my own, looking right into my soul and almost
putting me in a hypnotic trance. He smiled, revealing dimples that
ran like trenches along his rugged twenty-eight year old face that
bristled with a three-day growth. A shock of coal black hair
cascaded over his forehead. He hopped on the barstool next to mine
and swung it around to face me. His knees gently brushed mine,
sending an electric charge through my body.

Damn, he makes Scott Harry look like a Boy
Scout.

"You're not what I expected," he said.

"I hope that's good."

"Oh yeah."

"And you look good in clothes," I said.

His face flushed a bit as he shook his head.
"I can't believe you actually saw that Off-Broadway disaster."

"Hey, Shakespeare in the nude wasn’t all
that bad."

"Right. That's why I'm
still waiting tables uptown after playing opposite
Lady McBare
."

"Did you have a problem doing nudity on
stage?"

"Nah. I just needed the work. At least I got
discovered by you, right?"

"Right."

"I'm frankly surprised you'd actually
consider an actor to be a news anchor."

"Well, we've had an actor as President and
one is currently the Governor of California. It's all about being
able to communicate. What's the difference?"

"True." He looked off to the side for a
moment, then turned back to me. "I do have one question that we
didn't cover during our phone conversation."

"Shoot."

He bit his lower lip, then fired away. "I've
read the tabloids about your… hiring practices. And the regular
weekly--"

"Let me answer your question with a
question," I said.

"Okay."

I leaned forward and slid my hand on the
smooth bar toward his so that our fingers lightly touched.
"Hypothetically, mind you. If you were to be offered a job, a great
job that paid really well, and one of the duties was to take care
of the sexual needs of your boss, how would you respond?

"Hypothetically?"

"Of course."

He shrugged. "Well, that depends."

"On what?"

"On who the boss is. If the boss is some
twenty-five year old ditsy blonde looking for a commitment, then
I'm not the guy. Romance can't be part of the picture. If it's some
wrinkled sixty-year-old prune, forget it." He looked around, then
leaned closer while putting his hand on top of mine. "The boss
would have to be, say, a very attractive tall redhead with a great
pair of legs and spectacular eyes. It would also be nice if she
were a little older than me. I like women who are… seasoned."

Well, rub some spices on me and toss me on
the grill.

"So," he continued, "to answer your
question. If I were to be offered a great job that required me to
have weekly sex with my hot boss, and no romantic strings attached,
well…"

"Yes?"

"I'd jump on it."

Gulp. (I don't even want
to describe the image that flashed through my head, but let's just
call it the really Off-Off-Broadway nude production of
Taming of the Shrew
.)

"Really," I said, feigning surprise. "You
wouldn't consider it any sort of sexual harassment?"

"Oh, please. Hell, I'd let her be in charge
in the bedroom too. Great job, free sex, where do I sign?
Hypothetically, of course."

"Of course," I said.

"You know, the service at this place is
really slow," he said, looking around at the lack of empty tables.
"I oughta know, I used to work here. And the food's not that great
either."

"True." I reached into my beaded purse,
pulled out a ten-dollar bill and tossed it on the bar. "You know, I
think we should continue our conversation elsewhere. I have a room
at the Plaza."

"They have excellent room service
there."

"They do. Are you hungry?"

He licked his lips, hungry eyes looking
directly into mine. "I think I will be in a couple of hours."

He hopped off his stool and extended his
hand. I took it and slid off the chair, then stood straight and
tall, inches away from his face, breathing in his musky
cologne.

"Oh, I do have one more question," he
said.

Uh-oh
. "Sure."

"All I have to do is read and look good,
right? No reporting in the field, no journalism stuff, no writing.
I mean, I'm an actor, not Edward R. Murrow."

"That's the deal. You're not a real news
anchor, you just play one on TV."

"Okay."

"You only have to remember one thing,
Jason," I said. "It's not brain surgery. It's just television
news."