Eyes on You (6 page)

I glanced back at the book jackets. For the second time in twenty-four hours, thoughts of my stepmother muscled their way into my memory. I was looking at the kind of trick she’d like to play. She’d tear my things. Or stain them. And make it seem as if I was responsible. Go away, I wanted to scream. Get your face out of my brain
.

I reached for the books, but as I did, I felt a tremor in my right hand. I squeezed it closed and shut my eyes. Just breathe, I told myself. I took three long, deep breaths.

Finally, the tremor ceased. I gathered up the books, wrestled off the jackets, and tossed those in the trash.

Ten minutes later, I was in the back of the Town Car. As my driver zigzagged south toward the restaurant, past high-rise office buildings pulsing with light, I kept envisioning the torn book jackets in my mind. Up until now I’d convinced myself that whoever had written the notecard was someone outside of the show’s staff—the TV critic Mina Garvin, perhaps. That didn’t seem to be the case.

When the driver pulled up in front of the restaurant, I instructed him to wait, saying I’d be an hour or so. I approached the maître d’s stand and gave Carter’s name. A couple was waiting nearby, and I could tell by their widening eyes that they recognized me. If Carter and I had thought we could enjoy a quiet dinner without being spotted, we were dead wrong. But so what? There was absolutely nothing remarkable about the two of us eating together after the show.

The maître d’ led me across the restaurant. There was a huge limestone fireplace on one wall, like something out of an eighteenth-century French château, but the rest of the room was sleek and modern, with chrome standing lamps creating soft pools of light on the ceiling. I spotted Carter at a table in the corner. He looked as good across a room as he did from a foot away.

“Sorry to be late,” I said, sliding onto the red leather banquette opposite him. He’d taken off his makeup, and his skin was freshly scrubbed and smooth.

“Not a problem. I ordered a bottle of red for us. I heard you say once that you’re a cabernet fan.” Without waiting for the waiter, Carter filled my glass and raised his own glass in salute. “Here’s to having survived a Cruz Missile assault,” he said.

“Hear, hear,” I replied, clinking his glass.

“I hope you didn’t mind my stepping in tonight,” he said. “As soon as I opened my mouth, I wondered if you would have preferred to deal with the situation on your own.”

Maybe he hadn’t been trying to throw his weight around earlier. Or maybe he had been and was placating me now. I wasn’t sure. As good as I was at bantering with Carter on the air, I didn’t have a perfect read on him.

“I’m a big girl, and I can take care of myself,” I said. “But I appreciate the gesture.”

“I was just afraid she might head-butt you with those rollers,” he said, grinning. “And I
did
have an advantage in the situation.”

“You mean because you’re a man?”

“Actually, I was going to say because I’ve been at the network for a while, and I’ve heard people discuss the best way to defuse her. Are you saying she has it out for women in particular?”

“That’s the sense I get. From comments people have made, and just from my own brief dealings with her.”

“Could be. Though as far as I know, she’s an equal opportunity offender.”

We took a minute to peruse the menu. Out of the corner of my eye, I caught a woman drinking in Carter with her eyes. She looked like she wanted to tear his suit off with her teeth. Who could blame her?

“Where was Tom tonight, anyway?” I asked after we’d placed our orders. “I kept waiting for him to burst out of the control room to deal with Vicky, and it just didn’t happen.”

“He said he had to run to the head at the end of the show.”

“He knows about it now?”

“Yeah. Says he’s seen Baylor on Vicky’s show but had no idea the guy was under contract. I don’t know . . .”

“What?” I asked.

“Tom’s seemed a little preoccupied lately.”

“Any idea why?”

“To tell you the truth, that’s one of the things I wanted to run by you. I’ve wondered if he might be job hunting.”

“
Job hunting?
” I said. “The show’s barely off the ground.”

“But he’s been at the network for ten years, and he may be restless. Then there’s the Potts factor. Tom was brought in by a different president, and though he’s never liked dealing with suits, Potts really gets under his skin. If Tom leaves, it could be bad for the show.”

He was right. It
would
be bad for the show. God, one more thing to think about. And then the torn book jackets wiggled their ugly way into my mind again.

“Wait, do you know something?” Carter asked, misjudging my expression.

“No, no,” I said, trying to push the image away. “I was just considering how much I don’t like that idea.”

“What we need is a plan,” Carter said.

Ahh, leave it to Carter. He probably had a back-pocket game plan for everything.

“Okay,” I said, willing to brainstorm. “Are you talking about trying to take Tom’s pulse, figure out what’s going on?”

“No, because he wouldn’t tell us,” Carter said. “For a guy who talks a blue streak, he plays things close to the vest. I think we need to be more involved in the day-to-day of the show.”

“How so?” I asked. “We already work on stories.”

“But we tend to get attached to stories after they’re off the ground. I think it would be smart for us to be more engaged during the front end—to sit in on the morning story-pitch meetings, for instance. If a new exec producer comes in and tries to shift the focus of the show, we’ll see it immediately.”

I sensed that there was more here than met the eye. Carter might be angling to score a dual host/producing role for himself down the road. At least he was viewing me as a partner. I wouldn’t want him jockeying against me.

“Count me in,” I said. “As long as you don’t think Tom will view it as some kind of power play.”

“When the moment’s right, let’s ask to go to the pitch meetings and see how he reacts. Then take it from there.”

“Speaking of story pitching, I had an idea I wanted to share with you,” I said. Carter had confided in me, and I sensed that I could trust him enough to tell him about my ratings analysis.

“Sure,” he said. “Love to hear it.”

“It’s based on a bit of research I’ve done,” I said. “We know that Tom is good at paying attention to how each segment rates, but sometimes he responds in a local way rather than a global one. For instance, if a segment does well, he might decide to run something similar soon afterward, but then it’ll slip off his radar. I used Excel to rank all the segments we’ve done since the show started. There are a few trends worth looking at.”

Carter tilted his head and nodded. “Interesting,” he said. “What gave you the idea?”

“I spent a year working with Bettina on her website, and this is just part of what you do in that world. You’re always looking for what gets the most clicks. As you’d expect, our celeb stories are at the top, but the crime segments we’ve put together have rated almost as well. We don’t do many of those, partly because they lose out to pressing celebrity news, but I think it would make sense to have them in the mix each week.”

“You gonna suggest this to Tom?”

“Yes, I’m putting a memo together. But I’d love your impression first.”

“Sure. Shoot it to me and I’ll take a look.”

“Here’s a question for you,” I said. “Vicky covers crime regularly. This wouldn’t be stepping on her toes, would it?”

“Well, the woman doesn’t
own
crime,” he said. “Plus, she likes to latch on to really big stories and stay with them for weeks.”

“Right. I figured we could focus on more esoteric stuff.”

“Sounds good.”

Again, I wasn’t a hundred percent sure what he was really thinking. It seemed he liked the idea, but then maybe he just wanted a peek at my research. I studied his face, and as I did, I realized that he was studying
me
, our thoughts tangling in midair for a moment. Should I tell him about the book jackets?
No
. I needed to sleep on what had happened, gain fresh perspective.

Our food arrived, and I took another sip of wine. I’d drunk more than a glass, but it had helped smooth my frayed nerves.

“So how’ve you been dealing with the no-vacation policy?” Carter asked, slicing into his steak. Since the show had debuted, we’d been discouraged from taking any time off until at least December. Neither of us had missed a night.

“It’s not ideal, but I’ve been so excited about the show, I haven’t much cared,” I said. “How about you?”

“Truthfully, I miss it. We traveled a ton when I was a kid, and it’s in my blood now. It was tough not to break away this summer.”

I’d heard from a couple of people that Carter had come from money, which was not the typical background for male anchors. The ones I’d met were up-from-nowhere guys for whom fame was almost a better validator than money.

“I never traveled until my junior year abroad in college,” I said. “We went on a lot of staycations when I was a kid.”

“Not so bad if you come from an interesting place.”

“And if you have someone great doing the planning. Mine were all with this fabulous single aunt of mine, and they were incredibly fun.” As I said the words, I thought of my aunt Jessie in her wide-brimmed hat, laughing out loud as she drove the car. She had passed away seven years ago.

“Where were your parents?” he asked.

I’d foolishly opened the door on that one. “Unfortunately, my mother died when I was nine.”

“Was she a single mom?”

I should have expected a follow-up question from Carter. He’d spent eight years as a local TV news reporter. “No, my father was in the picture. But he remarried eighteen months later, and it was easier for me to live with my aunt much of the time.”

Carter had taken a sip of wine and looked at me over the brim of the wineglass. “I sense an evil stepmother in the picture,” he said, setting down the glass.

Why hadn’t I kept my stupid mouth shut? I let out my breath slowly. “Yes,” I said. “But I’ll spare you the gory details.”

“I wouldn’t mind hearing them,” he said.

“I promise to tell you one day,” I lied, “when you’re in the mood to be bored to death.”

They cleared our plates, and the waiter asked if we wanted coffee and dessert.

“I’m tempted,” I told Carter. “I’m a terrible chocaholic. But I should head home. I have radio interviews to do in the morning for the book.”

I realized that for the last hour, we’d been talking almost earnestly at times, without the nonstop repartee we typically engaged in. That was okay. It was nice not to have to exert so much energy this late at night. And Carter seemed relaxed in a way I’d never witnessed in him.

The waiter brought the check, and Carter insisted on paying. Then he walked me to the Town Car waiting on the street outside. His, he said, was directly behind mine; I noticed that his driver was staring straight ahead, pretending not to watch us. So was mine.

A crowd of tourists just out of the theater came barreling down the street; Carter grabbed my elbow and pulled me out of the way. I felt the same spark I had the other night, this time stronger, shooting all the way through me.

“Good night, Robin,” Carter said after they’d moved on. “I’m glad we did this.”

“Me, too. I appreciate your take on the Vicky situation.”

He looked at me closely. Over his shoulder a Times Square billboard gyrated with blue, green, and white lights.

“By the way, sorry for that awkward moment on the phone last night,” he said. “Jamie’s no fool, as it turns out, but I shouldn’t have ambushed you that way.”

So this evening hadn’t been just a postmortem. “I’m flattered but I’m hardly your type,” I said laughing.

He smiled. “Okay, admittedly, I’ve dated a few first-class bimbos. But that’s not what I want out of life. You’re an amazing woman, Robin, and I’m really attracted to you.”

“Carter,” I said, scrambling a little. “I won’t deny that there’s chemistry between us. But I think our contracts state we’d be subjected to waterboarding if we act on it. Plus, we could end up like one of those prime-time shows that plunge in the ratings after the stars finally hook up.”

He chuckled. “Maybe,” was all he said. From the intense look in his eyes, I could tell it was his way of implying that the decision was mine to make.

He loosened his tie, readying himself for the ride back to his apartment, and there was a sexiness about the gesture that, without warning, sent a current of desire through my body. Part of me was inclined to grab Carter and command him to take me back to his place.

I didn’t. I smiled and said good night.

In the car, my brain started to churn again, not only with thoughts about those awkward moments with Carter but also Vicky, the possibility of Tom bolting, and the damn book jackets. I did my best to banish them. I had all those radio interviews to do from home in the morning, and it was essential to be at the top of my game for them.

I leaned forward in my seat. “Just let me off on the corner of Lexington tonight,” I told the driver. “In front of the deli on the east side. I’ll walk from there.” I had absolutely nothing in the fridge, and I needed to pick up provisions for breakfast.

“You sure you don’t want me to wait?” he asked.

“No, that’s okay. Thanks anyway.”

I was the only customer in the deli. I grabbed milk, yogurt, and a small loaf of multigrain bread. At some point, I was going to have to get my act together on the home front, but with my workload, that was next to impossible.

As I stood at the counter paying, I realized that my legs were aching. Not only from moving around for hours in killer heels but from the stress of the day. All I wanted to do was curl up at home. Maybe I’d sneak in a bath before bed.

Carrying the small bag of groceries, I headed down my street. It was empty on the block, and the only sound I could hear was the tap-tap of my heels on the sidewalk. New York always thinned out in August, but my neighborhood was more deserted tonight than I would have expected.

Suddenly, there was noise behind me. Footsteps. A dog walker, maybe. I looked back, being cautious. But there was no one there.