Eyes On You Part 32

"Okay."

"When things started to fall apart between us, I did owe you another chance, or at least an attempt at another chance."

"Look, I came down a little hard. I'm the one to blame for what happened."

"I'm not excusing your infidelity. But I did box you out in our marriage, particularly when I had my own show, and even before that. It pains me to admit this, but I was never all in during our marriage. It's not because I didn't love you. I can see now that I've always found ways to keep my distance in relationships. I don't want to sound all 'boo-hoo, woe is me,' but the truth is that my screwed-up past has gotten the better of me in my personal life."

"You were open to me about what you'd been through, Robin. Maybe I should have helped you cope with it better."

"That wasn't your responsibility. It was mine. And I'm sorry that I came into our marriage without having fully dealt with it. I'm going to do that now, though. Find a therapist." I smiled. "Maybe one who specializes in wicked stepmothers and stain phobia. And deal with it."

He nodded, picked up a pizza crust, and obviously deliberated finishing it before dropping it back in the box. "Does that mean making peace with your father, too?"

"Yes. But not in the way you might expect. I've responded to his calls and emails over the years because, I think, deep down I was hoping he was on the verge of saying he was wrong to choose Janice over his daughter, who was still grieving for her mother and needed him desperately. But that's not going to happen. And I've decided the best thing for me to do is accept the reality and lose all contact with him. That's the only way I can truly move on."

"I hope I'm not part of the going-incommunicado plan. I told you I wanted to be there for you, and I meant it."

"I'm okay with that, Jake. I want to stay in touch. But I'd like to take it slow."

"Sure. Hey, somehow I've inspired you to eat a ton of carbs tonight, so I feel that bodes well for the future."

Two weeks later, the offer had come from Potts. My job back, along with an apology and a healthy raise, the latter probably as protection against my trying to sue his flabby a.s.s off. Potts also made it clear that Vicky would be warned and watched. Unfortunately, the network had no grounds for terminating her before the end of her contract. "She's a nutcase, and they know it now," Lisa told me later that day. "But their hands are tied."

I'd thanked Potts for the offer and told him I'd like time to consider it.

I did think about it. Again and again. And that led me to Bettina's.

"Here's what I wanted to talk to you about," I told her. "I want to come to work for you again."

She made no attempt to disguise her total surprise. "I must say, darling, you've completely caught me off guard."

"It doesn't have to be a regular job," I said. "I'd love to consult again, like I did before. Maybe there's a project you can think of for me."

"Oh, there's plenty for you to do. There's even a job I'd give you in a heartbeat. But why aren't you going back to your show? Potts a.s.sured me he was rehiring you."

"He offered," I said. "I don't want to be back on that show."

"Darling," Bettina said, "do another show, then. Take some meetings and listen to the offers. If you want, I'll talk to Tony about an entirely different show for you once he buys the network."

"Thank you," I said. "You've helped me through this, and I appreciate it. But I want to take a hiatus from TV."

"You worked so hard to get back. Potts will be gone before long, and you won't have to deal with him anymore. And between the two of us, Vicky will be out once her contract is finished."

I couldn't go back to the network as long as Vicky was there. But it was more than that. If I wanted a career in television, it couldn't be for the same reasons I'd been involved up until now.

That night by the pool, Ann had been blistering in her comments about me, but she'd been right about one thing: I had spent a year and a half bemoaning being off the air. I was desperate to be the girl on the side of the bus shelter again. It wasn't simply because I loved the work. It ran deeper than that. My career had served a visceral need. When Sharon had asked why I preferred TV journalism to print, a word had slipped out of my mouth: I'd told her that for me, being on TV was validating. And it was. I'd felt that way from my first time on the air. I'd been more than happy as a print reporter, but as soon as I had a taste of being on-camera-as a guest on a show-I was hooked. It was like a drug, in some ways. It had tangled me up, made me push other things away. And my obsessiveness had hurt my marriage.

In hindsight, I could see that craving that role probably had to do with my father, with a need to feel believed and accepted.

At some point, I might be open to being back in the game. But only when I could do it because I loved the work.

"Would you want a full-time job?" Bettina asked.

"What I'd love for now is a freelance project," I said. "I promised my publisher that I would throw myself into publicizing the book for the next few weeks. Fortunately, this whole mess has really helped the sales."

"Why don't you give me a day or two to put together a proposal for you, and I'll be in touch."

"Perfect," I said, rising. I knew she must have evening plans, maybe a dinner at Positano or Pastis. "And thank you, Bettina. I'm very grateful to you."

"How is it going, anyway?" she asked. "I hope you've had people to lean on during this time."

"People like you, yes. And there's a guy I've started to see. He's the one who saved me in the swimming pool."

"What a s.e.xy way to connect," she said, swinging open her front door. "I seem to only meet men at dreary dinner parties, and they're all eighty-five years old. Goodbye, darling, have a nice evening."

"Thanks again, Bettina."

"Remember, if you change your mind, I'll make sure you're back on the network in a millisecond."

"Maybe someday," I said.

acknowledgments.

One of the parts I enjoy most about writing a book is doing all the research for it. That's where you really get to play detective. I would like to thank the people who so generously helped me gather information for Eyes on You: Barbara A. Butcher, chief of staff at the NYC Office of Chief Medical Examiner; Susan Brune, Esq.; David S. Rasner, Esq., partner at Fox Rothschild, LLP, and co-chair of its family law practice; Ronald S. Katz, Esq.; Dr. Mark Howell, psychotherapist; Danielle Atkin, freelance TV producer and writer; Brad Holbrook, former news anchor; Tom Miller, information security manager; Andrea Kaplan, president, Andrea Kaplan, PR; Caleb White, police officer; Ted Lotti, deputy director of corporate security, the Hearst Corp.

I'd also like to thank my awesome agent, Sandy Dijkstra, who has been with me for thirteen books now, and although that's not a lucky number, with Sandy I always feel like I've hit the jackpot; Sandy's fab team, including Elise Cap.r.o.n, Thao Le, and Andrea Cavallaro; my terrific book editor, Carolyn Marino, whom I'm thrilled to be working with now; Emily Krump of William Morrow, who was always there when I needed her; Rachel Elinsky, the a.s.sociate director of publicity at HarperCollins and a dream to collaborate with; Katie O'Callaghan, the a.s.sociate director of marketing at HarperCollins, who has given me a bucketload of help and great advice; and the fabulous Kathy Schneider, a.s.sociate publisher at HarperCollins, who has always had such faith in me.

An Excerpt from The Wrong Man

READ ON FOR AN EXCERPT FROM.

KATE WHITE'S the wrong man COMING SOON FROM.

chapter 1.

For some reason she couldn't understand, Kit woke on the last morning in Islamorada with the urge to do something a little dangerous in her life. Not like shark-cage diving or parasailing over the turquoise blue Florida Bay. She hadn't lost her mind. She just longed for something that would make her heart pump harder and her breath catch in her in throat.

Maybe it was because her vacation, a combination getaway and business-scouting trip, had been nice enough but had offered up no surprises, none of those unexpected discoveries you secretly yearned for on a trip. Oh, she'd done a kayak tour of the mangroves and she'd treated herself to a hot stone ma.s.sage. But those were hardly the kind of activities that left you breathless, even though the ma.s.sage therapist had stressed that the stones were actually "certified lava sh.e.l.ls," as if having them kneaded into your back was comparable to hiking along the rim of a volcanic crater.

Or, maybe the urge was tied to her birthday. She'd turned thirty-five the week before, had broken up five months before with a sweet, nice guy who'd been all wrong for her, and during the days leading up to the occasion, she'd goaded herself to use her birthday as an impetus to go bolder, to be more of a bada.s.s at times. As she'd left the office for the airport eight days ago, Baby Meadow, her seventy-one-year-old interior decorating partner, had quoted a line of Mae West's that kept echoing in Kit's head: "Good girls go to heaven but bad girls go everywhere."

But even as she toyed with the idea, she heard an internal warning. Wasn't the problem with a little danger that you had no guarantee it could be contained? It was like a match tossed on dry brush. Maybe things only smoldered for a while, the embers glowing softly through the night until a light rain doused them at dawn. But with the right wind conditions, those embers could begin to flare, creating flames that would thrash higher and higher in the darkness. Until they torched everything you owned.

She stepped out onto the small, stone patio of her hotel room and discovered that the morning sky was cloudless, and the jungle-like grounds of the hotel-dense with palm trees and sawgra.s.s-looked lush and seductive, in shades of deep green that she rarely liked to use in her work but always felt spellbound by in nature. A gecko darted up the trunk of a tree. Time to get moving, she told herself. It would be crazy not to make the most of her last day.

She dressed quickly-a bikini covered with a sarong and T-shirt-and headed for breakfast, her iPad tucked under her arm. The hotel was a small boutique one, almost motel-like in style but charming and Caribbean in feel. Her room was in one of a half-dozen white clapboard buildings separated from the main building by winding sand pathways. As she came around a bend in the path, she overheard snippets of conversation. It was a man talking, probably another guest up early, too, and after a moment she realized he was on a cell phone. There was a hint of consternation in his tone.

"I wouldn't wait much longer," Kit thought she heard him say. And then, as she rounded the bend, his words were more distinct: "I'd rather have a few regrets than none at all."

He was late thirties, she guessed, about six foot two with dark red hair cut short in a kind of Navy Seal style and a closely cropped beard and mustache. Dressed in a pale, long-sleeved shirt and cream-colored pants. He caught her eye and then looked away, lowering his voice at the same time.

As she pa.s.sed him, she reflected on the last comment he'd made. Perhaps that should be her motto in life, she thought. But how did you guarantee a few regrets didn't balloon into too many?

Breakfast was included in the price of her room, and she went a little nuts-glistening red papaya, half a m.u.f.fin, a cheese and mushroom omelet, and a foamy cappuccino-telling herself to get her money's worth. While eating she knocked off replies to a few emails and checked the news online.

She lingered longer than she'd planned. With half an eye on a headline on her iPad, she grabbed her tote bag and left the restaurant, eager to reach the beach.

And then bam, she collided hard with someone. Her fault for trying to still read the darn iPad. She looked up to see that her victim was the red-haired man she'd pa.s.sed on the path.

"So sorry," Kit said. She felt like an idiot.

"It's my fault, too," he said politely. "My mind was elsewhere."

She wondered if it had been on the conversation he'd had earlier. Well, whatever, decent of him to let her off the hook. He held her gaze tightly for a couple of beats, with eyes that were a light but piercing blue.

"Have a nice day," she said. He nodded and they both went on their way.

She walked the beach and started shooting photos with her Samsung, mostly of the luscious white sand. She loved to catalogue shots of things whose names were the same as colors-like sand, olive, lavender, ash, and bone. It was fascinating to see how many variations there were, and to liberate them all from the confinement of their names. Later, she read and ate lunch under a palm tree by the small, turquoise-bottomed pool. Then she changed into street clothes and took a taxi to a shop in town.

It was on the main road that ran through the island, a kind of honky-tonk strip, but there were a decent few stores there, some of which she'd already perused, scouting for her client. The woman had vacationed as a girl in the Florida Keys and wanted the same vibe for a Jersey Sh.o.r.e cottage she'd recently purchased. That was actually part of the reason Kit had picked Islamorada to begin with-killing two birds with one stone. But now she was shopping just for herself. One of the stores specialized in fanciful exotic stuff, including a mounted sawfish bill that she'd practically drooled over.

The place was nearly empty now but she liked that. She started down an aisle, relaxed in the moment. And then there he was again, Mr. X, the red-haired guy from the morning, wearing a tight, heather blue T now instead of the long-sleeved shirt. It was as if she'd conjured him up, the way a magician pulls a dove from his sleeve.

"h.e.l.lo again," he said, suddenly seeing her. His eyes held hers the way they had earlier.

"Oh, hi. Sorry again about this morning. No injuries, right?"

"No, none at all. Though I should warn you. I hear they're going to make that illegal in some states-walking while reading a tablet."

"Good to know," she said, smiling. "I'll leave my iPad at home-or use a designated reader."

He didn't say anything for a moment, just looked at her, as if weighing a decision.

"Are you hunting for souvenirs?" he asked finally.

"Sort of. What about you? You don't seem like the type who goes for mirrors with seash.e.l.ls hot-glued to the frame."

She wasn't sure why she'd teased him that way. It was a tactic she sometimes relied on with awkward male clients, to entice them to open up.

"I'm going to take that as a compliment," he said. "I was actually trying to find a gift for my big sister's birthday. Any ideas? She'll be forty-one. Nice taste but on the casual side."

She wondered suddenly if he might be trying to pick her up. But she'd never been drawn to red-haired men. Weren't they supposed to be brooding or even wildly mercurial, the type who'd think nothing of bashing another man over the back of the head with a bar stool?

"Will you need to pack it in your luggage?" she asked. "If that's the case, you might want to think small."

"She's got a place in Miami. I'm headed there by car tomorow so I can take it with me."

"So size isn't an issue?" she said.

"Not really. But don't women hate gifts in large packages? They a.s.sume you've brought them a juicer or an emergency kit for their car."

"You're so right," Kit said. He looked, she thought, like the kind of guy who'd never given anyone a juicer in his life, and if he needed juice himself, he'd just crush a half-dozen oranges in one fist. Maybe he was a Navy Seal, decompressing after a raid on a terrorist cell or Somali pirates. "Okay, let's see, then . . ."

She turned to scan the store and then headed down an aisle, with him trailing just behind her. After a minute or so, she spotted a hammered metal frame tucked behind a group of decorative boxes.

"What about this?" she said, easing it out. "A woman can never own enough frames. And this one would work with any style."

"Even causal? Though maybe a better way to describe my sister is a touch Bohemian."

"Yes, this would mix with that." Kit smiled. "I'm actually a decorator."

"Ahh. Well then, sold." He accepted the frame from her. "I'm Matt Healy, by the way," he added like an afterthought.

She was standing so close to him that she could see the light freckles on his face. There was something about him that was both rugged and refined-the cropped beard and mustache contrasting with the sophisticated air. And then there were those freaking blue eyes. When she'd handed him the frame, she'd noticed there was no wedding ring on his hand. Though, of course, that didn't mean a thing.

"Kit Finn," she said.

"Here on vacation?" he asked.

"Partly. I'm also checking things out for a client. How about you?"

"Uh, business and pleasure, too, I guess you could say. I sold my company recently and I'm trying to figure out what my next move should be. . . . I actually drove down here from New York this time."

"And how was that?" she said, raising an eyebrow. "I'm from the city myself but I don't think I could handle a drive that long."