Eyes on You

Chapter 5

For a second I just knelt there, my heart thumping. The tear was in a slightly different part of my face on each book, almost like someone had stabbed at my picture with a nail file or scissors.

I flashed back to the message on the notecard. You evil little bitch. You'll get yours. Had the same person done this?

I looked up at the shelf. The metal corner was sharp. So maybe the tears had occurred accidentally. The books might have become dislodged somehow and ripped as they fell over the side, catching on the corner. I twisted my neck so I could see my wastebasket. It was empty, which meant the cleaning lady had been in. It was possible she'd moved the rock while dusting and set things in motion accidentally.

Or was I utterly stupid to believe that?

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 off ice 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 f ireplace 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."