One

Friday afternoon, New York City

1986

Thwack! As Sylvia Reynolds walked from the sofa to scan the Manhattan skyline, a huge black crow slammed into the window. She clamped her eyes shut, then opened them to see it begin its somersault down thirty-seven stories. One black feather stuck in a small patch of fluid remained on the glass.

“My God, Austin,” she said, her voice nearly a squeal. “Did you see that?”

Austin Montgomery laughed, rose from the sofa, and ambled across the carpeted floor. He pushed a button on his desk. Gossamer curtains glided together to cover the floor-to-ceiling windows. “It happens during migration season.” He gestured for Sylvia to sit down again and slid into the chair behind his desk. “The window washers will clean it.”

She willed her eyes away from the feather, still visible through the sheer curtains. Sitting, she looked down at her white hands clenched over the black Hermès suit bought for this meeting. Consciously, she relaxed them and thought, I belong in this office and today will bring me one step closer. She held her breath. The room seemed to pulse in electric silence.

“Sylvia,” he said. “I’d like you to take over as general manager at WABN.” She exhaled and jumped to her feet to shake his hand. But he continued, “Provided you can follow a few critical directives.”

Directives? Odd word. It struck her, as it often did, how affected Austin was—this spare man in one of his ever-present Versace suits. He even resembled Gianni Versace. Same shock of silver hair, same perpetual tan, same blinding white teeth.

Sylvia inclined her head. “Certainly. You’re the chairman. Your word is law.”

He looked pleased. “Good. Because there’s someone at the station I need you to keep an eye on.”

“Who is he?”

“She, actually. Finley Smith, the news director.”

“I’ve met her.” That corporate party in the Bahamas. Long hair, longer legs. Gorgeous. Hated her on sight.

“Everyone’s heard of Finn,” he said. “She’s won every award in the business. She’s a powerhouse. Her ratings are through the roof.”

“Then why do you need me to watch her?”

Manicured fingers raked the white mane, “Finley’s ethics are a bit—umm, lofty for my purposes.”

“Your purposes?” For Christ’s sake, get to the point so I can get out of here and celebrate with a martini.

Austin’s hands lowered to the arms of his glove-leather chair. “Let’s just say it’s important to Prescott Broadcasting that Governor Morgan is reelected.”

Sylvia’s brow creased. She softened it, not wanting to appear perplexed. “Does Finley dislike Morgan’s politics?”

He waved his hand in dismissal. A diamond ring flashed. “She’s something of a crusader, one of those liberal journalists for whom truth trumps profit. That’s all well and good if you’re a saint, but let’s be candid here, saints don’t belong in this business.” He stood, walked to the mahogany side table, and extended the silver coffee carafe toward Sylvia. She shook her head.

“Morgan has relationships with many of our most important clients.” Austin refilled his cup. “They make big donations to his campaigns. And give our stations the largest share of their ad buys. It benefits those companies if, on occasion, the biggest TV station in Pennsylvania…” he cleared his throat, “looks the other way.”

“Oh,” Sylvia said. “You want Finley to play nice with Morgan’s supporters?”

“Exactly. I’m tied to this office, so I can’t be in Philadelphia to keep an eye on her.”

“Why don’t you just fire her?”

“That would be complicated—and suspect. Her reputation is big and growing. And, bottom line, nobody produces ratings like Finley. You see the position that puts me in, don’t you?”

Sylvia adjusted the strap on her slingback shoe, waiting for a reaction that didn’t come. Curious he didn’t stare, she thought. Men like my legs. She gave a mental shrug. Whatever.

She focused back on her goal. Austin was in his mid-fifties. In ten years, she’d be forty-six. And the first female chairperson of Prescott Broadcasting.

“Rest assured.” She crossed her legs again. Still no reaction. “I’ll take care of Ms. Smith.”

“Good. I figured if anyone could…” His laugh was cold. “Do you know people call you ‘the barracuda?’”

Sylvia bristled then relaxed. Not a bad reputation to have in this business.

“Besides Finley, you’ll need to handle the other duties of a general manager, of course. Same stuff you’ve done before. Raise profits, cut staff, the usual.”

“No problem.” Her voice sounded bitter—even to herself. “That’s the fun part.”

“That’s what I like about you, Sylvia. You think like a man.”

Yes, like a man. Like the son my father wanted. The old bastard.

She willed herself not to glance at the black feather again. “When do I start?”