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court.
"Would you like to make an appointment,
Mrs Donnelly?" the receptionist asked. Jo had been in two minds whether actually to come and see him or not.
The anger in which she had made her threat to Michael had cooled sufficiently
for her to wonder what she was going to tell Tom. He was an old friend. He and
his wife dined with Michael and herself from time to time, and the previous January they had all gone skiing in Vermont. Was she going to tell him she wanted to split with
Michael? No, that was stupid; she
didn't want to break up her marriage – she still hoped to make it work. But she did want to frighten Michael,
make him realize that she wasn't taking any more of his impossible behavior.
Just telling him had got her nowhere.
    The woman behind the desk was
looking at her, probably knowing damned well what was in her mind, having seen innumerable
other women standing there,
vacillating...
    "Er... I guess I'll leave it
just now. I'll call him sometime. It's not important,"
she smiled.
    Ed Kowicz, Managing Editor of Profiles, peered at her. "You don't look so
good. That a bruise?"
    Ed had hawkish eyes, and could
see the discoloration even through the
pancake make-up she had applied. "I walked into a door."
    "Happens all the time,"
he agreed. "You ready to take on Connors?"
    "Of course I am. Are we supposed to
wrestle?"
    "He's something of a lady
killer, I hear. But he knows his job. He's also an expert on tropical storms, I believe. And the
hurricane season down south has just
opened. Could be an angle."
    "Why, yes," Jo agreed.
Like everyone who holidayed in Florida or the Bahamas she was always happy to talk about hurricanes. But not everyone holidayed in Florida or the Bahamas.
"Do you reckon anyone in New York is interested in
hurricanes?"
    "Why not, after Gloria's
near miss? Anyway, everyone is interested in hurricanes, even if they don't ever expect to be
hit by one. Besides, we don't only sell Profiles in New York, you know. It's a good
angle. But don't let him snow you."
    "Let me tell you
something," Jo said. "Right this minute there isn't a man in the world could snow me, Ed. Not even
you."
National American
Broadcasting Service Offices, Fifth Avenue — Mid-Morning
    Manhattan shimmered. Even on the
shaded side of the street heat bounced off the walls and up from the sidewalk. A few sensible
matrons held parasols over their heads,
but even they mopped their faces and gasped for
breath. Traffic fumes hung in the streets without a whisper of breeze to shift them, and the sunny side of the street
was almost deserted as pedestrians avoided the blistering solar rays.
    Jo stumbled as she walked down
Fifth Avenue, and tugged impatiently to free the heel of her sandal from the melted tar on the
sidewalk, then sighed
with relief as she passed through the doors into the air-conditioned cool of the NABS building. She had
never been here before; she had interviewed a good many TV personalities, but always in
hotel lobbies or at
their homes. Now she was shown into a small waiting room and left to herself for some fifteen
minutes, which did not improve her mood. But finally Richard Connors appeared.
    If he was flattered to have been
selected for a prestigious interview, he didn't show it. Nor did he help matters by his opening
remark: "Now, what can I do for you,
Miss… er...?"
    Jo felt herself bristling, but
controlled the retort on the tip of her tongue, smiled sweetly, and said, "My name is
Josephine Donnelly, Mr Connors, and I would like you to talk about yourself." With
which request she thought
he would be happy to comply; she'd met this type before, smooth, suave, sophisticated, too damned
good-looking for real, and boy, was he arrogant. "Do you mind if I tape our conversation?"
She produced a small recorder from her
purse.
    "As a matter of fact I
do," Connors said. "I find those things terribly inhibiting. Can't you make notes to assist your
memory?"
    It was an awful let down, after
watching the handsome, charming