Chapter One

Anaheim, California

June 1986

The song ended. Desiree leaned forward on the high stool, bringing her lips close to the microphone.

“That was Rita Coolidge singing the hit from her new album, ‘Be Mine Tonight.’ Before that we heard from Johnny Mathis with ‘So in Love with You.’”

She checked the pie-sized clock on the wall above the console. “It’s twenty-five past three here on this hot and sunny Wednesday afternoon in June. You’re listening to KICK Anaheim, 102 on your FM dial. This is Desiree Germain keeping you company for that long drive home.”

Right on cue, the first soft notes of the next song began to play. Desiree removed her headphones and lifted her long hair off her shoulders, letting the cool air from the overhead vent flow freely around her neck.

A fire-engine red bumper sticker affixed to the window above the console caught her eye: SPEND THE NIGHT WITH DESIREE … KICK 102 FM!

Time for a new slogan, she thought, carefully peeling the length of vinyl off the glass and tossing it in the trash. Seven years of working evenings and nights, and she had finally made it: Prime time, daytime radio in Southern California.

So whatever you do, she told herself, don’t blow it. She turned up the volume control, leaned her head back, and closed her eyes, hoping the mellow tune’s soothing rhythm would help calm her senses.

It’s the same job as before, only the time has changed. Forget about Arbitron and shares and rating points. Forget about the hundreds of would-be deejays standing in the wings, chomping at the bit, just waiting for you to mess up. Put it out of your mind. You’re good—one of the best jocks this station has—or Sam wouldn’t have given you the afternoon drive. Just relax and enjoy yourself.

She heard the studio door open and straightened up. Tom, the station’s part-time gofer, rushed in, his forehead perspiring beneath a tangle of wiry hair.

“Man, it’s hot out there.” He fanned his youthful face with a stack of small newsprint sheets. “The air conditioner can barely keep up. You’re lucky. Your cubicle is nice and cool.”

“I know. I am lucky. And cubicle is right.” Desiree glanced about the tiny studio with a smile. Some people, she knew, got claustrophobic in elevators, yet she was stuck in this microscopic space for four hours straight every weekday.

She didn’t mind. She didn’t care, either, that the equipment was so outdated it was practically obsolete. Or the fact that the dingy beige walls were plastered with old, faded, dog-eared posters of Elvis, The Beatles, Kenny Rogers, and Streisand. She loved every musty detail of the place.

“Here’s the latest, fresh off the wire.” Tom handed her the stack of newsprint.

“Anything good?”

“What do you think this is, Sixty Minutes?

Desiree leafed through the pile of news briefs, reading some of the titles aloud. “‘New smoking control law giving people nicotine fits.’ Cute, but no cigar. ‘Laundromat owner taken to the cleaners in palimony suit.”’ She sighed. “Why do we do these, anyway? We’re not a news station.”

“Don’t ask me.” Tom shrugged as he turned to leave. “Sam likes this kind of stuff. And one must never argue with the P.D.” Before shutting the door, he turned back to her and mimicked their program director’s gravelly voice. “Above all else—Be Entertaining.”

Desiree laughed as she slipped on her headphones. “I’ll give it my best shot. Today’s news can use all the help it can get.”

A familiar refrain signaled the end of the song. She pushed the start button on the deck to the left of the console. A glance at the digital countdown timer told her she had fifteen seconds. Just then Tom pressed his face up against the glass of the window above the console, staring in at her with a goofy expression.

She smothered another laugh, dropping her voice an octave as she said into the mike, “If you’re sitting in traffic right now, feeling that tension creeping up your spine, here’s the perfect way to get rid of all that stress. Just imagine that I’m sitting next to you, giving your shoulders a nice, long, massage.” She cringed. Nice, long massage? Did I really just say that?

The commercial break began. Desiree again plucked off her headphones and glanced up at Tom, who was mouthing the word “outrageous” at her as he walked away.

Outrageous. That’s what the reporter from the Los Angeles Times had written about her in this morning’s review of her new afternoon show. “One outrageous, sexy woman, whose luscious, lusty voice could, with one well- placed sigh, bring half the male population of Southern California to its knees.”

She laughed softly to herself. Luscious? Lusty? Hardly. When it came to looks, she was nothing special. People said she was pretty, but she believed they were just being nice. In school, she’d never been a cheerleader or prom queen, and she hadn’t dated much. She’d been friends with the geeks and bookworms, the less-than-popular crowd.

Pretty girls had blue eyes. Or green eyes. Or brown. Her eyes were amber. Kids used to tease her about it and call her Stoplight, a nickname that still hurt every time she recalled it. Who had amber eyes? Nobody.

Her hair wasn’t much better. It fell past her shoulders in waves that were hard to tame, a nondescript brown blended with dark blond. Somehow, though, her deep voice seemed to lead people to expect a tall, gorgeous, voluptuous bombshell. No way on earth could she ever hope to fit that image.

She was petite in every sense of the word. She possessed curves in all the right places, but no matter how long or how hard she’d wished for it, she had never quite reached the five-foot-three-inch mark.

Thirty years old, she had endured a lifetime of jokes about the discrepancy between her voice and her looks. She’d seen the disappointment in people’s eyes too many times when they met her and discovered she wasn’t the sex symbol they’d imagined.

Still, her voice was her biggest asset. Sam insisted that teasing banter meant higher ratings, and he had encouraged the on-air persona she’d adopted. The listeners couldn’t see her, after all. Her name fit the image. What harm could there be in playing along?

Desiree scanned the news brief she’d selected, waiting for the commercial break to end, then threw the mike switch to program and turned up the volume.

“Here’s an item of interest for all you soft drink guzzlers out there. Looks like the new diet drink, Sparkle Light, is losing steam. In an unexpected move yesterday, the parent corporation, privately owned, multimillion dollar Harrison Industries announced plans for Sparkle Light Bottling Company to go public.” She went on to read the experts’ analysis, which pointed a finger at a suspected drop in product sales.

“If you’ve always wanted to own stock in a soft drink company, this might be your big chance. But let’s hope Sparkle Light picks up in a hurry, or you may find yourself making a big deposit, no-return investment on a ware‐ house full of pop without any fizz.”

She played a groaning sound-effects tape. Next, grabbing a large pink index card from the board above her console, she announced it was time to play the Trivia Game. “I hope you’re all next to your phones.” She announced the number to call, adding, “I’ll take caller number twelve.”

All five lines on the multi-tap phone in her studio lit up with magical precision. Desiree smiled. The immediate response to contests on the afternoon drive never ceased to amaze her. This was the time of day to be on the air!

“The caller who can answer today’s trivia question correctly will receive a complimentary dinner for two at Maximilian’s in Huntington Beach.” Desiree read a blurb about the restaurant, then punched the buttons on the phone one at a time, counting out loud and disconnecting each line in sequence.

“Hi, you’re on the air,” she said when she reached the twelfth caller. “Who’s this?”

“Kyle Harrison.” The voice was slightly obscured by faint background noise.

“Where are you from, Kyle?”


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