More makeup? Less makeup? There was no time to check, as she was led through a very confusing series of corridors. The station was on the ground floor of an office building in Santa Moreno, a nice little town tucked away in a corner of Southern California an hour away from Los Angeles. How big could the building be, anyway?
At least she knew there was no food in her teeth. She'd checked in the rearview mirror before she got out of the car.
Mr. Arboghast stopped outside an office door, the width of his body blocking her view into the room. Christie heard the voice coming from inside and froze.
"I've got to go, Jack," said a rich male voice. "I'm on the air in a few minutes, and something unexpected just came up." A pause. Then he laughed, a warm, deep baritone laugh that Christie felt deep down in her toes.
She knew that voice. The program director-her prospective boss-was Rick Fox. She remembered him well from the radio station she'd listened to back in college. She'd spent many a night studying in her dorm room with Rick Fox in the background. She'd admired those rich tones even then, years before she consciously thought of going into radio. Christie swallowed, resolving not to be starstruck.
"Gotta go," he said. "Talk to you next week." Mr. Arboghast stepped through the door. Christie stepped in beside him. Behind the desk was a man with light brown hair, his face turned away from them. He sat in front of a computer screen on the right-hand side of the L-shaped desk. One hand rested on the computer keyboard; the other still held the phone. Christie had the immediate impression of a man used to doing several things at once. Unlike the general manager's, his desk was heaped with stacks of papers, manila file folders and trade magazines.
Rick Fox hung up. "Hi, Ed. What have you got for me here?"
Christie wasn't sure how she felt about being referred to as a "what."
Then he swiveled around in his chair, and she drew in her breath. He was younger than she expected early thirties at most-and, not to put too fine a point on it, drop-dead handsome. He had thoughtful-looking gray eyes, and features that wouldn't have been out of place on a classic film actor from the forties. Christie remembered him joking on the air about having a face made for radio. He'd lied. His basic white dress shirt was open at the neck, his light brown hair slightly tousled. Careless, but not sloppy. Someone who didn't fuss too much over his appearance, which Christie found all the more attractive.
She reminded herself it was the job she was after, not the man behind the desk.
The classic features took on a startled look as his eyes fell on her. Then he stood, long legs unfolding underneath him with a smooth, masculine grace. Christie slapped herself mentally. She wasn't some teenager with a crush; she was a grown woman, interviewing for a job she desperately wanted.
"Rick," Mr. Arboghast said, oblivious to her idiocy, "this is Christie Becker. Alex Peretti sent me her tape last week, and we've just been talking." He handed the folder to Rick. Christie sensed, with a sinking feeling, that he'd never seen it before in his life. And he looked like he had a lot on his mind.
He took the package from Ed with his left hand while he reached for hers with his right. When they shook hands, Christie felt the blood go to her feet. The pressure of his fingers around hers was warm, firm and brief, but the gray eyes contemplated her for a long time. She would have given a lot to know what they saw. "Miss Becker."
"Mr. Fox." Her much-praised voice deserted her; to her own ears, she sounded about thirteen years old.
He took his seat, her folder still in hand, and motioned for her to sit in the small, straight-backed metal chair facing his desk. A lot less elaborate than Mr. Arboghast's office, Christie noted, sitting down on the hard seat. She also noted that somewhere in the last several seconds, Mr. Arboghast had disappeared.
Mr. Fox opened the little folder, wearing a preoccupied expression. She ventured, "Did I catch you at a bad time?"
He glanced up with a trace of a wry smile. "I'm afraid there's never a very good time."
This didn't bode well. "I know you're on the air in a few minutes. I could come back-"
"You're here now. It's as good a time as any."
As he leaned back and studied the contents of the folder, Christie took the opportunity to study him. He would have looked even more appealing if not for the faint frown lines appearing between his brows. Christie reminded herself once more to concentrate on the business at hand. Was he seeing anything he liked?
There wasn't much to see: her resume, a photo, and the little cassette that all her hopes were pinned on. After what seemed like three hours, but could only have been a few moments, Rick glanced up at her. "Nice eight-by-ten glossy," he said with another halfsmile. It didn't sound much like a compliment.