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Chapter One
Washington, D.C.
If Cammy Glynn had learned one thing growing up in the shadow of the media, she'd learned that every media debacle started because someone had good intentions.
Cammy's eyes drifted shut in frustration. "Look, Mike, I know you thought you were helping."
Dr. Mike, Costas, Cammy's longtime friend and business partner, leaned back in his chair. The soft creak of leather and slightly oiled springs signaled his lapse into informality.
Cammy opened her eyes in time to see him prop his pricey Italian loafers on the mirrorlike surface of his cherry desk. Mike did nothing without flair. "Cammy," he said, his voice the same butterlike sound that calmed so many of his patients, "you have got to think this over"
"I have thought it over" Agitated, she surged from the chair to pace to the window. This was unusual for her; in the six years she'd shared office space and a practice with Mike, they'd never had a major disagreement. She liked him, personally and professionally, but this time he'd pushed her too far. "I know you feel the publicity will benefit Wishing Star."
"It will."
She ignored his interruption. "I also know you were doing me a favor by talking to your friend at Associated Wire.
"Cammy—"
"But I don't want Jackson Puller disrupting my work with the children." She shot Mike a dry look. "Or disrupting my life."
"This press aversion you have is—"
"Phobic. I know. You've told me. Spare me the professional rhetoric."
"Look." Mike sat up straight. "It's time to face facts, Cam. You know I support what you're doing with theWishing Star Foundation, but you've got to be realistic. You're scraping by on private donations. You're spending so much of your professional time doing charity work, you've barely got a paying patient left in the bunch."
"I do my share of the billing."
"But not the collecting." He exhaled a long breath. "Truth is, you're not the only one that needs the publicity. Five years ago, everyone in this town wanted to see a shrink. Neurosis was in vogue. That's not how it is anymore. It's getting harder to make ends meet."
"Mike, if the practice is in trouble—"
"We're not in trouble. Not yet."
"You could consider another partner."
"I don't want another partner. I like the blend we have, and our rapport. I like having a child psychiatrist down the hall. Despite my reputation for avarice"—he flashed her his million-dollar grin—"I actually like to help people. Besides, Bess would kill me if I dumped you."
Cammy laughed. Mike's oft professed fear of his wife's supposed bad temper was a standing joke between them. "I wasn't suggesting that you dump me, Costas. I was merely pointing out that we could expand a bit."
"No. I think we have an excellent balance here, and I don't want to screw around with it."
"Fear of change—"
He held up a hand. "It's not a joke, Cam." His expression turned uncharacteristically serious. "You and I have both known for some time that your heart's with Wishing Star—not in private practice. You don't want to spend your hours treating the overindulged neurotic kids of public officials any more than I want to spend my days volunteering at the homeless shelter. All I'm trying to do here is help you out."
He was undeniably, frustratingly comet, and she. knew it. "I know."
"A little positive media attention is just the thing you need to get Wishing Star firmly established. You'll pick up some decent corporate funding, a few big private donors, and then you can spend all the time you want working with those children. If nobody ever pays you a dime, it won't matter. Besides," he said, indicating the window with a wave of his hand, "you can't beat the view from the office."
She didn't need to look. Mike's Sixth Street office suite overlooked the U.S. Capitol on one side and the Washington Monument on the other. Cammy studied him for a minute. "You're right."
"I know I'm right. So what if I pulled a few strings? So what? It's not a criminal offense, you know. This is Washington, D.C. The city doesn't turn without somebody pulling somebody else's strings."
"But why Jackson Puller?"
Mike's white eyebrows lifted. "That was pure luck. When I talked to Chris, he was going to send some junior back over here. He agreed to the series of articles only because he owed me. He wasn't going to give you anybody prominent."
"Lucky me."
He ignored her dry comment. "Then Puller came back from Bosnia with a Pulitzer prize in his hip pocket. And it seems the bureau chief down there is afraid that his wonder-boy is going to burn out."
No doubt, she thought. Jackson Puller, star reporter of the Associated Wire Service, had more stickers on his passport than the president of the United States. He'd made a name for himself with human angle stories—generally stories featuring children—in just about every political hot spot in the world. "That last series from Bosnia was incredible," she admitted.
"When be wrote about that kid dying in that car bomb explosion, the response from the public was amazing. But that's what Chris says won him some downtime."
"Great. I'm downtime."
"Don't take it personally. Look at it as providential. Puller was pretty shaken up, from what I understand, by seeing that kid die. He's got a real thing for kids. When he got back, his bosses decided he needed a break. Your story came up, and the work of Wishing Star seemed like the perfect decompression assignment for their ace reporter."
