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went.
    Anita licked her fingers. “Channel 17 called. They want to interview you about the rock party, the spiked punch and all.”
    “And all” meant Darryl. “Not interested,” muttered Belle.
    The food editor shrugged. “I’ve never known you to pass up an opportunity for publicity. Must be a reason, hmmm?” And off she went, brown hair curled into what looked to Belle like question marks.
    The whole office must be thinking the same thing. And she had to admit, if nothing had happened, why would she turn down a chance for publicity?
    She stuck her head out the door. Her secretary, Lisa, gave her a startled glance and began typing at her computer.
    On Lisa’s desk lay a copy of the tabloid. On the far side, craning his neck to read it, stood Tom, the gangly but efficient young man who served as traffic director. That all-important job involved shepherding editorial copy, ads, layouts, tear sheets and every other aspect of the magazine to the right people at the right time.
    “Call Channel 17,” Belle snapped at the secretary. “Tell them to hightail it over here. And, Tom, I’ll need you in my office.”
    T HE VOLLEYBALL GAME always started around 6:30 p.m. At quarter past six, when Darryl showed up at the beacha few blocks from his house, the usual gang of neighborhood sports enthusiasts were grouped in a huddle instead of warming up.
    “What’s going on?” he called, and promptly realized he should have known the answer. At the center of their semicircle rested a tiny battery-operated TV set, tuned to the Channel 17 news.
    After he’d returned to the office, Darryl had been plagued by sly insinuations and open teasing about Belle Martens and their escapade. Everyone, it seemed, had either read the article or heard about it.
    Now, as he approached his friends, he heard the broadcaster say, “And when we return, we’ll have that item you’ve been waiting for—sexy editor Belle Martens talks about her alleged night of love with arch-rival Darryl Horak!”
    Several faces turned guiltily toward him. Most of his friends greeted him in an offhand manner phony enough to merit a grand jury indictment.
    So Belle had given an interview. Why was he not surprised? He hoped the woman would deny everything. Otherwise…well, otherwise he would have to retaliate.
    “Hey, Darryl!” a female voice called, and the attention of everyone was instantly diverted by Miss March, brunette mane bouncing as she jogged. Mindy had swapped her swimsuit for a shrink top and microscopic shorts. Darryl wondered how she’d found him, but then, it was common knowledge that he lived in Redondo.
    It might also be a coincidence, but experience had taught him that when it came to ambitious people, there were no coincidences.
    “Okay! Here goes!” came a shout around him, and everyone’s attention riveted on the screen.
    First came a shot from the beach that afternoon. Belle could be seen ducking behind Darryl, who stood grinning foolishly. Then the picture cut to Belle’s office, astylishly decorated but cluttered room enlivened by posters of Keanu Reeves and Denzel Washington.
    They hadn’t run one second of his spiel about how About Town chose its centerfolds. This didn’t bode well.
    In the office, reporter Kate Munro posed beside Belle. “Now, tell me,” she cooed as if they were intimate friends. “That night when you and Darryl Horak staggered out of the party together, you didn’t go play Trivial Pursuit, did you?”
    “Any time spent in Mr. Horak’s company would have to be considered a trivial pursuit, but no.” Belle’s chin rose and her eyes sparkled at the camera. “We discussed circulation figures.”
    “You mean for your magazines?” Kate’s voice dripped disbelief.
    “Certainly not!” chirped Belle. “I mean our personal circulation figures. Which I’m not about to reveal, except to say that mine were a touch more spectacular than his.”
    With this remark, she draped her arm around someone off-camera.