Perfect Timing

PRAISE FOR

Perfect Timing

“Laura Spinella creates realistic characters you care deeply about.
Perfect Timing
pulls you in from the first page all the way to the delicious ending. I loved it!

—Maria Geraci, author of
A Girl Like You

“
Perfect Timing
wraps its arms around you and holds tight. Through the course of this lush, beautiful novel, Isabel and Aidan also come to learn that though people with their own agendas may exploit and betray them, Aidan’s prodigious musical talent and Isabel’s rock-solid moral compass cannot be denied. Nor can the relentless power of true love.”

—Judith Arnold,
USA Today
bestselling author

“I loved Isabel and Aidan so much, I felt like I grew with them over the course of the novel and cheered for them the whole way! Beautifully written, with gorgeous settings and a deft ear for dialogue,
Perfect Timing
is a true gem, one that I will carry with me for a long time.”

—Anita Hughes, author of
Lake Como

“The human heart and all its frailties are on magnificent display in Laura Spinella’s
Perfect Timing
. Her characters are so winning, vivid, and compelling—and the love story so riveting—I was swept away. Perfect, indeed. Brava!”

—Ellen Meister, author of
Farewell, Dorothy Parker
and
The Other Life

Laura Spinella has written another irresistible love story, with plot twists that make your heart pound—and the sexiest hero on the planet. I consumed
Perfect Timing
in one sitting!”

—Barbara Claypole White, author of the
In-Between Hour

“An unforgettable romance for anyone who has ever wondered what it would be like to love and then lose the world’s sexiest rock star.
Perfect Timing
takes the reader on a vicarious thrill ride into world of fame, fortune, and family secrets, and stays with you like your favorite rock ballad.
Perfect Timing
deserves a standing ovation.”

—Karin Gillespie, author of the
Bottom Dollar Girl
series

PRAISE FOR

Beautiful Disaster

“In
Beautiful Disaster
, Laura Spinella weaves the past into the present with a sure hand as she tests the boundary between love and obsession. With its evocative Southern setting and finely drawn characters,
Beautiful Disaster
confronts the reader head-on with this question: What would you risk for a love you know is right and true?”

—Diane Chamberlain, author of
Necessary Lies

“
Beautiful Disaster
is a beautifully crafted romance set against a Southern backdrop. A powerful tale about the power of love. A wonderful read.”

—Wendy Wax, author of
While We Were Watching Downton Abbey

“
Beautiful Disaster
is a lovely, sexy, soulful debut.”

—Jean Reynolds Page, author of
Safe Within

“A wonderfully intense romance that is sure to please fans of relationship fiction . . .
Beautiful Disaster
will keep you turning pages until you reach the end and find all the answers.”

—Susan McBride, author of
The Truth About Love and Lightning

Berkley Books by Laura Spinella

BEAUTIFUL DISASTER

PERFECT TIMING

THE BERKLEY PUBLISHING GROUP

Published by the Penguin Group

Penguin Group (USA) LLC

375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014

USA • Canada • UK • Ireland • Australia • New Zealand • India • South Africa • China

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A Penguin Random House Company

This book is an original publication of The Berkley Publishing Group.

Copyright © 2013 by Laura Spinella.

Penguin supports copyright. Copyright fuels creativity, encourages diverse voices, promotes free speech, and creates a vibrant culture. Thank you for buying an authorized edition of this book and for complying with copyright laws by not reproducing, scanning, or distributing any part of it in any form without permission. You are supporting writers and allowing Penguin to continue to publish books for every reader.

BERKLEY
^®
is a registered trademark of Penguin Group (USA) LLC.

The “B” design is a trademark of Penguin Group (USA) LLC.

eBook ISBN: 978-1-101-62127-1

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

Spinella, Laura.

Perfect timing / Laura Spinella.—Berkley trade paperback edition.

pages cm.

ISBN 978-0-425-26730-1 (pbk.)

1. Women radio producers and directors—Fiction. I. Title.

PS3619.P5635P47 2013

813'.6—dc23

2013025889

PUBLISHING HISTORY

Berkley trade paperback edition / November 2013

Cover photo © Ilina Simeonova/Trevillion Images.

Cover design by Rita Frangie.

Interior text design by Kristin del Rosario.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

The publisher does not have any control over and does not assume any responsibility for author or third-party websites or their content.

For Megan

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

Thank you to Susan Ginsburg for continuing to champion my work. Her insight is singular and her suggestions always on point. I love to write for her. Much appreciation to Stacy Testa as well; it’s an honor to be counted among the authors at Writers House.

I have a gem of an editor in Leis Pederson. She is patient and smart, and always willing to listen; working with her is an absolute pleasure. My thanks to the entire team at Berkley, everyone who helped move this book from wishful draft to finished product.

There are first readers, in-between readers, and last-pass readers. With the assistance of Kimberly Hixson, Christine Lemp, Marianne Lonati, Jamie Spinella, and Megan Spinella, I was fortunate to have these valuable readers at each milestone. A special thank-you to author Maria Geraci; she’s an incredible writer and an incisive reader. Much appreciation to AuthorBytes founder Steve Bennett, my charming, patient part-time boss and kind friend. Without Melisa Holmes, life, books, and wine wouldn’t be nearly as much fun. She continues to be my thirty-year tether to good sense and the sublime.

Thank you to the professional folks who generously lent their expert advice: Jennifer Lehman, Deputy District Attorney, Schuylkill County, Pennsylvania; author and attorney David Ellis; Walt Sosnowski, retired Sergeant, NYPD; and Melisa Holmes, who willingly donned her doctor hat to oversee my medical facts.

As always, much appreciation to the home team: Matt and Megan, Jamie and Grant. They are the real people in this house, who generously make room for the fictional ones. And those people always take up far more space than I intended.

CHAPTER ONE

Providence, Rhode Island

T
HERE WAS NOTHING ENTICING ABOUT WAKING UP TO A THREE-HUNDRED-POUND
man who smelled faintly of cheese—even if he was a silver-tongued veteran. Worse, he’d managed to utter the name
Aidan Royce
before Isabel could untangle mascara-laced lashes, prying open an eye. Her hand groped for the volume as radio DJ Chip Wrangle wrapped things up, Isabel hearing a velvet-timbre mention of the Grammy-winning, mega-selling music icon. But that couldn’t be right, she wagered, sitting upright. “Hey, did he just say—”

Rico ignored her, responding to the DJ’s voice as he always did, lazily stretching and vacating the bed. Isabel cocked her head at the radio. As the content manager for
98.6—The Normal FM for Easy Listening,
she’d put a firm moratorium on celebrity gossip. But the aromatic Chip made no other reference, moving on to their Monday-morning salute to the ’60s. “Just a dream,” she said, flopping back onto the pillow. A hazy gaze floated upward, Frankie Valli and the Four Seasons crooning “Walk Like a Man”
as Rico and his virile gait disappeared into the kitchen. He insisted on his breakfast and she rolled into reality, yelling, “I’m coming!” The two had met while Isabel was vacationing in Key West, Rico a refugee she’d picked up near the Hemingway House. He was the definition of
machismo
, excessive manliness an inbred trait. Dangling her noticeably more feminine legs over the side, Isabel tucked a thick thatch of hair behind her ear. She did a fast double take at the radio before rising. On her way out of the bedroom she grabbed a robe and a glance in the mirror. “Oh, good gosh! Seriously?” She wet her fingertips, only managing to smear a smudge of mascara, doubly relieved that it was just Rico.

Following the sounds of his disgruntled demand, before daring to fill a coffee cup, Isabel set about preparing his breakfast. But she did turn on the television as she passed through the living room. There she picked up a telltale trail: necktie, camisole, sport coat, flouncy skirt, undershirt, one black high heel. She brushed by an empty wine bottle, a mediocre merlot that had instigated last night. Rico called again, squashing an amorous visual. “Enough already!” There was a death stare in the kitchen where two sets of cat-green eyes pulsed. The TV blared. Just to make her point she smiled and hesitated. “Say again? Matt Lauer is drowning you out!” But it was smell, not sound, that dominated as odor penetrated from beneath a popped tin top. She couldn’t deny him, even as she gagged, Rico’s cries morphing into a loud purr, rubbing lovingly against her leg. She set the bowl of stinky fish on the floor, scratching a tufted ear as he gobbled hunks of vacuum-packed sardine. “
Bueno, Rico? Sí, bueno,
” Isabel said, having mastered a couple of words in what she assumed to be his native dialect.

From her squatted position Isabel listened. She waited for national media to repeat local radio news and confirm that Aidan Royce was, in fact, dead. It was the only fathomable reason for it to have made the
98.6
morning-host chat. Not dead, as it turned out. Just under arrest. Rico wriggled out from ardent strokes as Isabel absorbed Lauer’s words about Aidan Royce and a high-speed chase, driving drunk, and assaulting an officer. She flipped him off, stalking back to the bedroom.

The ride to work was work, Isabel listening for another
98.6
update, mentally composing a strongly worded email to Chip Wrangle. But the seven-fifteen chat slot was filled with their bimonthly visit from Eleanor Papp, who ran the Providence Humane Society. She only talked about adoptable pets and donations the shelter needed. While
98.6
listeners were old school, conventional to the point of mundane, they were not without a heart. Isabel found the radio station offices quiet, beating Tanya and Mary Louise to work. The sound system wasn’t on and she made no effort to correct the matter. Whether it came from Chip Wrangle, CNN, or two soup cans tied to a string, Aidan Royce would dominate the airwaves and Isabel wasn’t interested. Before shifting gears she crafted an email to Chip where she bolded the words
miscreant media blight
. A Sunday-night ratings dilemma would dominate Isabel’s morning, though she did take time to call Nate. He’d bounded out of her bed at an ungodly three a.m. leaving most of his belongings behind. “Hey, sorry you had to run away to the hospital. I’m guessing you found your shirt. I, um . . . I had a really great time, Nate. Despite some
miscreant
radio business,” she said, brusquely hitting Send, “I’ve been thinking about what you asked.” Isabel paused into the empty air of voicemail. “We’ll definitely talk about it later.” She hung up, smiling, feeling less peeved at Chip as Tanya breezed through the door. She was an impish gust of human energy. With doughnut in mouth, she waved a free hand, a double, whipped cream mochaccino in the other, immediately turning on the TV.

“Hey, Isabel. Mornin’, sweetie.” She sat, adjusting a leopard-print scarf as she arranged herself behind her desk.

“Morning, Tanya.”

“Look at you,” she said, an overly tweezed eyebrow arching. “Is that a little Monday-morning afterglow I see?” Isabel didn’t answer. Tanya was always on the lookout for a love connection—Isabel’s, her own, or anyone else’s. They exchanged a smile, Isabel’s fading as Tanya raised the volume, though she couldn’t really argue. Working in the promotions/scheduling/content department of a sizable radio station made current events relevant and real news important. Aidan Royce was neither in Isabel’s opinion, just another self-absorbed celebrity, acting contrite for the cameras and aghast when the world paused to gawk.

Aside from monitoring real news, it was their job to make the yesteryear station go, dream up the giveaways, and organize reunion concerts. An anomaly, the
98.6—The Normal FM
audience thrived on AM classics and an occasional tribute-to-soft-rock weekend, a dash of country before country went mainstream. Of course, she did wonder what might happen when their baby-boomer listeners died off. That or satellite radio squeezed them out. Isabel was a few years younger than her co-workers, although she supervised the three-prong department. While their jobs were important, they didn’t translate into talent, meaning they didn’t rate separate offices like the DJs. It was fine. They were a great team and good friends. Isabel liked sharing with Tanya and Mary Louise most days. Maybe, just not so much today.

Gliding in as silently as a librarian, Mary Louise would give anyone the first impression of prim and proper. But after three years at the radio station Isabel was still peeling back layers. A kale and flaxseed smoothie was in one hand, while clutched in Mary Louise’s other was last week’s
In Touch
magazine. She got it for free, i.e., swiped it from the recycle bin at the convenience store on Madison. Her polar-opposite co-workers filled each other’s gaps. The reckless squall that described one complemented the other’s curious albeit structured life. Tanya was a three-time divorcée that polite company might refer to as overly social. Tanya had been to church, been to bars, and been to bed in hopes of meeting Mr. Right there. But she was also adept at repurposing that well of emotion, making up as a mother what she lacked in man sense. She had plenty of practice with a child from each marriage. Mary Louise, on the other hand, was a serial monogamist, married and childless for seven years. She’d married a man named Joe Bland. No kidding. They’d met while stocking up at the Dollar Tree in Woonsocket, though frugality had come at a price. Last month Isabel rushed to meet an unusually frazzled Mary Louise in the emergency room. In an attempt to tap in to
mature audience
movies via an overhead cable wire, Joe took a tumble off the roof and broke a number of bones. Like standard radio and last week’s gossip, Joe’s wife felt certain avenues of entertainment should be free. But as those layers revealed, Mary Louise’s naughty habits ran deep, quickly joining Tanya’s tabloid-television vigil.

“Have you seen this? The drunk-driving thing, you’d expect that from somebody like him,” she said, crossing to her neat-as-a-pin desk. “But a high-speed chase and assaulting an officer? That’s bad behavior even for a known bad boy!” Her arm flailed so fervently it was look or be struck. Isabel recognized old news footage, a nightclub brawl that had involved the rock god years before.

“Aidan Royce tied to the whipping post of fame—go figure.” Isabel rolled her eyes, saved from further comment as an email from Nate popped up.
Definitely did not want to run away. An unavoidable hazard of that medical oath. I was looking forward to a sleepy you. More important, I was looking forward to an answer. You know how to keep a guy in suspense.
She smiled, wondering how she might have discreetly engineered a six a.m. makeover. Admiring the email for a second longer Isabel went back to work, but not before seeing Aidan Royce hustled past frothing media and into a police station. It was only the half of it, a boisterous swell of female fans having assembled in his defense. Isabel guessed they let him tweet the urgent call to action from the cruiser.

“When I heard Chip say his name,” Tanya said, coming around to stand beside Mary Louise, “I thought for sure he was dead.”

“I thought the same thing!” she gasped, grasping her arm. “Couldn’t you just see it? Sheer California cliffs, a drug-induced sex-capade, maybe an encounter with a deranged fan . . .” She paused, finishing her smoothie. “What did you think, Isabel?”

“I thought it was a fatal fall off his ego.”

“Well, there’s no excuse for driving like a maniac and endangering other people or punching a cop. I wouldn’t be surprised if he got real time.”

Reopening the email from Nate, Isabel debated a reply. She glanced up, half listening. “You really think he’ll go to jail?”

“Maybe.” Her slim shoulders shrugged, clearly intrigued.

Isabel looked between her co-workers at the TV. Media outlets were already on the scene, catching a probing glance of Aidan Royce’s backside at a booking desk, his hands cuffed. She sucked in a breath, wondering how many times people needed to see a scene like that. How many times did she? “Confined reflection might do him good.” She wanted to type
YES! YES! YES!
in reply to Nate but opted for a winking smiley instead. Big moments were better in person.

“He won’t do a day in jail,” Tanya said. “Maybe some cushy community service.”

“That’s true. Celebrity like his is so above the law,” Mary Louise lamented, more disappointed than miffed. She filled the coffeemaker, her peripheral glance on the TV. “But that’s what happens when you wear the triple crown of fame—talent, looks, and filthy rich. With this,” she said, gesturing, “you can add the fantasy element of wickedly untamed.”

“A scandalous lifestyle suits him, that’s for sure.” Tanya remained one with the TV, absently brushing doughnut crumbs from a fuzzy fuchsia sweater. It was a fitting complement to her bright red hair. “Aidan Royce is a textbook man-crush and all women find him irresistible.”

“Not all,” Isabel insisted, teeth sinking into the eraser tip of her pencil.

“Your average movie or pop star, it wouldn’t be such a big deal. But when it’s someone like Aidan Royce, it’s way . . . way more . . .”

“Titillating?” Mary Louise suggested, Tanya nodding. “Barring an international crisis or freak weather phenomenon, it’s all we’ll hear for days.”

“Super,” Isabel muttered, studying the segments for
Sunday Evening with Country’s Best
.

“Who knows what else will turn up? I heard they strip-searched him and his car. There could be drugs, maybe a sex tape. Camera equipment is so discreet nowadays and user friendly.”

While
“You work in radio, you would know that how?”
ticked through Isabel’s head, she prudently stayed on task.

“Wouldn’t surprise me,” Tanya said. “Did you see the woman he was with? Last October’s Miss October.”

“I saw the dress she was wearing. I own dish towels made of more fabric,” Mary Louise said, mashing the remote only to come up with the same loop on channel four. “His publicist said she wasn’t anybody, that Aidan was just
‘giving her a ride.’
But Fox News reported that he kidnapped her!”

Tanya’s head cocked. “He’s Aidan Royce. Why would he have to kidnap her?”

Riding the tidal wave of sensationalism, Mary Louise paused. “Good point.”

“And his publicist can spin it however she likes. Nobody’s going to believe the
‘giving her a ride’
story,” Tanya said, punctuating the air with quotation marks. “Certainly not his current girlfriend.”

“Oh that’s right. I forgot about her.”

“So did he, apparently,” Isabel said, a hand gripping around her neck, vigorously erasing segments for
Sunday Evening with Country’s Best
.

“And she’s no centerfold—a lawyer from New York, I think.”

Isabel glanced up, though the eraser kept moving.

“No way,” said Mary Louise. “Centerfold is much more believable.”

“It’s true. Actually, I read they were engaged.”

The back-and-forth motion of the eraser stopped, Isabel eyeing them. “Really?” she said, a droll smile curving over her mouth. “Engaged?”