Double Exposure

by Stephen Collins Narrated by Susan Ericksen

Overview

In Double Exposure, Collins plunges readers into a world he knows intimately-broadcast television. We meet top TV critic Joe McBride, who's doing fine professionally, but whose private life is a mess, what with a five-year-old daughter, an angry ex-wife, and a very-soon-to-be-ex-fiancie, not to mention a come-hither co-anchor, and a beautiful brand-new neighbor who's alluring, available . . . and much, much more than meets the eye.Savvy, sexy, and edge-of-the-seat suspenseful, Double Exposure is the kind of thriller only an industry insider could create, a star turn from a man who knows that when people talk about a role to kill for, sometimes they mean exactly that.

Editorial Reviews

Stuart Woods

A plot that nails you to the chair, peppered with dialogue that consistently entertains and amuses.

In Style

An erotic thriller. . .compelling. . .very satisfying. . .should quicken a pulse or two. . .Stephen Collins has the write stuff.

Publishers Weekly - Publisher's Weekly

Well-drawn bit players steal focus from annoying, self-centered leads in this media-centered psychosexual thriller from film and TV (7th Heaven) actor Collins (Eye Contact). Neurotic media critic Joe McBride, a hunk of putty in the hands of attractive women, is easily snared by his new neighbor, psychotic beauty Amy Goode, on the same day that he is dumped by his fiance (his ex-wife's former best friend). After several sessions of window-to-window voyeurism, they consummate their attraction at Amy's place, where Joe meets her spooky sister, Loree, and unwittingly comes into close contact with Amy's vengeful, nuttily religious boyfriend, Dean. Joe's life gets chaotic as his job (he's a host on an all-critics cable channel) goes bust and as he starts to doubt Amy's stories about herself. Fearing but still craving Amy, he dodges her by visiting his mother, then planning a sleepover for his preschool-age daughter, Mollie, which goes awry as she disappears on a trip to the park. The cops play minor roles as Joe and ex-wife Gayle take a major gamble on Mollie's life in a surprise finale that sets up a sequel. The reader figures out the major gimmick early on, and the unappealing leads defy empathy, but the story skims over the New York scenery with the slick flash of the local news. Cable mogul Brutus Clay, his intern-earnest staff, Joe's T&A co-host Sandy Moss and his mother all cry out for further development; had Collins done so, the book might have been far more interesting. Author tour. (May)

Kirkus Reviews

Second suspenser, all quite plausible until the end, by actor/novelist Collins (Eye Contact, 1994), who plays Ashley Wilkes in the TV miniseries Scarlett. Journalist Joseph McBride, a syndicated TV critic, finds himself alone in his new condo after his fianc‚e, Mary Beth, dumps him for an editor at Simon & Schuster. Joe, a deeply attentive father, has a five-year old daughter, Mollie, with his divorced wife Gayle. Meanwhile, his tenth-floor apartment looks down on the kitchen of an adjoining ninth-floor apartment, and he becomes obsessed with the beautiful woman who lingers at the window, at times with little on. Joe is supposed to be watching cassettes of advance TV shows and meeting deadlines, but the window proves too alluring. Then the woman—knowing that he's been watching her—invites him down for hot milk and honey; just as they are having serious foreplay, her twin sister walks in drunk and passes out fully dressed. The energetic couple ignore her. When an exhausted Joe goes back to his condo, he discovers a half-clothed Mary Beth, who has changed her mind and returned to him. What to do? Then he learns that "Amy Goode" is not really his neighbor's name, as she says, but rather is that of a female cop in Queens, whom she pretends to be. Joe's suddenly complex life gets more complicated when Brutus Clay, a multimillionaire who wants to start up a new TV channel devoted entirely to critics, begins courting Joe. Will Joe go along with having sexpot Sandy Moss as his cohost? Will he stay with Mary Beth? Before he can decide, Mollie is kidnapped during his weekend custody, and itþs soon evident who has her. Thrilling this is not, but it is richly entertaining,especially in its wry portrait of broadcast television. Only that forcibly twisted climax rings false. (Author tour)

Product Details

BN ID:	2940171614881
Publisher:	Brilliance Audio
Publication date:	04/11/2008
Edition description:	Unabridged

Read an Excerpt

A striking redhead in a short black skirt and sparkly yellow see-through blouse sat alone at a dark booth in a tiny, almost-empty bar on the corner of Third Avenue and Eighty-ninth Street, her eyes glued to a TV set suspended over rows of bottles. A glass of ice water and a flickering candle sat on her otherwise bare, stained table.

"We're back with our panel of TV experts," announced the news program's silver-haired host, "to talk about the winners and losers of this year's prime-time network season. Let's start with Joe McBride, from the New York Dispatch. Joe, can the networks survive the continuing onslaught of cable, VCRs, and the Internet?"

The redhead took a swig of ice water and pulled the candle closer.

"Yeah, let's talk about onslaughts," she whispered.

With one hand still on the glass, she slowly, deliberately moved her other palm directly over the candle, two inches from the flame, and held it there. A passing waiter slowed his gait as he took this in.

"Jesus," gulped the waiter, horrified. "Is that a trick?"

The woman looked up into the waiter's eyes but didn't answer.

"Please," urged the waiter anxiously, breaking a sweat. "Stop."

"I can take it," the woman said matter-of-factly, leaving her hand above the flame. "I'm used to pain."

The waiter made a quick retreat from the booth, and the woman held fast a few more seconds before pulling away from the candle. After examining the damage, she picked up the glass of ice water, poured it over a blister that was erupting on the flesh of her palm, and rose to leave, glancing over to the bar as the TV switched to a closeup of Joe McBride.

The waiter returned, holding out an ice pack. "This'll help," heoffered.

Deliberately, the redhead reached down and slowly brought her thumb and index finger together to snuff out the candle's flame.

"Sorry," she said to the staring waiter as she opened her purse. "I just couldn't resist."

She tossed a dollar onto the table and walked calmly out the door.

Working her way through the overstuffed walk-in closet of apartment 9B, the dark-haired young woman let her towel drop to the floor as she reached to touch the extra-sheer yellow blouse that hung on the rack. She ran her fingers slowly beneath the sparkly yellow material, which was so transparent she could see her fingerprints beneath it. She was dying to try it on, but stopped herself and pushed the hanger away.

"Thou shalt not covet thy sister's things," she told herself quietly as she reached instead for an oversized navy sweatshirt, black bicycle shorts, and a frayed New York Yankees hat.

There was a sharp sound in the foyer.

"Dean?" she called hesitantly. The sound came again.

After a few seconds, she realized it was only the clanking of a radiator. In early April there was still plenty of wet, chilly New York weather to come, and she resented that the building was apparently cutting off her heat again.

Rising, she caught sight of herself in an oval mirror on the bedroom wall and brightened a little as she glanced down at her breasts. She'd told the doctor to make them look just like Cindy Crawford's, and damned if he hadn't pulled it off. "You're going to hell, Amy Goode," she told herself almost cheerfully, "in the proverbial handbasket."

She finished dressing for her run, grabbed a laundry bag, and headed out her kitchen's service door. As she waited for the freight elevator, she idly fingered a crucifix around her neck. The doors opened and she was greeted by Ramsn, the super, a small, stout, balding man in his late forties who smelled of ammonia.

"Good morning, seqorita," he said respectfully as he taped a notice onto the elevator wall. The sight of her always brightened Ramsn's day. He tried not to smile over-eagerly as he pulled her laundry bag into the elevator.

"Gracias, Ramsn. Buenos dmas," she answered brightly.

"You always speak the Spanish so nice," said Ramsn admiringly. "No sound like American. Is good."

"Shucks," she said, smiling and swatting him playfully. "How's Sammy?"

"Much better, miss," said Ramsn, nodding his head. "He appreciates your card very well. So has my wife."

"Tell Sammy I asked about him."

"I do that, miss," answered Ramsn with a slight bow of his head. "Very kind." He had always managed to keep his crush on her to himself.

She looked over his shoulder and read the sign as he smoothed another piece of tape onto it.

23 East Ninetieth Street Association
Today (Friday) from 1:30 on, a new resident will be moving in.
Access to the front and service elevators will be limited for a
few hours. Please bear with us.

"You know this TV writer man who move in?" asked Ramsn. "Seqor McBride?"

"I know of him," she said, nodding. "One-thirty, huh?"

"Sm," said Ramsn. "I hope is not inconvenient."

"Of course not. Give Sammy a hug, you hear?" she said as he held the door for her. "And tell Mila I'll bring some soup later this week." Ramsn, his wife, Mila, and their sickly eight-year-old Sammy, lived in the tiny ground-floor superintendent's apartment.

"Gracias. Adiss," said Ramsn, beaming after her.

She started a load of white and one of colored, shoved what seemed like too many quarters into the slots, and, after using the little bathroom off Ramsn's office, threw her laundry bag into a dented locker Ramsn let her use, part of a row of gray lockers left from the days when the building employed a larger staff. Leaving through the basement exit and walking briskly down Madison Avenue, she spotted the morning papers on a rack outside a tiny tobacco shop. She found the tabloid New York Dispatch, picked one up, and flipped to the TV section, stopping at the byline of Joe McBride, who was reviewing two made-for-TV movies. Noticing that the clerk inside the store was facing away from her, she folded the paper, tucked it under her arm, turned, and walked off.

"Sorry," she said under her breath to the unknowing clerk. "I don't pay to read Joe McBride."

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