She’d never found the time to pursue the degree in communications she still coveted. Ten years later, her voice was hardly her only qualification. That and her willingness to work for next to nothing, make coffee and double as the station’s receptionist. And she was perfectly aware that it was her voice that had landed her that position. She’d talked herself into her first job-at a low-frequency, low-budget station in rural Georgia-with no experience, no resume and a brand-new high school diploma. Her affection for music was only one of the reasons for her success in radio. She could have pulled off her headphones and given herself three minutes and twenty-two seconds of silence. Any man in Denver who was tuned in to her frequency would believe she was speaking only to him.Ĭilla eased up on the pot on the mixer, sending the first of the five promised hits out to her listeners. Rich, throaty, touched with the barest whisper of the South, it might have been fashioned for the airwaves. Her voice was like hot whiskey, smooth and potent. This is Cilla O’Roarke, and darling, I’m sending this one straight out to you.” “All right, night owls, it’s coming up on midnight, and you’re listening to KHIP.
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