by Nora Roberts
Made himself look into the eyes that had once commanded him to come inside a sideshow tent, demanded he take a chance, take a risk. They were as dark as ever, but the power in them was gone.
“I want you to know I’m going to take care of Roxanne and Nate. And Lily and Mouse and LeClerc. Rox would get her back up if she heard me say that; she’s been doing a good job of taking care of everything. But she’s not going to have to do it alone anymore. Nate calls me Dad. I didn’t know that could mean so much.” Gently, he covered the gnarled, restless hands with his own. “Dad. I never called you that. But you’re my father.” Luke leaned forward and kissed the papery cheek. “I love you, Dad.”
There was no response. Luke rose and walked out to find his own son.
Max continued to stare through the glass, to stare and stare, even when a tear slipped out of his eye and ran slowly down the cheek that Luke had kissed.
Jake tapped another sequence into his portable computer and let out a crow of delight. “What’d I tell you? What’d I tell you, Mouse? There’s always a back door.”
“You’re in? You’re really in?” Filled with admiration, Mouse leaned over Jake’s stooped shoulder. “Holy cow.”
“The Bank of fucking England.” He sniggered, linking his fingers and stretching his hands out to crack his knuckles. “Betcha Charles and Di have an account. Man, oh man, all those pretty pounds sterling.”
“Wow.” Mouse read the celebrity magazines faithfully, and the Princess of Wales was a favorite. “Can you see how much they have, Jake? You oughta transfer some from his into hers. I don’t think he’s nice enough to her.”
“Sure. Why not?” Jake’s fingers poised over the keys, stopping when Alice gently cleared her throat.
“I thought you promised Luke you wouldn’t use the computers to poke into anyone’s business.” She didn’t look up, only continued to knit serenely on the sofa at the other end of the suite.
“Well, yeah.” Jake’s fingers itched. “I’m just practicing is all.” He rolled his eyes at Mouse. “Ah, showing Mouse some of the tricks this baby can do since we adjusted her.”
“That’s very nice. Mouse, I don’t think Diana would appreciate your invading her privacy this way.”
“You don’t?” He glanced over at his wife, who only lifted her head and smiled. “No, I guess not.” Defeated, he let out a windy sigh. “We’re supposed to be checking the Swiss account,” he reminded Jake.
“All right, all right.” The keyboard clattered, the modum hummed. “But it just makes me sick, I gotta say. My stomach, I tell you, it feels like I ate some bad whitefish. He wants ten thousand more transferred into that creep’s account. I tried to tell him, didn’t I try to tell him that I could sneak the money out of some crooked CEO’s account instead of bleeding his? But no, oh no. Luke wants to pay for the whole sting. That man is stubborn. Stub-born.”
“It’s a matter of pride,” Alice murmured.
“It’s a matter of ten fucking thousand.” Jake winced and sent her a quick glance. “Excuse my French. It’s just that we’re not making a dime on this. Not a dime! Don’t you think we ought to clear something—cover our overhead, realize a reasonable profit?”
“We’re getting satisfaction,” Mouse stated and made his wife’s heart swell with pride. “That’s better than money.”
“Satisfaction won’t buy you any Italian shoes,” Jake grumbled, but accepted that he was outnumbered. Besides, he could always access another account later.
Alice gathered her knitting and rose. It was barely ten, but she was outrageously tired. “I think I’ll leave you two to your toys and go on to bed.”
Mouse bent to kiss her, stroking a hand down her pale hair. It never failed to amaze him that someone so tiny, so pretty could belong to him. “You want me to order up some tea, or anything?”
“No.” What a sweet man he was, she mused. And how thickheaded. She’d all but dangled her knitting under his nose. Deciding it was worth one more shot, she took the bootie she’d completed out of her basket. “I think I’ll try to finish the other one of these tonight. It’s a nice color, don’t you think? Such a pale, pretty green.”
“It’s real nice.” He smiled and ducked his head to kiss her again. “Nate sure likes finger puppets.”
“It’s not a puppet.” As angry as she had ever been with him, Alice set her teeth. “It’s a bootie, damn it.” With that she swept into the adjoining bedroom and shut the door.
“Alice never swears,” Mouse said half to himself. “Never. Maybe I should go see . . .” The revelation hit like a bare-knuckled punch to the jaw. “A bootie.”
“A bootie?” Jake’s face cracked with a grin. “Well, ain’t that some shit? Congratulations, Mouse old man.” He jumped up to thump his friend on the back. “Looks like there’s a bun in the oven.”
Mouse went pale, turned a color similar to the famous bootie, then paled again. “Oh boy.” It was the best he could manage as he staggered toward the bedroom. By the time he got the door open and closed again, his palms were dripping sweat.
Alice stood with her back to him, calmly belting her robe. “So, the light dawns,” she muttered and walked to the dresser, began to brush her hair.
“Alice.” Mouse swallowed so hard his throat clicked. “Are you . . . are we . . .”
It wasn’t in her nature to stay angry for long. She loved him too much to try. Her lips curved as she met his eyes in the mirror. “Yes.”
“For sure?”
“For absolutely sure. Two home pregnancy tests and an obstetrician don’t lie. We’re expecting, Mouse.” Her voice broke as she dropped her gaze to her hands. “It’s okay, isn’t it?”
He couldn’t answer. His throat was too full of his heart. Instead he crossed to her in three jerky steps. Gently, very gently he wrapped his arms around her, spreading his big hand over her still flat belly.
It was much better than words.
Across the district line in the lush suburbs of Maryland, Sam Wyatt sat at his antique rosewood desk with a snifter of Napoleon brandy. His wife was upstairs in their big Chippendale bed, nursing one of her infamous migraines.
Justine hardly needed the excuse of a headache, he thought as he swirled and sipped the dark amber liquor. He’d long ago lost interest in making love to an icy stick who disguised herself as a woman in designer clothes.
There were other ways to find sexual release, if one was cautious, and paid enough. He didn’t keep a mistress. Mistresses had a habit of growing disenchanted and greedy. Sam had no intention of living with the backlash of a tell-all book after he was in the White House.
And he would be living in the White House, he thought. In the dawn of the twenty-first century, he would be sitting in the Oval Office, sleeping in Lincoln’s bed. It was inevitable.
His senatorial campaign was proceeding brilliantly. Every new poll showed him further and further in the lead. It would take a miracle for his opponent to close the gap, and Sam had never believed in miracles.
In any case, he had an ace named Luke Callahan up his sleeve. When he chose to play that ace, a week before the election, Gunner would be crushed.
There were only weeks left until that moment of truth, which meant many long days and nights ahead. He’d kissed babies, cut ribbons, roused the common man with speeches glinting with promises, wooed the corporate structure with his stance on private enterprise, charmed women with his easy smiles and lanky body.
Sam considered his rise in political power and prestige a stupendously structured long con.
As he told Luke, he’d deliver on some of the promises, for the con was far from over. He would continue to woo and charm and glad-hand. His image as a self-made man striving to achieve the American dream would hold him in good stead. And his handpicked staff of advisers would keep him apprised of the proper foreign and domestic policies.
He had only one policy, and that was power.
He had everything he wanted—until he wanted more.
&nb
sp; He thought of the stone locked away in his safe. If he had believed in magic he might have considered how so much had fallen into place for him after he’d acquired it. But for Sam, it was simply another victory over an old enemy.
It was true enough that once it had been in his possession the pace of his success had increased. Sam attributed that to luck, timing and his own personal and political skill.
He’d learned a lot from the down-home and popular senator from Tennessee. He’d sucked up knowledge greedily while playing the man-behind-the-man with the flair of an accomplished thespian—until the opportunity to become the man had presented itself.
No one knew that Sam had watched Bushfield die. He had grieved publicly, delivering a moving, tear-choked eulogy, comforting the widow like a son, taking charge of the loose strings of the senator’s duties as the devoted heir.
And he had stood and watched as the senator had gasped and choked, as his face had burned to purple, as he’d flopped like a landed trout on the floor of his private office. Sam had held the little enameled box containing the nitroglycerin tablets in his hand, saying nothing as his mentor had reached out, his eyes bulging with pain, glazed with confusion.
Only when he’d been sure it was too late had Sam knelt and slipped one of the tablets under the dead man’s tongue. He’d made a frantic call to 911, and when the paramedics arrived, they were moved by the urgent way Sam had been performing CPR.
So he had killed Bushfield and had garnered several staunch backers in the medical community.
It hadn’t been as thrilling as putting a bullet in Cobb’s heart, Sam thought now. But even the passive act of murder had brought its own kind of rush.
Leaning back, he plotted the next round, a spider content to spin his web and wait for the unwary fly.
The arrogance of Callahan’s return to the Nouvelle troupe continued to intrigue him. Did the fool actually believe that five years would suffice? Or that money would pay for the insubordination of returning to the stage without permission? Sam hoped so, he dearly hoped so. He hadn’t struck out yet because it amused him to lull Luke into complacency. Let him put on his show, Sam mused. Let him try to seduce Roxanne’s heart away a second time. Let him try to be a father to his son. Sam enjoyed the idea of the man falling into the bosom of his family, temporarily picking up his career and his life. It would be only sweeter to snatch it all away again.
And he would, Sam thought. Yes, he would.
He’d kept close track of the Nouvelles. He was forced to admit an admiration for Roxanne’s style, her flair for larceny. There were carefully documented accounts of her activities in a ledger locked in his safe. They had cost him, but his wife’s inheritance allowed for such indulgences.
The time was coming when he would use them. The payment for Luke taking a step into the spotlight without consent would be a high one. And all the Nouvelles would pay for it. And if, as Sam imagined, they believed they could pull off one more heist for old times’ sake, they would play directly into his hands.
Because he could wait, he could watch, and he could arrange for the authorities to scoop up all of the Nouvelles after their next job.
That was a very sweet alternative.
He wondered if they would tamper with the auction. It seemed to him that sort of heist held the glamour which appealed to them. He might even let them get away with it. Briefly, very briefly. Then he would snap the jaws of the trap shut, and watch them bleed.
Oh yes, Sam thought, chuckling to himself as he leaned back. It was just that kind of clear thinking that was going to make him an excellent commander in chief.
33
Sam arranged for tickets to the Nouvelles’ much-touted Kennedy Center performance. Front row center. Justine sat beside him, draped in silk and sapphires and smiles—the devoted wife and partner.
No one would have guessed they’d come to detest each other.
As the magic unfolded, Sam applauded enthusiastically. He threw back his head and laughed, leaned forward with eyes wide and shook his head in disbelief. His reactions, caught often by the panning television cameras, were as carefully staged as the evening of illusion.
Beneath it, the old jealousy ate at him. Luke was once again the center of attention, the shining star, the holder of power.
Sam hated him for it, as blindly and unreasonably as he’d hated Luke at first sight. He detested and envied the ease with which Luke drew the audience in, the obvious sexual spark between him and Roxanne, the smoothness with which he could take what could not be and make it so.
But he was the first to rise to his feet when the applause rolled out over the finale. He brought his hands together to join the thunder, and he smiled.
Roxanne looked down at him as she took her bows. Though she lowered her lashes, the venom shot through them. Their gazes held, and for her, for just an instant, they were completely alone. The rage heaved up, volatile as lava, so that she took a step forward, a step toward him, stopping only when Luke’s hand linked firmly with hers.
“Just smile, babe.” He spoke clearly under the cover of applause and gave her fingers a quick squeeze. “Just keep on smiling.”
She did, until at last they walked off the stage together. “I didn’t know it would be so hard.” Her body trembled from the effort of suppressing the urge to attack. “Seeing him sitting there, looking so pompous and prosperous. I wanted to jump offstage and claw at him.”
“You did fine.” He rubbed the small of her back, steering her through the wings toward her dressing room. “Phase one, Roxy, and on to the next.”
She nodded, then paused with her hand on the knob of her door. “We steal things, Luke. I understand most people wouldn’t find that acceptable. But still, what we take are things, easily replaced. He stole time. And love, and trust. None of those can be replaced.” She looked back at him over her shoulder, her eyes glinting not with tears or even regret, but with purpose. “Let’s get the son of a bitch.”
He grinned and patted her butt. Jake was right, he mused. She was a hell of a woman. “Change. We’ve got work to do.”
They attended the post-performance reception, clinking glasses with Washington dignitaries. Luke bided his time, then slipped away from Roxanne. This was a part he had to play alone. As he’d expected, it took Sam only moments to seek him out.
“That was quite a show.”
Luke took a champagne flute from a passing tray, letting his fingers shake ever so slightly. “I’m glad you enjoyed it.”
“Oh, I did. And I admire your nerve, performing without checking with me first.”
“I didn’t think—It’s been five years.” Luke scanned the crowd with nervous eyes, lowered his voice. As if in plea, he clamped a hand over Sam’s wrist. “For God’s sake, what harm did it do?”
Delighted to have his quarry on the ropes, Sam considered, sipping champagne. “That’s yet to be tallied. Tell me, Callahan, what do you think of young Nathaniel?”
This time Luke didn’t have to fake the tremor in his hand. It was pure rage. “You know about Nate?”
“I know everything there is to know about the Nouvelles. I thought I made that clear.” Absently, he set his empty glass on a tray. “Tell me, have you finished the project I assigned you?”
“Except for some finishing touches.” Luke tugged at his tie. “I explained to you every time I checked in that to handle a job like this, to make sure it all holds up to any investigation takes time.”
“Time I’ve been generous with,” Sam reminded him, and added a hearty clasp on Luke’s shoulder. “And time that’s rapidly running out.”
“You gave me a deadline. I’ll meet it.” He glanced around the room again. “I know what’s depending on it.”
“I hope you do.” He held up a hand, warding off Luke’s answer. “Two days, Callahan. Bring everything to me in two days, and I might just forget the impertinence you took tonight. Enjoy your evening,” he added as he walked away. “Since it’s one of the few you have left
with your family.”
“You were right, pal.” Jake, natty in his waiter’s uniform, shifted his tray. “He’s slime.”
“Just don’t screw it up,” Luke said under his breath. Quick as a flash, he dropped Sam’s monogrammed gold cuff link into Jake’s plastic-lined pocket.
“Hey, trust me.”
“And stop grinning, for Christ’s sake. You’re a servant.”
“So, I’m a happy servant.” But Jake did his best to look properly solemn as he strolled away.
An hour later, Jake handed Luke a plastic bag containing the cuff link and a single sandy blond hair.
“Mind how you use them, sport. Don’t want it to look too obvious.”
“Hell, let’s be obvious.” There was a grinding in his gut as he held the bag up to study the elegant example of men’s jewelry. It was discreet, button-shaped, with the SW swirled fluidly into the