by Andrea Kane
Morgan bit back her laughter at the reaction Lane didn’t have time to disguise. “Now that’s an expression I’ve seen a dozen times before. And it’s been wrong every single time.”
“What expression?”
“The one that says, ‘Who me? Superstud? I don’t need a social agency. I’m doing just fine on my own.’”
“Well, now that you mention it…”
“Now that I mention it, you have no lack of success with women and no self-esteem problems?” Morgan’s lips curved. “That’s obvious. And, for what it’s worth, I agree with you. For the kind of relationships you have in mind, you’re better off on your own. Someday, when you’re looking for a meaningful relationship, one that requires a true partner, give us a call.”
Lane felt like he’d been issued two challenges in the past five minutes. One from Congressman Shore, and the other from Morgan Winter. He wasn’t sure which was more of an adrenaline rush.
This evening was turning out to be a lot more stimulating than he’d expected.
“Fair enough.” He tipped his glass of vegetable juice to Morgan and to Jill. “I’ll keep that offer in mind. Be sure to give me a business card before I leave.”
“I’ll do that.” Morgan’s gaze shifted to Elyse, who’d filled a plate with fruit and cheese and was handing it to her. “Thank you.” She looked like she wanted to refuse the snack, but saw how anxious Elyse was, and took it. “This looks great.”
“It should,” Arthur commented drily. “It’s probably the first thing you’ve put in your mouth since that muffin you ate at noon.”
Morgan gave a guilty shrug. “It’s been one of those days. Crazy busy.”
“Then you shouldn’t have stopped to run an errand on the way here,” Elyse scolded. “You’re exhausted. It could have waited.”
“No, actually it couldn’t have.” Morgan sank down onto the sofa and nibbled at a slice of pineapple. “I stopped by the Manhattan D.A.’s office. I wanted them to have copies of those newspaper clippings. I gave the originals to Detective Montgomery.” She sent a curious glance in Lane’s direction. “Did Arthur tell you I hired your father?”
Lane could feel the congressman’s probing stare, a reminder not to get into anything too heavy.
“He mentioned it, yes.” Lane kept his answer short and sweet. “Although I’m sorry it’s necessary.” He resettled himself on the sofa, accepting the plate of fruit Elyse offered him with a murmur of thanks. “In any case, let me assure you, you’re in very capable hands. Nothing gets by Monty. Believe me, I know from personal experience. I didn’t get away with squat, not as a kid or as a teenager. He was always one step ahead of me.”
“Something tells me you’ve made up for that since then,” Morgan commented wryly.
“Maybe. But we still do our share of butting heads.”
“He’s your father,” Jill summed up. “That comes with the territory.”
“Especially when the two of you are a lot alike.” Morgan studied Lane thoughtfully. “Which I get the feeling is the case with you and Detective Montgomery.”
“You’re right. It is.” Lane arched a teasing, quizzical brow at Morgan. “Did I just help or hurt my image?”
Morgan didn’t respond with lighthearted banter. She didn’t even smile. Instead, she stared down at her plate, a strained expression tightening her features. “I can’t say enough about your father. Once upon a time he was a lifeline for me. I’m praying he will be again.”
Lane wanted to kick himself for triggering her reaction. “He will be,” he stated flatly. “Monty won’t walk away until he’s restored your peace of mind. Count on it.”
“I am.” Morgan’s chin came up, and the strained look receded—with an effort. “You have no idea how much.”
“I have an idea,” Elyse cut in. “Jill, Morgan, and I have a few final details to go over for Winshore’s holiday party. Why don’t we go into the den and do that while you gentlemen go over whatever reckless adventures you’re planning for next week.” She shuddered. “Just listening to the itinerary makes my insides twist. I’m better off making myself scarce.”
“Good idea.” Arthur agreed right away. “You ladies do your thing. We’ll do ours. Then afterward, Lane can take a few family shots, and we’ll call it an evening. I’ve still got a dozen phone calls to return, and a late dinner meeting to attend.”
“A dinner meeting?” Elyse looked startled. “When did that happen? I thought you were eating with us.”
“I’d planned to. But your father called a couple of hours ago. He set up this meeting, and not easily. He had to accommodate the schedules of four busy CEOs. This was the one night they could all free up. So tonight it is.”
“CEOs,” Lane repeated thoughtfully. “Of banks?”
A measured look. “Banks and corporations. Why?”
“Because I don’t envy you.” The news correspondent in Lane was blunt. “The financial industry has been key to your political success. Now you have to persuade them to swallow a bill that’s going to cost them big bucks. This is bound to be a tough meeting.”
“Probably.” Rather than being put off, Arthur gave an accepting shrug. “But I believe strongly in my legislation. I believe it’ll benefit everyone in the long run. It’s my job to get that point across.”
“I wish you luck.”
“I also have Daniel Kellerman in my corner. I won’t pretend to minimize what a strong ally he is.”
“In other words, he’ll have laid the groundwork.”
“Exactly. So, all in all, I expect the dinner to be a success.”
“Speaking of Grandpa, send him my love.” Jill edged a quick glance at her mother, who was still clearly upset about her husband’s unexpected vanishing act. “This is Mom’s, Morgan’s, and my chance to try that new Thai restaurant. We’ll order takeout and finish up whatever party planning we don’t get to now.”
“This holiday party sounds like it’s going to be quite an event,” Lane commented.
“It will be.” Jill gave him a broad grin. “Why don’t you come? It’s the nineteenth, at seven p.m., at Mom’s gym. It just so happens I have a few extra invitations in my purse.” She rummaged through her Coach bag and produced a tastefully calligraphied invitation. “Here you go.” She handed it to him. “It’ll be good for you. You can see what you’re missing by not registering with Winshore.”
Lane glanced down at the gold lettering. Normally, he hated these kind of parties. They were frivolous and shallow, filled with phony people and bullshit conversation.
He was still on the fence when he happened to glance up and see Morgan watching him from the opposite end of the sofa. Gone was the vulnerability she’d exuded a few minutes ago. Now her arms were folded across her breasts, and there was a knowing gleam in her eye.
“You were about to refuse?” she supplied helpfully.
“Was I?”
“Mm-hmm.”
“And you were about to convince me otherwise?”
Her lips twitched. “Absolutely. Why not go for it? It’s a weekday evening, too late for cocktails and a quickie, too early for nightcaps and bed. The food will be incredible, the eggnog homemade, and if the people are as vapid as you’re anticipating, you can always use the time to do a total body workout. It is, after all, a gym—with the finest fitness equipment in all of Manhattan.”
Lane couldn’t help but chuckle. “You drive a hard bargain.”
“No bargain. The only one who stands to win, or lose, is you.”
Okay, that did it. This was a different kind of adrenaline rush—one he was no sooner walking away from than he did any other.
“You’re right,” he conceded, tucking the invitation into his pants pocket. She’d left the ball in his court. He was playing it. “It sounds great. Thank you for the invite. I’ll be there.”
EIGHT
Karly Fontaine was truly enjoying herself. The food at La Grenouille was superb, the man across the table from her was a good-looking, su
ccessful attorney, and the conversation was stimulating.
Once again, Morgan had chosen well. That young woman really knew her stuff. Her matchmaking instincts were uncanny.
“More wine?” Charlie Denton was asking.
“That would be lovely, thank you.” Karly smiled as her date poured another half glass of Cab into her goblet. He’d been attentive all evening, an excellent listener and good conversationalist. She did get the sense that he was tired and somewhat stressed, but she didn’t hold that against him. She herself was pretty wiped out, and managing models paled in comparison to prosecuting criminals. She didn’t even want to envision some of the grisly cases he must have on his plate.
It quickly became clear that he didn’t want to discuss his work. Whether that was because of confidentiality issues or simply because he wanted to escape, she took the hint and let the subject drop. Her line of work was much more conducive to casual chitchat, so she wasn’t surprised when he veered the conversation in that direction. She told him about the Lairman Modeling Agency, and about how she went from model to manager at their L.A. headquarters, then relocated here three months ago to manage their newly expanded Manhattan branch.
Charlie seemed fascinated. He interlaced his fingers and leaned forward to listen. Well into the discussion, his gaze began to stray to a point over Karly’s left shoulder, then rapidly returned to focus on her. At first, she thought he might be seeking out the waiter to inquire about dessert and coffee. But when no waiter appeared and Charlie’s distraction became increasingly evident, Karly began to feel curious, and yes, insecure.
If it was some ex-girlfriend or a random acquaintance, that was one thing. But if a younger, prettier woman had caught his eye, that would bother her—a lot. Beauty was her business. She’d devoted her life to it. She prided herself on her face and figure, not to mention her exceptional flair for fashion. Whether or not she ended up wanting Charlie Denton was irrelevant. It would be ego deflating to think he was eyeing another woman during their date.
“Charlie?” She gave him a bright smile, easing back her chair. “Would you mind ordering some coffee? I’m going to find the ladies’ room.”
“Of course.” He rose quickly to his feet and went around to pull her chair back the rest of the way.
“Thank you.” Her smile still intact, she scooped up her purse and rose, all long legs and shimmering red-gold hair. She turned around, glancing in the direction Charlie’s gaze had been straying.
She didn’t see what she’d expected to. Not by a long shot.
The restaurant was fairly quiet, since the hour had gotten late. The only occupied table in that section was a large round one, nestled in the corner. Not one of the six occupants was female. They were all older men, probably in their late fifties or early sixties. Based upon the way the maître d’ was hovering around their table and the conservative, expensive suits they wore, they were obviously VIPs. So it was a power dinner. Nothing unusual about that.
She was about to avert her gaze, when it settled on the man who was doing the talking at the moment, and recognition struck. She might have been in New York only since September, but that particular man had been making headlines a lot longer than that. She’d just seen his photo in the Enquirer, along with a sordid story about him and some twenty-four-year-old woman who’d come and gone from his staff with the speed of lightning, after they’d allegedly been spotted together in a lip-lock behind some Washington hotel.
Her brows rose, and she continued on her way to the ladies’ room. But halfway there, she glanced back over her shoulder.
Charlie Denton’s stare was aimed directly at Congressman Shore.
ACROSS THE ROOM and unaware he was being scrutinized, Arthur sliced his duck á l’orange, listening as his father-in-law made a few strong points about his proposed legislation to the four dubious businessmen who were their guests.
“Let’s not play semantics, gentlemen.” Daniel Kellerman put down his glass of wine as he spoke. “The way I see it, you’ll all be thanking Arthur for writing a bill that considers the impact on your industries. So we’ll be expecting your support.”
The four CEOs exchanged glances. “Okay, we get it.”
“I thought you would.”
ELYSE WAS LYING in bed, staring at the ceiling, when she heard the front door open, then quietly shut. She glanced at the illuminated numbers on her alarm clock: 1:15. Way too late for La Grenouille to be open on a weeknight.
From out in the hall, the familiar late-night sounds echoed—Arthur hanging up his coat, shutting the closet door, and locking up for the night. Then his footsteps. He didn’t come straight to the bedroom, but stopped off in the den, no doubt to make his usual late-night phone calls.
Elyse rolled onto her side, feeling none of the pain she once had, only emptiness and resignation. When had that transition occurred? she wondered. When had caring become weariness, and then just a hollow void?
Sometime between then and now.
So much had happened. So much that had complicated everything, sapped away her emotional reserve. It had been hard enough in the beginning, but the facade had taken its toll. The lie she was living was starting to suck the life out of her.
Idly, she thought back to college, to the days when Lara was alive and the two of them had the bold dreams of youth. Both of them were going to restore and revitalize humanity—Lara, emotionally and psychologically; she, physically and nutritionally. Somewhere along the way, Jack and Arthur had entered the picture. But they’d only augmented the dreams, made them bigger. Never detracting, only enhancing.
That had been a lifetime ago.
Bonds had been forged, vows taken. Careers took off. Then, just three months apart, Jill and Morgan were born. It was a time of joy. The dreams of the Winters and the Shores should have continued to grow.
They didn’t.
Priorities shifted. Everything started crumbling. Elyse had clung to denial as long as she could. Eventually, that stopped working. So she’d moved on to keeping up appearances.
Tragedy struck, and the world unraveled.
Pressing her lips together, Elyse rolled onto her other side, just as the bedroom door opened a crack and Arthur slipped in. He moved around the room quietly, changing into the gym shorts he wore to bed, then disappearing into the bathroom to wash up.
Ten minutes later, he came to bed. He eased between the sheets with as little motion as possible.
As usual, he didn’t want to awaken her.
Most of the time, she pretended he hadn’t.
Tonight was different.
“I’m up.” Elyse spoke in a low monotone, watching her husband’s profile. Even in the dark, she could see his jaw tighten.
“I didn’t mean to disturb you,” he told her.
“Of course not. Who was she this time?”
Arthur blew out an impatient breath. “You know where I was, Elyse. I was with your father.”
“Dinner till one? La Grenouille must have extended their hours.”
“No, dinner till eleven. Then a drink and a meeting recap with your father.”
“Who’ll, no doubt, vouch for you.” A bitter smile. “After all, what’s more important, his daughter or the political favors he gets from his high-ranking son-in-law?”
With an exasperated grunt, Arthur slid down until he was supine, his arms folded beneath his head. “I’m not having this conversation again, Elyse. It’s getting old. Besides, I’m wiped. It’s late.”
“Very late,” Elyse agreed, meaning a lot more than the hour.
“Then let’s call it a night. I’ve been ‘on’ for hours.”
“And you’re drained and exhausted. Well, so am I.” Elyse paused, struggling for control. “More so than you can imagine.” Despite her efforts, her voice quavered, tears underscoring her words.
Arthur wasn’t unaffected. He twisted around, propping himself on his elbow and gazing down at his wife. “Don’t cry, Lyssie,” he murmured, his knuckles caressing her
cheek. “We’ve got so much going on. Let’s not compound the tension by bickering over nonsense.” He bent down, pressed his lips to her shoulder. “We have to be there for Morgan. She’s going through hell. So are we. There’s a lot at stake. Let’s turn toward each other, not away.”
Two tears slid down Elyse’s cheeks, and she choked back a sob. “I want that. You know I do.”
“Well, so do I.” Arthur drew her into his arms, tipping up her chin and giving her that intimate look that still melted her insides and reminded her how things between them had once been.
How they sometimes still were.
“Come here,” he murmured, as if reading her mind. His hands glided under her nightgown and over the curves of her body. “Let me make it better.”
Elyse was already responding, tugging off her nightgown as Arthur worked free of his shorts, then pulled her under him. She closed her eyes and let the pleasure swamp her, blotting out the pain of what had been, what would be.
She didn’t lie to herself. This wasn’t just sexual. Not for her. Emotionally detached as she’d learned to be, she still loved her husband fiercely. She would—and had—done anything for him.
Arthur made love to her as only he could, with an expertise, passion, and intensity that made her feel like she was the only woman in the world.
And for those moments, that night, she was.
MONTY PUNCHED ANOTHER pillow until it was plumped up just the way he liked it. Then he shoved it behind his head, wedging it between himself and the headboard. With a grunt of frustration, he continued scribbling down names and notes, all stemming from the pile of newspaper clippings Morgan had given him earlier that day. He’d made a shitload of phone calls after she left, called in some favors, and gotten piles of information.
Currently, he was delving into Carl Angelo and all his slimy contacts, past and present. Angelo was a high-stakes drugs and weapons dealer, a scumbag who’d been indirectly responsible for the deaths of countless people, and whom Jack Winter had put away two months before he and Lara were murdered.