by Amy Faye
But the minute he'd seen her, he knew. And the minute that he saw a train of men getting ready to proposition her, he felt something in the pit of his stomach. A primal urge to make sure that nobody could. Nobody but him.
The same thing that overcame him is what told him not to do it. If he's feeling that strongly, then there are risks involved. Big risks. Adam Quinn didn't mind risks. He took them more than most. Because he took the right kind of risk. The kind that paid off. He looked, then he leapt, and there was always some kind of backup plan.
Looking at Linda Owens, feeling the things that he couldn't explain why he felt, he knew instinctively that there was something there that he shouldn't have even remotely been feeling, because there wasn't any backup plan for something like that.
She was off-limits. Never mind the age difference—that had never been a problem before, and it hadn't ever hurt him in the past—she was an employee. Not a colleague, not an adviser. He paid her to work for him.
Which meant that if the press caught wind of it, it would look Monica Lewinsky bad. He'd be demonized as manipulating her, and using his money and his position to coerce her into whatever he wanted.
That was foolish to believe. Linda Owens was not the sort of women who was coerced, not from the impression that Adam had gotten so far. But there was more to it than that. Reality didn't count for much, when public perception was involved.
And more than that, she had every right to be left alone. She didn't come there looking for him. She went there looking for someone, but certainly not for him. So it was his own selfishness that made him force her to leave, not some kind of good nature. He wanted her for his own.
He took a breath. He was getting over-emotional about a subject that shouldn't matter. She wasn't married. If she was in a relationship, then she hadn't mentioned it. Adam's instincts told him that she wasn't. Maybe she was recently, but not any more. There wasn't time in her day for a relationship.
He played the scene back in his mind. Felt the flare-up of anger again, as if he were standing there and watching her for the first time. He put it away this time. Easy. Practiced. He'd be fine with it all by morning. Specifically, he'd be fine by not responding to it.
His phone rang. A deep breath, and then he pulls the phone out of his pocket. Delaney. Adam answers the phone, and the scratchy voice on the other end greets him.
"Adam. How are you feeling?"
"What's up?"
"You want to talk about it?"
"Talk about what?"
"Don't play coy with me. Your walkout is going to be the talk of the town by morning. And with Miss Owens, too?"
Quinn's face hardened. "News spreads quickly."
"Sure, I guess it does. But in my case, it didn't have to spread far. I particularly like the mole she's got—"
"Tom, I'm going to have to ask you to wait a minute. I've got another call."
Adam jabs the hold button and drops the phone into the passenger seat. He pulls off to the side of the road. He'll get himself under control. It's just a matter of time. Easy. Practiced.
He always had a temper as a young man. A mile-wide streak in him of disrespect and disobedience that they tried to get out of him with military school. Well, it might work. It might not. But the one thing was for damn sure.
He'd learned to get rid of that destructive streak. He'd tempered it into a stubbornness that served him well in the business world. Bull-headed enough to get what he wanted out of business, but managed enough not to lose his head over anything. Never lose your temper with a client or a rival, and never stay in because you were in too deep already.
Tom Delaney was a friend, in a certain sense of the word. The men knew each other better than most. In part because Tom was a dangerous man, and Adam was a sleeping bear. The word rival failed to capture their relationship.
But outside of this, Adam had no trouble admitting a positive sort of feeling about him. And if Delaney had walked up to him right now, Quinn might have broken his neck. Whatever his play was, now wasn't the time to make it.
Quinn picks the phone back up. He forces his anger into a box of steely calm and latches the lid. He presses the hold button again and brings the handset back to his ear.
"Okay, I'm back."
Chapter Twelve
It wasn't unexpected when Linda pretended that nothing had happened. It was the right play. It was, however, unexpected when Tom did it, too.
His lack of restraint was not only famous, it was what Adam had hired him for. Because he was always playing hardball. It was an undesirable trait in a friend, never being able to just relax and let something slide, but in a media consultant, it was just about the only trait that was really needed.
Adam ignored it. They were going to do what they were going to do, and he had to do what he had to do. There was nothing to gain from making a fuss. Just wait until the other shoe drops.
It dropped just after lunch. Linda looked tired, at the best. Exhilarated. It occurred to Adam as he thought through the day that he hadn't seen them since a little after they walked in that morning.
Tom announced, loud enough for anyone to hear. "We've got it." His voice was rougher than normal, like he'd been talking too much.
"Oh?"
"You'll like this one. In the hallway."
Adam raised an eyebrow, but he pushed himself back from the unadorned oak desk that he'd set aside for himself, tapped a few keys on his keyboard that made the screen go black, and followed them out.
He looked first to Linda. If Tom thought something was a good idea, then that was one thing. She was the canary in the coal mine. If she was nervous, then it was a bad idea. She seemed nervous, but it was an energetic nervousness. Like she was about to roll the dice on a big gamble.
"Lay it on me."
"Remember when I said that you were going to be the talk of the town last night?"
Adam's jaw tightened. "Sure."
"What if we made sure of it?"
"You mean what if we leaked the story to the press."
Tom smiled; Linda had a thumbnail lodged firmly between her front teeth, but she seemed to be stopping herself from actually chewing it. "That's exactly what I mean."
"It's a risk. Linda?"
"It was her idea, Adam. Look at her. Learning, always learning. I'll be out of a job soon, if she keeps making plays like this."
She smiles a little, but she doesn't look at Adam.
"Interesting. And you think it'll work?"
Tom's eyes light up as if the question is all he's ever wanted to be asked. "Think it'll work? Of course it will work, Adam. Of course it will work. It's got everything from top to bottom.
"Sex, of course. Everyone loves sex. And then it's got that air of danger. Anonymous sex. And more than that, it's got an air of government conspiracy. Like you're already infiltrating. It's perfect."
Deep breath. "Linda, talk to me. What's got you nervous?"
"It's a risk. I think it pays off, or I wouldn't have come to him. And you want to take risks. So I don't know. I just don't know."
Adam leans back against the wall. The idea had occurred to him, on some level, but hearing it confirmed by the other two made it real. It meant that what had previously been an incident that he didn't want to relive would be on television every night.
Of course, they wouldn't mention—he hoped—having stormed out. If they did, then it would create a little bit of a different story. Adam Quinn, too disturbed by the Washington establishment even to fuck their women.
The thought courses through his mind as if it might have been a good idea. It wasn't, and he already knew why.
"Linda needs to be left out of it."
Her face screws up. "I mean, we could run interference on it if they try to bring that up, but why? I'm just nobody."
"I've had my name raked through the mud more times than I can count. It's more mud than name, these days." Adam looks at Tom Delaney with a hard expression. "I'm not going to have that happening to Mi
ss Owens. Am I clear on that?"
Tom smiles. It doesn't suit him. He looks like a caricature of himself. He's always frowned, and so he should continue now. But apparently this has put him in a rare good mood.
"Of course, sir. Just you. Anyone else we should throw under the bus? Just in case?"
"Do you think it'll be necessary?"
Linda's nail is back between her teeth. She's rocking her thumb back and forth, as if she hopes that she can counteract the desire to chew her nails by reversing the action, pressing harder against her teeth standing still. Tom, on the other hand, is rearing to go.
"Necessary? No. It makes it look less targeted, though. They'll bite easier if they don't think it's bait."
"Without the extra?"
"They'll bite. How could they not? But it won't have that ring of truth. They'll know right away it came from us, or from someone looking to get you out of the race. Rather than being an organic story."
"Do what you think you have to, then," Adam answers. His mind races with possibilities that he doesn't want to put words to right now.
"Are you sure about this, Linda?"
Her eyebrows crease again. Then she smooths her face over, and it's as if it never happened.
"Sure I'm sure. I'm not the one in hot water. It fits your image perfectly. It's not going to do anything to you, I don't think. The public perception is already that you're a man of… considerable virility, shall we say. The only thing they're going to get out of this story is that nothing has changed now that you're on the campaign trail."
"I agree," Tom chimes in. "But then again, this is her specialty, not mine."
"You're right, it isn't," Adam answers. He can't explain why he's upset. Something he can't put his finger on. And then, all of a sudden, the entire situation clarifies in his mind.
He's angry because Tom's there. He's there with Linda. Linda, who is his. She just doesn't know it yet. And he's putting her at risk.
Adam Quinn can take risks. But nobody takes risks with Adam Quinn's woman.
Chapter Thirteen
Linda Owens sat there, not talking to Tom. That was how it had been for a few minutes. Tom looked at her, hard, and she looked down at the table, though she was fully aware of what was going on around her.
It was just easier that way, because it wasn't hard to figure out what he wanted from her. He might be many things—last night had told her that—but he was, at his heart, a man who wanted to see things destroyed.
He'd turned his gaze on others—that she would be collateral was a pitiable consequence that he wasn't happy with, but he wasn't going to do anything to stop it from happening.
What he wanted was to be able to throw everything at the story, and that meant throwing her at it. Throwing himself at it meant nothing. Not when they'd know, deep down, that he was the source.
Throwing the rabbit into the brier patch was the bait. They had to throw Adam. But Linda was the icing on the cake. The exception that proved the rule.
If they leaked Adam's name, then there had to have been others. Other women. The story isn't "Adam Quinn, homosexual?" but rather "Adam Quinn, dubiously moral stud?"
Most of the women there weren't politicians' wives. Oh, sure, there was nothing stopping them. It was encouraged, even. But many of them were models, out-of-towners, and celebrities. The ones who weren't were, so to speak, supplied by the house. And there was no spark in either of those stories.
Linda Owens' appeal was that she was so entirely unlike any of the other options. Going to sex parties wasn't something that she'd been known to do. If they could prove she was there, then they prove the event was real, and newsworthy.
Linda could see every advantage in outing herself, in the sort of detached way that someone might be able to if they were playing a game about her life. But she couldn't bring herself to tell Tom to go ahead and ignore Quinn's demand that she be left out of the story. Now all that was left to Delaney was to stare at her until she buckled.
To her surprise, he spoke. "What made you go there in the first place?"
"I don't want to talk about it."
Linda would have been very happy if she had woken up to find that the night before had been a dream. She'd have been almost as happy if she had forgotten about it, even if nobody else had.
"We're going to talk about it," he says. His voice has something to it—the suggestion of a threat that remains veiled and will continue to remain veiled.
"I don't want to talk about it, and you're not going to force me to."
"No, I won't. But we're going to talk about it, because you're going to decide to."
A nervous energy floods through her as if his words have power over her decisions. What's she going to do about the suggestion that she has to do what he says?
"I don't know why I went," she says. Her eyes shift from the tabletop to the corner of the room. The coffee maker sits near the corner, and she focuses her eyes on it. Someone should make a new pot, but she's not dying for a cup, so it can wait.
"Don't avoid the question, Linda. You'll feel better."
"This is a trick to get me to leak my own name."
"Maybe, sure. Tricks are my bag. I won't deny that much. If it were a trick, I'd tell you it wasn't. Maybe if it wasn't a trick, I'd tell you it was. You can't know, so you'd be better off making your best guess."
"Do you want a cup of coffee?"
"You're avoiding my question. Still."
"I know. Do you want a cup of coffee or don't you?"
"You can't run away from me that easily, you know. I don't take no for an answer very well."
"I know that."
"Yes, I'd like a cup of coffee, since you're so worried about it."
Linda gets up to make a new pot, pours out the last bit. Her hands moving feels nice, but she'd thought that the tension in the room would go away. That she'd be able to diffuse it by running away.
It doesn't work. She should have known better, but she'd been so hopeful.
"Now, in your own time. What did you go to that party for?"
"You know what I went there for," Linda answers. Her shoulders feel tight to the point of pain.
"I want to hear it from you. My guesses aren't as good as you think they are."
"No?"
"I guess I'm off my game. I had you pegged for frigid."
Linda blinks. "What?"
"Professional. Turned-off. You think with your head a lot. No gut to speak of. You're too smart to be in this game and still think that there's anything good about it. So you're not an idealist. You're not married, but you're not looking for anything. Well… I suppose we both know now that's not totally true, don't we?"
"Frigid?"
"We all make mistakes, but hey. I had statistics on my side for this one. Look at every woman in the Senate, in the Congress, and realize that they all are. No interest in anything but power. Compared to the hyper-sexed men… well, you can see where the problems begin to arise."
"I put my job first."
"An admirable choice. Well, I guess I should have gotten a clue before that," he adds, almost to himself. He turns toward the table. What was that supposed to mean?
The spell breaks almost immediately when he decides that it's time to abandon the subject. Linda notes that she still hasn't answered his question, not really. Tom won't have missed it, but if he lets it go then she's happy regardless.
She pours out the now-full pot into a couple of cups. Tom stands up.
"Thank you. I've got to make a few calls." He takes the cup and leaves, and Linda is left wondering what the hell just happened, and what he just learned. That she didn't want him knowing it is a foregone conclusion.
Chapter Fourteen
Linda Owens settled into her couch and turned on the TV. It was likely the last day before the bombshell dropped. They'd be vetting the story now. Whoever ran it first—it read like tabloid smut, so they would probably be the ones to do it—would get plenty of play for at least a couple of days.
The others would be kicking themselves for getting scooped.
And Linda Owens would be hoping to hell that the story turned into a big nothing burger. It was a risk. A hell of a risk, to be honest, and there was no way that they could play it straight no matter what happened.
Nobody hacked straight through a problem, not even someone as straight-forward and as untouchable as Adam Quinn. Nobody would be surprised that Adam had been there. It had the stickiness that they wanted. Something that wouldn't just slide right off.
The problem wasn't that people wouldn't forgive him for it, either. He was a known quantity, thank God, and he was known for this kind of thing, so nobody would freak out. Not really.
The problem was that it didn't damage his personal brand but it reinforced the idea that many were concerned about that he wasn't electable. That if they put him into the office, the Democrats would never get the seat back because they'd forever be the laughingstock of the world.
A president who cavorts around with prostitutes and sluts, who spends his time at sex parties when he should be—who knows. At some kind of monastery, Linda supposed. There were few men who worked harder than Adam Quinn, regardless of the number of sex parties he went to.
A number that can't possibly have been as high as some would suggest. But what if he were going to as many as some thought? That would be— That would be a truly intimidating amount of sex. No way.
Linda lays her head back. The news coverage is thinning out. They're talking about pop stars now. Which is to say, back to the usual news cycle. A holding pattern until something real juicy comes along that they can devote all their coverage to.
Well, don't worry, Ellen—Tom Delaney's on the job, and he's not going to leave you without a story to report on for long. If you play a nice puppet, he'll make sure you don't have to ever know what it feels like not to be dancing.