by Janet Dailey
Security kept the press away from the initial exchange, allowing them only to witness it at a distance. It soon became apparent that they were not going to be allowed to question Edmond Martineau about his visit nor was he going to give them any statement before he left the airport. They had all waited for nothing. Lexie heard the disgruntled mutterings from the other reporters, but they made little impression.
As Rome and his party started to make their way to a private lounge, Mac grumbled to Lexie, "We're not coming away from this empty-handed. Come on." He grabbed her hand and pulled her behind him as he shouldered his way as close as he could get. "Hey, Rome!" he shouted, lifting his camera high over his head. "How about a letting us have a picture?"
Rome sent a cursory glance over his shoulder in Mac's direction. His gaze lingered for a scant second on Lexie's red gold hair. She knew he had to have recognized her, but he didn't pause, continuing with his party to the private lounge. Her heart went dead.
A slow exodus of reporters began. The general consensus seemed to be that they would have a better chance when the party went to get in the waiting cars. Lexie was eager to leave, but Mac kept a firm clasp on her hand.
"The others…" she started to protest.
"We're going to wait here." There was a shrewd gleam in his eye as he stared at the closed door. "I've got a hunch and I'm betting that I'm right."
Lexie glanced at the door with an apprehensive frown just as it opened. The man who stepped out had been part of the arriving Martineau entourage.
He looked at her and said in a faintly accented voice, "Miss Templeton? Please come in."
She was frozen, but Mac wasn't. "I knew it!" he breathed in satisfaction, and pushed her ahead of him to the door.
The entire party was seated in the lounge: Edmond Martineau, the brunette, half a dozen aides and embassy officials, Rome's parents and Rome. All looked up when Lexie and Mac entered the lounge, but it was only Rome that Lexie saw. Her legs felt like two sticks of quivering jelly beneath her.
His gaze held nothing for her; neither warm nor cold it was merely different. He stepped forward at their approach, his smile minus the devastation it was capable of producing.
"Mr. Martineau has consented to answer a few questions and be photographed," Rome announced quietly.
"Terrific," Mac was enthusiastic, but Lexie could only nod.
Rome turned and walked beside her to the chair where his family's important guest was seated. Edmond Martineau rose smiling widely at Lexie. Before Rome could make the formal introductions, Martineau sent him a twinkling glance. "Now I understand why you asked this favor of me, Rome. She is a very beautiful lady.'
"Thank you," Lexie murmured at the compliment, too self-conscious to derive any pleasure from it.
There was an awkward moment when Rome introduced her, his mother piping up with, "The Miss Templeton?"
"The one and only," Rome had assured her dryly, using the same identifying words Lexie herself had once used. Lexie guessed from his mother's suddenly intent look that she had recognized Lexie's name from Shari's column.
The introduction ascertained one thing; the brunette was Martineau's daughter, Claudine. Her interest in Rome was even more apparent with Lexie looking on.
With the introductions over, it was time to begin the questions. Lexie began by asking what was expected of her—the reason of his visit, et cetera—and received the expected answer—to visit old friends, the Lockwoods. Edmond Martineau had been a classmate of Rome's father at Harvard while taking part in a foreign-exchange program, and they had remained close friends ever since, although it had been many years since Martineau had paid them a visit.
When Lexie asked, "When will you be meeting with the representatives from the State Department?" a fine tension crackled through the room.
It was perhaps only a second or two before Martineau laughed and denied, "This is purely a social visit, Miss Templeton—a few restful days with my old friends and a chance for my daughter to see the picturesque city of Boston."
"Of course; my mistake." Lexie smiled wanly, aware of the rapier thrust of Rome's gaze piercing into her. She turned away. "Mac?Would you like to get the rest of your pictures?"
She would have faded quietly into the wall while Mac snapped the rest of his photographs, but Rome didn't permit it, drifting to her side while Mac took pictures of Martineau and his daughter. Lexie tried to pretend he wasn't there, which was ridiculous, because every nerve in her body screamed with his presence.
"When we leave the airport," said Rome, "we will be taking Miss Martineau on a tour of some of Boston's historic points. Would you like to accompany us?"
Mac's hearing was exceptional because it was he who answered, "You bet we would!"
Lexie hesitated. With Mike's admonition to both of them to stick with Martineau until they had got to the bottom of his visit, it was impossible for Lexie to refuse this chance.
"It's kind of you to offer," she accepted stiffly.
"Not kind, Lexie. Not kind at all." Rome reply was low and sardonic, meant only for her to hear.
And there was no kindness in it, only pain.
They made the Freedom Trail tour of Boston, starting out at Christ Church or, as it is better known, Old North Church, where two lanterns were hung in its steeple in 1775 to signal that the British were coming "by sea." From there they moved on to Paul Revere's house, the oldest standing structure in downtown Boston, past a statue of Samuel Adams to Faneuil Hall, the "Cradle of Liberty," and then made a stop at the Boston Massacre site, by the Old State House, seat of the Colonial government.
At every place Lexie was forced to watch Rome escorting the beautiful Claudine, explaining the historic significance to her and laughing at her comments. She should have taken advantage of the situation to question Edmond Martineau more closely but she hadn't the heart for it. It seemed so terribly unimportant.
She stared into the window of the Old Corner Bookstore, seeing her strained features in its indistinct reflection. There was no feeling of history there for her, no thought that once the literary greats such as Emerson, Hawthorne and Holmes had possibly looked in the very same window when they had made it their meeting place and made Boston "the Athens of America."
Another reflection joined hers in the glass pane and Lexie stiffened. A further glance saw none of the others in the party, only Rome standing alone behind her. She knew she couldn't risk a personal discussion. She had long ago discovered that when you can't defend you should attack.
She turned. "I thought you told me that your family made it a rule not to become actively involved in politics."
"We don't become involved, and certainly not on an international level," Rome denied again.
She felt the dissection of his gaze, studying, penetrating, trying to see through her brittle mask. "And Mr. Martineau's visit?"
"His visit is exactly what he claims it to be—a reunion of friends."
"There's more to it than that," Lexie insisted.
"Is that why you were at the airport? And why you came along with us?"
"Of course—it's my assignment. I wouldn't be here otherwise." And that was the absolute truth.
"I see." Black shutters seemed to close over his eyes.
"I'm glad you do." She looked away. Where was Mac? No doubt with the beautiful Claudine.
"You're right. There is more to Martineau's visit than just the reunion," Rome said unexpectedly, and Lexie stared at him, surprised that he should suddenly admit it. "Within the next forty-eight hours it will officially be announced that he's been invited to the White House to meet with the Secretary of State."
"Then this is all a cover-up?"
"No. His visit to my parents has simply precipitated the invitation."
"If what you're saying is true, then why all the secrecy?" Lexie was skeptical.
Rome seemed not to care whether she believed him or not. "As I understand, it's a matter of diplomacy. Until the invitation is officially issued, Ed
mond doesn't acknowledge its existence. You should be more familiar with such things than I."
Frowning, she looked away. There was enough logic in his answer for her to believe him. Now she wondered what his motive was in telling her.
"Why have you told me?" she demanded, unable to come up with a reason on her own.
There was an arrogant glitter in his look. "It's in the way of a reward, I suppose. After the lengths you've gone to carry out your assignment I wouldn't like to see you report back with nothing."
Lexie would have questioned him further to test that cynical mockery in his voice but Martineau and his daughter and Rome's parents came around the corner of the building. And her chance was gone.
She heard them say that the Old South Meeting House, where the Boston Tea Party was launched, was their next stop. Claudine Martineau locked her hands possessively on Rome's elbow and Lexie knew she could endure no more of seeing them together. Mac was trailing the group, trying to juggle camera film and lenses. She led him aside.
"This is where we leave," Lexie told him.
"But…" He cast a protesting look at the disappearing group.
"We have our story. Now let's get back to the paper," she insisted as though she was certain she had a story. When she related it to Mike at the office, she downplayed its authenticity and avoided naming the person who had given her the information.
"What about your source?" Mike asked.
"I don't know how reliable he is," she admitted.
"It's Rome Lockwood, that's who it is," Mac declared from his perch on the edge of Mike's desk. "I tell ya, Mike, we've got ourselves an exclusive! Rome's the one responsible for getting us invited along. Lexie won't admit he gave her the information, but they were off by themselves talking and right afterward she tells me we're heading back to the office. It has to be him,"
"Lockwood, huh?" Mike eyed her, remembering her unwillingness to take the assignment because of Rome. "Do you think he might be feeding you false information to make you look like a fool?"
"He's trying to make points with her," the photographer inserted.
Lexie stuck to her story. "As I said, I don't know how reliable my source is. But I do know that Edmond Martineau isn't going to let anything slip. Keeping tabs on him will be a waste of time."
Mike considered the problem for a minute. "It will be announced within forty-eight hours, you say?"
"Yes," she, nodded.
"Shari Sullivan tells me the Lockwoods are throwing a big dinner party for Martineau on Friday night—the forty-eight hours you were saying—and it would be the perfect opportunity to make the announcement." He seemed to be speaking his thoughts aloud, for he suddenly took a deep breath and glanced at them both. "I have a few old connections in the State Department. If I get even a hint of verification, we'll run your story on Friday morning, Lex."
She didn't feel any sense of elation at the news.
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Chapter Eight
"THAT'S GREAT NEWS, Mike," Lexie said to the man standing in front of her desk. She should have been more elated than she was by his announcement. Instead her enthusiasm was forced.
"My connections at the State Department tried to be closemouthed about Martineau's visit. But after I reminded them of the favors they owed me, they finally confirmed your story," he elaborated, managing a smug smile despite the cigarette dangling out of his mouth.
"I'm glad to hear it," she lied again.
"You'd better get in gear and get the story written up if you want your byline to make the front page on Friday morning," Mike ordered. "You did a helluva job, Lexie. Which proves, I guess, that it pays to know the right people."
"I suppose," she nodded, concealing a sigh.
Mac, the photographer, had convinced Mike that she had used her persuasive powers on Rome to get the admission from him. Mike thought she had wheedled the information from him like any good reporter. But Lexie knew that the story had been handed to her on a platter. So Mike's announcement gave her no satisfaction.
"You suppose?" he retorted with a snort. "We'll break the story twenty-four hours before any other paper in town, and you suppose it pays to know the right people?"
"I was using your words, Mike," she reminded him and reached to insert a piece of paper in her typewriter.
"Humphh." The ashes from his cigarette fell on her desk. He brushed them to the floor with his broad, flat hand. "It doesn't matter how you got the story. Everybody in the trade is going to sit up and take notice of you when you show up at that dinner party tomorrow night."
"The dinner party?" Lexie swiveled her chair toward him. "There's no need for me to attend that. I've already got the story."
"You've got the advance story. Now you've got to cover the official announcement, which should be made at this shindig," Mike said. "You can cover that and whatever else develops out of it."
"No." She couldn't do it. She couldn't face Rome again. "Let somebody else go. It's just routine from here on."
"What are you?" Placing his hands on her desk, he leaned across it to emphasize his words. "A reporter? Or a glory-hunting, headline seeker?"
"I'm a reporter," Lexie insisted defensively.
"Are you sure?" he persisted. "Maybe you've fallen in love with seeing your name in print. Is that why you let Sullivan put all those quotes from you about Lockwood in her column? You've gained a little notoriety, and now you think you're too good to cover routine stuff, is that it?"
"No," she denied. "It just so happens that I have a date Friday night."
"With whom?" Mike wanted to know, leaning closer and breathing cigarette smoke from his mouth like dragon's fire.
"Gary Dunbar. He works in features," Lexie answered.
Mike rolled the cigarette to the other side of his mouth, his teeth clamping onto the end of it. "Break it," he ordered.
"I don't want to break my date."
"All right." He straightened and turned to bark, "Dunbar! Somebody get me Dunbar on the double!"
"What are you doing!" Lexie demanded and guessed that her editor intended to throw his weight around by ordering Gary to break the date. "So help me, Mike, if you—"
"Just shut up, Lexie, and let me handle this." His gruff retort sliced off her futile and powerless threat. There wasn't any more time to argue as Gary came rushing toward them.
"You wanted to see me, Mr. Farragut?" he asked nervously.
"Lexie tells me the two of you have a heavy date tomorrow night." The statement sounded like an accusation.
Gary looked momentarily flustered. "Yes, we have a date tomorrow night." He avoided using the adjective "heavy" as he darted a faintly embarrassed glance at Lexie.
"Where are you going?" Mike wanted to know, his hands on his hips in challenge.
"Well, I…uh…" Gary quailed under glowering demand of the editor, then continued, "There's a new Fonda movie premiering tomorrow night. Stan, over in movie reviews, gave me a couple of free tickets. I thought Lexie and I might go to see it."
"Wrong!" Mike barked. "You are going with Lexie to a dinner party the Lockwood's are giving tomorrow night for Edmond Martineau. Okay?" It wasn't really a question of Gary agreeing, not as far as Mike was concerned. It was more of a dare to disagree. "Lexie is covering the event for the paper."
"Sure. Fine. That's all right with me." Gary practically fell all over himself in his hurry to agree with the change of plans. Only at the last second did he think to consult Lexie. "It will be okay, won't it, Lexie?"
It seemed she had as little choice as Gary did. He wouldn't be a very adequate shield against Rome, but he was better than none. Since she had to go to the dinner party, she'd rather attend with an escort in tow.
"As long as you don't mind, it's fine with me," she agreed with only a trace of grimness.
"I don't mind," he assured her.
"Then it's all settled," Mike declared, glancing at Lexie to see if she intended to argue the point any further.
; She took a deep breath and nodded, "It's all settled."
"Good" He chewed on the end of his cigarette. "Get back to whatever you were doing Dunbar," he ordered gruffly. "And you," he said squinty gaze sliding to Lexie, "get busy on that story. I want it on my desk in half an hour."
She turned her swivel chair to face the typewriter and rolled the paper through the carriage cylinder. Gary was already hustling back to his desk. Mike stayed until he saw the first typewriter key being struck.
As they walked down the plush hotel corridor to the banquet room rented for the occasion, Gary's skittish gaze darted over the guests making their way to the same destination. They were all dressed to the teeth, the men in black-tie and the women in gowns and adorned with jewelry. Gary cleared his throat nervously and adjusted his brown-striped tie.
"You could have given me a hint about what I was letting myself in for tonight," he whispered to Lexie. "I could have rented something formal."
"Don't worry. We're reporters. We're supposed to look conspicuous so no one will blab any secrets, mistaking us for one of them," she answered.
The butterflies in her stomach had nothing to do with her casual state of dress. They came from a mixture of anticipation and apprehension at seeing Rome again. Against her better judgment, she had allowed Mike to maneuver her into this.
It wasn't any use pretending she did it just to keep her job, but it provided the perfect excuse.
At the doorway to the banquet room, they were stopped. Lexie showed the man her press card as her gaze skimmed the already crowded room for a glimpse of Rome. Her initial sweep didn't find him. A crazy mixture of disappointment and relief quivered through her as they stepped into the room.
"There's the queen bee herself, Shari Sullivan," Gary remarked in the direction of the stunning, if aging, blond columnist. "Somebody must have forgotten to tell her about the unwritten code of dress for journalists."
Lexie's gaze ran admiringly over the elegant chiffon cocktail dress Shari was wearing. It was in marked contrast to the midnight-blue tailored suit Lexie wore. The manly cut of her skirt and jacket was alleviated by the ruffled white blouse she wore and the way the deep blue of the material drew attention to the aquamarine color of her eyes.