The Complete Novels of the Lear Sister Trilogy

by Julia London

  She was peeking back over previous entries hoping for a little help on number three when the phone rang. She propped her bare feet on the desk and picked up the phone, “Hello?”

  “Ah . . . Rebecca?”

  “Yes?” she responded, using her extremely polite, extremely ingrained, beauty pageant voice.

  “Hey, Tom Masters here.”

  Her feet came crashing down to the wood floor, her pulse suddenly pounding. Tom Masters was an old friend of Bud’s, a state politician or something—why would he be calling her? “Hi, Tom! How are you?”

  “Doing great! And you?” Before Rebecca could answer, he added contritely, “Hey, sorry to hear about the split. You and Bud were one of mine and Glenda’s favorite couples.”

  “Oh . . . thanks.” Seeing as she and Bud had seen Tom and his wife about once every other year, Rebecca thought that a little gratuitous.

  “So I heard you were living down here now. That’s great!”

  “It is?”

  “Sure! Didn’t Bud tell you I’m running for lieutenant governor this fall?”

  Oh, for Chrissakes! This was about a campaign contribution? “Bud and I aren’t exactly chums, Tom.”

  “Oh . . . right,” he said as if that were somehow news. “Well, I’ve been a state senator for a couple of terms now, and I’m making a bid for lieutenant governor. When Glenda and I heard you were down here in Austin, she said, ‘Hey, Rebecca would be a great addition to your team!’”

  Interesting—her relationship with Glenda consisted of complimenting each other’s shoes. “What team is that?”

  “My team. You know, my campaign team!”

  Whoa . . . Rebecca sat up. “An addition to your campaign team?” she repeated dumbly.

  “You bet. I’ve got some of the brightest folks around to help me get elected. But I just thought if you had some extra time, maybe you could volunteer. Here’s the deal, Rebecca. You have a lot of important friends in this state. You know their likes, their dislikes, and I need people like you to help get the word out about my candidacy and help me develop new strategies that speak to all Texans. I need bright, clever people who can help me form an agenda that is relevant to all the many different constituents of Texas.”

  Rebecca was standing now—forget that she hadn’t a clue what Tom did as a state senator—this was too good to be true! Was it possible that an opportunity like this could just fall into her lap from nowhere? After weeks and weeks of searching for a job? It sounded perfect, something she really could do. Wow, maybe Rachel was right—maybe her karma was kicking in! This was something she could do, something where maybe she could learn stuff about computers, and maybe even meet some people who could give her . . . dare she think it? A paying job!

  “You want me to help you?” she asked, just to make sure she wasn’t misconstruing things.

  “I sure do!” Tom said enthusiastically. “You’d be a perfect asset—I mean, you’ve always been so clever and perceptive.”

  Had she really? Gee, she hadn’t even known it!

  “Yep, I’d be thrilled if you could see your way to spending a few hours a week with me. That’s all. Just a few hours where I can pick your brain.”

  “I don’t even know what to say, Tom,” she said, feeling herself blush with his praise. “I’ve never done anything like this before.”

  “Oh, sure you have! It’s not any different than throwing one of those big parties you’re famous for. Listen, why don’t you drop by our campaign staff meeting tomorrow afternoon? My folks are getting together to talk about next steps.”

  “I am so flattered,” she gushed, already pulling her hair out of its scrunchie. “I’d love to give you a hand.”

  “Then you can make it?”

  “Ah . . . let me look at my schedule,” she said, and held the phone away from her ear as she did a silent little Snoopy happy dance, then stopped, caught her breath, and said in her best, I’ve-got-a-life-too voice, “I think I can rearrange a couple of things. What time did you say?”

  “Around four, my office at the capitol. And thanks, Rebecca. Your presence will definitely make this the A- team.”

  “Oh no, thank you, Tom. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

  She clicked off the phone, threw her arms wide and grinned up at the ceiling. “Excellent!” she exclaimed, and abruptly pivoted about, her mind already racing ahead to the perfect outfit. As she marched from her office, she joined SpongeBob SquarePants in chanting, “I’m rea-dy, I’m rea-dy, I’m rea-dy!”

  Chapter Five

  It is important to always look professional. Clothes should be clean and pressed, shoes polished, and hair neatly combed. In the words of Coleman Cox, “keeping your clothes well pressed will keep you from looking hard-pressed!”

  THE UNQUALIFIED APPLICANT

  Having no idea what campaign types wore, Rebecca chose a demure white Chanel suit trimmed in black after watching a Lifetime TV movie in which the female lawyer lead wore very austere business suits. Rebecca thought she looked neither conservative nor liberal, but middle of the road. Fair. Objective. And then she remembered that she wasn’t running for office, Tom Masters was, and spruced it up with her favorite black pearl jewelry, and decided that she was perfectly attired for a Campaign Strategy Meeting.

  How cool! How Uranus!

  She found Tom’s office at the state capitol easy enough, but there wasn’t anyone there, just a little hand-lettered sign that said: Back at 4:00. Rebecca tried the door; it was open, so she stepped inside. She quietly took in the ornate marble and oak decor, and as she was admiring a painting of Ft. Worth, she heard a faint rustle of noise from the back offices, and decided to walk back and announce herself, lest she startle anyone with her presence.

  Moving down a corridor crowded with stacks of paper and state budgets, she peeked in each office until she finally came upon the source of the noise—at which point, her heart just stopped. Cold. No beat, no pulse, nothing but instant and potentially permanent paralysis. Common sense told her that this was impossible—it had to be some sort of setup, one of those hidden camera gags, because it was impossible for that man to be sitting in Tom’s office now—except that it was him, seated at a computer, staring intently at the screen as he absently bounced a Nerf basketball against the wall.

  Fortunately, he hadn’t yet noticed her, thank you, God. Rebecca, recovered from her paralysis, was slowly and quietly backing out of that doorway—but not without noticing the lock of sienna brown hair that had fallen across his forehead, slipped from a wavy crop streaked gold by the sun. He had carelessly tossed aside his suit coat and was wearing a crisp white shirt, a very hip tie flipped over one broad shoulder, and shoes polished to a high sheen. And, she noticed, as he lifted his arm to bounce the Nerf ball, he was also very trim. Funny, she hadn’t remembered the pompous ass being quite so . . . fine—

  “I’m sorry, I didn’t hear you come in,” he said suddenly, twisting when her purse inadvertently hit the doorjamb.

  Rebecca froze as he came to his feet, a charming smile on his face and in his expressive gray eyes. How had she missed such a square, clean-shaven chin? Or that smile, for God’s sake, a gorgeous white smile that ended with a perfect dimple on either end . . . a smile that was rapidly fading as recognition and then just plain horror swept over him.

  Actually, it wasn’t horror but confusion, as Matt’s first thought was that she had to be some sort of weird stalker—what else would bring her here? Nevertheless, if that’s what she was, then she had to be the most drop-dead gorgeous stalker ever—his memory of her was right on about that. She was, like he’d recalled (several times), tall and thin, with silky long black hair, and silky long legs, and clear blue eyes that glimmered, demonlike, as she stared at him beneath two perfectly sculpted brows dipped in a dark vee.

  “Well hello, Looney Tunes,” he said, folding his arms across his chest. “What’s the matter, lose your quesadilla again?”

  “Hardly,” she said, likewise folding her arms
beneath her bosom, squaring off.

  “So . . . you’re just stalking me?”

  Her demon blue eyes narrowed. “You know, you are in serious need of an ego deflation, Mr. ah . . . I’m sorry, what was it again? Popinjay?”

  Ah yes, this was the Little Miss Perfect who had crept, uninvited, into his thoughts so many times over the last couple of weeks or so, and he grinned. “It’s Parrish, thanks. So if you aren’t looking for a quesadilla, and you aren’t stalking me, then why are you tracking me down?”

  “You should really see someone, you know, because your imagination seems to border on the delusional quite often. Now really, why would I be tracking you down?”

  “Why wouldn’t you?” Matt asked, just to see what she’d say.

  “Here we go again,” she said, sighing impatiently, “the old, ‘I’m-a-stud-so-you-must-be-following-me’ routine. That really must get so tiresome for you.”

  Actually, her following him wouldn’t be so bad, really, because she was beautiful, really beautiful, and Matt knew from beautiful. “Can you blame me?” he asked cheerfully, taking a step forward, wanting his suit coat. “You have a habit of popping up around the capitol wherever I happen to be.”

  That earned him a soft laugh of disbelief. “You really are delusional.” She shifted her weight to one hip, which put her just inside the little cracker box office and directly in the way of his suit coat.

  “That’s just what I was thinking about you,” he said. “What is it that makes all the gorgeous ones so wacko?”

  With a dainty snort, she rolled her eyes. “What is it that makes men like you so full of themselves?”

  “Probably wackos like you chasing us around,” he said with a grin, and took a step forward, so that they were standing almost chest to chest. “But if it’s all the same to you, I’d rather just fast-forward past your little game and get down to whatever it is you’re after.”

  She gave him a withering glance she had probably used a million times on a million guys in a million venues; a superior, don’t-touch-me-look that, on lesser women, Matt could usually dismantle with merely a smile. Only this woman was obviously a master at deflecting, so Matt just reached around her for his coat, his arm next to her head, his body only inches from hers. He couldn’t help himself; he glanced down at her endlessly blue gaze, one that was challenging him, he could see it, and felt a smile playing at the corner of his lips. “Let’s just pretend you aren’t following me—”

  “Oh, let’s.”

  “So what are you doing here?” he asked, quietly breathing in her perfume.

  She cocked her head to one side, obviously enjoying the fact that he didn’t know. “What are you doing here?”

  Matt leaned in a little closer, his mouth only inches from her face as he groped for his coat behind her back. “I asked you first, Miss Priss.”

  “Okay, genius,” she said, tapping a finger against her bottom lip. “Let’s put on our thinking caps, shall we? Why would in be the offices of a state senator?”

  He wasn’t actually thinking too much at the moment as his gaze wandered her lips, her little nose, and her killer eyes . . . until a thought suddenly occurred to him. A thought that perhaps this really wasn’t about him. “You’re not here to see Senator Masters . . . are you?”

  “Brilliant deduction.”

  Matt instantly reared back, coat and all. So the little cuckoo was a friend of Tom’s? Unbelievable! “You’re kidding.”

  “I am so not kidding,” she said cheerfully, smiling with such pleasure that cute little laugh dimples creased her cheeks. “Now it’s your turn. What are you doing here?” she insisted. “Friend of Tom’s?”

  “Fraternity brothers.”

  “That certainly would explain a lot.” She smiled fully at him then, almost blinding him with it.

  Matt shook his head as he shoved into his coat, marveling at the unbelievable odds of this little coincidence. Too bad, really—he was enjoying their verbal fencing. But, as he really shouldn’t continue to bait Tom’s friend by calling her a stalker, he motioned vaguely to the office across the hall. “You’d probably be more comfortable waiting in his office.”

  “Oh, that’s all right,” she said, obviously pleased with herself. “I’m sure he’ll want to meet in a larger area. I had the impression that several people would be here.”

  Matt paused in the straightening of his tie to look at her. “Are you sure you have the right day? Tom’s got a meeting this afternoon, but it’s with the campaign staff—”

  “Yes, that’s why I’m here.”

  Now Matt was seriously confused. The campaign was fully staffed, and it was too early for neighborhood volunteers. He looked at her expensive suit, her purse and shoes, the black pearl ring on her hand. “But . . .”

  The door opened at that moment; they both turned toward the sound of several people entering the office, and squeezed, simultaneously, through the door and into the crowded hallway. “Tom!” she called, and Tom waved at her over someone’s head as he came hurrying forward.

  “I see you two have met!” Tom exclaimed happily before grabbing her in a big bear hug that almost swallowed her whole.

  “Not really,” she said politely, straining for air.

  “Oh? Well, this is Matt Parrish—but you can call him Matt,” Tom said, and let go of her, winking over her head at Matt. “I bet you remembered Rebecca Reynolds right off, didn’t you?” he said to Matt.

  Why should he—

  “It’s Lear,” she quickly corrected him, blushing lightly.

  “Oh, that’s right, I keep forgetting. Rebecca Lear. That was your name back in the glory days, right?” Tom continued jovially, and to Matt he said, “You know what I’m talking about—Miss Texas 1990?”

  Matt’s jaw dropped, and he wasn’t certain that his tongue didn’t all but roll out onto the carpet, Tasmanian Devil style. He looked at Rebecca Lear again, his shock mixing with a growing sense of alarm. What was Tom doing?

  But Tom had grabbed Rebecca’s elbow and was already steering her toward the conference room before Matt could say anything. “You were Miss Houston in 1989, weren’t you, Rebecca?”

  “Oh, Tom! That’s such old news—”

  “Nonsense, don’t be modest. We’re not modest in this campaign! We’re going to crow about our accomplishments! Matt here is one of the state’s best litigators, and don’t think for a moment that he hides his light under a bushel. You wanna sue, Parrish is the man for the job,” he said loudly as he practically shoved Rebecca into the conference room ahead of him, and boomed, “Hey gang, meet Miss Texas 1990!”

  Three heads swiveled in their direction, all of them looking as stunned as Matt felt, gaping at Rebecca Lear as if she had just dropped in from another planet in another galaxy, far, far away. After a long moment, Gilbert, the guy with the Jesus sandals, asked laughingly, “Hey, Miss Texas, where’s your crown?”

  “Oh! In my purse,” she said. “I was going to wait until a little later to put it on.”

  A silent moment or two passed before anyone realized she was actually kidding.

  Chapter Six

  A job description is merely a guideline of what may be expected. Never use it as an excuse to avoid broadening your horizons . . .

  A BRAND-NEW DAY

  At least the older woman with the helmet hairdo chuckled at Rebecca’s little joke, but the rest of them, judging by their expressions (and particularly the state’s best freakin’ litigator), were clearly wondering what the hell Miss Texas 1990 was doing in their conference room.

  Frankly, so was Rebecca. What in God’s name had she thought this would be? Maybe they’d play a little bridge and talk politely about politics? These people had credentials and a reason to be here! They weren’t insecure nobodies, and honestly, if Tom wasn’t blocking her exit, she’d turn and run out the door.

  But she was stuck right where she stood, feeling ridiculous with her little tiara-in-the-purse routine, until a small woman with short, magent
a-streaked hair, army-surplus cargo pants, and a T-shirt that read Keep Austin Weird stood up and asked, “Tom, did you want to order pizza?”

  “Yes, please, Angie! Rebecca, I’d like you to meet Gilbert, Pat, and Angie, my paid campaign staff,” he said (Rebecca couldn’t help noticing the one with the helmet-hair, Pat, rolled her eyes at that). “And you met Matt,” he added. “So we thought we’d have a late-afternoon powwow. Angie, see what everyone wants on their pizza, will you?” he asked, shrugging out of his coat. “Just have a seat there, Rebecca,” he said as he pointed to a chair at the conference table.

  Unable to gracefully extract herself now, Rebecca sat like the good little girl that she was, but caught a glimpse of Big Shot, who, having recovered from his shock that she wasn’t really after him, but merely a former beauty queen playing at politics, was looking at her now like she was some sort of freak. “Tom . . . a word please?” he said low, and grabbed Tom by the elbow and dragged him to the corner of the room for a little tête-à-tête.

  Uh-huh, she could just imagine what that was about. It was obvious to her that the state’s best litigator was busy making sure Tom understood that not only was she a fraud and had no business being here, but had probably thrown in a couple of terms like “stalker” and “lunatic” for good measure. She stole a glimpse at him again. Wow. He was really giving Tom an earful. In spite of having spent one entire evening reading Face Value: The Art of Reading Friends and Strangers, whose author would undoubtedly insist that Matt had something more important to speak to Tom about than her, that most people went around thinking about themselves and not her, and that what looked like a heated discussion really had nothing to do with her, Rebecca was pretty sure that it did. Call it woman’s intuition (which Our Bodies, Our Minds, Our Hearts would say was a much more accurate perception), but Rebecca was pretty sure their conversation had everything to do with her.

  “Anchovies?”

  “What?” she asked, startled by the question suddenly put to her.