“Does Vance know you’re here?” Haas demanded, his face flushing. “Because he should have damn well given me a call himself if—”
“No, sir,” Cassie answered softly. “Mr. Magnus doesn’t know anything about my visit. I came, as I said before, for personal reasons.”
“This is preposterous, Senator!” Geoff broke in. “I regret letting this woman barge in here to try to railroad you into—”
“Geoff, sit down and shut up. Since she is here, let’s hear Ms. Hartley out, shall we?” A dull gleam of self-determination appeared in Haas’s eyes as his surprised aide took his seat.
“Continue,” the Senator said, nodding at Cassie.
“Senator, sir,” Cassie began, “many of the people in my generation don’t remember J.F.K., the sixties, or much of anything that took place when you first became a household name. They have no understanding of the hope, the charisma, the pure idealism of that time. They have no understanding of what you’re really made of … what you believe in. These people—a huge voting block that’s poised to take over the country in the next decade or two—have grown cynical and disillusioned with politics and politicians.”
“We are fully aware of all this,” Geoff said.
“Then I’m surprised that you object to my proposal of a Breaking News piece that will—for the first time in many years—reveal the Senator’s true giving nature to his voters. He’s under attack, no doubt unfairly. Unless something is done, this state is going to lose one of the finest leaders it’s ever had. I want to help. I can help.”
“Breaking News is known as a sensationalist, mud-slinging program,” Geoff replied. “It’s absolutely the last place I’d suggest the Senator consider.”
“Exactly!” Cassie replied, almost laughing. “Don’t you see? Millions of people are going to tune in, ready for a scathing exposé of their senior senator. Expecting blood. Assuming he’s going to be thrown to the lions. And what will they watch? A balanced, admiring report on one of the last true liberals in the country. Homage to a great man. A man who not only demands our respect, but who deserves our support for as long as he wishes to serve the public.”
“And what,” Senator Haas asked quietly, “do you get out of this, Ms. Hartley?”
“Did you know, Senator,” Cassie replied, “that Miranda wanted to do a segment on you herself? I found her notes at the office the other night.”
“I don’t think so,” Haas replied, shaking his head and looking puzzled, “though we might have discussed the idea at some point. But not recently that I can recall.” But then there were many things, too many things, that tended to blur in Tony Haas’s memory, especially if the events took place at night, after drinks and dinner. Had Miranda said something to him about an interview at that last party she’d put on? He remembered speaking to her at the end of the evening—at some length—about his past. He vaguely remembered a look of triumph on her classically beautiful face, but why? Perhaps he’d agreed to such an interview then?
“You don’t seem very sure,” Cassie observed. “But, believe me, she had hoped to do a piece on you, obviously to coincide with your reelection bid. You ask what’s in this for me? A chance to finish something that Miranda had started. This wouldn’t be just an homage to you, Senator. For me … it would be one to Miranda as well.”
“Senator, please,” Geoff interrupted, “we’re running way behind schedule. Let’s turn the proposal over to Rita’s office. She’s in the middle of planning your publicity schedule for next month, though I doubt there’s any time to fit this in.”
“I’ll decide about that,” Haas replied, standing up. Cassie stood as well, and they shook hands. He felt his hand tremble slightly as it closed around hers. He felt exhausted suddenly. It took a lot out of him, going up against people like that cocksure Geoff. He wished he didn’t need to surround himself with such barracuda. If only he could pull together a staff of true believers, like this young lady here. Good, honest people who remembered, as Cassie put it, what he stood for. Though sometimes, especially these days, the Senator himself forgot what those things were. He needed to clear his head. Get a grip on himself. He needed to go to the men’s room before his next meeting. Lock the stall. Unscrew the top of the silver flask and take a big gulp from his private store of burning integrity and courage.
Twenty-one
At first Magnus was absolutely furious after the call from Haas. But when he phoned down to McPherson and learned that Mac had not okayed Cassie’s meeting with the Senator, in fact hadn’t even known she’d had one, Magnus’s anger faded, replaced with … What was he feeling exactly? Melancholy? Nostalgia? The truth of the matter was, Cassie was turning out to be a lot more like Miranda than he would ever have imagined.
“What do you want me to do?” Mac had asked him. “Take her off the Bronx piece as punishment, maybe? I don’t know why the hell she’s running around after Haas when she’s in the middle of the school-board thing.”
“That is the question, isn’t it?” Magnus replied. “Why Haas … and why now? No … let me handle this. Our little girl is getting some big ideas. Perhaps I’m responsible for putting them there. Tell her I want to see her. Around seven tonight.”
Charlene and the rest of the executive staff had gone. Magnus was standing at the westward-facing window, watching the sun stain the wetlands of New Jersey a bloody red, when the elevator doors swished open, then shut. He didn’t turn as he heard her footsteps in the corridor. She had Miranda’s sure, swift walk. He could almost imagine it was Miranda coming to him again, as she had so many other evenings at sunset. He would never forget the first night she had visited him here. It was two and a half years ago. She’d come to give something … and to get something else.
“This is quite a power view,” Miranda told him, standing where he was standing now, facing a brilliant sunset. “It’s like being on Mount Olympus.”
“Except we’re not gods,” Magnus said, handing her a flute of champagne mixed with kir. He would learn that it was her favorite drink. He would always keep a bottle or two of champagne chilled for her. He would become addicted to the taste of champagne on her lips and tongue.
“Oh, no?” she replied, laughing and turning toward him. “I see a lot of similarities between us and them. For instance, we don’t play by the same rules as most mortals.”
“Meaning?” Magnus asked, studying the smile on her lips. He had wanted her for so many years. He had waited for so long.
“We’re both ruthless, Vance,” she told him, tipping back her head as she drank from the long slim glass. Her neck was so white and soft, he longed to run his fingers along it. “You don’t mind if I call you Vance?”
“Not at all, Miranda,” he told her. “I’m just sorry that it’s taken you such a long time to do so. But go on about our ruthlessness … what do you mean? I like to think of myself as being reasonably moral.” And he had been, hadn’t he? Up until the moment she elected to enter his life.
“We get what we want,” she replied. “And we don’t really care how we do it. I’m surprised you’ve waited so long to go after what you really want, Vance.” She put her glass down on a side table. She stood facing him, right hip cocked, hands behind her back. Submissive, inviting.
“I’m not sure…”
“Cut the bullshit, Vance,” she told him. In one swift movement, she unzipped the back of her dress, pulled it down over her shoulders, and tossed it on the floor. She stood before him in a frothy concoction of expensive black lace underwear. She had guessed correctly about his tastes; she even wore a garter belt.
He stepped toward her … no, in truth, he stumbled. He was blind with desire. She guided his hand between her legs. In her heels, they were nearly the same height. She was not wearing any panties beneath the tight black sheath of garter. His fingers trembled against her, massaged slowly, until her hand closed over his … guiding him inside her. He had always taken what he wanted from women, rarely consid
ered their pleasure except as a lazy afterthought. How could she have known how much this would excite him? Forcing him to hold himself back. He stood against her, fully clothed, as she guided his fingers in and out of her—faster, then slower, then in the mad, arrhythmic motion of orgasm.
“Yes, fuck, yes.” He watched her face contort with pleasure as he could feel her flesh ripple against his fingers below. She made him feel so powerful, so virile. Hardly skipping a beat, she jerked down his zipper, tugged off his pants.
He made love to her on this very carpet, a violent, explosive session that left them both panting and sweat-soaked.
“I was right, wasn’t I?” she said as they sat together later on his leather couch. She was sipping another glass of champagne; and she had never looked more beautiful. Her usually perfectly tamed hair now hung wild around her shoulders, her blue eyes bright with satisfaction. “You have wanted to do that for a while now.”
“Ever since you rode up with me on that elevator. When was that … twelve years ago? Yes, Miranda, I’ve wanted that.”
“Why did you wait?”
“I’m not quite as ruthless as you think. You’re married, after all. I assumed that meant something…”
“Yes. It means I have a husband. And a daughter. I like having things. I’ve never understood why Americans are so puritanical about all this. But I’m not like most mortals, as I told you. When I see a man I want … I take him.”
“You’ve seen me for a long time now, Miranda,” Magnus replied. “Why now?”
“It’s more than just wanting you … it’s wanting something only you can give me.”
“I’m afraid I don’t understand,” he said, sitting up. He felt suddenly drained, satiated, beyond his depth.
“No matter what I do, Vance, what committees I serve on, what donations I make … I just don’t seem acceptable to your society friends.”
“My friends? You mean old Fitzie—that crowd? I wasn’t even aware that you wanted to be accepted. It’s all so stodgy, Miranda.”
“You won’t do it.” Her voice turned cold, her face a mask of disappointment.
“Do what?”
“Escort me to the ballet benefit next week? Show them I really am somebody? That I’m worth letting in?”
“Darling, that’s truly all you want?”
“Of course, Vance. That’s all.”
It seemed so wonderfully easy to make her happy. For months after that they glided smoothly together from fundraiser to opening night … benefit to ball. Then slowly Miranda’s interest faded. She became easily distracted, irritated. He was terrified that she’d taken a new lover, that he’d lose her. Then one night six months ago when she arrived at his office a full hour later than they had agreed upon, he demanded an explanation.
“I’m just so bored. Can’t you tell? I feel like I’ve done almost everything I’ve ever wanted.”
“Some things,” he told her, reaching out to touch her hair, “are worth doing more than once.”
“Oh, not now, please,” she muttered, pulling away and walking across to the window, sipping her drink.
“Darling, I hate to see you like this,” he said, despising the pleading note in his voice. “Isn’t there anything I can do?”
“Actually, there is one thing … I’ve been thinking lately that I might like to anchor the evening news. Oh, I realize I’ll have to co-anchor for a season or two until we can ease Marshall out. But I want to be solo anchor. The first woman in the business to do it. That’s something you could do for me.”
He was shocked at first. Hurt. Once again it was clear to him that she didn’t actually want him, just what he could give her. But even before he could sort out these feelings, she crossed the room and started opening his shirt, kissing his chest, making him hard. She hadn’t allowed him to touch her for several weeks before that, and he had been almost desperate in his desire to make love, crying out her name, losing more ground with each kiss, every touch. He lived only to feel himself inside of her. She had him where she wanted him. She outwitted him at every turn. Except one. She made the mistake of telling him exactly what she wanted. And he was smart enough this time to realize that once she had that—once he’d made her anchor—he would have nothing else left to give or interest her. And so the long, inevitable contest had begun.
“Hello?”
Magnus turned at the sound of Cassie’s voice. “Come in,” he said, walking over to his desk. “Sit down, Cassie.”
She was wearing one of Ralph Lauren’s deceptively simple-looking linen sheaths. The navy-blue material, cinched by a bright red patent leather belt, accentuated her graceful slimness. A red leather bag was slung over her right shoulder. She was carrying a legal manila folder. She’d cut her hair shorter, feathering her bangs, softening her features and at the same time making her face more interesting-looking. Where before she could be easily pegged as another tall, pretty blonde, now her look was harder to define. She was more mysterious and less accessible. Before, she was all out front: open, friendly, a modern Southern belle. Now she was holding something back—some key part of herself—and that restraint made her infinitely more attractive.
“I got a call from Anthony Haas this afternoon,” he said, watching her closely for a reaction. She nodded, as if she had been expecting him to say exactly those words.
“Yes, I supposed he would call you.”
“Of course he’d call, you little idiot!” he exploded, deciding it was time to crack her new facade. “He’s a long-time friend of mine. What the hell do you think you’re playing at? You had absolutely no right to contact him on your own. You made me look like a fool to Haas. McPherson’s furious. And so am I. This ridiculous move has done you a great deal of harm … just when I was beginning to believe you had real possibilities. I think I deserve an explanation. Now.”
“I’m sorry I’ve upset you,” she replied, meeting his angry stare. “I—I just wanted to show you what I could do. I don’t know what I thought would happen. I guess I just imagined that I’d walk in, tell the Senator how much I admired him and wanted to do an interview, and that he’d say great, let’s do it.”
“Cassie, I can’t believe you’re that naive. You know damn well that McPherson decides who does what stories. These things are very carefully plotted out. What got into you?”
“This,” Cassie said, holding out the manila file.
“What the…” He stopped talking when he saw Miranda’s childish scrawl on the yellow legal sheets. “Where the hell did you get this?”
“Well, you told me to poke around, remember? See if I could find anything about that ‘highly sensitive’ story you said Miranda had been working on. This was all I could come up with. Not much, but I wanted to take it another step—try to pin Haas down on an interview—before bringing it to you. Sorry it got so screwed up.”
Magnus scanned the handwritten notes quickly. “Nothing particularly new here. Just background on Haas’s reelection efforts. Certainly not anything to get upset about.” Magnus sighed and handed the file back to Cassie. “If this was the story Miranda told me about, she hadn’t gotten very far with it.”
“You’re sure there really was a story?” Cassie asked, tucking the folder under her arm.
“What do you mean?”
“Just that … some people on the show have implied that Miranda had gotten…” Cassie hesitated, glanced at Magnus, then at the floor.
“What? Out with it.”
“Lazy. She let others go after the stories. According to what I’ve heard, she hadn’t done any of her own legwork for some time. She’d do this kind of thing.” Cassie held up the folder. “Easy celebrity interviews. But the hard-hitting stuff? The pieces that need a ton of research and digging? No.”
“So you’re saying … what? Miranda made up the idea of a big, explosive story to impress me? String me along? Isn’t that a little absurd?”
“Not if she thought you weren’t taking
her seriously as anchor material. You yourself told me she was pushing you to make a decision. I could see her using whatever leverage possible to get that slot. It’s just office politics, really. I imagine she knew how to play those games very well.”
“Something’s telling me it runs in the family,” Magnus said, smiling for the first time since Cassie walked in. That stupid fool Haas, Magnus concluded silently; he saw a conspiracy behind every tree. It was time they all stopped worrying about Miranda. “Why don’t you sit down, Cassie, and tell me exactly what you have in mind.”
“Just what I told the Senator,” Cassie said, taking the leather Eames chair across from Magnus. “A sort of ‘day in the life’ portrait of him at work … at home. Of course, we’ll cut in footage of the Kennedy years—the peace marches and civil rights rallies. I grew up with his politics. My parents were among his biggest supporters. It’s something I want to do for them … as well as for me. And, of course, it’s something I want to do for Miranda.”
“You’re aware, of course,” Magnus said, looking down at his steepled fingers, “that Haas is under a certain amount of fire? There are some questions about his fund-raising techniques.”
“Sure,” she said dismissively, “doesn’t that sort of thing come with the reelection territory? It’s so mean-spirited, like Willie Horton. I’m hoping our segment will give the Senator a chance to set the record straight.”
“Okay, but we don’t want a puff piece here. It shouldn’t be too obviously pro.”
“Absolutely. I intend to ask some hard questions.”
“You intend to ask them?”
“Yes.” Cassie smiled. “I want to do the whole thing: research, write, and do the on-camera interview.”
“Oh, my.” Magnus laughed and leaned back in his chair, shaking his head. “I do believe I’m creating another monster.”
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