Devil You Know

by Bagshawe, Louise

  Travis was loyal, thankfully. She wondered if her presence on tour had tempted Savannah, the threesome of cute blond sisters she’d booked as support. They were being managed by their father, and he was grossly incompetent. Poppy wanted them. She thought they were close; by the time they hit Dallas, she thought they’d be asking her if she had room in her stable for more.

  Dallas. Oh man. Another 6 A.M. start. Sometimes Poppy thought it was hardly worth going to bed. But right now, she couldn’t see straight.

  *

  “Actually, yes, ma’am.”

  Poppy held out a manicured hand. Please let it not be somebody needing to be bailed out.

  She was handed a piece of paper. It said, “If you’re interested, I’m in 201. Enjoyed the show. H.L.”

  The tiredness was suddenly gone from her brain, like somebody had brushed away thick cobwebs from a pane of glass. She grabbed her key and headed for the elevators.

  *

  Henry LeClerc. That was a blast from the past, Poppy told herself. It had been over a year since New York …

  Over a year. Damn. She actually hadn’t had sex for a year. Hadn’t even really thought about it, she’d been so busy.

  That’s not true, said a small, persistent voice in her head. You thought about it plenty. But you wanted Henry, and you were too goddamn proud to call him.

  And now he was here. The Honorable Gentleman from Louisiana. Paying her a visit when she came to his hometown.

  Poppy punched the second-floor button. When the elevator doors hissed open, she hesitated until they slid shut on her again. Then, feeling utterly miserable, she hit eight.

  Her room was small, unexciting. Travis had the penthouse suite, of course. One thing Poppy had learned from the masters was that acts noticed everything you did. Your room was charged to their promo bill, after all, and if managers indulged themselves with en suite jacuzzis and room-service caviar, they noticed, and they didn’t like it.

  Her bed was a twin, she had a nice bathroom, and a view of the wall of the next-door building. There was a basket of fruit; this was the Four Seasons, after all. There were also three dozen red roses.

  Poppy picked them up. The card just said “Henry.”

  She dropped them in the wastebasket and headed for the shower.

  *

  Water sluiced over her, washing the grime and dirt of the night away. The best deodorant, the most fragrant Hermès perfume could not stop the clinging smell of sweat, beer, and cigarettes from clinging to Poppy’s tailored Armani jeans and little black silk tees. She used Origins Mint wash, it made her feel clean, and always washed and conditioned her hair with custom-blended shampoos and conditioners from Vidal Sassoon.

  Tonight her ritual did nothing for her. Her exhausted mind was racing. She wanted him so badly she felt she could faint.

  But he’d turned up, after no calls, no letters, no contact. For a motherfucking booty call. Poppy had spent a year trying not to think about Henry LeClerc, and now here he was, with an arrogant note with his room number on it and some shitty roses. Like that made everything OK.

  I’m not going to call him, Poppy thought. I’m not. I’m not.

  She suddenly felt more tired than she had ever felt before. Bone-weary. Her career was blossoming, and she loved it; but her love life … that rock musician who’d dumped her after a sleazy motel fuck, that boring record company executive, a couple of others who hadn’t lasted a month. And now Henry. She had thought there was a psychic connection, but he hadn’t even bothered to ring her.

  Poppy ached for him. But she knew that if she called him she’d be no better than the girls who waited for Travis, buzzing like flies around the backstage door and most of them just as dirty. Yeah, it was a double standard: Travis and his back-up band screwed everything that moved, and that was expected; even the roadies got laid. But she knew what the men thought of those chicks.

  Whores. Sluts. At best, forgettable recreation for an hour or two.

  Was that what Henry LeClerc thought of her? The naïve twenty-something, falling for the sophisticated older man? The JAP from L.A. bowled over by all that slick Southern charm? Maybe he thought she’d be flattered that he was here, that she’d at least remembered who he was.

  How could she forget?

  Her skin still recalled every second. She felt her nipples tighten, betraying her, her groin stir, as though feathers had brushed across it.

  Poppy gazed longingly at the phone.

  Then she climbed into bed and went to sleep.

  *

  When she woke up, the nasty buzzing of the phone had her feet on the floor and her covers tossed back in two seconds. On the road, you responded to phones like Pavlov’s dog to a bell. Poppy hastily dressed and zipped up her small, compact case. Everything was done in less than twenty minutes, including a quick shower.

  She was ready before the rest of the crew. Poppy preferred to stay in control that way. She was calling Dani on her cell as she ran downstairs; often that was faster than waiting for a lift.

  When she reached the front desk Poppy handed her key over, then quickly scanned the pigeonholes behind reception. Two-oh-one was right there.

  “I see Henry LeClerc checked out,” she said, her heart thudding.

  “That’s right, ma’am.” The suit behind the desk glanced at his computer. “The Congressman checked out at ten past seven.”

  Poppy nodded. “Did he leave me any message?”

  She received a bright, professional smile. “No, ma’am. Nothing.”

  *

  Henry LeClerc sat in his limousine and brushed it off. Well, what had he expected, really? The girl was flighty. Just a girl. And yet …

  LeClerc had been at the Dixie Arena and had watched the Travis Jackson concert from the private box he usually took at sports games. He had been forced to listen to it, too, as it seeped through both the glass and his earplugs. He thought the kid had a nice voice, even if New Country was not his thing. Mostly, he had been impressed. Not as a fan, but as a businessman.

  LeClerc recognized the electric sexuality Travis Jackson presented as he crooned to the front rows. It was a rougher version of his own. He grinned as ferocious teenage girls ripped the singer’s shirt off, then scowled when he thought of Poppy Allen. What if she and Travis were sleeping together? Two young people, stuck on the road? The thought of the muscled, tanned Jackson, fifteen years younger than himself, anywhere near Poppy Allen made LeClerc’s teeth clench.

  But what had puzzled him was the pride he felt. One of the perks of being Henry LeClerc was information, sometimes an overload of it. He had found out what the intense young woman had done in this twelve months; and he thought he should have been surprised, but found instead that he had expected it.

  And he knew he had to see her again.

  It took one more phone call to find out the name of the hotel, and the false handles the Travis Jackson party was booked under. He got a room, even though the place was full. He sent roses, he waited.

  And she wasn’t interested.

  He even asked in the morning if his message had been delivered. It had; no reply.

  So, she was probably jumping Travis Jackson. She hadn’t exactly been shy where he himself was concerned, LeClerc thought savagely. Who knew how many guys had plowed that field since? Forget her.

  The trouble was that he couldn’t.

  He punched a direct-dial button on his cell phone.

  “Congressman LeClerc’s office.”

  “Katie.”

  “Sir,” his assistant said warmly. She was twenty-two, with a big rack and a big crush on him.

  “Find out where the Travis Jackson concert tour is playing next and get me a backstage pass,” LeClerc said. “Do it through the venue. I don’t want the act to know.”

  There was a pause at this bizarre request.

  “Uh, sir—”

  “Just do it,” LeClerc said.

  He wanted her. He was going to have her. It really was, LeClerc tho
ught, just that simple.

  Forty-Eight

  “Oh, Mr. Jackson,” the blonde breathed. “That was, like, such a great show.”

  Poppy watched from a corner of the room, bored. Travis was having a great time, as per usual; tonight her star act would be leveling the city of Dallas to its foundations. It was the last night of the tour. All bets were off.

  The last night for “Bluegrass Bluejeans.” Not the last night for her, however. She had a weekend off, then she was due in Stockholm, Sweden, for her hair bands.

  The thought made her dizzy. She needed some help.

  “Would you give me your autograph?” the blond asked sweetly.

  “Sure, baby,” Travis said, grinning. “Where?”

  “Right here,” the chick said, pulling apart her jacket to reveal pneumatic tits crammed into a black-lace bra.

  “Mmm,” Travis said, pulling out his magic marker while the other cheerleader types hurried to unbutton their shirts.

  Poppy looked away. She had to call RCA tonight. They wanted to discuss Savannah. They were torn she was taking over; a good manager helped an act succeed, but it also meant no more rip-offs …

  “Good evening, Ms. Allen,” said a voice.

  She jumped out of her skin. She would know that voice anywhere.

  “Aren’t you even going to say hello?”

  Poppy glanced up, hating herself for blushing. Her heart started to race; her palms dewed with sweat. There he was. Henry LeClerc.

  LeClerc had made no concessions to his surroundings, Poppy noted with pleasure. He wore an immaculately tailored charcoal suit in light wool, Royal Ascot cuff links, and a steel Rolex. Decadence raged around him; the bassist was ripping the bras off some of the more willing groupies, and the girls were squealing and giggling; and he didn’t even seem to notice.

  “What are you doing here?” she asked.

  “Looking for you,” he said frankly. “And my eardrums won’t stand much more Dixie pumped through giant electronic amplifiers.”

  “I don’t really have anything to say to you,” Poppy muttered.

  “That’s not true.” He gave her an easy smile. “Let’s go out to dinner.”

  Poppy hesitated, glancing at her star who was reaching for some of the seminude girls.

  “Isn’t this usually your cue to depart?” LeClerc asked wryly.

  She couldn’t help but crack a very small smile.

  “Possibly,” Poppy admitted.

  A screaming groupie, fleeing a roadie who was shaking beer at her, fled toward them and crashed into him, pressing her slightly saggy tits into his waistcoat.

  Henry drew back a step, politely.

  “Why, excuse me, ma’am,” he said.

  Poppy laughed softly. She couldn’t help it. “OK, you win. Let’s get out of here.”

  *

  LeClerc had a limo waiting.

  “Government issue?”

  “You must be joking, sugar. You think I want all of Washington to know I’m following Travis Jackson around the country?”

  “Heaven forbid they might think you were hip.”

  They pulled up outside an expensive-looking French place on X Street. It didn’t even have an awning; there was a small, very discreet brass plate outside the Georgian frontage of what appeared to be an elegant townhouse, and a liveried doorman, who tipped his hat to Poppy as he opened the door.

  “How do you know I’m gonna like this? You didn’t even ask me what food I like. And places like this usually have a dress code,” Poppy hissed.

  “Everybody likes the food here; and there’s no dress code for my guests,” LeClerc replied coolly.

  The maître d’hôtel, suave in black tie, glided up to them.

  “Good evening, Congressman, good evening, madam. May I have someone take your jacket, madam?” A flunky materialized and removed Poppy’s black leather Slayer jacket as though it were the finest sable. “Your usual table, Congressman?”

  Henry shook his head. “Somewhere a little quieter, Henri.”

  “Certainly, sir.” He led them into a corner booth at the back of the room, shadowed by an overhanging awning of ivory silk and gold thread. There was a low, round Baccarat crystal bowl crammed with yellow roses and white lilies, silver cutlery, and beeswax candles in gold containers.

  “Take a seat,” Henry said.

  “Excuse me, Congressman.” Another waiter had materialized, this time with a magnum of Cristal champagne in an ice bucket.

  “Did you order that?” Poppy asked.

  “Compliments of the house, madam.”

  She glanced at LeClerc. It was a pricey compliment, even for a place like this. Poppy wondered just how much juice this guy had.

  “What do you like?” LeClerc asked. “The chateaubriand is good here. Everything’s pretty much good here.”

  “I’ll take the cheese soufflé,” Poppy said. “I’m a vegetarian.”

  He grinned, which infuriated her. “Since when?”

  “Last week,” said Poppy, mutinously.

  “I’ll have the chateaubriand. Rare enough to walk off the plate.”

  “Very good, sir.”

  The waiter melted silently back into the restaurant.

  “You own a dog, don’t you?”

  Poppy nodded.

  “If you’re going to become one of those L.A. whackos that force their mutts to eat vegetarian dog food, I’m going to have to call Animal Welfare.”

  “He eats Purina,” Poppy said. “Those cans stink and they’re diseased horse anyway.”

  “Fair enough.” LeClerc expertly cracked the champagne and poured a split into her long crystal flute. “They know not to bother us too much here. I can’t stand talking while some guy in a penguin suit hovers over me all the time, pouring out my wine for me.”

  “Does that work well with all the other women you bring here?” Poppy asked acidly.

  “Why, yes, ma’am.” He was infuriatingly unruffled. “It sure does.”

  “You never called me,” Poppy said, coldly. “And then you finally deign to show up, the great Washington mover and shaker, and you think a note and some flowers will make it all OK? You think that buying me a fancy dinner will get the stupid young bimbo to jump in the sack with you again? I only went with you not to make a scene. Understand right now, I’m never fucking you again.”

  She smiled crisply at him and took a hit of the icy champagne, which was as cold as her pale blue eyes. Adrenaline was surging through Poppy. She wanted to let this cool bastard know she wasn’t buying it.

  The profanity, lobbed into his white-gloved, prim and proper little world, pleased her. A touch of the hard rock rebel. Let his Southern gentlemanliness deal with that.

  “Now ain’t that some kind of a pity,” LeClerc said easily. Poppy tried not to focus on his square jaw and salt-and-pepper hair and dark, hypnotic lashes. “Because the way I recall it, you were outstanding. We were outstanding.”

  Poppy breathed in sharply.

  “I’m an outstanding lay?” she snapped.

  “Yep.” He stared right into her eyes. “Actually, breathtaking might be a better way of putting it. I’m sorry if what you wanted to hear was that you were about as exciting as an exit poll for a State Senator’s primary. But that’s not why I’m here now.”

  “I can’t have been that exciting,” Poppy said. “You didn’t exactly wear out AT&T after New York.”

  “Because you’re all wrong.” LeClerc gestured; his hand was rough, unmanicured. “You’re crude and rude and dangerous to know. You’re young enough to be my daughter.”

  “And old enough to make those decisions for myself.”

  He inclined his head, acknowledging her point. “You’re a goddamn spitfire. You know the girls I see, mostly? They’re beautiful and elegant and great in bed—”

  “Yeah, thanks, that’s fascinating, but—”

  “But,” he went on, ignoring her, “they’re … boring. They do whatever I say. They don’t want to work. They have
no dreams, except maybe a large rock on their left hand and the life of a Washington hostess. I can tame a girl like that in three seconds.” His eyes traveled lazily over Poppy’s body, making her nipples harden in the little black T-shirt. “And that’s no fun.”

  “I’m more than just your fun,” Poppy snapped. “You’re not the great prize you seem to think you are, Mr. LeClerc. I’m really not that interested in you.”

  “You were interested enough to listen to my advice.” LeClerc lifted his crystal flute to her. “I’ve followed your career.”

  “But never called.”

  “Because there was no point. You were young, vibrant, in another universe. You’re not suited to be my wife. You’re a liberal Democrat, you’re against everything I stand for, you’re not even interested in politics, and I couldn’t care less about the high-decibel noise pollution you and your industry inflict on the innocent citizens of America. Like I said, you and me—it’s crazy. So I forgot about you.”

  “Then why are we here?” Poppy asked.

  “Because I didn’t. Forget, that is. I tried to. But you were always there.”

  Her heart was thudding. “I bet you had other women…”

  “Crowds of ’em,” LeClerc agreed shamelessly. “But they didn’t help much, not being you.”

  “So what’s your suggestion?” Poppy asked.

  “That you become mine.” His eyes locked onto hers, holding them in place. “There’s really no point in fighting it, Poppy.”

  She countered, but her voice was trembling. “So you’re saying you believe in destiny?” she attempted to sneer.

  “I’m saying I intend to make my own.”

  Forty-Nine

  At first they kept it quiet. It wasn’t that hard. Poppy flew all over the country; sneaking off to Washington, New York, or New Orleans wasn’t that hard. LeClerc arranged fund-raisers on the West Coast; his handlers loved the big-money crowds in L.A., Reagan Republicans, and the opera buffs in San Francisco, with its monied elites. Even Democrats paid to see him; he was charismatic, he performed well on TV. He was a star.