The Scotland Yard Exchange Series

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The Scotland Yard Exchange Series Page 17

by Stephanie Queen


  For the candidates, it was an opportunity to be heard by the voters—as always, for the votes. She sighed.

  “I’m very uneasy about this.” Sarah read her mind as she stood on one side and Valerie stood on her other.

  “Then you’re showing good instincts. The questions are hardly encouraging, but I suppose we’re lucky they gave them to us ahead of time at all.” She turned to Dennis to be faced with a stern pout and red eyes.

  “Of course, they’re giving you the questions. They want everyone to be able to put on a good show—but don’t be surprised if they surprise you. St. Cyr is one of the reporters doing the asking. And it’s live.”

  “Live TV. Tell me again, why did we agree to this?” The jitters were much worse than for The Tonight Show. That was a live audience with a taped show—the best possible combo. Thinking of The Tonight Show appearance with wistful longing was a very bad sign.

  There was commotion in the wings. The podiums were being set with mikes against a stark white backdrop. A woman called for Madeline in makeup. She turned to walk down the hall where the woman beckoned, and bumped into a man.

  Peter John Douglas caught her by the arms. “Didn’t anyone warn you that I’m hard as a rock?”

  She looked up at his noncommittal smile. “Guess I had to test you myself. Yeah, you’re rock solid all right.” She patted his chest and stepped aside, but her heart pounded with the closeness of that body.

  “Not so fast,” he said. Her heart pounded faster.

  “I’m wanted in makeup,” she said but didn’t move.

  “You’re wanted a few places,” he whispered in her ear as he held her shoulders trapping her in place. This wasn’t good. The reporters would arrive any second and she’d be swooning in his arms about then, dying for a kiss from those lips with the too-cool smile. Come to think of it, she’d love to kiss the coolness right out of him—shake him up a little. Hooding her eyes, she stared at his until he got her meaning—in about a split second. He dropped his arms and stepped back, although he didn’t look frightened.

  That’ll teach him. She went in for her makeup wondering when she was going to learn.

  “The blue looks great on you. A little bright for TV, but it’ll do. At least you’ll stand out and I know that’s half of what you’re trying to accomplish here tonight.” Mary Porter had found Madeline in makeup, still flanked by Sarah and Val. Dennis was presumably conferring with the producer. Sarah frowned at Mary’s comment, but thank God she didn’t say anything.

  “I’ll consult you next time, before I dress for TV. So how do you think our chances are with the other half of what we’re trying to accomplish tonight?”

  “Honestly?” Mary asked. Madeline arched her brow. She always preferred honesty, even if it meant she felt a little slapped around at times.

  “Okay. A snowball’s chance. People are tuning in to see the next installment of the soap opera. If you stay on topic with serious issues they’ll tune out.”

  “You sound like Dennis.”

  “He’s a clever guy.” Mary smiled. “And if you serve up more melodrama—likely the case if St. Cyr has anything to say about it, which he does—then you sink further into the muck and mire of the role of crazy broad. They’ll always be more interested in how you conduct your love life than how you’d govern the state.” Mary sighed, then added, “It’s a foregone conclusion that PJD can run the state—if he can keep you under wraps—otherwise the other party starts to look better.”

  “Always so much fun talking to you, Mary. Luckily, there’s more than one way to skin a cat,” Madeline said.

  “You’re going to need a magic scalpel for this one,” Dennis said as he approached from behind Mary.

  “The media beasts are salivating?” Mad asked.

  “Ready to eat you whole,” Clever said.

  “I think I’ve heard enough—and the show hasn’t even started.” Mary walked off with a wave and a chuckle. Dennis turned to Mad and went serious.

  “The station manager is barely bothering with the veneer of debate issues. He insists at this early stage it’s all about getting to know the character behind the candidate.”

  “Catchy tag line.”

  “Glad you like it. That’s how they’re introducing the show.” He stood with his arms folded. Val dropped her jaw. Sarah turned on her heel and walked off, muttering about all the wasted work spent preparing.

  Mad scrunched her face. “Geez.”

  That made Dennis smile. “Profanity from you?”

  “Lucky I love a challenge. I bet the other guys are pleased as punch,” Mad said.

  “Not really. They feel the focus is slipping away from them altogether. They’re not a patient bunch.”

  “How’s PJD taking it?”

  “You mean Rock Man?” Dennis said.

  She narrowed her eyes.

  He said, “Expectedly Rock-like. Cool as an iceberg about to sink the Titanic—that would be you and the rest of the candidates. Not a hint of response from the man. Made of goddamn stone.”

  She sighed and then did a half smile thinking of Dennis and his decidedly opposite tendency. “I see you’re back up to speed.”

  “Couldn’t feel better.” She noticed Dennis wink at Jon, who replaced Sarah at her side. Jon shook his head and rubbed his temple, making no comment. He was quiet even for Jonathan.

  “What do we do?” Val’s question was most likely rhetorical. They all looked at her, then back at Mad.

  Mad shrugged. “We break new ground in the annals of political campaigning,” she said.

  “What?” More than one of them responded.

  “I’ll wing it. What else?” Mad walked in the direction of the man beckoning her toward the lighted stage where five podiums stood. PJD was already there. She was asked to stand next to him. Naturally. Dead center.

  “Wait a minute—what’s with the podiums—we can’t see her!” someone from behind the cameras shouted.

  “Only eight minutes to show time…”

  “That’s enough time. Ditch the podiums. Bring in some chairs and couches.”

  “On it.”

  “What?” Pandemonium from everywhere but PJD. She looked at him. He smiled and folded his arms as he stepped back out of the way of the sudden army of grunts who appeared and began dragging the podiums off the set. Another group pushed three upholstered chairs and a couch in her direction. Shouts flew. She stood in the lights, unable to see what was going on past the cameras. She imagined Sarah was having a hissy fit, but so was everyone from the sound of it.

  “How about the media?” The assistant production manager asked.

  “Bring them in up close. We’ll angle their chairs in a semi-circle.”

  “Kind of like the set on Politically Incorrect, only with St. Cyr running the show?” Peter spoke up in a helpful and innocent tone of voice. He peeked at her and let a shadow of a grin show through.

  She couldn’t believe he was finding this all amusing. Take that back—yes, she could believe it. She clamped her mouth shut and decided she had no choice but to play the game. After all, she was already on the board and this wouldn’t be the last time there would be a sudden change in the rules.

  “I bet I know who gets the couch. And I thought politicians were supposed to be bad for pandering to the whims of the people. This beats it all.” Jimmy Mack, the other party’s front-running candidate, sidled up to her. Madeline was about to be polite when PJD spoke up from beside her.

  “Trying to make time with my girl, Jimmy?” He deadpanned it. What was real funny, and made her smile, was that Jimmy didn’t know if he should take PJD seriously, according to the surprised look on his face. But then he broke out into a grin, followed closely by a hearty, if forced, laugh.

  “I’ll bet the ratings people would love that angle. I wonder who would win, though?” Jimmy was about to exit on that line when Mad stopped keeping her mouth shut.

  “The girl would win,” she said at the exact same time PJD said th
e exact same thing. They looked at each other. Jimmy looked at them. He wasn’t amused any more. Probably regretted ever approaching her. PJD remained his inscrutable self as they looked back at each other. Madeline had to sigh again. A big heavy sigh.

  “When do you take that mask off? When the red light shows on the camera and not a second sooner?” she asked him.

  “Who says this is the mask?” Another deadpan look.

  “Quiet—candidates take your places,” the director shouted. They were ushered into place by a couple of arm-waving men. Mad sat next to Peter on the pale gray couch. It was big enough so that they weren’t too cozy. Her pulse was normal. She felt normal because everything around her was so bizarre. Thank God for the natural tendency to homeostasis she had going for her.

  When the media desks were in place, two grunts ushered the three people from the press onto the set. They were Mary Porter, Tom Bixby and Bertrand St. Cyr. They took their seats behind the desk. That moved her pulse. She watched St. Cyr adjust his microphone and when he looked up, their eyes met. He nodded. She nodded back.

  Not for the first time she wondered what might have turned him against her. Although they were never friends, she felt real animosity coming from him now.

  The cameras lined them up. Her pulse picked up pace again. The red lights flashed on and the show was introduced, along with all the players. The notion of unreality that played in Madeline’s head immediately ceased when St. Cyr asked his first question, directed at her.

  “Are you pregnant, Ms. Grace?”

  Her pulse suddenly stopped.

  Gasps all around. She felt a slight movement from PJD but didn’t look. He was silent. The only reason she didn’t gasp herself was because she couldn’t. She felt lucky to be breathing at all. There was a disconnection somewhere in her brain. She concentrated on holding her jaw in place and managed to tell herself to form a smile. Next thing she knew, she was talking.

  “Bert, we may be sitting on couches, but this isn’t a daytime talk show and you’re not subbing in for Sally Jesse.” Laughs all around, even a chuckle from the Rock next to her.

  “Quite so. Must have been led astray by your constantly eating chocolates and the obvious romance you’re carrying on with Mr. Douglas.” St. Cyr’s suddenly slimy-looking little eyes darted to Peter, and a Grinch-like smile formed on his face. If he were wearing green makeup he’d be a dead ringer, she thought.

  Murmurs of outrage mixed with chuckles, some headshaking and a few clucks followed that one. All they needed now was the guy with the tray of peanuts strapped around his neck to walk in. Elephants were optional.

  Since she seemed to be the center ring attraction, there was nothing to do but dive in. She could feel herself climbing the ladder, steeling her nerves as the size of the pool shrank to a bucket of water. At least the thought of a sobering splash of cold water reconnected her brain. Her pulse returned with a vengeance.

  “There’s always more than one angle to a story—but I don’t have to tell you that, you’re a professional journalist.” Pause for an intake of breath. Hers and she heard a few others too. “I’ve always liked chocolates.” Icicles formed on the microphone in front of her. The studio was silent. Peter chose to raise his brows when she took her first glance in his direction, probably for effect.

  “I suppose you’ve always liked Peter John Douglas as well?” St. Cyr said. More gasps and laughs. All eyes darted to her now to watch her words bounce back as if this were ping-pong.

  Mary Porter spoke instead, and you could hear the witnesses in the studio, the grips and the grunts, deflate like a giant tire hitting a spike.

  “What we really need to know is what distinguishes you from each other as candidates. All the candidates,” Mary said. Mad nodded and grabbed the life preserver. Not that she needed it, but because she was no fool either. She could save her strength for another day.

  “You got off easy,” Peter said as they dashed off the set in the opposite direction from the journalists, who headed directly for their respective city rooms. They stood on the threshold of the hall and watched the studio shut down in a flash. The cameras were off and now sat hulking and sinister in the dim light. Maybe it never happened, he thought. Madeline looked him over. He felt like a bug she desperately wanted to squash.

  “You got off easy yourself.” She arched her brow. He laughed. It wasn’t that he didn’t take her seriously, but not nearly as seriously as she took herself, albeit in a funny, self-deprecating way.

  “You’re confusing your voters, you know. They’re going to wonder who you are, the serious scholar-slash-politician or the fun-loving, witty sexpot.”

  “Speaking of witty…” Drenched in sarcasm, she turned to walk toward the lobby through the hallways. He followed her. Getting to be a habit. He did it anyway. “Sounds like you’re the one confused. Why can’t I be both scholarly and sexy? I am both—and more.” She stopped and looked at him with her hands on her hips, her fine chin angled up and her eyes sparkling. He wanted to kiss her. He wasn’t really made of stone and it was the end of the night. Time to stop playing politics.

  “Too much complexity for the common man. They like it nice and simple and basic or they don’t trust it. You can be all those things—but only underneath the image. It’s what you show to the public that’s got to stick to the basics. Didn’t they teach you that in Political Campaigning 101?” He reached his hand up and touched her cheek as he stepped toward her. She batted his hand away and turned on her heel to walk away.

  “I skipped class.”

  He laughed. She glared at him over her shoulder.

  “Then get used to the moniker Mad Madeline.” That stopped her.

  “Could be worse. Things change. We’ll have to come up with something new and even tastier to feed them.”

  “You mean more entertaining?” he asked. He walked with her as they both headed out. He noticed she had said ‘we’ and wondered if he might be included in that, at least subconsciously. That was progress, although he doubted she would agree.

  “You can entertain them. I want their votes.”

  “Tough to beat tonight’s show.” He was serious now and softened his voice. “The popular media is going to pick up on the pregnancy speculation no matter how made up everyone knows it is. It’s like everyone is playing Barbie and Ken and we’re the dolls and this is the way they want the story to go.”

  “Well, I’m not playing.” She turned to him at the threshold of the lobby where their people milled. She folded her arms in front of her. He tried to keep his grin to a minimum, but the strain of the night and holding everything back had him at a disadvantage. She spied his smile and drew an exasperated breath.

  “Too late. The die has been cast. It’s a two-person act. We’re in it together. We may as well make it…” He didn’t complete his sentence before her exasperation broke through.

  “Don’t say it—I am not going to be your lieutenant governor.”

  “How do you know that’s what I was going to ask?” He couldn’t call her response exactly a withering stare, but close enough to make him chuckle to hide his own exasperation. That made it worse. She turned on her heel again.

  “Enough of this fun.” She walked off with an indiscriminate wave of her hand in the air.

  God, what a test of his will it was not to follow her all the way home—or better yet, reach out and grab her by the arm and pull her to him and… She looked askance at him over her shoulder as she walked out the door. She’d apparently read his mind. He held his stone mask in place for another second and turned to find Rick fresh from his negotiations with the news show producer and station manager.

  “We’re in.”

  “Then let’s get out.”

  “I’m on your heels,” Rick said. They moved through the doors, the others ahead of them.

  “Brandy tonight?” Rick asked.

  “Truthfully, I could go for a beer,” Peter said. “I’ll call ahead.” He flipped open his wireless direct con
nect and called Bill.

  “Yo, General.”

  “Thanks for the promotion. Ice the beer. We’re in motion.”

  “Yes sir. Is this party for everyone?”

  “You tell me if we should be celebrating. I’m watching the reruns when I get in.”

  “It wasn’t bad. Good show to drink beer with.”

  “Great. What I wanted to hear.” Peter hesitated. Rick was listening, but he figured what the hell. He’d take the flak. “How was she?” Peter asked. Rick’s head snapped around with unprecedented speed. His friend was becoming predictable. But Rick only shook his head and smiled. That meant that Rick was confident Peter fared better than Madeline by an obvious margin. It was too bad Rick had laser-vision in these matters.

  “Oh…Ms. Grace held her own. She’s classy and smart…and a dish, of course.”

  “Don’t hold back, Bill.” It was obvious the man wasn’t sure what he should be sharing with Peter on this subject. No one knew what to make of his courting of Madeline Grace—except for Rick, of course. The official line was that he was after her for lieutenant governor, but they all knew about the romance.

  “She came off like a fish out of water. You definitely wanted to root for her but not necessarily vote for her,” Bill said.

  “Is that the political insiders talking or you?” It was the script he would have written—too good to be true.

  “Neither. That’s the local newscaster analysis from post-debate TV land. But I think he’s dead on.”

  “Thanks. ETA fifteen minutes.” PJD snapped the gadget closed. Maybe he ought to consider Velcroing it to his sleeve, he thought, as he slipped it in his inside jacket pocket. He turned to Rick and grinned. Rick groaned.

  “I hate when you get your way,” Rick said, but his annoyance sounded superficial. Peter took the bait anyway.

 

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