by Lynn Barnes
Ivy turned back to me. “Adam doesn’t ask me for much.” She turned me back toward the mirror and began working her fingers through my hair.
Don’t. A voice inside me objected—an unwanted reflex. Don’t touch me. Don’t pretend like this is something we do.
That was a knee-jerk reaction. No matter how far Ivy and I had come, I could never quiet the part of me that had wanted her in my life so badly for so long, without even knowing that she was my mother. I couldn’t shut myself off from the Tess who’d grown up on the ranch with Gramps, the one who would have given anything to hear from Ivy more than three times a year.
That part of me had been disappointed again and again.
Ivy pulled two chunks of hair out of my face and into a twist at the nape of my neck and then stepped back. She’d noticed the way I’d stiffened at her touch.
I didn’t enjoy hurting Ivy, any more than she enjoyed hurting me.
“You’re not going tonight?” I asked, trying to pretend that neither one of us had the power to hurt the other.
“No,” Ivy replied, clipping the word. “I have work to do.”
Work. I spent three seconds wishing that Bodie had been able to promise me that Ivy wasn’t looking into Senza Nome and another three wondering what she’d already found.
“I hope I’m not interrupting.”
Ivy and I turned in unison. Adam stood in the door to my room, dressed in his most formal uniform. Silver buttons gleamed against his dark blue jacket. His bowtie was Air Force blue; an assortment of medals and insignia decorated his lapel.
“You’re right on time,” Ivy told him.
“May I?” Adam asked, tearing his eyes from Ivy and approaching me. My gaze went to a box in his hand. Jewelry. He withdrew a pair of pearls.
“Knock yourself out,” I told him, unsure why the words felt so heavy in my throat.
He fastened the pearls around my neck. “They were my mother’s.”
My grandmother’s.
“Ivy!” Bodie’s voice broke into my thoughts. “You’re going to want to get down here!”
Adam and Ivy shared a split-second gaze before making a break for the stairs. I followed, cursing the dress for slowing me down. By the time I made it downstairs, Adam and Ivy were staring at an electronic tablet. I approached with caution, ready to be rebuffed.
Neither one of them pushed me away.
Craning my head, I took in the website that held their attention. My brain couldn’t process the words on the page, because it was focused wholly and entirely on the picture.
Daniela Nicolae.
She was wearing a gray jumpsuit. Her hands were cuffed in front of her body. There were dark circles under her eyes. Her head was held high. Her stomach bulged against the fabric of the jumpsuit.
My mouth fell open as I processed that bulge.
The terrorist—the woman Walker Nolan had approached Ivy about, the one I suspected he might be involved with—was pregnant.
CHAPTER 20
This is coming out. As I stepped out of Adam’s car, Ivy’s words from earlier that week came back to me. My job is to make sure it doesn’t come out until after the polls close next Tuesday.
The terrorist responsible for the hospital attack was pregnant. And there was a possibility—maybe a good one, based on Ivy’s reaction to that picture—that she was pregnant with Walker Nolan’s child.
That wasn’t just a bombshell. That was nuclear.
Adam murmured something to the valet and then came around to my side of the car. He offered me his arm.
We’re really doing this, I thought as I took his arm. Coming here, pretending everything is fine.
Neither Adam nor Ivy had said anything to confirm what I suspected. That Daniela Nicolae was pregnant—and that someone had leaked a photo geared at publicizing that fact—was undeniable. But the idea that the baby might be Walker Nolan’s?
That was nothing but conjecture on my part. A worst-case scenario.
Anything bad that can happen will. That was Murphy’s Law. I was beginning to suspect that in Ivy’s line of business, it was fact.
“Deep breath,” Adam advised me. A moment later, we walked up a marble staircase and through a set of double doors.
Rows of circular tables stretched the length of the ballroom. Marble columns lined the walls. Massive red velvet curtains were gathered and tied back at each corner. Adam said something about the building being a renovated opera house.
I barely heard a word.
Anything bad that can happen will.
“Tess, my dear, you look lovely.” William Keyes zeroed in on Adam and me with military precision. He pressed a kiss to my cheek, then turned to Adam. “It’s good to see you, son.”
“I’m not here for you.” My uncle’s voice was as terse as I’d ever heard it. When Ivy had been held hostage, Adam had asked his father for help. William Keyes had refused. If I hadn’t revealed myself as his granddaughter, if I hadn’t made the kingmaker a deal, Ivy might have died—and William Keyes wouldn’t have lifted a hand to stop it.
Adam would never forgive him for that.
“You’re here for your brother,” Keyes acknowledged, putting a hand on Adam’s shoulder, then one on mine. “We all are.”
Adam remained stiff under his father’s touch.
And I thought Ivy and I had issues.
Keyes let his hand drop from Adam’s shoulder but kept his grip on mine. “Come, Tess,” he said. “There are some people I’d like to introduce you to.”
Adam stepped closer to Keyes, lowering his voice. “I didn’t bring her here for you to parade her around and show off the newest Keyes.”
He’d brought me here to honor my father. The last thing Adam wanted for me was a life lived under the kingmaker’s thumb.
“It’s fine,” I told my uncle. I would have rather had my toenails torn out with rusty pliers than have Keyes parade me through this crowd, but I had also noticed a familiar pair of figures embedded in the crowd.
The president and First Lady. Ivy had said that she’d briefed the president on Walker’s relationship with Daniela Nicolae. There was no doubt in my mind that President Nolan would have been informed about the leaked photos immediately, but he and Georgia gave no visible sign that their reign was on the verge of ruin.
I allowed Keyes to escort me from one set of DC society players to the next, my eyes on the prize the whole time. Adam never allowed me out of his sight.
“I know what you’re doing,” he murmured as we got closer to my target.
“Who?” I murmured back. “Me?”
“William.” The president of the United States had a powerful voice and a smile you could trust. He shook my grandfather’s hand. “Good to see you.”
President Nolan was an excellent liar.
William Keyes was a better one. “Always a pleasure,” the kingmaker replied, a matching smile on his face and a glint in his eyes. “I understand you’ve met my granddaughter?”
His granddaughter. I couldn’t have been the only one who detected the trace of possessiveness in the kingmaker’s tone. The president had met me before William Keyes even knew I existed. The president was unquestionably on better terms with Ivy.
But I had the kingmaker’s blood.
“Tess.” The First Lady stepped forward and pressed a quick kiss to my cheek. “You look wonderful, darling.”
You know, I thought. About your son. About Daniela Nicolae.
There was no hint of it on her face. She looked so poised, elegant and warm and not the least bit like a queen whose kingdom was on the verge of crumbling around her. Her dress was white, knee-length. The matching blazer had beadwork more intricate than anything on my dress.
Not so much as one blond hair out of place, I thought. But Georgia Nolan knew. I knew in my gut that the president had told her.
Maybe I’m wrong. Maybe the baby isn’t Walker’s. Maybe I’m making something out of nothing.
“Adam.” The president shoo
k Adam’s hand, then looked just past his shoulder. “I wasn’t aware that Ivy was coming tonight.”
Ivy?
Adam, Keyes, and I turned to see her making her way through the crowd. She was wearing a black dress—fitted, with a high neck. Between elbow-length black gloves and the way her hair looked pinned up in an elaborate twist, she looked like the second coming of Audrey Hepburn.
Or, I thought, taking in the pace of her steps and the tension around her mouth, like hell’s own fury.
“Ivy.” Georgia greeted her just as she’d greeted me. “You look lovely.”
“Is everything all right?” the president asked her, the edges of his smile straining slightly against his face.
“Adam.” Ivy’s voice was perfectly pleasant. “Why don’t you show Tess the sculpture garden?”
In other words: she wanted me out of hearing range. Now.
Adam took my arm again. No sooner had we turned away from the group than I heard the president address Adam’s father.
“A pleasure as always, William.” That was a dismissal. William Keyes was not a man who appreciated being dismissed.
I glanced back over my shoulder. Beside me, Adam spoke. “There’s no love lost between my father and President Nolan.”
I knew Adam was attempting to divert my attention from Ivy and the Nolans, but there was a chance he’d tell me something that was worth a diversion, so I reluctantly turned back around.
“My father and the First Lady knew each other when they were young,” Adam continued. “They grew up in the same town. Georgia left for college and came back engaged.” My uncle had my full attention now. “My father is not, nor has he ever been, a graceful loser.”
My brain whirred, going back over every interaction I’d seen between the president and William Keyes, between Keyes and the First Lady.
Funny, isn’t it, that sometimes the loser matters more than the person who wins?
“Captain Keyes.” A voice jostled me from my thoughts. Its owner stepped in front of us and shook Adam’s hand. “Thank you for your service.”
My gaze went from the man shaking Adam’s hand to the teenage boy standing beside him.
John Thomas Wilcox.
Congressman Wilcox bore little resemblance to his son. He was shorter than John Thomas and broader through the shoulders, a side part covering thinning hair.
“Congressman,” Adam acknowledged. “Thank you for your support.”
“The foundation’s work is a cause worth supporting.” Congressman Wilcox had the ultimate political smile. “One that resonates with both sides of the aisle.”
Those words reminded me that Congressman Wilcox—the minority whip—fell squarely on the other side of the political aisle from the president—and the kingmaker.
“And this must be your niece,” the congressman turned to me. “Theresa, is it?”
“Actually,” John Thomas said, offering me a slick, insidious smile of his own, “it’s Tess.”
“My son,” the congressman told Adam. Then he turned his attention back to me. “I believe you two are in the same grade at Hardwicke.”
“Small world,” I said, the muscles in my jaw tensing.
“John Thomas, perhaps you could take Tess for a little spin around the room while I talk with her uncle?” Congressman Wilcox suggested.
John Thomas did not seem to find that idea any more appealing than I did. His father’s gaze darkened almost imperceptibly.
“I’d love to,” John Thomas said tersely. He reached for my arm. I jerked back.
“Don’t touch me,” I said. My voice was low, but the words cut through the air like a knife.
Adam shifted his weight, shielding my body with his. “Another time,” he told the congressman. Smoothly, he extricated us from the congressman’s grasp. He didn’t speak to me until we’d made it outside to the sculpture garden. A military band played to one side.
“I take it you’re not a fan of the congressman’s son,” Adam said.
John Thomas had sent that picture of Emilia to the entire school. If someone had, as I was beginning to suspect, slipped something into Emilia’s drink that night, John Thomas’s name would be near the top of my suspect list.
“Not a fan,” I confirmed.
Adam was comfortable enough with silence that he didn’t ask me to elaborate and didn’t press to change the topic of conversation. We came to stand near a statue of a soldier.
“Why do you think Ivy’s here?” I asked finally, breaking the silence, my thoughts still back in the ballroom with Ivy and the Nolans.
“If I had to guess,” Adam said after a long and considered pause, “I’d guess that she’s having some trouble locating her client.”
CHAPTER 21
Ivy was gone by the time we went back into the ballroom for dinner. Either she’d gotten what she’d wanted from the Nolans, or she’d concluded that they had nothing to give her.
The evening’s speaker was a soldier who’d lost his entire unit to insurgents. He’d been injured and discharged. Within a year, he’d lost his sobriety and his career prospects, and within three years, his children and his wife.
As I listened to this man talk about hitting rock bottom and finding a way to pull through, it was easy to forget about the world around me: about Adam and the kingmaker, about the president and the First Lady, about Walker Nolan and whatever had brought Ivy to this hall.
By the time dessert was served, the speech had concluded, and the foundation was honoring the evening’s platinum donor. William Keyes accepted the glass plaque gracefully, and when asked to speak a few words, he did a good imitation of someone who was reluctant to take the spotlight.
“My son Tommy enlisted the day he turned eighteen. To be honest,” Keyes said, his eyes on our table—on Adam, on me, “I thought it was a mistake. I thought it was a mistake when he left for basic training. I thought it was a mistake when he shipped off overseas, and when I received word that he’d been killed on his second tour of duty—I thought surely, surely that was a mistake.” Keyes was a man who knew how to use his silences. “Over the years,” he said, “I’ve come to realize that there is a difference between a sacrifice and a mistake.”
Adam—my always-in-control, never-flinching uncle—stood and stalked out of the room. Keyes continued speaking. I was aware of the eyes on our table, aware of the eyes on me.
The moment the old man finished his speech, under the cover of the applause, I went out the way Adam had gone. The door opened into a hallway. I followed it, looking for Adam.
A hand locked over my elbow.
“Fancy meeting you here.” There was an edge in John Thomas’s voice and a glint in his eyes. I pulled back from his grasp, but he tightened his hold.
“I need to thank you,” he said, “for that lovely display with my father.”
He slurred his words slightly. I eyed the door to the ballroom, willing it to open, willing someone to join us, but it was just me and John Thomas and an empty hall.
“You think you’re so smart,” John Thomas said. “You think you’re so special, Tess Kendrick. Tess Keyes. But you’re not. You’re nothing.” He leaned forward, bringing his lips close to my face. I could smell the alcohol on his breath. “You’re just a scared little girl.”
I shoved the heel of my hand into his nose. Hard. John Thomas stumbled back, his hand going to his face. When it came away bloody, he stared at me, stunned.
“You . . . you . . . hit me,” he said dumbly.
I took advantage of his surprise and headed back to the ballroom. But when I tried the door, I discovered that it had locked behind me.
“I can’t believe you hit me, you psychotic little . . .”
I blocked out the sound of his voice and took a right into a hallway lined with doors—including a family bathroom.
I reached for the door as John Thomas rounded the corner after me.
“I told you Emilia was just my opening salvo,” John Thomas called. “Wait until you see w
hat I have planned for your little boyfriend.”
It took me a second to catch the reference. Henry. Henry Marquette was not my boyfriend. But the threat was enough to keep me frozen in place.
“Marquette’s had you on your back since you got here,” John Thomas sneered. “I wonder if his pillow talk ever included anything about his father.”
Those words knocked the breath from my body.
“The congressman is very good at paying attention,” John Thomas said. “In that respect,” he slurred, dragging the cuff of his sleeve across his nose, bloodying it, “I’m my father’s son.”
Unwilling to let him see that his words had hit their target, I opened the door, stepped into the bathroom, and locked it behind me, my mind reeling. John Thomas knows something about Henry’s father. Something that he thought could hurt Henry’s campaign. Something he thinks could hurt Henry.
I stayed in the bathroom for a full five minutes before I unlocked the door and eased it back open. John Thomas was nowhere to be seen, but the hallway was occupied. A couple. The woman had red hair, a blue dress. She was wearing matching heels. The man was her same height, seemingly twice as wide. He pulled the woman tight to his body, his hands roaming over her curves. I couldn’t make out either of their faces, but I could see a thick silver ring on the man’s right hand as he shuddered and his fingers entangled themselves in her hair.
The sound of incoming footsteps pried the two apart. I stepped back from the door, letting it close and hoping they wouldn’t take note of it—or me.
A few seconds later, I heard Adam calling my name. When I opened the door back into the hallway, the couple was gone.
“Are you okay?” Adam asked me.
I stepped toward him. “Are you?”
It wasn’t until half an hour later, when we made it to the valet stand, and I saw the thick silver ring on the hand of the man in front of us in line that I realized who he was.
Congressman Wilcox.
And the woman standing between him and John Thomas—the woman who didn’t have red hair and wasn’t wearing a blue dress—was the congressman’s wife.