Damage Control

by Lisa Renee Jones

  “It is,” I say, feeling awkward about this leading to Shane, but instead he says, “About damn time. Funeral black does not suit me and that’s all you ever wore.”

  He’s wrong on my wardrobe, but I say, “No black. Duly noted. Are you sure you don’t want some lunch before I leave?”

  He leans back in his chair, ignoring my offer of food. “That’s right. You’re lunching with my wife today.”

  “I am. I hope that’s okay?”

  “As if I’d have a say in the matter. This is my Maggie we’re talking about.”

  “I kind of like that she’s the only person who can get her way with you. It’s rather romantic.”

  “Do you get your way with my son, Ms. Stevens?” he asks, bringing us back to the earlier conversation about my influence on Shane. “Would he drink the tea because you told him to, as I did?”

  “We’re back to tea?” I ask, finding it such a weird analogy, but clearly it’s some sort of head game.

  “Yes,” he confirms. “Tea. Would my son drink the tea if you told him to?”

  “I don’t even know if he likes tea,” I say, trying to beat him at his own game.

  “Assume he doesn’t. I sure as hell don’t.”

  “I fear I am going to disappoint you, but it’s very doubtful he’d drink the tea.”

  He narrows his eyes on me. “What would you have done today with Derek had I not appeared?”

  “Told him my boss is an asshole and that I had to get back to my desk.”

  He shocks me and laughs. “Shane would drink the tea.” He waves me off. “Now go have your lunch and get it over with. I have work for you to do.”

  Really truly confused by the softer side of Brandon Senior, I wonder if it’s part of his game. A way to reel me in? Shane does call him a master. “Shut the door behind you and tell my wife I’m in a meeting.”

  I exit into the exterior office to find Shane waiting on me. “I owe you this,” he says, his gray eyes warm as he indicates my coat draped over his arm, and it looks way better on him than me.

  “I all but forgot it. It’s been a crazy, busy morning.”

  He leans in close, the heat of his body warming me. “I like how you smell today.”

  “I’ll have to remember that.”

  “I like how you taste today too.”

  “Shane, honey!”

  At the sound of Maggie’s voice I all but jump with guilt, heat rushing to my cheeks, while Shane’s eyes light with mischief. I glower at him and quickly right my expression before we both turn to greet his mother, who is as elegant as ever in a light blue pantsuit and boots.

  “Tell me you aren’t stealing my lunch date,” she says, rushing to Shane and giving him a hug.

  “I wouldn’t dream of stealing your date or the time you intend to invest in scaring Emily.”

  My lips part in shock, while it’s Maggie’s turn to glower. “Don’t be silly,” she says. “I don’t scare her in the least, which is part of what makes her interesting.”

  “I called you this morning,” he says. “Did you forget to call me back?”

  “I have no message.”

  “I’m in your missed calls.”

  “Oh please. No message means don’t call back. You’ll call me when you get time. Besides, I had a meeting at the Capitol this morning.” She holds up all her fingers and waves them. “That’s right. The Capitol. My interior design business is taking on a life of its own.”

  “How exciting,” I say. “Are you redoing a specific part of the interior or is it a broader scale project?”

  “One senator’s office,” she says, “but it’s a start.” She checks the time on her dainty diamond watch. “Shall we go? With the snow outside, we need to drive anyway, so I thought we’d go to a place a few miles away.” She points to the office door. “I should say hello to my husband quickly first though.”

  I hold up a finger. “Oh he’s—”

  She goes into his office and I cringe. “I wasn’t supposed to let her in.”

  Shane laughs. “It’s my mother. You never had a chance to stop her and my father knows that.” He holds up my coat to help me into it, and I slip my arms inside, only to have him lean in close, and murmur, “I’d drink the tea.”

  I whirl around. “You heard?”

  “I did and you were protecting me.”

  “I was, but do you think—”

  “All right then,” Maggie says, reappearing. “We are off.”

  “I need to talk to you, Mother. Come see me when you get back.”

  She points at her watch. “I have meetings. I’m not coming back up. I’ll call you.”

  Shane does not look pleased and I wonder what he thinks she’s avoiding. Maggie laces her arm with mine and drags me forward, giving me no chance to even tell Shane good-bye. In fact, I have to wave at the receptionist and shout out, “Call me if there’s anything urgent!” before we step into the hallway.

  “Gorgeous coat, honey,” Maggie says, punching the elevator button. “Did Shane buy it for you?”

  And there it is. Her games and really, I think she is as much a master as her husband, because this is a subtle attempt to hit a nerve that sets me up to run my mouth later. I don’t take the bait. “You do know I get paid extremely well for working for your husband, don’t you?”

  “Really?” she says. “How well?”

  “Well enough that I was willing to take the title of secretary.”

  “You’re a paralegal, right?”

  “Yes,” I say, choking on the lie I need to get used to telling, but lies just don’t become me. “And I’m making more than I would in that role elsewhere.”

  We step onto the elevator and this time she punches the button. “Well, you certainly earn it. He’s difficult. He always has been, but the cancer has made it worse.”

  There is no grief in her voice, no torment like I feel in Shane when he speaks of his father. More like agitation, but then, he’s sleeping around on her, even now. “How long have you been married?”

  “Thirty-seven years. I was a teenager when I married. Young, in love, and pregnant.”

  “Oh. I had no idea. That must have been hard.”

  “Believe it or not, back then your cranky boss was a charmer like Shane.”

  “I see glimpses of that side of him.”

  She sighs. “Me too, but it’s rare.” She stares ahead and for a moment doesn’t speak, and this time I do sense torment in her that she doesn’t wish for me to see, several floors passing before she’s back to chatter. “The restaurant is excellent and Mike Rogers, our stockholder, owns it, so we always get extra-special treatment.”

  “Mike Rogers,” I say. “I hear his name all the time but have never seen him. I guess that will change at the board meeting next week.”

  “Ah yes,” she says, the car stopping at the lobby level. “The board meeting.” We exit the car and walk to the garage elevator. “My husband is going to announce his retirement to prevent news of his cancer from leaking and then set a vote for the head of the table.”

  “I figured as much but he’s been very hush-hush,” I say as we exit into the garage.

  “Well, whatever you do”—she hits a clicker and a silver Mercedes I know is one of the most expensive they make, beeps—“don’t tell him I told you. I’ll never hear the end of it.”

  We climb into the car and she starts telling me all about the food at the restaurant, and in only a few blocks we’re in the parking lot, with a flurry of snowflakes around us. She parks the car and her cell phone rings. She kills the engine and digs it out of her purse, glancing at the number. “The senator I’m working for. I have to take it.”

  “Of course,” I say, removing my cell phone, with Shane on my mind.

  I pull up my text messages and send him a note: What was I thinking? I should have gone along with your father and let him think I could influence you. Then I could have found out what he is up to. I’m a horrible spy.

  His reply is instant
: I don’t want you playing spy. You were perfect and I’ll show you how perfect tonight.

  I type: Promise?

  His response is exactly what I expect: Promise. And I never break a promise.

  I smile and almost laugh.

  “Is that my son you’re talking to?” Maggie asks, clearly having ended her call.

  I glance up to find her staring at me. “Yes. It’s Shane. He’s good at making me laugh, which is perhaps the reason I can’t stay away from him.”

  She gets a rather distant look, several beats passing before she agrees. “It’s certainly not a bad quality. Shall we go eat?”

  “Yes. Please. I’m starving.” We both pull up the hoods to our coats and exit the car into the cold, snowy day, meeting at the trunk and making a mad dash for the restaurant.

  One of the staff opens the door for us, and we rush into the warmth, tugging our hoods back down. We are greeted warmly by a thirty-something pretty blonde in jeans and boots who clearly knows Maggie. “We have your regular table ready, Mrs. Brandon. This way.”

  “Mike’s a rancher,” Maggie explains, “so this place is all about that piece of culture.”

  Boy is it, I think, as we are led to the left, where neon signs and cowboy hats decorate the walls. There’s even a jukebox by the pale wooden bar that matches the floors. We walk up several steps and claim one of only four booths that overlook rows of tables, with five big screens mounted on a wall above us. The waitress leaves us with menus, takes our drink order while we are still standing, and then both Maggie and I shed our coats before sitting down across from each other.

  “Do you ride?” she asks, smoothing the collar of her silk blouse.

  The Texas girl in me opens my mouth to say “yes” but I quickly amend my words, before I speak them. “Cali isn’t big on horses. At least, not in L.A. It seems like fun, though.”

  “Oh it is. Shane loves to ride. We own the adjoining property to Mike’s just outside of Denver. Much smaller than his, as ours is simply a pleasure spot, and his is big business, but we have horses. You should come out one weekend.”

  Shane and horses. Somehow, I have no idea why it fits him, but it’s hard to see prim and proper Maggie riding. “Thank you,” I say, but I’m confused as to why she’s being so nice when I’m supposed to be Shane’s one-minute woman, and therefore off Derek’s radar. “I am not sure Shane would want me to join you.”

  She rests her elbows on the table and studies me. “Really? Because I saw how you two looked at each other.”

  I don’t blink or look away. “What happened to warning me away so I don’t get hurt instead of teasing me with what I can’t have?”

  “You already have him and from what I understand, it’s driving Derek crazy.”

  “Okay, you’re very confusing,” I say. “In one breath, I have Shane, and in the other I’m the score sitting outside your husband’s door.”

  “Whatever you started out being for my Shane, you’re more now and we both know it.”

  “I don’t know it.”

  “If you don’t, you will. But I think you do, and I think it’s lovely.” She opens her menu. “So, do you want recommendations?”

  I’d push again toward the one-minute girl agenda, but who am I kidding? She’s made up her mind, and I have a feeling she’s made her thoughts clear to Derek, thus his attention this morning. “Recommendations would be great.” And from there, I am thankful for the reprieve from the darts being thrown at me, as the conversation turns to food, before we place our orders for overstuffed Texas baked potatoes that she swears are gourmet.

  “Maggie Brandon.”

  At the sound of a deep male voice, I look up to find a linebacker of a man, who I can only describe as a gray fox, his white dress shirt stretched over broad shoulders and rolled up his powerful forearms, his light blue tie a perfect match for his eyes.

  “Mike,” Maggie says, accepting his hand, and oh wow. Her eyes warm the way I think mine do when I see Shane. “I had no idea you’d be here this afternoon.”

  “Lucky it worked out this way,” he says, and he’s still holding on to her, and I’m pretty sure I don’t exist.

  He releases her finally, though, and turns his attention to me. “You must be the Wonder Woman keeping David in line. Emily, isn’t it?”

  “Yes,” I say. “Emily, and I assume ‘David’ is Mr. Brandon.”

  Maggie and Mike laugh. “Yes,” Maggie confirms. “That’s him.”

  The two of them then share another look that is a little too familiar, and seems to be some kind of silent communication before Mike refocuses on me and extends his hand. “Forgive me,” he says, as I accept it. “I’m Mike—”

  “Rogers,” I supply, and already he’s released me. No lingering grip for me. “I call your offices often.”

  “Indeed,” he says. “And always urgently.”

  I have no idea why, but I feel a little protective of Shane’s father, and I say, “He doesn’t exactly have a lot of time.”

  “He never has,” Mike agrees, and I’m reminded that Brandon Senior’s retirement announcement is about hiding his cancer. Mike is close to Maggie, but I don’t think he knows, or he’s pretending not to quite well.

  He glances at his Rolex and then back at Maggie. “You ladies enjoy your meal.”

  “We will,” she says.

  He gives her a nod, then turns one on me before disappearing into the main restaurant. Our food arrives at that moment, and Maggie is noticeably less talkative while being reserved on the eye contact. We chat about my dress but she doesn’t ask if Shane bought it this time. Her phone beeps and she looks at it. “That would be the senator. I need to find a quiet spot and call him. I’ll be right back.”

  “Of course,” I say, removing my phone, texting Shane: I met Mike Rogers.

  He doesn’t reply. And doesn’t reply. It’s not like him, but he’s a busy person, I know. I flag a waitress and ask for a bathroom. Once directed, I hurry through the bar and into another dining room, turning a corner to catch a glimpse of Mike with his hand on Maggie’s waist. I duck back around the wall and flatten, my fist balling at my chest.

  “I have to get back to Emily,” she whispers, sounding breathless.

  “But I want you more than she does, I promise you.”

  That’s all I need to hear. I dash forward and back toward our seats; my mind is racing right along with my heart. Once I’m seated, looking like I’ve never left, it hits me then that Mike knew who I was without being told, so he had to know who Maggie was lunching with today. And Brandon Senior’s reference to her being gone often the other night when I was with Shane. My God. Is Brandon Senior having an affair because Maggie’s having one while he’s dying? Or vice versa? My hand goes to my throat. Oh no. Maggie controls the vote if she controls Mike. Which son has she picked to run the company? And how am I going to tell Shane any of this? I dread the way it’s going to hurt him.

  “I’m back,” Maggie says, “and I can’t believe this, especially since our last lunch got interrupted, but I have to get to the Capitol now.” She flags down a waitress. “Do you want to stay and take a taxi service, or get your food to go and ride back with me?”

  She has to get naked with Mike before the Capitol is what she really means. “I’ll get a taxi. You go on ahead.”

  “You’re sure?”

  “Of course.”

  “Okay then.” She stands and puts on her coat. “The bill is paid and dessert is on the house.” I blink and she’s gone. Feeling like I have whiplash, and with a whole lot of dread at what my spying skills now require I tell Shane, I flag down our waitress and arrange a cab. Once I’ve tipped her well, she steps away and my gaze catches on the headlines on one of the TVs, my stomach falling. I can’t be seeing what I think I see. I rush closer to the screen and read the headline: WIFE OF BRODY MATTHEWS COMMITS SUICIDE AFTER HIS TRAGIC DEATH IN A CAR ACCIDENT LAST NIGHT. This is insanity. I dial Shane and I get his voice mail. I head for the door and try again. My
cab is waiting and I pull up my hood and rush forward, climbing inside, spouting out the address. Again, I get Shane’s voice mail and I text him. And I wait, knowing there is more to this that meets the eye and knowing that somehow, some way, Shane is connected. That terrifies me.

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  SHANE

  After Emily leaves for lunch with my mother, I head to my office. No longer willing to wait on someone else to find answers, I busy myself going through every piece of data I can find on Mike Rogers. I’m an hour into my research when Jessica walks into my office unannounced and shuts the door, resting against it. “Brody’s estranged wife committed suicide. Oh my God, Shane. It’s tragic. I talked to that man on the phone and now he’s dead and so is she.”

  I go still, ice splintering a path down my spine. “How do you know this?” I ask cautiously, aware that my office is bugged, and that Jessica has no real clue what is going on.

  “I went downstairs to get lunch, and the TV was on. It’s all over the news. She’s dead.”

  “How?”

  “They haven’t said or I didn’t hear.”

  My intercom goes off, and Seth’s voice fills the air. “I’m at Jessica’s desk. I need to see you.”

  “I’ll go,” Jessica says, opening the door to leave. Seth appears, shutting us inside, and without saying a word, he removes an electronic box with antennas from his jacket pocket and starts scanning the office. Almost instantly, a beeping sound leads him to a bookshelf where he removes a book, opens it, and then shows me a tiny chip. He continues his scan and ends up at my desk, focused on my stapler, which he proceeds to open and remove yet another chip. The final stop is at the bottom of my chair. I step back and watch as he removes yet another listening device, and then pulls a bottle of water from his jacket, unscrews the top, and sticks all the offending objects inside. He screws the top on and drops it in my trashcan, and the scanner goes quiet.

  He rests his hands on the desk. “Did you hear about Brody’s wife?”

  “Yes,” I confirm grimly. “I heard. How did she die?”

  “A bottle of aspirin and slit wrists,” he says. “Someone was making sure she didn’t survive.”