Lauren reappeared, this time carrying a pink shirt. “This is for you.”
“Why? What’s wrong with what I’m wearing?” Black knee-length skirt, black cotton sweater, simple pearl necklace borrowed from Margo’s sister, sensible black pumps … If she looked any more respectable and grownup and mainstream she’d have to drive a minivan and join a country club.
“I wasn’t kidding. You look like you’re going to a funeral,” Brady said as he picked up his jacket and shrugged into it.
“And you don’t?” she muttered, drawing raised eyebrows from both Brady and Lauren.
In a tone that almost tripped into condescending, Lauren said, “We’re going for a more vibrant and upbeat tone. Something positive to underscore how exciting this is for the campaign.”
“I thought I had the whole ‘Audrey Hepburn’ vibe working for me.” Margo had declared the look “chic” last night.
Lauren shook her head. “Fluorescent lighting is unforgiving. With your coloring, that vibe will be ‘death-warmed-over’ on camera.”
“But pink?” She hated pink.
“Pink’s a good color for TV. Trust me.”
Aspyn looked at Brady, who nodded. “Lauren knows what she’s talking about. As soon as you change, we’ll get this over with.”
Not “Do you mind changing?” or anything remotely like it. Brady was the boss, and he wanted her to change, so he assumed she’d change. Fine. She took the shirt from Lauren, who pointed her in the direction of the ladies’ room. “I’ll be back in a minute.” She stopped, gave him the same up-and-down twice-over he’d given her and plastered a smile on her face. “Nice tie, by the way.”
Brady’s eyes narrowed momentarily, as if he didn’t fully trust the compliment. Then he nodded. “Thank you.”
“I’m not getting an ‘undertaker’ vibe at all. Really.”
It was a juvenile jab, but it made her feel a little better as she walked off.
“That went really well. Good job, Aspyn.” She looked up in surprise and gave him a smile that spoke of relief.
“Thanks.” Aspyn closed the lid of the laptop and turned her chair to face him, adjusting the foot she had tucked under her. After the last reporter left, she’d given back the pink shirt, ditched the pearls and changed from the old-lady shoes into her Birkenstocks. It was a strange look. “It was a bit more nerve-racking than I expected. At least I kept my feet out of my mouth.”
He’d meant to offer the compliment quickly and move on, but he found himself perching a hip on the desk instead. “You’re a natural in front of the camera. Articulate and clear without being too distant, and sincere without crossing over into smarmy or over-the-top. It’s a hard balance to hit, and you did it well.”
The praise brought a smile to Aspyn’s face. “Wow. Yay me.” She pointed to the computer. “I’m already getting email, and someone in the senator’s office is forwarding some older messages. It’s going to take me a while just to go through it all. But I’m starting to get oddly excited about it.”
“Good. Glad to hear it.” That was very true. The tide had been turned; the crisis averted. Mission accomplished. Senator Marshall was now being touted as an innovative, responsive public servant and cited as an example for other politicians to emulate. He’d check the poll numbers in a few days, but he didn’t doubt they’d see a climb of at least a point or two from this.
So why was he still here talking to Aspyn instead of moving on to one of the many other fires that needed putting out?
Because my ego is enjoying it. He was good at reading people, weighing what their faces and body language said against the words coming out of their mouths. It was a carefully honed skill he prided himself on. Aspyn, however, was especially easy for him to read. Her personality was simply open and friendly, without artifice. It would work well for her in her new “position,” as that open and honest demeanor made her seem like someone you could tell your problems to.
But for someone who was constantly watching for subtle clues, Aspyn’s thoughts on one topic were blindingly clear.
Aspyn thought he was hot. Not just attractive. Hot. Smokin’, actually.
He was a realist when it came to women. He’d been flirted with and hit on by women from all walks of life and every rung of the social ladder since he hit puberty. He was rich, powerfully connected and genetically lucky. The first two were all he really needed in this town; good DNA was just a bonus.
But Aspyn’s appreciation was more elemental, and that cut deep into his psyche and libido. She was less-than-impressed with the outside trappings of being Brady Marshall—if anything, she found it annoying—and much more interested in the man underneath. That fact was written on her face.
But she wasn’t flirting with him at all, either, which might be part of the appeal. If she’d been flirting, he’d be more wary and likely to keep his distance until her motives became clear. He wasn’t a fool. Aspyn was … unique. In many ways.
“Why so smug?” Aspyn laughed. “You totally have a cat-that-ate-the-canary look on your face. I can practically see the feathers hanging out of your mouth. What am I missing?”
“Nothing.” Her look called him a liar, but there was no way he could go with the truth. “One of Mack Taylor’s staffers called a few minutes ago, completely outraged that we’d pulled you into our camp before they could get hold of you.”
“Well, that’s interesting. I didn’t realize it was some sort of competition.”
“Of course it’s a competition. Politics is a brutal, full-contact sport. He who hesitates is lost.” The joy at outwitting the Taylor campaign was slightly marred by the nagging knowledge that while he hadn’t done anything technically unethical, he wasn’t standing firmly on moral high ground, either. “You’ve got a lot to learn, Aspyn. Granted, bringing you on board was damage control, but if you look at the bigger picture, having you here is a good thing on many levels.”
“I’m glad. On a personal level—mine—you were certainly right about how the press would react. You really know what you’re doing. Your dad’s lucky to have you on his team.”
If she only knew. “It’s the family business. It’s what the Marshalls do.”
The tiniest of clouds crossed Aspyn’s face. “And do you like that?”
“Politics? Not always, but campaigns? Yes.”
“I meant having a name that’s supposed to define you.”
Either Aspyn was terribly astute or she had no idea how close to the bone that cut. He chose to believe the latter. His shrug was intentionally casual. “It’s just a name.”
“And ‘a rose by any other name still smells as sweet’?”
“Or stinks, if you’re in politics.”
She smiled, but he could tell she wasn’t entirely convinced. “But your whole family is involved in politics. What if you decided you didn’t like politics and wanted to do something else?”
Aspyn was the first person to ever ask him that. “It’s a family business, but not that kind of family business. We’re not the mafia.”
“But you are in the family business.”
“I could say the same about you.” At the question on her face, he clarified, “You’re following in your parents’ footsteps, too.”
She shrugged as well, but her mouth twisted a bit. “It’s all I know. It’s how I was raised and what I was raised to believe.”
He nodded in understanding. “It’s hard to escape when it’s all you know and everyone just assumes …” He hadn’t meant to say that, but the look on Aspyn’s face made the confession worthwhile. “Maybe I have a bit of ‘true believer’ in me, as well.”
“I’m glad. You should follow your passion.”
He could wish Aspyn had phrased that differently. “Passion” took him right back to ideas he had no business entertaining.
His phone started to vibrate, a reminder he was supposed to be running a campaign, not chatting up a staffer. When the ring tone kicked in a second later, it drew a strong line under thei
r conversation and the responsibilities of being a Marshall. Saved by the bell. “That’s my grandmother. I can ignore the Majority Whip …”
She grinned and nodded. “But not your grandmother. I fully understand.” Aspyn turned back to her computer as he answered his phone and walked away.
Aspyn stared at her screen without really seeing it. Brady was definitely a puzzle. He could be so formal and stiff—just another politico—and she’d been treated to the full effect of that at this morning’s press conference. But that was only one facet of his personality; the conversation they’d just had proved that. There was more to Brady Marshall than he presented to the wide world.
He could certainly turn on the charm or become the guy-next-door. Part of her distrusted that facet—if for no other reason than it seemed a political necessity—but she wanted to believe it at the same time, because of moments like the one they’d just shared.
She couldn’t quite figure out if she liked him or not, and that was a first. Usually she got a feeling about people—good or bad—to go on. Brady’s ability to run hot and cold, from frustratingly arrogant to utterly charming, kept her from getting a solid grip of what she thought. Whatever made him tick, it was different than what made other people tick. She was certainly intrigued by him—and oh, mercy, she could happily stare at him all day long—but she couldn’t figure him out, and that bothered her.
Maybe the fact she did like looking at him was what had her feeling off balance. If anyone had ever told her that her hormones would get up and dance over someone like Brady Marshall, she’d have laughed them out of the room. She wasn’t a coat-and-tie type of girl. She liked her men to be idealistic, revolutionary and passionate. She liked the outdoorsy type—men who hiked trails and went days without shaving, not because they wanted to conquer the outdoors, but because they wanted to understand and be part of nature.
She stole a glance over her shoulder. Brady hit maybe one of her criteria; he was passionate. Of course, not about the same things she was passionate about … It was ridiculous, really. Even more ridiculous was the strange kick she was getting from that side-show-oddity look he kept giving her. He couldn’t figure her out, either.
She jumped when a box landed on her desk with a thump. Lauren slid it toward her. “This is some of the snail mail they’ve been receiving at the senator’s office that falls outside the usual. You might want to go through it.”
“Will do.” She pulled the box closer.
“And let me save you some grief. Don’t go there.”
“The mail?”
“No, I’m talking about Brady. Trust me when I tell you that there’s nothing down that path but madness and disappointment.”
Oh, dear. Aspyn tried to sound properly casual. “What makes you think …?”
“I’ve worked for Brady for over three years now, and I’ve seen it over and over again. Every woman who gets near him develops an adolescent crush on him.”
She wasn’t surprised. “Except you, obviously.”
Lauren laughed. “I didn’t say that. I just like my job more.” She grew serious and leveled a look at Aspyn. “Brady doesn’t get personally involved with staff. Ever. Even if you were his type, he wouldn’t get involved.”
Aspyn felt her jaw drop. It was one thing to be warned about office behaviors, but now she was some kind of “type.” The wrong type, it seemed.
Lauren gentled the slap. “I’m not trying to offend you, because honestly, it doesn’t matter who or what you are. Brady doesn’t fish in the company pond. Even if he were to be tempted, it would be strictly catch and release. Aside from the obvious problems in the scenario, surely you understand that the kind of woman Brady needs in the long run isn’t swimming around in here.”
While part of her was taking all kinds of offence to Lauren’s matter-of-fact statements, part of Aspyn knew the other woman was right. Brady was the de facto heir to the Marshall political legacy, and those blue-blooded power-and-money types stayed in their own circles. And he’s not your type, either, remember? “I appreciate your candor, but since I object to fishing for sport or profit, it’s really unlikely to be a problem.”
“Good. You did great with that press conference. You’re quick on your feet and you put out a ‘trust me’ vibe that’s totally believable.” Aspyn wondered how a “trust me vibe” could be anything but, but she didn’t interrupt Lauren to ask. “Play your cards right, absorb all the knowledge you can and you just might find yourself entertaining several job offers after this election. Don’t screw that up.”
She wouldn’t be able to take much more of this before she did start taking offence. “Then I’d better get to work.” Aspyn reached for the box of mail, ending the conversation, and Lauren went back to supervising the volunteers manning the phones.
How strange that everyone—okay, a few people—seemed to think a few weeks with the Marshall campaign would put her on a different career path. Or any career path. Much less one in politics.
That was the most ridiculous thing she’d ever heard.
She was meant to be an agent of change, not just another cog in the establishment’s machine. But it was her first day on the job and, personal pep talks aside, she still worried she was selling out somehow. Especially if people thought she was heading for a career change. Had she been fooling herself, letting Brady’s charm convince her there was merit in this? Buying a bill of goods because she liked the look of the man selling it?
She rubbed her hands across her face. She wasn’t a sellout. She hadn’t lost her moral compass or betrayed her beliefs. Even her parents recognized there were many ways to effect change—she didn’t always have to be locked to the outside of the gate. Maybe this was how she was supposed to do it. Get in on the ground floor and shake things up as she went along. And it wasn’t like she’d sold her soul; the minute she didn’t like what was happening here, she could leave.
The scary thing, though, was that she kind of liked it here already. And that felt really wrong.
CHAPTER FOUR
ASPYN’S life got quite crowded quite quickly. She spent Friday in a blur, meeting the rest of the staff and volunteers, fielding a few last calls from the press and getting a crash course in Campaigning 101. In some ways, she was more prepared for the job than she’d thought—after all, she’d worked with volunteers or been a volunteer her entire life. That part she understood better than some of the salaried staff, and she may have ruffled a few feathers accidentally. It had been both an eye-opening and exhausting day, but there was no rest for the campaign staff, and that now included her.
Except for a couple of hours relieving Margo in the bookstore on Saturday and a very uncomfortable hour spent with Jackie explaining why her association with the People’s Planet Initiative had to be severed while she worked for the campaign, Aspyn’s weekend was spent wading through emails and voice mails and getting up to speed with Senator Marshall’s official positions on the issues. By Sunday night, she was fighting off information overload with chocolate and happy, cheesy disco music. No one could be stressed or depressed or overwhelmed while shakin’ their groove thing.
When the phone rang, she muted the music and flopped to the futon as she answered.
“You sound out of breath, Aspyn.”
The voice sent adrenaline shooting through her. She’d had little contact with Brady since Lauren’s “helpful” advice lecture on Thursday. He had been in the same building Friday afternoon, but he’d been Boss-Man Brady the whole time and the gulf had been rather uncrossable. There hadn’t been a repeat of the easy conversation they’d had Thursday. A phone call certainly seemed unusual, though …
Oh, grow up.
She was glad she’d muted the music. “I was um … exercising. A little cardio—” She could tell she was about to babble and put a stop to it. “What’s up?”
Well, that wasn’t much better. So much for being a professional.
Thankfully Brady didn’t comment. “Can you go to Richmond with me in t
he morning?”
She enjoyed the little skip to her pulse before focusing on the question. It’s just business. “I guess I can. For what?”
“There’s a breakfast with a civic group in the morning. The senator was supposed to attend, but he can’t now. I’m going instead.”
“Can I ask why you always call him ‘the senator’ instead of ‘my father’?” The inappropriate question was out of her mouth before she could stop it.
“Because he is the senator and in this campaign, he’s my boss, not my father.”
“He can’t be both at the same time?”
“It’s not effective. Some distance is preferable in a professional setting.”
Okay, so that was a hint. “That makes sense, I guess.”
“So, back to the actual purpose of my call …”
“Right. Sorry. Is it normal for you to fill in for the senator when he can’t attend something?”
Brady’s sigh told her she was doing it again, but he answered nonetheless. “Not exactly. I’m in the bloodline, and therefore the next best thing when the senator can’t make it. I thought taking you might be a good idea since you’ve been such a popular media figure lately.” He laughed, but there was something off about it. “And the organizer specifically asked about you. He said he was impressed with how quickly we’d realized what a boon you’d be to our campaign.”
“Really? Wow.” A bit of pride swelled in her chest.
“It also helps that this group is ninety percent old men and, according to the organizer, you’re a sweet young thing.”
“Ew.” The blatant sexism in that remark bothered her.
“Aspyn, this is a very important group, and we need their support. If showing up with a pretty woman at my side will help gain that, then that’s what I’m going to do. Such is the nature of politics—we work every angle we can.”
Aspyn knew she should be really disturbed by this. Maybe even righteously indignant, but as Brady said, that was just the way politics worked. But, much to her shame, she was sort of stuck on the “pretty woman” statement. As far as compliments went, it wasn’t that big a deal, but Aspyn didn’t care. Brady said she was pretty.
The Power and the Glory Page 5
