Campaign For Seduction

by Ann Christopher

  Adena, who was sunk deep into her seat with an elbow propped on the armrest, ran a hand through her long black hair. “I’m talking about press access—”

  Whew.

  “—and this perception that you’re hiding while Senator Fitzgerald answers questions any old time. We need to get out in front of that issue.”

  “Why?”

  John couldn’t keep the bark out of his voice, namely because his traveling press corps was a major pain in his ass that he tolerated because he had to. No one who was serious about public office could do otherwise, and he’d made his peace with that reality long ago.

  But that didn’t mean he enjoyed dealing with journalists and his staff’s relentless focus on winning every news cycle. It felt like the press covered every waking moment of his life and probably knew what brand of toilet paper he used. What could he do about it? A big fat nothing. Privacy was, unfortunately, a thing of his distant past.

  Cry me a river, Warner.

  True, the press gave him good coverage more often than not, and for that he was profoundly grateful. But he already gave several, if not dozens, of interviews to the local press at all his campaign stops every day, not to mention his biweekly chats with the anchors on the network morning shows and whatever other interviews were needed as a result of breaking events.

  Now he was supposed to hold the hands of his whining traveling press corps? How many hours was he supposed to squeeze out of his overscheduled day? When was he supposed to focus on shaping policy? Did anyone care about that?

  “Just because one reporter wants more access?” John continued, leaning against the nearest seat as he stared down at Adena. “I’ve already given—”

  “It’s not just one reporter,” Adena said darkly, and the heads of Jay Hunter, the campaign’s communications director, and Linda Canning, the press secretary, nodded their somber agreement. “A couple of the blogs picked up this access thing today, and if we don’t do something the networks will start a drumbeat about it. We don’t want that to become an issue going into Nevada and South Carolina.”

  John cursed and checked his watch, irritated by the flare of this new fire to put out, as if he didn’t have enough fires already. 12:45 a.m. now. The night was ticking away and he had briefs to read and a major policy speech about health care to edit. Anything more than an hour or two of sleep seemed to be off the table, and that woman was partially to blame.

  Thank you, Liza Wilson.

  Thinking hard, adrenalin pumping, he ran through his options. He was, luckily, a stellar problem solver, which was one of the reasons he’d be a good commander in chief. With any luck he could put this issue to bed—again with the bed references, Warner; you really need to knock it off—and move on to the next crisis du jour.

  What was the best choice here?

  Well, he could ignore the press access issue. Bad idea. Things like this never went away by themselves. They were much more likely to fester and grow. On the other hand, he could deny it. Another bad idea. All the pundits over at, say, the MSNBC news channel and even the faux-news anchors at the Comedy Central channel would trot out statistics on how often both he and Senator Fitzgerald spoke to the press, and he’d look like either a liar or an idiot because he knew good and well that his opponent granted her corps more time.

  Or…a new idea flickered, faded and then flickered again, brighter this time.

  What if…what if he granted one media outlet “exclusive access” to the inner workings of the campaign for a while? It’d been done before, of course; President Clinton had had that whole War Room documentary back in 1993. John could do it, too: let a correspondent and cameraperson into his situation room—“Sitchroo,” as they affectionately referred to it here—and let them film some of the meetings where the decisions were made.

  That could work, couldn’t it? They could do it for, say, a month or so, and then they’d go back to the status quo. By then, hopefully, the allegations that he avoided the press would have passed, the media would be onto some other hot topic and he’d come up smelling like a rose.

  The more he thought about the idea, the more he liked it.

  All the actual strategic decisions concerning his campaign would still be made behind closed doors, of course. John was no dummy, and he wasn’t about to give away the battle plan to his opponent, who was already running him ragged and forcing him to earn every single vote. Only a fool would reveal the true inner workings of a campaign on national TV before the election.

  But…he could grant enough additional access to make it look good.

  “Here’s what we’ll do,” he told Adena. “We’re going to let one media outlet behind the scenes for, say, a month or so. Grant them access to Sitchroo. That should stop the wagons from circling for a while.”

  Adena narrowed her eyes. “I don’t know about that. Could be much more trouble than it’s worth.” She paused. “On the other hand, voters are dying for more information about you. You’d have to be personally available, though. People don’t want to see a lot of nonsense about your chief of staff deciding who to hire and fire.”

  John hadn’t thought about that, but he supposed it was true. “Fine.”

  “Who do we want for the job?” Adena asked.

  “Liza Wilson.”

  The name was up and out of John’s mouth before he could think twice about it, and once it was said, he didn’t want to take it back. Nor did he want to think about why he’d chosen Liza or, come to think of it, whether he’d dreamt up the idea as a way to get to know Liza better. All he knew was that he liked the plan—liked it a lot, actually—and wanted to go through with it.

  Adena, however, looked horrified. Her cheeks flooded with color, leaving pink behind and heading for purple. Scooting to her feet, she glanced around at their avid audience, all of whom were watching the conversation with wide eyes, took John by the arm and steered him into the next cabin, which was a small conference room with a couple of tables.

  Behind closed doors now, Adena let him have it. It was amazing the way this one tiny woman could resemble a snarling wolverine when she wanted to.

  “What the hell are you doing?”

  John settled one hip against the edge of a table and felt his hackles rise. He was way too tired for this, and Adena’s questions always cut too close to the bone because she knew him so well.

  “I’m addressing the issue you raised. The press wants more access. I’m giving them more access. What’s the problem?”

  “Liza Wilson’s the problem. She won her last Emmy slicing Senator Gregory to shreds, in case you’ve forgotten.”

  “Senator Gregory had a serious drug habit.” John kept his voice low and calm. “He had a good slicing coming.”

  Adena rolled her eyes, the picture of outraged reproach. “Let’s not play games here, John. It’s just you and me. And I’ve seen the way you look at her. I’ve been around the block long enough to know when a man’s thinking with his southern hemisphere.”

  This was hardly a surprise. Adena’s sharp gaze didn’t miss much, and, bulldog that she was, she hadn’t gotten to be the top campaign strategist in the country by being blind or having poor instincts. John was lucky to have her on his team, and he knew it.

  On the other hand, he was a grown man and, the last time he checked, it was his campaign. If he couldn’t control his interest in this one woman, he’d make a pretty sorry president, and he had no intentions of being a sorry president.

  Still, he didn’t want to alienate Adena unless he had to. They’d been a winning professional combination for too many years to rock the boat now, and he knew that cinching the nomination without her on the team would be a Herculean task.

  “I’ve got it under control, and there’s nothing to worry about anyway,” John said. “Thanks for your concern.”

  Adena didn’t look remotely convinced. If anything, the worried grooves running across her forehead deepened. “I’ve got three words for you, John—Helen of Troy.”

&
nbsp; John choked back a snort of laughter even though the image of Liza as a woman whose beauty could drive sensible men insane with lust and spark a war didn’t seem that far-fetched at the moment.

  A lot was at stake here, and John was excruciatingly aware of that fact every moment of every day. He was behind in the polls and, by many accounts, a snowball had a better chance spending the summer in hell than he did winning the nomination.

  Getting involved with a journalist covering his campaign fell firmly into the stupid category; he knew that. The tabloid and mainstream presses would both have a field day, and his credibility as a serious candidate would be forever ruined. He’d never been stupid and didn’t plan to start now. Even though lust for Liza was, admittedly, scrambling his circuits.

  Luckily, he was all about focus and had no intentions of getting involved with Liza, no matter how tempting the idea might seem. Maybe spending time with the woman who slid under his skin so easily wasn’t the brightest idea he’d ever had, but neither would it ruin his campaign. He wouldn’t let it.

  “Like I said,” he told Adena. “I’ve got it under control.”

  “John, she’s brash and hardheaded. There’s no controlling her. She’s going to be a constant thorn in our sides, and meanwhile her viewership will go up because the public loves her. She’ll be getting ratings for making us look bad.”

  Straightening, John patted Adena on the back to soften his words. “When it’s your name on the side of the plane, you can make the decisions—”

  Adena glowered.

  “—but until then, I want you to call Liza’s executive producers and get this thing arranged.”

  Grumbling, Adena turned toward the staffer’s cabin. John let her get almost through the doorway before he lost the silent battle he’d been waging with himself.

  He wanted to see Liza again tonight. He shouldn’t want to, but he did.

  Anyway—what could it hurt? It was already late and he was only going to get a little sleep anyway. He might as well get a little less. And his nagging curiosity about Liza wouldn’t let him go unless he did something to satisfy it.

  Satisfaction. What a lovely—and ultimately hopeless—idea.

  Since sexual gratification was thin on the ground these days, he may as well indulge in a little intellectual stimulation. He wanted to have sex with Liza but, failing that, he could spend a few minutes finding out more about her. He’d take his pitiful pleasure wherever he could find it and, more than likely, within thirty seconds she’d irritate him enough to destroy his weird fixation on her anyway.

  “Adena,” he said.

  Poor Adena’s footsteps slowed and her shoulders drooped, as though she knew what was coming. Turning back around, she faced John like a dog expecting a kick.

  John didn’t care. “Send Liza and her producer back,” he said, anticipation already heating his blood and clearing out the last of his exhaustion. “You can talk to the producer, and I want to tell Liza she’s going to be spending a lot more time with…us.”

  The word us was a last-minute substitution. With me, John thought with fierce satisfaction. She’s going to be spending a lot more time with me.

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 3

  “T hese red-eyes are killing me.” Takashi Nakamura, Liza’s longtime producer and friend, hung up his air phone and collapsed back in the seat next to Liza. “It’ll be damn near 3:00 a.m. before we get to the hotel. That’s not even worth getting into bed for.”

  Liza, who’d just finished her own phone call, grunted. Then she arranged her neck roll, lowered the satin blindfold over her bleary eyes and pulled her small fleece blanket over her shoulders in what was sure to be a futile attempt to get a quick catnap. Man, was she beat.

  Also hungry, frustrated and agitated.

  It was going to be a truly awful night. Having forgotten to charge her iPod, she couldn’t listen to music to drown out the loud hum of the jet’s engine or the ongoing dull chatter of the cabin’s other occupants.

  She was definitely going to be cranky tomorrow.

  Beside her, Takashi reclined his seat and heaved a harsh sigh. “We’re too old for this nonsense.”

  “I’d noticed.” Liza’s thirty-seven-year-old body didn’t adjust to the constant travel and time changes like it used to; lately it didn’t seem to adjust at all. The trip last month to Beijing with the president had nearly done her in, and her poor internal clock still didn’t know what time it was.

  “We also don’t get paid enough for this nonsense.”

  “Amen to that,” Liza said.

  This wasn’t exactly true. She made a huge salary even if she never had the time, energy or inclination to enjoy it. Still, a great salary did not equal a great life. Divorced years ago from Kent, a cheating rat bastard who’d taken most of Liza’s travel assignments as opportunities to screw other women, Liza didn’t do relationships because there was no percentage in them. Nor did she do anything other than work and charity work for an Alzheimer’s foundation.

  Her Georgetown brownstone sat empty most of the time, even when she was home, because she was always on the trail of a story. She could only vaguely remember her last official vacation, which was two or three years ago.

  With no children, no significant other and no hobbies, Liza was hardly the picture of Zen-like balance or happiness, not that she had the time to address this problem. Why bother anyway? Life was pleasant enough, and her career was certainly exciting even when it threatened to kill her with exhaustion.

  Maybe she’d never have children, but she was slowly coming to terms with that aching emptiness. Wasn’t a thrilling career a fair trade for her lack of family?

  “Was that your agent on the phone?” Takashi asked. “What’re they quoting you now?”

  “Twelve.”

  Takashi snorted. “I thought they were serious.”

  “Not yet,” Liza muttered. “They’re getting there.”

  They lapsed into a moment’s silence, during which Liza wondered what her father, a retired army colonel, would say if he knew she was talking about a twelve million dollar a year offer to host the nightly news as though it was chump change. Then she thought of what he’d say if he knew she was holding out for more money—and shuddered.

  You always screw things up, girl. That’s what he would say.

  It wasn’t that she didn’t want the job. She just didn’t want it as much as she’d thought she would during all those years when she was clawing her way up the ladder.

  That was probably her exhaustion talking, though, because the travel was really getting to her.

  The chance she’d been working for—the highest aspiration of any TV journalist—was finally hers, and she didn’t plan to waste it. Nor would she let the network have her services for cheap, especially since the travel and pace would be nearly as excruciating as they were now.

  Her body of work spoke for itself, and she’d subbed in the anchor’s chair dozens of times. Though she was not the most senior correspondent, she was one of the most popular, and the ratings soared every time she filled in.

  The bottom line was that she had the chops for the job and fully intended to have it soon now that the current anchor, who’d been in the chair since Moses floated down the Nile in a basket, had announced his upcoming retirement.

  In the meantime, while her agent worked on the negotiations, this gig on the candidate’s plane was the final stepping-stone to the professional glory that would soon be hers.

  She tried to relax a little, but the tension through her shoulders and the cramped leg space made that difficult at best. Worse, the lingering adrenalin surge from her encounter with the senator still had her blood pumping. Just as she started to scrunch her shoulders up and down in one of those on-plane relaxation exercises that never relaxed anyone, her air phone rang.

  Great. And here she’d thought she was lucky to be working on a tricked-out plane with all the finest communications upgrades that allowed her to get calls at her seat
. Riiiight.

  “Liza Wilson.”

  “Is that you, girl?” her father barked by way of greeting.

  Liza stifled her groan. “Hello, Colonel.” She’d always called him Colonel because his stern face and gruff demeanor made diminutives like Daddy and Pops unthinkable. “How are you? Why aren’t you in bed?”

  “When are you coming to take me home, girl?”

  Liza’s heart sank. He was having one of his bad days, which were becoming the rule rather than the exception. She should’ve known; an after-midnight call from an eighty-year-old was probably never, as a rule, a good thing.

  “You are home. Remember?” Liza cringed as soon as the R-word was out of her mouth. Saying things like don’t you remember? to an Alzheimer’s patient wasn’t a great idea. “You live at the Regency now, Colonel. That’s home.”

  Silence.

  She waited, feeling the wheels turn in his mind, the old memories rising to the top to confuse him and the recent ones sinking to the bottom, useless and forgotten. “I live on Crooked Oak Lane,” he finally said, referencing a house he and Mama had lived in forty-odd years ago. “I don’t live in this three-room dump.”

  Lord, give me the strength to deal with this man tonight. Amen.

  That three-room dump, as he so lovingly called it, was one of Washington’s best and most expensive assisted-living facilities, most of which she’d visited and researched before placing him late last year. It had a clean record, a beautiful building and caring people to look after him.

  It was not, by any stretch of the imagination, a dump.

  “You do live there, Colonel. You’ve got all your favorite things there with you. Are you in the bedroom? Look at the comforter. That’s the one I picked out for you. And see the—”

  “You picked out that ugly comforter?” The Colonel’s disdain came through the phone loud and clear, so noxious she could practically smell fumes. “Better get your eyes checked, girl. You always screw things up, don’t you?”

  Remembering that the Colonel wasn’t in his right mind never quite did the trick during these conversations. She rolled her eyes at Takashi, looking for a little commiseration, but he was busy reviewing his e-mail and couldn’t hear the Colonel’s side of the conversation anyway.