Liza opened her mouth to defend herself, but the senator’s quiet voice interrupted.
“That’s enough, Adena.”
“It’s not enough, John, and I—”
“I said,” he repeated with the kind of quiet but vibrating anger that stopped people—even zealots on a righteous mission like Adena—cold in their tracks, “that’s enough. If you have a problem with Liza, you’ll discuss it with me. Understand?”
Choked, her face now a vivid purple, Adena glared at the senator, then Liza. She looked as if she wanted to say something else—Lord help them all if she did—but she seemed to become aware of their audience of staffers, most of whom were now listening openly while pretending to go about their business.
Swallowing hard, struggling for control, Adena hitched her lips into a grimacing, one-sided smile and turned back to the senator. “Oh, I understand.” She wheeled toward the door. “Much more than you think.”
“Sorry.” The senator turned back to Liza, looking embarrassed. “Adena gets a little overprotective at times.”
Liza was so astonished to have the senator ride to her defense that she couldn’t manage a response, but it didn’t matter anyway because he clapped his hands once and spoke to the room at large.
“Let’s saddle up, people,” he said. “We’ve got a nomination to win.”
Next on the senator’s agenda: a pancake breakfast.
After Liza’s live appearance on the network’s morning show, during which she’d introduced the taped interview, commented on the senator’s schedule for the day and answered the anchor’s questions about life on the campaign trail, they’d all headed to a fundraiser at a tiny Cleveland diner whose booths were so overcrowded that Liza expected a visit from the fire marshal.
The senator wore one of those heavy white aprons, rolled up his shirtsleeves and went to work behind the grill, connecting with the hardworking voters who formed his base. Then he sat at one of the red vinyl booths, listening intently to the concerns of a steady stream of working-class people.
Liza and Takashi observed it all and Brad duly taped everything for the nightly news segment, and nothing remotely interesting happened until the end, when Liza was searching for her coat.
A wall of bodyguards blocked her from reaching the coatrack. Peering over the nearest burly shoulder to see what was going on—it was almost time to get back on the press bus, and Lord knew they’d leave without her if she was late—she saw Senator Warner pull back from hugging a woman in her forties with sporty auburn hair and vivid blue eyes that were currently wet with unshed tears.
Fascinated, her impatience forgotten, Liza watched the senator’s Adam’s apple bob as he handed the woman a handkerchief from his back pocket and held her at arm’s length.
The woman dabbed her eyes and murmured to him, oblivious to their rapt audience. “—and we didn’t understand it. He never smoked a day. He was only thirty-eight.”
The senator shook his head, his expression somber. “Way too young. Like Camille. She never smoked, either.”
His wife.
Liza’s ears pricked because he never talked about his wife or her early death from lung cancer. The dull roar of the crowd over her shoulder was a huge annoyance, and she wished she could yell for everyone to shut up. Edging closer, she strained to hear.
“I never thought he would die,” the woman continued. “Right up until the end, I just thought that God wouldn’t let anything like that happen. Not to such a good man. Not when we had young children who needed him.”
“I understand,” the senator said. “You just don’t think—”
He broke off, obviously too moved to continue. Watching him, seeing his sadness, Liza felt her heart break a million times.
The woman clutched his forearms tighter and spoke with increased urgency. “You’ve got to increase funding for research. Health insurance for everyone is important, yeah, but so is research. I don’t want lung cancer to get one more person. Not one more.”
“I’m going to do everything I can,” he told her. “Everything I can.”
This was the point in these types of conversations where Liza normally had to fight the urge to gag. Political promises. Yeah, sure, whatever. The candidate was going to try to make the world a better place, with better place being subjective and open to interpretation. To the oilmen it meant drilling in the wildlife refuges, and to the environmentalists it meant protecting the wildlife refuges.
For any particular speech it all depended on the makeup of the audience. Blah, blah, blah…sound and fury, signifying nothing, as worthless as leprechaun’s gold.
But watching the senator with this widow, knowing he’d lost his beautiful young wife to lung cancer, having read about his incredible philanthropic donations for research over the years and seeing the ferocity in his eyes right now, somehow Liza believed it all: The senator didn’t make empty promises; he would do everything possible to increase funding for cancer research, even if he had to personally walk from coast to coast, knocking on doors and asking for donations as he went; and his word—on this and everything else—was good.
Liza didn’t want to respect him more, didn’t want to believe, but she did.
So did the woman. Reassured, she smiled and wiped her eyes again. “I know you’ll do what you can. That’s why I came. To meet you and say thanks.”
Adena, who was lingering at the senator’s elbow, as usual, discreetly cleared her throat and tapped her watch. “John.”
The senator nodded and refocused on the woman. “Thanks for coming.”
“Oh, you’re welcome.” The widow waved a hand as though it was nothing to brave sleet to show up at an ungodly prework hour, fight hundreds of people to meet a presidential candidate and eat cold pancakes. “I’m getting remarried, by the way. I never thought I would, but I am. In the spring.”
The senator gave her a grin so ecstatic that Liza wondered for a minute if he was going to ask if he could give away the bride. “Congratulations. That’s wonderful.”
“You should find someone, too,” the woman said. “You’re still a young man.”
“Well.” The senator, looking bashful now, hung his head and his ears glowed bright. “I can’t exactly register for some online dating service, can I?”
“Don’t laugh,” the woman said, although she did just that as she smacked his forearm. “There’s someone special out there for you. You just need to find her.”
“I think I need to focus on one thing at a time,” he told the woman. “But I will keep your advice in mind.”
They said their goodbyes and the woman was besieged by reporters trying to get her name and interview her about her moment with the senator. Liza could see the headlines now: Widow Shares Tears with Warner, Gives Dating Advice. Then the senator allowed his handlers to steer him toward the door.
Liza backed up to give the entourage space because it was either that or risk being flattened by the nearest giant, but the senator glanced at her and raised his voice to be heard over the general roar.
“How’d you like my pancakes, Liza?” he called.
What? He knew she was right there in this roomful of people?
If only he’d stop catching her off guard. If only he’d stop affecting her so much and worming his way under her skin. It irritated the hell out of her.
Pursing her lips, determined not to simper or possibly faint like a rabid fan at a rap concert, Liza remembered her duties.
She was a journalist doing her job. Period. There was no room for anything else.
“Your pancakes were too pale, Senator. Brown them more the next time.”
Throwing back his head, he laughed and lingered when the flunkeys would have shuttled him through the vestibule and into the gleaming black SUV idling at the curb.
“There you go being prickly again, Liza. Or is it just me?”
What was it about the way he said her name? It threw her off every time. A husky note was there, a slight deepening of his voice and
something indefinable that made her name a little more special when he said it.
And she was absolutely losing her ever-loving mind if she imagined undying lust in every syllable the poor man uttered to her.
Liza shot him a cool smile, the one she gave the paparazzi whenever they surprised her on the street, and hoped she looked bored rather than bewildered by her sudden longing for things she shouldn’t want.
“Prickly?” She raised her eyebrows. “I’ve been taking it easy on you, Senator.”
He laughed again and that beautiful, good-natured sound echoed right through her. Turning quickly away, she wished she could clap her hands over her ears and block it out.
This was one of the best parts of the job, no question.
Elementary school visits, where he got to wear khakis and a shirt rather than those stupid suits and ties. Mrs. Barnes’s first-grade classroom. Colorful pictures of Thomas Jefferson and Lewis and Clark on the walls, along with the alphabet in cursive and an enormous world map. A papier mâché model of the solar system, including a huge orange-and-yellow sun, hanging from clear strings overhead. The smell of chalk, crayons and questionable lunch items wafting from the cafeteria. What could be better?
John sat cross-legged on the floor with a cute little future diva with a thousand beaded braids plunked in his lap. She’d commandeered this place of honor early on and showed no signs of ever getting up. All around him in a semicircle were adorable bright faces with gap-toothed smiles and the occasional milk mustache. On the floor beside him sat Dr. Seuss’s One Fish, Two Fish, which the little monsters had thoroughly enjoyed listening to him mangle.
A few members of his staff and the press, including Liza, to whom he’d tried to give a wide berth in the last several days, lined the perimeter of the classroom and watched and filmed the proceedings. Mrs. Barnes hovered, making sure her little charges didn’t say or do anything too outrageous or embarrassing. The poor woman was so flustered and nervous by this circus descending on her classroom that John could almost laugh. He wanted to take her aside and tell her not to worry, that he loved children in all their unpredictability, but he was afraid it would send her into cardiac arrest.
“One more question,” John said, pointing to a blond boy on the end. “You’ve had a hand up for a while. What’s your name?”
The boy lowered his hand and sat up straighter, grinning so hard he was in danger of splitting his cheeks. “John.”
“John. Good name.” Everyone tittered and Mrs. Barnes looked pleased. “What’s your question for me?”
“I wanted a Pop-Tart for breakfast, but my mom made me eat oatmeal.” John scrunched his face, leaving no doubt about his opinion on oatmeal. “I don’t think that’s fair. Can you write her a note and tell her it’s okay for me to eat Pop-Tarts?”
“Wow, John.” John tried not to laugh. Clearly this was a serious issue in this young man’s life. “I’m not sure I have any power over moms and breakfast items. Have you tried any honey or brown sugar on your oatmeal? That might help.”
“Nothing helps,” the boy said flatly.
“Tell you what,” John said. “Why don’t you offer your mom a compromise to see if you can both be happy? You tell her that on school days you’ll eat your oatmeal—without complaining—”
John groaned.
“—if she’ll let you eat Pop-Tarts on the weekends. Could that work?”
John brightened. “I’ll try it. Thanks, John.”
This was too much for Mrs. Barnes, who turned a thousand shades of purple and leaned in to bark at the boy in a stage whisper.
“John. Please call him Senator Warner. Where are your manners?”
“It’s okay, Mrs. Barnes.” Scooting the little diva off his lap and standing at last—man, his creaky knees were getting too old for this floor sitting—he smiled and caught his soccer ball when Adena tossed it to him. “We’re all friends here. Who wants to play a quick game of soccer with me before I have to go?”
A joyous cheer rose up from the kids, and there was a crazy scramble to get lined up at the door. This gave John the cover he needed to check on one little girl in the corner. He’d been worried about her the whole time he was there.
She was glum. Despite her cute little blue dress and tights, which he knew should cheer up any young girl, she’d hardly smiled at all, and even her sandy shoulder-length curls seemed to droop. John edged around the general chaos and gave her a grave look.
“Hi,” he said.
“Hi.” She dimpled but didn’t give him the full smile.
“What’s your name?”
“Maggie.”
“Tough day, Maggie?”
“Yeah.” She drew out the word, making it at least three syllables.
“What’s up?”
She handed him a picture and swiped at her enormous blue eyes, which were now sparkling with tears. “It’s Sampson.”
John studied the shot, which was of a clear glass tank. Inside was a green frog with bulging red eyes surrounded by all kinds of rocks and plants.
“Sampson?”
“He’s dead.”
“Oh, no.”
“When I went to feed him this morning, he was all shriveled and…dead.”
“I’m so sorry,” John told her. “Will you have a funeral?”
“After school.”
They stared at each other, and John wished he could ease the weight of the world off her tiny shoulders. Yeah, he’d like to solve the Social Security problem, but this was a real issue, too.
“Should we say a prayer?”
Maggie sniffled. “Okay.”
They joined hands and bowed their heads. “God, please look after Sampson, who was a good and loving frog. Please welcome him into heaven and give him a nice pond to swim in, giant lily pads to jump on and, ah, lots of juicy flies to eat.”
John cracked one eye open and checked with Maggie. “Anything else?”
“And a nice log to hide in.”
“And a nice log to hide in,” he added. “Amen.”
“Amen.”
John tried to give her back the picture, but she didn’t want it.
“You keep it,” she told him. “So you’ll never forget Sampson.”
What a sweet child. He’d sure love two or three like this one someday. John pressed the picture to his heart and smiled at her. “Thank you, Maggie.”
Beaming, she bounced off to join her comrades in line just as Adena materialized at his elbow.
“How long do we have for soccer?” he asked her. “I was hoping—what the hell are they doing?”
Adena looked around in surprise. “Huh?”
He waved at Liza, Takashi and Brad, who were standing a few feet away, watching him rather than packing their stuff up and getting ready to go like everyone else. John stared at them with dawning irritation.
Had they just filmed that whole thing with him and Maggie?
Probably. Brad’s camera was out.
Incensed, John stalked over to confront Liza, who was at the root of a whole host of his problems these days. Takashi and Brad barely registered with his consciousness.
“What’s going on?” he demanded.
“Excuse me?”
The benign innocence in her big baby browns didn’t fool him for a minute. Taking her arm, he steered her a few feet away, behind the divider that hid Mrs. Barnes’s supplies from the rest of the room.
Liza snatched free, looking affronted. “What’s the problem?”
“The problem is that that was a private moment between me and a little girl who’s lost her frog, and I don’t want it splashed all over the news tonight like I’m trying to win points for—”
“I know it was a private moment.”
“Then why the hell were you film—”
“If you weren’t so busy attacking me and gave me the chance to explain, Senator, I could tell you that Takashi wanted to film, but I asked him not to, so we didn’t.”
John blinked. “You…didn’t?
”
“No.”
The wind whooshed right out of his sails. Didn’t he feel like an idiot? Hanging his head, he rubbed the back of his neck and began his obligatory apology. “I’m, ah, sorry for—”
“Oh, don’t apologize.” Holding up a hand to stop him mid-speech, she backed up a step and flashed what was, quite possibly, the smuggest smirk he’d ever seen. “I’m going to enjoy having you under my thumb for a while. Your guilt should make you extra nice to me, don’t you think?”
Damn, he wanted this woman. “Liza,” he said with utmost sincerity, “I’d be thrilled to be under your thumb or anywhere else you’d like to put me.”
Whoa. Had he said that out loud?
Yeah, apparently.
A pretty flush colored her face, and for just a fleeting second, he saw the flash of heat in her glittering eyes. She almost smiled. But then she caught herself and gave him a severe look instead.
The heat was still there, though. Banked, but still there.
“Let’s go, Senator,” she said. “Don’t you have a schedule to keep?”
Pivoting on her heel, she swept out, leaving his pulse thundering at the base of his throat and his mouth dry.
John wrapped up a Sitchroo meeting at their Washington headquarters on the fourth floor of an office building and looked around for Liza. In a disheartening sign of how far gone he was for that woman, he was eager to submit to another interview or, come to think of it, any other activity that meant one-on-one contact with her.
Through God’s grace and a whole lot of self-discipline, he’d managed to ignore his growing obsession with Liza for the last few weeks.
Glory hallelujah.
Just today he’d toured a factory, given a keynote address at a luncheon and spoken at the university, all without thinking of Liza much at all.
He was the man.
But…
Right now she was all he could think of, all he could see.
What was up with that?
Until she walked into his life, he never had a problem with distractions. He’d focused on his work because it was his calling, and that was the end of the story. Either he wanted to be president and worked toward that goal, or he didn’t. Simple.
Campaign For Seduction Page 7
