“Sounds like the two of you want some alone time this weekend,” Ethan said.
Taylor stared at Ethan’s reflection in the rearview mirror. She didn’t care for the slight leer on his face. Straight guys were so predictable. She was surprised he hadn’t asked if he could watch. “Where will you be this weekend?” she asked, choosing to ignore rather than comment on his innuendo-laden statement.
“Rosebud Cabin,” Lily said. “It’s located next to the camp commander’s home. We’ll be sharing it with the other Secret Service agents, as well as members of Prime Minister Ogilvie’s security team. Here’s the phone number in case you can’t get me on my cell. There are so many Seabees and jarheads running around I doubt you’ll need to reach out to either of us, but better safe than sorry.”
Lily’s cool efficiency never failed to put Taylor at ease. She could use the peace of mind because she felt certain the results of that afternoon’s summit would be guaranteed to cause her several sleepless nights.
She and Sheridan unpacked their bags after Ethan ferried them to their temporary quarters.
“Are you ready to check out the stables?” Sheridan asked.
“I haven’t ridden in years. I was on spring break in Mexico, and I took my girlfriend at the time on one of those romantic horseback rides on the beach. My mount knew the route so well I didn’t have to do anything except try not to fall off.”
Sheridan hooked her arm around Taylor’s. “Then it’s high time you got back on the horse.”
Taylor groaned at the bad pun as she allowed herself to be dragged out the door. “Remind me not to name you my official speechwriter.”
Sheridan zipped up her jacket to ward off the cold. A thick blanket of snow covered almost every visible surface, but the roads and walkways had been cleared. “I was going to ask you if you had made up your mind about running for office, but it seems obvious you have.”
“Does that disappoint you?” Taylor nodded her thanks to the staff member who opened the stable door.
Sheridan inspected each of the horses, rubbing a nose here, testing a flank there. She eventually decided on a dappled mare and a chestnut thoroughbred. The mare looked docile. The thoroughbred looked like he could be a handful. No wonder the name etched into the wood outside his paddock door read Hellraiser. Taylor called dibs on Angel the mare. Hopefully, the horse would prove to be as gentle as her name.
“When I met you,” Sheridan said as staffers saddled the horses she had selected, “I thought you were one of the rare ones who wouldn’t be seduced by power.”
“I’m not doing it for the power.” Following Sheridan’s example, Taylor grabbed the pommel with both hands, put her left foot in the stirrups, and pulled herself up. She swung her right leg over the horse’s substantial haunches and settled into the well-oiled saddle.
“Then why are you doing it?”
“No openly gay candidate has ever run for president. And the gay-friendly ones aren’t always very friendly. I’m tired of looking for the path of least resistance or deciding between the lesser of two evils. Instead of a candidate who pretends to care about the gay community when he’s stumping for votes but doesn’t give it a second thought after he’s elected, wouldn’t you rather have a candidate who genuinely cares about us and what we’ve been fighting so hard to achieve? Why can’t that candidate be me?”
Sheridan coaxed her horse into a canter. Taylor followed her out of the barn. Her horse was content with the slow pace, but Sheridan’s steed seemed ready to turn on the afterburners.
“What about Robby?” Sheridan asked as she slowly picked up speed.
“What about her?”
“What are you going to say when a reporter asks you about her?”
“I could say, ‘No comment,’ but that would prompt the press to work even harder to get to the heart of the story. My best bet would be sticking with the truth. Robby was a part of my life once, but that part of my life is over.”
“Do you wish that weren’t the case?”
“As angry as I am with her for lying to me, I still miss her. I miss her off-the-wall comments and her dazzling array of designer outfits she can’t afford but can’t stop buying. I miss the little family she and I formed with Orson, Steven, and Miles. I even miss reading her blog. When she stopped trying to be the second coming of Hedda Hopper, she had some pretty profound things to say. She’s so beautiful it’s easy to underestimate her intellect. She can be incredibly insightful when she wants to be, either in person or in print. Part of me is curious to see how she’d cover the events of this weekend if she were here to see them firsthand.”
“Secondhand news has worked pretty well for her so far,” Sheridan said as she and Taylor approached the riding trail. “Have you noticed that when you talk about her, you sound almost proud of her accomplishments? As dubious as they might seem to a less biased observer.”
“Like you?”
Sheridan’s laughter echoed off the snow-covered hills. “You’ve persuaded me. If you can manage to convince me Robby Rawlins is worthy of such devotion, you’ve certainly earned my support. Who do I make the check out to?”
“C-A-S-H.”
Sheridan laughed again. “Critics will say you’re idealistic, but a dash of idealism never hurt anyone.”
“As long as I have you and TJ around to keep me sane, I’ll be fine.”
“I thought it was my job to drive you insane. Obviously, I’m not doing something right. Let’s remedy that right away.”
Tightening her grip on the reins, Sheridan clicked her tongue and poked the smooth heels of her riding boots into her mount’s side. The horse increased his pace, distancing himself from his stablemate. His breath plumed behind him like exhaust from a speeding locomotive. Sheridan’s butt hovered over the saddle. She rode with her head close to Hellraiser’s neck, looking for all the world like a jockey heading down the final stretch of a stakes race.
Taylor wasn’t about to be left behind. She urged on the mare. “Come on, Angel.” Despite her smaller frame, Angel seemed eager to accept the challenge. Her hooves pounded the frozen earth as she methodically narrowed the gap between herself and Hellraiser. Taylor patted Angel’s neck. “Good girl. Let’s show these crazy Republicans how it’s done.”
* * *
Business was sluggish. Plenty of window shoppers had slowed to check out the storefront display, but Robby had waited on only three customers all day. One, thankfully, had been a big spender. An interior decorator who had forked out nearly three thousand dollars for a Victor gramophone and another two grand for a set of colorful tins filled with phonograph needles.
“Thank God for rich homeowners and the designers who are paid to cater to their every whim.”
After she watched yet another customer leave the store without making a purchase, she stopped worrying about the store’s bottom line and focused on hers.
She pulled up an intriguing email she had received via the Contact Us link on her website. The email began with the usual gushing she had come to expect from her most devoted readers, but it ended with a most unexpected offer.
“Love the blog,” the commenter had written. “Part TMZ, part CNN, entirely original. Your irreverent point of view sticks a much-needed pin in the windbags on Capitol Hill. Democrats, Republicans, even so-called independents. Thank you for sparing no one. My name is Dickson Beltran. I am the president and CEO of Beltran Media. I would like to invite you to become part of my extended family. Price, of course, is negotiable. If you would like to discuss my offer in detail, don’t hesitate to give me a call. I look forward to hearing from you. I also eagerly anticipate watching you skewer your next target.”
Robby doubted the offer was real, but what if it really was legit? Ignoring it could cost her a serious payday.
She pulled up the official website for Beltran Media. The company was headquartered in Landover, but its reach extended up and down the East Coast. The corporation owned print, television, and Internet media outlets in
Miami, Atlanta, Baltimore, New York, and Philadelphia. Not exactly Time-Warner, but nothing to sneeze at, either.
She clicked on the About Us link and read Dickson’s bio. He had made his money in the tech industry, but had gotten out before the boom went bust. Now he was riding the next wave. Robby recognized several of the clients on his roster. She would love to be able to reach even a fraction of their audience. Did she finally have a chance to make it happen?
She clicked on the Contact Us link, and her heart skittered in her chest when she noticed the phone number listed on the screen matched the one printed on the email’s signature line. She dialed the number, half-expecting to be routed to a sex line or to have her ears assaulted by the strident series of electronic tones signaling she had reached a number not in service.
“Thank you for calling Beltran Media,” a cool, professional female voice said. “How may I direct your call?”
Robby resisted the urge to slam the phone down. The offer was real. But why now? Her numbers were up, but not enough to attract attention from a serious bidder. Did she have what it took to handle the negotiations, or was she about to blow everything she had worked so hard to achieve?
“Uh, Dickson Beltran, please.”
“Who may I say is calling?”
Robby hesitated. Did she want to identify herself by name before she knew who she was dealing with?
“Ma’am? Who may I say is calling?”
“The author and creator of The pH Factor.”
“Ah, yes, Mr. Beltran has been expecting your call. Wait one moment. I’ll forward you to his cell phone.”
Robby stood a little straighter. When was the last time she had gotten more attention for what she had to say instead of what she had chosen to wear? When was the last time someone had taken her so seriously? The last time she had talked to Taylor. Hell, every time she had talked to Taylor. The only woman she had ever met who had spent more time trying to get to know her than trying to bed her. And when they had finally slept together, the sex had been like none Robby had ever experienced. A union of much more than their bodies. But that dream was over. It was time to get back to reality.
A pair of potential customers peered inside the shop. Robby quickly locked the door and flipped the sign from Open to Closed. Now was not the time for interruptions. This call was more important than anything or anyone else.
“Dickson Beltran,” a jovial voice said. “Whom can I credit for interrupting my golf game?”
“Robby—Roberta Rawlins.”
“It’s a pleasure to meet you, Miss Rawlins, albeit telephonically. You’re a busy woman, and I’m two strokes down so I’ll cut to the chase. I want to purchase the rights to your blog. You can continue to author and publish it as you see fit, but you’ll be doing it under my corporate umbrella.”
“Meaning?”
“Meaning your current and future posts will be housed and archived on my servers. My company logo will appear on your website. My sales team and I will actively pursue appropriate corporate sponsorships on your behalf. You will be responsible for one hundred percent of the content. You will receive an annual salary of seventy-five thousand dollars to begin, a two percent share of annual profits, and the opportunity to cross-promote yourself and your blog on any and all of my media outlets.”
Robby furiously took notes, a task made difficult by her shaking hands. “How much are you offering for the rights?”
“Two hundred fifty thousand. I can have the contract and a check in your hands by Monday morning. What do you say?”
A quarter of a million dollars? She fought to keep from hyperventilating. Play it cool, she told herself, when all she wanted to do was run up and down the street high-fiving everyone she saw. She took a deep breath and let it out slowly.
“Make it four hundred thousand and show me where to sign.” She crossed her fingers. Had she just sealed the deal, or botched it completely?
Dickson split the difference. “Three hundred twenty-five thousand. Final offer.”
Three hundred twenty-five thousand dollars. Some blogs sold for more. A few had even gone for upwards of seven figures. Should she hold out for more, or accept the offer before Dickson took it off the table? She decided to gamble instead of playing it safe.
“Give me three fifty up front, bump the annual salary to one hundred thousand, have the papers to me by this afternoon, and you can head to the back nine.”
She held her breath while she waited for Dickson to make a counteroffer or laugh in her face.
“My assistant will email you a copy of our standard contract within the hour. Where shall I send the courier with your check?”
“Osgood’s Antique Store. I’ll be here until five.”
“One of my interns will be there by three. It’s been a pleasure doing business with you, Miss Rawlins. Welcome to the family. Give Candy my thanks.”
Robby’s heart dropped to her shoes. “Candy?”
“Candy Ferrell. I met her and her husband at an event last week. When the subject of your blog came up, she spoke very highly of you. She thought we could do business together and asked me to get in touch with you. I’m glad she did.”
Robby’s stomach churned when she ended the call. An offer which initially appeared too good to be true had turned out to be just that. And Candy was behind it. She didn’t know whether she should take the money and run, or refuse as a matter of principle.
“Principles don’t pay the bills.”
Chapter Twenty-eight
Taylor settled into the armchair farthest from the fire. She was already being grilled. Did she have to be slow roasted as well?
Philip Morgan sat next to her, his plastic televangelist smile firmly in place. “Will you be joining us for tomorrow’s services?”
“No, I plan to sleep in.”
“You’ll certainly be missed.” He patted her hand as if he were counseling a wayward child. “Allow me to offer you a few words of advice. The voting public needs to know you’re one of them. If you would like me to guide you on your spiritual journey—”
She pulled her hand away. “With all due respect, Reverend Morgan, my spiritual journey is no one’s business but my own. Unless I decide to run for church office, my religious affiliation or lack thereof should be inconsequential.”
James Ferrell laughed derisively. “Someone’s in for a rude awakening.”
Taylor turned toward him. “I’m well aware of the power evangelical Christians wield at the voting booth, Mr. Ferrell, but I’m not going to pretend to join their ranks as a ploy to gain their trust.”
She felt her mother stiffen. She hadn’t intended the comment to be a dig at her father, who had suddenly found God in time to sweep the red states on election night, but if the shoe fit, he should put on the glass slipper and call himself Cinderella.
“I refuse to present myself as someone I’m not, Mr. Ferrell. If you’re not familiar with the story of a wolf in sheep’s clothing, I’m sure Reverend Morgan will gladly explain it for you.”
She smiled as James’s face reddened with barely suppressed anger. With his round head and pug nose, he bore more than a faint resemblance to a piggy bank. How appropriate, then, that his wife treated him like one.
“I’m going to be myself,” she continued. “If Reverend Morgan and his colleagues can accept that, fine. If not, they can feel free to vote for someone else.”
He threw up his hands. “Please tell me you don’t intend to go through with this farce.”
“If by ‘farce,’ you mean running for office, yes, I do. The people who have reached out to me are looking for someone who represents them and their interests. I want to be that person.”
“You know who you remind me of? An athlete whose friends convince him to turn pro after his freshman year, even though it’s painfully obvious it would be in his best interests to get a few more years of college ball under his belt. You’re her father, Terry. Can’t you talk some sense into her?”
Taylor’s fa
ther slowly stroked his chin the way he usually did when he was deep in thought. Several studies had proven world leaders, burdened by the responsibilities of their jobs, aged at a much faster rate than ordinary Joes. She took note of the deepening lines on her father’s forehead and the dark circles under his eyes. How much of a toll was his job taking on him? Or was she the reason for his sleepless nights?
“Answer one question for me,” he said. “Why do you want to do this? Because you want to effect change, or because you want to exact revenge?”
All heads swiveled in her direction as her parents, Reverend Morgan, Candy and James Ferrell, and Holly and Eddie Duvall waited for her answer. Why had she told Sheridan she wouldn’t need her to sit in on this meeting? Because she had to stop hiding behind her friends. If she wanted to be worthy of the job she was trying to win, she needed to prove she was as self-sufficient as she claimed to be.
“Even if I don’t win—and I admit the odds are long—I want to take a stand on issues on which most candidates prefer to straddle the fence. I don’t want to give lip service to the most pressing issues. I want to solve the debate. There are far too many states where employees can be fired without cause simply for being lesbian, gay, bi, or trans. And don’t get me started on all the ridiculous bathroom bills floating around. In case you haven’t noticed, women have been fighting for equal rights for years. The last time I looked, the playing field still wasn’t level.”
“This isn’t the seventies,” Candy said with a girlish giggle. “I hope you don’t intend to punctuate your stump speeches by burning your bra.”
“If she does, I’ll gladly toss mine on the bonfire with her.” Holly Duvall’s thick Texas drawl slowly dripped from her lips like warm molasses. “I don’t know how you do things in Denver, James, but in Austin, we don’t run from a fight.”
James’s face reddened again, but he didn’t respond. Perhaps Reverend Morgan had taught him to turn the other cheek.
Holly extended her hand. Taylor rose to greet her. “If everything goes according to plan and I follow in Terry’s footsteps after he completes his time in office, you and I might be squaring off when I run for my second term. I look forward to tussling with you.”
True Colors Page 22
