The Candidate (Romantic Suspense) (The Candidate Series)

by Josie Brown

  The one glimmer of hope was that they’d rather have Andy as the Republican nominee than Talbot. So yeah, they were certainly open to some face time with Senator Mansfield, even a photo op in, say, late January, perhaps right before the Michigan primary.

  Or as one of the union bosses put it: “You keep doin’ what you’re doin’, you’ll keep gettin’ what you’re gettin’. It’s time for Detroit to shit or get off the pot.”

  A succinct, albeit colorful, metaphor.

  The good news was that Ben was able to catch an earlier flight home. And since neither the senator nor his campaign staff was expecting him in the office until the next day, at ten at night it was still early enough to see if Maddy wanted some company.

  Yeah, all right: a booty call.

  It didn’t occur to him to phone first. He’d come to know her work habits, her daily rhythm. Right now, he thought, she’d still be in the middle of soldering her latest project. She would not have eaten all day, and would certainly appreciate him scrambling a few eggs into an omelet for her.

  Perhaps even show her appreciation in some ingenious way.

  Ben offered his taxi driver a tip as big as the fare if he got him to her place in ten or less.

  Eight minutes later they pulled up across the street from her front door.

  If he’d shown up even one minute later he would have missed seeing her out there, clenched in a passionate embrace with some tall drink of water. The two of them were sucking face so hard that in their rush to get inside and tear each other’s clothes off, to go at each other like two pigs in heat, she fumbled as she crammed the key into the front door lock and it dropped onto the stoop.

  It was too dark for any hope of seeing the bastard’s face as he bent down to retrieve it for her. But it was not too hard to imagine the look on hers as she oh so lovingly stroked the back of his head.

  That one move pierced Ben’s heart like none other.

  “Yo, bud, the meter’s still running.” The taxi driver was oblivious to her betrayal, to Ben’s broken heart, until, through the rearview mirror, his eyes met Ben’s.

  “I’m… not getting out. One more stop, please. Georgetown.”

  The driver nodded.

  By the time Ben looked back over at the couple, they’d already made it inside.

  “Ride’s on me,” the driver said as he pulled in front of Ben’s place.

  Chapter 32

  It was easy for Ben to avoid her calls when he was on the road. Now that the campaign was heating up, now that Clyde Dooley had fallen to the sidelines and it was just a two-man race going into the primary, he had lots of organizing to do, lots of strategies to implement.

  Lots of excuses not to call back.

  At first the messages she left were casual. No pressure, no urgency, no inkling as to his state of mind, or lack thereof. By the second week of his boycott, she still kept it playful, but her questions were pointed, her tone concerned. “Hey, lover boy, what’s with the silent treatment? Was it something I said?...Please call. I miss you.”

  By the week of Thanksgiving, she’d taken the hint.

  He saved all her voice messages. That way, when he needed to hear her voice, he’d play them back, one after another, to remind himself of her betrayal.

  On Thanksgiving, Tess and Bess made turkey and fixings for all the lonely souls on the campaign team, which was practically everyone. What comes first, Ben wondered, the lack of a home life, or the obsession to win some cause? He guessed the former.

  Jesus, no matter how many wins we rack up, we’re still losers.

  Andy and Abby stopped by with a homemade pumpkin pie. Seeing his boss’s wife made him ache for Maddy.

  “You’re looking too thin these days,” Abby murmured as she cut him a hefty wedge.

  He nodded, but didn’t say a word. He was afraid that, had he opened his mouth, he would have blurted out: You were right about her. I wish I’d listened to you. Why couldn’t she be more like you?

  The rest of the afternoon he avoided Abby’s concerned looks as long as he could by feigning interest in the campaign gossip being bandied about the room. He tried his best not to make it obvious that he was avoiding her.

  Until Abby followed him outside.

  They stood there in silence for a long while, watching the pale pink afternoon light fade to deep lavender, until finally she came right out with it. “You hate me, don’t you?”

  His eyes opened wide with shock. “Why do you say that?”

  “You know why. Maddy.” She was staring off at the North Star, now puckering an indigo sky.

  He didn’t know what to say about that, so he decided to tell her the truth. “I did hate you, once. But now I know you were right. If it makes you feel better, I can tell you honestly that I don’t feel anything at all.”

  She looked at him with those woeful blue eyes. Then without a word, she placed her hand in his.

  He remembered the last time she touched him, how it filled him with longing. He held onto her hand as long as he could, or at least until he felt her shiver in the cold dusk breeze.

  Then he escorted her back inside.

  While the other guests ate pie and made small talk, he slipped out the door.

  She was there, waiting for him, when he got home.

  “I made pie. Pecan. Eat it at your own risk.” Maddy held it out to him with both hands—a peace offering with a burnt crust.

  “I already ate. Abby made pumpkin.” He enjoyed the fact that she winced when he said her sister’s name.

  She tossed the pie tin onto the table. Part of the crust fell off. Unfortunately, it was the part that wasn’t burnt. “Oh? So they’re in town. I thought they’d have flown down to North Carolina for the holiday, get in a few photo ops. A turkey shoot, maybe. You know, Andy’s a crack shot. So is Abby, for that matter.” It wasn’t idle chatter, but a taunt.

  “How about you?”

  “Me? I make love, not war. Or don’t you remember.” She crossed her arms at her waist. “Ben, tell me what’s wrong. What happened?”

  “I saw him. With you. The Invisible Man.”

  The look on her face went from disbelief, to shame, to sadness. “Ah. So now you know. Does anyone else?”

  “Seriously, Maddy, who else would give a shit?” He was tired of the games. He wanted to smack her then toss her out the door.

  Or make love to her.

  “But I thought—” Seeing his lack of comprehension gave her some semblance of relief. “Look, Ben, I don’t know what you think you saw—”

  “Maddy cut the bullshit.” He tried to keep his voice as steady as possible. “It was the night I came home from Detroit. You were in your doorway. With him. You were kissing.”

  “I know when it was. That’s how long it’s been, between us.” Her eyes begged for forgiveness. “Yes, we were kissing. But I was kissing him goodbye.”

  “Then why did you take him upstairs?” Why did you stroke his head? Why do you love him, and not me?

  “I wanted to...say goodbye.” A small smile dusted her lips. “I would have done the same to you, if I’d known it was our last night together.”

  He grabbed her arm and yanked her to his side. “Quite a sendoff. Makes breaking up with you is quite a treat, I can imagine.”

  Her palm hit him squarely across the face. She laughed cruelly as he reeled back in pain. “How’s that? I guess it makes it even easier, in your case.”

  She almost made it to the door when he grabbed her. He had her down on her hands and knees in no time. As his hand snaked up her skirt, she arched her back at the sensation. Soon she quit struggling against his fierce strokes.

  Knowing he would burst at any moment, he yanked up her skirt and straddled her. With each downward plunge, Maddy let loose with an ecstatic moan. Her vise-like grip on the head of his cock made him suck in his breath. Finally he couldn’t hold in his own groans. Their savage duet built to a crescendo as he surged through her.

  Spent, they tumbled together
back onto the floor.

  When finally he could speak, he said, “Did you really mean what you said, that it’s over with him?”

  “Yes—yes! It’s over. He could never...love me.” She wasn’t facing him, but he knew, by the crack in her voice, that she was speaking the truth.

  No one could ever love you like I do.

  She must of known it, too. Which was why she nodded when he whispered into her ear: “Don’t ever leave me.”

  ——————————

  Venezuelan Eco-Terrorists Killed in Arrest Raid

  By THE ASSOCIATED PRESS

  Filed at 11:14 p.m. ET, 12/23/--

  Minneapolis (AP) — Five Venezuelan nationals, suspected of plotting a scheme to blow up Minnesota’s Mall of America on the last Saturday of the holiday shopping season, were killed in a shoot-out with United States Homeland Security forces in the community of Richfield.

  According to media reports, none of the suspects survived the shoot-out, which took place at their safe house. But apparently the mission of these self-proclaimed Venezuelan eco-terrorists was to protest “Imperialistic America’s gluttony for the blood and oil of others.”

  Thirty-two plastic tubes found in a cabinet were filled with high-powered explosives, which were being mixed into shampoo bottles. An “off-the-record intelligence source” told CNN that Homeland Security suspects that Venezuelan president, Manolo Padilla, had funded the group.

  Later that day—just in time for the evening news—the new Chief of Homeland Security, Arthur Chase, confirmed this, stating that a fax discussing wire transfers from individuals in Miami, and signed ''Ponce''—a name believed to be one of terrorists’ aliases— mentions a terrorist organization called the MPD, or Muerte a la Patria del Diablo, which translates into “Death to the Devil’s Homeland.”

  As part of the investigation, the FBI concluded that at least $49,000 in wire transfers was sent from Venezuela to Mexico and Argentina to a ''Pedro Duarte.''

  Vice President Talbot’s presence at the press conference is evidence that the White House sees this as a serious threat to the country. “We must protect, defend our country, at all costs. I’m sure the Venezuelan people will welcome liberation from the tyrant dictator who now controls their government.”

  President Padilla denied any knowledge of the plot “concocted by the imperialist United States in order to invade Venezuela for its oil.”

  ——————————

  Chapter 33

  After reading about the five Venezuelan nationals, Ben suddenly felt as paranoid as Fred.

  “It’s all such bullshit,” chortled Fred, who, as usual, appeared at the Mansfield for President campaign headquarters after everyone but Andy and Ben had gone home. He was already digging into the bucket of chicken he’d brought with him. Ben would not have doubted in the least that the spy had a camera hidden somewhere inside their offices. While that should have bugged him, it only made him feel safer.

  “What, are you saying that someone else was behind it?”

  Fred and Andy exchanged glances. Andy shrugged. “It’s an election year, isn’t it?”

  The two of them disappeared into Andy’s office and shut the door.

  Ben shook his head. Dirty tricks were a given. Considering all that had happened these past twelve months, he now laughed at his naiveté over his shock when their offices were bugged. But he still found it hard to wrap his brain around the concept that the sitting United States vice president had anything to do with black sites, or assassinations.

  “Is Andy inside?”

  Ben looked up to find Paul in the doorway. Since their lunch at the University Club, he’d made it a point to meet with Andy away from the Mansfield campaign headquarters. There were no more boys’ nights out down at Bedrock Billiards.

  That was fine with Ben. He nodded toward Andy’s office. “Fred’s with him. They don’t want to be disturbed.”

  Paul frowned. “You shouldn’t let Fred pull him away to play James Bond. That takes him off his game.”

  Ben agreed, but the last thing he’d do is let Paul know that. Paul squirmed whenever he felt he’d been left out of the loop. Between Ben and Fred, he was out a lot. “With what he’s telling our boy, my guess is that Andy will win ‘the game’ hands down.”

  “What conspiracy theories are they ruminating about now?” Paul walked to the window and looked out into the pitch black.

  For all Ben knew, Fred was blowing hot air. But that didn’t matter. Ben was having too much fun watching Paul twitch. He shrugged. “Beats me. Something about the Minnesota terrorist plot. And if Fred’s intel is right, guess who’s the hero of the day?”

  Paul didn’t say anything but Ben knew he’d gotten his goat by the way the lawyer clenched his fist. “Well, then, I’m sure he’ll be tied up for quite some time. I’ve got to get home to the wife. Just tell him I stopped by to give him some great news. The Allenbergs have agreed to throw a fundraiser in the second week of January. All big fish.” He wrapped his cashmere scarf around his neck and tucked it under his camelhair coat. “I assume we’ll see you there, too. Feel free to bring a date. If you can find one on such short notice.”

  Ben resisted the urge to bash the bastard’s head up against the wall.

  He grabbed his laptop and buried it into his satchel, but waited until Paul left the building before heading out the door. It had been a long day, and he was bone tired.

  Except for whatever Maddy had in mind. Hopefully, something naughty.

  The past four weeks had been perfect. No secrets, no worries. Okay, maybe a bit of drama. She seemed short-tempered lately, moody over the silliest things.

  Like a real girlfriend.

  For the first time in his life, he felt whole.

  Chapter 34

  “Mansfield knows about ‘Flamingo.’” Talbot abhorred making eye contact with anyone, but this time, so that Smith would have no misunderstanding about his anxiety over the issue, he made sure to meet the other man’s eyes in the rear view mirror when he broke that bit of news.

  Nothing. Smith’s eyes did not go wide, nor did they narrow. He didn’t even blink, let alone give the limo’s steering wheel an involuntary smack in frustration. If there was any reaction at all, perhaps it was the ghost of a smile that, for just one brief second, shadowed his lips.

  Then again, maybe Talbot imagined that.

  Usually he was impressed with Smith’s nonchalance under stress. This time, though, there was too much at stake, and he wanted Smith to commiserate with him; to feel his pain, so to speak. Hell, for once—just once!— he wished the man would act like a human being, not the cold, calculating sociopathic killer he was. “So, what are we going to do about it?”

  Smith kept his eyes on Talbot, ostensibly as reassurance that he was all ears, but actually so that the vice president wouldn’t notice his finger slipping behind the rear view mirror. Talbot had heaved himself into the car and blurted it out so fast that for once, Smith hadn’t had time to activate the digital recorder first. “That depends. How do you know for sure that Mansfield knows anything?”

  “That twerp, Paul Twist. He’s angling for U.S. Attorney General, once I get elected. Thinks I owe it to him, considering his Judas routine.” Talbot shook his head in disgust.

  “His stuff has been pretty reliable thus far. Go ahead and string him along until I can track down his source.” Frankly Smith hoped Talbot would grant the kid his wish. It gave him a hard-on just thinking he could have one over on the head honcho in the Justice Department, particularly one who obviously had his own mole buried somewhere within the bowels of the Pentagon. “It means there’s a leak in your organization.”

  “What makes you think the leak is on my side? It could be one of your cutthroats.”

  “My ‘cutthroats’ are pros who know how to keep their mouths shut. It’s power players like you who feel the need to let someone know what you’re up to, if only to stroke your own egos—or to save your own asses.” Smit
h let that sink in. “In any event, I guess we have a little problem.”

  “What’s this ‘we’ shit? It’s your problem, not mine.” Talbot poked Smith’s headrest to make his point. “And it’s fucking humongous. So fix it. And fast. I don’t doubt for a second that Mansfield plans to use it against me. Against all of us. Besides losing the nomination, I can be tried for treason! Just remember—if the old men and I go down, so do you.”

  “Are you ordering me to exterminate Mansfield?”

  “What, do I have to spell it out for you?” Talbot’s shout certainly left no doubt of his intentions, either live or digitized. “You know, accidents happen to everyone. Even presidential candidates. Only don’t make it a public assassination. The goal is to get rid of the problem, not make the man a martyr.”

  Chapter 35

  Ben supposed it wasn’t too odd that both Maddy and Andy had come up with the same idea for Abby’s Christmas gift: an antique copperplate engraving of St. Paul’s Basilica, from a little art gallery on Wisconsin Avenue in Georgetown. Apparently they were both with her when she had admired it, and each had taken special note of this.

  To Ben’s dismay, however, the one day he had off from the campaign to go Christmas shopping with Maddy was also the day in which Andy chose to shop for Abby, too.

  Ben’s hand, entwined with Maddy’s, left no doubt of their relationship. It didn’t help either that her head was snuggled against his chest.

  The congenial smile on Andy’s face dissolved instantly at the realization that they were together. What took its place was shock, then cool annoyance. Involuntarily he turned to go, but then he changed his mind and steeled himself forward toward them.