The Scotland Yard Exchange Series

by Stephanie Queen

  “Don’t worry, Clever, your chance to play leading man will come some day. Not in this campaign. I’m sorry about all this. I should have figured a solution to this angle and didn’t.” Madeline apologized again and Sarah just grunted.

  Dennis looked at her. “Pull yourself together. You’re starting to scare me. Did you expect to resolve everything? If you ask me the angle was engineered, fueled by someone with something to gain. We’ll have to look into that, but very carefully.”

  “I think you’re right. I’ll cover that with PJD. I’ll talk to him later in the week.” Madeline pulled herself together. This was no time to worry about having such a pathetic personal life that she had nothing she could share with the public.

  They pulled up to the function hall and Madeline sighed aloud. Dennis looked up from his notes as the taxi came to a stop. He looked out the window on his side and shook his head. “Shit.”

  “Watchword of the day, it would seem,” Madeline said. Then she looked out his window and saw what he meant.

  She counted four TV cameras and at least a dozen print reporters with as many photographers. This was getting to be a thing.

  His door was opened for him, so Dennis got out first and helped Sarah from the front seat. Cameras flashed immediately and spotlights from several TV cameras had him squinting as he bent down to peer in the back door at Madeline.

  “Take a deep breath—and get out your sunglasses,” he quipped.

  “Don’t worry. This is old hat for me,” she shot back. She took his hand and his advice—about the deep breath. She wished she could have prevented the involuntary shiver as she stepped out of the car. Dennis had noticed, or so she assumed when he put his arm around her in such an unexpectedly protective manner.

  A flash bulb went off like a cue for action, and rapid-fire questions flew at them like they were being shot out of machine guns. This was serious.

  Madeline measured the distance between her and the door to the function hall, which now seemed more like a bomb shelter. She felt the pressure from Dennis on the arm he held. It wouldn’t have been tough for him to guess what she was thinking. His subtle rein was a reminder that they agreed to make their statement, when asked, without hesitation.

  She wondered when she had become such a chicken. It was unlike her; she was a fighter. But it was much easier to fight when she knew she was right. This was different.

  She had an Achilles heel and his name was Peter John Douglas.

  The knowledge did not buoy her. It took a glance around at the mostly cynical and some downright mean faces surrounding her to determine that she was more right than they were. However meager her personal life was, it was hers and it was personal. Then she resolved herself to handle it.

  Dennis staked out a spot on the walkway just under the maroon canopy where they stood their ground against the onslaught. After a nod to her he waved the violently noisy attack of the reporters to near silence.

  “Ms. Grace can’t possibly respond to questions thrown at her this way, ladies and gentlemen. She would be happy to address your questions if you—”

  “Are you her press secretary, Mr. McBain, or her date?” Bertrand St. Cyr asked in his droll manner, which still did not prevent the question from sounding like it came from a cheap tabloid reporter instead of the so-called icon of the lofty Globe. As the mischievous glare took shape on Dennis’s face, and the murmur of chuckles spread through the crowd, Madeline decided to take charge.

  “He’s my press secretary, Mr. St. Cyr. Besides, anything else would be personal. Between us only.” She was again bombarded by questions.

  Firmly in control of at least herself, Madeline zeroed in on the youngest face in the crowd attached to a microphone and TV camera and nodded for the young woman’s question. The woman stepped up, looking grateful to be singled out.

  “Ms. Grace, is it true that you were once engaged to your chief opponent in this race for governor?”

  “Yes, it is. That was six years ago.” She looked at Dennis to fill in the rest, per their script, but the woman cut him off.

  “But isn’t it true that behind the scenes of the battle for governor there’s romance? Or maybe at least sex?”

  Madeline waited a beat to make sure the question was complete and for the true absurdity of it to sink in on the audience of reporters before responding.

  “I certainly hope so, especially for the married candidates.” That got her some laughs except from Dennis. They weren’t on The Tonight Show, and this newswoman was not Jay Leno. She reined in again. “But seriously, this is very personal, not an appropriate subject for the campaign.”

  “It’s not personal if there is still romance between you and your opponent, Peter John Douglas. Don’t you think the voters have a right to know if you’re on the same side or not? Whether you’re serious about your differences or not?”

  “You’re right. I can understand the concern. Although Peter and I were once engaged, there is no longer any romantic relationship between us. We are friends, but we also differ very seriously and sincerely about many political issues.” She turned with that response and a parting smile. Then Dennis almost smothered her in a captive one-armed embrace as he propelled her toward the door.

  The wild onslaught of questions intensified, unless it was her imagination. Again, one voice stood out.

  “Mr. McBain, are you romantically involved with your candidate? Couldn’t that be considered unethical? Or at least extraordinarily poor judgment?” St. Cyr pushed the point with pencil poised. Madeline turned when she heard his acid-toned voice and wondered where the animosity came from. It seemed out of place and unwarranted to her. Dennis took over.

  “That question has nothing to do with your assignment to cover the campaign, St. Cyr. Why do you ask? You’re not looking for a date, are you?” He didn’t wait for a response before he moved on. Then he tossed the reporter a look that said just exactly how slim the man’s chances would be if he had such an ambition. There were definitely noises from among the reporters who heard the exchange.

  Dennis winked at her, patted her on the back and whisked her through the door at lightning speed.

  The mob of media followed them inside. No attempt was made by the Lions officials or the detail cops to stop them. Now that she noticed, the robust and serious-looking men in dark suits speaking to each other in hushed tones looked confused, although they were doing their best to hide it. They were trying to act as if dozens of members of the media routinely showed up at their functions.

  As Madeline and Dennis made their way to the reception room dominated by several bars, designated as the location for the cocktail hour. Madeline saw that Sarah had staked out some space with no reporters in sight—yet. Near the ballroom door, with the spotlights of a TV camera glaring on them, PJD stood in deep and serious discussion with a man who appeared to be a Lions Club official of some sort. The man kept glancing at the camera, alternating his expression with annoyance and his best smile for the possible TV audience.

  “Time for plan B. It looks like these Lions are part of the circus act—albeit unwittingly. Just like a real animal act,” Dennis whispered close to her ear.

  The sudden escalation in the noise level clued Peter that Madeline had arrived even before he turned to look. His concern was short-lived once he saw the smile she gave her new, imported-from-the-big-leagues press secretary and, worse yet, the close whispered conversation and look he gave her in return. He couldn’t stop the jolt it gave him, even as he reasoned it was nothing. They weren’t having an affair any more than he was—which was a very sobering thought, so he stopped thinking it.

  But he knew that look. It looked real. He would have Acer look into Dennis McBain’s background starting first thing tomorrow. Maybe he could call Acer tonight…

  “Time to cut to the action. The princess has arrived,” Rick informed him. Peter looked at the man and saw too much gleam in his eyes.

  “No more salivating, Rick. You’re going to start dro
oling any second.” Peter shoved ahead of him and strode to the mob. He didn’t have to go far. The vast pool of media was spreading like weeds on high-octane fertilizer. Before they turned on him he had one last instruction for Rick.

  “I will do all the talking. Pretend you’re mute.” Peter took his eyes off Madeline to be greeted with a glare by his campaign manager. “No pouting either.” He chuckled at Rick’s grimace. Apparently not even Peter’s muzzle could dampen the man’s good mood—that was how gleeful Rick was about the prospects of derailing Madeline Grace’s campaign from her previously high-speed track.

  “Mr. Douglas, PJD, is it true you are having a romance with your biggest campaign foe, Madeline Grace? Is your quest to have her run as your lieutenant governor just a cover for a more personal pursuit?” The woman accompanied by a TV camera with a glaring light now shoved a fat microphone in front of his mouth. Peter had only a split second to think before speaking—but he took it and used it.

  “Although that would make a nice bedtime story, it is just a fairy tale. Our ‘affair’ as you put it, has long since been over. We’ve both moved on, and although I know it’s difficult for you, we’re hoping the members of the press will get over the loss soon.” His good-natured tone made the otherwise flip sarcasm of his remark palatable enough to cause mostly chuckles among the news people. The woman with the mike made the mistake of pausing before asking her next question, and before the others jumped in to fill the void with more pointed questions, Peter jumped in himself.

  “Which means, of course, to all eligible young women out there, I’m still up for grabs.” He winked at the camera, gave a cheeky grin and then in a pretended whisper added, “Never hurts to take advantage of these moments to advertise. After all, this isn’t a serious political campaign for governor, is it?” He turned his attention to Madeline and closed in on her to do the gentlemanly thing. Cameras followed, along with his own group of news groupies amused enough to follow his lead. If he did enough of the work for them to keep their audience entertained, they didn’t mind if their stories were slightly rewritten. It wasn’t the first time he ran roughshod over a bunch of reporters, and it wouldn’t be the last.

  “Mr. Douglas, isn’t it at least true that you still find Ms. Grace attractive?” The woman with the mike was insistent. Her question got everyone’s attention. He was prepared.

  “I was wondering when someone would ask me trick question number five on my list of tricky questions to prepare for.” His smile was wry and he glanced at Rick as if to acknowledge their scripted response. There were mild chuckles, but they wanted the answer, anticipated or not. Madeline’s face was nothing but idly curious.

  “Of course I think she’s attractive. I’m not a eunuch, after all.” Laughter erupted from the reporters, and Madeline rolled her eyes. They could use his line to entertain their reading audience, but it would not damage either of their campaigns—or at least not his. “But we are both focused on our campaigns and the serious issues. And I am sure that we have our work cut out for us if we’re going to make these issues even remotely as interesting as the possibility of a romance. But we will. Your audience deserves relevant information just as much as they crave a titillating story.”

  The group of media was rapt, now begging at the altar of the almighty provider of the pithy sound bite and the wise and profound quote. They were too busy smiling and compiling and admiring to ask any more of the man who had provided so much for them in these few minutes. They were satisfied like a pack of jackals after a good meal.

  Peter strolled through the clutch of journalists with enough subtle force to clear the way to Madeline. He joined her in front of yet another TV camera. She turned to him with what he chose to interpret as a grateful smile and touched his arm. Before she spoke, before she even blinked, he bent his head and gave her a kiss on the cheek.

  “How are you doing, Mad?” Flashes exploded around them and the mob of men and women of the press surged forward with renewed vigor. It may have been the wrong thing to do, Peter thought now. But it was a brotherly kiss, the kiss of a friend—and he’d make damn sure it stuck that way. He backed up a step and cooled his smile by at least ten degrees.

  “Why didn’t you make the public aware of your past relationship from the start?”

  “What were you hiding? Are you hiding something now? Why should we believe your story now?”

  “Why are you keeping your affair a secret? Ms. Grace, why did you break off your engagement?

  “Mr. Douglas, why did you decide to run for governor against your ex-lover?”

  That was it. No more. Time to get out of Dodge, shut down the operation.

  “Although I’m sure all these questions seem highly relevant and would make scintillating stories for your readership, they are all beside the point of the campaign. Some of them are absurdly personal, and we’ve already answered them all a dozen times. Rick Racer has a printed statement for anyone who wants it, with those answers. Now it’s time to take care of the business of the evening.” These were a greedy bunch, but he knew he could draw the line because he had provided so well and they wouldn’t want to draw so much blood that he could not survive and provide more on another day. He turned to Madeline again. “Shall we?” She smiled, though tightly, and followed him much to his relief and to his surprise. If she had really wanted to get out of the box he put her in, he knew she could have.

  He glanced quickly at Dennis and Rick and met Dennis’s eyes. They were studiously neutral. Peter had usurped his role for the evening, and he was certain the man did not like it. Dennis had been forced to stay behind with Rick and handle the more mundane matters of providing their schedules and appearances and press releases for the press now. Rick was doing his job by keeping Dennis there. Good old Rick. He was always good at playing follow the leader. Peter figured he owed the guy a big bonus after tonight.

  But the night wasn’t over. He had yet to deal with Madeline. And no one could help him there—not even God himself.

  Now the Lions closed in around them instead of the press. Madeline thought the maneuver must have been arranged by PJD. She couldn’t very well hold that against him. No matter, there was already a long list of things she was holding against him. He took control and she gracefully allowed it. He rescued the damsel in distress and she remained the princess on a pedestal, not to be disturbed.

  There were photographers in the banquet hall and he led her to a table near the front to sit with him. She went along, but would not sit next to him. Sarah was not far behind them, and Madeline glanced over at the woman to signal her to run interference.

  Sarah joined them and Madeline positioned herself so that Peter had to sit next to Sarah. Lions and photographers still flashing pictures surrounded them. Sarah answered some questions and they all made small talk. No one dared to discuss the one thing that was on everyone’s mind—did they or didn’t they?

  Madeline looked directly at Peter, meeting his eyes, and shook her head. He beamed a smirk at her and turned to the master of ceremonies for the Lions.

  “I hope you don’t mind the change of seating arrangements. Ms. Grace and I seem to be under siege by the press.”

  “I see that. What’s all the hullabaloo about, anyway? I didn’t realize there would be such a stir this early in the campaign,” one of the Lions said with real concern.

  “It seems the story is that there’s a romance going on between myself and my chief opponent in this race.” Peter paused for effect and Madeline watched the man’s jaw drop. It was as if Peter was a puppet master. She turned her head away, not in disgust, but so that she would not laugh out loud.

  She turned in time to see Dennis and Rick approach their table. Dennis looked glacial and Rick looked like the Cheshire cat. Madeline motioned for Dennis to sit next to her. It was more important than ever for her to deflect interest in her romance with Peter by generating interest in a possible romance with Dennis. Somehow she was going to have to come up with a way to get past the i
ssue of romance of any kind and replace it with the real issues of the campaign for governor. But not tonight. Touching Dennis’s shoulder in an intimate gesture as he sat next to her, she gave him her complete attention.

  “You managed to escape quickly. You must have Houdini in your genes,” she said. Her smile was both playful and concerned. His look softened, but not by much. Dennis kept glaring over her shoulder at PJD.

  “Mr. Rock-for-Brains messed us up but good. I’m afraid we’ll have to reconsider that plan—you know—the part where you and I become a hot item.” He looked around the room. “A couple of reporters are actually covering the evening’s event. Forgive me if I cross any lines. But I think in this case the best defense is a good offense.” He leaned in closer and whispered in her ear, almost nuzzling her neck.

  Madeline thought she did a good job of hiding her alarm.

  “Whoa, boy. Next thing you know I really will have to feign a romance with Sarah to get out of the feigned romance with you,” Madeline whispered back into his ear. He chuckled and looked up, right past her, smiling wickedly.

  “Don’t worry. Go along. It’s worth it to see if I can provoke Mr. Rock into cracking. If he’s distracted, then they all are.” He glanced back at her and surprised her with a kiss right on her lips. Then he flashed the most wicked grin she’d seen yet.

  She stayed cool and moved back. “It’s not working, is it?” Mad asked him.

  “Not even a stress fracture,” Dennis said.

  “Break it up, you two. You’re starting to attract a lot of attention,” Sarah hissed on the other side of Madeline. Dennis leaned across, hugging Madeline to him in the process, to speak to Sarah.

  “That’s the idea—remember?”

  “Decent people don’t kiss in public,” Sarah insisted.