Finally, the task was complete.
She listened to the ringing on the line through the receiver cradled on her shoulder until she heard, “Jamie Blandford.”
The greeting was delivered in the crisp British accent of her cousin.
“The Earl of Sunderland is answering his own phone? What, are all the servants in the palace busy?” she joked with the cousin who was a year younger than her, but you’d never know that from his title.
The Vanderbilt family tree was a sprawling one and in fact extended all the way across the Atlantic to England when Consuelo Vanderbilt married the Duke of Marlborough.
“Dear Marty. You’re behind, cousin. I became Marquess of Blandford years ago.”
“Oh, well, forgive me, Marquess, for my misstep.” She hoped her sarcasm came across clearly as she shook her head at the intricacies and unnecessary pomp of the English peerage.
It was hard enough having been born into the American side of a family such as hers, given all the assumptions and stereotypes that came with it. She wouldn’t want a title even if someone wanted to give one to her.
“You’re forgiven.” Jamie laughed. “But only if you’re calling to confirm you’re coming on the yacht with us.”
“I am indeed.” She did not add that the deciding factor in her saying yes to the invitation was because they were sailing around the Greek isles. She couldn’t pass up the chance to be there in person to write a story about the struggles that country was experiencing.
“For the whole month?” he asked.
She cringed. Not only could she not take off a month from the paper, she didn’t want to.
“No. Sorry. I can’t get off for that long. But I’ll be there for nearly two weeks.” She ended the sentence with a cheery lift in her tone of voice, hoping it would soften the news that she was actually only staying for ten days.
Jamie groaned and she knew he was judging her for choosing to not live with either of her parents or survive only off the money from her trust fund. He didn’t get why she had taken on the responsibilities of holding down a full-time job and paying rent for an apartment in D.C.. It had long been a point of contention between them.
“Take it or leave it,” she offered.
“It will just have to do then. Henrietta will be there. And Christina as well, of course.”
He was referring to his sister, Lady Henrietta Spencer-Churchill. And Christina Onassis, their Greek stepsister from their father, the Duke of Marlborough’s second marriage to Tina Onassis. The two women would round out the international flavor and ostentatiousness of the trip.
“And Christina’s husband?” she asked.
“She’ll be on holiday without her husband. He’s on his way out, I’m afraid, but don’t tell her I said that.”
She laughed. “Never.”
“So, is there a special man in your life?” Jamie asked. “You’re welcome to bring him. Give us all a chance to look him over.”
Marty let out a derogatory burst of air. “I don’t have the time nor the inclination to get tied down to a man right now. I’m focused on my career.”
He sighed. “Thereby proving that you work too much. Anyway, when are you flying in? We’ll send a car to the airport to fetch you.”
Marty relayed her flight information and by the time she hung up with her cousin, the freelance photographer had arrived for their prearranged walk to the rally.
The strange dichotomy that was her existence was not lost on her. From a conversation with the future Duke of Marlborough about their vacation in the Greek isles on the Onassis yacht, to attending a local rally for Greenpeace with a young freelancer . . . It was the perfect day in her opinion. Her life was certainly not boring and that was just the way she liked it.
Happy and eager to get going, she grabbed her oversized shoulder bag containing her pen, notebook and a small portable battery-operated tape recorder and they headed out for Franklin Square.
There was already a crowd gathered when she and Clark arrived. Marty glanced around, taking in the diverse people assembled. And standing a head above most, one tall familiar figure stood out from among that crowd.
Marty let out a huff and mumbled, “Are you kidding me?”
She clenched her jaw at the sight as he walked down the park’s path on a trajectory that would take him straight to her.
“Is something wrong?” Clark asked.
“No. Not really. It’s just that some guy I met at the Post Pub is here.”
“Is that a problem? Did he bother you? I can handle him.” The young photographer, looking like a strong wind might blow him away, stood a bit straighter but still didn’t quite equal Marty’s height in her wedge sandals. But the fact he was shorter than she was and built like a string bean didn’t diminish his bravado and obvious willingness to defend her.
“I appreciate that. Thanks. But, no. It’s fine.” She dismissed his offer with a shake of her head.
Peter Greenwood himself hadn’t bothered her, but his politics sure as hell had. Or, at least those of the morally inept senator for whom he worked. As well as the fact that Peter apparently had no problem with his boss.
“He bothers you, you let me know,” the kid, probably two years or so younger than Marty, offered.
“Thanks.” She smiled at him and didn’t say what she was thinking. That she could take care of herself. Especially against a man like Peter Greenwood.
He looked like he cared more about getting back to his desk than talking to her. In fact, she’d been shocked he’d walked over to speak to her at the bar.
She was even more shocked he was here today. What was a Republican senator’s lackey doing at a Greenpeace rally?
Maybe he was here to spy? Anything was possible.
Meanwhile, it was a weekend and he was dressed in a suit and tie as if he was heading to the Hill. Maybe he was. She didn’t know anything except that it was hot in the sun, even for her in a lot less clothing than his suit.
Marty lifted her hair off her neck. She’d chosen a sleeveless dress in deference to the late June heat, but she should have remembered to put up her hair.
Hopefully the speakers wouldn’t take too long. She supported the cause wholeheartedly. She had since the organization’s inception a few years ago when they first hit her radar as they took a stand against nuclear testing off the coast of Alaska.
But there was no doubt about it, she preferred action over gatherings. There were so many things she was ready, willing and able to do.
Plan a high dollar fundraiser. Lord knew she had plenty of experience doing that. Go door to door. She’d happily collect signatures. Or carry a sign and walk a picket line. Hell, she’d even board a boat to save some whales.
Marty would gladly do any of that instead of standing here and listening to speeches. But as a member of the press, she knew these rallies were good exposure for the cause and therefore important.
Her article about this event would be in tomorrow’s edition of the Post, along with Clark’s photos, to help spread the word about what Greenpeace was fighting against.
But her reason for attending brought her mind back to Peter Greenwood and his questionable and possibly suspect motivation for being here.
She was staring at the man, pondering that, when his golden-brown gaze met hers. Not that she’d taken special interest in his eye color at the bar the one time she’d talked to him or anything. But she was a journalist. It was her job and in her nature to notice details. That was all.
Peter reacted when he saw her, his eyes going wide before he quickened his stride as he headed in her direction.
“Shit,” she mumbled, then looked for Clark.
Luckily, he was standing up on a wall getting a shot of the crowd and hadn’t heard her.
Good. She didn’t need her associate rushing to her rescue and making an unnecessary scene. One man-problem solved, but the other had arrived and was now standing in front of her.
“Hey. Hi. Marty, right? Funny see
ing you here, huh? What a coincidence.”
A smooth talker he was not. Although, his meandering train of thought was kind of cute—or would be if she were interested in him or any man. Which she wasn’t.
She was an independent modern woman and as such she was concentrating on her career. And in connection to her career, she was about to do a little investigative journalism.
“Is it a coincidence? Why are you here, Mr. Greenwood?”
“Peter. Please.” He smiled.
She didn’t respond to his comment and waited.
He shrugged. “I’m a supporter of the organization.”
She let out a snort. “Really? Why?”
“Why?” His brows shot high. “Because I believe in what they stand for. I have since seventy-one when they took a stand against testing in the Aleutian Islands.”
Her eyes narrowed as she evaluated if he was telling the truth. He’d certainly done his homework about the last five years of Greenpeace’s existence, but that could just as easily be so he could oppose the organization as support it.
“And your stand on whaling?” she asked.
“I’m against commercial whalers, no doubt. But I do think there should be special dispensation for the natives in Alaska. An entire indigenous population’s survival and their economy depends on whaling.”
“Killing is killing, Mr. Greenwood.”
“And as I tried to tell you at the pub, life isn’t purely black and white, Ms.—” He frowned. “I’m sorry. I don’t know your last name. Since it seems we’re not on a first name basis, perhaps you’d enlighten me?”
Inexplicably, she found herself staring at his perfectly shaped eyebrows that framed his golden brown eyes. Why were such perfect brows wasted on a man?
She knocked that errant thought out of her head and moved on to her next issue—her last name.
Being a Vanderbilt had been both a blessing and a curse. She’d learned that young. The name, and the money, opened doors. It also came with assumptions and prejudices, preconceived notions she’d fought to overturn her entire adult life.
It would be interesting to see how Peter would react to it now.
“Vanderbilt,” she provided.
She had to give him credit, he hid his reaction well, doing nothing but nodding. “Well, Ms. Vanderbilt, I believe in thoroughly considering all aspects and in doing so I often find there is no definitively right or wrong path in a situation, but rather the correct course lies somewhere in the middle.”
Marty felt her jaw tighten. “That was some fancy talking, Mr. Greenwood.”
How many politicians talked in circles to avoid a straight answer? Too many to count.
She expected him to rise to the bait, even get angry at her comment.
He didn’t. He smiled. “I suppose you can blame that on law school.”
“Law school?” she repeated.
“George Washington University Law School,” he said. “But my undergrad was at Penn State. I’m from Pennsylvania. And you? Where did you graduate from?” he asked.
That was all more than she’d asked to know about the man. In fact, she should just walk away. They had nothing in common except for their differences. Still, she found she couldn’t bring herself to end the conversation and not answer his question.
“Columbia,” she said, without further comment.
Again, he replied with a simple nod before glancing around them. “Nice turn out.”
“Were you hoping for less?” she asked.
His brows drew down in a frown. “No. I came to support the organization.” His gaze caught on something past her shoulder before saying, “But I see you’re here for work.”
“I think I got some good shots.” She heard him before she saw Clark move into view, just when she wished he’d be elsewhere.
Now, Peter had cause to question her dedication to Greenpeace’s cause. Which was ludicrous. If anyone’s motives for being here were suspect, it was his, not hers.
Clark’s gaze shot between her and Peter. “You okay here?” he asked.
She did not have the patience to deal with Clark’s hero-complex now.
“Yes, fine.” After dismissing Clark, Marty turned to face Peter head on. “I can be here for more than one reason, Mr. Greenwood.”
He treated her to a small smile that managed to appear condescending. “Agreed. Just as how an act can be both right and wrong, depending upon the who and the why of it.”
Damn him. He was trying to trick her into supporting his ridiculous supposition about whaling. She pressed her lips together, refusing to validate his comment with one of her own.
Luckily, the speakers were starting to gather in the front of the square. She chose to comment on that instead. “It looks like the presentation is about to start.”
Clark mistook her observation for a directive. “I’ll go upfront and get some close-ups.”
He was gone before she could call him back, leaving her alone once again with Peter.
“Shall we listen to what they have to say, Mr. Greenwood?”
“We can, though I’ve already read the main speaker’s presentation.”
“You what?” she asked.
“I’m friends with him. He asked if I’d look over his notes.”
“Really? You? Are friends with one of the presenters?”
“Mm, hm.” Peter tipped his chin. “The guy on the far right.”
She glanced up and spotted the speaker to the far right, his dark complexion standing in stark contrast against the rest.
“Does he know for whom you work?” she asked.
“He does indeed. But he, unlike you, has forgiven me for the transgressions of my boss. Mainly because he wants me to be able to pay my half of the rent.” Peter smiled. “My job has made for some colorful debates across the kitchen table, however.”
She didn’t want to encourage this man but she couldn’t help her reaction. In spite of everything, she found herself curious. “What’s he speaking on?”
“The effects of toxic waste on the world’s oceans.”
“What does he do for a living?” she asked, fascinated that Peter lived with a man who seemed so opposite from him.
“He works for the EPA. Which, I might remind you, was founded by a Republican president.” His lips twitched.
“Who was later impeached, I might remind you,” she added.
“Yes. Although Nixon resigned from office voluntarily.”
“Semantics,” she accused.
“Fact,” he countered good-naturedly in spite of their debate. “Personally, I’m a Reagan man myself. I have great hopes for Reagan’s bid for the White House this November.”
“This election?” She blew out a breath. “He’ll never beat an incumbent for the party nomination, even if it is Gerald Ford.”
Peter lifted one shoulder. “Eh, if not this election, then he’ll secure the nomination in four years. We have time,” he stated, as if it were an indisputable fact.
“It won’t matter who is on the ticket for your side this election. I have no doubt I’ll be celebrating victory at Carter’s campaign headquarters come November.”
“Is this country ready for a peanut farmer in the White House, do you think?” he asked, appearing genuinely interested in her opinion.
“This country is ready for a Democrat in the White House.”
He briefly tipped his head to one side. “Time will tell. In any event, it will be an interesting race.”
The man was immune to being rattled. It was almost inhuman how he could debate politics with a cool, calm distance. Without raising his voice. Without showing any sort of emotion.
“Yes, it will,” she agreed, noting how her own pulse was pounding.
What was it about this man that compelled her to debate him?
And why was she imagining kissing those lips? He spewed such nonsense she’d normally be tempted to slap him. Instead, she was imagining silencing him in an entirely different way. Putting his mouth to wo
rk where they’d both enjoy it.
And if that ever were to happen, she knew politics would be the last thing on either of their minds.
Chapter 3
A Vanderbilt. Jesus.
Looking at her more closely, there was no doubt in his mind the name wasn’t a coincidence. That she was indeed from the Vanderbilt family. As in the robber baron, old money, mansions in every state Gilded Age Vanderbilts.
Her dress probably cost as much as his rent. Her shoes . . . he glanced down and yup, they looked pretty pricey too.
He must be losing his mind pursuing a woman so out of his league.
More than her wealth, he was definitely certifiable for thinking this staunchly left-wing Democrat would ever accept his conservative leanings, even if he did try to consider and understand all sides and opinions when it came to politics.
It wasn’t in his nature to blindly follow any leader or party. He wished she would see that about him. That he carefully weighed the issues, making up his mind on a case-by-case basis.
A squeal of a microphone broke Peter out of his fanciful imaginings about the lovely though contrary Marty Vanderbilt.
He turned toward the speakers just as the crack of glass breaking had his head whipping back around. The burst of flames he saw on the square’s flagstone plaza explained the sound.
“What was that?” Marty asked, barely audible over the shrieks of the scattering crowd.
He spun back to answer her. “Molotov cocktail.”
She shook her head, mouth agape. “Here? Why?”
“I don’t know.” It made no sense to him except for that they lived in volatile times.
He heard sirens in the distance. The police were already on the way. That didn’t prevent a second projectile from crashing into flames next to the fountain.
Shocked screams turned into panic as the attendees clamored to get out of the main entrance of the park.
Slower movers got shoved out of the way by those desperate to flee the danger zone. The few who fell were trampled.
Danger and Desire: A Romantic Suspense Anthology Page 21
