Another Notch in the Beltway (4 page)

“What kind of name is Casper Grossman for our hero?” Lenore asked, not even attempting to conceal a smile. They'd begun working on the book and wanted to get the sample chapters to Nikko as soon as possible. It seemed there was more interest in their potential book than their agent had anticipated.

“I thought it was unusual. You don't like it?” MP asked, surprised. They were seated across from each other at Lenore's long desk, computers back to back. “I'm picturing this urban cowboy kind of guy, and Casper Grossman is kind of anticlimactic, stuffy, like some nerdy little computer guy or stultified elder statesman. I'd be looking for someone named Chase or Chas if you want to make him a pseudo player from a wealthy, old-money family. Chase/Chas Sinclair or something similar.”

“Ahh, historical romance meets the twenty-first century,” he smiled.

She felt herself flush. “I guess.” He was right, she was overlaying her VR on the modern. “You're right. We can go with Casper Grossman. Tell me how YOU picture him.

“I actually like your urban cowboy idea. I had thought of him as a self-made man after his father left his family in financial ruin, old man being an unscrupulous politician or industry scion. Casper's trying to regain the cachet and financial standing they once had.”

“Now who sounds VR? Politics, money, social standing?”

“You're right, lass, I hadn't thought of it in that light. Some things never change do they?”

“I suppose not.”

She sat thinking for a moment.

There was a message from Senator Byron Maxwell's senior aide, Gerald Morris, wanting her to call. So far she'd not done so. What could Maxwell want after all these years?

Michael Patrick's voice caused her to focus back in. “Have you thought of something else?”

“I was thinking of unscrupulous, amoral politicians and how they might play into the story.”

“Like one of daddy's old cronies coming after the son for some indiscretion of the father?”

“Yes, but it could be anyone coming after Casper, let's call him Cass, maybe even an unacknowledged half brother or sister.”

“I like it.”

“Great.”

He was still talking. “But I think it was more than that, lass. Care to share?”

“No.”

“Okay, then. Where were we?”

“Sorry, I didn't mean to snap. You didn't do anything to deserve that.”

“And I didn't mean to pry.”

But of course he did, Lenore thought. They had been working together over a month. He was an open book and she was a diary with a padlock and a deadbolt, both securely locked. She knew he was interested in her as a woman, not merely a writer. If she was honest with herself, she was interested in MP the man.

“I would, however, like to get to know you better, lass. I find you interesting, and my curiosity is piqued,” he continued.

She laughed. “I'm a curiosity.”

“Indeed.”

“What do you want to know?”

“What makes you tick, what makes you happy, what makes you sad—everything, I guess.”

“I'm not that interesting, MP, sorry. Only daughter of two teachers, both died recently of natural causes; they were in their eighties, had me later in life. I think that's why there's only one of me.”

He laughed.

“Lived most of my life right here in Bucks County. Went to American University for undergrad, University of Michigan for grad school, started writing while I was in grad school, had a modicum of success along the way, and here I am.”

“And here you are. I think there's a lot missing from that bio.”

“Read my jacket cover.”

“I have, not much there either. What or who makes you so self-contained?”

“I'm a private person,” she replied primly, a quick flash of annoyance flushing her cheeks.

“I see that.”

“So we call Casper
Cass
most of the time?” she asked, wanting to get back on task.

“Sure.” She saw him eye her, a grin crossing his face.

They continued on with their collaboration, her private life on hold for the moment.

Jake Bishop watched her approach and noted, not for the first time or the hundredth, that Amanda Loring was one stunning woman, not any one particular thing but the neat little package in total. The sexy sway of her hips as she moved, her full mouth, and beautiful teeth when she smiled… Stop it, Bishop told himself, also not for the first time. She's a client.

“Jake! I had a devil of a time finding you.” Amanda gave him an affectionate peck on the lips.

At the same moment, Mr. Smug Arrogance from the bar joined them. She gave him the same appraising look he had given her when she entered the room. He seemed to revel in her attention. She wasn't surprised.

“Cass, allow me to introduce Amanda Loring. Amanda, Casper Grossman.”

“A pleasure, Mr. Grossman.”

“Please call me Cass, and the pleasure is all mine, Ms. Loring.”

She didn't tell him to call her Amanda. Her agent eyed her suspiciously.

Cass gave her a smirk and asked, “Can I get you a drink, Ms. Loring?”

Bishop rounded on her when Grossman departed to get her a glass of white wine. “Why are you being a bitch? You said you thought you'd like to work with him.”

“It's a woman's prerogative to be a bitch, and I want to explore the possibility of working with him—working with him, not sleeping with him.”

“Jesus, Mandy, be nice. He's my client, too.”

“Oh, I'll be nice to him, don't worry, Jake.”

Corrine Kennedy Maxwell sat in front of her vanity mirror. She was a few years over fifty, but to her aquamarine eyes, she appeared twenty years older. Sadness, disillusionment, anger, bitterness had all taken their toll. When did the acceptance come? That acceptance she'd heard others talk about and write about. Perhaps she was not one to accept.

At least her body was still slim and shapely. She had the rigorous demands of her personal trainer to thank for that. One man who hadn't let her down.

As she ran a silver brush through shoulder-length hair, she noted the strawberry blonde was now more of a strawberry ice. She needed to give up the ghost and start coloring it. Peering more closely into the glass, Corrine now inspected her skin. Might as well critique every inch and get it out of the way. Her complexion, once glowing, pale pink, smooth, and vibrant, was now sallow, age-spotted, and dryly wrinkled. The skin would call for more drastic action than a trip to the salon. She doubted she'd do anything about it.

Pulling up her once-firm chin, Corrine thought maybe she could duct tape it behind her ears and into her hairline. No one ever touched her, no one would know. She laughed at herself. It was either that or sob.

She allowed her shoulders to slump. This was a private moment of reflection. Corrine had been doing that a lot lately. Wondering where her youth had gone. Wondering where that hopeful, vivacious, twenty-five-year-old bride had disappeared. Her eyes glanced involuntarily to an eight-by-ten wedding picture that was on the antique maple highboy and shook her head wistfully.

Corrine Kennedy had not been a stupid young woman. She held bachelors and masters degrees in education from the University of Virginia and had a Phi Beta Kappa key in the back of her jewelry box. She'd guarded her virtue for her wedding night, thinking that the man who married her would value her all the more for being a virgin. She was every bit the high society debutante. But Miss Kennedy's strategy in picking a husband had been less than sound. In choosing her husband, she had been, quite simply, dumb as a rock.

Her father had introduced her to Byron Maxwell, the son of one of his business associates. He came from a long line of bankers. Byron's father's family owned Virginia Bank and Trust. She'd been immediately attracted to his handsome features and almost pretty face. He had seemed taken with her, too. Byron told her he was ready to settle down. He was ten years her senior, and she had believed him.

Corrine reasoned that he'd had plenty of time to sow his wild oats and would be a faithful, companionable husband, if not a loving one. In her social circle, it wasn't about love but about perpetuating power and money. Looking back, she should have gotten a purebred dog.

Footsteps. Sitting up straight and squaring her shoulders, she let go of her thoughts.

Byron Maxwell caught her eye in the mirror. They still shared a bedroom and a bed—perception is reality. But she was certain the household staff knew the truth.

As was his habit, Byron approached her, giving her a chaste peck on the cheek. She leaned away from contact.

“That St John knit looks lovely, dear,” Maxwell simpered.

“Can we cut the pretense, Byron? There's no one to see or hear us. We hate the sight of one another,” she spat bitterly.

“If you'd tried a little kindness, Rin, it might get you further in the long run. You know the old saying, you catch more flies with honey than vinegar.”

“But I don't want to catch any flies. They're dirty, disease-carrying creatures. Much like yourself, Byron.”

He had no retort. Corrine thought he was too stupid for one. If Morris wasn't around to tell him what to say, he said nothing.

She continued. “Anyway, I tried kindness for the first ten years of our marriage, and all it got me was misery and pain, two miscarriages, two difficult pregnancies, and two dysfunctional children. Progeny who take after their father. In Carter's case,
took
after his father is more appropriate.”

Despite the harsh words, sadness crossed her face, but just as quickly the mask was back.

“You wanted children as I recall, Rin.”

“Yes, I foolishly thought they would bring us closer, bind you to me in some way. I was obviously wrong. And as you may recall, I had no input on the second one,” she said darkly.

“I'm sorry you feel that way, but living with the Ice Princess for the last thirty years has been tough.”

“Living with a philandering hypocrite of a husband has been no picnic either. You think I wanted to make love with you after you slept with every slut on the Beltway?”

Her voice was loud, bordering on angry hysteria. They were both standing and facing one another now.

“Make love? I don't think we ever made love. Had sex is even a questionable statement. You're the most frigid woman I've ever seen.”

Wham! A crystal perfume atomizer narrowly missed his head, crashing into the wall. The smell of Chanel No. 5 began to overpower the room.

He was lucky he'd ducked or he'd have been knocked out, maybe killed, based on the crater in the wall.

“Get out! Get out!”

“I'll be more than happy to, you insane bitch,” Senator Maxwell said quietly, in stark contrast to her high-pitched scream. He then turned and closed the double doors softly behind him.

Corrine sat at her vanity table and sobbed, face in hands, until all her make-up needed to be replaced. She gazed at herself in the mirror again. She was nothing but a dried-up has-been or maybe, even more pathetically, a never-was.

****

Senator Byron Maxwell retreated to his office. As he sat in his leather chair, he swiftly turned over all the obligatory family photos that were in his line of sight. He wasn't in the mood to stare at the fucked-up lot of them.

His father's photo was last. Byron placed it upside down in the darkest drawer of his desk. He no longer wanted to see the man's arrogant face. The son of a bitch was long dead, and if Jacob Maxwell hadn't nearly bankrupted the family business, VB&T, with gambling debts and other vices, he wouldn't be here today.

His father had needed money to save the bank, and Corrine Kennedy had been the answer. Not only did her father have money, she was wealthy in her own right through a trust set up by her maternal grandmother. Furthermore, she was an only child, so when her parents died she would be even wealthier.

Corrine had been young and beautiful. Byron believed that even if he didn't love her, he'd enjoy her as a companion and a lover.

While he had been surprised to discover she was a virgin, he had found it equally intriguing. They'd had a wedding fit for royalty. He remembered how his loins stirred as his virgin bride walked down the aisle on their wedding day. Corrine had taken his breath away. Her gown was designed to make the most of her alluring shape and her breasts swelled over the top of her bodice…

“Jesus,” he said aloud, looking down at the bulge in his pants. He was getting a hard-on thinking about his young wife, who was now a worn-out woman. If he was honest with himself, part of that was his fault or his father's.

Corrine had been an eager student of carnal knowledge and had gotten pregnant on their honeymoon. He remembered how beautiful and ripe she looked when she told him, her face glowing and eyes bright… he shook his head and closed his eyes.

Then came the closed-door meeting between his father and father-in-law. Jacob Maxwell was in big trouble and needed Andrew Kennedy to bail him out.

Needless to say his papa-in-law was less than happy. Andrew had seen the match not as a marriage but as a merger to amass more power and money. If word got out that Jacob Maxwell was on the verge of bankruptcy, he and his daughter would be a laughingstock. Kennedy made the decision to purchase Maxwell's bank and take it over.

Andrew accused Byron of marrying Corrine for her money and getting her with child to lock her into the union. The first part of the statement was true, but the second was only chance. The older Kennedy made it clear that Byron would never get a penny of his money and took legal steps to make sure that he was totally dependent on Corrine for every penny he had. Andrew told Byron he was to enter into politics—run for the senate—one day the presidency, but only if it didn't get out as to how hopelessly stupid he was.