body tightened at the thought of her flaming hair and creamy skin, her exotic eyes and erotic mouth.
“Be discreet if you do meet a woman, by the way,” Murphy added. “You know the press is rabid for sex scandals this year.”
Wade stubbed out his cigarette, popped an antacid tablet in his mouth, and washed it down with cold coffee. “Yeah, right,” he said, dismissing the topic. “I found out a little more about that piece of property we talked about. There might be a slight hitch in getting it. I . . . ran into the owner. She’s reluctant to sell at the moment, but I’m sure she’ll change her mind. Give it a week or so—”
“She?” Wade could almost hear Murphy’s ears prick up. “She who?”
“Bronwynn Prescott Pierson. She inherited the place—”
His aide interrupted him with a string of highly inventive curses. “Bronwynn Prescott Pierson is there? You’ve been near enough to speak to her?”
He’d been near enough to do a lot more than speak to her, but he didn’t tell Murphy. “Yeah, so?” With one hand he dug another cigarette out of the crumpled pack and lit it.
“
So?
The princess of the polo set ditches her fiancé at the altar and just happens to set up camp a mile down the road from the up-and-coming young congressman from Indiana.
So?
he asks me! Lord. This is what guys like me have nightmares about. It’s the kind of thing that’s making me go bald. Did anyone see you with her?”
“No. Cool out, will you, Murph? Jeez, you’re paranoid. It’s just a coincidence.”
“Famous last words. Do you honestly think the press is going to swallow that?”
“Look, nobody knows she’s here. She came up here to get her head straight—as if that were even a remote possibility,” he added sardonically. “Nobody knows I’m here. Besides, it’s not an election year, and it’s not as if I’ve got a wife and kiddies waiting for me back home.”
“Well, be careful for crying out loud. Maybe I am being paranoid, but you know as well as I do the reporters would have a field day. All they look for anymore is a guy with a healthy libido. It’s like shooting fish in a barrel.”
“It seems to me they’re more interested in kinky libidos or adulterous ones,” Wade said, tapping ash into a cut-crystal candy dish. He glanced at the little plaque on the coffee table that read Thank you for not smoking and flipped it facedown.
“Bronwynn Pierson is news, pal, with or without a libido.”
Oh, she’s got one all right, Wade thought as he remembered the way she had melted against him, the way her body had softened into his as he’d kissed her. Taking short angry puffs on his cigarette, he shoved the memory from his mind. “She’s a pain in the butt is what she is. She’s as far off the beam as she can get without actually falling on her head.”
“Good. Glad to hear it,” Murphy said. “Steer clear, and grow a beard while you’re at it. Just in case.”
“Jeez, Murphy.”
“You can’t be too careful. I’ll talk to you later. So long.”
Or too rich or too thin. Again he thought of Bronwynn as he hung up the phone. She was probably too rich. She was thin, but healthy looking, in spite of what appeared to be a ravenous appetite that fed on an endless supply of junk food. She had been a model, but she didn’t look starved the way many models did. Willowy—that was the word. Weird, yes. Too attractive. She wasn’t beautiful in the conventional sense. She was exotic, and there was something magnetic about her.
Steer clear, Murphy had said. He intended to, though it wasn’t because of his image. No. Wade had his own reasons for staying away from Bronwynn Prescott Pierson: She was goofy, she annoyed him, she made him feel things he didn’t want to examine too closely.
He was thirty-seven. During the last fifteen years of his life he’d focused on building his political career. He was ambitious, yes. But he was dedicated, concerned, he wanted to make a difference. He
“Be discreet if you do meet a woman, by the way,” Murphy added. “You know the press is rabid for sex scandals this year.”
Wade stubbed out his cigarette, popped an antacid tablet in his mouth, and washed it down with cold coffee. “Yeah, right,” he said, dismissing the topic. “I found out a little more about that piece of property we talked about. There might be a slight hitch in getting it. I . . . ran into the owner. She’s reluctant to sell at the moment, but I’m sure she’ll change her mind. Give it a week or so—”
“She?” Wade could almost hear Murphy’s ears prick up. “She who?”
“Bronwynn Prescott Pierson. She inherited the place—”
His aide interrupted him with a string of highly inventive curses. “Bronwynn Prescott Pierson is there? You’ve been near enough to speak to her?”
He’d been near enough to do a lot more than speak to her, but he didn’t tell Murphy. “Yeah, so?” With one hand he dug another cigarette out of the crumpled pack and lit it.
“
So?
The princess of the polo set ditches her fiancé at the altar and just happens to set up camp a mile down the road from the up-and-coming young congressman from Indiana.
So?
he asks me! Lord. This is what guys like me have nightmares about. It’s the kind of thing that’s making me go bald. Did anyone see you with her?”
“No. Cool out, will you, Murph? Jeez, you’re paranoid. It’s just a coincidence.”
“Famous last words. Do you honestly think the press is going to swallow that?”
“Look, nobody knows she’s here. She came up here to get her head straight—as if that were even a remote possibility,” he added sardonically. “Nobody knows I’m here. Besides, it’s not an election year, and it’s not as if I’ve got a wife and kiddies waiting for me back home.”
“Well, be careful for crying out loud. Maybe I am being paranoid, but you know as well as I do the reporters would have a field day. All they look for anymore is a guy with a healthy libido. It’s like shooting fish in a barrel.”
“It seems to me they’re more interested in kinky libidos or adulterous ones,” Wade said, tapping ash into a cut-crystal candy dish. He glanced at the little plaque on the coffee table that read Thank you for not smoking and flipped it facedown.
“Bronwynn Pierson is news, pal, with or without a libido.”
Oh, she’s got one all right, Wade thought as he remembered the way she had melted against him, the way her body had softened into his as he’d kissed her. Taking short angry puffs on his cigarette, he shoved the memory from his mind. “She’s a pain in the butt is what she is. She’s as far off the beam as she can get without actually falling on her head.”
“Good. Glad to hear it,” Murphy said. “Steer clear, and grow a beard while you’re at it. Just in case.”
“Jeez, Murphy.”
“You can’t be too careful. I’ll talk to you later. So long.”
Or too rich or too thin. Again he thought of Bronwynn as he hung up the phone. She was probably too rich. She was thin, but healthy looking, in spite of what appeared to be a ravenous appetite that fed on an endless supply of junk food. She had been a model, but she didn’t look starved the way many models did. Willowy—that was the word. Weird, yes. Too attractive. She wasn’t beautiful in the conventional sense. She was exotic, and there was something magnetic about her.
Steer clear, Murphy had said. He intended to, though it wasn’t because of his image. No. Wade had his own reasons for staying away from Bronwynn Prescott Pierson: She was goofy, she annoyed him, she made him feel things he didn’t want to examine too closely.
He was thirty-seven. During the last fifteen years of his life he’d focused on building his political career. He was ambitious, yes. But he was dedicated, concerned, he wanted to make a difference. He
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