and strangle him. But another part wanted to grab him and shake him and tell him to stop wasting his life.
Suddenly, she heard heels clicking on the marble floor. Was he coming back?
She listened more intently. It couldn’t be Mitch. It was the lonely sound of someone walking in the opposite direction, away from her, down a side corridor. Security? she wondered.
She peered around the corner. The footsteps stopped. She ducked back into the alcove and listened again. The clicking resumed, but it was muffled this time, as if someone were walking more carefully, sneaking away.
It wasn’t like security to skulk like a stalker.
Quietly, she walked halfway down the long corridor, then stopped and listened. All was still.
A door slammed, echoing through the marble hallway.
She hurried ahead, made a quick turn at the bank of telephones, and found a metal fire door. She pulled the handle. Locked. She peered through the small window at eye level. Up or down, she saw endless flights of concrete steps with metal railings. She put her ear to the door. Silence. She opened her evening bag—the panic button would summon a team of FBI and Secret Service agents to her side in an instant. But what would she tell them? That she was having a spat with her ex-fiancé? She closed the bag. Better to leave this one alone.
“Is everything all right, Ms. Leahy?”
It was Secret Service. “Yes,” she said, her heart in her throat. “I was just looking for the ladies’ room.”
“This way,” he said, offering to lead her.
She walked at his side, a half step behind him. After several steps, she noticed his shoes. They were the rubber-soled type. They didn’t make a sound. No clicking of the heels, like before. It definitely wasn’t security she’d heard earlier.
Her hands shook as she tucked her evening bag beneath her arm. She walked with her head up, keeping her composure. But fear was gripping her by the throat as one thought consumed her: Had someone overheard everything? …
“Allison, aren’t you ready yet?”
“Huh?” she said, shaken from her memories by the sound of Peter’s voice. He was standing in the doorway that divided their suite—dressed and ready to go. She was still seated at the vanity mirror in her robe and wet hair.
“The helicopter leaves in fifteen minutes.” He leaned forward and kissed the top of her head. “Don’t make me leave without you.”
She smiled awkwardly. “I’ll be ready in ten.”
He returned the smile and headed for the door.
“Peter?” she said, stopping him in his tracks. Her expression was serious. “Do you really think I did the right thing at the debate?”
“Absolutely, darling.” He raised an eyebrow, sensing her anguish. “I hope you’re not second-guessing yourself.”
She sighed, wishing she had just told him everything two months ago. She knew his temper, however, and telling him that an ex-fiancé was still in love with her seemed utterly pointless atthe time. And what would he think if she told him now, well after the fact, on the heels of her public refusal to confirm or deny that she’d ever had an affair? Would anyone believe that nothing had happened?
“No second thoughts,” she said with a forced but appreciative smile. “I’m still convinced that silence was the right response.”
He nodded in agreement, then left the room.
She checked her reflection in the mirror, still shaky from the memory of Mitch at the gala. Maybe she was paranoid, but she had a horrible gut feeling that she was being set up—that someone wanted her to deny she’d ever cheated on Peter, only to hit her with a tape recording and a mystery witness who would totally distort her encounter with Mitch. She’d be worse than an adulteress. She’d be an adulteress and a liar, another presidential hopeful sinking on the charter boat Monkey Business. With that, she was indeed convinced that silence was the correct response.
More convinced than ever, she told the troubled
Suddenly, she heard heels clicking on the marble floor. Was he coming back?
She listened more intently. It couldn’t be Mitch. It was the lonely sound of someone walking in the opposite direction, away from her, down a side corridor. Security? she wondered.
She peered around the corner. The footsteps stopped. She ducked back into the alcove and listened again. The clicking resumed, but it was muffled this time, as if someone were walking more carefully, sneaking away.
It wasn’t like security to skulk like a stalker.
Quietly, she walked halfway down the long corridor, then stopped and listened. All was still.
A door slammed, echoing through the marble hallway.
She hurried ahead, made a quick turn at the bank of telephones, and found a metal fire door. She pulled the handle. Locked. She peered through the small window at eye level. Up or down, she saw endless flights of concrete steps with metal railings. She put her ear to the door. Silence. She opened her evening bag—the panic button would summon a team of FBI and Secret Service agents to her side in an instant. But what would she tell them? That she was having a spat with her ex-fiancé? She closed the bag. Better to leave this one alone.
“Is everything all right, Ms. Leahy?”
It was Secret Service. “Yes,” she said, her heart in her throat. “I was just looking for the ladies’ room.”
“This way,” he said, offering to lead her.
She walked at his side, a half step behind him. After several steps, she noticed his shoes. They were the rubber-soled type. They didn’t make a sound. No clicking of the heels, like before. It definitely wasn’t security she’d heard earlier.
Her hands shook as she tucked her evening bag beneath her arm. She walked with her head up, keeping her composure. But fear was gripping her by the throat as one thought consumed her: Had someone overheard everything? …
“Allison, aren’t you ready yet?”
“Huh?” she said, shaken from her memories by the sound of Peter’s voice. He was standing in the doorway that divided their suite—dressed and ready to go. She was still seated at the vanity mirror in her robe and wet hair.
“The helicopter leaves in fifteen minutes.” He leaned forward and kissed the top of her head. “Don’t make me leave without you.”
She smiled awkwardly. “I’ll be ready in ten.”
He returned the smile and headed for the door.
“Peter?” she said, stopping him in his tracks. Her expression was serious. “Do you really think I did the right thing at the debate?”
“Absolutely, darling.” He raised an eyebrow, sensing her anguish. “I hope you’re not second-guessing yourself.”
She sighed, wishing she had just told him everything two months ago. She knew his temper, however, and telling him that an ex-fiancé was still in love with her seemed utterly pointless atthe time. And what would he think if she told him now, well after the fact, on the heels of her public refusal to confirm or deny that she’d ever had an affair? Would anyone believe that nothing had happened?
“No second thoughts,” she said with a forced but appreciative smile. “I’m still convinced that silence was the right response.”
He nodded in agreement, then left the room.
She checked her reflection in the mirror, still shaky from the memory of Mitch at the gala. Maybe she was paranoid, but she had a horrible gut feeling that she was being set up—that someone wanted her to deny she’d ever cheated on Peter, only to hit her with a tape recording and a mystery witness who would totally distort her encounter with Mitch. She’d be worse than an adulteress. She’d be an adulteress and a liar, another presidential hopeful sinking on the charter boat Monkey Business. With that, she was indeed convinced that silence was the correct response.
More convinced than ever, she told the troubled
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