Campaign For Seduction (12 page)

Liza gaped, disbelieving and yet wanting to believe.

They stared, unsmiling, at each other. A long time passed; it felt like hours to Liza, maybe an entire lifetime. The connection between them tightened and grew—Liza didn’t want it to, but it did—and it had nothing to do with sex. At last the corners of his eyes crinkled, and he held up the movie again as he wheeled away.
“Let’s go. Time’s a-wasting, and there’s a movie to watch.” He disappeared into the living room, calling back over his shoulder. “Got any popcorn?”

They sprawled on various sofas and chairs, ate snacks, watched Rocky and had a grand old time. Actually, the senator, the Colonel and Jillian had a grand old time and Liza sat in shell-shocked silence. She couldn’t have imagined a stranger collection of visitors to her house than the presidential candidate, the retired army colonel and the first lady of Virginia.

Maybe she should make up a joke: So these three people walk into a bar…

The senator talked with her father about politics, the military, football and every other topic under the sun. Liza couldn’t think when she’d last seen the Colonel so animated about anything. The two men sat on a sofa across the room and largely ignored Liza, who lapsed into a full-fledged sulk. She was tempted to go do her laundry because she doubted either man would notice her disappearance. Glowering, she watched the men pump their fists and cheer during the fight scene and wanted to throw them all out of her house.

She didn’t.

Weird thoughts crept through her mind the whole time the senator and Jillian were there.

How nice it was to hear laughter in her house, for one. She’d never noticed the lack of laughter in her house before, so why was she thinking about that now?

How great it was to see the Colonel having fun, for another. How the senator and Jillian had made themselves right at home and seemed to belong here. Only they didn’t belong here and never would.

How the whole house felt more exciting when a man was here. Big whoop-de-do. She didn’t need a man and didn’t want a man—especially this one. The house would feel more exciting if she brought in a live crocodile, but that didn’t mean she was going to go out and get one of those, either.

What did the senator think he was doing? What was he playing at? Why was he toying with her emotions and, worse, her father’s?
Was this all a game to him? What did he think could possibly happen between him and Liza?

As though he knew he had her brain buzzing like a fly in ajar, he caught her gaze just then. By the flickering light of the screen, he shook his head at her, amusement bright in his eyes.

Liza, Liza, Liza, he seemed to say. Stop thinking so much.

She couldn’t stop.

When the movie ended, they all got up and stretched, and Jillian, who Liza was beginning to suspect was on the senator’s payroll, took the Colonel’s arm again and lingered with him in the living room while Liza ushered the senator to the back door.

Boy, did she mean to let him have it. Fuming, she squared her shoulders and pointed a finger in his face, but he spoke first in a clear attempt to disarm her.

“You’re a good daughter, Liza. The Colonel’s lucky to have you taking care of him. There’s a lot of love in this house.”

This compliment was so unexpected that she floundered, taking a few beats to work up a response. Oh, he was good. He was very, very good—hitting her at one of her most vulnerable spots, telling her the thing she most wished was true.

She didn’t deserve the compliment. The senator wouldn’t say that if he knew how much she traveled and that she didn’t spend nearly as much time with the Colonel as a good daughter should. He wouldn’t say that if he knew how guilt ate at her for putting her father in a facility when he hadn’t wanted to go, even if it was the best care arrangement for him. He wouldn’t say that if he knew how she had to remind herself that the Colonel wasn’t in his right mind, how she resented the Colonel’s increasing memory lapses, neediness and occasional dementia-induced nastiness.

“I—I should do more,” she stammered, flushing. “I’m not that great.”

The senator stared at her with such understanding shining in his eyes that she felt another layer of the protective wall around her heart crumble to dust.

“We’ll have to agree to disagree about how great you are.”

Liza blinked and reminded herself that no matter how sweetly this man complimented her or how he touched the shriveled
remains of her heart, he was still the enemy—still the man who represented the kind of emotional and career danger that she needed to avoid at all costs. Shoring up her defenses against him, she reclaimed her outrage and pointed that finger again.

“Don’t try to get me off message here, okay? It’s not going to work. You’d better not try a stunt like this again, mister.”

“Stunt?”

There was that wicked amusement again, glittering in his eyes and curling his lip. “Showing up bearing gifts,” she cried. “Cozying up to my father. Bringing your sister. Trying to show us all what a swell guy you are. Giving me compliments I don’t deserve.”

His raised eyebrow only fueled her outrage.

“I’m not going to have an affair with you and commit career suicide, so you can just knock it off, okay? Find some other object for your affections.”

“Yeah,” he said. “I don’t think so.”

“Why not?” she demanded.

In one of his presto-chango mood shifts, he lost all his amusement in a single blink and became, just like that, a predatory competitor determined to win his prize—Liza—through charm, attrition or whatever other means he deemed necessary. Restrained power and passion vibrated through his big body, and his eyes glinted with the keen intelligence of a hawk.

“Because you are the woman I can’t get out of my head, and that makes you the object of my affections. No one else.”

Chapter 11

O h, God. The senator could stop her heart in a way no other man had ever done, but that was not the point. Why would he not listen to reason? Why was he doing this to her when he could have any woman in the entire world he wanted? For kicks?

Well, her heart was not in play here and never would be. Liza wasn’t jeopardizing her career for sex, and she was done with relationships forever. Kent had cured her of that.

“If you can’t get me out of your head, Senator, you should try harder.”

“I don’t want to try.”

His face wore the same uncompromising expression she’d seen him wear while fighting for a bill on the Senate floor. Negotiating with a man who looked like that wasn’t an option, and neither was diversion. A man with that kind of determination gleaming in his eyes was going to get what he wanted or die trying.

“Where do you think this is going?” she demanded, furious.

“You’re not ready for that information, Liza.” His implacable gaze never wavered. “And you should have thought about these issues before you kissed me. You created this situation. Not me.”

A full-blown rant was right on the tip of her lips—how dare he blame her when he was the one who’d been flirting and whatnot that night, looking at her with hot eyes—but he cut her off with an impatient wave.

“I’m not going to waste precious time arguing with you, Liza. There’s one more thing I came here to do.”

Feeling mulish at being silenced in her own kitchen, she jammed her hands on her hips and jerked her chin up. “What?”

“This.”

In a sudden flash of movement, he caught her around the waist and, ignoring her surprised gasp, brought her up against him until they were molded together, breasts to chest, belly to belly and straining erection to aching sex. For good measure he slid one of his hands over the low-riding elastic waistband of her yoga pants to her butt, which he kneaded, and the other up her torso to one throbbing breast, which he caressed.

The shock of this unexpected contact was so electrifying and complete that Liza’s body gave an involuntary surge, an arch away from him that brought her hands up by her ears, but he held her tighter and ducked his head until his glittering brown eyes were all she could see.

“This time,” he told her as his mouth claimed hers, “I’m going to kiss you.”

Liza had never known that a person could kiss with his whole body, and there was no preparing for the senator’s sensual assault. All she knew was that they were somehow all over each other and she had her arms wrapped around his neck in a death grip and her legs wrapped around one of his strong thighs. And he gave her an endless kiss that tasted of tart wine and earthy man and vibrated with his excitement and crooning passion.

For several precious seconds he gripped her butt and held her, unmoving, as he thrust against her, and growing ecstasy clouded her vision and fogged her brain. Then both his hands were skating over her arms and back, caressing her nape, angling her head and sinking into her hair.

A sound of some kind pierced her consciousness, a voice or a laugh, she couldn’t tell which. The next thing she knew, the senator robbed her of his thrilling mouth and thrust her away from
his supporting arms until she had to clutch the counter or risk falling to the floor in a haze of sensual dizziness.

Dazed and blinking, panting now, she registered his smooth and unhurried movements as he took his jacket, used it to casually cover what she personally knew to be a huge erection and turned to greet the Colonel and Jillian as they wandered, arm in arm, into the kitchen.

Forcing herself to recover, Liza took a deep breath, smoothed her hair and prayed her burning face wasn’t as bright as it felt.

“Thank you for coming.”

She aimed this stiff farewell at both the senator and Jillian, who was trying to repress what looked like a knowing smirk. Unfortunately, the senator wasn’t paying the slightest attention to Liza and didn’t seem to notice that she’d hurried to open the door to speed his departure. He shook hands with the Colonel, all business now and serious as a proposed tax hike.

“Pleasure to meet you, sir.” Only two conspicuous patches of color on his cheeks gave any indication that they’d just engaged in ten seconds of foreplay that was more thrilling than any sex Liza had had in her life.

The Colonel squinted at him and cocked his head. “I know I’ve seen you on the TV. Are you one of those chefs on that cooking channel?”

Liza cringed but the senator smiled with utmost patience, as though he were prepared to have this same conversation a million more times if the Colonel needed it.

“I’m running for president.”

The Colonel’s expression cleared. “That’s right,” he said. “You’re running for president. I saw you on the news. Don’t let Senator Fitzgerald whip your ass now, you hear?”

“I’ll try not to.” One corner of the senator’s mouth spasmed with repressed laughter. “And you try to remember who I am, okay? Hopefully you’ll be seeing a lot more of me.”

“On the TV?” asked the Colonel.

“No.” The senator’s penetrating gaze shifted to Liza and locked with hers long enough to send delicious shivers skittering up and down her spine. “Around here, with Liza.”

Super Tuesday finally came, several nights later.

At the massive rally in New York City, Liza pressed the bud deeper into her ear, clutched her microphone and stared into Brad’s camera, hoping all the while that she wasn’t making a complete idiot of herself on live TV. It took a major effort to tamp down her exuberance, but she managed to restrain her grin until it was no more than the pleasant smile that the audience at home expected her to wear.

“I’m having a tough time hearing you, Kevin,” she said to the anchor back at the studio. It was pretty hard to have an intelligent conversation and analyze the day’s news when you couldn’t hear the questions.

Behind her, on the convention center floor, roared a crowd of about 20,000 cheering, chanting, clapping, banner-waving people, none of whom showed any signs of going home any time soon. It didn’t seem to matter that Senator Warner had already given his speech and left the building or that it was nearly ten o’clock on a school night. Adrenaline levels were running high, and the crowd apparently wanted to be a part of this historic moment for as long as possible.

Liza certainly understood the feeling.

She, Takashi and Brad stood in the press pen, the roped-off area where journalists were confined during the senator’s rallies. They’d arrived four hours ago—two hours before the rally—to allow plenty of time for them to be wanded, searched and generally harassed by the senator’s omnipresent security personnel. Then they’d stood around for what felt like days, waiting, chewing the fat and twiddling their thumbs.

And people thought she led a glamorous life because she was on TV.

Ha. If they only knew.

All around them shone the bright lights of other correspondents speaking to other anchors back in the studios of other networks. No doubt they were all reporting the same thing: Senator Warner excited a crowd like no one else—except maybe Bruce Springsteen or Prince, if they were lucky.

From deep in her ear came the faraway sound of Kevin’s
amused voice. “Has anyone told those people that the senator lost the New York primary tonight? And several other states as well?”

Liza grinned. “Well, you can understand the confusion. The senator came in, very graciously congratulated Senator Fitzgerald on her wins, which were big ones, and then went on to pump up his crowd into the kind of frenzy you normally see at a playoff game of some sort. If he keeps up like this, I’m thinking Madonna will ask him to open for her when she goes on her next world tour.”

Kevin laughed. “Tell us about his message because, obviously, this is a very serious loss for him. It’s down to him and Senator Fitzgerald now and neither one of them can afford to lose any more delegates. So how did he manage to spin that into what had the look and feel of a victory rally? If I didn’t know better and just wandered in from the street, I’d think this was the convention and he’d just given his acceptance speech.”

Liza did the whole stare-into-the-camera-and-nod-while-listening thing, as though she were gazing deep into the invisible Kevin’s eyes. “Well, as always, Senator Warner stayed on message and said that this was a setback but he was not going to give up because the future of the American people is at stake. He focused on public service, lowering taxes, health care and education, his four big points, and said that he was the underdog but that was okay because people often underestimate underdogs. And then this millionaire, Ivy League-educated politician—who has, by the way, spun himself into the underdog champion of the American worker—played some music, got the crowd started with his “Now Is the Time” chant and left the building to catch his flight back to Washington. But he can’t go on losing like this, and I imagine we’ll be hearing more in the next few days about some changes in his campaign staff.”

“Yeah, because no matter how he spins it, Liza, the numbers aren’t good.”

“I think horrendous is the word you’re looking for, Kevin,” she said. “If the late, great Tim Russert were here, he’d pull out his white board, do a few calculations and show us just how bad the numbers are. But, again, the senator used his speech tonight to look ahead and warn people not to count him out just yet.”

“Let’s take a listen,” Kevin said in her ear, “and I’ll ask you some more questions on the other side.”

Liza paused while they showed a thirty-second clip of the senator’s speech from earlier. She didn’t need to see it again at this moment—a video could never capture even a small portion of the synergistic energy between the man and the crowd—but she knew she’d see it again as soon as she had the chance. But she’d do it alone, in the privacy of her own home, where she could stare and grin and clap to her heart’s delight and not have to wear the detached armor of an objective journalist.

Senator Warner had stood in his shirtsleeves with a Plexiglas TelePrompTer flanking him on each side and the crowd circling him in every direction. Speaking with the conviction of an idealistic true believer, he reassured the crowd that he still planned to fight for a better world.

“You know what they’re saying,” he’d told the roaring crowd, prowling to each far corner of the stage and giving everyone the chance to see him. His prepared speech scrolled by on the TelePrompTer but he ignored it, slipping into that hypnotic cadence that could convince the birds to come down from the trees. “You know who they are, right? All the pundits and all the naysayers over at Senator Fitzgerald’s campaign—they’re shaking their heads and muttering like Lurch from The Addams Family—” here he paused to mutter and shake his head in a pretty good impression of Lurch from that old black-and-white TV show, and the crowd screamed with laughter “‘—Ohh,’ they’re saying, ‘we can’t curb our dependence on fossil fuels, and we can’t do much about global warming, and we can’t get health insurance for every family or a quality education for every child, and we can’t lower taxes, and one person can’t make a difference and it just can’t be done.’”

A consummate master, he’d paused here to let the crowd grumble and boo. This, of course, built anticipation, and Liza had found herself holding her breath along with everyone else in the room.

“And here’s what I say, ‘Why not?’”

He tried to continue but the crowd wouldn’t let him go on. Waiting, suppressing his grin, he let the audience laugh and yell itself hoarse for the next several seconds. It showed signs of going on for longer than that, but he finally raised a hand and the noise settled down to an excited murmur over which his voice could barely be heard.

If there was a single person in the room—young or old, black or white, student, housewife, laborer or professional—whose feet were still touching the floor at that point, Liza couldn’t see who it was.

“Why not?” Senator Warner asked again. “‘Why can’t each and every person listening to me go to the local park and pick up an empty can and put it in the recycling bin? Why can’t we all turn off the lights when we leave the room and limit our showers to three minutes when we can? Why can’t each and every person listening to me go down to the nearest elementary school and mentor a child? Why can’t we all try to change our little corner of the world and see what a difference it makes?”

The clip ended and Liza pushed away the memories even if she could do nothing about the lingering adrenaline surge. She would not remember her heartbeat’s frantic staccato as she listened to the senator’s speech, her body’s uniquely feminine response to seeing such an enthralling, powerful man in action or the fact that every other woman in the room was also mesmerized and half in love with him.

She was a journalist now, not a woman. And she had a job to do.

“There’s one more thing I want to mention, Kevin.” Liza called on every ounce of her self-control to appear objective for a few more seconds. “The senator talked about underdogs. He talked about fighting hard and not giving up, and then he ended with the ultimate never-say-die song: “Gonna Fly Now,” the theme from Rocky.”

“Rocky?” said Kevin.

Liza laughed. “I know what you’re thinking, and you’re right. It was hokey and it was over the top and it was blatant pandering. And guess what? It worked. It was perfect.”