The Kept Woman (8 page)

When had Jack Tolliver ever dated anyone over thirty?

Not ever.

When had Jack Tolliver ever dated anyone with kids?

Puh-leeze!

When had Jack Tolliver ever asked a woman to move into what Christy could only assume was the family estate on Sunset Lane? Especially if this woman brought along three children?

Not in this lifetime!

This was such a crock of shit. This was, beyond a doubt, connected somehow to his campaign and just might be the hottest scoop Christy had come across in her entire career. Jack was up to something. She could smell it. And whatever it was, she already knew it was going to make the teachers' convention scandal look like a tiny little misunderstanding.

Christy waited patiently for the dryer to stop. She smiled at Marcia in the mirror and told her she'd done a fabulous job, as usual, and left her a hefty tip.

Marguerite Dickinson Tolliver held the delicate Wedgwood china cup between thumb and index finger, took a sip of her morning coffee, and nearly spit it out.

There on her laptop screen was a black-and-white photo of her only child at a basketball game with some plain little redhead. The two of them were laughing like kids. And the bile began to rise in Marguerite's throat.

She sat the cup down into its saucer and pursed her lips, taking her eyes away from the computer and looking instead at the controlled lushness of her backyard. Nestor, the new gardener, certainly had talent. The edging between the flower beds and the lawn itself was razor sharp, the way she liked it. Not a single weed could be seen poking its intrusive little head through the dark cocoa-hued mulch. The blossoms of the cape honeysuckle and the wild allamanda were healthy and full, twisting along the south trellis. The koi pond positively shimmered with cleanliness.

Her son, on the other hand, was a mess. His personal life had the makings of a cheesy made-for-TV movie. His career was in shambles. And he hadn't returned any of her phone calls.

At least Allen Ditto had been kind enough to listen to her troubles. She'd called the old rooster three times since he tossed his concrete block into the windshield of Indiana politics with that poorly timed announcement. He claimed he'd simply forgotten to notify Jack in advance that he'd decided not to seek another term. He also claimed his decision had nothing to do with anything except that he was tired of Washington and needed to go home. Marguerite knew that was horse hockey on both counts. It was no secret that Allen didn't think Jack worthy of the U.S. Senate, and she'd certainly heard all about Allen's decidedly untired social life of late.

Since Carla's passing two years before, the man had been downright sprightly. Widower status seemed to suit him. Not that Marguerite could blame Allen, because his wife had been crazier than a hoot owl. Her phobias had gotten worse with each year in Washington, and Allen hadn't taken her anywhere since the aluminum foil incident at the White House in 1991.

Marguerite had seen the whole fiasco with own eyes, her beloved Gordon at her side, his health by that time in rapid decline. Some nitwit server came through the dining room with a single shiny sheet of foil, to do what no one ever really knew, and Carla saw it, heard it crinkle, and disintegrated in front of the president, the First Lady, a smattering of visiting dignitaries, some famous Hollywood producer and his wife, along with much of the Senate Foreign Relations Committee.

It was a shame, a real shame, to see Allen lead Carla out of the State Dining Room as she shrieked incoherently, spittle rolling off her chin onto the bodice of her lovely Dior creation.

Too many years in politics could do that to a person. Marguerite had, in fact, seen worse.

She folded her hands and stared at the fountain at the center of her in-ground pool. The board of directors of the Naples Garden Club was due for lunch that afternoon. The caterers were on top of the menu preparation. She'd already selected what she would wear—that melon orange suit with the pastel Chanel scarf that matched so nicely. So she had ample time for a chat.

Marguerite picked up the cordless telephone that sat just to her right, beside her laptop computer and the stack of newspapers on the breakfast table, and called her son.

Of course she got his voice mail. He was avoiding her. He'd been avoiding her for twenty years.

"Jack, this is your mother, Marguerite. You may remember me. I gave you the gift of life." She paused for effect. "I do not have the foggiest idea what you think you're doing, but you must realize that you need to declare soon, and that your campaign would benefit greatly if you managed to avoid being photographed with cheap-looking waitresses and the like."

She sighed.

"I love you, darling boy. Please call me soon. If you don't, I'll be forced to get my answers from Kara and Stuart and I might even decide to join you at the Sunset Lane house for the holidays. I can't think of anything more lovely than a family Christmas, just like we used to have."

"You sure that swim diaper is gonna hold?"

Sam had been wondering the same thing and scooted forward on the lounge chair to study Dakota. He was bobbing along in the ornate indoor swimming pool near Lily, buoyed by a bright yellow swim bubble and a pair of water wings, looking thrilled to be alive. So far, it seemed the waistband was holding. The leg openings were still snug. Diaper engineering had come a long way since Greg was a baby. At least Sam prayed it had.

"'Cause I don't think ole boyfriend is gonna be too happy if Dakota decides this is the potty he's been waitin' for."

Sam gave Monte a sideways glance. "Jack is not my boyfriend."

"Mmm-hmmm. Sure looked like it in that picture."

Sam snorted in surprise. "Gimme a break, Monte! I'm doing my job. You know Kara had that all planned out, down to the number of times he was supposed to hold my hand. Don't be ridiculous."

"And don't get all huffy on me."

"Anyway, this is just the beginning, so get over it. I didn't even enjoy it much. It was awkward."

A piercing scream from Lily drew their attention back to the pool. The boys were on either side of her, splashing like they meant to drown her.

"Stop it
right now
!" Monte stood as she yelled, and her usually resonant voice ricocheted around the pool house like the voice of God herself. She pointed a red-tipped finger at Simon. "Boy, you gang up on Lily like that one more time and I'm tellin' you, this will be the last time your black behind gets anywhere near this pool! And Greg? You leave your sister be! You hear me?"

The quiet was so profound that Sam decided they could've heard a fly rub its wings together.

Monte eased back into her lounge chair and tugged on her knit top so that it covered some of her ample cleavage, then continued her commentary without missing a beat. "This is me you're talkin' to, Sammy, and if what you were doin' in that picture was work, then girl, I'm ready for a career change."

Sam laughed, then sighed deeply. "All right. Fine. There were parts I enjoyed."

"You
know
you got that right." Monte tossed her braids for emphasis. "Jack Tolliver
is
fine—one fine-ass white man, and I bet I know exactly what
parts
you enjoyed, 'cause they're probably the same parts I enjoy every time I lay eyes on him. He's got a behind on him that could make a woman damn near pass out." She took a long drink of her iced tea, like she was close to doing just that.

"Oh, really?" Sam asked, trying not to agree with her out loud. "Why don't you date him, then?"

Monte roared with laughter, and she had to place her drink on the table before it spilled. "I'm not sure Indiana has evolved enough for that kind of crazy mess, Sammy."

"Good afternoon, everyone."

Sam and Monte startled, turning to see Jack poised in the pool house doorway. Sam immediately wondered just how long he'd been listening. His face—his handsome politician's face—was set in that plastic mold of pleasantness that was really beginning to annoy her.

"Everyone having a good time?"

"You bet," Monte said, patting her cleavage like she was having heart palpitations.

"Good. Excellent."

"We're officially an item now, it seems." Sam smiled at Jack in an attempt to distract him, concerned he may have overheard Monte talking about him being a fine-assed white man.

And really, she wasn't lying. At that very moment, Jack was looking delicious in a pair of gray tweed pleated trousers and a black cashmere henley sweater. Everything the man had to offer—his big shoulders and arms, tapered waist, long and strong legs—was simultaneously showcased yet tastefully hidden. The dark sweater only highlighted his dark hair and contrasted with those sinful green eyes. Sam had to hand it to him. Jack Tolliver knew just what he was doing. Maybe being the sexiest thing your party had to offer was not just due to charisma and name recognition. Maybe raw, potent maleness and excellent taste in clothing played a small part as well.

Hell. She'd vote for him.

Jack smiled at Monte, then locked his eyes on Sam. "Yes, we're a hit. Reporters have been calling all day. Kara's doing the 'no comment' thing for the time being, which will only make them hotter for the story."

Sam drew her gaze away from Jack to check on the kids. Dakota was hanging on to the side of the pool, as he splashed with his little feet, watching Jack with fierce concentration. The big kids were treading water at the other end.

"How long will she keep saying, 'No comment'?" Sam asked.

Jack waved amiably to the teenagers down at the deep end. They waved back and called out their hellos.

"The filing deadline is the first of February. Kara and I think that for maximum fund-raising impact, I need to declare by the beginning of January, in about two weeks. I'm scheduled to appear at the grand opening for the zoo's new dolphin aquarium, and we thought it would be good if you and the kids were there with me."

"Now, how about that?" Monte pushed herself up off the lounge and busied herself folding towels and lining up the kids' gym shoes, humming to herself. Sam knew all too well that when Monte piddled around and hummed, it meant she was biting her tongue. Sam had seen her do it a thousand times at the salon.
Just keep on biting
, she pleaded silently.

"So, you got a ring?"

Sam shut her eyes in embarrassment at Monte's question. When she opened them, it appeared that Jack and her friend were in the middle of some kind of staring contest.

"A ring." Jack chuckled softly and ran a hand through his hair.

"There ain't no ring," Monte whispered to Sam, giving her neck a series of sassy back-and-forths.

Sam was just about to offer Monte cash money to keep her comments to herself when Monte moved her accusatory stare back to Jack.

"How's a woman supposed to convince the world that she's engaged if there's no rock on her finger? You know that a man in your position would be giving his woman something real big and real sparkly, and we're not talking no Diamonique."

Jack moved to the edge of a pool side dining table and leaned against it with casual grace, sending Sam a guilty smile.

Monte started up again. "Now, what's that rule of thumb? A man should spend two months' salary on the engagement ring?" She patted the neatly arranged stack of towels, clearly enjoying the hell out of herself.

Jack's laugh surprised Sam. It was deep and warm and most definitely not the response Sam was expecting. With relief, she laughed right along with him.

"Thanks for that suggestion, Ms. McQueen." Jack's deep green eyes shimmered with amusement. "But seeing that I'm currently unemployed and not earning a salary of any kind whatsoever, I'm not sure that works to Sam's benefit."

"You know that's not right," Monte replied.

"We'll come up with something." Jack straightened and walked toward the shallow end of the pool, where he knelt near Dakota, who looked up at him with wet curls and a big smile.

"Hi, Mr. Jack."

"Hey, little guy. How's the water?"

"It's good in here! I can swim! Wanna see me swim?" Before Jack could answer, Dakota was flailing his limbs wildly, his diaper-encased bottom bobbing to the surface as he splashed water all over Jack.

"Oh jeesh! Sorry!" Sam was out of her lounge chair and at poolside in a flash, handing Jack a towel. She watched him wipe off his face, surprisingly unperturbed. He stayed kneeling.

"That's some powerful swim stroke you got there, Dakota Benjamin."

Dakota clung to the pool edge again, breathing like he'd just completed an Olympic event. He beamed up at Jack. "I'm a good swimmer. Did you see?"

"I did see." Jack stood with a wince of pain. He looked down at Sam and gave her a small smile. "Thanks for the towel."

She stood with her bare feet riveted to the slip-proof flooring, staring up into Jack's gaze. The agitated water reflected upon his green irises, making it appear that he was sparkling from the inside. She took the towel from him, and the tips of his fingers grazed her hand.

Did his knee still bother him? For the first time, it dawned on Sam that Jack might still be in pain from his football injury. Greg had said that it had been nasty and footage of that fateful sack still showed up on sports highlight shows every now and then. Greg said it took six surgeries and four years before Jack could walk without a brace.

"Kara says she wants us to go out for dinner tonight. Do you think everyone will be OK by themselves for a few hours?"

"Oh, I'll be happy to stick around," Monte interjected, though no one was talking to her. "You two kids go on out and enjoy yourselves."

Sam shot her a warning glance, hoping to God that Monte saw she meant business. "Absolutely, Jack," she said brightly. "Where are we going? What does Kara want me to wear?"

Unless Sam was mistaken, Jack's eyes suddenly flashed with a sparkle that had nothing to do with the reflection from the pool. Then he dragged his gaze from her neck down to her toes and back up again before looking her in the eye. She'd just felt that gaze on every inch of her skin. She felt her cheeks burn, but there was nothing she could do to stop the blush.

"St. Elmo Steak House. So something dressy casual would be fine."

"Great. I haven't been there in years."

"Hmmph," Monte said from behind them. "I never did understand what 'dressy casual' is supposed to mean. You supposed to wear flip-flops with your evening gown or something?"

Sam blinked, plotting exactly how she'd strangle Monte the first chance she got. "Sounds fine, Jack. What time would you like me to be ready?"

"Seven, if that works for you."

Sam was still recovering from the obvious way he'd been checking her out, and her voice might have been a little too chipper when she said, "I work for you, so seven works for me!"

Sam watched, fascinated, as a brief frown of confusion marred Jack's otherwise agreeable expression. He then lowered his gaze to his shoes and shoved his hands in his pockets before he looked up at her again. The frown—and whatever thought had caused it—had passed.