The Property of a Lady (7 page)

Genie watched from beneath her lashes as Cal strode from the bar. He looked fit, she thought; no Washington paunch from too many expensive business lunches and political dinner parties.

She knew Cal Warrender was considered a “catch” in the Washington social and marriage market. He was the right age, unattached, good-looking, and straight. He was tall, with steady reddish-brown eyes, springy dark hair, and the kind of tight, well-muscled body women liked to touch. And he was a man reputed to be very much on his way up. What more could any conniving society hostess want for her party? Or any woman for a husband? But Genie had a sneaky feeling that work was first in Cal’s priorities. Like her, he loved his job.

She assessed the company in the bar, recognizing the stringer for Spain’s
Hola
magazine and a couple of very chic Frenchwomen she had noticed at the auction, as well as a few other half-familiar faces of the kind that didn’t interest her because they were merely social. Let’s face it, she told herself with a sigh, you too are a political animal—and just as ambitious as Cal Warrender.

Her eyes narrowed as she studied the back view of the tall blond man sitting at the bar.
Valentin Solovsky
. What was
he
doing here? She hadn’t noticed him at the auction—and yet what other reason would he have for being in Geneva? No UN committees were in session, and she would have known if there were any meetings important
enough for his presence. Besides, there was plenty going on in Washington to keep Russia’s cultural attache busy. Today, for instance, the Kirov Ballet was to perform at the Kennedy Center. The President himself was to attend and the Russian embassy was throwing an elaborate party to which the entire diplomatic corps had been invited. It was one of the highlights of the cultural calendar.
So if Solovsky was in Geneva instead of Washington, he had a very important reason. And so did Cal Warrender!

Her shaking hand sent the ice tinkling as she put down her glass. My God, she thought, then the rumors
are
true. Russia and America
are
fighting for possession of the Ivanoff emerald—at any price. But
why?
And
why
had they let someone else beat them to it? Could there really be billions in the Swiss banks? Was that what they were after? Then what about the other whispers, that there was something else they all wanted? Smoothing her black skirt, she stood up. There was only one way to find out. As she walked from the bar and across the hall to the restaurant, she was uncomfortably aware of Valentin Solovsky’s speculative dark eyes following her.

“Hi.” She flashed Cal a suddenly friendly smile as she stopped by his table. “Mind if I take you up on that offer to join you? It’s kind of lonesome being stranded in a snowstorm. All alone in a foreign country … you know what I mean?”

“I sure do.” He leapt to his feet as the maître d’ pulled back the table and she slid into the banquette next to him.

The waiter filled Genie’s glass with champagne. She picked it up and raised it in a mock toast. “Celebrating?” she asked innocently.

Cal grinned. “Now that
you
are here, I am.”

She propped her elbows on the table and leaned toward him. “Oh, come clean, Cal,” she whispered seriously.
“You
bought that emerald today, didn’t you?”

He clasped his hand to his chest in mock-horror. “Why would I do a thing like that? Anyway, I couldn’t afford it
on a White House salary. I’m only a poor kid from New Jersey.”

Their eyes locked and she said, “You bought it on behalf of the U.S. government. The rumors are true after all.”

He shrugged nonchalantly. “You’ve got the wrong guy, Genie, and the wrong rumor.”

“Oh, let’s talk about it later,” she said, pushing-her hair from her face with a nervous gesture. “I’ve had a hard day and I’m starving.” She looked at the elaborate menu and sighed. “I’m incapable of making any more decisions. What I’d really like is comfort food, ribs and fries—at Monty’s.”

The waiter looked pained and Cal laughed. “Why don’t you let me order for you?” He spoke to the waiter quickly, then turned back to her on the banquette. Their eyes met. Nice eyes, she told herself, like a red setter’s—no, the comparison was unfair. Sure, they were the same color, but his were shrewd.
And
she’d bet they could be hard when he wanted. She shivered suddenly. There was something about Cal Warrender that warned her he could be a tough adversary.

“I think you’ll find the food comforting enough,” he said lightly, “but I promise you I’ll take you to Monty’s when we get back to Washington.”

“Monty’s is in L.A. It used to be my favorite place when I was a kid.” She sighed. “It’s a pity our expectations of pleasure have to change when we grow up … from ribs and fries to oysters and truffles, milk shakes to champagne.”

“Oh, I don’t know, it’s not a bad swap….”

They laughed and he patted her hand encouragingly. “I’ll tell you a secret. You look more upset than I do, and I’m the guy who didn’t get the emerald.”

“You’re kidding!” Her eyes widened with astonishment as she stared at him. “Then who did?”

Cal shrugged, nodding in the direction of the door. “Maybe our friend Solovsky?” he suggested.

“Then it is true,” she murmured, watching as the Russian made his way through the restaurant to a table opposite them, in direct view but too far away to overhear. Solovsky bowed to them before taking his seat.

“I don’t know about true, but I’ll tell you something else strange,” Cal said. “Solovsky is alone.” Her eyebrows rose in a question and he explained, “Important Russians are never alone, there’s always someone hovering behind them to make sure they don’t pass on any secrets or defect to the West—and someone else behind the watcher to make sure
he
doesn’t defect. For a man of Valentin Solovsky’s prominence, to be alone is very strange indeed. I wonder how he got rid of the two guys in the bar.”

“Probably told them he was having a sandwich from room service and then sneaked in here alone for a feast,” she replied with a grin. “I’ll bet he couldn’t stand the sight of them any longer.”

Cal laughed, watching as she slid an oyster down her throat, closing her eyes with pleasure.

“I don’t know about Valentin,” she said, “but now
I’m
happy.” She glanced at the Russian. “I thought in the bar he looked a bit gloomy, but then Russians are, aren’t they? It’s a characteristic of their race.”

Her glance lingered on Solovsky as he studied his menu. He had a fascinating face, so romantic-looking, all planes and angles with deep-set gray eyes and thick, smooth, dark-blond hair. And that passionate-looking mouth…. He glanced up suddenly, catching her eye, and she felt herself blush, as if he could read her thoughts.

“I’ll tell you something,” she said quickly to Cal. “He looks like a movie star. I’d expect to see him starring with Garbo in
Ninotchka
. Put him up for President of Russia and
glasnost
will flourish! At least, it will among the female population of the U.S.”

The waiter poured more champagne and Cal said interestedly,
“So you’re a California girl? The kind the Beach Boys had us all dreaming about?”

She shrugged. “California is lousy with tall, tanned, great-looking blondes. That’s why I left,” she added with a grin. “The competition was too tough. Yes, I’m Los Angeles born and bred. No, I wasn’t a cheerleader. Yes, I do play a good game of tennis. And no, I do not want to go back.”

Cal took a bite of delicious walnut bread. “Your family still out there?”

“My parents were divorced, I never knew my father. Mom died a few years ago.” She shrugged again. “There’s no real reason to go back. Home, you might say, is now the place I hang my hat—and that seems to be Washington.”

Her face had softened with sadness as she talked of her mother. Cal thought she must have been a very pretty little girl, every mother’s dream child, blond, blue-eyed, beautiful, and bright. “No eyes for New York?” he asked, “Big-time anchorperson, six o’clock news, top interviews, Barbara Walters …?”

She laughed. “I’m like you, politics is my game. I’m hooked on the White House and diplomatic missions and cover-ups in high places—sex and scandal in the seat of power. To me, Washington is as glamorous and exciting as Paris. Besides, I’ve got this great little house on N Street in Georgetown, right next door to one of Washington’s ritziest society hostesses. Of course she has eight bedrooms and a butler to take her tiny poodle for a walk and I only have one bedroom and a very large dog I have to pay a walker to exercise, but I live vicariously. I get to watch her guests arriving and I notice who leaves with whom. I’m no dummy,” she added with a wicked grin. “I’m the first to know if a scandal is brewing. It usually begins right on my doorstep.”

“Your family have money?” he asked, sampling the salmon approvingly.

She shook her head. “No money, at least not all the time. Mom worked every now and again. She was an actress. Sometimes there was a lot—sometimes nothing.”

They paused, forks in hand, looking at each other, liking what they saw. “And you?” she prompted. “What about your life?”

“Born in the Bronx, parents sold the house for a parking lot and made enough to move out to Fort Lee, New Jersey—their decision, not mine! I was a bright kid, I worked hard and got myself into Bronx High—one of the best schools on the East Coast. From there to Harvard—political science, and then the Kennedy School of Government. The rest you probably know.”

She nodded. “Okay. And now will the real Cal War-render please stand up?” He stared at her with surprised red-setter eyes.

“I mean, now I’ve heard your résumé …
but who are you?
Where do you live? What do you do when you are not at the White House? What do you like? What do you hate? What is the most important thing in your life—apart from politics, that is?” She waited for a moment and then added softly, “Is there a special woman?”

Cal looked at her in silence. “Oh, come on,” she murmured, “imagine we are in a Somerset Maugham novel, two strangers, stranded together in a storm, the only thing to keep them amused their life stories….” He was smiling now and she breathed a little sigh of relief; she wouldn’t want him to think that she was just a nosy TV reporter, snooping for a story.

“No
special
woman,” he said, “I just don’t have the time. Not that I would say no if someone ‘special’ ever came my way.”

His grin was engaging and she laughed. “That’s called ‘having your cake and eating it.’ I know, because I’m like you, just too busy.”

“I heard you were an honest woman,” he said, raising
his glass in a toast. “To the special people who never come our way.”

“What motivates you, Cal?” she asked, sipping her champagne. “What makes a politician? Are you born to the role, like an artist or a musician? Or is it an acquired talent?”

He looked at her for a moment, deciding he liked her style. He said, “Now I see what makes you a good reporter. You know the right questions to ask to make your subject open up—and you put them in such a charming and flattering way, they can’t refuse to answer. I can’t claim to have ‘talent,’ but I guess I’ve always been a political animal. I came from a family where politics were always discussed—usually heatedly—over supper, and maybe breakfast and lunch too.

“But I made my decision early in life—I was just a kid, seven years old when my parents took me on a visit to Washington. They wanted me to see the capital, ‘to feel the seat of power,’ my dad said, and I remember how dazzled I was by the wide avenues and stately columned buildings. I thought it must be as grand a city as Paris. I’ve never changed my mind. It still gives me a buzz to remember that kid from the Bronx touring the White House with his mom and dad, remembering the first stirrings of political ambition. I just knew I wanted to be part of it. I wanted to be there, in the White House where the decisions were made, I wanted to help—even on the lowest level. I would have been a mail boy—anything, to get through those doors. Me and a million others, I guess,” he added with a grin. “Only I did something about it and for me, politics still beats selling junk bonds or making movies as the most exciting business in the world.”

“I envy your single-mindedness,” she said admiringly. “Everyone says you are destined for the top.”

He shrugged. “Maybe. There’s a lot of game-playing in that town. I’m not too happy about it, but it seems to go along with the job.”

“They say you’re one of that rare breed—an honest politician,” she said provocatively.

“I hope so,” he replied seriously. “And now, what motivates
you
, Genie Reese?”

She thought for a moment, then said, “I’m not sure. Maybe to prove myself to my mom, even though she’s dead. She had such a hard time, just never seemed to get it right…. I guess I want to make it for both of us.”

He looked at her sympathetically, thinking it seemed a very sad reason for success. “Atonement for your mother’s sins?” he asked.

She smiled ruefully. “Nothing as grand as that.” They looked at each other in silence until she said briskly, “And you? What
else
motivates your famous ambition?”

“famous
ambition?”

She laughed at his surprise, “Surely you know that you are ‘a man dedicated to his job—a true political animal, possible future presidential material’? Don’t you read your own press cuttings, Mr. Warrender?”

She pushed a hand through her long hair and said with a laugh, “Tell me, where do you live? No, let me guess … Watergate.”

“How did you know?”

“Easy. A political bachelor needs a place with easy access to government offices and the White House,
and
somewhere where he is looked after. Watergate fits the bill—maid service, laundry service, restaurants on the premises for the odd meal alone, smart shops for a quick purchase of a new shirt or tie….”

“And not too far from your place,” he countered, laughing. “Maybe you’ll ask me in for a home-cooked meal sometime. That’s one thing a Washington bachelor never gets—all the dinner parties are catered.”