71

Kenna watched, almost—entertained, by the slideshow of emotions across Owen Lassiter’s face.

Disbelief. Confusion. Disgust. Fear?

Finally, he seemed to decide on derision. Laughing softly, he draped his suit jacket on a mahogany hanger, fastidiously adjusting the shoulders, taking time to straighten the lapels, setting it into a curved bracket of a wrought-iron stand by the door.

“It’s late. You’re tired. I’m sure you understand this is not amusing.” Owen’s voice was cool. “I’m not quite sure what your goal—”

Kenna interrupted, drinking it in. “Here’s the thing, Owen.” She drew out his name, dropping the title she’d always been careful to use. “You have a problem with women. Yes, indeed. Sadly. And your wife knows, of course. I suppose that’s why she’s been in hiding all this time. Soon, even more sadly, everyone will know.”

“Will know?” Owen looked at the door, at his desk, at the phone. “Are you—drunk? High? In one second, I’m calling security.”

“Our little fling was fun while it lasted, wasn’t it?” Kenna continued. He wasn’t calling anyone. And if he made a move against her, she was prepared to stop him. She gave her voice an edge of drama, as if reciting a movie plot. “I mean—you invited me to your hotels—I even took souvenirs from the presidential suites we shared.”

She reached into her pocket, pulled out a pink vial of body lotion labeled PRESIDENTIAL SUITE. Dangled it in front of him.

“I was so enamored with you. Rory knows how often we were together, of course. The hotel people, too. The room service I ordered for us. You were so loving, so charming. You said it would be just the two of us, as soon as you were elected and you could get rid of that silly social-climbing wife of yours. But now—it seems you were unfaithful to me, too. Taking up with that Holly person.”

Owen crossed his arms, brow furrowed, eyes narrowing. “Holly? Are you cra—? Who the hell is Holly?”

She held her expression, wide-eyed, lashes fluttering.

“Oh, gosh, I think you know. And when you dumped me for that little tramp, and then she turned up dead, well, I just couldn’t allow someone with your—shall we say—questionable morals to ascend to a seat in the highest echelons of government, now, could I? I mean, did she get in your way? What if you killed her? And what if I’m terrified that I’m next?”

Poor man. He was crumbling in confusion. It was all she could do not to laugh.

“So, there you have it,” she said. She pointed toward the phone with the lotion bottle. “Better call the secretary of state’s office. Her private phone number from your Rolodex is right there. Tell her you’re dropping out. Maybe—here’s a good one—say you want to spend more time with your family.”

“There’s just one phone call I’m going to make, Miss—,” Owen sputtered, brushing her off, wiping his palms as if to clear away her demands. “And that’s to security.”

She ignored him. “And oh, in case you have any second thoughts? Allow me to show you one more thing.” She drew a manila envelope from her black suede purse. Handed it to him. Smiled.

He sneered, dismissing it with one hand. “There’s nothing you can—”

“You think not?” She slid the photograph out of the envelope, slowly, slowly, teasing. Poor stupid Holly. Her plan hadn’t worked as she’d hoped, but it certainly played into Kenna’s hands. Matt had said Holly was nuts, anyway.

Kenna held the photo toward Owen. “We—Rory and I—found this in a book on your desk. Jane Ryland—the reporter?—knows all about it. And I know the inscription on this little gem by heart. ‘With fond memories of a lovely afternoon. Holly Neff.’”

She pretended to be perplexed. “And now she’s dead, correct? Do the police know about your relationship?”

This time Owen was silent. He smoothed his red-patterned tie. Did it again.

“So?” Kenna danced the photo at him, taunting. “The call?

Owen yanked the slick photograph from her, stared at it. “I’ve never seen this before. Absurd. Anyone could have— This is—extortion. Blackmail. Pitiful. And—”

“Oh, dear. Such ugly words. And the truth—gosh, whatever that is, will certainly come out. But probably not until after the election. Which you, no doubt, will lose. In humiliation, and embarrassment, and there’ll never be a time where someone won’t wonder—did he, really? And I’ll be long gone. So, fine, if you don’t want to drop out of the race, lovely. Your decision. However—”

“Kenna, you’re upset, you’ve misunderstood—something,” Lassiter interrupted. He put the picture down, then held up both palms, conciliatory. “Let’s talk this out. You’re not thinking clearly, you’re—”

She felt one curl slide onto her cheek, brushed it away. “Yes, I am. Thinking clearly. And, I should tell you, it’s not Kenna. It’s—Sarah.”

*   *   *

She wasn’t answering her cell. Matt couldn’t call the main campaign line—it was dark inside Lassiter headquarters, and he could see no one was there. But she had told him to arrive at a specific time. That was now. What was he missing?

And then he saw it.

A little white button in the metal siding of the door. He pushed it, heard a buzz, and after a second, the door clicked open. She was waiting for him. He was expected. It was all going as planned. He pushed the elevator button. Looked at his watch. Just after eleven.

He would make it in time.