Thirty-Nine

The 747 began to judder and shake slightly as the wheels lifted off the tarmac.

Poppy settled back in her seat and tried to focus. She was heading to New York for the weekend. She’d told Joel she had urgent family business, but the truth was she just needed to be out of L.A. And out of touch.

Betrayal.

Poppy could hear those voices still. Kate’s awkward pleasantries: “Yeah, Joel told us about the new arrangements. Sounds pretty good, like some other band will be lucky enough to have you working with them, Poppy…”

“You don’t want me working with you?” Poppy demanded.

“Seems like a waste to have you and Joel, ya know…”

The acid in her stomach had started to seethe. Kate had never wanted Poppy, not really, not from the first moments she’d talked to the act. She’d always wanted Joel, Poppy suddenly realized, with a flash of insight.

Poppy had been second best.

“Do the rest of the band feel that way?”

“Yeah,” Kate mumbled.

“Even Molly? Let me talk to Molly.”

“Sure, hold on.” Poppy heard Kate covering the receiver with her hand, heard muffled girls’ voices. Then Kate again, still awkward. “Um, Molly just stepped out for a second, she can call you back in a little while…”

Poppy closed her eyes for a heartbeat. When she opened them, Joel was still there, sitting in front of her, with a look that said “I told you so.”

“No,” Poppy said, “no need, hon. I think this will work out wonderfully for Silver Bullet. Joel will help you guys to the next level.”

A small, thin smile from her boss.

“It’s not like you’re never gonna see us again, or something, is it?” Kate asked brightly.

“Hmmm,” Poppy said, making a non-committal grunt. “Later, OK?”

She had hung up, bright spots of color high on her cheekbones.

Joel Stein chuckled. “Honey, don’t take it so personally. You really are a greenhorn. Bands aren’t your friend, they’re your client. First lesson.”

“A good one,” Poppy said grimly.

“Second lesson.” Stein waved the piece of paper. “A couple of successes does not make you Tom Zutaut, sugar. I hired you to be smart and inventive. You’ve delivered. You’re gonna get a bonus. But Dream is my company and I divide up the roster. Always remember that.” He shook his head. “I’m not looking for a partner, but you keep going like this, you could wind up my number two. And be very well rewarded.”

“I’d like to take a vacation,” Poppy said on impulse. “I got some family business to deal with…”

She’d spun him the story and he’d accepted it. Why not? Poppy thought bitterly. You win a major victory, you can afford to toss the loser a bone.

*   *   *

“Ladies and gentlemen, welcome to Continental Airlines Flight Forty-one to JFK.”

The man next to her was sarcastically mouthing the words of the loudspeaker announcement under his breath. He suddenly looked at Poppy.

“Oh, I’m sorry.” It was a rich Southern accent, which slightly surprised her, because the man was so urbane; wearing a discreet tailored suit, very expensive—probably from Europe—handmade shoes, and a plain gold watch. He was older, with salt-and-pepper hair and blue eyes and a square jaw. Muscular, too; good-looking, Poppy decided, in an ultimate capitalist pig-type way.

The voice sounded as though it belonged to someone with a Stetson and cowboy boots. “It’s a bad habit. I can’t stand that yapping. Cruising at thirty-five thousand feet—who cares. You know?”

Poppy nodded, smiled at him. “I’m Poppy Allen.”

“Henry LeClerc.”

The name sounded faintly familiar, but she couldn’t place it.

“You looked kind of upset, if you’ll pardon the intrusion. Don’t like to fly?”

“It’s not that. It’s business,” Poppy said.

He chuckled. “Business?”

Poppy frowned. “Why is that funny?”

“You look too young to be in business,” he said, frankly. “You look like you should be in college.”

His eyes were dark blue, very confident.

“I’m flying business class,” Poppy pointed out.

“So do lots of rich kids.”

Arrogant sod, she decided. “Well, it’s not like that. I work in a business with … a global reach.”

“Ah,” he said. “So do I, I suppose.”

Poppy didn’t like his tone. “People think you can’t do shit because you’re young. But that’s bull. Alexander conquered the whole world before he was thirty.”

LeClerc grinned. “I’m sure I try not to underestimate the young, ma’am.”

“Champagne?”

A flight attendant was hovering, one of the prettier ones. She was made up to the nines, and she was staring at LeClerc with an incredibly submissive air and a brilliant smile. She ignored Poppy.

“I’ll take some champagne,” Poppy said. She had paid plenty for this seat.

“How old are you, miss?”

Poppy flushed. “Twenty-three. OK?”

The woman looked skeptical.

“You can serve this young lady,” LeClerc said softly.

The flight attendant instantly handed Poppy a crystal flute of champagne. “There you go, ma’am. Sorry for the misunderstanding. And for you, Congressman?”

Poppy blinked.

“I’ll just take an orange juice,” he said.

*   *   *

It was a bumpy flight, but Poppy took no notice of it. She felt like she was fighting a rearguard action, trying to get back a little dignity.

“So I’m stuck with a politician,” she remarked when they served the food.

“Afraid so.” He waved away the lunch tray.

“Congressmen don’t eat?”

“Not that swill.” LeClerc reached into his carry-on luggage and brought out a small, elegant silver box, monogrammed with his initials. “I do too much flying. I insist on eating decent food.” He flipped open the box. Inside was a ripe peach with a heavenly scent, a small tin of Sevruga caviar, some fresh blinis, and a set of sandwiches, very thin brown bread, smoked salmon, and lemon slices.

“Take some. I insist.”

“Absolutely not,” she said, but her mouth was watering.

He opened the tin of caviar, spooned a little on to a blini. “Open your mouth.”

She did. It was heavenly.

“Tell me about your business problem,” LeClerc said.

So she did. She spilled her guts. But he seemed to be taking her seriously, and he was a congressman. Poppy told herself it was flattering, and not just because he was a good-looking guy old enough to be her father.

“Resign.”

“Resign? But this is one of the biggest management firms around. What am I gonna do, move to New York and work for Q-Prime?”

“Start your own firm.”

“But I don’t have any acts,” Poppy objected.

LeClerc shrugged. “Find some. You did before. Now you’re a proven quantity, to some extent. It seems to me that you’re always going to be wanting more than a boss will give you. Only one thing for it: start your own firm.”

Poppy considered it. Starting up with Silver Bullet would have been perfect, but she would pretty much have nothing. And she was barely old enough for this champagne. But it wasn’t totally unheard of. Ron Lafitte managed Megadeth and he was, like, twenty-five. The thought was terrifying. And somewhat exciting.

“That takes a lot of work, lot of contacts…”

“Lot of guts.” LeClerc looked at her. “Course, y’all can make excuses, take the bonus, manage Headway…”

“Highway.”

“Or you can make up your mind now to do what needs to be done.”

“You’re very annoying,” Poppy said mutinously.

“So the Democrats are always telling me.” LeClerc inclined his head slightly.

“You’re a Republican,” Poppy said, disapprovingly.

“Yes. Low taxes, low spending. Strong defense.”

“Militaristic build-up, no education spending…”

“Interested in politics?”

“Not really,” Poppy said. “But I’m a Democrat. I believe in a woman’s right to choose.”

“I believe in a baby’s right to life,” he answered, not in the least perturbed.

“Doesn’t anything faze you?” Poppy demanded.

LeClerc considered it a moment. “Losing,” he said. “That’s why I don’t do it.”

She felt a small thrill of admiration and interest. Something she hadn’t had for a long time, at least it seemed like a long time. Since her last bastard musician. Crazy! LeClerc wasn’t her type. He was about fifteen years older than her. And a Southern gentleman. And his hair was a military cut. There was not a rock ’n’ roll bone in this guy’s body.

“Don’t look at me like that,” LeClerc said, softly.

“Like what?” Poppy blushed.

“You know like what, miss.”

“My name’s Poppy.”

What the fuck are you doing? LeClerc asked himself. She’s a child … all right, with those tits and that body, not a child, but come on … he was thirty-eight. And in politics. His staff would not like this at all. A leather-jacketed coed in a T-shirt with a skull on it.

“So.” He heard himself say it. He couldn’t help it. “Where are you staying in New York?”

*   *   *

What the blue hell am I doing? Henry LeClerc asked himself.

At that moment, he was sitting up in bed in a suite at the exclusive and, more importantly, very discreet Victrix hotel in midtown Manhattan. The reddened light of early dawn was spilling through the bay windows; his balcony, fringed in climbing roses, a fragrant spray of blossoming pink, beckoned invitingly; the immaculate Louis XIV-style furniture of the suite was covered in clothes, strewn where they had been ripped off last night; and, nestled in the white silk Pratesi sheets of his incredibly huge and comfortable bed, was a girl. A girl barely old enough to drink. A rock chick, for God’s sakes. And the most incredible lay he’d ever had in his life.

LeClerc found the situation disturbing.

Very disturbing.

He hardly wanted to move, because then she’d wake up. The congressman from Louisiana shook his head. Why was this bothering him?

Henry LeClerc was used to women. Even the occasional woman as young as this one. All of them achingly beautiful, too; nothing remarkable about that. LeClerc had had women throw themselves at him since he was thirteen. The only son of an old Bayou family, he had lost his father when he was twelve, which had meant that Henry had grown up master of a crumbling mansion, supporter of his mother, and sole guardian, as his white-gloved, incredibly proper mamma never failed to remind him, of the LeClerc family tradition.

He’d been forced to grow up fast, and that had given him confidence.

White Gables, his family home, was Henry’s first love. It didn’t die on him like his daddy, and it didn’t have a never-to-be-mentioned drinking problem like his mamma. Unfortunately, the house had its own problems. The “romantically” crumbling facade had plenty of ailments, including termites and rot from the wet, soupy Louisiana air; and while he labored to fix them, he also had to find a way to pay off the government tax liens which threatened to take away the place his own granddaddy had been born in.

Henry LeClerc hadn’t cried about it, whined about it, or even talked about it. He’d just set himself to fixin’ it.

The years of struggle formed LeClerc into the most independent young man for miles, and the girls loved it. Even the bureaucrats in Balieu, Louisiana, had to respect the serious, intense young man that turned up in the County Assessor’s office with a business plan. He called everybody “sir,” he wore a suit, and he argued persuasively that historic buildings should be cherished by the town of Balieu, not forced into condemnation. He wanted a deal on the tax.

“How old are you, son?” the Assessor asked.

“Fourteen, sir,” LeClerc said.

The older man didn’t ask where Henry’s daddy was. It was a small town, everybody knew already. Instead, he thought of his own kid, getting high all the time and growing his hair long and listening to the Stones.

He signed the papers. LeClerc kept the house.

He also got interested in the law. He needed money, so he took a job as a paralegal in Balieu. Saving his wages, he invested in the stock market. LeClerc was quiet and savvy. He put himself through law school, graduated, and became the youngest-ever partner in Davies & Polk, New Orleans’s largest law firm.

Money had been his drive, his focus. And he’d made a ton of it. LeClerc drove an imported Rolls-Royce, wore tailored suits, tipped his hat to ladies in the street; he was a real Southern gentleman, a relic of a bygone age.

Everybody adored him. Men wanted to drink with him—bourbon on the rocks; women wanted to marry him, or, at least, to bed him. But LeClerc had not been easy to catch. He remembered his parents’ unhappy marriage from his childhood, and the idea of having somebody else messing with White Gables—it was deeply distasteful. Plus, he wanted a lady. Not a modern, go-getting, money-hungry career chick. Not somebody who’d sleep with him at the drop of a hat.

LeClerc was a big figure in Louisiana. He did pro bono work for the Historical Society; he had personally saved sixteen of the state’s beautiful old mansions and estates from disrepair, graffiti, and the death tax, preserving the culture. It had been a very short hop from man-about-town to the Honorable Gentleman from Louisiana. The Republicans had recruited him, and they thought they had a star.

They were talking senator now. An old, incumbent, yellow-dog Democrat was retiring. They had LeClerc all groomed for the slot.

He wanted it. Senator. Then governor. Then, who knew how high Henry LeClerc could rise?

But soon the senator-to-be, they had told him, drawing him aside in various oak-paneled club rooms thick with pungent cigar smoke, would need a wife.

Somebody pretty, feminine, ladylike, and inoffensive. Somebody with a manicure and white gloves, like his mamma. A lady who would not smoke, drink, swear, or, obviously, work …

Poppy stirred in his bed. Her glorious, heavy breasts, firm and dusky, sprinkled with a sexy dusting of freckles, moved with her silky café-au-lait skin. The tiny gold Star of David she wore around her slender neck glittered in the morning sunlight.

A twenty-something career girl. A Jewish girl. And a Democrat.

What the hell had he been thinking? Well, no matter. He’d given her a roll in the hay; that wasn’t exactly the same as proposing.

So why did this feel different?

Poppy opened those spectacular, wolf-blue eyes and stared up at him, and Henry LeClerc caught his breath in his throat. Goddammit, she was beautiful.

“Good morning,” he said.

“Isn’t it?” Poppy replied.

Oh, shit, Henry, LeClerc thought. You’re in trouble now, boy.