Another Notch in the Beltway (6 page)

She watched him go, then turned back to Maxwell, her own eyes stormy and her voice cold. “All right, for the fourth time, what do you want?”

“Jack is sick, he has multiple myeloma and needs a bone marrow transplant.”

“I'm sorry to hear that,” she said, meaning it and not breaking eye contact.

“The best chance of a donor is a sibling. Carter most likely would have been a match, but I'm sure you heard he died several years ago.”

She sat impassive, gaze never wavering.

“Nate may be a match, even though he and Jack do not share the same mother.”

Lenore waited him out with barely suppressed anger. Jack was only a month younger than Nate. Maxwell had told her when they first got involved that his marriage was over and he'd not had “intimate relations” with his wife since she became pregnant with his first son. When he told her his wife was pregnant again, she remembered asking him exactly what his definition of intimate relations was. She never did get a sufficient answer from him. It was the last time she'd ever seen him.

All of their communications after that went through Morris and her attorney. Thank goodness she was not so besotted with him that she didn't take precautions to protect herself and unborn child. At the time, Lenore told her attorney, “He fucked me once, and he won't do it again.” She certainly wouldn't let him fuck her son.

“Lenore, would you ask Nate to be tested to see if he's a match?”

“No.”

“No?”

“I said no. I don't believe I stuttered. You want him to be tested—you ask him. I'll be more than happy to be present at the meeting, in fact, I insist on it. You have no idea how many times he's asked me who his father was. I told him I didn't know, but he didn't buy that.”

“Really, if you carried on the way I found you—”

Byron Maxwell was suddenly reeling backwards. The full force of her open palm had slammed into the side of his still too pretty, too smug face.

She was on her feet pointing to the door.

“Get out of here, you bastard. Yes, that would be you and not my unacknowledged son.”

Maxwell stared at her, a hand absently stroking the cheek she had so ruthlessly slapped.

“I said get out of here. Now!”

MP entered the room. “The lady asked you to leave. I will remove you by force if I need to.”

“I'm sorry,” Byron said under his breath, turned, and left.

Michael Patrick followed Byron out and made sure the door was locked this time. When he returned to the office he found Lenore, arms wrapped protectively around her waist, staring out the window.

He wasn't sure if he should go to her but figured if she didn't want or need him, she'd tell him to go.

MP enveloped her from behind and kissed the side of her face. “You okay?”

“I think so.”

“Guy was jealous, that's why he acted that way,” MP said.

“I haven't seen or spoken to him in almost twenty-one years.”

“He was still jealous. I know. I'm a man. Maybe he liked to think that you'd never get over him.”

“It's not that I haven't gotten over him, but his treatment of me when I got pregnant pretty much colored my life and my relationships.”

“Yet you write beautiful romance.”

“Set in another century, on another continent, with people real or imagined, long dead.”

He let that be and instead asked, “I take it that was Nate's father?”

“Yes.”

“Want to talk about it? I'm a good listener.”

“Maybe in a little while. I've never talked about it with anyone, so I don't take it lightly.”

“Nor do I,
mo chuisle
, nor do I.”

“What does it mean? The word you called me; it sounds lovely and Gaelic.”

He smiled gently at her, “That's because it is. It means my love or my darling.” Its literal meaning was
my breath
, but he wasn't ready to share that yet. It had already been a crazy enough day for her.

She turned to smile at him, “That's nice. I like it.”

He ran his thumb across her bottom lip, “I'm glad. So you're not expecting any more crazy men, are you? You told me I was scarlet; what color are you?”

She couldn't help but laugh. “Usually a shade above pale yellow.”

“I find that hard to believe. I see you as teal green, I think, rich, warm, and intricate.”

“See, you are a charmer, Mr. Finnegan, a definite scarlet.”

“How about we get out of here for a bit? I'll take you to lunch at that charming inn by the Delaware River.”

“Maybe another day. How about I cook for us?”

“Sure, I don't think I knew you cooked.”

“Hmm, where do you think all those cookies you devour come from?”

“You make them, homemade? I always thought they came from the bakery in town. That Addy picked them up.”

“Nope, it was I.”

“You make them for me?” he inquired hopefully.

“I like to cook for anyone who enjoys my food, so I suppose the answer is yes.”

He beamed at her.

“Let's go; I'll make lunch.”

****

The kitchen was bright with the early afternoon sun and made Lenore feel better. Not so chilled to the bone. MP seated himself at the counter and watched her move about the kitchen.

“Any foods you're allergic to or absolutely despise?”

“Calves' liver, hate it.” He wrinkled his nose in disgust to make the point.

“Me too, so you're safe on that account. How about some Parmesan-encrusted tilapia and wild mushroom risotto?”

“I think I'm in love.”

“The way to a man's heart is through his stomach.”

“I don't think we're quite that simple,” he mused. “I know it's early, but do you have some wine?”

“It's after twelve; wine would be good. There's a wine cooler behind the bar in the lower level; choose whatever you like. One side has white and the other has red.”

“Any preference?”

“None.”

What was happening to her? Lenore silently questioned herself. She was letting this man, a man she didn't know well get close to her. Closer than anyone had ever been, except maybe Byron Maxwell. Was she ready to do that? Was that why she wanted to write a contemporary romance? Was she ready to move into this century, on to this continent, with live people, maybe even herself?

“How about a Chardonnay?” he asked, bounding up the stairs.

Momentarily startled, she regrouped. “Sounds great.”

Oven going with the fish, pots and pans simmering with risotto ingredients, she took her glass of wine and sat on the counter stool next to him.

“Cheers.” She tapped her glass to his.

He leaned in and kissed her lightly.

Her eyes shimmered as she looked at the man facing her. She would tell him. Tell him what she'd told no one, not even her parents. Maybe it was time and, hopefully, she could trust him. Trust, risk, passion, lust, hope… love, wasn't that what she filled her books with? The road to get there was never easy in fiction or reality, but maybe it was time to give her heart another try.

He cocked his head to get her attention.

A slow grin crossed her lips. “Sorry, wool-gathering, I guess.”

“Back in the Victorian Era, are you?”

“People still use the term today. I've heard them.”

“Yes, people in your circle who write VR like you.”

“You're right. I never thought of that.”

“It's okay; I like it.”

She took his hand and laced her fingers through his. MP's hand was warm, strong, and confident; it made her feel the same when he squeezed hers.

“Byron Maxwell…” she started.

“Ahh, he does have a last name. I thought he was one of those famous people that only used one name.”

“Like Prince,” she laughed as a visual image of Byron singing “Little Red Corvette” flashed through her mind. “No, he's a legend in his own mind.”

He nodded.

“Maxwell is a four-term senator from Virginia. He was beginning his first reelection campaign when I met him. I was an intern in his Washington, D.C. office. Young, idealistic, with stars in my eyes, ripe for infatuation, hero worship, and lies.”

“You're being too hard on yourself.”

“I'm not, Michael Patrick. People, even his closest staff members, tried to warn me about him, but I knew better or thought I did.”

He ran his thumb over top of her knuckles. “If this is painful for you to recall, please don't put yourself though it on my account.”

“It's okay, the classic story of the older male and younger female. Byron is a conservative, prolife, anti-gay politician. But he is the biggest hypocrite who ever walked. Do you know what the first thing he said to me was when he found out I was pregnant?” She didn't wait for his response. “He told me to get rid of it. He didn't want it. He'd pay for the abortion, even have his senior staffer, Gerald Morris, drive me. On the campaign trail, he still preaches prolife. Prolife as long as an unwanted pregnancy doesn't affect his life.”

She got up to stir the risotto and check on the fish.

“I'm sorry, Lenore.”

“Please don't be sorry; it was my own fault and my own vanity that did me in. I wanted to think I was different, that I mattered. I knew the consequences of unprotected sex; I'm lucky I only got pregnant and not some sexually transmitted disease. I was smart enough to know how not to get myself into the predicament to begin with, so it is my fault.”

He looked at her across the counter top. Her face was set in a hard grimace. “You should cut yourself some slack for your youthful behavior. As far as I'm concerned, Maxwell took advantage of you and should be shot.”

“I let him take advantage of me.”

A sigh escaped his lips. “I'll set the table if you like.”

“That's nice, thanks.”

They agreed, at MP's suggestion, to suspend talk of her son's father until after lunch.

“No need to cause acid reflux.”

After lunch, Lenore and MP adjourned to her sunroom with the remainder of the wine.

Lenore stretched like a cat before sitting down on the couch. Her companion watched, wanting to run his hands over the slim band of creamy skin that appeared when she lifted her arms and her shirt rose above her waist. However, he decided to keep his hands to himself for the moment.

Had it not been for Maxwell showing up, he was hoping to make love with her or at least get off first base. But that would have to wait. He wanted making love to be about them, himself and herself, not Mr. Gray or Byron Maxwell. Although he'd been prepared to overlook John Irving, Maxwell could not be overlooked. He'd played too important a part in her life, in how she formed relationships with men. MP wanted to be the only man on her mind when they made love. He didn't want to share with memories of Maxwell. She'd obviously thought she loved him at one point.

He topped off their wine glasses and joined her on the couch.

Lenore spoke first. “I can't work up the energy to finish the sordid story of my relationship with Byron Maxwell at the moment. I haven't seen him in two decades, and the way he scared the shit out of us just walking in, I think I'm coming down from the adrenalin rush. All righteous anger has gone for the moment. Now I'm worried about my son and how all this may affect him.”

“Are you going to tell Nate about his father then?”

“I don't know. If Maxwell pursues the subject, he has the right to know. While we didn't get that far in the conversation, I could tell Byron expected me to talk Nate into getting tested.”

“The man is despicable, Lenore.”

“Yes, he is.”

Despite his deciding not to touch her, he took her hand and gave it a reassuring squeeze.

She looked down at their joined hands.

“Michael Patrick,” she said disengaging her hand from his.

“What is it,
mo chuisle
?” he asked gently, lifting her chin so that they looked into one another's eyes, sapphires to opals.

Her face was sad and cloudy as she replied, “I can't start something with you now, MP—”

He cut her off, “We started something the moment we met. You can't go back now.”

She shook her head. “I can't, MP. This, whatever this is, will be ugly.”

“All the more reason not to face it alone.”

“I can't—”

“You can and you will. I'm not faint of heart.”

She gave him a weak smile and ran a hand down the side of his face. “But I am.”

“No, you're not,” he said, taking her hand and kissing the center. “You've never had the right man in your life before.”

“You're that man, Michael Patrick?”

“I think I am, lass. Give me a chance. Give us a chance,” he said, a simple plea in his voice. He looked into her brimming eyes.

“See what you get? You came here today hoping to seduce me, Mr. Finnegan, and instead you walked into a soap opera.”

“No,
mo chuisle
. I walked into your life. Life is messy. I know that as well as anyone, better than some.”

“I suppose you do. But if this gets ugly—”

“I'll still be there. This isn't your doing, Lenore. It's Maxwell's.”

“I don't care about Maxwell or myself for that matter. I care about my son.”

“All the more reason for me to stick around and make sure you're safe. You see, I care about you.”

“I feel something for you, too, MP but the timing is all wrong.”

“You can always make excuses.”

“I wasn't going to. I was going to give you—us—my best shot. Maxwell isn't an excuse; he's a problem.”

“If two people can outmaneuver a problem in a love affair, it's us. Remember the formula, lass: hero, heroine, plot, obstacle, happily ever after.”