The Candidate (Romantic Suspense) (The Candidate Series) (7 page)

“Dreamy,” was what Tess called him. Or was it Bess? Ben could never tell the roly-poly gray-haired sisters apart.

Like now, as one of them corralled some eager audience members for the Q&A lineup. Which twin was holding the mike? Not that it mattered. At that very moment, all that counted was the adoration for Andy in the participants’ eyes. 

The first one up, a bookstore employee named Cindy, was so awed and nervous that Ben winced as she wrangled with the squirming baby in her arms. “I work a full-time job, my husband works two. Still we can’t make ends meet! And none of our jobs offer healthcare for ‘part-time’ employees. Not to mention that the cost of food and gas just keeps going up! When do we become the priority of our government?”

A chorus of “Ahhhh” echoed through the theater as Andy took the child from its mother and rocked it on his shoulder. “Even in Kitty Hawk, the small town where I grew up, we knew our neighbors, and as a community we recognized that we were only as strong as those who were most in need. Of course back then we had a middle class. Today we have the haves and the have-nots. And yet, we can’t afford to ignore the needs of the many for the financial gains of the few. Cindy, that’s not my North Carolina. And that’s not my America. Nor is it yours.” 

Still cradling her child, Andy put an arm around Cindy. Through his earpiece, Ben heard Eddie shout “Fucking A! That’s the money shot...” In his mind’s eye, Ben could see the TV ad already. Andy’s closing comments made it all that much better: 

“Together we can change that, and restore the American dream—where every hardworking individual has the opportunity to achieve, to see their children’s dreams succeed. So the short answer to your question as to when you become your government’s priority: It’s my first day in the Oval Office.”

As one, the crowd jumped to its feet, but this time it stayed there, stomping and chanting “An-
dy
! An-
dy
! An-
dy
...”

Ben, too, chanted along with the crowd. Andy didn’t just woo potential voters. He inspired them. And he never sidestepped a hot issue with a pat answer. Instead he gave them the unvarnished truth, backed up by statistics that flowed easily off the tip of his tongue. 

Best yet, he did it standing side-by-side with them, looking them in the eye, letting them know that he was accessible. That he was one of them.

For the first time in over a decade, Ben actually
liked
one of his candidates. 

Chapter 12

The feeling was mutual. Ben found that out when they landed back in Washington and Andy asked if he’d join him for a late night drink at his favorite dive bar, a pool hall called Bedrock Billiards, to meet the men he called  “my brothers, the only guys I can trust.” 

The group was small but choice. Besides Paul Twist, who had already shed his very expensive Savile Row suit jacket and loosened his Armani tie, its only other member was a man Andy introduced as Fred Hanover. 

“Fred and I served together in the Marine Corps,” Andy explained. “We met during a six-month deployment to Iwakuni. I was his section leader. Now Fred is at Langley.” 

Bulky and slack-jawed, Fred could easily have passed as one of the dozen or so old school frat boys slouched over the pool hall’s vintage bright cherry leather barstools, watching the Capitols getting out-skated by the Hurricanes. Except for one thing: his eyes scanned the pool hall constantly, roaming over faces, taking in every random move. No doubt he had watched Ben as he got his bearings in the crowded, darkly lit room and maneuvered over to them. 

Ben immediately recognized Fred from the
Washingtonian
article on the Mansfields’ wedding: he was the redheaded groomsman who had stood beside Maddy. 

So now he’s CIA, thought Ben. 

After crunching Ben’s hand in his massive fist, Fred busied himself with racking balls for a game of Eight-Ball. In the meantime Paul signaled the waitress for a round of beers. 

She was adorable, a Kewpie doll with strawberry curls and a chest that filled out her tight black tee-shirt to the stretching point. By the way she batted her thick lashes at Andy, it was obvious that she recognized him. But other than a formal nod when she placed a Flying Dog on his coaster, he didn’t give her a second glance.

As she walked off, Fred elbowed Paul, who sighed, pulled out his wallet and handed over a dollar bill.

Ben raised an eyebrow. “What was that for?”

Fred chuckled. “No big deal. Just a little bet we have going. Andy attracts girls like a flower attracts bees. But I’ve yet to see him even look twice at another woman. Years ago Paul here was stupid enough to call my bluff. I’d say that, by the end of this election, I’ll have enough money to retire from my day job.”

Andy pretended to concentrate on his shot, but he smiled just the same. When the cue ball smacked into two striped balls, they hurdled off into separate corner pockets.

That a boy. Keep your eyes on the prize. 

Ben knew too many politicians whose tastes for bedfellows were both strange and insatiable. What was Abby’s hold over her husband, her bankability or her bedside manner? 

For whatever reason, she hadn’t been able to make the Las Vegas trip with them, so he hadn’t had an opportunity to observe her himself, let alone thank her for suggesting him for the job.

Feeling Ben’s eyes on him, Andy laughed. “You seem positively relieved, Brinker. Hey, I don’t blame you, after what you’ve been through.” He tossed Ben the cue stick. “What can I say? Abby is one in a million. I don’t know what I ever did to deserve her. I mean, look at all she’s doing so that I get elected. With all I know about this rotten world, I guess I’m a fool to run.” He looked Ben straight in the eye. “But Abby believes—and I do, too—that we can save this planet before we push it to the point of no return. It’s why we have to win.” 

Ben shrugged. “Global warming, the environment—they’re all great campaign issues—”

“No. You don’t get it. This is more than that...” He stopped, at a loss for words. “Look, Ben, do you fly?”

Ben laughed. “Sure, back in tourist. It’s the quickest way to get from point A to point B.”

“Agreed. I guess that’s the goal in everything we do in life, right?” Andy stared out into the pool hall, his eyes sweeping over the crowd that was cheering a last minute save by the Capitols’ goalie. “As for me—well, I fly because I love it. In the cockpit, surrounded by a sound set of wings, a competent pilot is truly in command of his own destiny. Any journey is what you make of it. And, if you follow the waypoints, you’ll never lose your way.”

“Waypoints? What are those?”

“Landmarks you’ve identified beforehand, that will guide you to your destination. As long as you keep them in your sights, you’ll stay on the right path.” He paused. “All the paths we aim for in life have very clear markers. But sometimes, when we think we know it all, we ignore them. We look for shortcuts. That’s when we run off-course. And into trouble. If it weren’t for Abby, I’d be so far off track! She keeps me on the straight and narrow. She is my angel.”

Andy’s angel.

Long ago Ben had noted that a politician’s wife fell into one of two categories: either she had an opinion on everything and made a nuisance of herself, or you had to drag her along for the ride, kicking and screaming. 

Abby’s innate shyness put her in the latter category.

Rarely did a politician’s wife realize that the best place for her in the vast scheme of things was at her husband’s side, smiling demurely—but only for the photo op.  Afterward, between elections, she was free to slip offstage, where she could enjoy her reward for playing the game so well—the perks that came with his power.

Whether she used the perks for her own personal pleasure or for some worthy cause was between her and her conscience—that is, as long as any press she garnered was good for her husband. 

Better yet, she should avoid the press altogether. Except during election season, obviously. 

Thank God the campaign was just now gearing up. But the way Andy was already breathing down Talbot’s neck, Abby’s absence from the campaign trail would become an issue sooner than later. 

Ben couldn’t help but think about Maddy. Was she truly a part of his future, perhaps his angel? 

I guess it’s too early to tell.

 “Seems that we’re already rattling a few important cages. We just got a big donation from Tully Broadbent, the high-tech entrepreneur. He’s never veered from the party favorite. That’s causing the old boys a shit fit.” Paul’s breaking shot slammed the balls into every corner of the pool table. The nine ball fell into a pocket, as did the thirteen. He pumped his fist then took a swig of his Guinness. 

“I guess it helps that good ol’ Tully and I were both Leathernecks.” Andy grinned slyly. “I’m sure if Talbot could do it over again, he would have signed up during Vietnam, instead of begging for a deferment.”

It was Ben’s turn to shrug. “I’m not so sure about that, Senator. If the past has taught us anything, it’s not what you did, but how you spin it.”

“We’re among friends, here, Ben. Please, call me Andy.” 

“I’d be honored.” He tipped his glass toward the senator. 

Paul’s next shot was a miss. It was Fred’s turn up to shoot. “I’m guessing their grumbling has more to do with your very vocal stance against the president’s Venezuelan policy.” 

What looked like an easy shot ricocheted off another ball, missing the pocket by mere millimeters. Maybe that had something to do with the fact that Fred had been watching the door out of the corner of his eye.

Either this guy never turns it off, or this place isn’t as secure as Andy thinks.

“The way things are going, his call to arms—or maybe I should say his boondoggle—will cost a lot of soldiers their lives. I can’t let that happen.” Andy’s drawl was nonchalant, but Ben knew better. “It’s going to cost him votes, too. In any regard, I’m through kowtowing to those dinosaurs.” He tapped Ben’s shoulder with his stick then set up his shot. “And with Ben at the helm, I’ll have the one thing I need to win: the support of the voters.” Andy popped the five ball into a corner pocket, and followed it up by sinking the three ball on a bank shot into the side.

Ben was flattered at the compliment. Still, Paul’s involuntary frown indicated that as far as he was concerned, the jury was still out on Ben. 

Jeez, and I thought this numbnuts was going to cut me some slack. 

Paul didn’t seem too friendly with Fred either. The feeling must have been mutual since neither had exchanged more than a word or two throughout the whole game. Both were close to Andy, but obviously they didn’t think much of each other.

The game ended about the same time their pizza arrived. Fred waited until they were seated to divulge some important information: there had been an upsurge in terrorist chatter. 

“But the sources seem suspicious. Not the usual channels. In fact, I suspect it’s the work of Talbot’s Ghost Squad. The timing is just too perfect.” He gulped down one piece, then grabbed another.

Mansfield pushed away his plate. “I wouldn’t doubt that in the least.” 

“What do you mean by his ‘Ghost Squad’?” asked Ben.

Paul laughed uneasily. “It’s part of Fred’s interdepartmental paranoia. He thinks Talbot has inside guys at the defense agencies—Homeland Security, CIA, FBI, ATF—spying within their own organizations and reporting back to him.” He grabbed a second slice of pizza. “Trust me, Fred, the man spends too much time on the golf course to play
I Spy
in his spare time.”

Fred took a swig of his beer. “He came out of Langley, remember? Once a spook, always a spook. No matter what he does now, he learned enough there to make it work for him when the time came—like now that he’s running for the presidency. And I can’t be the only one who finds it a little suspicious that the press has picked up his mantra about ‘liberating the Venezuelan people from that authoritarian madman, Padilla’  just a ¬few weeks after Padilla kicked Talbot’s petrochem buddies out of the country, then pulled a Chavez and nationalized all the oil fields. For that reason alone they need Talbot to win this election.”

“Morals and freedom aside, Venezuela sells sixty percent of its oil to us. That translates into a million and a half barrels a day. When Padilla was playing nice, it was easy–and cheap¬–to get it,” explained Andy. Then he laughed. “I’m sure Talbot’s asshole puckered up when he heard about Padilla’s meeting with the Chinese, to sign an even bigger oil accord than last year’s.” He looked over at Fred. “Hey, do me a favor and keep an eye on that chatter. If it’s what you suspect, I’ll need proof, at all costs.” 

Andy sat on the Armed Services Committee, the Senate Committee on Homeland Security and Government Affairs, and the Select Committee on Intelligence. More than that, he made it a point to track down discrepancies in what these committees were told in white papers, and to talk to the people in the field firsthand. 

In other words, if Andy smells a rat, there is one to be found, thought Ben.

Fred grimaced, the first sign of emotion Ben had seen on his face. “Dude, between your senate hearings and your campaigning, you’re not exactly easy to track down.”

“That’s life. Hey, if you can’t find me, then find my boy here.” Andy pointed to Ben. 

Fred didn’t even respond to that. Obviously he wasn’t any more convinced than Paul that Ben deserved their trust.  

Chapter 13

Then again, maybe I don’t deserve their trust.

That realization came to Ben later that very night, as he held Maddy in his arms. 

As hot as the sex was with Maddy, the fact that their post-coital conversations were inevitably about the campaign was also a turn-on to him. Sex and politics were his two favorite pastimes. Either she was she his fantasy fuck, or she was too good to be true.

His dick voted for the former.

In fact, he was about to tell her some of the ideas that Eddie Klein’s creative team had already come up with for Andy’s video web ads. But then he remembered the suspicious look Fred had given him and stopped talking in mid-sentence.