The Kept Woman (22 page)

"Think you might want to play again?" Jack asked, flushing.

"Yeah! When?"

"Well, let's see. Maybe the next time you think you might have to pee. Or whenever. We don't have to do it right away. How about sometime next week?"

The child's eyes narrowed and his mouth tightened. He stared a long moment at Jack before he let go with a deep sigh. "OK, Mr. Jack. I will tell you the next time I think I have to pee-pee, but my name is Dakota, not Ben."

Jack and Sam locked eyes for a moment and it was all Jack could do not to bust loose with laughter. This kid was a born diplomat, or car salesman. He smiled down at the little bugger. "You got it, Dakota."

About an hour later they were playing "Drown the Bad Guys" again. Jack was awfully proud when, a week later, Sam told him the kid was finally, officially, thoroughly, potty-trained.

Jack found it ironic how the tables had turned. They no longer lived in fear of Ben—no, Dakota—taking off his pants in public, while Jack, on the other hand, was taking off his pants in private and on a regular basis, thanks to the little guy's grateful mother.

This adventure was either the start of a whole new life for Mitch or one whopper of a stupid decision, and as he looked over at his first-class travel companion Mitch couldn't be sure which it was. The man's name was Brandon Mikluski or McMurtry or something, and he looked a little shady, like a preppy hatchet man. He was well dressed, educated, and nerdy. He didn't say much. So far, he'd only given Mitch the bare facts.

An anonymous benefactor had been kind enough to pay off all of Mitch's back child support, plus find him an apartment and a job and a used car. All that was in exchange for a little information about his ex-wife. When Mitch had first heard this proposition over the phone two weeks ago, he thought for sure it was the police pulling a sting on him. He'd read about stuff like that—a whole slew of deadbeat dads were once rounded up when they'd received invitations to a free prime-rib buffet and a vacation time-share presentation. They all showed up expecting a free meal and a slide show and got handcuffed instead. So Mitch told the guy on the phone not to bother with the undercover crap—he was ready to turn himself in. But this Brandon fellow, who was the dude on the phone, as it turned out, just laughed and laughed. He assured Mitch he wasn't the police, and it turned out he wasn't lying.

So now Mitch found himself in a pale gray tufted leather seat sipping a Bloody Mary on a Delta Airlines flight from Atlanta to Indianapolis. He could hardly believe that in a few days, if everything went like this Brandon guy told him it would, he'd be able to see his kids again. All he had to do was go talk to Sam and get her to admit the truth about something on tape. Whenever he asked Brandon exactly what truth he was supposed to weasel out of Sam, his response was, "We'll get to that." When Mitch asked who was so hot for this tidbit of information Brandon said, "It's not necessary that you know."

Mitch wasn't stupid. He knew that what he was being asked to do was definitely sleazy and maybe even illegal. But how else was he ever going to pay the child support he owed? And how could he ever see his kids again unless he did?

"Is Samantha in some kind of trouble?" Mitch asked again.

"I told you, no. She and the children are doing fine, apparently."

"How do you know her?"

"I don't. It's more of a friend of a friend kind of arrangement."

"I don't want her to get hurt."

With that, Brandon turned his round, red face to Mitch and smiled big. "Of course you don't. Clearly, you've always had her best interests at heart."

That stung. "You don't know anything."

"Sure I do," Brandon said, looking out the plane window as if he was bored with the conversation. "She supported you and your goofy glass pods for over a decade and then you knocked her up one last time, decided you preferred boys, and hit the road. I'm sure all those support checks just got lost in the mail."

Mitch took a long chug of his Bloody Mary and crunched on the celery stick, hating that even a part of what that chubby little ass-wipe just said about him was true. He really had been selfish, but he'd been suffocating trying to live a lie with Sam. He could never go back to that existence. But maybe this was a chance to return his life to some kind of order and make it up to the kids the best he could.

"It's none of your business, but I really did make the best decision I could at the time I had to make it." Mitch had read that line in some kind of self-help book a few years back and it had resonated with him.

"Whatever." Brandon stared out at the apparently fascinating view of empty sky at cruising altitude.

"I'm only doing this because I want to see my children again."

Brandon sighed with impatience. "Fine. Here." He reached between his fat legs and retrieved his laptop computer and hit the power switch. "You can see them again right now if you want."

Within a few moments, Mitch was staring, incredulous, at a videotape of Samantha and the children at some kind of political rally. Was that Dakota? It couldn't be! And Lily was so grown-up and beautiful! And Greg? Greg was almost a man! Mitch felt a ripping sensation in his belly. There was no way so much time had gone by, that he'd missed so much. He scrubbed at his eyes with his palms, knowing how they all must hate him. He felt like he might throw up.

". . .allegedly got engaged right before Tolliver announced his run for U.S. Senate. We thought that was a little too much of a coincidence."

Mitch raised his head and stared at the videotape again. Sam looked scared but lovely in a stunning maroon wrap dress, glancing up at a major hunk Mitch recognized as a former football star. He didn't know who was more beautiful—his ex-wife or the athlete. They made a gorgeous couple. "What did you just say?" Mitch asked, his head clearing in alarm. "What the hell is this? Who's 'we'? Is this some kind of dirty politics?"

"Samantha Monroe and Jack Tolliver claim to be engaged. We simply want to be know if it's a real relationship or a campaign ploy."

Mitch took another swig of vodka-laced tomato juice and tried to wrap his brain around what was going on. "Do you work for the mob?"

Brandon's eyes flashed in alarm before he shook his head. "Uh, no."

"So you're a flunky for his opponent and I'm just a dirty politician's errand boy?"

Brandon looked offended. "Absolutely not."

"Then what? Who would spend all this money to make me an honest man and bring me to Indianapolis on the off chance that I could get Sam to tell me what's going on? Who hates this Tolliver guy that much?"

"This isn't about revenge, Mr. Bergen. It's about truth, democracy, and—"

Mitch's laughter cut him off. "Whoever you work for, he's got to have exhausted all other options, because Sam probably won't give me the time of day, let alone reveal any of her secrets. I'm sure she fucking
hates
me."

"We figured you'd have the best shot of leveraging the truth out of her. Ex-husbands always know which buttons to push."

Mitch froze with a thought so horrible he couldn't believe it hadn't dawned on him until that moment. He swallowed hard. "Hey, Brandon, do you know if Monte McQueen is still in town, by any chance?"

Brandon frowned. "Who's that? Someone else you owe money to?"

"No. No." Mitch laughed uncomfortably, waiting for relief to settle over him. It didn't. "It's nothing. Never mind." Oh God, the idea of facing Sam's wrath was bad enough, but there was no way he'd survive an encounter with Monte. She'd warned him three years ago that if she ever saw him again she'd slice off his balls with her straight razor. Monte had always intimidated him.

Mitch noticed Brandon smiling, nodding for him to return his attention to the computer. It looked like a campaign ad, with some generic bluegrass music in the background and a voice-over going on about all Jack Tolliver's accomplishments. Then there was Sam! Mitch stared in stunned silence as his ex-wife held hands with the candidate while walking down some snowy small-town street, window-shopping for antiques and snuggling up to the politician. Sam looked so happy. And
damn
, her boyfriend was a hottie. For her sake, Mitch really hoped it wasn't a stunt.

The voice said, "
Jack Tolliver—a new partnership for a new Indiana
," and the camera zoomed in on Sam's and the man's hands clasped tightly together.

It was so touching, Mitch thought he might cry.

Then he looked over to see a smarmy smile growing on Brandon's face, and Mitch knew with certainty that, oh yeah, he was making a huge mistake coming back to Indianapolis. This arrangement smelled bad from every angle. But hey—fifty-seven thousand dollars didn't fall from the sky every day.

Mitch reached between his legs to make sure his equipment was still intact, at least for the time being.

The Ball State auditorium was a mob scene, and Sam did her best to keep smiling, shake hands, and pretend to be comfortable. It was the first of three debates scheduled among the party's four declared candidates, and the hall was packed with students, university staff, press from every town in the state, and Joe Blows off the street.

Sam was standing near her second-row seat, surrounded by a clump of campaign staff and volunteers, many of whom she'd never met before tonight. Of course there was Stuart, Jack's chief of staff, and Kara, his campaign manager and press secretary. There was also Jack's political director, deputy political director, constituent outreach director, research director, chief financial officer, county coordinator, and volunteer coordinator and a slew of college student volunteers all quite pumped up for the event, wearing
Tolliver for Senate
campaign buttons.

Everyone seemed to be excited about the endorsements Jack had been raking in from business and industry groups, farming groups, and labor organizations. It all sounded like good news and Kara couldn't stop smiling, so Sam smiled, too, and fanned herself.

She was perspiring, and she wondered if it was because the auditorium was warm, or because she was nervous, or because she wasn't used to wearing a thousand-dollar suit. She looked down at herself and shook her head. She was channeling the spirit of Jackie Kennedy tonight, courtesy of Kara, who'd taken her shopping just for this appearance. They'd settled on a beautiful designer suit in a chocolate brown wool and silk blend, with burgundy velvet embroidery on the cuffs, waist, and flared hem of the slim-style skirt. It was a very 1940s Hollywood starlet look with a modern twist, complimented by a pair of Alberta Ferretti pumps they'd found on sale and a burgundy suede cloche bag.

Jack had told her on the trip up from Indianapolis that he wouldn't be able to concentrate up onstage with her looking that stunning. He was always so good with the compliments.

The debate began, and Sam watched dutifully, rooting for Jack and smiling with every small victory he seemed to have against his opponents. He blew them all out of the water as far as looking senatorial went. He was cool and handsome and charming, while Congressman Manheimer was sweating bullets and had to wipe his brow with a handkerchief. Sam could have sworn that at one point, while Manheimer was going on about family values, Jack winked at her. He was such a bad boy, and she loved that about him.

The audience had been instructed to stay in their seats during commercial breaks and to wait until the intermission to use the restrooms. But Sam couldn't hold out. She really had to go and whispered to Kara that she'd be right back.

With great relief, she made it to the women's room and nearly tap-danced her way into an empty stall. She tried to shut the door, but it jammed, and Sam gasped when a hand crept in, then an arm pushed its way through. The door flew open, pinning Sam against the side wall.

"Sorry. But you and I need some private time." The woman slammed the door shut behind her.

"Being alone in here felt pretty private to me."

"You know what I mean."

"You're Christy Schoen."

The blonde's smile was very practiced. "I am. And you're Samantha Monroe, soon to be Samantha Tolliver."

"I was told you'd hunt me down eventually."

She appeared shocked. "That's an awfully harsh way of putting it, Ms. Monroe. I'm just doing my job."

Sam laughed. "So you do some of your best work in public bathrooms? Have you cornered Jack in the men's room yet?"

Christy chuckled, then steeled her eyes at Sam. "I'm giving you a chance to come clean—you get one chance to give me your side of the story before things get really messy."

Sam felt her pulse quicken and she was suddenly, unpleasantly, reminded why she came in here in the first place. "I really do have to use the restroom."

Christy didn't flinch. "Don't let me stop you."

"Whatever you say." Sam hitched up her skirt and pulled down the red satin thong over her stocking tops and began to squat. Christy's mouth fell open, and she turned to face the door while Sam did her business.

"I know what you're doing, Ms. Monroe."

"I'm peeing."

"I mean with Jack."

"All rightee, then." Sam flushed and pulled up her panties and straightened her skirt. "Would you please excuse me while I wash my hands?"

Christy turned around again, clearly furious. "We are on the record. Whatever you say to me is fair game."

"I would prefer you talk to Jack directly."

"He won't return my calls."

"Gee, I wonder why?"

"Besides, these questions are for you."

"Well, go ahead then. I'm missing the debate. What is it you'd like to ask me?"

Sam was suddenly grateful that Kara had prepared her so well. She felt surprisingly calm for someone being held hostage in a bathroom stall. Maybe that's what an exquisitely made suit could do for a woman's confidence.

"How did you meet Jack?"

"Kara DeMarinis has been a longtime client of mine at Le Cirque. She introduced me to him."

"How long have you known him?"

"Not long. We met in November."

"How in the world could you have been engaged by Christmas?"

"When something's right, you know it immediately."

Christy laughed. "Uh-huh. So, tell me all the things you know are just so
right
about your fiance—some of the little things about Jack Tolliver that you just
love
."

Sam's spine tightened. Kara hadn't gone over these kinds of questions. Maybe because even Kara hadn't expected such a personal assault from Christy. So Sam relied on what her mother had always told her when she was a kid: "
When in doubt, tell the truth
."

"He's a terrific kisser," Sam said, smiling. "I mean,
whew
! That man can kiss."

Christy snorted with impatience.

"He's opened his family estate to me and the kids. He's made us feel welcome and cared for."

"Yes. The entire Western Hemisphere has heard."

"He pays attention to the details. He'll surprise me sometimes by following up on little things that I've forgotten I even mentioned." Sam cocked her head and grinned at Christy. "He turned the old Sunset Lane nursery into a painting studio for me."