All The Possibilities Page 11

  annoyed that he read her so perfectly. “He would look very good, and much more suitable, with a cool blonde in a very classic black dress.”

  Alan seemed to consider for a moment. “Do you know,” he said mildly. “That’s the first time I’ve heard you sound like a complete ass.”

  She stared back at his image, at the faintly interested, fully reasonable expression on his face. She laughed. There seemed to be nothing else for her to do. “All right, just for that, I’m going to be every bit as dignified as you are.”

  “God forbid,” Alan muttered before he pulled her out the front door.

  ***

  Elegant lighting and the sparkle of crystal. White linen tablecloths and the gleam of silver. Shelby sat at one of the more than two-dozen large round tables with Alan on one side and the head of the Ways and Means Committee on the other. She spooned at her lobster bisque and kept up a flowing conversation.

  “If you weren’t so stubborn, Leo, and tried an aluminum racket, you might just see an improvement in your game.”

  “My game has improved.” The balding bull-shouldered statesman shook his spoon at her. “We haven’t had a match in six months. You wouldn’t beat me in straight sets now.”

  Shelby smiled, sipping from her water glass as one course was cleared and replaced by the next. “We’ll see if I can’t squeeze out a couple of hours and get to the club.”

  “You do that. Damned if I wouldn’t enjoy whipping you.”

  “You’re going to have to watch those foot faults, Leo,” she reminded him with the grin still in her eyes.

  She thanked fate for seating her next to Leo. With him, she could be easy, natural. There were dozens of people in the huge high-ceilinged room she knew, and a handful she’d have been genuinely pleased to spend an hour with.

  Ambition. It wafted through the room like expensive perfume. She didn’t mind that, but the stiff, unbending rules and traditions that went hand in hand with it. Hand in hand with Alan, she remembered, then pushed the thought aside. She’d promised him she’d be on her best behavior. God knows she was trying.

  “Then there’s your weak backhand …”

  “Just leave my backhand alone,” he told her with a sniff. Leaning forward a bit, he frowned at Alan. “You ever played tennis with this hustler, MacGregor?”

  “No, I haven’t”—his eyes skimmed over to Shelby’s—“yet.”

  “Well, I’ll warn you, this little girl takes a vicious delight in winning. No respect for age either,” he added as he picked up his fork.

  “I’m still not going to spot you points for years, Leo,” Shelby stated easily. “You have a habit of adding them indiscriminately when you’re behind in sets.”

  A smile twitched at his mouth. “Devil,” he accused. “You wait until the rematch.”

  With a laugh, Shelby turned back to Alan. “Do you play tennis, Senator?”

  “Now and then,” he said with the ghost of a smile. He didn’t add he’d lettered in the sport at Harvard.

  “I’d imagine chess would be your game—plotting, long-term strategy.”

  His smile remained enigmatic as he reached for his wine. “We’ll have to have a game.”

  Shelby’s low laugh drifted over him. “I believe we already have.”

  His hand brushed lightly over hers. “Want a rematch?”

  Shelby gave him a look that made his blood spring hotly. “No. You might not outmaneuver me a second time.”

  God, but he wished the interminable meal would end. He wanted her alone—alone where he could peel off those clothes layer by layer and feel her skin warm. He could watch those laughing gray eyes cloud until he knew she thought of nothing but him. It was her scent that was hammering at his senses, not the arrangement of baby roses in the center of the table, not the aroma of food as yet another course was served. It was her voice he heard—low and just a little throaty—not the tones and textures of the voices all around him. He could talk with the congresswoman on his right, talk as if he were vitally interested in everything she told him. But he thought about holding Shelby and hearing her murmur his name when she touched him.

  This sharpness of need would ease, Alan told himself. It had to. A man could go mad wanting a woman this intensely. In time it would become a more comfortable sensation—a touch in the middle of the night, a smile across the room. He glanced at her profile as she continued to tease Leo. Those sharp pixie features, that tousled flame of hair—she’d never be comfortable. The need would never ease. And she was his destiny as much as he was hers. Neither of them could stop it.

  The conversations ebbed and flowed over the muted dinner music. A curtain of smoke rose up toward the ceiling from cigarettes and pipes and after-dinner cigars. Talk centered on politics, edgy at times, pragmatic at others. Whatever other topic that came up was invariably linked to the core of the world they revolved in. Alan heard Shelby give a concise and unflattering opinion of a controversial bill slated to come before Congress the following week. It infuriated the man she spoke with, though he maintained a tight-lipped control Shelby seemed implacably trying to break. Though he agreed with her stand, her tactics were … rebellious? he decided after a moment. A diplomat she would never be.

  Did she know how complex she was? he wondered. Here was a woman dead set against politicians as a group, yet she could meet them on their own terms, talk to them in their own voice without revealing the slightest discomfort. If indeed she felt any, Alan added. No, if there was discomfort, it was on the opposing side. His gaze skimmed over the other people at their table as he continued his conversation with the congress woman. Shelby didn’t have their polish, their gloss. And Alan knew it was through her own choosing. More than that, she was dedicatedly opposed to possessing it. She didn’t exploit the unique, she simply was the unique.

  The sleek brunette across from him might be more beautiful, the blonde more regal—but it was Shelby you would remember when the evening was over. The representative from Ohio might have a wicked wit, the Assistant Secretary of State might be erudite—but it was Shelby you wanted to talk to. Why? The reason was there was no reason you could name. It was simply so.

  He felt her shift before her lips brushed close to his ear. “Are you going to dance with me, Senator? It’s the only dignified way I can get my hands on you at the moment.”

  Alan let the first wave of desire take him—a rush that blanked everyone else from his sight and hearing for one heady instant. Carefully he banked it before he rose and took her hand. “Strange how closely our minds work.” After leading her to the dance floor he gathered her to him. “And how well,” he murmured as their bodies melded together, “we fit.”

  Shelby tilted her head back. “We shouldn’t.” Her eyes promised hot, private secrets. Her lips tempted—just parted, just curved. The hand on his shoulder moved nearer to his neck so she could brush his skin with her fingertips. “We shouldn’t fit. We shouldn’t understand each other. I can’t quite figure out why we do.”

  “You defy logic, Shelby. And therefore, logically, there’s no reasonable answer.”

  She laughed, pleased with the structured workings of his mind. “Oh, Alan, you’re much too sensible to be argued with.”

  “Which means you’ll constantly do so.”

  “Exactly.” Still smiling, she rested her head on his shoulder. “You know me too well for my own good, Alan … and perhaps for yours. I’m in danger of adoring you.”

  He remembered Myra had used that word to describe Shelby’s feelings for her father. “I’ll take the risk. Will you?”

  With her eyes closed, she made a slight movement with her head. Neither of them knew if it was assent or denial.

  As the evening wore on they danced again, each thinking of the other as they moved to the music with someone else. From time to time if they saw each other across the room a message would pass, too strong and too direct not to be observed by people whose livelihoods depended on the interpretation of a look or gesture. Under
currents of all kinds were an intimate part of the game in Washington. Some flowed with them, others against them, but all acknowledged them.

  “Well, Alan.” Leo clamped a hand on Alan’s shoulder as Shelby was led onto the dance floor again. “You’re making some progress on your personal windmill.”

  Alan settled back with his wine, half-smiling. He didn’t mind the allusion to Don Quixote when it came to his housing project. That sort of tag would have certain advantages in the long run. It was human nature to at least root for the underdog even if doing nothing tangible to help. “A bit. I’m beginning to get some positive feedback from Boston on the progress of the shelters there.”

  “It would be to your benefit if you could get and keep the ball rolling during this administration.” He flipped out a lighter and flicked it at the end of a long fragrant cigar. “It should bring a lot of support your way if you decide to toss your hat in the ring.”

  Alan tasted the wine and watched Shelby. “It’s early days yet for that, Leo.”

  “You know better.” Leo puffed smoke toward the ceiling. “I never wanted that … particular race for myself. But you … a lot of people are willing to swing your way when the time comes, if you give the nod.”

  Alan turned to give his colleague a long look. “So I’ve been told,” he said cautiously. “I appreciate it. It isn’t a decision I’ll make lightly, one way or the other.”

  “Let me give you a few pros because, bluntly, I’m not enthusiastic about what we have in the bull pen at the moment.” He leaned a bit closer. “Your record’s impressive—even though it leans a bit to the left for some tastes. You had a solid run in Congress and your term as senator’s running smoothly. I won’t get into a point by point of your policies or your individual bills—let’s stick with image.” He puffed on the cigar again as he considered.

  “Your youth is to your advantage. It gives us time. Your education was slick and impressive—and the fact that you did well in sports never hurts. People like to think that their leader can handle himself on any playing field. Your family background’s clean and solid. The fact that your mother is a highly successful professional works strongly in your favor.”

  “She’ll be glad to hear it,” Alan said dryly.

  “You’re too smart to think it doesn’t matter,” Leo reminded him, gesturing with his cigar. “It shows that you can relate and understand professional women—a healthy chunk of the voting power. Your father has a reputation for going his own way, but going honestly. There’s no hornet’s nest to keep locked in the attic.”

  “Leo …” Alan swirled his wine before he shot Leo a direct look. “Who asked you to speak to me?”

  “And you’re perceptive,” Leo returned without missing a beat. “Let’s just say I was asked to approach you and touch on some generalities.”

  “All right. Generally speaking, I haven’t ruled out the possibility of entering the primaries when the time comes.”

  “Fair enough.” Leo nodded toward Shelby. “I’m personally fond of the girl. But will she be an asset to you? I never would have seen the two of you as a couple.”

  “Oh?” The word was mild, but Alan’s eyes narrowed ever so slightly.

  “Campbell’s daughter—she knows the ropes, being on the campaign trail as a child.” Leo pursed his lips, cautiously weighing the pros and cons. “Shelby grew up with politics, so she wouldn’t have to be tutored on protocol or diplomacy. Of course, she’s a bit of a maverick.” He tapped his cigar thoughtfully. “More than a bit when it comes to it. She’s put her considerable energy into flouting the Washington social scene for years. There are those that rather like her for it, myself for one, but she’s put a few noses out of joint in her day.”

  Leo popped the cigar back into his mouth and chewed on it while Alan remained flatly silent. “But then, it’s possible to polish off a few rough edges. She’s young; the flamboyance could be toned down. Her education and family background are above reproach. There’s enough glamour attached to her to attract, not enough to alienate. She runs her own business successfully and knows how to handle a crowd. An excellent choice, all in all,” he decided. “If you can whip her into shape.”

  Alan set down his glass to prevent himself from throwing it. “Shelby isn’t required to be an asset,” he said in a deadly controlled voice. “She isn’t required to be anything but what she chooses. Our relationship isn’t grist for the political mill, Leo.”

  Leo frowned at the tip of his cigar. He’d touched a nerve, he realized, but was rather pleased with the manner in which Alan controlled rage. It wasn’t wise to have a hothead commanding the armed forces. “I realize you feel entitled to a certain amount of privacy, Alan. But once you toss your hat in the ring, you toss your lady’s in too. We’re a culture of couples. One reflects the other.”

  Knowing it was true only infuriated him more. This was what Shelby backed away from, what she feared. How could he protect her from it and remain what he was? “Whatever I decide to do, Shelby remains free to be exactly what Shelby is.” Alan rose. “That’s the bottom line.”

  Chapter 9

  With sunshine and the best of spirits, Shelby opened the doors of Calliope Monday morning. If there had been a monsoon outside the windows, it wouldn’t have jarred her mood. She had spent a long lazy Sunday with Alan, never once venturing outside her apartment. Never once wanting to.

  Now Shelby sat behind the counter and decided to allow a little of the outside world into her sphere. Taking the morning paper, she opened it first, as always, to the comics. What characters would appear in Macintosh and what would they have to say for themselves? With her elbows propped, her hands supporting her chin, Shelby gave a snort of laughter. As usual Macintosh hit things on the head, but at a tilted angle that couldn’t be resisted. She hoped the vice president kept his sense of humor after he’d read his little part in this morning’s column. From her experience, people in the limelight rarely objected to being caricaturized—to a point. Exposure, satirical or not, was exposure.

  Shelby glanced at the signature line, the simple G.C. identifying the cartoonist. Perhaps when one hit so often and so truly at the ego, it was best to opt for anonymity. She couldn’t do it, she realized. It simply wasn’t in her nature to be clever anonymously.

  Reaching absently for her half-cup of cooling coffee, Shelby continued down the page. Humor always eased her into the day and affirmed her view that whatever oddities there were in the world, there was a place for them. Still sipping, she glanced up as the door to the shop opened.

  “Hi.” With a smile for Maureen Francis, she pushed the paper aside. The brunette didn’t look like a woman who’d even own a slicker, much less wear one. This morning it was silk, robin’s-egg blue cut into a slim spring suit. “Hey, you look great,” Shelby told her, admiring the suit without imagining herself in it.

  “Thanks.” Maureen set a trim leather briefcase on the counter. “I came by to pick up my pottery and to thank you.”

  “I’ll get the boxes.” She slipped into the back room where she’d instructed Kyle to store them. “What do I get thanked for?” she called out.

  “The contact.” Unable to contain her curiosity, Maureen slipped around the counter to poke her head into Shelby’s workroom. “This is wonderful,” she decided, staring with layman’s perplexity at the wheel before she scanned the shelves. “I’d love to watch you work sometime.”

  “Catch me in the right mood on a Wednesday or Saturday, and I’ll give you a quick lesson if you’d like.”

  “Can I ask you a stupid question?”

  “Sure.” Shelby glanced back over her shoulder. “Everyone’s entitled to three a week.”

  Maureen gestured to encompass the workroom and the shop. “How do you manage all this by yourself? I mean, I know what it’s like to start your own business. It’s difficult and complicated enough, but when you add this kind of creativity, the hours it takes you to produce something—then to switch gears and go into merchandising.�
��

  “That’s not a stupid question,” Shelby decided after a moment. “I suppose I like dipping my hands into both elements. In here, I’m normally very isolated. Out there”—she gestured toward the shop—“I’m not. And I like calling my own tune.” With a grin, she began shuffling cartons. “I imagine you do, too, or you’d still be with that firm in Chicago.”

  “Yes, but I still have moments when I’m tempted to race back to safety.” She studied Shelby’s back. “I don’t imagine you do.”

  “There’s a certain amount of fun in instability, isn’t there?” Shelby countered. “Especially if you believe there’s bound to be a net somewhere to catch you if you slip off the edge.”

  With a laugh, Maureen shook her head. “That’s one way of looking at it. Enjoy, and take the rest on faith.”

  “In a nutshell.” Shelby handed Maureen the first box, then hefted the other two herself. “By the contact you mentioned, I suppose you mean Myra.”

  “Mmm, yes. I called her Saturday afternoon. All I had to do was say Shelby, and she invited me for brunch this morning.”

  “Myra doesn’t believe in wasting time.” Shelby blew her bangs out of her eyes as she set the boxes on the counter. “Will you let me know how it goes?”

  “You’ll be the first,” Maureen promised. “You know, not everyone’s so willing to hand out favors—to close friends, let alone strangers. I really appreciate it.”

  “You said you were good,” Shelby reminded her with a grin as she started to make out a final receipt. “I thought you might be. In any event, you might not consider it so much a favor by this afternoon. Myra’s a tough lady.”

  “So’m I, and an insatiably curious one. You can tell me to mind my own business,” she began, glancing back up at Shelby. “But I have to ask you how things worked out with Senator MacGregor. I’m afraid I didn’t recognize him at the time. I took him for your average lovesick maniac.”

  Shelby considered the phrase and found it to her liking. “He’s a stubborn man,” she told Maureen.“Thank God.”

  “Good. I like a man who thinks in rainbows. Well, I’d better get these boxes into the car if I don’t want to be late.”

  “I’ll give you a hand.” Holding boxes, Shelby propped the door open so Maureen could pass.

  “The car’s right here.” She popped open the rear door of a trim little hatchback. “I might just drop in on you on one of those Wednesdays or Saturdays.”

  “Fine. If I snarl, just back off until the mood passes. Good luck.”

  “Thanks.” Maureen shut the hatch and moved around to the driver’s side. “Give the senator my regards, will you?”

  Laughing, Shelby waved her away before she went back into the shop. She’d box up that green krater, she decided. This time she’d give Alan a surprise.

  He was about to get one in any case—though it shouldn’t have been a surprise to him.

  ***

  Alan didn’t often feel harassed, but this morning had been one continual stream of meetings. He didn’t often feel pressured by the press, but the reporter who had been lying in wait for him outside the new Senate office building had been both tenacious and irritating. Perhaps he still carried a layer of annoyance from his conversation with Leo, or perhaps he had simply been working too hard, but by the time Alan stepped off the elevator onto his own floor of the building, his patience was strained to the breaking point.

  “Senator.” His assistant sprang up from her chair, looking nearly as frazzled as he felt. “The phones hardly stopped all morning.” She carried a leather ledger with her and was already thumbing through it. “A Ned Brewster with the AFL-CIO; Congresswoman Piatt; Shiver at the mayor’s office in Boston in reference to the Back Bay Shelter; Smith, the Media Adviser; a Rita Cardova, a social worker in Northeast who insists on speaking to you personally about your housing project; and—”

  “Later.” Alan strode through to his office and closed the door. Ten minutes—he promised himself ten minutes as he dropped his briefcase on his desk. He’d been answering a merry-go-round of demands since eight-thirty that morning. Damn if he wouldn’t steal ten minutes before he hopped back on again.

  It wasn’t like him to need them, he thought with a sound of frustration as he frowned out the window. He could see the east side of the Capitol, the white dome symbolizing democracy, freedom of thought, justice—everything Alan had always believed in. He could see Capitol Plaza with its huge round pots filled with flowers. They’d been put in after the bombing—an aesthetic barricade. They represented what Alan knew was part of the human web. Some sought to build; some sought to destroy. Terrorism was frighteningly logical. If he, as Leo had put it, threw his hat into the ring, it was something he would have to deal with every day.

  His decision couldn’t be put off much longer. Oh, normally, he could bide his time, test the waters. And in essence he would do so—publicly. But privately his decision had to come soon. There’d be no asking Shelby to marry him again until he could first tell her what he was considering. He would be asking her to share more than name, home, and family if he eventually sought the presidency. He would be asking her to elect to give a section of her life to him, to their country, to the wheels of protocol and politics. Alan no longer considered the decision to be his alone. Shelby was already his wife in all but the legal sense—he had only to convince her of that.

  When the buzzer on his desk sounded, he eyed it with displeasure. He’d only had five of his ten minutes. Annoyed, he picked up the phone. “Yes?”

  “I’m sorry to disturb you, Senator, but your father’s on line one.”

  He dragged a hand through his hair as he sat. “All right, I’ll take it. Arlene—I’m sorry, it’s been a rough morning.”

  Her tone underwent a quick and total change. “It’s okay. Your father sounds … characteristically exuberant, Senator.”

  “Arlene, you should have opted for the diplomatic corps.” He heard her light chuckle before he switched lines. “Hello, Dad.”

  “Well, well, well, so you’re still alive.” The booming, full-bodied voice was not so subtly laced with sarcasm. “Your mother and I thought you’d met with some fatal accident.”

  Alan managed to keep the grin out of his voice. “I nicked myself shaving last week. How are you?”

  “He asks how I am!” Daniel heaved a sigh that should have been patented for long-suffering fathers everywhere. “I wonder you even remember who I am. But that’s all right—it doesn’t matter about me. Your mother, now, she’s been expecting her son to call. Her firstborn.”

  Alan leaned back. How often had he cursed fate for making him the eldest and giving his father that neat little phrase to needle him with? Of course, he