After Midnight (16 page)

Mosby leaned his head wearily against the cool glass. It was good not to have the Lombards after him. He was older than Clayton, raised in a generation with stifling attitudes toward anyone different from the norm. His parents had hidden his flaw from other relatives. They had made Mosby ashamed of it. Because of his upbringing, he'd always had to hide what he was. No one would have
understood. At least, that's what his parents had said. Often he'd wondered what Nikki would have said, if she'd known. He'd had to steel himself not to show desire for her, not to let her know, ever, how attractive he found her. All he could have given her was a travesty of the real thing and, inevitably, she'd have wondered why he couldn't function as a man. It was better this way, he told himself. Much better.

He was dignified and very conservative on the outside, and that won him votes. But inside, he was a frightened, insecure man who dreaded the new climate that threatened to expose any politician who kept a secret. Mosby had exacted many sacrifices. He would do anything to keep his private life secret, and he had; he'd married Nikki. He winced, remembering. It had been hopeless from the very beginning.

His fist clenched on the glass. Poor Nikki. Poor, poor Nikki, to be so much in love and have all her dreams shattered. He'd engineered that sight she had of his private life, that fiction of himself as a gay man. He'd known that it would drive her away, and it had. But he also knew that she'd never become serious about anyone since their divorce, and he knew why. He regretted hurting Nikki most of all.

It was all over long ago, he told himself. He just had to live with it, and with the fear of exposure.
The thing now was to get Clayton ahead in the polls while keeping the pressure on Lombard. That last part was Haralson's idea, just as it had been Haralson's idea to go to South Carolina and help with Clayton's campaign. In fact, Haralson said that he knew the truth about Mosby and wouldn't hesitate to give it to the media if Mosby didn't send him to Charleston to help Clayton.

He scowled. Haralson was a wild man just lately, into all sorts of shady things that Mosby had tried not to notice. But the man was like a loose cannon. Mosby had a bad feeling about his obsession with getting something on Lombard. He didn't know why he should. After all, Lombard was no friend of Mosby's, with his family sticking its nose into his past. But just the same, Mosby didn't like the idea of doing anything illegal. Perhaps he should take a closer look at Haralson's methods. If worse came to worse, there might be a way to nudge Haralson into a corner and keep him quiet about what he knew of Mosby's worst secret.

He picked up the telephone and dialed a number.

While he waited for the connection, he remembered his first year in the Senate, a young idealist with so many hopes and dreams that an unfortunate bit of publicity—a hint about his sexual preferences—had almost ended. His marriage had saved him, at Nikki's expense. But even marriage would no longer protect him, not if Lombard got wind of
his past. The dreams and ideals had gotten lost in the shuffle to protect his secret, until now it was almost second nature to him. Perhaps his three terms in the Senate had jaded him, he thought miserably. He lived in a closed society, despite his frequent trips to his home state to keep in touch with his constituents. But the longer he lived in the Capitol, the more distasteful the outside world became to him. He was safe here. For the time being, at least. As long as he had Haralson out of his hair for a few weeks while the campaign picked up steam. He'd have to find some leverage to use against Haralson if it became necessary. If he dared, he'd warn Clayton about him as well, but that wouldn't be wise at this point.

“Hello,” came a quiet voice on the other line.

“I need a favor,” Mosby said. “I want you to do a little digging for me, strictly on the QT.”

There was a pause. “Okay. Shoot.”

He gave the man Haralson's name and background.

“Isn't this the one who's working for Seymour down in Charleston, the one who just exposed some nasty mess concerning Kane Lombard?” the man asked.

“The same.”

“Well, well. Now isn't this interesting?”

“What is?”

There was a low chuckle. “I'll tell you all about
it in a few weeks. Haralson got careless. That's all you need to know right now.”

“This…carelessness. Is it to my advantage?”

“Yes, indeed. And as you say, that message is on the QT. I'll be in touch.” The receiver went dead with a gentle click.

That sounded as if Haralson could find himself in water over his head very soon. As he'd said about the Lombards, if pressure was put on a man he was less likely to find time to smear anyone else. The best defense, in other words, was a good offense. Try that on for size, Haralson, he mused. Mosby put down his wineglass, relief draining away the fear. He slid the robe away from his body and walked, smiling, back to bed.

 

The wheels of justice were slow, but relentless. Kane Lombard spent a lot of time with his attorneys and his production people and managers, trying to sort out the nightmarish complications of his own negligence. Both Will Jurkins and Ed Nelson came back to work. Nelson was feeble, but involved himself in the defense of his company. Jurkins provided the paperwork that showed CWC's lack of efficiency and showed a reason for firing them. However, Kane couldn't help notice that Jurkins had dark circles under his eyes and asked if the man wasn't sleeping well. Jurkins had mentioned something about a sick child and had gone
back to his office, looking haggard. Like the rest of the staff, Kane decided, Jurkins was feeling the pressure of public animosity. All of them had to pass through the picket lines daily, and only the security force kept them safe at all.

The day of the primary came, and Nikki went with Clay to their local precinct to vote. Crowds were already standing in line at eight in the morning, and Nikki's heart lifted. It did look as if he had the Republican seat firmly in hand.

She had collaborated with one of Washington's leading hostesses to concoct some sort of party that people would be talking about years from now. Assuming that Clay won the primary, there were other parties planned for Charleston, fund-raisers and banquets and social evenings to garner more support. Nikki expected to be worn to a frazzle, but it would be worth it. If only he would win the primary!

“This looks encouraging,” she said.

Clayton didn't agree. The turnout frightened him. He'd made a major blunder by supporting the timber bill, and he prayed that people were going to remember that he'd helped nab a local industrial polluter. Usually when so many people went to vote, it was because they were angry and wanted to get someone out of office. He'd actually known some old-timers who only ever voted against—not for—candidates.

“Don't look so nervous,” she chided.

An African American lady next to them grinned. “That's right, it's not against the law to vote for the candidate of your choice.”

Clay grinned. “Picked the best man, have you?” he teased.

“Oh, yes, sir,” she said. “Going to have a new president this fall, so I figure we may as well get those other rascals out of there and put in some people who can get something done. I have no insurance. I can't make my house payment this month. I can't even afford to buy a new pair of shoes.”

The woman looked down at them, worn on both sides and scuffed. “The plant I worked for moved down into the Caribbean so it could get cheap labor and make more money. It don't bother the government that I wouldn't have a job,” she added. “What a pity that we pay those people so much to represent us and they just forget how hard life is outside the capitol.”

She nodded politely and moved on as her line shortened. Clayton had gone pale. Nikki touched his arm and tried to encourage him, but he felt bad. Why hadn't he realized what was happening? These people wanted change because their economic situation was a nightmare. They weren't going in that polling place to vote for him, they were going to vote him out of office!

All those plants that had closed down their domestic operations and moved to other countries, all those jobs lost, all those unemployed people hadn't seemed to register with him before. He saw the homeless people and he slipped them a dollar from time to time, but he never noticed that they had no house to go to. Where had his mind been? On the spotted owl, he thought, and on keeping Kane Lombard's family off Mosby Torrance's neck. He'd spent almost two years feathering his own nest and thinking of his own political future and satisfying his own ambitions. He'd forgotten that most important thing of all; that these people had elected him to represent their interests in Washington. How could he have been so blind?

“Derrie tried to tell me,” he began.

Nikki looked at him and her eyes asked a question.

“I hope it's not too late,” he said quietly.

“What do you mean?”

But the line moved, and so did they, and the question was drowned out by the low buzz of conversation.

 

The polls closed at seven, but there were still lines of people waiting to get into the polling booths. Early returns gave Sam Hewett a tremendous lead in the Democratic primary, but on the Republican side, Clayton was running neck and
neck with a well-known Charleston attorney. It was much too tight a race for comfort. It meant that voters were unsatisfied.

“Will you stop pacing and worrying?” Nikki chided, sweeping into the hotel room in his headquarters in a blue-and-green-silk pantsuit that suited her dark complexion.

Clayton, with his hands in his slacks pockets, standing flanked by Haralson and Bett, glowered at her. “Do you see these figures?” he asked.

She handed him a cup of coffee in a foam cup. “You're not going to lose.”

Bett glanced at her. “You sound very sure.”

Nikki smiled. “He's the best man, isn't he?”

“Of course,” Bett agreed.

“Then he'll win.” Nikki moved her eyes back to the television screen. “It's early yet, and these are small typically Democratic precincts they're reporting. Wait until we get the urban vote. That's where Clay's strength is.”

Bett was surprised. “How do you know so much about politics?”

“I have three and a half years of college,” Nikki said. “I'm only a semester short of having my degree.”

“I didn't realize that.”

“No, you were much too busy resenting my—how did you put it?—empty-headed hostessing.”

It was a challenge from a face dominated by
sparkling green eyes. Bett had character enough to admit when she was wrong. She smiled ruefully.

“Sorry about that.”

“Oh, we're all guilty of making snap judgments,” Nikki said mischievously. “I won't mention what I asked Clay about you when I first met you.”

“Thank you,” Bett murmured sheepishly.

“Clay!” Haralson called suddenly. “Look!”

They all turned their attention to the television screen where new figures were being posted. The urban precincts were just beginning to be reported and Clay's two-percent lead had just turned into a twenty-percent lead.

“Hallelujah!” Clayton shouted.

“See?” Nikki asked, smiling, “I told you so.”

T
he celebrating went on all night. The Republican opposition conceded early on, and Clayton and Bett and Nikki bathed in the adulation from his supporters.

At midnight, Clayton went on television to make his acceptance speech for the Republican nomination.

“I want you to know that I'm going to fight hard to win this time,” he told the camera. “And I'm not going to sit on my record. I've had my eyes opened today about issues I haven't confronted. People are out of work because of jobs going to other countries. We have such people, right here in our city. It's time we did something about the economy and learned to balance the budget. I've seen the light. I'm going to blind you with it until
I get back into Washington, and then I'm going to tackle a new agenda. The environment is still an important issue to me, but the thing is to get our people back to work. That's going to be my number one priority. Thank you all for your support. Let's go on and win in November!”

The supporters cheered wildly. Clayton smiled, but there was a new fire in his eyes that everyone around him noticed. Bett saw it with trepidation, because she also represented a lobby that supported foreign expansion of American businesses. Her smile was a little strained as she contemplated the future.

Nikki was oblivious to the other woman's thoughts. Her eyes were on her brother, and she was bursting with pride. Her only sadness was what was happening to Kane Lombard. She knew that he wasn't responsible for that dumping. But how to convince everyone else was the problem. It had to have happened while he was lying injured in her beach house. She wondered if he'd kept that quiet because he was trying to protect her reputation. After all, he didn't know who she was. He'd think she was just a beachcomber.

She often thought of him and remembered the joy of being with him. It had ended all too soon. He haunted her dreams, and made her sad. Not since Mosby had she felt quite so valueless. Apparently her only worth to men was as a decora
tion, and that attraction soon paled. Mosby had wanted a storefront. Kane had wanted a careless lover. She was suited to be neither.

She'd seen Kane on television several times, and she'd felt sickened by the trials he was facing because of her brother's supporters. She knew that Clay hadn't engineered the incident, but he was certainly using it to his advantage. She wondered if it had made Kane hate him even more, and what form of retribution he might select in reprisal. It worried her so much that she almost telephoned Kane once to discuss it with him. But he didn't know who she was, and she didn't want him to. He'd surely hate her if he knew the truth, especially after what had happened. So many secrets lay behind all this sparkling hoopla of politics. Everyone had a skeleton in the closet. Some skeletons were even able to speak.

 

The elder Lombard puffed angrily on his big cigar as he paced around his son Kane's office.

“Damned stupidity,” he muttered, glancing at his eldest son to make sure he was being listened to. “You know better than to run off on vacation and leave the business unattended. Think I've ever done that?”

Kane didn't answer. This speech was familiar. His father always asked the same question. The elder Lombard didn't make mistakes, always knew
what to do, and was there on the spot with an I-told-you-so whenever he deemed it necessary.

“In my day, we'd have had that employee drawn and quartered,” he continued hotly. “No questions asked, either, mind you. And the press would have been muzzled!”

“You're the press,” his son pointed out.

The old man made a dismissive gesture with a big, wrinkled hand. His hands were almost out of proportion to his tall, spare frame. “I'm not that kind of press, I'm not easily led and fed lies. I print the truth!”

“No, you don't.”

Fred Lombard glared down his thin nose at Kane. “I print it sometimes,” he clarified, “when I think it needs printing. The rest of the time people expect to be entertained, and they pay through the nose for it. Don't you appreciate how to sell news?”

“Sure. Put two heads on the victim and draw in a flying saucer on a photograph, blow it up, and cover the front page with it,” Kane returned.

Fred chuckled. “Sure, that's how you do it.”

“You won't win a Pulitzer.”

“I'm crying all the way to the Swiss bank where I keep my money,” Fred returned. “No interest, but total confidentiality, and I like that. Don't expect to inherit everything,” he added. “You have two brothers.”

“I don't need to inherit anything,” came the cynical reply. “I'm set for life already. I'll have free room and board and three meals a day at Leavenworth.”

“Bosh.” Fred waved the cigar at him. “They can't put you in prison for something an employee did in all innocence.”

“Illegal dumping is a felony, didn't you hear the attorney?”

“Sure I did, but I'm telling you that the current administration is so slow about investigations that you'll be my age before any charges are brought.”

“That could be true. But what if this administration loses in November?”

“Then we're all in a lot of trouble. Especially you, because that young fellow not only has some bright ideas about the economy and the jobless, he's keen on keeping the earth unpolluted.”

“More power to him,” Kane replied. “I feel the same way. But even if I didn't do the dumping, I allowed it. It's my responsibility to make sure my employees hire disposal people who obey the law. I didn't.”

“You weren't here,” Fred returned. “I keep reminding you, you weren't here! If you want to take long vacations, sell the business!”

Kane sat down on the edge of his desk with a heavy breath. “I've got the company attorneys working night and day on a defense, but my heart
isn't in it. Did you see the photographs?” he asked, anger and sadness in his dark eyes. “My God, all that destruction. I hope they lock that idiot up in one of his own trucks and push him into a swamp.”

“He'd pollute the environment,” came the dry reply.

“I suppose so,” Kane agreed reluctantly.

“Cheer up. I'm working on a way to save you.”

Kane's head cocked. “If you dare put a picture of a flying saucer over a photograph of that marsh and print it…”

“Son, would I do that?”

“Hell, yes.”

“Not this time,” Fred promised. “I've got that fellow Lawson investigating some ties of Seymour's to Senator Torrance.”

Kane scowled. “What sort of ties?”

“It's very interesting. Did you know that seven years ago, Seymour's only sister married Mosby Torrance?”

Kane felt his heart turn over.
“What?”

“The marriage lasted six months. After a quiet divorce, there was talk that Torrance had only married to stop some gossip about his continuing bachelor status.”

Kane's mind was spinning as he connected what he was being told. Nikki had been married. She hadn't told him that, but she'd said that she was
involved with a man who couldn't touch her. Torrance? Could it have been Torrance?

Fred stopped pacing and stared at him. “What are you brooding about?”

“What do we know about Torrance?”

“Not much. He's a secretive devil. I've got Lawson doing some discreet backtracking. We know that Torrance grew up in a little community near Aiken. Lawson has gone up there to talk to some people. If Torrance is hiding anything, that's where we'll find it.”

“And if you do find something, what are you going to do?” Kane asked suspiciously.

“Use it as leverage,” came the terse reply. “You and I both know that it's Torrance more than Seymour who's after you. I suspect it's to keep your back to the wall so that you won't have time to do any digging and point any fingers in his direction. He needs Seymour, but he'd jettison him in a minute to get us off his back. That's what I'm counting on. I want leverage.”

“You're an underhanded man,” Kane said after a minute.

“Luckily for you,” his father replied. “Your lofty principles would land you in the hoosegow for sure if I wasn't!”

Kane wasn't so certain that his father's lack of them wouldn't land him there, but he kept quiet. His mind was on Nikki and the time they'd been
together, when he'd felt safe for the first time in his adult life. It seemed very far away right now, with his business in turmoil. He should have been honest with her from the beginning, and let her be honest with him. If he hadn't been so wary of commitment, anything could have happened. Now, there were too many barriers. His eyes narrowed and his temper flared. What had Torrance done to her?

 

When Clayton went back to Washington, Nikki went along and moved into the small cottage at the Royce Blair estate which Madge Blair had made available to her. Madge was contributing the setting for a gala evening to celebrate Clayton's party nomination and also to garner support for his campaign. Nikki's genius for organization was being put to good use as she hired caterers, made arrangements for entertainment, and played overseer for the immaculate theme decorations that were being installed in the mansion's great ballroom.

“You never cease to amaze me, Nikki,” Madge confessed while she helped hang delicate silver filigree musical notes against a background of golden staffs on white satin. “A theme party built around opera, with all the guests to come dressed as their favorite singer or operatic character. I expect we'll have twenty Pavarottis,” she confessed, laughing.

“Where's Claude?” Nikki asked, looking around the room.

“In hiding with the cats,” Madge said, laughing. “He does so detest parties, my poor darling. He's shut himself in the library with the Siamese twins and he's furiously reading Greek tragedies. It inspires him, he says.”

“Madge, he writes sexy murder mysteries,” she commented. “He's world-famous. Everything he writes is made into a major motion picture. There's one debuting next month.”

“I know, dear, I'm married to him,” Madge returned, tongue in cheek.

Nikki laughed. “Is he going to come to the party, at least? He does live here.”

“He might. But rest assured that he'll roll himself in flour and come as something disgusting like the ghost in that Mozart opera I hate.” She tacked a note into place. “Who are you coming as? I know—Madama Butterfly! With that jet-black hair, you'd be a natural.”

“Actually, I'm going to wear a gauzy gown and come as Camille. I feel tragic.”

“Oh, Nikki, not you. You always sparkle so.”

“I've had my share of sadness.”

Madge glanced at her. “Indeed you have. But your face doesn't show it. You look almost untouched.”

Nikki could have howled. She was, but Madge
didn't know why; she only knew that Nikki had a failed marriage behind her.

“Hand me that stapler, could you?” Nikki asked.

“Here, dear. The invitations have all gone out, and we're very nearly through here. Only a few more hours. Clayton and Bett will be on time, won't they?” she added worriedly.

“They promised.”

“Nikki, Claude insisted that we add a couple of names to the list, so I sent out a few extra invitations. I hope you don't mind?”

“How silly. It's your house and you're our friends. You're even loaning us your home for this oh-so-discreet fund-raiser. How could I possibly mind?”

“It's just that Clayton is at odds with Kane right now. But, Kane and Claude belonged to the same yacht club at one time, and they're still very good friends. I hope you won't hate him…” Madge said worriedly. “Why, Nikki, are you all right?”

Nikki had dropped the stapler and almost fell off the ladder where she was perched. “Kane Lombard? Claude invited Kane Lombard?” she asked, shaken.

“They're friends, you see. Oh, dear, I did try to stop him. He invited Kane's woman friend, too. They're almost inseparable these past few weeks since he's had such terrible problems—not that
Clayton should be blamed for them, of course.” She sighed. “Oh, Nikki, Claude doesn't think. He means well. It's those four cats,” she added darkly. “Two Siamese and two Persians, and they drive me mad! How he can write with those furry assassins all over his desk is beyond me!”

Nikki's heart was beating madly. Kane was coming here. He'd see her. He'd find out who she really was. She'd have to watch him with the lover he'd told her about, the faceless woman who had part of him that Nikki would never know.

“Perhaps you should go and lie down,” Madge suggested.

Nikki's wide eyes met the green ones of her blond friend. “No. Really. I'm fine. I just got a little dizzy. I haven't eaten anything.”

“Then you must have a sandwich. Come with me. I'll have Lucie make you one of her famous Philly steak sandwiches and cottage fries.”