Arkwright (15 page)

The smile was still there. She might have been annoyed if he wasn't so charming. “So why would the foundation want an exemption? Why would you ask the senator to—”

“May I ask a question? A personal one?”

“Well, yes, I suppose. What do you—”

“What are you doing for dinner tonight?”

Jill was so startled the stylus fell from his fingers.

“Oh, I'm sorry,” Ben said, instantly apologetic. “I didn't mean to … I mean, I didn't—”

“No, no, that's quite all right.” She nervously scooped up the pen and was glad that the movement let the hair fall down around her face to obscure the blush she felt coming on. “I just … I didn't—”

“That was a bad question. Sorry. I shouldn't have asked that.” He let out his breath, looked away.

Jill studied him. Without a doubt, there was something about Ben Skinner she found irresistible, a strange collision between intelligence and innocence. Had his mother anticipated a hard line of questioning from a
Dirty Truth
reporter and sent her attractive, awkward son to deflect her? No, no one was that clever. He was what he was, and that was more intriguing—and to be honest, sexier—than just about any other man she knew.

What the hell
.
Go for it, kid.

“I haven't made any plans,” she replied. “Why? Do you have something in mind?”

*   *   *

They went out to dinner together. Later that evening, she accepted his request to come home with him. That wasn't surprising, really; by the time dessert arrived, Jill Muller had decided that Benjamin Skinner was someone with whom she could easily become infatuated, and apparently the feeling was mutual. So of course she took him up on his proposition.

It was the second proposition he made later that surprised her.

Jill had expected the dinner conversation to be a continuation of the interview, but they spoke very little about the foundation or its goals. Instead, by candlelight in the Revolution-era tavern in Sturbridge where he'd taken her, they talked about themselves. She learned that Ben's work at the Arkwright Foundation was only part-time and that he was actually a systems engineer at NASA. He didn't expect to be there very much longer, though, seeing how the space agency was being downsized into nonexistence, an unexpected consequence of the Domestic Space Access Act. Once the Galactique Project was under way, he planned to tender his resignation and work for the foundation full-time. And no, he wasn't married and didn't even have a girlfriend, although he was hoping that might change any day now.

For her part, Jill told him about her frustrations at being a science writer at a muckraking news site that had little interest in science; she'd been hired only because the publisher thought they needed a science desk, but most of the time, all she did was cover press conferences. She admitted, perhaps a bit rashly, that she'd been put on this story because of its political angle, not because the
Truth
had any real interest in space exploration. Perhaps her candor had come from the nice bottle of merlot Ben ordered, but probably not. She liked him a lot and didn't want to deceive him by pretending any longer that this story was about anything else than what it was. In any case, she was so busy wondering if he'd ask her to come home with him that she let slip the fact that she'd gladly find another job if only one was available.

However, she didn't entirely forget why she'd come to Boston in the first place. And so, quite some time later, when both of them were naked and sweaty but not exhausted enough to fall asleep, Jill rolled over on his living room rug, pulled up the sheet he'd thrown over them, and propped her chin upon his chest.

“So let me ask you one thing,” she said.

“Yes, of course I can,” Ben said as he slid his hand across her buttocks.

She snickered. “Right answer, but the wrong question.”

“Ohhh, I'm so sorry to hear that.”

“No, really”—she hesitated—“why did the Arkwright Foundation give all that money to Senator Wessen?”

Ben didn't reply at once. Instead, he rolled over on his side and gazed past her at the warm embers of the fake fire not really burning in the hearth a few feet away. “Let me ask you something first,” he asked after a moment. “If I tell you, am I going to read it on your site?”

That
was
a good question. “Maybe … oh, god, I don't know.” Jill sighed, let her head fall to the floor. “This isn't ethically proper, is it? Sleep with a guy and then try to get him to say something that could get him in trouble?”

“I don't know. Was that your intention?”

“No!” She quickly sat up, looked him straight in the eye. “That's never what I wanted to do! But if I don't come back with something—”

“Okay, sure. I understand.” Ben rolled over on his back. “How about this? I'll tell you what you want to know on the condition that, when I'm done, you'll let
me
ask
you
a question. After that, you can decide how you want to handle what I've told you. Okay?”

Jill gazed down at him. “You'd trust me that much?”

“Uh-huh.” He gently stroked her thigh. “I think you'll do the right thing.”

“All right. Sure.”

Ben sat up, pulling his end of the sheet across his lap. “Yes, the four hundred Gs the foundation contributed to Wessen's campaign was a payoff,” he said as he reached for the bottle of wine he'd taken from the kitchen. “It's pretty obvious that we wanted him to submit a bill exempting the foundation from the law requiring all American-based space companies, including nonprofits like the Arkwright Foundation, to launch their spacecraft from U.S. launch sites. And you can probably figure out the reason we'd want that.”

“Uh-huh.” Jill watched as he poured dark-red petit noir into their glasses. “The Domestic Space Access Act had the best intentions, but it backfired. The coastal launch sites in Florida, Texas, and Maryland are going underwater, and that's caused the commercial sites in New Mexico and California to become overbooked.”

“And that means they can charge as much as they want for their services.” Ben passed a glass to her. “It's going to take at least four launches for the foundation to get all the starship's components into orbit—that's not counting the powersat we'll have to build at L-4—and we won't have money to spare on rate hikes and surcharges. But we've already got a nice site picked out in the Caribbean, so if we can get the exemption—”

“Then you can launch from down there.” Jill placed the glass on the floor beside her without tasting it. “And that took bribing a senator, of course.”

“It's not a bribe. Not technically, anyway.” Ben sipped his wine. “We're just fortunate to find a presidential candidate who also happens to be a ranking member of the Senate science committee. He's got sufficient clout to move the bill out of committee and to the Senate floor, and once it's there, I have little doubt that it'll move to the House. It's a routine measure, really—unless, of course, the
Truth
calls attention to it.”

“Uh-huh.” Jill watched the holographic flames for a moment, thinking over what he'd just said. “Okay, I can see why you'd pick Wessen. A contribution to his presidential campaign wouldn't look like an obvious bribe. But he called attention to it himself when he made that comment during the debate. If he hadn't, no one would've known what you guys were doing. So was he just being dumb or—?”

“No.” Ben put down his glass and then arched his back to stretch. “He wasn't being dumb. In fact, I'd say he was downright clever.”

“Really?” Jill squinted at him. “From what I've heard, he just about killed his chances of winning New Hampshire with that comment.”

“And if he does badly enough in New Hampshire, he'll probably have to get out of the race.” Ben smiled. “Tell me something … do you think every politician who runs for president actually intends to win the election? Or even get nominated?”

“Sure, of course,” she replied, and then she frowned when he shook his head. “I don't follow. Why wouldn't they?”

“Look, there are six guys from Wessen's party in the primary, plus four from the other side and two independents. That's twelve candidates altogether. Only one of them is going to the White House in November—maybe two, if another of them gets picked as the running mate for the winning ticket. That means ten or eleven will have raised a lot of money, only to drop out between now and the conventions. So ask yourself—what happens to the unspent campaign funds once a candidate drops out of the race?”

“It goes to pay off their bills?”

“Yes, but what if a candidate has kept his expenses low and then drops out early in the race? Say, after a dismal showing in the New Hampshire primary after saying something ridiculous during a debate?”

Jill stared at him. “Are you joking?” He didn't reply, only smiled back at her. “But wouldn't he have to repay his major donors if he drops out?”

“Nope. They knew they were taking a risk when they put money in his war chest. Sure, I imagine some of them are wondering if they bet on the wrong horse, but there's nothing they can do about it now. And Wessen is no fool. He knows he doesn't have a snowball's chance of winning the nomination. So if keeps his expenses low, which he is, and leaves after a bad showing in New Hampshire, he might walk away with … oh, I dunno. A few hundred thousand dollars, maybe even a million. Tax-free.”

“Did you know he was going to—”

“No, not at all. We were just looking for a senator who'd do what we wanted. Wessen saw an opportunity and went with it.” Ben lay back down on the rug and folded his hands behind his head. “He gets what he wants, and we get what we want. Works out pretty well, don't you think?”

Jill slowly nodded. “Yes, it does. So what makes you think I'm not going to write about this?”

“Well, for one thing, judging from what you've told me about
The Dirty Truth
, it won't be your story for very much longer. If you take it back to Washington, your editor—Marty, is it?—will probably just take it away from you and reassign it to his political team. You won't even get a byline out of it.”

Jill picked up her glass and, gazing into the fire, took a long sip of wine. Like it or not, Ben was right. At best, she'd get a brief acknowledgment at the end of another writer's article, a little feather in her cap that no one would remember a month from now. It was a bitter—and yes, a dirty—truth that she'd have to accept.

“Hell,” she murmured.

“Sorry. But let me offer you a proposition.”

“I think you have already.” She smiled despite herself. “Glad I accepted. At least something nice will come out of this.”

“Good. I'm happy you feel that way. Maybe you'll like this one too. Come work for us.”

Jill was about to take another sip when Ben said this. She nearly dropped the glass. “What did you say?”

“You heard me. Come work for the Arkwright Foundation.” He reached forward with his left hand to stroke her leg. “I'm doing this job only because we don't have anyone else just now, and to tell the truth, I'm not very good at it. We need someone to handle media relations.”

“You'd take me?”

“Why not? You obviously know what you're doing. If I put in a good word for you, I'm sure my mother would hire you in flash.” He grinned. “She'd probably like you. She used to be a science writer herself, way back when.”

Jill gazed back at him, still not quite believing what she was hearing. “You're serious?” she asked, taking his hand in hers. “You'd hire someone you just slept with because—”

“I want to hire someone to represent the foundation who doesn't think that building a starship is impossible. Call this a job interview if you like.”

“I
don't
like!” She half-playfully slapped his chest. “I don't want to get this job just because…”

“Ow! Okay! Cut it out!” He caught her wrist before she hit him again. “No, of course not. But I…” He hesitated. “I just don't want this to be a one-night stand. This way, well…”

“You'd see me a little more often, is that it?” Jill let him pull her a little closer.

“Why? Is that a problem?”

“No.” She crawled forward to swing her left leg over him, straddling his body between her thighs. “No, I don't find that objectionable at all.”

His hands rose to her hips. “Then you'll think about it?”

“Uh-huh,” she whispered as she let the sheet fall away. “I'll give you an answer in the morning.”

She already knew what it would be.

 

BOOK TWO

The Prodigal Son

 

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