Call My Name
Authors: Barbara Delinsky
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CONTENTS
Dear Reader,
I’m a woman with a past—namely, a group of novels that have been lost for nearly twenty years. I wrote them under pseudonyms at the start of my career, at which time they were published as romances. In the years since, my writing has changed, and these novels went into storage, but here they are now, and I’m thrilled. I loved reading romance; I loved
writing
romance. Rereading these books now, I see the germs of my current work in character development and plot. Being romances, they’re also very steamy.
Initially, I had planned to edit each to align them with my current writing style, but a funny thing happened on the way to
that
goal. Totally engrossed, I read through each one, red pencil in hand, without making a mark! As a result, what you have here is the original in its sweet, fun, sexy entirety.
In
Call My Name
(née
Whispered Promise
), you also have a story that breaks a cardinal rule of mine as a writer—NEVER write about religion or politics. But what did I know back in 1982? Back then, politics wasn’t as rancorous as it is today, and I found the whole thing intriguing. I was eleven when I first visited Washington and saw the White House, the Supreme Court, and the monuments. I returned when my soon-to-be-husband interviewed for law school there, and though he eventually chose a law school in Boston, we must have caught a bug and passed it to our kids, because two of them live there now. We visit once a month and, politics aside, I’ve come to appreciate the city all the more.
Moreover, Andrew Charles, the senator who falls for the heroine of
Call My Name
, is a good guy. He is honest and hard-working, adept at compromise (a good thing, both in his work and his relationship with headstrong Daran Patterson), and he fights for the rights of children. He is also extraordinarily human. Read
Call My Name
, and you’ll see what I mean.
Enjoy!
Barbara
CHAPTER 1
For long moments the tall figure stood immobile behind the desk, palms flat on either side of the pile of press clippings. Deep in thought, he read the topmost item for the third time. Lost to him was the simple splendor of the office, with its rich mahogany desk and credenza, its robust leather armchairs, its long conference table, and numerous and stuffed bookshelves, as was the stately grandfather clock which slowly ticked off the minutes. The mass of photographs, political and personal alike, which covered the white walls looked with benign indulgence upon the sandy-colored head bent intently over the fresh newsprint.
Straightening to his full height, he was once more in command. The distance to the door diminished rapidly with several broad strides; a bronzed hand on the knob drew it quickly open. “Hollings!” The deep voice issued its command before its vibrant owner returned once more to his desk, leaving the door ajar. His steel-gray eyes were back on the same clipping when the shutting door announced the arrival of his aide.
“John, who in the devil is this Dr. Patterson?” The back of his hand rapped the top of the pile of press clippings as he raised his eyes to challenge his administrative assistant. Preliminaries were an unnecessary and ill-afforded luxury in their line of work. John Hollings was his right-hand man precisely because he understood this and always managed to be one step ahead.
Directly, the man opposite responded. “Somewhat of an enigma, Drew. A newcomer. Only in the state since last fall. Teaches child psychology at Trinity. On the side, executive director of the Connecticut Child Advocacy Project.”
“For a newcomer, the name Patterson has established itself already,” Drew commented. He straightened again and thrust both hands in the pockets of his gray gabardine slacks. “This is the second article in as many days, the fourth or fifth in the past few weeks. Dr. Patterson has become quite a spokesman.”
“Spokeswoman,” the aide corrected, a slow smile drawing at the corners of his mouth.
It was mirrored instantly as Drew Charles eased his tall frame into the high-backed leather chair behind him. “I stand corrected. And she has some tongue. Seems to feel that our bill falls far short. It’s obvious that she’s never been to Washington.” His tongue-in-cheek quip, accompanied by a brief glance heavenward, was not lost on John Hollings.
“No doubt. We knew we were facing tough opposition when we first introduced this legislation, Drew, but this type of thing we didn’t quite anticipate. And from home, no less!”
Again, the gray eyes fell across the newsprint. “
The Hartford Courant
is bad enough. It’s the most widely read paper in the state. But at the rate she’s going, it may be
The New York Times
next or, Lord help us, the
Washington Post
.” The strong lips thinned to a frown as the finely honed mind moved ahead. “Find out everything you can on her, John. Let’s know exactly what we’re up against. And keep a close watch on possible developments. I don’t want to risk anything before the bill is even sent to committee.”
The swivel chair turned away from the aide, effectively dismissing him, as its occupant cast a pensive eye out the window. April in Washington was a sight to see, the famed cherry blossoms budding in pale pink harmony with the green buds on the trees and the revived growth of the lush-grassed malls. Spring had arrived, and with it the annual flow of visitors, heavy year round to this, the nation’s capital, but particularly noticeable at the time of nature’s rebirth. Legislators came and went, as did presidents, their aides, staffs, and families. Yet the bounty of the land remained, year after year, to live through its four-season cycle, then begin all over again.
In a brief idle moment, Drew Charles let his mind drift northward to his own Connecticut retreat. Spring would be several weeks behind there, with but the earliest green buds just beginning to emerge over the low hillside on which his home was hidden. It had been a month since he’d been there; that would have to be remedied. As it was, he was due to return the weekend after next, though the schedule of appearances which his press secretary, Dwight Dewhurst, had lined up offered little promise of the quiet time he wanted.
A sigh of resignation punctuated his thoughts as he once more thanked fate and his own determination that he had neither a wife nor children to neglect. For everything his job offered—and he found it to be the most stimulating thing, by far, that he had ever done in his life—it made a travesty of family life. With the inescapable bitterness that hounded him, his thoughts turned to his parents, then, as suddenly, mellowed. All alone now, his father had made the sacrifice and suffered for it daily. Drew vowed to make the time to spend with him, however short, when he returned home. After all, his father had no one else left to call family. No one else, but his son, the senator.
* * *
A fresh clipping stared starkly up from the desk top three days later. Again, there were long moments of concentration as gray eyes, slate-hard, studied it. Again there was a statuesque pose in the tall, well-muscled form above it. Again there was a terse summons for the administrative assistant.
“What more have you got, John?” he asked bluntly, settling back in his chair. It had been an exhausting few days of committee hearings, floor discussions, and several roll-call votes, all spiced with the informal conversations he had held with various of his colleagues by way of sampling the sentiment toward his newly proposed legislation. It was his baby, the Rights of Minors Act, and he was determined that it should flourish from inception to enactment. After ten years in Washington, the ins and outs of politics were clear to Drew. Understanding the process, however, was a far cry from exercising it. But he was on his way with this one, slowly and steadily, observing every unwritten word of protocol. It would be a long fight, one charged with emotion. Control, in its every intricate aspect, would be a determining factor. It was therefore critical that he identify and understand his opposition.
John Hollings deposited a manila folder on his boss’s desk before taking a seat to the right. “Her qualifications appear to be legitimate enough. She’s originally from Cleveland, has an M.A. and a Ph.D. from the University of Minnesota in child psychology. There’s no record of any particular activism while she was a student there, or during the following years when she worked at a mental health center in San Francisco. Her doctoral dissertation—you have a summary of it there—” he gestured toward the folder “—seems to have made its mark, though. After an intensive study of child custody disputes, both in Minnesota and in California, she suggested that, despite the good intentions of the courts, the best interests of the children, in a large number of cases, were simply not being served. Her hypothesis is backed up forcefully with a whole army of statistics. She makes a convincing argument.”
A wry smile twisted the senator’s lips. “I’m sure. Her arguments—and the way she states them—are potent in the clippings you’ve given me. She has a definite knack for words. If, as you suggest, she is an authority in the field—” the grind of the wheels in his mind were almost audible as his left forefinger stoked a clean-shaven cheek—“and she has the facts and figures to back up her arguments…” His words trailed off as his thoughts digressed slightly. “What about
her
?”
The question had been expected, and John Hollings was prepared. “Lives very quietly and alone in … get this,” he added with a knowing grin, “Simsbury.”
Drew got it; they were townsmates. “No family at all with her?”
“Appears not.”
“What else?”
“She is well thought of in the area, according to our man Morrow in the Hartford office. People who meet her seem to like her. But she’s all business. Keeps strictly to herself socially.”
A tawny brow arched into the tanned forehead to scatter ripples beneath a fallen swath of hair. “How old?”
Amusement was subtly held in check as John answered. “Twenty-nine, several months short of the big three-oh.” Having known Drew Charles since his first days in Washington, the aide could well imagine what was going through the senator’s mind at that moment. Though he had never married, Drew had a distinct way with women. He was able to hold them at arm’s length as he wrapped them helplessly around his little finger. If his even, white smile didn’t do it, there was always the effect of his lean and muscular physique or the magnetism of his eyes—business to bedroom in one blink, a smitten companion of John’s had, to his own consternation, once aptly described them—or his renowned bachelor status itself. But no notorious playboy was this senator. His liaisons, in love as in politics, were well chosen, discreetly pursued, and succinctly carried out. This man was male through and through. Without doubt there had been many an evening spent incommunicado. And, if he was as good a lover as he was a brilliant thinker, any woman he chose to dally with would long remember him.
The brief silence was broken by Drew’s soft laughter. “Feeling her oats as she crests the hill. Getting better, as they say.” Then he paused, growing entirely serious. “Any photos of her?”
John merely smiled. “Sorry, chum. Nothing. She hasn’t made the evening news yet. You’ll just have to wait until you meet her.”
