Fair Game (5 page)

“For both of us,” Ashley said shortly, putting on her gloves.

“Can’t he just meet us there?” Dillon asked. He obviously wanted to get Ashley alone.

“He’s supposed to travel with me, Jim. Please cooperate,” Ashley said with a note of suppressed impatience.

Martin felt ridiculous letting her speak for him. But since he was not a party to the conversation, he could do nothing but stand by and listen to them discuss him as if he weren’t there.

“Ashley,” Dillon said in a wheedling tone.

“We’re late,” she said, and turned to Martin. “I’m ready, Lieutenant.”

“Do you have to wear that?” Dillon asked, addressing Martin for the first time. Having lost the argument, Dillon turned his irritation on its cause, pointing to Martin’s gun, visible as he adjusted his coat.

“Yes,” Martin replied tersely.

“I really don’t think that’s necessary,” Dillon complained, his even features mirroring refined distaste.

“Let the man do his job, Jim,” Ashley said briskly, and strode from the room.

The two men had no choice but to follow her.

It was a silent ride down in the elevator, and when they got to the waiting limousine Dillon said to Martin, “Can’t you follow us in another car?”

Martin felt his patience waning, but he managed to say levelly, “No, I’m sorry.”

He got in front with the driver. As soon as Dillon and Ashley were settled in the back, Dillon pushed the button to raise the window between the seats.

“Jim, what’s the matter with you?” Ashley demanded of him immediately. “You’re doing everything you possibly can to make that man uncomfortable.”

Dillon was silent a long moment and then said, “I’m sorry, Ash, but I was looking forward to spending the evening alone with you. I haven’t seen you in quite a while, and I didn’t expect to be sharing you with some ... bodyguard.”

“I told you they were being assigned to us.”

“I know, I know. I guess I forgot. Or I didn’t realize they’d be showing up so soon.”

“Well, they’re here, and we have to make the best of it,” Ashley said shortly.

Dillon took her chin in his hand and kissed the tip of her nose. “I promise, I will. Now, can’t we talk about something else?”

The conversation shifted to the campaign and Dillon’s practice. In the front seat, cut off by the glass partition, Martin could hear nothing of what they were saying. He suspected that Dillon was deliberately trying to make him feel déclassé, and then realized that Dillon wouldn’t consider a cop important enough to snub. To him Martin was just another type of servant, and he’d treated him exactly as he would one of the help, as Ashley Fair had done.

Martin stared out the side window at the passing scenery. It changed from city to highway to blooming suburbs as they headed out the Main Line. They were going to the home of one of Senator Fair’s staunchest supporters, Congressman Matthew Marshall, heir to a newspaper fortune. The Senator had to speak at a fundraiser first, so his daughter was making an early appearance to smooth any ruffled feathers until the man himself could arrive.

The trip to Gladwyne was short, without traffic, and they arrived in about twenty minutes. Martin looked around as they pulled up to an electronically controlled gate manned by a uniformed security guard. He examined the car from the safety of his little house and then picked up the telephone, waving them through the wrought-iron barrier, which sprang open like Aladdin’s cave to let them pass.

The guard had evidently recognized Ashley.

The house was visible as a blaze of light through the trees as they drove up a long lane lined with elms and maples. At its end the driveway widened to a circle with a marble fountain splashing in its center. The stucco Georgian colonial rose behind it, with double oak doors hung with brass, and quoined corners and crenellated windows, evidence of a stonemason’s artistry. Lush landscaping crowded the brick walk as Ashley and Dillon made their way to the entrance, Martin trailing them while the chauffeur parked the car.

The door was opened by a uniformed maid who showed them into the largest entry hall Martin had ever seen. An immense crystal chandelier sparkled overhead, its light reflected from the gleaming surface of the polished parquet floor and the delicate cherry antiques. An ivory Kirman rug cushioned their footsteps as the maid took Ashley’s wrap and showed them into a large parlor where people were milling about with drinks in hand. Martin could hear dance music coming from somewhere else in the house as he followed the moving couple.

Their hosts greeted them, the smiling congressman with his bluff, hearty good looks—why did these politicians all seem like doppelgangers of one another? Martin wondered—and his slim, blonde wife in a chic ice-blue dress. Marshall kissed Ashley, shook hands with Dillon, and nodded to Martin when his presence was explained. Then he guided them into the throng, making sure they blended in effortlessly.

Martin kept well back, observing Ashley work the room.

She seemed to know everybody, and Martin had to admire her panache. She appeared born for the performance she was giving, moving through the crowd as naturally as a dancer on the boards. He began to unwind as she bussed cheeks and shook hands and exchanged pleasantries with the guests. These people were all supporters of the Senator; it was unlikely he would find any assassins here. He took up a position next to the ornate fireplace and leaned on the carved pine mantel. He took a drink from a passing server, standing with the fluted glass in his hand, not sipping it but trying to blend in with the festive crowd. The burning logs in the grate lent a cheerful warmth to the room, which was exposed to the cool spring night, French doors open to a flagstone patio beyond the house.

The beautiful people, Martin thought. And they certainly were. He had never seen so many stunning women together in one place in his life, the young ones fresh and brimming with juice, the older ones well tended and carefully preserved, all of them groomed and outfitted like thoroughbreds. And yet even among them Ashley stood out, or so it seemed to him as his eyes followed her through the crush of people.

He was supposed to be watching her, so he did. His gaze was cynical, recognizing her act for what it was, and yet he felt the pull of her beauty and her charm, even so. Dillon remained at Ashley’s side, smiling and playing the hail-fellow-well-met role to the teeth. He was obviously an asset, moving as easily through the crowd as Ashley did, greeting many of the party goers by name. Martin’s gaze passed over the elegant furnishings, the silk draperies and lighted curio cabinets and Aubusson carpet, looking instead for hiding places and suspicious characters. It appeared impossible that any uninvited guests could have gotten through the security system, or approached on foot through the surrounding acreage of the estate, but Martin had seen too much in his years on the force to take anything for granted.

He was so absorbed in his scrutiny that he started when Ashley said at his elbow, “Are you holding up the fireplace, Lieutenant?”

Her tone was light, her expression teasing.

“Uh, no. Just trying to stay out of the way,” Martin replied shortly.

“Do you like it?” she asked.

“The fireplace?”

“Yes. It’s very unusual, don’t you think?”

He nodded. Since she had brought it up, he asked bluntly, “Why is it green?”

She smiled. “That’s Connemara marble, quarried in Ireland. The chandelier and the glassware are Waterford. The rococo gilt mirror over there is from the estate of Lord Cadoghan of Kerry. Sean Marshall is very proud of his heritage.”

Martin said nothing. He didn’t know what rococo was, and he’d never heard of Lord Cadoghan.

“You’re Irish, aren’t you?” she asked, smiling.

“My father was,” he replied stiffly, consciously resisting what he saw as a transparent attempt to disarm him. Then he added curiously, “How did you know?”

“From looking at you,” she said, and he almost smiled back at her.

“Relax, Lieutenant,” she added in an undertone. “No one has a gun to my head.”

“It’s my job to make sure that doesn’t happen.”

“So of course you can’t enjoy yourself.”

“I’m not here in a social capacity, Miss Fair,” Martin answered.

“I know that, but you don’t have to look so...”

Martin waited.

“Grim,” she finished.

Dillon appeared behind her. “Are we moving on, Ash?” he said, glancing at Martin.

She nodded. “There’s another crowd in the ballroom, Lieutenant, and I want to get in there before my father arrives. All right?”

“Fine.”

Martin trailed after them through the central hall, passing a dining room with another elaborate chandelier, where the staff was setting up a cold buffet, and a paneled study lined with books. At the back of the house a set of sliding doors parted to reveal a cavernous room with a strip hardwood dance floor and a raised musician’s dais at the back. It was occupied by a five-piece band playing retrospective tunes; “Moonglow” was currently floating through the air. About forty couples were dancing to its strains.

They stood waiting for the number to end as Martin scanned the entrance and exits. When the music stopped, the band took a break and the people eddied around Ashley. Dillon excused himself and left the room with an older man as Ashley fell into conversation with the man’s wife. Martin moved off to a discreet distance, always keeping Ashley well in sight.

“My dear, wherever did you find him?” Mrs. Clinton said to Ashley, nodding unobtrusively to Martin. “He’s absolutely delicious. Those mesmerizing eyes. ‘Put in with a sooty finger,’ as we used to say in my day.”

Ashley smiled dryly. “That’s the police escort your husband encouraged Commissioner Reardon to provide, Mrs. Clinton. Lieutenant Martin.”

Mrs. Clinton looked shocked. “Darling, he can’t be a policeman. They carry those big sticks and walk around with handcuffs dangling from their belts.”

“I assure you, he’s a cop,” Ashley replied, suppressing a smile.

“Well, if that’s what they look like, I’ll have to speak to Harold about getting me one,” Mrs. Clinton replied wickedly, and went off into a peal of laughter.

Ashley couldn’t help but join in, and was soon in a ribald discussion with the delightful old lady, who was secure enough in her position to say startling things without worrying about the consequences. The band returned, but Dillon didn’t, and a ward leader Ashley knew casually asked her to dance.

It wasn’t until they got out on the dance floor that Ashley realized how intoxicated the man was. The champagne had been flowing freely for a couple of hours, and he had obviously drunk too deeply from the well. He trampled her feet and held her too close and breathed alcohol fumes in her face. The band was unfortunately playing the long version of “As Long as I Have You,” and showed no sign of stopping. She stumbled along clumsily with her partner, looking around anxiously for Dillon, who had not reappeared.

It was some moments before Martin saw that Ashley was in trouble. She was so good at playing her role that he didn’t realize her partner was smashed until they practically collided with another couple dancing next to them. Then he noticed the white lines of strain bracketing Ashley’s mouth, her fixed smile, and he glanced about quickly for Dillon, who was nowhere in sight. Making a snap decision, he strode purposefully to the lumbering couple and tapped the man on the shoulder.

For an instant he thought he had made a mistake. The drunk looked around at him querulously, and Martin hoped he hadn’t precipitated a fight. But the man wasn’t too plastered to notice that Martin was four inches taller than he was, years younger, and superbly fit. He surrendered Ashley reluctantly, but without a word.

“Thank you,” Ashley said fervently as she stepped into Martin’s arms and they began to dance. “I wasn’t sure how much longer I could go on with that.”

“Why didn’t you just tell him to get lost?”

“He’s important to my father’s campaign. I couldn’t risk offending him,” she replied.

“I guess your job isn’t always as easy it looks,” Martin conceded grudgingly.

“It isn’t an easy life at all, Lieutenant,” she said seriously, looking up to meet his eyes.

Martin must have appeared doubtful, because she added, “I sense that you find that difficult to believe.”

Martin said nothing.

“Too professional to reply to that comment, Lieutenant?” Ashley inquired.

He felt that she was baiting him, so he answered shortly, “Money like yours can generally solve a lot of problems the rest of us have to handle, Miss Fair.”

“I wasn’t talking about money, Lieutenant. But I suppose, like most people, when you first meet us that’s all you can see.”

There was a testiness in her tone, and Martin knew that the conversation was taking a dangerously personal turn. He gazed down at her, hearing the music at a remote distance. He was holding her loosely on purpose, hardly touching her, but her waist still felt like a handspan, and her small fingers were lost in his other palm.

Her perfume drifted around them and her hair brushed his cheek.

“I try to be objective in any situation,” he said neutrally.

Ashley let that pass, but her mouth set unhappily.