Читать книгу Southern Belle - Fiona Hood-Stewart - Страница 11

“Bitch,” Harlan MacBride muttered, then slammed down the phone so hard the antique mahogany desk shuddered. Had Elm gone fucking nuts?

Meredith Hunter’s words echoed ominously.

Elm wanted a divorce.

It was unthinkable.

He’d never have guessed she had the guts to cross him this way, or that she’d take such a drastic step and then disappear. She’d been missing for days, making things damned uncomfortable for him—he’d only just now learned that she’d hightailed it to Switzerland, to that crazy Italian friend of hers whom he’d never liked, Gioconda Mancini.

Harlan flexed his fingers, eyes narrowed. Fuck Elm. She had no right to do this, no right at all. And fuck Jennifer for having opened her big sexy mouth. She was a great lay, and that tongue of hers could work wonders, but obviously he’d misjudged her ability to keep her goddamn trap shut.

He should have been more careful, he admitted, his lower lip twitching. But all those damn IVF treatments had been such a drag. Worse, he’d had to carry on the pretense of giving a shit—cosset Elm after the implantations, agree to the doctor’s recommendation that he stay out of her bed—when he had far bigger matters on his plate. It wasn’t surprising he’d let off steam with Jennifer. Any man would have. Elm should be grateful to him for being so understanding instead of flying off in a sulk.

And now she was threatening divorce, he reflected grimly. If he wasn’t meticulous about defusing her snit, Elm could spoil his re-election chances. She of all people knew he’d won his House seat on a platform promoting strong, Christian family values. Hell, the goddamn campaign posters that were going out next week showed him holding her hand and surrounded by smiling kids. Not his kids, mind you, he reflected, annoyed.

He shook his head and muttered crossly. Elm was nothing but an unappreciative spoiled brat who should be thanking her lucky stars for having a husband like him, one who, despite the drawback of not having children, had been able to look past the negative and see the potential of the situation. That was something he’d learned early on: how to twist circumstances—however challenging—to his advantage.

Harlan leaned back in the deep office chair and a slow smile crept over his handsome features as he recalled the several newspaper and TV interviews where he’d tearfully confessed that God hadn’t seen fit to bless them with kids, how maybe one day he and his wife would adopt. It had worked like a charm. Immediately the family-values freaks and the born-again Christians had come beating down his door, fists full of campaign dollars.

But they’d abandon him in a heartbeat if Elm’s allegations ever got out, he reflected gloomily, the smile disappearing as fast as it had dawned. And so would Senator Hathaway’s support, he realized, sitting up straighter. Much as he’d prefer to forget it, Harlan knew that, despite his charisma and eloquent Southern charm, it was Elm’s father—the influential six-term senator from Georgia—who’d gotten him elected. Hathaway had made phone calls, calling in half-a-century’s worth of favors, and the checks had followed. But even more critical was the family connection. Being viewed as the senator’s political heir-apparent gave him instant clout. No way could that be jeopardized, he thought, sucking in his lean cheeks, bronzed from a weekend of sailing on his friend Tyler Brock’s hundred-foot sloop. There had to be a way around this.

Harlan drummed the desk absently and pondered. At thirty-seven, he was everything old man Hathaway had once been: young, handsome, charismatic. But whereas Hathaway, for all his wealth and clout, had long ago had to content himself with the Senate floor, Harlan possessed that extra something that made him special, that rare and extraordinary political talent that made the White House a realistic goal. They both knew it, and that’s why the senator had invested so heavily in him—because Harlan was his ticket to what he couldn’t get on his own. No way was Hathaway going to let that dream die.

Of course, it helped that he had no clear idea of what state his daughter’s marriage was in; the senator was very protective of Elm. Still, surely he could be made to understand, to see things Harlan’s way? It might not be a bad idea to present himself as the injured party here, soliciting his father-in-law’s sympathy, he reflected, fingering his Old Miss tie. It all depended on just how much Elm had blabbered.

Despite his nonchalance, he pulled the handkerchief out of his pocket and wiped a thin film of sweat from his brow. Old Man Hathaway was a rigid stickler for form, prided himself on being the goddamn Conscience of the Senate. Elm had to know she could wreak considerable damage with a tearful call to Dear Daddy.

Even as he considered that frightening possibility, he acknowledged that, for all her faults, broadcasting private matters wasn’t Elm’s style. Plus, Hathaway had been in the dark about his daughter’s whereabouts, too. Maybe the better course here was just to come clean—well, not too clean, certainly, just enough to cover his ass in case someone saw fit to inform Hathaway of his son-in-law’s little dalliances. He mentally sketched a speech—he’d act repentant, confide in him man-to-man, make the proper excuses. The senator was a player after all, a pragmatist. With any luck, he’d understand and let Harlan off with a scolding.

The idea grew on him. Not that its success was a given—he’d have to tread carefully. Elm was the old man’s only daughter, after all, and however much the senator might like and support his son-in-law, blood ran thicker than water. Particularly, Harlan mused, for someone like George Hathaway.

For a moment he surveyed his elegantly appointed office, the elaborate eighteenth-century frieze, the authentic antiques and Old Master paintings, the gracious bay windows reaching out onto the inner garden so carefully tended by Josiah, the Hathaway family gardener, all part of the image he’d so carefully compiled and cultivated. It was no less than he deserved, of course. Unfortunately, he reminded himself sourly, it all belonged to his beautiful, elusive wife. These offices, the house on Abercorn, were essential to asserting his status. Thank God very few of his constituents got to see that dumpy back office he’d been assigned at the Capitol, a sharp reminder that, in the bigger scheme of things, he still stood on the bottom rung of the political ladder.

But that was on the verge of changing.

If Elm didn’t mess up.

He clenched his fingers and stared at the wall, plastered with endless photographs featuring flattering images of himself with everyone from Clinton and Bush to Magic Johnson and the king of Saudi Arabia. The sight soothed his sizzling temper and helped clear his head. He might still be only a junior congressman, but he’d already made many powerful friends and cultivated connections that he was certain would pay off in the future.

However, all that would be seriously at risk unless he fixed his little problem, he reminded himself. It was essential that Elm return. Harlan slumped in the chair and brooded. What did she want? he wondered. The divorce threat had to be a bluff. Still, never in a hundred years would he have imagined she’d go this route. Obviously he’d made a serious misstep in not acting suitably penitent the other morning. He should have realized when she disappeared to Oleander for those few days that something was up. But she was always buried over there, painting those weird canvases that the critics seemed to think were so hot and redoing the gardens with those freaks she’d recruited from the battered women’s center.

With a shake of the head, Harlan rallied. He prided himself on crisis control, the power to compartmentalize and find effective solutions for any predicament. The present one required focus and action. He pulled himself up and began making notes on a legal pad, reviewing the circumstances.

Then a slow smile curved his lips, and he tapped his foot rhythmically, beginning to relax. Elm had recently complained of—what was it? Some sort of weird symptoms. Damn it, he couldn’t quite remember. Never mind. She’d talked of visiting Doc Philips. Bingo. There was his excuse staring him right in the face: Elm was making all the wrong decisions because she wasn’t feeling herself.

“Ha!” Harlan let out a harsh laugh and brought his fist down on the desk with a satisfied thud. If he played this right with Hathaway, he might just emerge smelling like a rose. If he played it right. It was essential to shoot dead on target.

Closing his eyes, Harlan conjured up the scene that would take place later in the senator’s library, silently mouthing his words: Elm wasn’t herself, needed help, had some sort of female problem that was affecting her decision-making. Maybe the last failed IVF treatment had hit her harder than they’d realized. He was sorry, so very sorry, he’d done anything to hurt her—his only excuse was that the stress of infertility had affected him, too. He regretted it bitterly, but surely she could forgive one little slip? And by the way, shouldn’t they try to do something about this absurd divorce procedure that made no sense at all and that she would obviously regret the minute she regained her health?

He jumped up, excited.

It was perfect.

For a second he thought of the other measures he was implementing that one day, he hoped, would secure him his absolute freedom from the powerful Hathaway clan. But that was farther down the line. It was still too soon, he reminded himself. He shook his head. There was far too much at stake to take foolish risks. He owed it to the electorate to ensure his staying power, didn’t he? After all, the future of the greatest nation in the world could not depend on the whims of a slighted woman.

Twiddling his gold fountain pen—the one with which he signed all official documents—Harlan glanced coldly at his wife’s beautiful image smiling wistfully up at him from the silver-framed photograph. He would not tolerate her messing with him.

He felt better now that he’d decided on a definitive strategy. He stretched his arms and rotated his neck. Then he caught sight of himself in the gilt-framed eighteenth-century mirror above the marble mantel. Head tilted, Harlan surveyed himself critically. It wasn’t just his boyish charm or rueful smile that captured voters, he acknowledged proudly. It was that blazing internal radiance that he’d learned to produce automatically, profoundly conscious of its effect. In simple terms, he had the power to seduce others! It gave him a rush to know he could subject them to his will. In fact, he was increasingly amazed at his own flawless charisma. Each time he spoke he absorbed the crowd’s energy, its vibes, steeped himself in the atmosphere, then let the public set him on track, offer him their vision, so that he could pitch what they wanted back to them.

There was always a point—usually about five minutes into a speech—when he captured the audience’s response, when he knew the bond had been forged. From then on, it was plain sailing and the gathered electorate was his. And that was his secret weapon—the magic touch that would lead him inevitably to his ultimate goal.

Straightening his shoulders, Harlan jutted his well-defined chin and remembered Jack Kennedy. A sudden vision of himself, ankles casually crossed on the desk of the Oval Office, sent a rush ripping through him. He rocked on his heels and basked in it. Then just as quickly, he stood still. He would get there, all right, but first he must get his ducks in a row.

He glanced at his watch, then at the battery of phones spread on the desk. Better get on with it and set up the appointment right away. There was no point in avoiding what had to be done.