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  In La Jolla Liz clicked off and swallowed around a huge lump in her throat. She felt sick at heart, but she’d done the right thing. Didn’t Liz Townsend Fairchild always do the right thing? Then why did it hurt so damn much?

  Slowly she walked into the family room and was about to go upstairs when she saw Nancy curled up on the couch, a book propped on her bent knees. Liz’s heart leapt to her throat. She’d been so sure the room had been vacant when she’d checked. Nancy’s eyes were on Liz, her expression thoughtful, assessing. The distance from where she’d been to where Nancy sat was perhaps twenty feet, and she’d kept her voice low. However, her instincts told her that her sister had heard every word.

  Liz dropped onto her father’s favorite leather chair and dragged her feet up onto the ottoman. “I take it you overheard?”

  “I didn’t mean to eavesdrop.”

  She was frankly too bushed to pretend, to play games. “So now you know for sure that I’m not perfect.” Watching Nancy’s face, she saw an empathy she hadn’t thought her sister capable of.

  “I’m so sorry, Liz. It must be hell.”

  Liz brushed back her hair and closed her eyes, feeling like a raw wound, open and bleeding. For years only Molly had known. And now Nancy. She might as well take out a damn billboard ad. Drawing in a deep breath, she met Nancy’s eyes. “You mustn’t say anything to anyone, please, Nancy. Too many people could get hurt.”

  “I won’t. You can trust me, really.” For the first time since her early teens, Nancy felt close to Liz. “If you want to talk, I’m not a bad listener.”

  “Thanks, but I think I’m all talked out for today.” She got to her feet. “I think I’ll go for a walk on the beach.” Liz left the room and headed for the outside stairs, wishing she could replay the last half hour of her life.

  “I’m telling you, he’s clean,” Barry said into the phone as he nervously scanned the empty office and out into the hallway. “I wish you wouldn’t call me here. Did the switchboard operator recognize your voice?”

  “Relax, sugar,” Diane told him. “My own mother wouldn’t recognize my voice if I didn’t want her to. I’m calling because I haven’t had a report from you in over two weeks. More like three. I just came from a luncheon where one of my dear friends tells me she ran into my husband a while back having lunch in a San Diego restaurant. There were six in his party, and one of them was a woman. A woman with dark red hair. Get my drift, Barry, honey?”

  One of the secretaries returned to her desk in the office he shared with several of Senator McKenzie’s aides. Barry slouched down on his seat, swiveling his chair so his back was to her. “I know about that. It was Anthony’s Fish Grotto, a meeting with some San Diego City Council members. The woman was newly elected to a council seat.” He cupped his hand around the mouthpiece. “I told you that you can trust me. I’m on top of things. He hasn’t seen her except publicly in years. Or any other woman, for that matter.”

  Diane’s eyes narrowed shrewdly. She wished she could believe Barry, but her instincts told her he was taking her money and not delivering. Adam was away oftener than last year and many times without Barry along. He and Fitz were more secretive than before. And when he was home, his brooding silences were lengthier. Something was going on. She could smell it. It was time to call someone who had more connections than Barry and fewer scruples. “Okay, sugar. Keep your eyes peeled.” She hung up.

  After slipping off her shoes, she stretched out on the couch and lit a cigarette, then picked up the phone again.

  It was time to call her brother, Harlan.

  In a cramped Los Angeles newsroom, Harlan Cramer propped his feet on his battered desk, leaned his two-hundred-pound-plus bulk back on his squeaky swivel chair, and stuck an expensive cigar into the corner of his mouth. He settled his black felt hat more comfortably on his head and scratched his nose. He had bought the hat with money from his first byline, and he was seldom without it. Glancing through this week’s edition, he turned the pages, perusing this story and that.

  When the phone on his desk rang, he grabbed it in a large, beefy hand and stuck it under both his chins. “Harlan, here.”

  “Harlan, honey,” Diane drawled. “Long time, no see.”

  Harlan had been born in the same southern backwater town in the same run-down trailer as Diane. Like his sister, he could hardly wait to leave. But there, their similarities ended.

  Although he was proud of how far Diane had climbed from their early beginnings, her way wasn’t his. Harlan had a deep-rooted contempt for rich people, politicians, and superstars. He knew he was a good enough journalist to carve a career with a respectable paper in almost any big city, but he took greater pleasure in exposing the high mucky-mucks, the cheaters, and the schemers.

  That was why he worked for the National Examiner, a tabloid newspaper sold mostly at drugstore and supermarket checkout stands. Diane, he was certain, wouldn’t be caught reading his paper these days. He didn’t care. He knew she cared about him, in her own way, as he did about her. The fact that he hadn’t seen her since Keith’s funeral and only talked with her every few months didn’t matter. What did matter was that she was family.

  “Hey, babe,” he greeted her, smiling around his cigar. “How you doing?”

  “Getting by. How about you?”

  “Can’t complain. What’s up?” He knew she wasn’t calling just to inquire about his health or to chat. Diane always had a hidden agenda.

  “I’ve got a favor to ask of you, sugar.” She took a deep drag on her cigarette, then told him what she wanted.

  Harlan shifted his cigar to the other corner of his mouth. “You think Adam’s playing around?”

  “Not necessarily, but I need to be sure. He’s gone an awful lot, you know, and he and the redhead in question go back a long way.” Other senators, it seemed to Diane, spent more time in Washington and less in their own states. Not Adam. A while back he’d been in California because of Keith, she knew. Why he was staying so long now was the question. She was certain that Harlan could dig up dirt, if there was any, on anyone, no man too great or too small. She also knew that Harlan would never do anything to harm her. “Can you do it?”

  “You want to hurt him?”

  “No. I just want to know what he’s up to.”

  “Consider it done.”

  “Thanks, sugar. I’ll sleep better nights once I know.” She didn’t simply want to know if Adam was playing around. She had to know if he was playing around with Liz Fairchild, because if he was, it meant he had deep feelings for her, feelings that could tear him away. That Diane couldn’t handle, not when she was so close to the highest inner circle of Washington power. “Do it discreetly, Harlan, honey. I can’t afford to let anyone else know I’m spying on my husband.”

  “Will do. Call you soon.” Harlan hung up. Lazily he crossed his arms over his rotund belly. Interesting. Senator McKenzie, the fair-haired boy, the prime choice for Democratic vice president, if his sources were to be believed, might be playing footsie with the beautiful widow of a prominent California attorney.

  Harlan smiled. It was just the sort of investigation that got his juices flowing. Maybe, just maybe, there’d be an article in it down the road, provided Diane would give him the okay. He’d never print a word or leak a story that would jeopardize his sister, even though he’d never thought Diane and Adam McKenzie were meant for one another.

  Tossing down the paper, he righted his chair, took from his drawer a package of Twinkies, and glanced at the clock. Harlan subsisted on junk food and Chivas, plenty of both. At the moment he was about a quart low on the latter. The sun was definitely over the yardarm somewhere in the world.

  Heaving himself from his chair, he decided it was time to visit his favorite watering hole and see what was happening. Unwrapping his Twinkies, he left the newsroom.

  CHAPTER 15

  “The truth of the matter, Adam, is that it’s time to fish or cut bait,” Palmer Ames drawled in his best down-home, good-old-boy
s voice. With a manicured hand he carefully patted his thinning hair as he leaned back on his desk chair and contemplated the junior senator from California. “I’m offering you the chance of a lifetime. Frankly, son, the boys and I didn’t think you’d hesitate a second.”

  Seated across the desk, looking deceptively relaxed, Adam hoped he hid his displeasure at the reference to his youth, which, at forty-five, he felt was unjustified. He knew Palmer was a healthy sixty-two, tan, fit, and somewhat vain about it. He was also vocally proud of his family, four grown children and nine grandchildren, all of whom appeared with him and his wife of forty years on most campaign posters. A large family to Palmer proclaimed high moral values and elicited trust. Adam wasn’t so sure.

  He decided the best approach was to try to explain his feelings honestly. “It isn’t that I’m not pleased that you want me for your running mate, Senator. It’s simply that I’m not sure I can best serve the people’s needs as vice president. There are still so many ongoing projects in California. I don’t want the voters to feel abandoned.”

  On the chair next to Adam, Fitz pushed his glasses higher on his nose. “Senator, I’m sure you’re also aware that Adam never jumps into anything quickly. He takes his time making decisions that affect his future and that of others.”

  Palmer smiled around a flash of temper. “Hell, son, you’ve had months to think this over.” He had a grudging respect for Adam’s politics, coupled with an understandable jealousy of his youth, his looks, his charisma. If the big boys hadn’t insisted that in order to win the election they’d need the clout of Adam’s popularity, he’d have sent the kid packing.

  Inserting a toothpick in the corner of his mouth, Palmer mentally counted to ten. As a four-term senior senator from Texas, Palmer had the South and Midwest pretty much in his pocket. However, his advisers were keenly aware that California had the largest electoral vote of any state, and that Adam McKenzie, because of his enormous popularity, could carry a good portion of the West Coast. Still, Palmer was getting damned tired of playing the congenial southern gentleman role. “I’m going to be blunt. It’s time to shit or get off the pot. You tell me today or I’m moving on to my next choice.”

  Adam’s facial expression didn’t change. Decision time. He’d had Palmer checked out six ways sideways and hadn’t been a hundred percent satisfied with the man’s integrity; but, as Fitz had said before they’d arrived for this showdown, no two running mates would ever agree on everything. And how many politicians did he know who were overburdened with principles?

  The real question was, did he want to be vice president? Adam asked himself. He’d been preparing for just such an offer most of his adult life. Why, then, did the reality fall so short of the dream?

  He’d spoken the truth to Palmer. He had a lot of unfinished business with his California constituents. Yet, in his role as second in command, presiding over the Senate should he and Palmer be elected, he’d possibly be able to exercise more influence in getting some of his important bills passed. Perhaps he’d be able to help even more people in that new position.

  Rising to his feet, Adam stretched out his hand toward Palmer. “All right. Count me in,” he said, surprising the other two men in the room at his sudden decision.

  “Well, that’s more like it,” Palmer stated, grasping Adam’s hand and shaking it heartily, then reaching to shake with Fitz. “The convention’s in another three weeks. We need to get together for some briefings before then.”

  “How’s it look, sir?” Fitz asked. “Would you say you’ve got enough delegates to secure the nomination?”

  Palmer allowed himself a smug smile as he shifted his ever-present toothpick to the other side. “You bet your ass I do, son, and then some.”

  Adam was aware of Palmer’s propensity for coarse language, though the man was extremely careful never to turn the air blue in public. Praying he hadn’t made a big mistake, Adam waited for Fitz to coordinate the time for their first briefing, then turned to leave.

  “That pretty little southern gal you’re married to is going to win us a flood of votes, Adam,” Palmer stated.

  Adam supposed he was right. Diane was far better as a campaigner than a wife. “She’s looking forward to it, Senator.”

  “I’ll take care of the press releases,” Palmer called after them.

  “Fine,” Fitz said, then closed the door behind them. Letting out a tense breath, he clapped Adam on the back. “You did it, bro.”

  “No, we did it,” Adam said, walking briskly down the hallway. “The question is, did we do the right thing?”

  “Hell, yes. Remember what we talked about earlier? You can’t make changes if you don’t get elected. I know Palmer has a lot of rough edges…”

  Adam let out a grunt.

  “But we can work around all that.” Fitz opened the door to Adam’s office, then led the way inside and set his briefcase on a chair.

  Adam rolled his shoulders, trying to ease the tension before he sat down behind his desk. He checked his watch and saw it was four on a Friday afternoon. A sudden thought, a restless need, had him staring out the window. “Maybe we should catch a quick flight to California, hole up in the beach house, and plan our strategy so we’ll be ready for these so-called briefings.”

  Fitz sat down, studying his brother, wondering where to begin, how to say what needed to be said. “Adam, do you realize that as soon as you’re proclaimed the vice-presidential candidate the Secret Service protection will begin and you won’t have a private minute?”

  Adam watched a lazy cloud drift along in a summer sky. “All the more reason why we should take advantage of these last few weeks.”

  “I wouldn’t if I were you.”

  Adam swiveled around to face Fitz. “Why not?”

  “Because Palmer’s probably on the phone right this minute with the press. The Secret Service coverage may not begin until after the convention, but the press will have wind of this within the hour and be on your tail. I know why you want to be at the beach house, and you’ve got to give it up, Adam. You’ll not only hurt Liz, but you’ll blow the vice presidency. And maybe your career, to say nothing of your marriage.”

  He’d heard this sort of thing from Fitz before, just not quite so bluntly. And he knew his brother was right. It still rankled. “Yes, by all means, I’ve got to safeguard my marriage.”

  “You do now, whether personally you want to or not. Divorced senators don’t get elected to high office, especially not with a man running as a ‘family candidate.”’

  Adam leaned back on his chair, nodding. “I hear you.” His gaze shifted out the window again. What did it matter how much he wanted to see Liz? In their last conversation she’d told him that she thought it best they stay away from each other. Even if he flew back, she probably wouldn’t see him.

  Too bad. He’d love to show her the inside of the beach house, the things he’d had remodeled. Far more gracious and permanent than the term beach house indicated, it was a stately old home on the sea. The oak paneling in the library, the flagstone patio, the sunken tub in the master bath—all were touches he’d added to enhance its charm. He loved that house, yet without the thought of seeing her, he had little desire to go there. It seemed that not seeing Liz was beginning to taint his days and ruin his nights.

  Fitz stood, clearing his throat to get Adam’s attention. “Am I getting through to you, Adam?” Had they come this far only to have Adam blow it all over Liz Fairchild? Couldn’t he get a grip on his feelings and walk away the way Fitz had from Sandy Wilkins years ago?

  Adam turned and met his brother’s eyes. “Don’t worry. She doesn’t want to see me, so you can relax.”

  “I’ve always said she’s a smart lady.”

  “Yeah, smart.” The phone rang and Adam picked it up, clicking on the speaker phone. “Hello?”

  “Sugar, I just heard the news,” Diane purred. “I’m so proud of you. Why don’t you come home early so we can celebrate?”

  Fitz rolled h
is eyes at Adam as he left the room.

  “It’s over,” Dr. Westmoreland said softly to Katherine, his hand on her shoulder in comfort. “Joseph is gone.”

  He hadn’t died peacefully, Liz thought as she stood at the foot of the bed, dry-eyed after the long vigil. Her father’s face was contorted, as if a part of him struggled to come back, to stay alive. Joseph Townsend had always been a fighter. She’d known he wouldn’t give up easily, but the three-month battle had depleted the last of his waning energy.

  “He looks angry,” Katherine whispered, stroking her husband’s hand. “As if he didn’t want to leave us.”

  “I’m sure he didn’t, my dear,” Dr. Westmoreland assured her. “I’ll give you a few moments and see you downstairs shortly.”

  “Thank you.” Katherine also had shed all the tears she had to give; her pale skin looked parchment thin, her eyes sad and haunted. “Come, Sara.” She beckoned to her granddaughter, seated on the rocking chair on the other side of the bed. “Come say good-bye to your grandfather.”

  Reluctantly, almost fearfully now that there was no raspy breath coming from the man she’d spent hours watching over, Sara stepped closer to the bed. Tears overflowed as memories crowded in on her.

  Liz walked to her daughter and slipped an arm around her slim waist. “We have so many years of good times with Grandpa to remember, sweetheart. That’s what we have to think about now.”

  Sara nodded and clung to her mother’s hand.

  Not wishing to prolong this scene for Sara’s sake, Liz stepped back. For too long they’d inhaled the smell of illness and dying. They badly needed some fresh air. “We’ll go on downstairs, Mother, and stay with Dr. Westmoreland until you come.” Quietly she and Sara left.

  Katherine continued to stroke Joseph’s arm, so thin now compared with the hard strength she’d touched for so many years. Lightly she smoothed his cheek, rearranged his hair, still thick and very white. She’d had months to prepare for this moment, and they hadn’t been enough. If God were to grant her but one more wish in her lifetime, she would ask Him to turn back the clock to the day she’d met Joseph Townsend so that she could live every day with him all over again—despite all she knew, despite all the hard times.