She came up empty. A small frown developed between her eyebrows. Ridiculous as it seemed, she liked him. And it wasn’t just sexual, although the sexual attraction was frighteningly strong. He was fun, and he was comfortable. He was impossible to insult. She wouldn’t exactly call it a good quality, but it was a nice change of pace after years of Capitol Hill diplomacy. And she liked the way he was honest about lying.
“Well?” he asked.
“I’m thinking.”
“Jeez. It’s taking
“Maybe I just don’t know you well enough.”
“Okay, I’ll help you out. I happen to have a wonderful sense of humor. I pay almost all my parking tickets. I like small animals and big children. I hardly ever cuss at old people. I’ve never shot anyone on the freeway. I gave a dollar to a bum yesterday.”
“This is very impressive.”
“Damn right. I could go on, but I’m getting embarrassed.”
“I bet you’re incredibly romantic too.”
“Do bears do it in the woods?”
“I’m overwhelmed.”
In truth, he worked very hard to keep his romantic inclinations under control. He allowed only a thin thread of romanticism to work its way into his screenplays, and he kept a tight lid on it in his everyday life. He felt screenplays grew maudlin with a surfeit of romance, and men became vulnerable. He didn’t count candy and flowers and elegant restaurants as being high on the romance scale-they were cliches and more often than not impersonal gestures.
That didn’t mean he wasn’t above using them to achieve a desired result. He wasn’t a stupid man, and he knew women expected the conventional niceties. But in his heart, he felt romance should be a very private matter.
“Maybe we should get back to serious talk,” Louisa said. “I don’t want to become so carried away with your good qualities that I lose perspective. It wouldn’t do to spend the afternoon dallying around when there are pigs to be found.”
Pete was becoming less interested in pigs by the minute. He was much more interested in the fact that Louisa Brannigan had flawless milk-white skin, a snippy little nose, a short fuse, and a large chunk of stubborn. He liked the way her eyes lit up when she smiled, and the way her nose wrinkled when she was mad. He couldn’t imagine her towing the line as a congressional press secretary. He thought it must have been a strain on a personality that he suspected leaned toward the volatile.
Her voice sobered. “This is important to me. I’ve had my car trashed, I’ve been rolled down a flight of stairs in the middle of the night, and I’ve lost my job. I want to know why.”
“You want to get revenge?”
“Nothing that dramatic. I just want to stay clean. I don’t know the extent of Nolan’s involvement. I don’t want to turn out to be an unwitting accomplice to something ugly.”
And while she didn’t want to articulate it to Pete, other emotions were gnawing at her. The disappointment in Nolan was almost crushing. She’d believed in him, trusted him to do the right thing, had faith in his abilities. She’d put herself on the line for him, touting his potential with next-to-religious fervor. Even if he wasn’t directly involved in whatever was rotten, he’d dismissed her too easily.
Her sense of betrayal was strong. She was an idealist, she realized. She suspected it was a term synonymous with young and foolish, but she was stuck with it all the same. Her moral and political indignation was aroused.
Pete’s reasons for pursuing the pig cover-up had little to do with moral or political indignation. Simple curiosity had turned to certain knowledge that he’d stumbled onto a scandal of some sort. It was grist for his creative mill. It was a potential screenplay. It had also piqued his male ego. He had inadvertently opened up a can of worms, and the folks holding the can had misjudged him.
He wasn’t the sort of person who yielded to pressure. He resented being threatened, and he was furious he’d been attacked in his sleep. The most serious mistake made was in firing Louisa. He hated to admit it, but he felt intensely protective of her. Not that she seemed to need protection-if she needed anything, it was restraint, Pete thought. If left to her own devices, she’d probably end up in a homicide lineup for death by broom handle.
“Okay,” Pete said, “let’s see what we have here. We know Maislin was the pig shipper. We know someone doesn’t want questions asked about the little porker. And we know Nolan Bishop fired you because of your association with me. From this overwhelmingly damning evidence we’re concluding that both Maislin and Bishop are involved in something nasty.”
“Doesn’t sound incredibly conclusive, does it?”
He made a noncommittal shrug. “What do Maislin and Nolan Bishop have in common?”
“They both belong to the same party.”
“What else?”
Louisa thought about it. They were from different states. Maislin was from Pennsylvania. Nolan was from Maryland. Both lived in Potomac when Congress was in session. Maislin was a blue-color success story. Nolan was Harvard Law. On the surface they didn’t have much in common, but both men were extremely ambitious. Both cared a great deal about public opinion.
“Are they buddies?”
“Not that I know of. Maislin’s been around longer. Carries a lot more clout. He travels with the Big Boys.”
“You ever have to sit on any bad publicity for Nolan?”
“Nope.”
“Any sexual indiscretions?”
“Nothing past the leering stage since I’ve been with him.”
Conversation momentarily stopped while the food was served.
“How about Maislin?” Pete asked.
Louisa picked at her sandwich, eating the bacon first. “I don’t know much about Maislin. As far as I know he keeps himself clean. He’s on some powerful committees, his constituents are fond of him, and he’s not too bright.”
“There has to be more of a connection,” Pete said.
“After lunch I’ll go back to my office and clean out my desk. I’ll get a profile on Maislin while I’m there.”
It was dark when Louisa staggered up the porch stairs, carrying a large cardboard box filled with personal belongings, daily calenders, her Rolodex, and as much information as she’d been able to gather on both Maislin and Nolan Bishop. She fumbled in her purse for the key and let herself into the empty apartment. She slid the bolt on the lock, turned the light on with her elbow, and collapsed into an overstuffed chair with the box on her lap.
Her heart stopped beating at the sound of a key turning in her lock, and she let out a bloodcurdling scream when the door opened. It was Pete. She closed her eyes, clapped her hand to her chest, and sunk deeper into the chair. “Good Lord.”
“Did I scare you?”
“Hell no. I always scream like that when people come into my apartment.” She looked up at him. “How did you do that? How did you unlock my door?”
“I have a key. I own this place.”
“Wonderful. That makes me feel so much safer. Not only do I have to worry about the pig people; now I have to worry about my sneaky landlord.”
He took the box and tucked it under his arm. “Good thing I have a healthy ego. You’re not the most supportive girlfriend I’ve ever had.”
“I’m not your girlfriend.”
He pulled her to her feet and pushed her toward the door. “Whatever.”
“Where are we going?”
“My place. We’ll brainstorm over dinner.”
She followed him up the stairs to the kitchen area, and gaped at the big orange cat sprawled across the butcher-block table. It had one ear half chewed off and a pronounced kink in its tail. “You have a cat on your table,” Louisa said.
“Yeah. That’s Spike.”
