Rocky And The Senator's Daughter. Dixie Browning
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watched as he removed a tray of ice from the avocado-green refrigerator, a relic of the last time her great-aunt had modernized her kitchen.
“Hangovers. Bet you’ve never had one in your life, have you?”
“No—actually, yes.” There were a lot of things she’d never done and now probably never would, but he didn’t have to know it. “Clean towels are in there.” She pointed at the drawer where she kept kitchen linens. “Why are you doing this? Why are you even here?”
Rocky took the time to crack the ice with a meat tenderizer he found in a drawer along with three emergency candles, a ball of string and a few dozen rubber jar rings.
Why was he here? Good question. He’d set out with honorable intentions—mostly honorable, anyway. Warn the lady of what was in the pipeline. Help her with a preemptive strike, but only if she thought it would help defuse the situation.
As for him, part of the problem was that he’d been unable to motivate himself into getting back to writing after Julie’s death. If the senator’s daughter needed his help, he would give it his best shot.
If not…no problem. He’d warn her of what to expect because he’d seen too many victims blindsided after a tragedy by having a camera and a mike shoved in their face unexpectedly. Warn her, wish her luck and leave.
At the moment, however, he didn’t think she was in any shape to hear what he’d come to say. “Here, hold this against your face.”
She took the ice-filled towel and placed it gingerly against her eye. “You were a lot younger then,” she said. “I seem to remember that our whole conversation was like something out of Alice in Wonderland.”
“Right. We were both younger. So…how’s Toto?”
“Still in Kansas. Wrong story.”
He grinned, managing to look both raffish and kind. “Just wanted to be sure you didn’t have a concussion. Want to count my fingers?” He waggled them in front of her face.
“Not really. Are you here for any particular reason? Nobody just drops in because they happen to be in the neighborhood. There isn’t any neighborhood, in case you failed to notice.”
Sarah wondered if she’d broken the skin. Along with the throbbing, her eyebrow was starting to sting. “You’re hovering,” she grumbled. “I hate it when someone hovers. If you have something to say, then say it and leave. Please.”
“I came to warn you about the book.”
She dropped the towel. It came unfolded, and ice scattered across the linoleum. Ignoring it, she tried to focus on the man with one good eye and one that was rapidly swelling shut.
“The book. Right. Which one are we talking about this time, Oz or Alice? No don’t bother—the joke’s beginning to wear thin.” She wanted him to go so that she could give in to the pain. Curse or cry, or at least wallow in self-pity. All of which were luxuries she could only now afford to indulge.
Instead of leaving, he pulled out a chair and sat, uninvited. Then he proceeded to tell her why he’d gone to the trouble of tracking her down. This time the book wasn’t The Wizard and it wasn’t Wonderland. It was…
“The Senator’s Daughter’s Husband’s Other Women? Tell me you’re making that up.” In stunned disbelief, Sarah heard him out. “She can’t do that…can she?”
But of course she could. Having spent practically her entire life in Washington, Sarah well knew how each major scandal was rehashed in books that hit the stands in record time. The only curious thing was that this one had taken so long.
Dear God, what if the Poughs thought she was somehow benefiting from her late husband’s notoriety and demanded more money? She was already sending as much as she could afford. Even worse, what if, on seeing the Cudahy woman cash in on a rehash of the whole wretched mess, they decided to go public with Kitty’s secret? How much would the tabloids pay for something like that? Pictures of an innocent child under the caption, Disgraced Congressman’s Secret Lovechild.
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