Private Justice. Marie Ferrarella
Читать онлайн книгу.
told herself fiercely, conducting an argument that was mostly in her head.
The man was still a good senator, still a man who had the interest of his country foremost in his heart, if not his mind. Still the man who had helped her. She had to remember that. Moreover, she had to do her best to remind the public of all his good points.
Just because it had been discovered that the senator had the personal morals of an alley cat didn’t mean that he couldn’t do great things for the people who voted for him.
“But it sure does rock the boat,” she ground out angrily.
The next moment she jumped as the door opened. She’d left orders not to be disturbed because she had damage control to do.
Who was ignoring her instructions?
And then she had her answer. Kind of.
A tall, well-groomed and quite handsome man who looked to be in his early thirties walked into the senator’s office. His chiseled features were complemented by straight, dark hair, worn slightly long, and his piercing, intelligent blue eyes.
Here was a man who got by on his looks first, then made use of anything he had in his arsenal—if necessary, she thought.
Well, whatever he did, he could do it somewhere else. He was trespassing as far as she was concerned.
“You’re not supposed to be here,” she snapped at him angrily, recovering from her initial surprise.
Dylan looked around. Was she the only one in the office?
“I heard you talking to someone,” he said.
She stared at him. It almost sounded like an accusation, Cindy thought. Who the hell did he think he was?
“Even if I were, that doesn’t give you an excuse for barging in,” she informed him, expecting him to offer some apology and then leave.
He did neither. Instead, he remained standing where he was, looking around the office again, as if he expected someone to pop out of the shadows.
Dylan scanned the office more slowly this time, taking in what he’d missed at first glance. The pretty young woman with the pinned-back, golden-brown hair and the damning dark-brown eyes was still the only one here.
“Where is he?” Dylan asked the attractive watchdog. “The senator,” he clarified, even though he had a feeling there was no need to.
Her hands were on her hips, the picture of barely suppressed fury. “He’s not here.”
“But you were just talking to him.” She hadn’t been on the phone when he walked in, so he couldn’t have interrupted a phone conversation. That meant that the woman had been talking to someone in the room. Since this was his father’s office, where had he gone?
Her eyes—rather attractive eyes, he noted—narrowed into piercing slits. “I was talking to myself, if it’s any business of yours,” she said curtly.
Nodding, he accepted the explanation. But he had a pressing question that needed answering. “Okay, where is he?”
Well, that gave her the identity of the mystery stranger, or at least told her his occupation. Her hackles went up.
“Can’t you damn reporters leave him alone? Aren’t you going to be satisfied until you’re chewing on his bones? Even if I knew,” she ended defiantly, “I wouldn’t tell you.”
She was lying, Dylan thought. There was something in her eyes that told him she knew exactly where the “good senator” was. She was covering for his father. Was there more than just professional loyalty at play here? He looked at her more closely.
His eyes swept over her and he took a really good look at the woman standing before him like a member of the emperor’s royal guard.
The woman wasn’t just pretty, she was damn attractive, bordering on downright gorgeous. She wasn’t his father’s usual type—the woman had honey-brown hair, not blond, and her eyes, instead of the usual blue, were the color of an inviting, cool root beer on a hot day. But who knew? Maybe the old man was branching out in his lechery. He certainly wouldn’t put it—or anything else—past his father. Not after that news story had knocked the pins out from under him, Dylan thought.
“Are you one of my father’s … friends?” he asked the woman tactfully.
There’d been a long, significant pause between the last two words. Pregnant enough to make her eyes blaze and her temper flare.
“What I am, if it’s any of your business,” Cindy snapped, indignantly drawing herself up to her full five-foot-four, “is the senator’s Chief Staff Assist—wait.” She came to a sudden, skidding halt as her eyes widened and she stared at him. “Did you just say ‘my father?’”
“Actually, I said ‘my father’s,’“ he corrected glibly. “But, for the record, you got the general gist of it.”
For the moment, she took no note of the sarcasm. “You’re the senator’s son,” she said incredulously.
“Yes.” Why did the woman look so surprised at that? Though they were estranged, it wasn’t as if his father kept his family a secret.
Not like his mistresses, Dylan’s mind added tersely.
How did she even know that this was the senator’s son? Cindy thought. For all she knew, this tall man in a designer suit was a reporter—apparently a good one if the cut of his expensive clothes was any indication. And the man was trying to talk—to lie, she amended—his way in here.
“Why haven’t I seen you before?” she challenged.
“Maybe because the good senator’s not being very fatherly these days now that he doesn’t need his wife and family for photo ops.” He fixed the woman with a look that he’d used to take witnesses—and courtroom opponents—down a peg. “I haven’t seen you, either, and yet I’m willing to believe that you’re his—what was it you called it again? Chief Staff Assistant?”
She didn’t like the way his mouth curved when he said that. Didn’t like his tone and she definitely didn’t like the way his eyes swept over her, as if he was taking the measure of a thing, not an actual person. She’d had more than enough of that kind of treatment from her ex-may-he-roast-on-a-flaming-spit-husband.
Her chin went up in an automatic, reflexive move at the same time that her eyes narrowed again.
“Yes,” she ground out. “I’m Senator Henry Thomas Kelley’s Chief Staff Assistant, and if you are actually the senator’s son, I’d like some proof, please.”
His father obviously liked them feisty, Dylan thought, taking out his wallet, not doubting for a moment that while this woman might really be what she claimed to be, she was also one of the growing number of mistresses. In his opinion, she was an infinitely better choice than the three women whose faces had been flashed across the screen during the unsettling news story.
He flipped his wallet open to his driver’s license and held it out to her.
Waiting a beat for her to read it, he asked, “Proof enough? Or would you also like to fingerprint me?” As she pushed back his wallet, he flipped it closed again and slipped it back into his pocket. “You can check my prints against the ones on file with the California Bar Association if you really want to be thorough.” Straightening his jacket, he added, “I could also leave you a sample of my blood if it suits your fancy.”
“No need to get sarcastic,” she informed him stiffly. He was the man’s son all right. Now that she thought of it, she should have seen the family resemblance in his features. It was just that she was too angry to think clearly right now. “It’s been completely insane here the last couple of days.”
As if to back up her point, the phone abruptly started ringing again. She picked up the receiver and then dropped it back into the cradle without stopping to see who was on the other