Visions (Cainsville #2)(36)

“You’ve seen the Post,” I said as he closed the door behind us.

“My mother sent it to me.”

He walked behind his desk. Which left me to sit in front of it, like an errant employee. That rankled, but the lingering shame kept my annoyance from crystallizing into anger.

“I’m sorry,” I said, still standing. “I just found out about it on the elevator or I wouldn’t have shown up like this. I was coming by to say hi.” I pointed at the coffee cups I’d set on his desk.

“Did he warn you?”

The way he said “he” rankled, too, harder now, anger sparking, but I pushed it down.

“It was just coffee,” I said. “If it was anything else, I’d never have gone where I could be recognized.” I finally took my seat. “These days, anywhere I go, I could be recognized. But I’m trying to forget that I’m news. Trying to live my life as if I’m not. That’s all I can do, James, or I lock myself away and hide. I can’t do that.”

“No one’s asking you to.”

“This kind of thing is going to happen. Next time it will be me and Gabriel.”

“He’s the lawyer representing your birth mother.”

“Yes, but what if I have dinner with him? Or drinks? I can’t restrict my social pool to women and guys over sixty. Hell, if the woman’s cute, they’ll probably make insinuations there, too. That’s what the Post does. They’re the ones who posted the shot of you and Eva.”

“Eva is not a member of the Hells Angels.”

“It’s Satan’s Saints, actually. A small, regional . . .” I caught his look. “It was just coffee.”

“With a biker. When I’m preparing to run for senator. Do you have any idea how that looks?”

I hesitated. My gaze rose to his. “This is . . . This is about your political chances?”

“Granted, I’m not thrilled that you’re having coffee with another man. But I know you aren’t sleeping with him. You have better taste than that.”

“Better taste?”

James continued. “The point is that you need to be more circumspect.”

“Okay, next time we’ll have a beer in a dive bar twenty miles outside town. We’ll wear disguises. That will make for a much less incriminating photo.”

“Liv . . .”

Faint warning in his voice now, the tone that said I was being dramatic. Being childish. I’d always accepted the reprimand in that tone because I was keenly aware of our age difference. I’d led a sheltered life. I’d felt young. I no longer felt young.

I looked at him. “So me having coffee with a biker is a political issue, but me having serial killers for parents isn’t?”

“You’ve proven they were innocent—”

“Of two murders. Out of eight. What happens if the courts decide that’s not enough? Are you going to set the wedding for the week after the appeal, to be sure?”

His shoulders dropped. “Of course not, Liv. Yes, there were concerns when the news came out. They weren’t my concerns, as you’ll recall. I still wanted to get married once things cooled down. You’ve done nothing wrong. I can see beyond your background.”

“See beyond it? How very big of you. Is that a campaign strategy? A man who believes in people. Believes in second chances.”

I braced for the chiding tone again, but he shook his head.

“All right, maybe I am jealous of this biker. I read the comments online. Most have nothing to do with me or us. They’re about you and him—how attractive he is, what a striking couple you make . . .”

“We’re not a—”

“I know. I’ve blown this out of proportion. He’s a client of Walsh’s, and I presume you were discussing your issues with keeping Walsh on Pamela’s case. But I’m going to ask you to stop meeting him.”

I stared at him.

“Let’s have dinner tonight,” he said. “Are you working?”

I shook my head.

“Great. Dinner it is, then. We’ll talk more then. For now, the only thing I want is for you to agree not to see him again.”

I cleared my throat. “This isn’t working.”

“What?”

“This reconciliation. I wanted it to work. I really did. But it’s not.”

“Don’t start that, Liv,” he said. “Come to dinner and—”

“I can’t. I’m stringing you along, waiting for it all to come rushing back, and it’s not. It’s just not. I’m sorry.”

I walked out.





CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE


Lydia was waiting for me at Gabriel’s office, on her feet as soon as I came in, offering to take the linen blazer I’d worn. She’s tall—about an inch above my five-eight—with the kind of wiry body and quick moves that suggest a lifetime of aerobics . . . or at least hard-core yoga.

Lydia has to be in her sixties. Her late sixties—past retirement age. Today she wore a stunning quartz Armani pantsuit that perfectly complemented her dark skin, with a price tag that suggested she worked more for excitement than income these days.

“I’m glad you’re here, Olivia,” she said. “That’s what you go by, I presume?”