couldn’t. This is what they wanted.”
“What who wanted? You’re talking in circles.”
“Look, I’ll explain later. Right now we need to get out of here. They could be watching us even now.”
“Who, Jared?” She wanted to understand, but without an explanation, she was reduced to guessing games. “Who could be watching? The bureau? They wouldn’t be watching, they’d be surrounding the car with guns drawn like a bunch of liquored-up farmers on a turkey shoot. And guess who the turkey is?”
He let out a frustrated breath. “Let’s take this back to the beginning, okay? Move over to the passenger seat.”
“I’m not moving anywhere until you explain what’s going on.”
“I told you—I’ll explain later.” The words were sharp and clipped. “Move it, Peyton. Now!”
With nothing left to do but follow his orders, she eased over to the passenger seat. He kept her hair wrapped around his hand until he moved first one, then the other leg over the seat and slid behind the wheel. He adjusted the seat to fit his long, powerful legs, then adjusted the mirror and double-checked the locks. He even made sure the window lock was engaged before he scooped up the keys and started the car. With his foot on the brake and his hand on the gearshift, he turned to look at her. “I’m not going to hurt you.”
“Oh, really?” Although his gaze held sincerity, she still balked. She was effectively his captive. He was the one in control, the one calling the shots, and she hated it almost as much as she hated the changes in him. “Then what do you call that gun you held to my head? A greeting card?”
He had the audacity to offer her a sheepish grin as he reached into his pocket. When he opened his hand, she stared in disbelief at the round, black plastic object lying across his calloused palm. “A lighter? You mean to tell me you scared me half to death with a disposable lighter?”
He slipped the car into Drive and headed toward the exit. “It worked, didn’t it?” He stuffed the lighter back into his pocket and pulled out something else.
She looked down at his hand. “I suppose you’re going to tell me you’re responsible for the light being out in the parking garage, too,” she said, taking the small lightbulb from his palm to return it to the overhead lamp in the car.
When he just grinned at her again, she let out a disgusted sigh, then reached behind her to pull the seat belt into place. Being kidnapped was one thing, but that didn’t mean she had to compound stupidity by riding around unprotected. “Will you at least tell me where we’re going?”
“Somewhere that’s safe.” He glanced quickly in her direction. “At least for now.”
“And then you’ll let me know what this is all about?”
“Yeah, Peyton. I’ll tell you. But I guarantee you’re not going to like it.”
HE LOVED HIS JOB. He was powerful, connected and damn good at what he did. Invitations to dinner parties in the homes of Washington’s movers and shakers always came to him. The other senatorial aides on the hill called on him for advice and counsel. Lobbyists vied for his attention and were grateful when he gave it to them. Visits to the White House were a common part of his job, and the rush of adrenaline he felt stepping into the hallowed halls of the West Wing, of having the ear of those closest to the president, never failed to lift him a little higher in his own self-esteem. He wasn’t feared, but he was deeply respected, and respect meant everything to a man who’d crawled out of a dirt-poor childhood, one small step ahead of being trailer trash.
His father had been a drunk who’d died instantly behind the wheel of a battered pickup held together by lube oil, dust and a prayer, when it kissed the trunk of a tree at 60 mph. For reasons he failed to comprehend, his mother had mourned the death of her mean bastard of a husband and committed suicide three months later. Only thirteen at the time, thin, pale and oddly quiet, Stevie Radgetz had been the one to find his mother, along with an empty bottle of tequila and prescription sleeping pills as her companions in bed.
He’d gone to live with his father’s brother, William Radgetz, following his mother’s funeral. His drunken father and suicidal mother had been a picnic compared to dear old Uncle Willie. At least Stevie had known his parents had loved him in their own misguided way, even if it hadn’t been enough for them to stick around. Willie didn’t give a shit about him and didn’t care who knew it, even thin, pale, dirty little Stevie. It was no secret the only reason Willie kept him around was for the government check that arrived each month, a check Stevie never saw so much as a penny of in the five years he lived in his uncle’s ramshackle house on the edge of town. The only thing he’d ever seen from his uncle had been his fists when he’d had too much to drink, which was often.
A week after his eighteenth birthday, Stevie legally changed his last name to Radcliffe and left the Kentucky backwater town, never looking back. With the stash of money he’d earned from the few folks around town who would even hire a Radgetz to do their odd jobs, Steven Radcliffe made his way to California. A high-priced set of forged high-school transcripts and an honest college entrance exam score had enabled him to enroll at the University of California at Berkeley. Part-time jobs, a few of them unsavory, supported him in the lifestyle he’d dreamed of having. While the federal government funded his education with loans and grants, the college housed him first in a dorm and then in a frat house. He’d despised most of his frat brothers, with their spoiled ways and overindulgent parents. He wasn’t stupid, however, and kept his disdain to himself while making the necessary contacts he knew he’d one day need to get his foot in the door of the life he so desperately craved. A life filled with wealth, position, and above all, respect.
His plan had been so simple, and was executed with ease. Any and all traces of dirty little Stevie Radgetz no longer existed. He’d gotten his first step in politics thanks to the father of one of his frat brothers, who’d introduced him to an up-and-coming politician. Steve made a name for himself in the political arena, but he never did have the desire to run for office himself. He was better suited behind the scenes, where the deal-making took place, where the real power lay. Which was why one of the most revered senators on the hill, Senator Martin Phipps, an arrogant, pompous bastard, came to him to replace his former aide, the late Roland Santiago. And why Steve was immediately called upon to clean up a very ugly mess.
The senator would trample his own grandmother if it meant getting ahead, and that suited Steve just fine. Hell, he’d even provide the running shoes, for the simple fact that when Phipps rose in power, Steve’s own power and value increased. He liked that. A lot.
Quietly closing the door to his elegantly appointed office, he headed down the silent corridor to Phipps’s office. Steve had news to impart, but he’d wisely waited until the offices were deserted, lest anyone overhear what he had to say.
The door stood ajar. Steve knocked once, stepped inside without waiting for an invitation and closed the door behind him. Phipps unnecessarily waved him in, said goodbye to his current mistress and hung up the phone.
“Rumor has it the president is going to announce the first appointment Monday morning,” Steve said without preamble. Phipps liked getting straight to the point, while Steve always preferred a subtle approach. Shifting gears was as easy as playing to the senator’s arrogance. Steve excelled in both.
Phipps stood and crossed the lush, jewel-toned Oriental rug to the carved armoire on the opposite end of the office. Keeping his back to Steve, he poured himself a Scotch, neat. “How much truth do you believe is behind the rumor?”
Steve
