“A senator—oh, shit.”
“A U.S. senator,” Stark said, adding, “That’s U.S. as in United States.”
She rolled her tongue inside her cheek. Stark’s eyes, she noticed, seemed black, but she couldn’t be sure. “I’m not amused.”
“I didn’t think you would be.”
“And who are you?”
“Ah ha. The name Matthew Stark doesn’t jingle any bells behind those cool green eyes. My how the mighty have fallen. You and my editor ought to get together.”
Should she have heard of him? Probably not, she decided. He was just trying to annoy her—and succeeding remarkably well. “Mr. Stark, I’m running late.”
“As I said, I’m on my way. Just one more thing.” He placed one hand high on the door-jamb and looked at her. She could feel the sweat on the stray wisps around her hairline, dripping slowly between her breasts, matting her dress to her. She was hot and madder than hell but trying not to let him know it—and, at the same time, she felt herself daring him. Egging him on. He grinned at her. “If I were you, toots, I’d tell this Shuji character to stick it and head for Vermont.” He straightened up. “Night.”
Her back stiffening, Juliana gave him a steely look. His eyes seemed to change from black to a dark, dark brown, warmth coming into them, excitement. Toots, she thought, almost dispassionately. She couldn’t remember ever being called toots.
Stark was already out the door. Juliana shook out her black dress, putting all her pent-up irritation into the effort. Toots, for God’s sake. As for Vermont and Shuji—
How had Stark known about Vermont?
She leaped out the door after him. “You bastard, you eavesdropped on me and Shuji!”
Matthew Stark turned around and grinned. “That’s right. Bumped into him on his way out. Told him I thought you deserved a break, too. Lucky I read my program notes or I wouldn’t have known who he was.”
“You’ve never heard of Shuji?”
“Not until tonight. Last music I listened to was by George Thorogood and the Destroyers.”
It was something to seize on, and Juliana laughed, returning to her dressing room and shutting the door.
Matthew got the hell out of there—fast, before he did something he’d really regret. Like tell Juliana Fall she had the sexiest damn laugh he’d heard in ages. The lady was an artsy-fartsy type and damned cool, but he’d seen the impatience all over her stiff, trim little body. What was she in such a big hurry over? A man? No, he doubted she’d get into such a state over something as simple as a lover, romance, anything like that. Most men would be happy to wait for her, and he suspected she knew it. Ryder sure as hell would. Hell, I might, too, Stark thought, remembering how sweat had made the thin silk of her dress cling to her breasts, outlining their shape. Forget love and romance. Maybe a night of romping, good sex would put her in a hurry.
Shame on you, Matt, the lady probably doesn’t do stuff like that.
Not, he thought, seeing those deep, dark gorgeous eyes of hers once more, that she wouldn’t be damn good at it.
He wondered what he was going to tell Feldie.
The hell with it, he thought, why start worrying about that kind of thing at this late date? He went for a beer and thought some more about Juliana Fall’s laugh.
Six
Hendrik de Geer was smoking a cigar in the back seat of Ryder’s chauffeured car, waiting on Broadway, when the tall senator slid in next to him breathing hard and obviously agitated. “Put that thing out,” he said sharply, snatching a silk handkerchief from his pocket. He didn’t bother to shake the folds from it before he wiped his brow. “I hate cigars.”
The Dutchman shrugged impassively and put out his cigar, which he would finish later, in privacy. Ryder balled up his handkerchief and shoved it into the pocket of his overcoat, and Hendrik wondered, with some amusement, just how badly the pretty pianist Juliana Fall had treated him. With the skill of the practiced politician, Ryder composed himself. “You were at the concert? Did you enjoy it?”
“Yes, and no, I did not. Did you?”
“Yes—yes, of course. It was a fine performance.” Only the distant, pained look in Ryder’s eyes betrayed his lingering passion for the blond pianist. “Juliana Fall’s a remarkable musician, don’t you agree?”
“Music doesn’t interest me.”
Ryder gave Hendrik a thin, patrician smile, but the Dutchman took no offense. He was what he was, and long ago he’d stopped trying to change. Ryder said mildly, “Let’s get to the point, shall we? I assume you saw who I was with tonight.”
“Rachel Stein,” Hendrik said without expression.
Ryder looked straight ahead in the dark, chilly car, as if avoiding the Dutchman’s eyes could dissociate him from what he was saying. “She wants your head.”
“She deserves it. However, I’m not a masochist.”
“Neither am I.”
“Of course not. Rachel Stein wants my head, and you’ll give it to her because otherwise she’ll talk—and someone may look deeper into the possible connections between us. I shouldn’t think that’s something you or Sergeant Bloch would want.”
“Very perceptive of you, de Geer,” Ryder said bitterly. “She can do me incredible damage, and with no justification, I might add.”
Hendrik smiled, truly amused. “Ahh, yes, you’re the innocent in all this.”
Ryder made no argument, didn’t even hear the light sarcasm in de Geer’s voice. God, how he hated this! He had planned for this moment for days, since Rachel Stein had first given him the details of de Geer’s betrayal of her family and the Peperkamps, and now that it was here, he could barely concentrate. He was still seeing Juliana Fall’s eyes, dark and beautiful against the pale hair. She must have thought him a fool. “You’re such a silly ass, Sam,” his wife had said when she’d left him. Other women didn’t agree—he didn’t agree—but the sting of her words had stayed with him. His wife had been one woman he could never impress. That’s the kind you always go for, isn’t it, pal? But no, Juliana Fall wouldn’t be like that. If only Stark—damn him! What was he doing there tonight?
“But you have terms,” the Dutchman said calmly.
With almost physical force, the senator shoved from his mind the image of smug, arrogant Matthew Stark. Steelman, the men had called him, always with respect. They could count on Stark. He was reliable. Straight up. Nerveless. Ryder had wanted a nickname like Steelman, not Golden Boy. But that was all in the past. Who was the U.S. senator, and who was the has-been writer? Their meeting backstage was an unfortunate coincidence, that was all. That was all he would permit it to be.
“Yes,” he said, finally, “I have terms. You can solve my problems at the same time you solve your own.”
