a viable prospect. He was jaded and somewhere along the way, he’d lost all his illusions about people. About life. He was like those waves, he thought, being aimlessly thrown onto the beach and then forgotten. When he died, there would be nothing to leave behind, nothing to show that Kane Lombard had lived on this planet.
That wasn’t totally true, he chided himself as he swallowed a sip of the stinging highball. He had the company to leave behind. The name would probably be changed somewhere down the line, though. Names didn’t last long.
He leaned back on the chaise lounge and closed his eyes. Nikki. Her name was Nikki, and she had black hair and green eyes and the face of an angel. He liked the way she looked, the way she laughed, as if life still had wonderful things to offer. He knew better, but she made him optimistic. He needed someone like that.
Not permanently, of course, he told himself. He needed an affair. Just an affair. Would she be willing? She seemed to find him attractive enough. If he took her out and bided his time, would she be receptive? He sloshed the liquid in the glass, listening to the soft chink of the ice cubes against the watery roar of the ocean. Perhaps she was lonely, too. God knew, there was no monopoly on loneliness. Like the air itself, it permeated everything. His eyelids felt heavy. He closed them, just for a minute…
It was dawn when he woke, still lying on the chaise lounge, with the chill morning air in his face. The glass, long since forgotten, had fallen gently to the deck and was dry now, the ice and whiskey melted and evaporated on the wood floor. He got up, stretching with faint soreness. His head was much better, but there were still vestiges of a headache. He stared out over the ocean, and was jarred from his thoughts when the telephone rang.
His housekeeper was apparently in residence, because the ringing stopped, to be replaced by her loud, stringent voice.
“Telephone, Mr. Lombard!” she called.
“I’ll take it out here,” he returned gruffly.
She handed him the phone and he nodded curtly as he took it, waving her away. “Yes?” he asked.
“I’m Todd Lawson, Mr. Lombard,” a deep voice replied. “I work for your father and brothers in New York at the Weekly Voice,” he prompted when there was a long pause on the other end of the line.
Kane recognized the name. Lawson was his father’s star reporter, if a man who was better at creating news than gathering it could be called a journalist.
“Yes, I know you,” Kane said. “What do you want?”
“Your father sent me to Charleston to do a little prospecting. He wants me to see what I can find on the Republican U.S. Representative incumbent, Seymour. I’ve just checked into a hotel here. Any ideas about a good place to start looking for skeletons?”
“I can’t help you. I haven’t lived in Charleston long enough to know many people. I only know Seymour through the mails and the telephone,” he added curtly. “If I put a step wrong, he’ll be over me like tarpaper, I know that. We had a sewage leak a couple of weeks ago, accidental, and he’s been after my neck ever since. He went on television to point fingers at me as a perfect example of a money-hungry anticonservationist.” He shook his head. “He’s gungho on this industrial pollution issue. It’s his number one priority, they say.”
“Interesting that he’s fighting for the lumber bill out west,” Lawson murmured, tongue in cheek.
“The habitat of an owl out west apparently doesn’t do him as much political good as digging out industrial polluters on his doorstep.”
“You said it.”
“Keep me posted, will you?”
“You bet.”
He put down the receiver. Seymour was an odd bird, he thought. The man had little material wealth, but his old Charleston heritage had helped put him in office. The backing of Senator Mosby Torrance hadn’t hurt, either. The junior U.S. senator from South Carolina was a personable man with an equally impeccable reputation, even if he had a failed marriage behind him. Mosby’s marriage had been very brief, Kane understood, and rather secretive, but that had been because of his bride’s tender age, his sources told him. He couldn’t quite remember, but it seemed that there had been some connection with the Seymours before that. He’d have to remember and tell Lawson. It wasn’t important enough to try to reach the reporter, even if he knew where to look. No matter. Lawson would call back.
In the campaign headquarters of Sam Hewett, candidate for the Democratic nomination to the U.S. House of Representatives for the district that included Charleston, South Carolina, a heated discussion was taking place between Hewett and his advisers.
“You can’t risk a personal attack on Seymour at this point,” Norman Lombard muttered through a cloud of cigar smoke. His dark eyes lanced the candidate, who was tall and thin and rather nervous. “Let us take care of anything in that line. My father owns the biggest tabloid in America and my brothers and I are solidly behind you, financially and every other way. You just shake hands and make friends. For now, worry about nothing more than the Democratic nomination. When the time comes, we’ll have enough to slide you past Seymour at the polls.”
“What if I can’t gather enough support?” Hewett asked uneasily. “I’m not that well-known. I don’t have the background that Seymour does!”
“You’ll have the name identification when we get through with you,” Norman said, chuckling. “My dad knows how to get the publicity. You’ll get the votes. We guarantee it.”
“You won’t do anything illegal?” the candidate asked.
The question seemed to be perennial in Hewett’s mind. Lombard sighed angrily and puffed on his cigar. “We won’t have to,” he assured the other man for the tenth time. “A little mud here, a little doubt there, and we’ll have the seat in our grasp. Just relax, Sam. You’re a shoo-in. Enjoy the ride.”
“I want to win honestly.”
“The last person who won honestly was George Washington,” Lombard joked cynically. “But never mind, we’ll do our best to keep your conscience quiet. Now, get out there and campaign, Sam. And stop worrying, will you? I promise you, it will all work out for the best.”
Hewett wasn’t as certain as his advisor appeared, but he was a newcomer to politics. He was learning more than he wanted to about the election process every day. He’d been idealistic and enthusiastic at the outset. Now, he was losing his illusions by the minute. He couldn’t help but wonder if this was what the founding fathers had in mind when they outlined the electoral process. It seemed a real shame that qualifications meant nothing at all in the race; it was a contest of personalities and high-tech advertising and money, not issues. But on that foundation, the election rested. He did want to win, he told himself. But for the first time, he wasn’t sure why.
It had thrilled him when the Lombards backed him as a candidate. It had been Kane Lombard’s idea initially. Kane liked Sam because they were both yachtsmen, and because Sam supported tax cuts and other incentives that would help his fledgling automobile manufacturing industry in Charleston. Mainly, Sam thought, it was because Clayton Seymour had taken an instant dislike to Kane and had done everything possible to put obstacles in his path when the auto manufacturing firm first located in Charleston. The antagonism had been mutual. Now, with Kane’s latest bad luck in having a sewage spill into the river, Seymour had attacked him from every angle.
Sam
