her way toward him, her eyes now fastened on his. Her red sundress was cut low over a startling pair of breasts, and she sparkled with jewelry. She was almost too stunning to be real.
She looked like a model or a beauty queen or a starlet. She certainly didn’t look as though she belonged at a suburban political barbecue. Distrust edged into Andrew’s mind. “Mick,” he said, “do you even know who she is?”
“No,” Mick admitted. “She’s a guest of one of the breeders. But it’s you she’s got her eye on. She’s been trying to catch your attention all night.”
My God, thought Andrew, could she be a plant? Somebody the Bullock people had sent to entice him?
Photographers, press people, some with video cams, milled through the crowd.
The brunette smiled at him and nodded in more than friendly greeting. He smiled back mechanically.
“Hi, there,” she purred. “My name’s Sylvia. I just want to say I totally agree with everything you say. I heard you’re going to stay with your cousin down in Hunter Valley. I get to Hunter Valley now and then.”
“I make my base with him in Hunter Valley,” Andrew said. “But I won’t be there much. Have to travel a lot. Excuse me. I see somebody I have to talk to. Nice to meet you.”
He nodded, a curt movement that signaled goodbye. He turned his back on the woman and left her looking piqued.
Maybe he was being paranoid, but that might be good. No involvement with women—especially one like that—until the election was over. That was that, and it should be gospel.
But suddenly he remembered his strange attraction to the blond waitress. He wondered why he couldn’t forget her. Biology could toss even the most cautious man a curveball.
He was more cautious than most because he had to be. He pushed the blonde to the back of his highly efficient mind.
Almost.
But there was another woman, only a memory now, a lively voice that sometimes spoke to him that no one heard except him.
He gazed up at the night. Darwin’s cloudy sky showed an obscured, gray pearlized moon. Suddenly the voice in his memory, that long-ago woman’s voice, said “There’s a door in the moon—if you can find it. And if you open it, you find out the future.”
For an instant, he saw the past instead, and another young woman, small and spirited like the waitress. Kellie Maguire.
He’d met her his first year at the University of Kentucky. When she’d told him about the door in the moon, at first he thought she was nuts or trying to grab attention. No. She meant it. He finally asked if she’d ever found the door into the moon.
She’d laughed and said she’d never looked for the future; she was too busy with the present. And she was.
She wasn’t like anybody he’d ever known before. She had a sassy air about her and long red hair, always tied back in an unruly ponytail. She was sweet and cheery and as independent as hell.
Unlike him, she didn’t come from a family with money. She was a scholarship student, majoring in art and literature. He thought that was stupid. How could anybody make money that way?
She laughed good-naturedly at his business major. How was he ever going to have fun if he didn’t learn anything except money? “Hey, Preston,” she teased. “Live, why don’t you?”
She didn’t give a damn for fashion, and she was so original and self-disciplined he was in awe of her. He’d only seen her cry once, when she’d learned her grandmother was dying. She broke down in tears for almost a full minute, and he’d held her. Then she’d pulled herself together and tried to act as if nothing had happened. She’d never spoken again of that moment.
He was secretly shy and, though he hated to admit it, hide-bound. She challenged him, she fascinated him, she could get him talking half the night about things he’d never even thought of before.
She enticed him to movies he never would have seen on his own, challenged him to read books he normally never would have opened. She’d changed him, and by the end of his freshman year, he was falling in love with her, unconventional as she was.
And then she was gone. Forever. A swimming accident over the summer. A drunken motorboater didn’t see her, and ran into her, killing her almost instantly. And Andrew hadn’t come close to loving anyone again since.
Now, for that strange instant, the door in the moon opened, and he saw her standing there, with a smile and her untidy red hair dancing in the cloudy breeze.
“Christ, Preston,” she said in his mind. “Now you want to be president of ITRF?”
That question raised a dozen more in his heart.
“Yeah,” he said to her silently. “Very funny, huh? I want to be president…”
“Then go for it,” she answered with her sidelong grin. “But is that all you want? Are you sure? Isn’t there something missing?”
And then her image disappeared, and he was staring up at a clouded, doorless moon.
At midnight that night, Jacko Bullock reached across the sleeping body of his mistress and picked up the receiver. “What?” he demanded. He was in a rotten mood because he’d just dozed off, but he hadn’t quite managed to make love to Tarita, who now slept beside him, all silken and exquisite and useless. He needed a new woman again.
He heard raspy breathing, and that meant Feeney. Feeney was his contact, his liaison in Jacko’s covert war on Andrew Preston. Feeney was a general in this war, one whose face he’d never seen, but who’d been supplied by very dependable allies.
Jacko had a public campaign for president of the ICRF. And he also had an extremely well-hidden private one, as complex as a huge spiderweb. Feeney wasn’t at its center, but he was close enough, close enough.
“Preston steered clear of her,” said a man’s rasping voice. “The dark one. She said he smiled, he nodded. But he didn’t let her get near him.”
Jacko swore. “What is he, a pansy? Sylvia’s gorgeous.”
Hell, he thought, she’d kept him satisfied for almost three months—that’s how good she was. He’d sent orders for her to wear something red and low-cut. And plenty of diamonds. He’d given her diamonds. Cheap ones, but they’d kept her happy.
“He’s not a pansy,” Feeney said. “He likes women, all right. I think he just was leery of her. Maybe she’s not his type.”
Jacko swore again. “Not his type? She’s the type for any man with a set of working goolies. For a while, at least.”
“Well,” Feeney said hesitantly, “she’s not subtle, y’ know? From what we know, he doesn’t go for the glam thing. No super-models. His tastes are hard to predict.”
If Sylvia’d got Preston in bed, I’d’ve given her good diamonds, Jacko thought.
He stared down at Tarita’s lovely, sleeping form and wondered if she’d suit the Yank. If she could turn the trick,
