Mission: Out Of Control. Susan May Warren

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СКАЧАТЬ even as she stared out at the ocean, at the frothy waves clawing the shore. Please let the senator be in a good mood.

      The limo turned into the long drive toward Harthaven, past the weathered split-rail fencing, the green-carpeted pastures. A couple of her mother’s thoroughbreds lifted their heads as if in greeting. The tires ground against the gravel until the car pulled up at the front door.

      “Nice to see you again, Miss Veronica,” the driver said, as he opened her door.

      “You, too, Mr. Henley.” She lifted her messenger bag from the seat and stood for a moment in front of the ancestral home, two centuries of age in its weathered cedar shakes. Out of habit her eyes went to Savannah’s tiny, empty attic window.

      “Veronica, you made it!” Her mother’s voice emerged first as she exited the house, crossed the porch and descended the front steps. Ellie Wagner looked about twenty-five, with her long brown hair held back in a ponytail, and her brown riding pants and pink blouse. She held her helmet, with a pair of gloves shoved inside, against her hip. “I was just leaving for a quick ride. I’ll be back in time for dinner.” She pecked her daughter on the check as she breezed by. “Oh, we’ll be dressing for dinner tonight, but your father would like to see you for drinks in the study at six o’clock.”

      “I don’t drink.” Never had, really. And never mind that she hadn’t called herself Veronica since her sophomore year in college.

      But it didn’t matter. Her mother waved her gloves and disappeared around the corner to the stable.

      “No problem, Mother, I’m down with that,” she said to the brisk island air.

      She kept a standard little black dress and a strand of pearls in the closet just for Saturday nights at Harthaven. Her fans wouldn’t have a prayer of recognizing her.

      Sometimes, after a concert, she didn’t even recognize herself.

      Six p.m. The hour of execution, when she had to discard herself of all things Vonya and climb back into the expectations of her upbringing. But no one could ever accuse her, Veronica Stanton Wagner, of not knowing how to adapt. She’d eaten Zong Zing with the ambassador to China, challenged the sons of the prime minister of Nepal to a game of Bagh Chal, learned to play the djembe from a musical troupe from Ghana, and could speak, although poorly, snippets of Portuguese, thanks to the young wife of the United Nations representative from Brazil.

      She could probably manage to behave like a proper lady tonight at dinner. Especially if it meant erasing from her father’s recent memory the newspaper photo of Vonya laying her palm across a very handsome, yet downright surly, self-appointed bodyguard after last Saturday’s debacle.

      Yeah, well, she’d been a victim one too many times of a crazy fan. And one very dangerous stalker. How was she to know he actually wanted to help her?

      She could still see his shock as he recoiled, then the growl that flashed into his eyes as he’d gritted his teeth and set her down.

      Stabilized her as she rocked on those lethal five-inch heels.

      No, not a fan. Thankfully, he hadn’t let loose the words behind the disgust that flashed across his face.

      But the derision from the stranger hurt, she had to admit it.

      Or not a stranger anymore. Brody Wickham. She’d discovered his name after her frantic manager found them returning from the alley. Tommy D had decided to make him a national—or at least music-industry—hero.

      She longed to forget him, hating the way he and his condemnation stuck in her brain. In fact, she thought she’d escaped the claw of shame long ago.

      Clearly not. And it didn’t help that Brody Wickham cast a steely, almost annoyed image across national airwaves and onto prime-time entertainment shows when he announced that he’d simply been trying to keep her from hurting herself. Nice.

      Except maybe he’d been right. She still sported a greenish-black bruise on her arm.

      Oh, given the choice, she would rather have holed up in her SoHo loft this weekend with a bowl of popcorn and her keyboard to work on a new song. But she couldn’t rightly beg for money over the phone, or even through email. Senator Wagner wouldn’t want to miss the pleasure of staring her down and making her feel fifteen and a failure.

      Just once, she’d like to be twenty-eight, smart and beautiful.

      But this little excursion wasn’t for her. Or even for the senator. And life didn’t always hand out choices.

      An hour later, Ronie gave a last survey in the mirror—short brown hair curled into tiny ringlets around her head, the barest dusting of makeup, a little lip gloss, a touch of lime eye shadow. She appeared, well, wholesome.

      She didn’t exactly hate the look.

      The smells of a pot roast, or maybe lamb with rosemary, tugged her down the stairs. Stopping off in the kitchen, she sneaked a fresh roll from a basket on the counter, earning a growl from Marguerite, their weekend housekeeper, and tore it into tiny pieces as she walked toward her father’s study.

      The melodies of Tchaikovsky escaped through the cracked open door. She eased it open.

      Tripp Wagner stood with his back to her, an outline of power as he stared out the window overlooking the grounds. Twilight had begun to darken the pond and seep across the grass. Only a glimmer of light sprinkled through the pines that ringed their property. Sometimes she wished they had beachfront property, where they could watch the sun sink like a fiery ball behind the sandy dunes.

      “Father?”

      “Come in, Veronica.”

      Ronie stepped inside the study. A desk lamp puddled orange over the leather blotter on the mahogany desk. His briefcase lay on the credenza, under a family picture, now nearly fifteen years old. Ronie barely glanced at it, not really recognizing any of the four of them.

      “You can help yourself to a drink.” He gestured with a glass of something amber—bourbon, probably—still not turning from the window.

      “I still don’t drink alcohol, Father,” she said, but moved over to the bar and poured herself a glass of cranberry juice. It helped to have something to hold on to when the senator began his orations.

      “Not that anyone would ever know.”

      She braced herself.

      “Sometimes, I can’t believe that is actually my daughter making a spectacle of— No. I promised your mother.” He sighed, turned and, for the first time, let his eyes rest on her. She stifled a tremble, not because he frightened her—well, not much, anymore—but because she saw in his hazel-green eyes such sadness, it filled her throat with something scratchy and hard.

      “Sorry,” she mumbled. “It’s part of the act.”

      He looked away, rubbing his thumb along the glass. He nodded. “Have a seat.”

      Not a request—it never was, so she slipped into the Queen Anne chair against the wall. Her father settled one hip against the desk, his pant leg riding up to reveal a dark sock. He probably hadn’t had to change for dinner—he had simply gotten up that morning and dressed in a suit and tie. But they’d all been hiding inside their own costumes СКАЧАТЬ