Park Avenue Secrets. Barbara Dunlop

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СКАЧАТЬ door closed behind them, and she pulled out her key to lock the dead bolt. “When you’re not driving. Do you simply lurk in the lobby?”

      “Sometimes I wash the car.” He followed her toward the elevator.

      “And shoot the bad guys?”

      He reached out and pressed the elevator button but didn’t answer.

      “I know you have a gun,” she told him.

      “I do have a gun, ma’am.”

      “Call me Elizabeth. Why do you have a gun?”

      “Because this is New York City.”

      The elevator car arrived, and he gestured for her to go first.

      “I know you’re not a driver.”

      “I am a driver, ma’am.”

      “Elizabeth.”

      He gave her a look that said her first name wouldn’t be passing over his lips anytime soon. “Mrs. Wellington.”

      “I know you’re my bodyguard.”

      Again, he didn’t answer.

      “I take it you can neither confirm nor deny you were hired as my bodyguard?”

      They started across the lobby.

      “Where would you like to go?” he asked in a cool, professional voice.

      “I’ll pretend I don’t know,” she offered. “But I think you and I should be straight with one another.”

      “Am I taking you to dinner? To run errands?”

      “Isn’t there some kind of special bond? Bodyguard and protectee? One that calls for complete honesty? Considering you may be throwing yourself in front of a bullet for me?”

      Joe gave a small sigh. “Visiting a friend?”

      “Spying on my husband.”

      Joe stopped dead.

      She took two more steps and then turned and fluttered her lashes. “Is that a conflict of interest for you?”

      “No.” He started walking again.

      “Good. Alexander’s Restaurant, please.”

      Reed paused in the foyer of Alexander’s, grateful that Selina’s informant had been right.

      Third booth past the wine cellar, partially screened by a white, marble pillar, there was Senator Kendrick. He was flanked by two gorgeous young women, and there was an open bottle of Romanée-Conti on the table. No surprise there. The senator was a fairly infamous womanizer. Not that Reed cared one way or the other. The senator’s personal life was his own business.

      Reed strode confidently past the maître d’, rounded the end of the polished bar and came upon Kendrick before the man had a chance to spot him.

      “Good evening, Senator.” Without waiting for an invitation, Reed slipped into the burgundy velvet booth, sliding up next to the blond woman, helping himself to a breadstick.

      The senator’s expression faltered, but the woman immediately curved her red lips into a welcoming smile, and she draped a long-fingered hand on Reed’s shoulder.

      A waiter appeared at the table. “Would you care for a drink, sir? Some wine?”

      “Macallan eighteen-year-old,” said Reed. “One ice cube.”

      The waiter nodded and withdrew.

      “Reed,” Kendrick finally acknowledged with a nod.

      “Back from Washington?” Reed asked.

      “This afternoon.”

      “I’ve been trying to get hold of you.”

      “I got your messages.”

      “And?”

      “And my lawyers have advised me not to speak publicly on the matter.”

      Reed cracked the breadstick in half. “Where my lawyers have advised me to convince you to speak publicly on the matter.”

      Kendrick’s bushy-browed eyes narrowed.

      “I was surprised to read about Hammond and Pysanski.” Reed let his gaze bore into the man he’d known and trusted for a dozen years. Not that Kendrick would be the first politician to go bad.

      “As was I.”

      “Something I should know?” asked Reed.

      “Should we powder our noses, Michael?” asked the brunette woman.

      “No,” said Kendrick. “Mr. Wellington won’t be staying long.”

      The waiter set Reed’s drink down on the white tablecloth. Then he topped up the others’ wineglasses and removed the bottle.

      “Reed Wellington?” asked the blond woman.

      “In the flesh,” Reed responded, giving her a brief, polite smile.

      “I saw you in the paper just this morning.” She sidled a little closer, her arm stretching out along the back of the bench seat. “You’re much better looking in color and three dimensions.”

      Reed took a sip of the scotch, putting his focus on Kendrick. “Do you have something to hide?”

      “What do you think?”

      “I think Hammond and Pysanski were a very unexpected turn of events.”

      “That makes me guilty?”

      “That makes me look guilty.” Reed enunciated each word.

      “You go down, I go down,” said Kendrick.

      “Trent says we get out front of it.”

      Kendrick shook his head. “I don’t want to close any doors.”

      “What about the other?” Reed didn’t have to mention the murder and blackmail for Kendrick to get the point. “I want my family safe, and the more information you can provide—”

      “Can’t help you there.” But there was something in Kendrick’s eyes. Something Reed couldn’t quite put his finger on. Would Kendrick have to take the Fifth? Was the SEC actually on to something?

      Reed downed the drink. “This isn’t going to sit well with my board of directors.”

      “Yeah,” Kendrick snorted. “Because losing the Wellington International campaign contribution is my biggest worry right now.”

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