Now You See Her (Page 8)
Kai returned with a tray bearing tea and coffee, and noticed Sweeney standing there, joining the McMillans in silence. “I’m sorry, I didn’t introduce you,” he exclaimed. “Senator, Mrs. McMillan, this is Sweeney, the portrait artist Candra wanted you to meet. Sweeney, Senator Carson McMillan and his wife, Margo.”
Sweeney held out her hand to Mrs. McMillan, feeling like a dog offering its paw, and from the look the senator’s wife gave her, she might as well have been. Mrs. McMillan offered only her fingertips, probably to lessen the risk of contagion. If the senator ever did run for the presidency, his handlers would have to do some heavy-duty work with his wife to make her constituent-friendly and keep her from being a hindrance to the campaign.
The senator’s handshake, on the other hand, was both brisk and firm without being crushing. He had a very nice handshake. It was probably one of the first things a career politician worked to achieve. She had a sudden vision of a classroom full of deadly earnest young politicians, with a sign on the door saying “Handshakes 101.” He ruined the effect, however, by eyeing her breasts again. She was beginning to think the scarlet sweater was more than just dangerous; the damn thing was cursed. Maybe she shouldn’t have combed her hair or put on lipstick, either, though the lipstick probably hadn’t survived the hot dog.
Candra’s office door opened once more, and Sweeney turned, glad of the interruption. Candra swept out, her face tight with fury, but the expression in her eyes, oddly, was almost frightened. The expression was fleeting; as soon as she saw the McMillans, her face changed into its usual warm, friendly lines.
Richard loomed in the doorway behind her. Sweeney didn’t want to look at him, in case that odd thing happened again, but curiosity and compulsion switched her gaze to him. To her relief, this time he didn’t return her gaze. His face was much more controlled, as if Candra’s upset in no way touched him. His eyes were hooded as he took in the small group with one glance, then leisurely walked toward them. He was a tall man, but he didn’t shamble; like an athlete, he was in control of his height and his body. Remembering the Diet Coke commercial, Sweeney wondered how Richard would look without his shirt.
That funny little jolt tightened her stomach again. She wasn’t in the least hungry, but her mouth began watering as if she hadn’t eaten at all that day and had just caught the scent of fresh-baked bread. A woman could feast all day on Richard. Don’t go there, she silently warned herself, both alarmed and embarrassed, but she had taken too many art classes not to be able to accurately picture him without his clothes. From the way his clothes fit, she could tell he was a muscular man who hadn’t let himself get soft. In her mind’s eye she saw him naked and flat on his back, and it was a fine sight indeed. The disturbing part was seeing herself crawling over him, intent on kissing him from head to toe and not missing an inch in between. He would have several very interesting inches that would require a lot of attention—
“Carson, Margo, how good of you to come.” Candra’s voice jerked Sweeney out of her lascivious little daydream. Hastily she looked away from Richard, aware that she had been staring at him. She felt her cheeks heat and hoped her entire face wasn’t red, to match the accursed sweater.
Candra came toward them, her lovely legs show-cased by the short skirt of a tailored suit in a beautiful shade of coppery beige that made her complexion glow. Distracting herself, Sweeney studied the color, noting the richness of the material. She couldn’t tell one designer’s clothes from another’s, but she never forgot a color.
Candra and Margo exchanged air kisses, then Candra turned her megawatt charm on the senator. He took both her hands and leaned forward to kiss her cheek, and there was nothing airish about it. Standing where she was, Sweeney saw the senator’s hands tighten on Candra’s before she subtly freed herself and turned to Sweeney.
“I see Kai has already offered refreshments—”
“Richard,” the senator said heartily, his rounded, speech-therapist moderated tones completely overpowering Candra’s lighter voice, just as they had his wife’s. Sweeney wondered if he made a habit of interrupting women. He held out his hand; she saw the flicker of Richard’s eyes that said he was reluctant to stop and chat, but good manners compelled him to accept the senator’s hand.
Senator McMillan put everything he had into the handshake, even covering their clasped hands with his free one in a gesture his handlers had no doubt told him imparted a sense of empathy. It didn’t work with Richard. If anything, his face became even more impassive. “You’re looking great.”
“Senator.” The one-word greeting, if it could be called that, was terse. No great friendship there, Sweeney surmised. Watching them as closely as she was, she saw the senator’s knuckles whiten, and an instant later Richard’s knuckles did the same.
A pissing contest, she thought, fascinated. For whatever reason, dislike or competition or simple male aggression, the senator had tried to crush Richard’s hand. It wasn’t a smart move. He quickly became the crushee when Richard turned the tables.
“How’s business?” the senator asked, trying to keep his expression neutral as he continued to grip Richard’s hand, or maybe he simply couldn’t let go now even if he wanted. “It has to be good, with this economy. Amazing, isn’t it?”
“I don’t have any complaints.”
A bead of sweat appeared on the senator’s forehead. Tiring of the game, Richard abruptly ended the handshake. Senator McMillan gamely managed not to massage his aching hand, though the impulse must have been strong.