Son of the Morning

Calla was certainly tempting. Parrish’s manners were too polished to allow him to stare openly at her, but nevertheless each look was thoroughly assessing. She was about five six, willowy, impeccably dressed in a simple, midnight-blue sheath that lovingly hugged everysiliconed andliposuctioned curve and provided ample bare flesh on which to display the multitude of diamonds and sapphires she wore. She was a striking woman, with warmly golden skin and big, china-blue eyes, but what interested him most was her long, straight swath of hair, which she let hang freely down her back. Smart woman. She knew her hair was a magnet for male attention, the way it lifted and swung with every graceful movement she made. It wasn’t as long as Grace’s, he thought dispassionately, or as dark, but still… She was taller than Grace, and more slender. She probably hadn’t blushed with shyness since the age of eight, and the expression in her eyes was knowing, completely lacking Grace’s innocence and trust. Her mouth wasn’t thin, but neither did it have the lush, unconscious sexuality of Grace’s lips. Her hair, though… he wanted to wrap his fist in that hair, hold it tight while he used her. He would close his eyes and pretend she was shorter, softer, that the hair he gripped was as sleek and thick as dark mink.

Perhaps later, he thought, and gave her a long, cool, deliberate look he knew she wouldn’t misunderstand. One elegantly arched brow lifted as she caught his intent, and her lips curved in both invitation and satisfaction. Once again she had attracted the most powerful male present, and she was obviously pleased.

That minor detail taken care of, Parrish turned his attention back to her husband. "Very good," he said, seeing that Skip was anxiously awaiting verbal approval of his choice of wine. "I don’t usually care for merlot, but this is exceptional. "

A flush of pleasure warmed Skip’s tanned face. "There are only three bottles of that particular vintage left in the world. I have two of them," he couldn’t resist adding.

"Excellent. Perhaps you should acquire the third bottle as well," Parrish suggested and hid his perverse amusement at the knowledge that Skip would now spend an untold amount of time and money trying to do just that. The three bottles could turn to vinegar for all Parrish cared.

He clapped a friendly hand to Skip’s shoulder. "I want to have a private word with you, if I may, whenever you are free from playing host."

As he’d expected, Skip immediately straightened. "We can go to my study now. Calla won’t mind, will you, darling?"

"Of course not," she calmly replied, knowing her role and in truth not giving a damn where her husband was or what he did. She immediately turned away to see to the needs of her other guests, a select fifty or so ofChicago ‘s wealthiest citizens.

Skip led the way down a wide corridor to a set of double doors which he opened inward, admitting them into a mahogany-paneled office with a huge expanse of window overlookingLake Michigan . "Magnificent view, isn’t it?" Skip asked with obvious pleasure, crossing to the window.

"Magnificent," Parrish agreed. The view was more spectacular than his view ofLakeMinnetonka , but he wasn’t envious. He could have had such a view, had he chosen.

Instead he was well pleased with the more staid but equally moneyed Wayzata; it suited him to be slightly out of the mainstream of the larger cities, tucked away inMinnesota . His neighbors were incurious, and so long as he gave the impression of being socially and politically correct, no one ever looked beneath the surface.

The two men stepped out onto the balcony, and the brisk wind off the lake still carried a chill even though summer had truly arrived. Parrish looked both left and right to make certain they were completely alone. "We’re searching for a woman, Grace St. John. She’s been accused of murdering her husband." He didn’t bother to explain that he himself was responsible for both the accusation and the murder. "I believe she has information we would find of vital importance, so of course I would prefer finding her before the’ police do."

"Of course," Skip murmured. "Anything I can do?" "My men have the search operation in hand, but should things go wrong, I want you on hand to turn any interest away. I hope requiring your presence here won’t interfere with any vacation plans you’ve made." Parrish said it knowing Skip and Calla were scheduled to leave shortly for a month-long stay inEurope , not that it mattered; Skip would cancel an audience with the Pope to be of service to the Foundation. Of the two, the Foundation was more powerful, though its power and influence were far less noticeable.

"No problem," Skip hastily assured him. "Good. I’ll call you if I need you."

As Parrish turned to enter the study he saw Calla standing … just inside the doors, and he paused, wondering what she knew and how much she’d overheard. It would be a pity if she fell over the balcony; such a tragic accident, but accidents happened.

"Dear," Calla said to Skip as she glided onto the balcony. "I’m sorry to disturb you, but SenatorTrikoris has just arrived, and you know how he is."

The senator was notorious for expecting a great deal of ass-licking in exchange for legislative favors. The Foundation was working to develop a file on the senator, one that would bring him in line so that the favors he did were for the Foundation’s benefit. When that happened, the senator would be the one doing the ass-licking, and Parrish’s would be the ass being licked. The senator wasn’t yet aware of the future direction of his legislative efforts, and until he was, Parrish was content to let Skip keep him happy. He nodded a dismissal, and Skip hastily left.

Calla leaned against the wall, her gaze cool and brilliant and calculating as she watched him. The wind lifted the silky ends of her hair, playing with it. Out here in the night, her hair looked dark, as dark as Grace’s. Perhaps he would fuck her before assisting her over the balcony, Parrish thought, and felt his body respond to the excitement of the idea.