But Edward was not off. Edward — the towering discrete manservant with the faintly British accent and long, blankly cruel face, a combination driver/cook/valet highly recommended to him by a senator friend of his from Massachusetts — was waiting in the wings for Miss Petersen’s cocktail to kick in, after which he carried her to the garage where the Jag waited.
The limo, parked on the street for this once, was to follow Rawson and his deceased passenger to this prearranged spot, and Edward was overdue. Just by two minutes, but that was not typical for Edward, and it unnerved Rawson, who was not thrilled to be standing on the roadside near a sports car with his own murdered mistress in it.
But then the limo rolled into view, kicking up some gravel dust, and soon Edward — uniformed, formal, so elegant and proper — stepped out, opened the back door of the black Lincoln Continental, and Rawson crawled into the secure, leather-smelling womb of it. Edward even had a drink waiting on the extended bar tray — a Dewars on ice.
“Unexpected traffic, sir,” Edward said, as he took off.
“Thank you, Edward,” Rawson said. “I’d like some privacy if you don’t mind.”
“Not at all, sir,” the driver said, and closed the compartment off.
Rawson gulped greedily at the drink; he could not keep from looking back out the smoky glass window at the receding sight of the red Jag and the slumped blonde figure behind its wheel. When it was but a small red drop of blood on the moon-washed country landscape behind them, the limo took a hill, and the girl and the car were gone.
The following December, on a very cold lightly snowy night in Washington, D.C., against the advice of Edward (whose salary had been doubled after the “incident”), United States Senator Jim Rawson found himself, once again, drawn to the topless bar where he had met Vicki Petersen.
The Gentleman’s Club, on M Street N.W., had been remodeled into a glittering chrome and mirrored wonderland, in the upscale fashion that was the current trend. Three stages, connected by runways, were being stalked by a trio of bare, bosomy beauties under disco-style flashing lights.
Rawson found a table against a mirrored wall and sat alone, away from the stages; he neither wanted to be noticed, nor to participate in the vulgar ritual of stuffing bills into dancer’s g-strings. But watching these women was a hypnotic drug to him. He couldn’t help himself...
He was working on his second Dewar’s — he’d been drinking too much lately, and he knew it, but that was another compulsion he couldn’t control of late — when he noticed the girl on the center stage.
But for her black hair — a long flowing mane trailing clear down to the dimples of her perfect behind — she could have been damn near Vicki’s twin: a heartbreakingly cute, pug-nosed thing with full high breasts and endless legs. She was graceful like Vicki, too, and sensual, swaying with the music.
His eyes were tearing up; it was smoky in there.
He called a waitress over — the shapely blonde wore a tuxedo-like outfit, except her legs were exposed in fishnet hose. They had to shout at each other to communicate; some mindless Madonna song was blasting, the beat a pulsing thing.
“Please ask that dark-haired dancer to have a drink with me,” he yelled. He gave her two twenties and told her to keep one for herself.
“Why, thank you, sir!” she hollered with wide-eyed appreciation.
Half an hour later, the young woman approached his table; she seemed to float to him, like an apparition of Vicki — albeit a dark-haired one. That hair was piled up high now, an ebony tower, and she was in a low-cut black gown, breasts pushed up by an engineering wonder of a brassiere, one long supple leg exposed by a slit up the side to her hip.
She extended a black-gloved hand. “Charmed, Senator.”
That threw him. He had hoped not to be recognized. But such was the price of fame.
“What’s your name, dear?” he asked, rising, getting her chair.
“Brandi,” she said. “I’m a big admirer of yours, Senator.”
Her voice was surprisingly cultured; it was also a low, catlike purr. Vicki had never seemed cat-like to him, but this woman — who otherwise resembled Vicki so — was truly feline. Part of it was the black hair. Part of it was an almost oriental slant to the eyes, which wasn’t like Vicki at all, though the China-blue color of them was.
His tongue felt thick as he responded. “Admirer of mine?”
“Women’s rights issues are important to me. So are issues of censorship. Any thinking person in my profession wants to see the arts protected.”
“A wise point of view. You, uh... you’re a very graceful dancer, Brandi.”
“Thank you. I apologize for the surroundings.”
“Why... this is downright elegant, here.”
She averted his gaze. “I feel ashamed, working in a ‘titty bar.’ Glitz or not, that’s what this is.”
“I suppose. But I’m the one who should feel ashamed... I’m a patron, after all.”
“A patron of the arts,” she said, and her smile was white and dazzling, her lips transfusion-red. “I am a dancer, and an actress. I’m only here because the money is good, and other opportunities just aren’t there, right now.”
“Times are difficult. Show business is a... challenging profession, in the best of times. Of course, I do have certain connections...”
She brushed his open palm with fingertips; even with the gloves on, her touch seemed warm. “Oh — I wish I knew you better, Senator. I could use a well-connected friend.”
“Brandi, I... have to be honest with you. I’m a married man.”
“I know. I’ve read about you. I know about your... tragedy.”
He swallowed. “Pardon?”
Her expression seemed genuinely compassionate. “Your wife’s illness. You have to stand beside her. Do the right thing by her. But still and all... a man needs companionship.” Her hand was on his thigh, under the table.
“And a real man,” she said, “needs even more.”
He walked with her through the underground passageway, saying, “If you come again, my dear, you’ll have to allow Edward — my chauffeur — to pick you up and bring you here. I can’t risk being seen...”
“I understand. Your re-election campaign.”
He nodded. “Next year’s going to be a busy time for me.”
“Even so, you’ll need to relax, now and then.”
Her arm was in his; she was snuggling against him.
In his study, on the leather sofa, basking in the glow and warmth of the fireplace, over which a serene Bingham landscape hung, they lay locked in an embrace. His hand was on her breast and her lips were nuzzling his neck.
“Senator,” she said. She seemed to be fighting her own urges. “Please...”
He drew away. “Is something wrong?”
She sat up and he settled in beside her, looking at her curiously. “Senator, I... I had hoped we could get to know each other.”
“Well, I thought that was what we were doing.”
She smiled; leaned in and kissed him, quickly. “You’re a rogue.”
It seemed an odd, almost archaic choice of words to him, even if apt.
“What did you have in mind, Brandi?”
“First of all, my real name is Sheila. Sheila Douglas.” She presented her hand, in mock formal fashion, and he grinned, shook his head, then the hand.
“Hello, Sheila. You’re not a reporter are you?”
“No! No. Brandi’s just my stage name. I’m a dancer at Gentleman’s Club, with pretensions toward a show business career. Just as you thought. But I truly do want a friendship with you... well — I want more than a friendship. I want a relationship.”
“I see.”
“I felt... some chemistry between us, at the club. In the limo. In that passageway downstairs. Didn’t you?”