a breath, I looked at my watch. Could Congressman Chanson afford to keep big spenders waiting? Or was that his ploy? Keep them waiting and maybe they'll think he doesn't need them . . . Then the investor would woo him , wanting to become one of an inner circle.
What a sham. I hated politics.
Finally, just when I thought I was going to have to slip into the ladies' room and forcibly remove my nylons, the door to the congressman's office opened.
Two men came out, one patting the other on the back.
"It will all be over soon," Chanson said.
I tried not to appear as if I was staring, but frankly, I think I gawked. "Easy on the eyes" was an understatement, and the TV did him no justice. Men had no right to be so, so, so utterly beautiful.
The shorter man walked out the door and Congressman Chanson took a step toward me, his hands tucked into his pockets as if he were a six-year-old boy with something to hide. He grinned a sheepish grin at me.
Oh, he definitely had something to hide.
"Ms. Quinn, I'm so sorry to keep you waiting."
Offering me a hand, he shook it while pulling me out of my seat. Impressive. Smooth. Practiced.
I smiled, saying nothing, afraid I'd be tempted to give away my imaginary money.
"Why don't you come into my office and we can chat?"
He placed his hand on my back and steered me into his office, which was luxuriously furnished. Not bad digs, if you asked me. Weren't politicians supposed to appear on the verge of bankruptcy so that people would bankroll their ambitions?
He guided me to a leather high-backed chair and sat down in a chair next to mine. Mahogany paneling encased the room. Oil portraits hung on the walls. The pile of the carpet seemed three inches deep. Even the air smelled rich.
"I really am sorry to have kept you waiting. An emergency came up that couldn't be avoided."
"I see."
He tipped his head. "I heard you want to make a donation to my campaign. May I ask why?"
His face was Botticelli perfect. He looked like an angel living in a man's body. A girl angel. It was disconcerting. Curly blond hair was styled just so, his cheeks rosy with what I would've sworn was blush if it had been on a woman, and he had the rosiest red lips I had ever seen. Snow White would have been jealous. Androgynous? I checked his hand. A large gold band glistened on the ring finger of his left hand. I wondered what kind of woman would marry such a perfect-looking man.
I hated to burst his bubble, but I decided to be as honest as I could. "I really don't have any money to give you."
His lips turned down, barely denting the skin around his mouth. Botox? "Then why did you want to see me, Ms. Quinn?" His voice had lost its charming edge.
"I came to see you about the Sandowskis."
Perfect morning-glory blue eyes narrowed. "Who?"
"Oh, come now." I tsked .
Part of his masked slipped. "I think perhaps you should leave."
"I think not."
He rose. "Then perhaps I should call security."
"Then perhaps I'll have to go to the press with this whole sordid mess. And if you aren't involved, your name will still be dragged through the mire with everyone else who has a stake in Vista View. What would your constituents say?"
"Who are you?"
I slid my card across the desk. "I'm a friend of the Sandowski family."
"I've heard of you," he said, looking up from the card. "My wife is enamored of the work you did on the Joneses' house. I, however, did not ask for a consultation with you, but seeing as though you're here, maybe we can set something up. My anniversary is in a few months . . ."
"Sorry. All booked up. About the Sandowskis . . ."
His eyes clouded, his lips thinned into a tight line. I wondered how often he was told no.
With an edge to his voice, he said, "What about them?"
Even in anger, his looks hadn't changed. A raging angel. There was something about him and his perfection that disgusted me on a vain level. No man should look that good. Or maybe it was on a subconscious level. I knew he wasn't what he
What a sham. I hated politics.
Finally, just when I thought I was going to have to slip into the ladies' room and forcibly remove my nylons, the door to the congressman's office opened.
Two men came out, one patting the other on the back.
"It will all be over soon," Chanson said.
I tried not to appear as if I was staring, but frankly, I think I gawked. "Easy on the eyes" was an understatement, and the TV did him no justice. Men had no right to be so, so, so utterly beautiful.
The shorter man walked out the door and Congressman Chanson took a step toward me, his hands tucked into his pockets as if he were a six-year-old boy with something to hide. He grinned a sheepish grin at me.
Oh, he definitely had something to hide.
"Ms. Quinn, I'm so sorry to keep you waiting."
Offering me a hand, he shook it while pulling me out of my seat. Impressive. Smooth. Practiced.
I smiled, saying nothing, afraid I'd be tempted to give away my imaginary money.
"Why don't you come into my office and we can chat?"
He placed his hand on my back and steered me into his office, which was luxuriously furnished. Not bad digs, if you asked me. Weren't politicians supposed to appear on the verge of bankruptcy so that people would bankroll their ambitions?
He guided me to a leather high-backed chair and sat down in a chair next to mine. Mahogany paneling encased the room. Oil portraits hung on the walls. The pile of the carpet seemed three inches deep. Even the air smelled rich.
"I really am sorry to have kept you waiting. An emergency came up that couldn't be avoided."
"I see."
He tipped his head. "I heard you want to make a donation to my campaign. May I ask why?"
His face was Botticelli perfect. He looked like an angel living in a man's body. A girl angel. It was disconcerting. Curly blond hair was styled just so, his cheeks rosy with what I would've sworn was blush if it had been on a woman, and he had the rosiest red lips I had ever seen. Snow White would have been jealous. Androgynous? I checked his hand. A large gold band glistened on the ring finger of his left hand. I wondered what kind of woman would marry such a perfect-looking man.
I hated to burst his bubble, but I decided to be as honest as I could. "I really don't have any money to give you."
His lips turned down, barely denting the skin around his mouth. Botox? "Then why did you want to see me, Ms. Quinn?" His voice had lost its charming edge.
"I came to see you about the Sandowskis."
Perfect morning-glory blue eyes narrowed. "Who?"
"Oh, come now." I tsked .
Part of his masked slipped. "I think perhaps you should leave."
"I think not."
He rose. "Then perhaps I should call security."
"Then perhaps I'll have to go to the press with this whole sordid mess. And if you aren't involved, your name will still be dragged through the mire with everyone else who has a stake in Vista View. What would your constituents say?"
"Who are you?"
I slid my card across the desk. "I'm a friend of the Sandowski family."
"I've heard of you," he said, looking up from the card. "My wife is enamored of the work you did on the Joneses' house. I, however, did not ask for a consultation with you, but seeing as though you're here, maybe we can set something up. My anniversary is in a few months . . ."
"Sorry. All booked up. About the Sandowskis . . ."
His eyes clouded, his lips thinned into a tight line. I wondered how often he was told no.
With an edge to his voice, he said, "What about them?"
Even in anger, his looks hadn't changed. A raging angel. There was something about him and his perfection that disgusted me on a vain level. No man should look that good. Or maybe it was on a subconscious level. I knew he wasn't what he
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