her skin, but because she couldn’t help him now that he had reached the pinnacle of his career. She cried because he had to carry the burden alone. When she was in firm control and the tears conquered, she moved, letting him know she was awake.
“Sleep well, Tosh?” he asked. It was the same question he always asked her. She smiled at him as he laid down the thick read file that waited for him every morning, removed his glasses, and placed a hand gently over hers. Pontowski had caught her first waking movements and had concentrated on his reading until she was in control.
“You are so vain,” she chided him. “You never let anyone see you wearing glasses.” He humphed in response. “Probably just as well,” she allowed. “Don’t need to hide those steely blue eyes.” He waited until a nurse had helped arrange her in a sitting position before handing her a cup of coffee. “Well, then,” she continued, “have you solved the world’s problems or will that take until lunch?” She believed in keeping him humble.
“Should have that done by tomorrow. Looks like a decisive power struggle is going on inside Russia.” He always told her what was occupying his attention and she had a way of keeping him focused on what was important. “Lots of turmoil inside the Kremlin.”
“Will that affect what’s going on in the Middle East?” He had shared Melissa’s memo with her the night before.
“Hard to say. It does look like Rokossovsky is in deep trouble. The old guard is fighting his economic reforms tooth and tong.”
“Tooth and toenail,” she corrected him. They both laughed although it was far from a laughing matter for Viktor Rokossovsky, the young and energetic Soviet premier.
“We got a letter from Matt,” he announced, handing her the envelope. “He’s in Marbella on vacation, whooping it up, I expect.”
“Just like his father,” she said. Pontowski waited while she read the rare note from their grandson. It was an occasion when he wrote, for Matt was like his father—an unrestrained fighter pilot, eager to party, chase women, and fly whenever he got the chance. Zack Pontowski and his wife both shared the unspoken hope that he would not die in a fiery crash like his father did—that combat would not claim the last male descendant of the Pontowski clan. “Now this is different,” she said. “He mentions a girl, a Rose Temple from Canada. Do you think our ne’er-do-well grandson may be getting serious for the first time in his life?”
“Well, he did write a letter.” Again, they both laughed.
Patience was not part of Fraser’s personality and the delay ate at him. Still, he forced himself to sit quietly in the receiving room of the mansion in the rolling hills of western Virginia that B. J. Allison called home. Even for a private dinner at home, Fraser knew that B.J. liked to make an entrance. Some “home,” Fraser decided, calculating its worth at around $19.5 million. He had missed it by less less than $200,000.
He was not disappointed by her entrance. Five minutes later, B.J. Allison swept down one of the spiraling staircases wearing a simple floor-length gown and a single diamond pendant with matching earrings. Fraser was impressed, not by the gown or diamonds, which he correctly estimated to be worth $2 million, but by the five minutes. B.J. kept governors and senators waiting seven minutes and was on time only for the President of the United States or royalty.
“Tom!” she sang out, her voice a beautiful contralto. “You do avoid me too much.” Fraser couldn’t help but smile as she took his arm and escorted him into the drawing room, the first stage in the journey to dinner. Only the eccentric with strong self-destructive tendencies or the extremely powerful willfully avoided Barbara Jo Allison. Charles de Gaulle had reportedly managed it successfully.
No one knew B.J.'s exact age, nor did they discuss it publicly, for it was the one thing the petite and elegant
“Sleep well, Tosh?” he asked. It was the same question he always asked her. She smiled at him as he laid down the thick read file that waited for him every morning, removed his glasses, and placed a hand gently over hers. Pontowski had caught her first waking movements and had concentrated on his reading until she was in control.
“You are so vain,” she chided him. “You never let anyone see you wearing glasses.” He humphed in response. “Probably just as well,” she allowed. “Don’t need to hide those steely blue eyes.” He waited until a nurse had helped arrange her in a sitting position before handing her a cup of coffee. “Well, then,” she continued, “have you solved the world’s problems or will that take until lunch?” She believed in keeping him humble.
“Should have that done by tomorrow. Looks like a decisive power struggle is going on inside Russia.” He always told her what was occupying his attention and she had a way of keeping him focused on what was important. “Lots of turmoil inside the Kremlin.”
“Will that affect what’s going on in the Middle East?” He had shared Melissa’s memo with her the night before.
“Hard to say. It does look like Rokossovsky is in deep trouble. The old guard is fighting his economic reforms tooth and tong.”
“Tooth and toenail,” she corrected him. They both laughed although it was far from a laughing matter for Viktor Rokossovsky, the young and energetic Soviet premier.
“We got a letter from Matt,” he announced, handing her the envelope. “He’s in Marbella on vacation, whooping it up, I expect.”
“Just like his father,” she said. Pontowski waited while she read the rare note from their grandson. It was an occasion when he wrote, for Matt was like his father—an unrestrained fighter pilot, eager to party, chase women, and fly whenever he got the chance. Zack Pontowski and his wife both shared the unspoken hope that he would not die in a fiery crash like his father did—that combat would not claim the last male descendant of the Pontowski clan. “Now this is different,” she said. “He mentions a girl, a Rose Temple from Canada. Do you think our ne’er-do-well grandson may be getting serious for the first time in his life?”
“Well, he did write a letter.” Again, they both laughed.
Patience was not part of Fraser’s personality and the delay ate at him. Still, he forced himself to sit quietly in the receiving room of the mansion in the rolling hills of western Virginia that B. J. Allison called home. Even for a private dinner at home, Fraser knew that B.J. liked to make an entrance. Some “home,” Fraser decided, calculating its worth at around $19.5 million. He had missed it by less less than $200,000.
He was not disappointed by her entrance. Five minutes later, B.J. Allison swept down one of the spiraling staircases wearing a simple floor-length gown and a single diamond pendant with matching earrings. Fraser was impressed, not by the gown or diamonds, which he correctly estimated to be worth $2 million, but by the five minutes. B.J. kept governors and senators waiting seven minutes and was on time only for the President of the United States or royalty.
“Tom!” she sang out, her voice a beautiful contralto. “You do avoid me too much.” Fraser couldn’t help but smile as she took his arm and escorted him into the drawing room, the first stage in the journey to dinner. Only the eccentric with strong self-destructive tendencies or the extremely powerful willfully avoided Barbara Jo Allison. Charles de Gaulle had reportedly managed it successfully.
No one knew B.J.'s exact age, nor did they discuss it publicly, for it was the one thing the petite and elegant
Similar Books
