had been recommended by the image consultant Quinlan had hired.
Just as the beige dinner suit she was wearing had been recommended by some cohort of Quinlan’s. Polls showed that earth tones and pastels had the most appeal for Mississippi voters, he had told her.
Well, hooray for Mississippi voters. Earth tones and pastels did nothing for her.
But here she was, wearing them.
No wonder she didn’t look like herself, Ronnie thought. She wasn’t herself any longer. She was some creature Quinlan and Lewis and the rest of them had conjured, the ultimate political wife, with everything from her clothes to her makeup to her remarks dictated by polls.
They had turned her into a Stepford wife.
No, Ronnie corrected, she had allowed herself to be turned into a Stepford wife.
Bright, beautiful, ambitious Veronica Sibley, as she had been before she married, had been all but erased from existence. In her place was Mrs. Lewis R. Honneker IV, the Senator’s wife.
Ronnie suddenly realized just what the price was for her place in the sun: Nothing less than her life.
Mrs. Lewis R. Honneker IV was no more real than a Barbie doll. She was a plastic creation who could be manipulated at will to suit someone else’s needs.
How long had it been since she had felt any kind of genuine emotion? Ronnie asked herself. How long since she had really laughed, or hugged someone and meant it, or had sweet, hot sex?
Plastic creations didn’t need to feel.
Ronnie realized that she did.
She had had it with being a Barbie doll. She wanted to be real again.
She wanted to feel .
Ronnie stared at her reflection for a few seconds longer. Then she turned, bent, shut off the bathwater, and padded across tile and carpet to her suitcase.
In anticipation of possible downtime while traveling, the staff at Sedgely had standing instructions to include a casual outfit or two along with her working clothes.
Ronnie found a T-shirt and a pair of jeans, and pulled them from the suitcase. She laid the clothes on the bed, then hesitated, looking down at them.’ She didn’t feel in the mood to wear jeans. She felt like wearing something—outrageous. For a moment she pondered. As the solution came to her, she searched her suitcase again for the sewing kit the staff invariably included. She located it, extracted a pair of scissors,and turned back to the bed, a small smile curving her lips.
Fifteen minutes later, looking far different from the proper society matron who had entered the suite, she stepped out into the plush-carpeted hall and strode purposefully toward the elevators.
The door to her suite shut behind her with a final-sounding click.
Chapter
12
T OM DIDN’T KNOW what time it was when the phone beside his bed began to ring. All he knew was that it was somewhere deep in the foggy mists of night.
“What the …?” As he was jolted awake, he cursed, grabbing for the source of the shrill sound and nearly knocking over both the lamp and the clock radio on the bedside table in the process. It was pitch-dark in his hotel room; he might as well have been blindfolded for all the help his eyes were as he floundered around for the phone.
With one hand he righted the lamp and pushed the clock back onto the table— 2:25 the time blinked at him as his other hand fumbled onto the phone, crawled over it, and at last snatched up the receiver. The blessed cessation of the shrill ringing was his reward.
“Hello?” he growled into the mouthpiece.
“You sleeping?” Kenny asked. Tom scowled at the familiar voice.
“Not now,” he said, rolling onto his back and blinking up into the darkness. “What’s up?”
“There’s a problem.”
“Why am I not surprised?” Tom sighed. “What is it? His Honor found himself another cutie?”
“Nope. It’s the missus.”
“The missus?” For an instant Tom was at a loss. Then his eyes opened wide. “Mrs. Honneker?”
“She’s downtown at the Yellow Dog—a bar. Drinking like a fish and dancing with
Just as the beige dinner suit she was wearing had been recommended by some cohort of Quinlan’s. Polls showed that earth tones and pastels had the most appeal for Mississippi voters, he had told her.
Well, hooray for Mississippi voters. Earth tones and pastels did nothing for her.
But here she was, wearing them.
No wonder she didn’t look like herself, Ronnie thought. She wasn’t herself any longer. She was some creature Quinlan and Lewis and the rest of them had conjured, the ultimate political wife, with everything from her clothes to her makeup to her remarks dictated by polls.
They had turned her into a Stepford wife.
No, Ronnie corrected, she had allowed herself to be turned into a Stepford wife.
Bright, beautiful, ambitious Veronica Sibley, as she had been before she married, had been all but erased from existence. In her place was Mrs. Lewis R. Honneker IV, the Senator’s wife.
Ronnie suddenly realized just what the price was for her place in the sun: Nothing less than her life.
Mrs. Lewis R. Honneker IV was no more real than a Barbie doll. She was a plastic creation who could be manipulated at will to suit someone else’s needs.
How long had it been since she had felt any kind of genuine emotion? Ronnie asked herself. How long since she had really laughed, or hugged someone and meant it, or had sweet, hot sex?
Plastic creations didn’t need to feel.
Ronnie realized that she did.
She had had it with being a Barbie doll. She wanted to be real again.
She wanted to feel .
Ronnie stared at her reflection for a few seconds longer. Then she turned, bent, shut off the bathwater, and padded across tile and carpet to her suitcase.
In anticipation of possible downtime while traveling, the staff at Sedgely had standing instructions to include a casual outfit or two along with her working clothes.
Ronnie found a T-shirt and a pair of jeans, and pulled them from the suitcase. She laid the clothes on the bed, then hesitated, looking down at them.’ She didn’t feel in the mood to wear jeans. She felt like wearing something—outrageous. For a moment she pondered. As the solution came to her, she searched her suitcase again for the sewing kit the staff invariably included. She located it, extracted a pair of scissors,and turned back to the bed, a small smile curving her lips.
Fifteen minutes later, looking far different from the proper society matron who had entered the suite, she stepped out into the plush-carpeted hall and strode purposefully toward the elevators.
The door to her suite shut behind her with a final-sounding click.
Chapter
12
T OM DIDN’T KNOW what time it was when the phone beside his bed began to ring. All he knew was that it was somewhere deep in the foggy mists of night.
“What the …?” As he was jolted awake, he cursed, grabbing for the source of the shrill sound and nearly knocking over both the lamp and the clock radio on the bedside table in the process. It was pitch-dark in his hotel room; he might as well have been blindfolded for all the help his eyes were as he floundered around for the phone.
With one hand he righted the lamp and pushed the clock back onto the table— 2:25 the time blinked at him as his other hand fumbled onto the phone, crawled over it, and at last snatched up the receiver. The blessed cessation of the shrill ringing was his reward.
“Hello?” he growled into the mouthpiece.
“You sleeping?” Kenny asked. Tom scowled at the familiar voice.
“Not now,” he said, rolling onto his back and blinking up into the darkness. “What’s up?”
“There’s a problem.”
“Why am I not surprised?” Tom sighed. “What is it? His Honor found himself another cutie?”
“Nope. It’s the missus.”
“The missus?” For an instant Tom was at a loss. Then his eyes opened wide. “Mrs. Honneker?”
“She’s downtown at the Yellow Dog—a bar. Drinking like a fish and dancing with
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