All Night Long (17 page)

She eyed him suspiciously.

"You say you won't fit into my world. I say you would." He waggled her back and forth with his hands at her waist. "This is your chance to show me."

She tilted her head, looking up at him from under her lashes with a considering light in her eyes. Maybe he had a point. Maybe—

The phone trilled, interrupting her train of thought. She glanced over at it, waiting for someone in the outer office to pick it up. When it rang a second time, Matt reached around behind him on the desk and picked up the receiver. He put it to her ear.

"The Personal Touch," she said, smiling into his eyes as she reached up to take the receiver into her own hand. "How may I help you?" The smile in her eyes vanished into a frown. "No," she said, annoyance plain in her voice. "You've got the wrong number." She reached around Matt and dropped the receiver into its cradle with a bang.

Matt raised an eyebrow.

"I swear," Susannah said in a tone of half-amused exasperation, "there must be a losers' convention in town this week. That's the third call like that today." She shook her head. "The jerk wanted, and I quote, 'a leggy redhead with big knockers,' unquote."

Matt couldn't help but grin at her indignation. "Maybe he didn't have the wrong number, after all," he said, unable to resist teasing her.

She eyed him warily.

He slid his hands up her torso to her breasts. "I don't think these quite qualify as 'knockers,'" he said consideringly, cupping his hands around her gentle curves. "But you've got the legs. And the hair is definitely red."

Susannah bit back a smile. "You're asking for it," she warned him.

"Uh-huh," he agreed, nodding eagerly. "Am I gonna get it?"

Unable to resist, she moved deeper into his embrace and offered her lips. He took them eagerly. Tenderly. Thoroughly. Long delicious minutes later, he broke the kiss, drawing back slightly to look into her eyes. "So," he said, fighting down the desire to lay her out on the desk and make mad, passionate love to her. "Are you going to go to the picnic with me? To test out our compatibility as a couple in public?"

"It'll be a real test?" she said. "No pulling punches? I can be completely myself?"

"I wouldn't have it any other way."

"No safe little preppie outfit? No pretending I haven't got any opinions of my own?"

He nodded. "No being outrageous just for the sake of being outrageous, either," he said, adding a condition of his own.

"Okay. You're on."

* * *

Susannah had a hard time deciding what to wear to the Fourth of July picnic. The first outfit she put together was too drab and conservative, making her fear she was already compromising herself in an unconscious effort to fail her own test.

The second outfit she tried on went too far in the other direction, making her look like a refugee from Hollywood's version of a gypsy camp and, thus, violating Matt's stipulation against outrageousness simply for the sake of outrageousness. She took it off, throwing it across the bed on top of the first outfit.

Susannah eyed the resulting combination consideringly.

Perfect,
she decided.

The cream-colored tunic sweater from the first outfit, the gauzy, multicolored, midcalf skirt from the second. She added a pair of flat, strappy sandals, large gold hoop earrings and a filmy blue scarf to hold her hair loosely at her nape.

It was definitely her.

* * *

"Do you even own a pair of jeans?" she said to Matt, glancing over at him as they walked, hand-in-hand, from the parked car to the picnic area. He was wearing pressed tan chinos—with a
crease,
for goodness' sake!—and a pale blue polo shirt that, admittedly, showed off an impressive chest and did wonderful things for his eyes. He'd left his sport jacket in the car at her suggestion.

"Did I criticize what you're wearing?" he asked mildly.

"I'm not criticizing. I'm just asking. Do you?"

"One pair. Maybe," he added. "I think I might have worn them to stain the deck last year."

Susannah shook her head. It was too bad, really, because he had the kind of compact little rear end that would look spectacular in a pair of tight-fitting 501s. "Did you want to criticize what I'm wearing?" she asked, suddenly realizing what he'd said.

He let his gaze sweep over her long, flowing skirt and cotton boat-necked sweater. He didn't quite understand why women were hiding their bodies in such loose, baggy clothes this season—especially when the woman in question had a body like Susannah's—but she looked fine to him. Lovely, in fact. He said as much. "Although I did wonder..." He let his voice trail off.

"What?" she demanded.

"Are you wearing anything under that outfit?"

She laughed and gave him an arch, sliding look out of the corners of her eyes. "Maybe, if you're a
really
good boy, I'll let you find out for yourself. Later," she said, silently resolving to remove her panties before that happened.

It would drive him crazy to think she'd gone all day without any underwear.
Men are so easily distracted,
she thought delightedly. All it took was some naked flesh, or even just the thought of it, and their fantasies were off and running.

* * *

The picnic was being held near Stow Lake, the largest in Golden Gate Park, and the activities of the day were already under way by the time Matt and Susannah arrived.

Several men were marking the lanes and finish line for the traditional races—sack, three-legged, wheelbarrow and egg-and-spoon—while a couple of harried-looking teenagers rode herd on a group of smaller children, apparently trying to keep them away from the irresistible lure of the lake until the organized games could get under way. Women were gathered around one of the picnic tables, laughing and talking as they set out containers of food and handed out soft drinks to thirsty children. A uniformed cook, hired by the campaign committee, manned the smoking grills.

The smell of charcoal fires and barbecuing meat mingled with the scents of new-mown grass, rhododendrons, and fresh air. A radio tuned to the play-by-play announcement of a big league baseball game competed with the blare of a golden-oldies station belting out sixties rock tunes.

A woman played a gentle game of catch with a toddler under a shade tree. Teenagers flirted over a spirited game of croquet. A group of grade-school boys and girls kicked a soccer ball around a circle. A blue Frisbee sailed through the air.

Another group of people were gathered around a picnic table set a little away from the rest of the picnickers, so that their conversation wasn't infringed upon by the noise and laughter going on around them. Susannah recognized them instantly. They were the movers-and-shakers, the bigwigs, the politicians.

"Don't they ever let up?" Susannah mumbled as Councilman Leeland separated himself from the group and came toward them.

She could tell, as he ambled over to greet them, that he'd finally realized who she was. Whether he'd recognized her on his own, or Harry Gasparini had clued him in, really didn't matter, she decided, and steeled herself for a confrontation.

"Glad you could make it," he said to Matt, reaching out to give him a hearty handshake. "And you, too, little lady," he said to Susannah, leaning forward as if to kiss her cheek. She stepped back and stuck out her hand instead, forcing him to treat her as an equal. It disconcerted him for a moment, but he recovered quickly, pumping her hand as heartily as he had Matt's.

Sexist old goat,
she thought, glancing up at Matt to see how he'd reacted to her maneuver.

He grinned at her.

* * *

"What's wrong with a measly five-day waiting period to buy a gun?" Susannah said in exasperation, as she stood, half-surrounded by the men and women who were backing Matt's campaign. "A background check, might not keep criminals from getting all the guns they want, but it would keep people like John Hinckley or that man who shot up that McDonald's a few years ago from getting their hands on a weapon. Both those men had serious mental problems that would have come to light with a mandatory background check."

"And what about legitimate gun collectors and hunters?" Councilman Leeland demanded, obviously doing his best to remain calm. "What about a decent, God-fearing citizen who just might want a gun for protection?"

"Well, what about them?" Susannah said. "A five-day waiting period isn't going to cause them anything but a little inconvenience. And if they haven't got a criminal record or a history of mental-health problems, why should they care if someone checks a file and doesn't find anything?"

"Because it violates their constitutional rights, that's why," the councilman said. "Our constitution grants every citizen the right to bear arms."

"Actually," Matt said, deciding it was time to add his two cents' worth to the argument, "it grants a 'duly appointed militia' the right to bear arms. I seriously doubt our illustrious forefathers intended every Tom, Dick and Harry to run around the countryside, brandishing a Saturday night special or an assult weapon."

Both Councilman Leeland and Susannah looked at him with open astonishment, although for vastly different reasons.

"Why so surprised?" Matt said to Susannah. "I told you I believed in reasonable gun control."

"Well," the councilman huffed. "Well. I think I'm going to have to talk to Harry about this development."

* * *

Susannah half sat, half stood, with her hips braced back against the short end of a picnic bench, sated by both the picnic food and the political speeches that had followed the open-air feast. Her legs were crossed at the ankles, the heels of her hands resting lightly on the wooden table on either side of her as she watched Matt work the crowd.

He was good, she thought proudly, her eyes misting up a little as she watched him. His manner was easy and natural, assuming leadership without any off-putting arrogance. He stated his views in simple language and responded to a direct question with a direct answer. When asked, he pointed out his opponents' shortcomings without resorting to personal attacks of any kind. He made them laugh. He made them like him. He made them believe he would do his best. And do the right thing, while he was at it.

"He's something, isn't he?" said a voice at her shoulder.

"Yes, Mr. Gasparini," Susannah agreed without taking her admiring gaze from the man under discussion, "he is something, all right."

"He could be mayor of this town in a few years. Governor a few years after that. Hell, he could make it all the way to the White House if he put his mind to it."

Susannah turned her head to look at him. "Are you serious?"

"Serious as death and taxes," Harry told her. "Matt's got what it takes to go all the way. The brains, the looks, the record, the family background."

"The desire?" Susannah wondered out loud.

Harry waved her question away. "Public service is a tradition and an obligation in Matt's family," he informed her. "Both his father and grandfather were district court judges. His father made it all the way to the State Supreme Court. His mother's family has an even longer history. There've been Larsons in San Francisco politics since before the Gold Rush. Matt could outshine them all," Harry said. "And he will." He gave Susannah a sidelong glance. "If something, or
somebody,"
he added ominously, "doesn't mess it up for him."

"Are you warning me off, Mr. Gasparini?"

Harry shrugged noncommittally. "Let's just: say I hope you don't change your mind about marrying him."

* * *

"Now, was that so bad?" Matt asked a few hours later as he and Susannah walked back to the car, hand-in-hand once again. The Fourth of July picnic was over, the sack races run, the campaign speeches made, the flesh pressed, the barbecued chicken and potato salad reduced to bones and smears of grease on a paper plate.

"It was kind of fun, actually," Susannah admitted, turning her head to smile up at him. "Especially watching you oh-so-diplomatically poke holes in some of Councilman Leeland's more asinine arguments."

"Which I wouldn't have had to do if you hadn't started those arguments in the first place."

"I didn't start them," Susannah said mildly. "I just sort of—" she grinned mischievously "—helped them along a little."

Matt grinned back at her. "Harry said you were a rabble-rouser."

"Harry did?"
That figures,
she thought. "When?"

"When you were tearing into that man about a woman's right to choose, I think. Or maybe it was when you were showing the Wong twins how to cheat at croquet."

"Smacking your opponent's ball into the bushes is not cheating," she said, letting go of his hand to punch him in the arm. "It's strategy. Those two little girls were being way too polite to win at croquet. Played correctly, croquet is all-out war."

"Rabble-rouser," he said, and reached for her hand again.

Then walked on quietly for a moment, companionably, more than content to be walking together through Golden Gate Park in the late afternoon sunshine, with a whole evening of togetherness still ahead of them. They'd been invited to join Carly Elliott on his Sausalito houseboat for a seafood dinner and a front-row seat to watch the fireworks. Matt's mother would be there, too. She and Carly had seen quite a bit of each other in the two weeks since the fundraiser at the Mark Hopkins.