No More Lonely Nights (65 page)

If only he could get over the pain and longing, he could live without her love. He had lived all his life without it and had been reasonably content. He had enjoyed women, felt deeply affectionate toward some, been wildly attracted to others. There had been no depth to his feelings, and that had been supportable—even desirable—for a man who wished to devote his life to politics. But now there was the pain. Eventually, he knew, it would have to stop. But when?

Mark fingered the pile of message slips on his desk, fretfully tearing at the corner of one of them. He had almost destroyed the top third of the paper when he realized he needed it to return the call. He looked at the name on the slip. Buffy Coleman. Probably calling to invite him to a dinner party. With Christmas just two weeks away, the social season was at its peak. Buffy would want to introduce him to yet another attractive woman. Mark predicted that she would be too young for him, but avidly interested nonetheless. A U.S. Senator had that effect, he thought cynically. Then he sighed. Maybe a flirtation, some friendly companionship, would help him fight his way out of the blue murk of depression. He was tired of being lonely. Tired of longing for something he couldn’t have.

He picked up the phone and, with a desultory tap of his index finger, dialed Buffy’s number.

Carter beamed as Dominique walked into the office, a container of yogurt and a plastic spoon in her hand.

“You won’t believe it!” the younger woman said breathlessly. “Just after you left for lunch, the Corcoran called.”

Dominique halted just inside the door. Her heart thudded so hard that she felt it in her throat. “Cecilia Bernhardt?”

“Yes, and she asked you to call as soon as possible. She said she has a one o’clock lunch.”

Dominique automatically glanced at her wristwatch. “It’s already twelve thirty-five!”

Without bothering to remove her coat, she hurried into her own office. She sat down at her desk and dialed the number. As she listened to the ring of the telephone, she nervously bit her lip. She was relieved when Cecilia answered her own line.

The other woman greeted her warmly. “I’m glad you caught me,” she said.

Dominique beamed at her tone. She would enjoy working with Cecilia. They’d hit it off right from the start. She waited expectantly for the other woman to continue.

“Dominique, I can’t tell you how impressed we were with your proposal. Everyone on the committee thought it was exceptionally well thought out.” There was a silence that seemed endless to Dominique. She gripped the telephone receiver tightly.

Cecilia continued. “But I’m sorry to tell you that the committee decided to go with our public relations firm instead.”

Dominique stopped breathing. Her mouth went dry. How could it be? The public relations firm had just opened its event planning division—they had almost no experience! And Cecilia had loved Dominique’s ideas—had understood immediately what Dominique was trying to accomplish. For her part, Dominique had done everything she could to keep the plan’s cost down, to make her proposal the most attractive. She thought of the long, wearying evenings she and Carter had spent in the office. What had gone wrong? Struggling for calm, Dominique said, “Can you tell me why?”

“Well… I…” There was an uncomfortable pause. “It was a variety of factors.”

Suddenly, Dominique understood. Sylvia! That damned newspaper column! Crimson rage flooded her vision. She closed her eyes and clasped her free hand to her forehead. The pulse at her temple throbbed against her fingers. Dominique wanted to scream at the hapless Cecilia, How could you believe that trash! Instead, her throat tight, she asked, “Did the rumors about me and Senator Patout have anything to do with it?”

Cecilia answered with her usual serene deliberation. “We know your capabilities are genuine.”

What the hell did that mean? Dominique pressed the phone to her ear and sat very still, concentrating hard on Cecilia’s words.

“Certainly, we don’t lend credence to malicious gossip. But…” Cecilia faltered. “You see, our artists often rely on government grants. I’m sure you understand that even the
appearance
of undue influence—”

“Yes,” Dominique cut her off. She couldn’t listen anymore. It was nauseating, infuriating, outrageous. But the worst part was, she couldn’t blame the Corcoran for its stance. Had she been on their board, she might have reached the same decision.

Cecilia’s voice dropped. In a soothing tone, she said, “Personally, Dominique, I’d have liked to see you get the contract. And I hope you’ll compete in the future. People have such short memories. But this thing was so recent…. You see what I mean?”

Dominique could sense her genuine sympathy. But what good did it do, she wondered bitterly? On the other hand, why burn her bridges? In truth, this woman regarded her kindly. In an even voice, Dominique replied, “I understand. Of course, I’d be honored to compete again. Perhaps I can call you in a few months to discuss your plans for the future?”

“That would be wonderful.” Cecilia sounded relieved.

As soon as she hung up, Carter, her step tentative, appeared in the doorway.

Dominique shifted her gaze to the young woman.

Carter’s expression fell. “You don’t need to say anything. I can read it on your face.”

Dominique stared at Carter, not really seeing her. “I didn’t realize quite how much I’d been counting on that job.” She thought of the new staffer she’d wanted to hire, the coat she’d wanted to buy Gabrielle for Christmas, the bonus for Carter.

“Dominique, you look absolutely frazzled. Maybe you should take the afternoon off.” The younger woman’s brow creased with worry.

“No!” Dominique said sharply. She shook her head. Then in a weary voice, “We have a million things to do.” There was the opening of the new boutique next week, just in time to capitalize on Christmas shopping. There was the fund-raiser for Congresswoman Parnell at the beginning of February. They were small jobs. Little money. But enough to keep her business afloat. She couldn’t afford to let things slide just because she was disappointed.

Carter watched her with a look of deep concern. Dominique gave her a reassuring smile. “It’s discouraging, but I suppose it’s all part of doing business.”

Carter smiled back. “Anyhow, we have plenty to keep us busy.”

“But”—Dominique scowled—“we still need more business.”

“More business but not more work!” Carter laughed. Dominique joined in her laughter. She was beginning to feel a little better. Work energized her. And she liked the feeling of control it gave her to be her own boss. Even with the disappointments and stress, she was glad she had started her own business. Now if only she could turn it into a living!

“Lunch tomorrow? That would be delightful.” Dominique smiled into the phone at Michelle de la Croix. Over the course of their relationship, the Frenchwoman had become as much friend as client. But today, the ambassador’s wife was all business.

“I have a proposal for you. I’ve been thinking about it for some time, but I was waiting for the holidays to be over.”

Dominique’s curiosity was piqued. Another assignment? Her heart beat faster. Aside from the pleasure of working with Michelle, she could use the money. Congress wouldn’t be back in session for another two weeks, stores were caught in the January doldrums, and everyone was tired from holiday entertaining. She didn’t expect any new contracts until February, at the earliest.

They met at Sans Souci, the famous power-lunch spot across from the White House. Michelle, of course, knew everyone on the staff, and Dominique was shown to the other woman’s table as though she were visiting royalty.

The comtesse greeted Dominique with kisses on both cheeks as the waiter poured white wine from a bottle resting in an ice bucket. After he had left them alone, the women launched into machine-gun rapid French. They discussed the holidays, their families, the cold weather, and the famous columnist seated at the table next to theirs.

Finally, Michelle leaned forward and fixed her gaze on Dominique’s face. “How is your business?”

Dominique knew that the first rule of commerce was to act confident. She lifted her chin and said, “Fine, thank you. My clients have all been pleased and I’ve gotten a number of referrals.” Her jaunty tone wavered a bit as she added, “Of course, the first year is always difficult…”

Michelle gave her an understanding look. “I was sorry to hear about the Corcoran contract. I thought surely you would get it.” She sighed. “I suppose my recommendation wasn’t as influential as I thought.”

Dominique protested, “I wouldn’t have even been considered if it weren’t for you.” She shrugged philosophically. “I’ll try again. They’ll give me another chance.”

Michelle frowned. “It’s ridiculous that all this happened over something so trivial. And the irony is that you’re not even seeing Senator Patout any—” Michelle stopped in mid-sentence. And then she did something Dominique had never imagined was possible. She blushed. Michelle’s pale Gallic skin never betrayed a hint of blush, except where cosmetically applied. She epitomized sangfroid. But now her brow creased in a pained expression and her face flooded pink.

The women stared at each other in stunned silence. Michelle was the first to recover. “Forgive me.” Her eyes reflected genuine regret.

Dominique found it almost unbearable to look at her friend. Her ears burned with humiliation. She stared at the tablecloth, unable to think of a response. How did Michelle know? Who else knew? “Did he tell you?” Dominique blurted out. How could he embarrass her that way?

“No!” Michelle said at once. “He would never deliberately hurt you.” She leaned forward and covered Dominique’s hand with hers.

Dominique raised tortured eyes to Michelle. “Then… how?” she whispered.

Michelle averted her gaze. “We attend many of the same parties. I’ve seen him and…” She paused, obviously ill at ease. “You weren’t with him, so I drew my own conclusions.”

Dominique’s eyebrows went up, her expression puzzled. “But he’s always attended plenty of receptions alone.”

Michelle slumped in her seat. She looked down, then lifted her glass and took a long swallow of wine.

In a voice that was deadly quiet, Dominique said, “How stupid of me. He obviously wasn’t alone.”

To Michelle’s credit, she derived no thrill from imparting the news. “Look,” she said, meeting Dominique’s gaze squarely, “if it’s over between you, you must expect this sort of thing. Senator Patout is one of the most attractive men in Washington.”

Dominique nodded, not trusting herself to speak. Of course, Michelle was right. Had she expected Mark to remain alone? Yes, she had. Or at least she had hoped he would. To be truthful, she had
counted on
it. What a fool! She pictured Mark’s face, with its charming one-dimpled smile. Women melted at the sight of it. How could she have thought he would remain alone? Oh, God, what had she done? She raised her eyes, sick with regret, and met Michelle’s concerned gaze.

Dominique tried valiantly for a smile and only half succeeded. Lowering her lids, she asked, “What was she like?”

Michelle gave her friend a pleading look. “I don’t know. Dark hair. Young.”

Dominique’s lips tightened. She searched Michelle’s eyes. “Beautiful?”

Michelle turned up her palms. “In a hard sort of way.” She shook her head. “You’re far more attractive.”

Dominique was touched by the other woman’s loyalty. Her eyes softened. “Your prejudice is showing.” Then, all at once, it struck her. Young, brunette. Beautiful, in a hard sort of way. She sounded like Clay’s wife! A knife twisted in her gut. How could she go through this again? How could she stand it?
But you caused it, this time. You drove him away.

“Dominique, is there no chance for reconciliation?” Michelle asked.

Dominique shook her head vehemently.
Just like Clay’s wife.
It was a stuck record playing in her mind. She couldn’t stand to be hurt like this twice.

But what if she called Mark? Told him she’d marry him. Would it be too late? She wanted to race to the phone and do just that. But, of course, she couldn’t. Couldn’t marry him in a panic of emotion. And then, suppose she humiliated herself for nothing, as she had done with Clay? Her memory flashed to the day, two years before, that Clay had left her. Dominique begging him to stay. Clay’s cold, flat eyes dismissing her, anxious to get away. She had never known such humiliation.

It wouldn’t happen twice! Dominique took a deep, ragged breath. Her face turned to stone. “I’ll get over Mark,” she told Michelle.

The other woman met her eyes. There was a long silence. Finally she said, “I know you will.”

With hands that shook ever so slightly, Dominique picked up the menu and opened it. Not a word on the page registered. Without looking up, she said, “What do you suggest?”

Michelle’s voice came back poised, casual, as if nothing had happened. Playing along with Dominique’s face-saving act. “I always have the sole.”

Dominique closed the menu. “That sounds fine.” She lifted her wine glass and took a sip. Then another.

Michelle spared Dominique from talking to the waiter by ordering for both of them. That done, she launched into a monologue about the repairs necessary at the ambassador’s residence—inconsequential chatter designed to allow Dominique time to recover her composure.

After a few minutes—and a few more sips of wine—Dominique found herself smiling as Michelle told an anecdote about waking in the middle of the night to find the roof was leaking—straight into their bed. “From the outside, the building is magnificent, but oh la la, we don’t dare look in the attic!”

By the time the waiter brought their entrees, Dominique was able to concentrate on the discussion, and even inject a few comments of her own. As Michelle promised, the sole was delicious, the golden wine refreshing, and by the end of the meal, Dominique felt genuinely better.

“I’m glad to see you smile again,” said Michelle as the waiter placed tiny cups of espresso before them. She pulled a cigarette from her red lacquered case and lit it. “I originally asked you to lunch to discuss a subject I hoped you’d find pleasant,” she said ruefully.