The Last White Knight (4 page)

“Thank you again, Erik,” Lillian said as she swung the door open. “I’m glad we had the chance to meet. Perhaps we can all get together sometime tomorrow and discuss strategy.”

“Yes, that sounds fine.”

The ladies said their good-byes and headed down
the sidewalk toward Lillian’s Volvo. Lynn stood holding the front door open, watching until they had gotten safely to the car and started the engine.

Night had fallen on the neighborhood, velvet black and quiet. Lights glowed amber in windows up and down the block, but there were no signs of life outside. Still, Lynn thought she sensed something, something heavy and taut in the darkness. A sense of tension, a malevolence, as if someone were standing in the shadows staring at her.

It was just her own anxiety, she told herself as one of the neighborhood dogs loped across the yard with a big grin on his face. She was tired and edgy and felt a little abandoned as Martha and Lillian drove off into the night. Abandoned, but not alone.

She turned toward Erik Gunther as she pulled the door closed against the swarm of moths and mosquitoes that had flocked to the porch light. He was standing just a little too close, watching her just a little too intently. He looked perfectly relaxed, standing there with his hands tucked into the pockets of his chinos, one leg cocked, but she sensed the power in him, the magnetism, the energy. He seemed very, very male, and that made her nervous. It also made her acutely aware of how long it had been since she’d been conscious of a man in the sexual sense. Ages. Eons. Her body hadn’t forgotten how to react,
however. As warm tingles danced through her, she couldn’t decide if that was good news or bad.

Hand still gripping the doorknob, she tried to look the part of a hostess bidding a guest good night. “Thank you for dropping by, Senator.”

“Giving me the bum’s rush, Counselor Shaw?” he asked, blue eyes sparkling like sapphires under the hall light. “We haven’t opened our fortune cookies yet. Maybe mine will tell me what Martha wouldn’t.”

He didn’t give her a chance to say no, turning and sauntering back into the living room as if he had all the time in the world. Lynn heaved a weary sigh and gave in, rubbing at the knot of tension and pain above her eye.

“What you need is someone to do that for you.”

She jerked her head up, startled to see he had turned around and was leaning against the living room doorway watching her.

“I took a course in massage when I was playing college football,” he said. “You can’t fully release tension when you’re actively generating energy.”

“I’ll bear that in mind.”

“Care for a demonstration?” He raised his hands, fingers splayed wide, like a surgeon waiting for his gloves to be put on. “I’m pretty good with my hands.”

“I don’t doubt it,” Lynn muttered. She stepped
around him and went into the living room, where she began gathering up the supper dishes with efficiency.

Erik hung back for a moment, admiring the fit of her jeans as she bent over the low table. She had a slim, angular build, but her backside was nicely rounded, inviting a man to touch. The old jeans hugged her lovingly, giving a faint, tantalizing glimpse of black lace panties where the denim had worn thin beneath one pocket. Desire stirred, warm and silky, in his groin.

“Let me help you with that,” he said as she straightened.

“You don’t have to.”

“My mother raised me better than that. You fed me, I help clean up.”

He didn’t allow her to protest, but took the stack of plates from her and headed out of the room in search of the kitchen. Lynn followed like a woman resigned to her own execution, the tray of take-out boxes held before her like the remains of her final meal.

In the kitchen the sink was already filling with water and soap bubbles. Erik had set the plates aside and was busy snooping through drawers. He pulled out a dishcloth and a cotton towel.

“You wash, I’ll dry,” he said.

“Afraid of being seen in an apron?” Lynn asked dryly. She dumped the cartons in the garbage and set the tray on the counter beside the dishes.

“Naw,” he drawled, handing her the dishcloth. “Voters understand aprons. They like the new Nineties Man image. It’s ladies’ underwear they frown on.”

Lynn couldn’t help the little cough of laughter. She would have pegged Erik Gunther as a man who took himself too seriously. That he had a sense of humor was a nice surprise.

“I don’t know,” she said, giving him a sidelong look as she sank her hands into the warm suds. “You might look kind of cute in a garter belt. You could attract a whole new demographic group.”

“And a lot of weird phone calls.”

“It could open new vistas in your personal life.”

“I like the vistas I have right now just fine, thanks.”

They worked in silence for a few moments, but it was hardly a companionable silence. Lynn was too aware of him standing beside her, and too aware of her desire to like him. He was here to help, she reminded herself, but he had his own agenda and his own goals. It just wouldn’t do for her to like him too much.

“I don’t bite,” he said softly. Lynn started and looked up at him, wide-eyed. A rakish smile tugged
at one corner of his mouth and he waggled his eyebrows. “Unless it’s a specific request, that is.”

“I was just … thinking about Elliot Graham,” she lied, turning her attention back to the dishes.

Erik’s face crumpled. “Oh.” He pulled a plate out of the rinse water and dried it slowly. “Haven’t you had enough of him for one night?”

Lynn sniffed. “I’ve had enough of him to last me forever, but I can’t just ignore him. The man is the bane of my existence.”

Erik heaved a sigh. “I know he’s pompous and somewhere to the right of Mussolini, politically speaking, but I do think he means well, if that’s any consolation.”

“Not much. As they say, the road to hell is paved with good intentions.” Lynn washed another plate methodically, the warm water beginning to soothe her jangled nerves. She relaxed with the change of topic, too, much more comfortable discussing issues than experiencing those intangible sexual vibrations. “If he would look past his own self-righteousness, he might see just how wrong he is. But that will never happen. The man is so narrow-minded his ears rub together.”

“He’s a man with a cause,” Erik said. “I see it all the time. He’s got the bit in his teeth and blinkers on
to keep his mind on his purpose. He doesn’t want to be swayed by anything like the possibility that he’s wrong.”

“He’s so wrong. The irony of it is that it’s attitudes like Graham’s that help foster problems like the ones my girls have.”

He gave a snort of disbelief. “You’re saying they all have fathers like Graham and that’s why they grow up to be bad girls? That’s a little simplistic, isn’t it?”

“I resent the term ‘bad girls.’ And what would you know about it, anyway?” Lynn queried defensively, turning to face him. She propped her right hand on her hip, ignoring the soap suds that soaked into her T-shirt. An old resentment seeped out of its hiding place and directed itself at the man before her—Sir Erik the Good, golden boy, favored son, everybody’s hero. He was the male version of her sister Rebecca, bright and perfect, loved by all. “I’ll bet your father was your best pal. You played football together. He took you fishing and supported you in everything you did. Right?”

His expression suddenly went closed, but the residue of pain glowed in his eyes, and Lynn had the feeling she’d just taken one giant step onto private property.

“My dad died when I was sixteen,” he said quietly.

Damn. Lynn wanted to say she was sorry, but she couldn’t seem to speak around the foot in her mouth. It was this kind of thing that had gotten her in trouble with teachers and supervisors over the years. Her lack of reserve and circumspection made her good with teenagers but a failure with most adults. She looked at Erik and felt helpless.

“He played football with me,” he said. “He took me fishing. He supported me in everything I did. And then he dropped dead of a heart attack, leaving a wife, five kids, and a stack of bills.”

Shame crawled around in Lynn’s stomach like a whipped dog. She didn’t usually judge people so quickly and on so little evidence. She had labeled Erik Gunther the product of a privileged upbringing, handsome, successful, shallow. Slapping an unattractive label on him was a defense mechanism, she supposed, trying to keep him a safe distance away, but that didn’t make it right.

“I’m sorry,” she said at last.

“Yeah, well …”

He turned away and scooped a handful of silverware out of the sink, then went in search of the proper drawer. Lynn watched him, her eyes on the set of his broad shoulders. He kept his head down, ostensibly
concentrating on his work as he sorted the forks and spoons. She wanted to reach out to him, to heal the hurt she’d inflicted by opening an old scar, and because she wanted to do that, she turned away. Erik Gunther wasn’t one of her girls. He was a grown man, fully capable of dealing with his own feelings. If she reached out to him, she would be the one in trouble.

She turned back to the sink and lifted the drain basket to let the water out. As the suds were sucked down, she stared out the window above the sink, seeing nothing but blackness and her own reflection, like a ghost. Her thoughts drifted inexorably back to her own unhappy youth.

“I lost my mother when I was eleven,” she said absently, her concentration on the memory.

Lovely Gabrielle with her gentleness and patience, taken an excruciating bit at a time by ALS—Lou Gehrig’s disease. A disease named for a baseball player, as if it were his exclusively. Her mother, the only person who had ever really understood her, gone, abandoning her for death, leaving her to a father who demanded perfection even from the mediocre. The emotions she had known nearly two decades ago bubbled up anew, and Lynn tamped them back into their little box and shut the lid.

When she turned, Erik was looking at her, studying
her again. She wondered how much he had seen, but she was too tired to care. He seemed too close again, his big frame out of place in the narrow confines of the kitchen.

“You’ve done your duty,” she said, one hand fluttering toward the empty sink. “You’re free to go.”

“Why do I get the impression you want me out of here?” he asked with a chuckle, her abrupt change in attitude amusing him.

Lynn shrugged and gave him a phony grin. “Gee, I don’t know. Maybe it’s because I want you out of here. It’s been a long day. I’d like to take my headache and go to bed.”

Erik made a pained face. “Ouch. Passed over for a headache. I must be losing my touch.”

“I wouldn’t worry about it if I were you,” Lynn said dryly. “I’m sure there are plenty of women out there ready to cast their votes for you, Senator.”

“But you’re not one of them, right?”

“I don’t mix business with my personal life.” She didn’t have a personal life, but that was beside the point. This wasn’t the time to start one—or the man to do it with.

He took a step closer, closing the distance between them by half. Lynn had to tip her head back to maintain eye contact with him. He tilted his head a little to one side, as if he were studying a modern
sculpture and trying to discern whether it was right side up or not. His eyes were narrowed in speculation. Strands of golden hair tumbled across his forehead.

“That’s a very convenient rule,” he said at last.

“It’s a very practical rule,” Lynn countered.

“But you don’t strike me as a very practical woman.”

“Thanks,” she said with an incredulous laugh. She used affront as an excuse to take a step back from him, to try to escape his scrutiny.

“You’ve got too much fire, too much spirit,” he said bluntly. “Why do you bottle it up when it comes to your personal life?”

“That’s my business.”

“For the moment.”

Lynn’s heart gave a lurch. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

He smiled again, warm and friendly in the face of her suspicion. “It means I’d like to get to know you better.”

She shook her head. “I don’t think that’s a very good idea.”

“Why not?”

There were a dozen reasons why not. Because she didn’t allow room in her life for casual relationships with men. Because she wouldn’t allow a transient figure in her life to get close to her. Because she knew he didn’t
really
want to know her, wouldn’t want to
know a woman with a past that might tarnish that shining armor of his, wouldn’t run that kind of risk to his image. Because she had too good an idea of what he was after—a little publicity, with some extracurricular fun thrown in, to make all this trouble worth his while.

There were a dozen reasons she could have listed, but for once she gave the prudent answer instead of speaking her mind. “There’s too much possibility for conflict of interest.”

Erik nodded slowly, sagely, all the while thinking
bull hooey
. He knew political rhetoric when he heard it: pat, broad, with enough of the truth to make it difficult for rebuttal. She had put on her mask of cool reserve, subdued her gestures, gone into retreat again. Like a possum playing dead until the predator lost interest and wandered away. Only she was a darn sight prettier than any possum he’d ever encountered. She stood there with her back to the sink, her hands folded primly in front of her, gaze steady. She was so still, the pulse beating in her throat was about the only thing that confirmed she was a living creature and not just some figment of his imagination.

Of course she was real. His imagination had never conjured up a woman this intriguing, or this hard to win over.

He crossed his arms over his chest in a relaxed pose and went instinctively for the nerve that would bring Ms. Shaw out of her shell. “What are you afraid of?”

Fire flashed instantly in her eyes. The lush, tempting little mouth thinned to a tight line. Color blushed across her cheekbones. Her hands knotted together as if each was keeping the other from gesticulating. “Nothing.” She bit the word off. “I’m not afraid of anything.”

Erik ignored her denial and pressed a little harder on that raw nerve, willing her to come to life for him. “Afraid we might actually like each other? Afraid I might get a peek behind that armor of yours?”