Monument to Murder - Margaret Truman [46]
“As far as I know. I’ll confirm everything in the morning with the staff.”
Jamison sat in his favorite chair and looked out the window. “You happy?” he asked.
His question surprised her. Of course she was happy. She was living in the White House with all the accompanying perks, the first lady of the land, the pinnacle of power for a woman. Happy? Was politics corrupt?
“You didn’t answer me,” Jamison said.
“I’m happy. I wish there was a little more time to escape, just escape, but yes, I am happy. Are you?”
“I’m not sure I’d call it happy, Jeanine. Winning the election made me happy. Why shouldn’t it? This country needs a new direction and I’m the one to lead it there. I just never realized how many people there are who’d like to take me down.”
“You knew that when you decided to run.”
“I know, I know, but they’re warped, Jeanine, warped, vicious people. They look for every little thing to criticize. If it weren’t for the Secret Service I’d have taken a bullet like the Kennedys by now.”
“Don’t talk that way, Fletch.”
“It’s true, babe.
She dropped the magazine to the floor, went to him, sat on his lap, and caressed his cheek. “We need some time away from here,” she said.
“That’d be nice.”
“I’m going to Savannah for that fund-raising event for CVA. Maybe we could—”
“When’s that?”
“Next week. Maybe we could spend a few days down on Tybee Island with the Warrens.”
He shook his head. “Not a chance.”
“Then I suppose we’ll just have to find an hour of escape right here.”
She kissed him softly on the lips, then increased the pressure. They left the couch, slipped out of their bedclothes, and climbed into the king-size bed.
“If that red phone rings I’ll scream,” she said with a playful giggle.
“Don’t worry about that, babe,” he said. “If the world is about to blow up I’ll just suggest it be put off for an hour. Hell, I am the president of the United States.”
She laughed again as she straddled him. “An hour?” she said. “Sure you can make it last that long?”
CHAPTER 17
Annabel Lee Smith arrived at her Georgetown gallery early the next morning. A shipment of four rare, painted baked clay Mayan plates had arrived the afternoon before and she wanted to create an appropriate display for them. She’d purchased them in Mexico the preceding month from a collector with whom she’d dealt before, and based upon her growing expertise in things pre-Columbian she was confident that she’d made a wise purchase, and one that conformed to U.S. regulations regarding the importation of antiquities.
Walking into the gallery always filled Annabel with a sense of calm and pride. She’d developed her interest in pre-Columbian art while in undergraduate school and had devoured every book she could find on the subject. She continued her study of it during law school and after she’d gone into practice, always thinking of opening a gallery but unable to make the dramatic decision to abandon law to pursue her dream.
Meeting and falling in love with Mac Smith had been the turning point. He’d encouraged her to take down her Esq. shingle, find the right location, and indulge her passion. The space in trendy Georgetown was charming and she loved being part of the neighborhood’s commercial community. Owning the gallery brought her into contact with pre-Columbian collectors around the world and she’d made numerous trips to seek out rare finds.
She’d never looked back.
By ten o’clock, she’d arranged the plates on a large, glass-covered pedestal in the center of the gallery, having taken a few minutes to circle it slowly and admire the presentation. She had then retreated to her office at the gallery’s rear to compile a list of area collectors who might be interested in the new arrivals, and was busy with that task when the chime sounded, indicating that someone had entered. She got up from her desk and went to greet her first potential customer of the day.
“Good morning,” she said.
“Good morning,” Emile Silva said. “Mind if I just browse?”
“Please do. Do you have an interest in pre-Columbian?”
“I’ve just begun