The President's Daughter - Mariah Stewart [96]
Simon wrote it down, then asked, “Do you have his street address?”
“No. But it’s a small town, Simon. Stinson should be easy to find.”
“And how about Fritz? Were you able to locate him?”
“Yes. He’s in Virginia.”
Simon wrote down the second number. “Thanks. I appreciate it.”
Simon toyed with the idea of calling Stinson, then decided against it. Better to drop in unannounced than to give him time to prepare a story.
Simon folded the paper in half once, then once again, and stuck it in his shirt pocket. It was too late to leave tonight. He’d have to ask Betsy for the use of her guest room again tonight.
“So,” he said as he walked back into the front room where the ladies sipped their brandy and waited for him to join them. “Shall we listen to the tape?”
By midnight, the tape had been played and replayed, its contents and the repercussions that might be expected from having the copy fall into the hands of some other unknown party discussed without conclusion.
Finally, at ten past twelve, Betsy turned her chair around and wheeled herself toward the door.
“I’m too old to stay up this late,” she announced. “As are you, Jude. Let’s call it a night.”
“But . . .” Jude gestured to Dina and Simon.
“Exactly.” Betsy grinned. “Come on, Jude. You can help me with my chairlift. It was acting up again this afternoon.”
“Good night, Mom.” Dina blew her mother a kiss. “Sweet dreams.”
“Sweet dreams, honey,” Jude said in reply. She paused for a moment, then nodded to Simon. “You, too.”
“Thanks, Jude.” Simon tried not to grin. Betsy’s efforts to leave him and Dina alone had been so overt, and Jude had clearly not been partial to the idea.
“So. Here we are,” he said as the sound of Jude and Betsy’s voices—bickering over the merits of a current bestseller—faded down the hallway.
“Yup.” Dina nodded. “Here we are.” She sat next to him on the small love seat. “Thanks for taking me with you today.”
“My pleasure.”
“Any chance you’ll let me go with you tomorrow, too?”
“To see Stinson?” Simon raised an eyebrow.
“Yes.”
“Sorry.” He shook his head. “I don’t want him to see you. Chances are, he knew Blythe. I don’t want him to make a connection that he doesn’t already know about.”
“Do you think he’d remember her?”
“Dina, if she looked as much like you as everyone says she did, he’d never forget her.”
Simon reached out and touched the side of her face. Her hand found his and held it for a long moment.
“Simon, do you want to kiss me?” she asked.
“I’ve wanted to kiss you since the minute I saw you.”
“Why don’t you?”
“Why don’t I kiss you?” He smiled and leaned toward her. “Why don’t I do just that . . .”
He lowered his mouth to hers and brushed her lips with his, side to side, then tugged, ever so slightly, on her bottom lip with his. She slid her arms around his neck and pressed into him, inviting more, and he traced first her lips, then the inside of her mouth. She tasted of Betsy’s fine brandy and a ripeness not found in a bottle.
“Makes me wonder what I was waiting for,” he murmured as he kissed her again.
“I was beginning to wonder the same thing.” She held on to his collar, keeping him close, angling her face against the back of the sofa.
“Well, I thought about it. A lot. But then I’d think about everything you’ve been through and I’d think, well, the last thing she needs right now is some guy hitting on her.”
“I don’t think of you as just ‘some guy.’ ”
“How do you think of me?”
“As a very welcome addition to my life.”
“I like the way that sounds.” He nibbled on her bottom lip. “So you don’t blame me for having started all this madness?”
“This madness started thirty years ago. Sooner or later, it was bound to catch up with us. Sooner might turn out to be better than later, in the long run.” She leaned back against the sofa and looked up at him. “I wasn’t kidding when I said that you were the best thing that came out of this mess. I’m glad I met you,