The Property of a Lady - Elizabeth Adler [19]
Valentin Solovsky had been schooled all his life toward high political office and at the age of thirty-six had already begun to make a name for himself in the foreign service. He had held posts as press attache at his country’s embassy in Paris, as military attache in London, and his latest post was as cultural attache in Washington. Paris, London, Washington, Cal mused, finishing his glass of champagne. Nothing but the best for the son of top Politburo member Marshal Sergei Solovsky and the nephew of the KGB’s feared Boris Solovsky. Nepotism lived, even in the People’s Republic.
Valentin swung around, staring toward the door. Cal followed his gaze. Genie Reese stood hesitantly at the entrance to the bar. She looked beautiful, but moody and unsmiling.
Cal had met Genie Reese several times at White House press conferences and Washington parties. He knew she was a damned good reporter. She was bright, always well researched and unmanipulative with a story. And she was absolutely straight-arrow honest. She was also one of the most attractive members of the Washington press corps—a detail that he noticed had not escaped Valentin Solovsky.
He called out to her as she walked by on her way to a table by the snowy window. “Not thinking of drinking alone, are you, Genie?” He waved at the champagne in the ice bucket by his table. “Why don’t you join me?”
She hesitated, her blue eyes undecided, then she said curtly, “Sorry, I need to be on my own for a bit. I’ve got some thinking to do.”
“Haven’t we all,” Cal murmured, sinking back into his chair, watching as she took a seat at an empty table, shook back her mane of blond hair, and asked the waiter for a glass of fresh orange juice with ice. No booze? he thought, surprised. The work day was over and most other press persons would be hitting the bottle as if it were likely to dry up tomorrow—celebrating, like kids out of school. Genie Reese must have some really serious thinking to do.
He sighed as he poured another glass of champagne, wishing she had said yes, noticing that Solovsky had turned back to the bar and was listening intently to something one of his companions was saying. Cal glanced at his watch. Eight-thirty wasn’t too soon for dinner in this city, was it? Well, damn it, even if it was, he was hungry. With a nod to Genie and to Solovsky, he made his way to the restaurant.
Genie watched from beneath her lashes as Cal strode from the bar. He looked fit, she thought; no Washington paunch from too many expensive business lunches and political dinner parties.
She knew Cal Warrender was considered a “catch” in the Washington social and marriage market. He was the right age, unattached, good-looking, and straight. He was tall, with steady reddish-brown eyes, springy dark hair, and the kind of tight, well-muscled body women liked to touch. And he was a man reputed to be very much on his way up. What more could any conniving society hostess want for her party? Or any woman for a husband? But Genie had a sneaky feeling that work was first in Cal’s priorities. Like her, he loved his job.
She assessed the company in the bar, recognizing the stringer for Spain’s Hola magazine and a couple of very chic Frenchwomen she had noticed at the auction, as well as a few other half-familiar faces of the kind that didn’t interest her because they were merely social. Let’s face it, she told herself with a sigh, you too are a political animal—and just as ambitious as Cal Warrender.
Her eyes narrowed as she studied the back view of the tall blond man sitting at the bar. Valentin Solovsky. What was he doing here? She hadn’t noticed him at the auction—and yet what other reason would he have for being in Geneva? No UN committees were in session, and she would have known if there were any meetings important enough for