The Property of a Lady - Elizabeth Adler [21]
“Probably told them he was having a sandwich from room service and then sneaked in here alone for a feast,” she replied with a grin. “I’ll bet he couldn’t stand the sight of them any longer.”
Cal laughed, watching as she slid an oyster down her throat, closing her eyes with pleasure.
“I don’t know about Valentin,” she said, “but now I’m happy.” She glanced at the Russian. “I thought in the bar he looked a bit gloomy, but then Russians are, aren’t they? It’s a characteristic of their race.”
Her glance lingered on Solovsky as he studied his menu. He had a fascinating face, so romantic-looking, all planes and angles with deep-set gray eyes and thick, smooth, dark-blond hair. And that passionate-looking mouth…. He glanced up suddenly, catching her eye, and she felt herself blush, as if he could read her thoughts.
“I’ll tell you something,” she said quickly to Cal. “He looks like a movie star. I’d expect to see him starring with Garbo in Ninotchka. Put him up for President of Russia and glasnost will flourish! At least, it will among the female population of the U.S.”
The waiter poured more champagne and Cal said interestedly, “So you’re a California girl? The kind the Beach Boys had us all dreaming about?”
She shrugged. “California is lousy with tall, tanned, great-looking blondes. That’s why I left,” she added with a grin. “The competition was too tough. Yes, I’m Los Angeles born and bred. No, I wasn’t a cheerleader. Yes, I do play a good game of tennis. And no, I do not want to go back.”
Cal took a bite of delicious walnut bread. “Your family still out there?”
“My parents were divorced, I never knew my father. Mom died a few years ago.” She shrugged again. “There’s no real reason to go back. Home, you might say, is now the place I hang my hat—and that seems to be Washington.”
Her face had softened with sadness as she talked of her mother. Cal thought she must have been a very pretty little girl, every mother’s dream child, blond, blue-eyed, beautiful, and bright. “No eyes for New York?” he asked, “Big-time anchorperson, six o’clock news, top interviews, Barbara Walters …?”
She laughed. “I’m like you, politics is my game. I’m hooked on the White House and diplomatic missions and cover-ups in high places—sex and scandal in the seat of power. To me, Washington is as glamorous and exciting as Paris. Besides, I’ve got this great little house on N Street in Georgetown, right next door to one of Washington’s ritziest society hostesses. Of course she has eight bedrooms and a butler to take her tiny poodle for a walk and I only have one bedroom and a very large dog I have to pay a walker to exercise, but I live vicariously. I get to watch her guests arriving and I notice who leaves with whom. I’m no dummy,” she added with a wicked grin. “I’m the first to know if a scandal is brewing. It usually begins right on my doorstep.”
“Your family have money?” he asked, sampling the salmon approvingly.
She shook her head. “No money, at least not all the time. Mom worked every now and again. She was an actress. Sometimes there was a lot—sometimes nothing.”
They paused, forks in hand, looking at each other, liking what they saw. “And you?” she prompted. “What about your life?”
“Born in the Bronx, parents sold the house for a parking lot and made enough to move out to Fort Lee, New Jersey—their decision, not mine! I was a bright kid, I worked hard and got myself into Bronx High—one of the best schools on the East Coast. From there to Harvard—political science, and then the Kennedy School of Government. The rest you probably know.”
She nodded. “Okay. And now will the real Cal War-render please stand up?” He stared at her with surprised red-setter eyes.
“I mean, now I’ve heard your résumé … but who