could probably manage to behave like a proper lady tonight at dinner. Especially if it meant erasing from her father’s recent memory the newspaper photo of Vonya laying her palm across a very handsome, yet downright surly, self-appointed bodyguard after last Saturday’s debacle.
Yeah, well, she’d been a victim one too many times of a crazy fan. And one very dangerous stalker. How was she to know he actually wanted to help her?
She could still see his shock as he recoiled, then the growl that flashed into his eyes as he’d gritted his teeth and set her down.
Stabilized her as she rocked on those lethal five-inch heels.
No, not a fan. Thankfully, he hadn’t let loose the words behind the disgust that flashed across his face.
But the derision from the stranger hurt, she had to admit it.
Or not a stranger anymore. Brody Wickham. She’d discovered his name after her frantic manager found them returning from the alley. Tommy D had decided to make him a national—or at least music-industry—hero.
She longed to forget him, hating the way he and his condemnation stuck in her brain. In fact, she thought she’d escaped the claw of shame long ago.
Clearly not. And it didn’t help that Brody Wickham cast a steely, almost annoyed image across national airwaves and onto prime-time entertainment shows when he announced that he’d simply been trying to keep her from hurting herself. Nice.
Except maybe he’d been right. She still sported a greenish-black bruise on her arm.
Oh, given the choice, she would rather have holed up in her SoHo loft this weekend with a bowl of popcorn and her keyboard to work on a new song. But she couldn’t rightly beg for money over the phone, or even through email. Senator Wagner wouldn’t want to miss the pleasure of staring her down and making her feel fifteen and a failure.
Just once, she’d like to be twenty-eight, smart and beautiful.
But this little excursion wasn’t for her. Or even for the senator. And life didn’t always hand out choices.
An hour later, Ronie gave a last survey in the mirror—short brown hair curled into tiny ringlets around her head, the barest dusting of makeup, a little lip gloss, a touch of lime eye shadow. She appeared, well, wholesome.
She didn’t exactly hate the look.
The smells of a pot roast, or maybe lamb with rosemary, tugged her down the stairs. Stopping off in the kitchen, she sneaked a fresh roll from a basket on the counter, earning a growl from Marguerite, their weekend housekeeper, and tore it into tiny pieces as she walked toward her father’s study.
The melodies of Tchaikovsky escaped through the cracked open door. She eased it open.
Tripp Wagner stood with his back to her, an outline of power as he stared out the window overlooking the grounds. Twilight had begun to darken the pond and seep across the grass. Only a glimmer of light sprinkled through the pines that ringed their property. Sometimes she wished they had beachfront property, where they could watch the sun sink like a fiery ball behind the sandy dunes.
“Father?”
“Come in, Veronica.”
Ronie stepped inside the study. A desk lamp puddled orange over the leather blotter on the mahogany desk. His briefcase lay on the credenza, under a family picture, now nearly fifteen years old. Ronie barely glanced at it, not really recognizing any of the four of them.
“You can help yourself to a drink.” He gestured with a glass of something amber—bourbon, probably—still not turning from the window.
“I still don’t drink alcohol, Father,” she said, but moved over to the bar and poured herself a glass of cranberry juice. It helped to have something to hold on to when the senator began his orations.
“Not that anyone would ever know.”
She braced herself.
“Sometimes, I can’t believe that is actually my daughter making a spectacle of— No. I promised your mother.” He sighed, turned and, for the first time, let his eyes rest on her. She stifled a tremble, not because he frightened her—well, not much, anymore—but because she saw in his hazel-green eyes such sadness, it filled her throat with something scratchy and hard.
“Sorry,” she mumbled. “It’s part of the act.”
He looked away, rubbing his thumb along the glass. He nodded. “Have a seat.”
Not a request—it never was, so she slipped into the Queen Anne chair against the wall. Her father settled one hip against the desk, his pant leg riding up to reveal a dark sock. He probably hadn’t had to change for dinner—he had simply gotten up that morning and dressed in a suit and tie. But they’d all been hiding inside their own costumes since Savannah’s death, hadn’t they?
He took a breath, and in the gap of space, she wondered if maybe she should go first—a burst of Father, I need your help might detour the dressing-down.
Or not. Maybe it would only add ammunition. She took a sip of her juice and balanced it on her lap, staring at the bloodred liquid.
“I want you to cancel your European tour.”
Her head shot up, but he already had his hand up to stop her words.
“I’m not trying to interfere with your career, Veronica. But the truth is…I’ve had some disturbing threats lately, and I’m just not sure that you should be parading around in nightclubs across Europe when there are men out there who’d like to see me dead—or worse, at their mercy.”
Her father had always been an epic presence in her life. Even now, he seemed invincible, his hair dark as oil, his face unlined, his shoulders broad. The sigh that shuddered through him shook her again.
“What are you talking about?”
He set his drink on the desk. “As the chairman of the Foreign Relations Committee, I am the one who suggested the embargo on Zimbala. General Mubar has decided that I’m an enemy of his people, and that’s putting it kindly. He’s made a few personal threats lately, the kind that I should take seriously.”
“General Mubar wants to hurt you?”
“General Mubar thinks I’m standing in the way of the United States recognizing his illegal government.”
She edged forward in her seat. “You know he’s starting to recruit child soldiers, right?” She still had the images from her tour imprinted in her head.
“I know, and that’s why I recommended that we establish economic sanctions against Zimbala. And why the general’s made a very public pledge to hurt me…and I’m worried that will affect you.”
“Why me?”
“After your too-publicized visit there three years ago, he’s convinced you had a hand in influencing my decision.”
“But I went as Vonya. There was no connection to you.”
“Maybe you think this crazy identity as Vonya hides you, but I’m sure Mubar, just like my colleagues in Washington, has figured out who you are. I don’t know for sure, but we can’t take any chances.” He paused, looked at his drink, then back to her.
His gaze seemed to part her chest, burn it. Finally, “Veronica, no matter how hard you try, you won’t be able to sever that connection.”
Right. Somehow, she found her voice, although when it emerged, it cracked, and sounded nothing like either of the women she worked so hard to be. “I’m not trying to sever that connection—”
A knock at the door cut into her words. “Your guest is here,” Marguerite said.
“Give us a moment, then show him in.”
Oh, hallelujah, her father had set her up on a date. Now she could spend the entire evening fighting sleep