Chapter Thirteen

 

Linda Owens sat there, not talking to Tom. That was how it had been for a few minutes. Tom looked at her, hard, and she looked down at the table, though she was fully aware of what was going on around her.

It was just easier that way, because it wasn't hard to figure out what he wanted from her. He might be many things—last night had told her that—but he was, at his heart, a man who wanted to see things destroyed.

He'd turned his gaze on others—that she would be collateral was a pitiable consequence that he wasn't happy with, but he wasn't going to do anything to stop it from happening.

What he wanted was to be able to throw everything at the story, and that meant throwing her at it. Throwing himself at it meant nothing. Not when they'd know, deep down, that he was the source.

Throwing the rabbit into the brier patch was the bait. They had to throw Adam. But Linda was the icing on the cake. The exception that proved the rule.

If they leaked Adam's name, then there had to have been others. Other women. The story isn't "Adam Quinn, homosexual?" but rather "Adam Quinn, dubiously moral stud?"

Most of the women there weren't politicians' wives. Oh, sure, there was nothing stopping them. It was encouraged, even. But many of them were models, out-of-towners, and celebrities. The ones who weren't were, so to speak, supplied by the house. And there was no spark in either of those stories.

Linda Owens' appeal was that she was so entirely unlike any of the other options. Going to sex parties wasn't something that she'd been known to do. If they could prove she was there, then they prove the event was real, and newsworthy.

Linda could see every advantage in outing herself, in the sort of detached way that someone might be able to if they were playing a game about her life. But she couldn't bring herself to tell Tom to go ahead and ignore Quinn's demand that she be left out of the story. Now all that was left to Delaney was to stare at her until she buckled.

To her surprise, he spoke. "What made you go there in the first place?"

"I don't want to talk about it."

Linda would have been very happy if she had woken up to find that the night before had been a dream. She'd have been almost as happy if she had forgotten about it, even if nobody else had.

"We're going to talk about it," he says. His voice has something to it—the suggestion of a threat that remains veiled and will continue to remain veiled.

"I don't want to talk about it, and you're not going to force me to."

"No, I won't. But we're going to talk about it, because you're going to decide to."

A nervous energy floods through her as if his words have power over her decisions. What's she going to do about the suggestion that she has to do what he says?

"I don't know why I went," she says. Her eyes shift from the tabletop to the corner of the room. The coffee maker sits near the corner, and she focuses her eyes on it. Someone should make a new pot, but she's not dying for a cup, so it can wait.

"Don't avoid the question, Linda. You'll feel better."

"This is a trick to get me to leak my own name."

"Maybe, sure. Tricks are my bag. I won't deny that much. If it were a trick, I'd tell you it wasn't. Maybe if it wasn't a trick, I'd tell you it was. You can't know, so you'd be better off making your best guess."

"Do you want a cup of coffee?"

"You're avoiding my question. Still."

"I know. Do you want a cup of coffee or don't you?"

"You can't run away from me that easily, you know. I don't take no for an answer very well."

"I know that."

"Yes, I'd like a cup of coffee, since you're so worried about it."

Linda gets up to make a new pot, pours out the last bit. Her hands moving feels nice, but she'd thought that the tension in the room would go away. That she'd be able to diffuse it by running away.

It doesn't work. She should have known better, but she'd been so hopeful.

"Now, in your own time. What did you go to that party for?"

"You know what I went there for," Linda answers. Her shoulders feel tight to the point of pain.

"I want to hear it from you. My guesses aren't as good as you think they are."

"No?"

"I guess I'm off my game. I had you pegged for frigid."

Linda blinks. "What?"

"Professional. Turned-off. You think with your head a lot. No gut to speak of. You're too smart to be in this game and still think that there's anything good about it. So you're not an idealist. You're not married, but you're not looking for anything. Well… I suppose we both know now that's not totally true, don't we?"

"Frigid?"

"We all make mistakes, but hey. I had statistics on my side for this one. Look at every woman in the Senate, in the Congress, and realize that they all are. No interest in anything but power. Compared to the hyper-sexed men… well, you can see where the problems begin to arise."

"I put my job first."

"An admirable choice. Well, I guess I should have gotten a clue before that," he adds, almost to himself. He turns toward the table. What was that supposed to mean?

The spell breaks almost immediately when he decides that it's time to abandon the subject. Linda notes that she still hasn't answered his question, not really. Tom won't have missed it, but if he lets it go then she's happy regardless.

She pours out the now-full pot into a couple of cups. Tom stands up.

"Thank you. I've got to make a few calls." He takes the cup and leaves, and Linda is left wondering what the hell just happened, and what he just learned. That she didn't want him knowing it is a foregone conclusion.