Emily's Ghost Read Free Page A

budget. Where had he
gone off to, anyway? To consult his Ouija board?
    She looked around the
beautifully appointed office. More tax dollars. Those were real
oils, not prints, on the walls. That Sheraton desk was no
reproduction. The carpet was richly woven, palest cream -- what
must it cost to keep clean, for God's sake? The wing chairs
opposite her -- Portuguese crewelwork, or she wasn't from New
England. It was all wonderfully understated, all shockingly
priced.
    Her eyes widened. Oh,
lord.
    From where she sat she
could see a dozen giant turquoise flower petals -- fallen soldiers
in her battle of wits with the senator's aide -- lying in a heap on
the pale carpet. She jumped up, ran across the room, and was on her
hands and knees plucking petals when Senator Arthur Lee Alden III
walked in.

Chapter 2
     
    "Whoops. Well! Senator!"
Emily scrambled to her feet and extended her hand to him, but her
hand was full of silk petals. She hurled them into her bag; half of
them fell back to the floor. "I'm Emily Bowditch."
    He took her hand in a warm
and easy grip. "Lee Alden; pleased to meet you," he said in an
electric baritone. "Jim Whitewood tells me you're looking for some
information; suppose you tell me about it."
    The senator. Himself.
She'd never seen him up close before. On CNN and Local News, sure.
In the papers and in the magazines, lots of times. It was quite
well documented: Senator Alden was a heartthrob. Six-two, blue
eyes, square jaw, thick hair, great bloodline, lots of money -- a
man made for the
media. But the media came nowhere near capturing his sheer,
knock-down presence.
    "You have a fabulous aura,
Senator," Emily blurted, much to her own astonishment.
    The senator grinned. "Is
that a professional evaluation? Jim says you have psychic ability.
Please. Have a seat."
    He dropped into one of the
wing chairs; Emily sat in the other.
    "I'd like to find out
whether I have it or not," she murmured, but her voice suddenly
lacked conviction. It was one thing to take on a con-man that she
felt instinctively superior to; it was another thing altogether to
take on a demigod. Her confidence was slipping fast.
    "You're not in
Washington," she added with something like reproach.
    "No. There was a family
emergency last night -- thank God, a false alarm. I'm only passing
through the office this morning on my way back to the Senate. My
time is a little
short ...," he said, glancing first at his watch and then at her,
expectantly.
    "Yes. I understand
completely. Well, I won't keep you, Senator," she said, lifting
from her chair like a dove in flight. Suddenly she wanted
out.
    If he was surprised by her
change of heart, he didn't show it, needless to say; politicians
were a cool and collected lot.
    "Miss Bowditch, this power
you claim to have --"
    He stood up, towering over
her, and slid his hands into the pockets of his Brooks Brothers
suit. "We're talking about the power of the press, are we
not?"
    "Press?" she repeated in a
very small voice, fastening her gaze on his wing-tipped
shoes.
    "Press. As in Boston Journal ."
    She winced. "You
know?"
    "That you're an
investigative reporter for the Journal ? Yes. We know."
    She raised her dark eyes
to meet his look. "How did you recognize my name? I haven't been
with the paper long enough to rate a by-line."
    "My secretary looked you
up in the Media Directory. You were behaving a little ... oddly.
She guessed you might be from the press." His expression was bland
but his eyes were dancing.
    That got her dander up.
That, and the thought of the three of them having a good laugh over
her. " I was
behaving a little oddly? Has it occurred to you, Senator, that
people who believe that other people can levitate, bend spoons, and
talk to aliens through the fillings in their teeth -- that those
people are the ones who are a wee bit odd?" She didn't bother
hiding the contempt in her voice.
    The senator was rocking a
little on his feet; she might have been a pesky lobbyist bending
his ear. His