Mortal Friends Read Free Page A

policies.”
    “I see.”
    “Boring, right?”
    “Doesn’t thrill me,” I said.
    He paused, staring deep into my eyes. “So what does thrill you, Reven Lynch?”
    “Questions like that,” I replied sweetly, lying through my teeth. The corn was high and ripe. But at least he was interested enough to actually ask me a question about myself, as opposed to a lot of the men in Washington, whose idea of getting to know you is talking about themselves and then asking you what you think of them.
    “What thrills you ?” I said.
    He thought for a moment. “Serious answer?”
    “Please.”
    “Danger,” he said with a teasing grin.
    “Interesting. Are we talking physical danger, skirting-the-law danger, or just any old kind of danger?”
    Bob leaned back in his chair and tapped a fist to his stomach—meant, I supposed, to show that underneath the dress shirt and cummerbund were six-pack abs. “Anything that causes this hard old gut to contract.”
    “And when’s the last time that happened?” I asked him.
    “When you sat down beside me,” he said in a low, suggestive voice.
    I managed to keep somewhat of a straight face, thinking what utter and complete bullshit.
    “That’s quite a line,” I said.
    “You like it? I’ve got more.”
    I couldn’t quite figure him out. Was he toying with me, flirting with me, teasing me, what? It had been so long since a man had appeared interested in me that I was flattered. Bob was very attractive in an over-the-hill-movie-star sort of way. He was one of those men who present a challenge. They’re like mercury. Just when you think you have them pinned down, they scatter in a thousand directions. I was intrigued.
    We batted the whiffle ball of inane conversation back and forth straight through the appetizer. Senator Grider obviously wasn’t coming. That’s so typical Washington. You invite senators and congressmen at your own peril because they don’t show up half the time. They use Congress as an excuse. But then nothing ever seems to get done in Congress. You tell me.
    Bob got antsy way before dessert. Many high-powered men can’t sit still for long. They come, they see, they conquer—not necessarily in that order. He wanted to move on. Halfway into the entrée, he asked me if I wanted to “cut out” of the party. I said sure. Why not? I found Violet to tell her I didn’t need a ride home, that Bob was taking me.
    “Where’s Melody?” she whispered.
    “They broke up.”
    Her eyes brightened. “Go for it,” she said.
    As Bob and I walked out of the hall together, I caught sight of Melody Hartford, who looked quite a stunner in a low-cut red sequined dress. She stood staring at us from a distance, quivering like a flame. Bob acknowledged her with a slight nod of his head. She didn’t flinch. We walked on.
    “Um, I think your former girlfriend is watching us,” I said.
    Bob seemed unfazed. “That’s her choice.”
    “Are you sure she knows you’ve broken up?”
    “Oh, she knows.”
    Bob Poll’s hunter green vintage Rolls Royce was idling outside the center. A thuggish-looking driver in a heavy black overcoat and chauffeur’s cap got out of the car and lumbered around the front to open the door for us. His face was pockmarked, his neck thick as a tree trunk.
    “Maxwell, this is Miss Lynch,” Bob said.
    “Mrs. Lynch,” I corrected him. “I’ve been married.”
    Maxwell may have looked like a rutabaga, but he had a nice warm smile. He tipped his hat to me and said, “Mrs. Lynch,” as he helped me into the car. Bob and I settled into the plushy back seat. Bob threw a dark green mink and cashmere throw over our legs.
    “Very chic,” I said, stroking the luxurious blanket.
    “I had it dyed to match the car.”
    “Where to, Boss?” Maxwell asked, eyeing me in the rearview mirror. I bet he’d seen quite a few women in my seat.
    “Just a minute. You tired?” Bob asked me.
    “Not particularly. No.”
    “Want to go for a