Choices (A Woman's Life) Read online

  With a sigh, Alexandra returned her little army of tubes, brushes, and cotton balls to the interior of her black bag and snapped it shut. She stood back to survey her work. Not bad.

  “Best I can do, Shanna.” She wiped her hands on a tissue then wadded it up as she tossed it into the recesses of her bag.

  Alexandra retreated to the door, her bag securely tucked under her arm. Her assistant was working on the bride and two of the bridesmaids, but Rheena was expecting her. And no one ever kept Rheena waiting. At least no one who wanted to continue to work for her. Though her list of clients was extensive, Alexandra knew better than to offend someone as powerful as Rheena. She turned toward Shanna as she was leaving.

  “And I’d think about competition if I were you.” She gave Shanna a knowing look as she turned to leave. Her path was blocked and she looked up, then recognized the man in the doorway. “Out of my way, handsome.” Placing a bony hand against his chest, Alexandra neatly pushed him to one side. “I have desperate women waiting for me.”

  As, I am sure, do you, Alexandra added silently as she passed Jordan on the way out of Shanna’s room.

  Chapter 2

  Shanna turned, surprised. “Jordan, what are you doing here?”

  She would have expected him to be downstairs. Her father had invited so many of his friends to this wedding that it threatened to turn into a semi-political affair. Politics had turned into almost an obsession with Jordan in the last year. Shanna hadn’t been aware of it before they were married. It was only after they had exchanged vows that his keen interest in the political scene had come to the surface. It pleased her because it gave them something of major importance in common.

  Jordan, resplendent in a black tuxedo, placed his hands on his wife’s bare shoulders and eased her around until she faced the mirror. Always alert beneath a deceptively languid exterior, he detected something different in the way she looked at him. The adoring eyes appeared uncertain, confused, perhaps even questioning. He wondered what had triggered it. A slight prick of tension had his stomach muscles tightening. Had his preoccupation shown? Did she suspect?

  No, she wasn’t clever enough for that. Not nearly as clever as he. It was probably only some trivial female thing. But just to be on the safe side, he’d pour on a little more charm, smile a little more broadly. Perhaps even make love to her tonight and behave as if her responses were exciting to him instead of incredibly mundane and boring.

  He feathered one hand along the slope of her neck seductively. “Why, to escort my wife downstairs to the wedding, of course. Why else would I be here? They’re almost ready to begin. If Douglas has any more champagne to fortify his nerves”—Jordan thought of the weak-chinned groom and smirked—“they’re going to have to conduct the ceremony horizontally.”

  Shanna didn’t want to go down to the wedding. She wanted to be alone with Jordan. She wanted assurances that she was just imagining that things, that he had changed in the last few months, slowly, subtly. She wanted to know that everything was just as it had been. Yet like a small child facing that closet door, wanting to open it to set fears aside and verify that it was empty, she was afraid. Afraid of the monsters that might be lurking behind it. So she said nothing and left the door closed.

  “You don’t have to escort me.” Shanna saw the dark look enter his eyes and then disappear just as quickly. She wondered if she was just imagining it the way she was sure she had that time she’d turned and caught him staring at her as if she wasn’t there at all, as if she was a chair or a lamp.

  “I know that there’re people down there you want to talk to, mingle with. You don’t have to be here, dancing attendance to me. I can certainly find my way downstairs alone.” Her hands fluttered to her honey-blond hair, held back with combs that were liberally studded with pearls. It had taken the hairdresser her mother had summoned a half an hour of fussing and muttering in Russian before he had declared the hairdo a success. “Besides, I’m not ready yet.”

  Jordan’s expression tightened, as did his fingers on her shoulders. He hated to be kept waiting. “Nonsense, darling, you look perfectly ready to me. Besides, you know you’re an asset to me. People want to see you, not me. You’re the senator’s daughter. I’m just his chief administrative aide.”

  Was it her imagination again, or was there something about the way he said “just”?

  No, it wasn’t her imagination, not this time. It was just his inherent impatience. Shanna realized by now that Jordan was anxious to get to where he was going, where he saw himself going. She understood the feeling. She’d seen it countless times before in her father’s camp, in her father’s circle of friends. So many people eager to be someone, to make their mark upon the world.

  Because she loved him, she sought to soothe what she knew was a surge of gnawing insecurity. That, too, she was well acquainted with, on a very personal level.

  “You’re not ‘just’ anything, Jordan. My father relies very heavily on you. You know that. In the last two years you’ve found ways to become utterly invaluable to him and he appreciates that.” Her father, even sharper now than the day he had stepped into the political arena, took nothing for granted. Though he had said nothing to her, Shanna was certain her father appreciated Jordan’s dedication.

  “I certainly hope so.” Jordan smiled. The expression, just barely reaching his eyes, transformed him into someone who appeared almost celestial in bearing. Someone who wouldn’t lie, or cheat, or betray anyone’s trust.

  It was, Jordan thought with pride, catching his reflection in the mirror, his chameleon mask. It represented all the things he wasn’t. All the things he couldn’t afford to be if he was to meet the destiny he had so carefully plotted out for himself. Later there’d be time to atone for whatever might need atoning for and to be a pillar of righteousness. Now there was the illusion to create. The flash and fire. Substance he would provide later. The public would never be any the wiser.

  It was enough to assuage his conscience, such as it was.

  Jordan Calhoun had materialized on the Washington scene literally out of nowhere. He had turned up a little more than two and a half years ago, fresh out of a Midwest law school he had put himself through, doing whatever it took to raise the money, to get the grades. Integrity was a word, he believed, for people with the funds to provide it. It wasn’t anything he allowed to get in his way. If it raised its head, all he had to think about was where he had come from, of the poverty and smell of stale liquor, of the drunk old man who worked sporadically and of the angry, belittling woman whose hands always seemed to find him no matter where he hid to avoid the blows. Integrity couldn’t have saved him from that. Only his wits could.

  And his looks.

  Jordan knew that and used them, just as he used his hands and his feet, automatically, without conscious thought. He relied on his looks and his charm to help him win confidence and gain access to places far more hardworking, plainer men could not reach. His looks helped absolve him of sins and made him privy to information not readily shared with others. The right incentive had him easily striking up friendships with people he loathed, they none the wiser about his feelings. It was a gift of nature he used shamelessly from the time he was fourteen and Miss Allison had passed him on to the next grade after he had spent two hours delivering groceries to her house and satisfying hungers that couldn’t be satiated with things purchased from a supermarket shelf. Shame was for losers. And Jordan had no intention of being a loser. Ever.

  He had come to Washington, D.C., with a suitcase full of pride and a briefcase full of recommendations signed by law-school professors who would have been surprised to see their names affixed to documents of such high praise for a man they had never met. It had taken Jordan a painstakingly long time to compile those letters. Faceless women he had slept with had supplied the letterheads. He had used a great deal more patience than he thought himself capable of forging his trail to Shanna’s door.

  He had carefully chosen her as his best tool.
She had both lineage and money of her own. And a father who was held in high regard in the right circles. Senator Brady was in contention for the position of majority whip. Jordan had wined her, dined her, and used every wile at his disposal to make Shanna fall in love with him.

  In the end, it had been almost ridiculously easy. Lost in the shuffle all her life, outshined by a glamorous mother and a charismatic father, Shanna was literally starved for genuine affection. All Jordan had had to do was supply it. Or pretend to. And he had. In spades.

  Jordan’s eyes narrowed as he looked down at her again. The little bitch owed him. Big time.

  Shanna saw the unguarded look in his eyes and shivered involuntarily. “What’s wrong? You looked so strange for a moment.”

  Damn, he was going to have to be more careful. It was just that sometimes—sometimes he got so agitated, waiting for it all to really get under way, like a power hitter waiting for his turn at bat. He ran his hand over his carefully combed hair.

  “Sorry, Shanna. Just edgy, I guess. I’m so damn bored.” He looked at her pointedly. “It feels like the future is taking forever to get here.”

  “It’ll be here before you know it,” she said reassuringly.

  “Yeah, sure,” he murmured, threading his fingers through her hair. He watched the fine strands rain from his fingertips. Why couldn’t she be beautiful, he wondered absently, like her mother? At least then he could be diverted for a while. Even her hair was different from her mother’s. Rheena’s was thick, luxurious, black like a tempest. Shanna’s was blond, fine, straight, like a baby’s. He was saddled with an infant.

  But not forever, he promised himself. Not forever. Just until she served her purpose. And then no one would ever laugh at him again. He’d show all those fools back in Beauregard, Louisiana, where he had grown up. They’d still be grunts, working at their penny-ante jobs, while he’d become senator, planning his way up even higher.

  He’d show them all.

  Jordan looked at himself in the mirror. He was twenty-seven years old already. Looks didn’t last forever. That garbage about men getting better as they grew older was just that, garbage. He wanted to make use of what he had now. He didn’t want to wait until he “mellowed” or got “character” in his face. He wanted success in a hurry. He wanted to enjoy it all, not struggle toward it an inch at a time and wait until he was an old man to achieve what should be his now. There were plenty of young congressmen and senators. He intended to join their ranks. Soon. How else would he ever reach his ultimate goal? He intended to use his looks with the women and his charm with the men, just as his father-in-law had and did. Jordan’s favorite saying was Seize the Day. He planned to do just that.

  Jordan took out a half-empty pack of cigarettes from his pocket. He saw Shanna wrinkle her nose in unconscious disapproval as he lit up. A certain perverseness danced through his soul like beads of water on a hot frying pan.

  “Sorry, darling, just one.” He tossed the pack onto her vanity table. “Being around your family always makes me a little nervous.” In a way, it was true. Though he needed these people, though he intended to pick their bones for his own purposes, he was afraid of being found out. Afraid that they would discover that he was a sham, a cardboard front with nothing behind it, like a soundstage in a movie. There was always that, haunting him. He was constantly on stage, pretending, assessing every word he said, every action he took, and it was beginning to take its toll on him in small, telling ways.

  Shanna reached up and took his hand in hers. A delicate hand, she thought. One that belonged to an aristocrat. “What would you have to be nervous about? They all envy you.”

  He gave a short laugh. “Because I have you.” He kissed her cheek.

  She should have felt warmth, she thought. But she didn’t. Odd how cold his kiss felt. Shanna forced a smile to her lips. “No, because you’re young and vital and are going places.”

  He allowed just enough honesty to show through. “Not nearly fast enough.”

  She released his hand. “Patience, Jordan. You have to have patience.”

  Easy for you to say, he almost said angrily, but bit the words back. Instead he took a long drag of his cigarette.

  She had been born to luxury, he thought, careful to keep the resentment from his face. She didn’t know what it was like to be mired in spirit-disintegrating poverty. To have others laugh because your clothes were castoffs, because your mother shopped at thrift shops stocked with other people’s throwaways.

  His eyes narrowed as he looked at her, pretending to squint over the cigarette smoke. You didn’t turn up wearing Billy Hathaway’s jacket with the torn inside pocket and have kids at school throw mud at you, calling “pretty boy, teacher’s toy” as they chased you.

  But he said nothing, though the words burned on his tongue. This wasn’t a part of the past he had told her about. It wasn’t part of the life he had fabricated before he had ever stepped onto D.C. soil.

  Jordan crossed to the bathroom and pitched the cigarette into the commode, then flushed.

  It was out there, he thought, waiting for him. Success. He could almost taste it. And Shanna was the key he needed to unlock the door. He just had to remember to be clever about it.

  Walking back, his smile in place, he stood behind her again and looked at her reflection in the mirror. His deep blue eyes showed nothing but warmth.

  A gift, he thought with pride as he glimpsed his own reflection. He clearly had a gift for this sort of thing. It would serve him well in the years ahead. The public was a collection of dolts who gravitated to the boob tube, nursing cans of beer and petty grievances they’d accumulated in their mundane throwaway lives. They would be easily won over. All he needed to do was be in the right place at the right time.

  Running his hands along her bare shoulders, Jordan detected the tension she was trying so hard to hide. “You’re tense, honey.”

  She had no explanation for it and didn’t know what to tell him. He wouldn’t understand. She didn’t understand. “No, no, I’m not.”

  “Don’t lie to me,” he purred, sliding his fingers lightly along her skin. It was a purely sexual move that had her aching. He knew it would. “I know you inside and out.”

  I wish I did, she thought. “It’s the wedding, I suppose. I hate being on display like this. The society hounds are out in full force down there. And Cydney loves them.”

  It was the wrong thing to say. Shanna realized it as she uttered the words. She saw a line tighten in his jaw. Damn, why didn’t she think before she spoke? She knew how much he wanted to be in the public eye. She was supposed to be a help to him, she reminded herself.

  “I—I mean .. .” she fumbled, her voice trailing off as she searched for the right words.

  “You need to unwind. To have some fun.” He knelt down beside her chair, holding her prisoner with his eyes. “I know, what we need after this is over is to get away. Just the two of us. Some quiet, romantic beach.” He saw the hopeful glint enter her eyes and knew he had her.

  She twisted around, looking at him. “Really, Jordan?”

  “Really.” He stroked her shoulder. “Right after Senator Whitney’s little bash.”

  Shanna sighed inwardly. She knew how much being invited to that affair meant to him. Senator Whitney, one of the grand old men of the party, was having a private party at the end of the month, inviting only the most politically potent people. Her father and mother were on the A list. Jordan didn’t even merit a footnote. Her heart ached for him.

  She pressed her hand against his cheek. “Honey, we’re not invited.”

  Jordan’s blue eyes darkened for just a moment. He turned the palm of her hand around and slowly stroked the sensitive center with his tongue, his eyes on her face. “Then get us invited, my pet.”

  Warm fingers of desire danced through her and she grasped at them the way a drowning man did to a life preserver. Or a dying man to a straw. “It isn’t that easy—“ She would have liked an invitation as much as he, b
ut it wasn’t in her nature to be pushy.

  Long, tapering fingers dipped along her neckline, softly gliding along her breast. He heard the sharp intake of breath. It was too easy, he thought with satisfaction. Too bad Whitney wasn’t a woman instead of a pompous ass of a senator. “It could be, for you. You’re the senator’s daughter. And I’m your husband.”

  “Couldn’t we just have our own party?”

  He laughed. “A little barbecue, perhaps? I wasn’t meant for plebeian things, my pet. I was meant for finer things. That’s why I married you.”

  There it was, she thought, finally solidifying. The “something” she had been afraid to face all this time. Had he married her because he loved her? Or because she was someone’s daughter? Was she still doomed to play in other people’s shadows, never being recognized for who and what she was?

  Now what? Jordan stifled his annoyance. “Hey, you’re frowning.” With the tips of his fingers, he smoothed back her brow. “The future first lady can’t have wrinkles.” His lips followed the path his fingers had taken. “I won’t allow it.”

  Shanna straightened. “Future first lady? Of what?” It was the first time he had ever mentioned plans so grandiose. Was he joking?

  “The country.”

  No, he was serious. “The country?” she echoed incredulously.

  “Your problem, Shanna,” he said, still keeping his smile fixed in place, “is that you don’t think nearly big enough. The country’s had one young president, it’s time they had another. And I can get there from here.” He put out his hand, waiting for her to rise. His tone left no room for her to demur. “Ready?”

  Apparently not nearly as ready as you, she thought, taking his hand. She smiled as she looked at him and told herself that ambition was a good thing.

  So why did it leave her feeling so cold, so bereft, as if she had just stumbled onto a deep, dark secret?