The house they dined at was scarcely smaller than the embassy. As they entered through the front door, Isabel looked around and thought that the hall of the Stack house was wider than the entire width of Leo’s Georgetown home.
They surrendered their outer wraps to a butler and proceeded past a huge vase of flowers and up a staircase to an enormous drawing room. This room was empty and Leo put his hand under Isabel’s arm and guided her across a huge amount of thickly carpeted space to another drawing room, where, finally, there was a gathering of people.
Mr. and Mrs. Stack immediately greeted Leo and looked at Isabel with pleasant, smiling eyes.
There were a number of people already present, and right after Leo and Isabel came a succession of new arrivals. All the men were impeccably attired in black tie and the women in long dresses. Leo and Isabel were the youngest people there.
Butlers saw to it that everyone had drinks. Isabel drank ginger ale and conversed pleasantly with a variety of people, including a syndicated political columnist, a Supreme Court Justice, and a lady who ran an exclusive Georgetown boutique. Trays of canapés were circulated by other butlers and uniformed maids. Isabel was starving and crunched away on raw cauliflower and a fluff of hot pastry.
Promptly at nine o’clock guests started moving toward the dining room. Isabel obediently followed the crowd back across the second empty drawing room and into a large and elegant dining room set with two rectangular tables. Each table seated ten, and Isabel found her own place card was not at Leo’s table. She panicked for a moment when she realized that he was not going to be sitting next to her and that she was going to have to get through this intimidating dinner all by herself. She allowed the man next to her to seat her and she sat gracefully, her head held high on its slim, proud neck.
The man next to her smiled pleasantly and said, “I’m Stanford Ames, the director of the National Gallery.” This was said not boastfully but simply and kindly. He was merely giving her some necessary background so they could converse.
“The National Gallery,” said Isabel reverently. “I spent the whole afternoon there today.” Then, recollecting herself, “I’m Isabel MacCarthy.”
“I know who you are,” the man returned. “Ham told me earlier. So you’re going to paint Leo’s portrait?”
The soup was delicious and the main course, filet mignon, was superb, but Isabel paid little attention to the food. Leo, from the next table, watched her and smiled to himself a little. He had known she would enjoy Stan Ames. It was why he had asked Hamilton to invite him.
Halfway through dinner Mr. Ames smiled gently and said to Isabel, “I’m afraid it’s time to talk to the lady on my other side. I’ve enjoyed this very much, Miss MacCarthy. You must let me give you lunch one day next week.”
“That would be lovely,” said Isabel.
Stanford Ames turned away and a voice from Isabel’s other side said, “How are you enjoying Washington, Miss MacCarthy?”
It was so precisely timed that Isabel felt like laughing. At the next table she saw that Leo was now talking to the lady on his other side. Isabel grinned mischievously at the Washington investment banker who was her new conversational partner, “I’m enjoying it very much, Mr. Hawkins,” she said. “Is it our turn to talk now?”
He smiled back delightedly. “It’s our turn. Now tell me, what are you doing with yourself besides painting Leo’s portrait?”
Thus the evening ran until they left at eleven-fifteen, when the party broke up.
“That was an early evening,” Isabel commented as they got into Leo’s car.
“All Washington dinner parties end early. You arrive at eight and leave shortly after eleven. It’s tradition.”
“The executives in Bob’s firm are all as old as the people were tonight,” Isabel said innocently, “and their parties don’t break up until after one at least.”
Leo grinned. It was too dark for her to see his face, but she could hear the smile in his voice.
“It’s not their venerable years that send people home early in this town, Isabel. It’s a question of status. If you hang around a party until twelve or one o’clock, people will think you don’t have an important report to read before a top-level breakfast meeting at eight o’clock the next morning.”
Isabel began to laugh. “Oh, my. I never thought of that.” She rested her head against the back of the car seat. “Do you have a top-level breakfast meeting tomorrow?”
“Nope,” he replied cheerfully. “I have an appointment to get my portrait painted in the morning and an appointment to golf with the artist in the afternoon, and then I’m going dancing with her in the evening.”
“My goodness. That does sound like a busy day. And I don’t golf.”
“I’ll give you a lesson. We’ll do nine holes. It’s supposed to be nice and I’d like the fresh air and exercise. This portrait painting is a very sedentary business.”
“I suppose it must be,” Isabel murmured. “I’m not a very physically active person myself, I’m afraid. The only exercise I usually get is walking.”
“You’re not into running?”
“God, no,” Isabel said fervently. “Bob is. He dragged me out a couple of times. I absolutely hated it. Why did you ask?” she added curiously.
“You have the physique of a runner: light-boned and narrow, and you look to be in top physical condition.”
Isabel laughed ruefully. “Heredity, not exercise. Both my parents were tall and thin.” They came to a stop at a traffic light and a street lamp shone into the car. Isabel glanced at Leo out of the corner of her eye. She was not the only one who looked to be in excellent condition. Leo’s shoulders might border on being massive, but his waist and hips were slim. Isabel was sure there wasn’t an ounce of fat on him.
“Do you run?” she asked. Isabel had noticed that Washington appeared to be crowded with joggers, particularly at lunchtime.
“No. I usually start off the day with a swim. I’ll get back to it once you’ve finished immortalizing me.” His voice sounded perfectly normal. If Isabel hadn’t been watching him, she would have noticed nothing unusual. But the light from the street lamp showed her the faintest tightening of the muscles about his mouth.
The light changed and the car started forward again. How stupid of me, Isabel thought. Of course he doesn’t run. Pounding along on a hard pavement would be the worst thing possible for his knees. Swimming, on the other hand, would give him exercise without the wear and tear.
“Do you go to a club to swim?” she asked after a while.
“Yes.”
“You need a house with a pool of your own,” she said with an effort at lightness. “That way, you could jump in whenever it was convenient.”
“One of these days I’ll buy a bigger house out in McLean or Chevy Chase,” he said easily. “For my present bachelor existence, however, Georgetown suits me fine.”
“You’ve been a bachelor for a long time,” Isabel said cautiously.
“I reckon I just never found a girl I wanted to marry.” His slow voice took on an even more pronounced drawl than usual. “I haven’t given up, though.”
“Oh.” She coughed. “I guess a wife would be a useful addition in Washington.”
“Definitely.” He sounded amused.
“She could run dinner parties for you, and so on.”
“Perhaps I ought to put an advertisement in the paper.” He
was
amused.
Isabel smiled into the darkness. “Wanted: one wife,” she improvised. “Must be good hostess and knowledgeable about politics.” She turned her head toward Leo. “Only applicants under thirty-five considered. Will that do?”
“I might run into trouble on the age requirement,” he said judiciously.
“Heavens,” said Isabel, “you’re right. It’s just the sort of thing to provoke an American Civil Liberties Union suit. We’d better take it out.”
“I think so. It wouldn’t do my image as an enlightened Southern Democrat any good if I were sued by the ACLU.”
Isabel laughed. “Well, you’ll have to hire an agency to deal with the number of applicants,” she went on. “You really can’t have them lining the street in front of your house.”
“True. I suppose there are a number of women who would like the idea of being a senator’s wife.”
Isabel hadn’t been thinking of his position. There would be women lining up for Leo Sinclair no matter what his job was. However, she wasn’t about to tell him that. Besides, he didn’t need to be told. He knew all too well the extent of his own attractiveness.
“I reckon I could give the agency a few guidelines,” he continued imperturbably.
“I reckon you could,” she drawled in response. Then, in her normal voice, “After all, one could hardly expect you to marry a sixty-year-old, no matter what her qualifications as a hostess.”
“I’m glad you agree. Then, too, I have always preferred dark women. I reckon it comes from being surrounded by blue-eyed blonds at home all the time, but I sure do love black hair and big dark-brown eyes.”
Isabel said nothing.
“And she’d have to be tall.” Leo pursued his thought, seemingly oblivious to the change in atmosphere. “I get a crick in my neck talking to short women.”
More silence from Isabel.
“We’re home,” said Leo, and he pulled into the drive and stopped the car. He opened the door on his side, and the inside car light went on. The sight of his blond head, suddenly illuminated, had a remarkable and devastating effect on Isabel. She put a not quite steady hand on her own door handle and got out of the car.
“I was coming around to open the door for you,” he said gently from in front of the hood.
Isabel slammed the door behind her. “I’m a grown-up person. I can open my own doors.”
He didn’t reply but took her arm as they went up the front steps. Her arm was rigid in his grasp, telling him clearly that she wanted to pull away. He let her go at the top of the steps as he took the house keys from his pocket and opened the door.
Isabel walked in. “Good night,” she said. “Thank you so much for taking me to the party. It was lovely, but I am tired.”
He didn’t make any protest, didn’t attempt to touch her again. “I’m glad you enjoyed it.”
She had been staring at his tie, and now, briefly, she raised her eyes to his face. His blue eyes were grave but untroubled.
“Good night Isabel,” he said softly.
“Good night Leo.” It was with great effort that she restrained herself from running up the stairs. Running away, he had called it last night, and he had been right. The problem was, she could run away from him, but she could not run away from herself and the feelings he stirred within her.
I like dark women, he had said.
Damn.
Hell and damn. Resolutely she curled up in bed. This man could hurt her very badly. She liked him. Aside from the potent physical response, which he must provoke in every woman he met, she liked him very much.
Isabel rolled over on her back and stared at the ceiling. He knew exactly how to make her like him, she thought. It was probably a reflex action on his part. He probably thought it was simply good manners to charm the woman he found himself in company with. If she had been a blonde he would probably have said he liked fair women.
Leo. God, she thought, but they had loved Leo tonight. In that group of high-powered government officials, Leo had been one of the lions, even though he was only a first-term senator. There was something about Leo Sinclair’s character that declared you were in the presence of someone very high up in the world when you stood next to him. In fact, Isabel felt the lingering charm of Leo even as she fell softly to sleep in her comfortable bed.
* * * *
They breakfasted later than usual the following morning, Saturday, and Isabel painted for a few hours, before driving to Chevy Chase to play golf.
It was a bright sunny day and the temperature was in the low sixties. Isabel wore corduroy pants and a scarlet crew-neck sweater. Leo wore khaki slacks and a pale-yellow golf jacket.
There were a goodly number of golfers on this lovely day, and Isabel felt unequipped to face the challenge.
“You play,” she said to Leo. “I’ll come along for the walk. I need to spend some time on a driving range or something before I attempt this.”
“Don’t worry about it,” he said easily. “We won’t hold anybody up.” He grinned. “We’ll probably have to let a herd of people play through while we’re hunting around in the rough for your ball, but I don’t mind.”
Isabel looked around doubtfully. “Are you sure?”
“Yep. Come on, we’ll do some practice swings first.”
Isabel found it difficult to hit such a little ball. Several of her truly magnificent misses sent them both into gales of laughter, but when she did manage to connect, the ball went decently far and stayed pretty straight.
It took them four hours to play nine holes and they did let a herd of people play through, but Isabel had a marvelous time.
“That was fun,” she said to Leo as they drank a couple of beers in the clubhouse after they had finished. “I’ve never been very keen on sports, but I liked that.”
“You’re not tired?”
“No. I walk miles and miles at home every day because I’d much rather walk than take the subway. That’s what I liked about this.” She grinned. “It’s not too strenuous.”
“The way you walk, honey,” he retorted, “it’s strenuous. I’m still puffing from trying to keep up.”
“Hah,” she said. “You wouldn’t be puffing at the end of the decathlon. How many laps do you swim every day?”
He raised an eyebrow. “A mile.”
Isabel took a sip of beer. “I knew it.”
A friend approached and caught Leo’s attention for a moment. Isabel politely looked out the window at the flawless lawns, but she was not thinking about the landscape.
Leo was a natural athlete, even she could see that.
It
was there in the way he moved, the way he swung a club. He had been sensational as a running back, or so the magazine articles had claimed.
“Did you ever see Leo play?” a junior Cabinet official at last night’s party had asked her. When Isabel shook her head, he had glanced, almost reverently, at the tall blond figure a few feet away from them.
“He was something,” the man had said simply. “It was like watching a knife slice through butter, he went through a field so easily. Beautiful.”