Unfinished Business (26 page)

“I'm not?” Erica repeated.

“No, you're not.” Gladys stepped close to her and lay her two hands heavily on Erica's shoulders. “You got something up your sleeve with this dress, young lady. And before I sew a stitch, I promise you, I'm gonna know
exactly
what it is.”

He noticed her eyes first.

As Erica slid into the limousine, he took one look into their deep brown depths and knew: she'd been sent the picture, too.

The second thing he noticed was the dress—a smoking hot, Foxy Brown short, sun gold, silky swish of material, trimmed with black and gold swatches in a pattern that looked like words. He couldn't read them, but he felt a smile curving his lips anyway: It was like her to take advantage of every opportunity to protest. Mark might have laughed aloud if his head hadn't been pounding with a headache that felt like a jackhammer in his skull.

“You look beautiful,” he said in a low voice as she settled in beside him.

And she did. Compared to Bitsi's long, black skirt and rhinestone jacket, it was a movie-star kind of dress, the kind of dress that would raise eyebrows of jealousy at a stuffy old fund-raiser like this, and now that she was sitting beside him, he could clearly make out the words “peace” “Iraq” and “troops” in the black border of the dress.

If he'd had the leisure to think about it, he might have been worried about that. But for once, it wasn't that lusciously curvaceous body—or what she was wearing on it—that held his mind.

“We have some unfinished business,” she whispered into his ear, and he knew from the tone of her voice and the look on her face that she wasn't talking about the business of unwrapping the package he knew lay beneath those strategically placed bits of gold cloth.

“I know,” he said softly. “But not here.”

Bitsi must have heard the exchange. She shifted a little in her seat on Mark's left but said nothing.

Angelique squeezed into the limousine next in a shimmery gown Mark would have called “white,” but he supposed the women around him might have termed bisque or ecru. Chase followed, talking animatedly about something that had happened at some rally he'd coordinated today in one of the many places Mark had been since leaving Erica's arms that morning.

Mark closed his eyes. His head ached, his stomach churned. After the late start and the early-morning tussle with Malloy, he'd been too keyed up to eat. After arriving in Harpersville and beginning his long day of campaigning, he'd been too busy to do more than grab a drink here and a snack there. The best meal he'd had all day was a handful of corn chips and an ice-cold bottle of Dickey Joe's while he changed into his tux.

Usually the beer helped, but today it just made him feel queasy, tired and sick.

Just gotta get through this last event
, he told himself.
Get through the meet and greet, make some remarks, sneak out before the dancing starts.

Chase interrupted his thoughts with a brisk, “Mark, you listening?”

Mark looked over at him sharply. In his tuxedo, his friend managed to look dapper and neat, his extra pounds concealed by pressed black fabric. He held a folder in his hands from which he had been reading something Mark was supposed to be listening to.

“Sorry,” he muttered, rubbing his eyes. He cut another quick glance at Erica, but she was staring out the limo's tinted windows, weighed down by her own thoughts.

Waiting for the other shoe to drop. That's what we're doing. Waiting.

They needed to be alone. They needed to talk. They needed to try to figure out what that photo meant and what, if anything, to do next. Almost without realizing it, he let his hand crawl across the leather and find hers, squeezing her fingers briefly in reassurance.

Her answering squeeze brought a strange sense of peace to him and he inhaled deeply. But the exhale made his stomach cramp so violently, he winced.

Mark focused his attention back on Chase and Bitsi. He wasn't surprised to find Chase staring at the space where their hands were entwined. Even Angelique had cast a glance in that direction…but at least she was smiling about it.

“Sorry,” he repeated, nodding toward Chase's folder. “I'm listening now. Read it to me again.”

Chase shook his head and answered him with a sigh of his own. “What's with you today? You tired or something?”

“Tired.” Mark seized on the word like a life line. “Yeah, I'm double-dog tired, Chase.” He quirked an eyebrow at his friend. “Any way we can get out of this thing?”

Chase shook his head. “You shouldn't want to get out of this thing, Mark. This is your fund-raiser. Peo
ple paid from five hundred to a thousand dollars a plate to come. The least you could do is be interested in knowing who they are.” He nodded at the folder, and Mark remembered Chase had been reading the attendee list for the night's event: names he needed to remember, names he needed to be certain he knew.

“Sorry,” Mark murmured for the third time, wishing he meant it. The truth was he wasn't sorry. He felt like crap, his mind was awhirl with confusion and questions—most of them concentrated in the person of the woman sitting beside him, calmly holding his hand but avoiding his gaze. He closed his eyes again and imagined himself alone with Erica Johnson in the fluffy, white four-poster bed at Dickson's Inn.

The sound of Chase tossing the folder aside brought him back to reality again. Chase fixed those sharp brown eyes on him, searching for answers Mark wasn't yet ready to give. He put on his best poker face and stared back, meeting the man's eyes levelly.

“You all right?” Chase asked him, frowning concern.

Erica shifted toward him, big brown eyes locked on his face.

“Stomach hurts,” Mark responded, deciding not to deny it. “Probably just hungry.”

“They were fully briefed on your dietary preferences,” Bitsi said crisply. “You'll be having filet mignon.”

“I think I'm going to skip the dinner, Bits,” Mark announced, since just the mention of food made his stomach flip with nausea. “Think I might be coming down with something.”

“You need me to call the doctor?” Bitsi asked. “I can have him meet you at your house tonight.”

“What's going on?” Chase asked at last. “Didn't you sleep well last night?”

Mark opened his mouth to reply, when to his surprise, Erica's friend made her first appearance in the conversation.

“You know he didn't, Chase,” she said in a voice of pure mischief.

“Oh hush, Angelique,” Erica whispered.

“What? It's not like everybody in this car doesn't know what's going on. Mark—” She leaned toward him and patted his knee. “I can call you ‘Mark' now, right? I mean now that you're my best girl's man?” Then without waiting for him to answer she continued, “Mark and Erica have decided to make love, not war. Literally. They're taking all that energy they wasted in disagreement to a whole 'nother level, if you know what I'm saying.”

“That's enough, Angie,” Chase said, and to Mark's surprise he touched the woman's forearm with an intimacy Mark had never seen him display toward any woman. “As much as I respect the power of love, right now we've got to do the politics. Mark's got to be on his game. People don't pay a thousand dollars a plate to have the senator forget their names. If that happens, it's gonna take this campaign, if I may borrow your phrase, to a whole 'nother level. And not a good one.”

Bitsi glared at Angelique. “Love? I don't think so. They had sex.” Bitsi rolled her eyes. “This is a case of lust, at best. Apparently Mark is indulging in a taste of the exotic.”

Before Mark could react, Erica was leaning over him looking like she was about two seconds from wringing Bitsi's neck.

“You know what?” she said in a menacing voice. “I'm just about sick of you.”

“Ditto!” Bitsi shouted back.

“Ladies! Ladies!” Mark interjected, but then an
other cramp attacked his stomach and he couldn't speak for the pain. He concentrated on breathing through it and let the conversation go on without him.

“Let's just stick to the issue at hand,” Angelique said calmly. “Mark and Erica are a couple.”

“We are not, Angelique,” Erica muttered, pulling her hand out of Mark's.

“Yes, you are,” her friend continued, ignoring the objection. “It's time for everyone in this car to stop denying what we all know to be true and start dealing it with. Politically, of course. And personally. I'm no expert on relationships, but—”

“Then you really should shut up,” Erica muttered.

“Amen,” Bitsi seconded.

“I'm no expert on relationships,” Angelique repeated a little louder than before, “or politics, but it seems to me in both realms, the truth will set you free.” Her eyes locked on Mark's face and then Erica's. “And the truth is, this could be long term. If the two of them can get over their stubbornness and try to be happy.” Her braids caressed her elegant neck as she turned back to Chase. “Now, Mr. Politics D.C., them's the facts. The only real question is how you're going to play that with your constituents so that Mark here can marry my girl and still keep his Senate seat in a state still known for lynchings and the Confederate flag.”

Mark wanted to cheer the woman's plainspoken-ness, despite a few inaccuracies in her assumptions. He wanted to fully appreciate the embarrassed blush in Erica's cheeks and the creeping flush of annoyance in Bitsi's. He wanted to hear Chase's reply to Angie's frank question.

But the car was too hot and the air was too close. He pulled at the bow tie that was throttling him and
took another deep breath and then another, trying to fill his lungs.

Just get through this event
, he told himself.
Just get through this event…

Then the driver was announcing their arrival and he realized the limo had stopped.

“Bitsi,” he heard himself saying, and his voice almost sounded normal. “Would you go on ahead and…”

“Of course,” she murmured, already yanking on the door in her haste to escape the car. “I'll make sure they're ready.”

“We'll go on, too,” Chase offered, opening the car door. The lighted driveway and the bright lights of the mansion suddenly illuminated the dim car. “Come on, Angie. Walk with me.”

Angie?
He wanted to speak, wanted to ask Chase a million questions, but the breath wouldn't come. Instead, he nodded, quirked his lips into a grim smile and raised his hand in a salute.

Just…get through…this event…

The car door slammed and they were in darkness again. He closed his eyes, concentrated on the warmth of Erica's hand and the effort of breathing.

When he opened them again, she was staring at him, all gentleness and care. As rotten as he felt, Mark was conscious of his heart skipping a couple of beats in his chest. He wanted to grab her and hold on with his all his strength.

Her lips were moving, but all he could hear was a rush of sounds skimming past his ears, undecipherable and unfamiliar. He gasped, struggling to force the air through his body, but his chest felt as heavy as lead. He tried to focus, but Erica's face was fading, going fuzzy around the edges as though she were being consumed by darkness.

Like a scene in a surreal movie, he watched her face change, the soft expression morphing into concern and then fear. He read his name on her lips, but now he couldn't hear at all. A rush of heat filled his ears and stole his vision in a cushion of velvety darkness. He felt her arms go around his waist. Then consciousness departed and he couldn't even feel her anymore.

He was only out for a second—just long enough for Erica to start screaming. She pounded on the glass window separating them from the driver and when the man lowered the window, she shouted, “Something's wrong! He can't breathe!”

And instantly, the man threw the car into gear and yanked it onto the street, tires squealing.

“No…” The sound was a wheeze more than word, a weak, out-of-it-sounding attempt at communication. He waved back toward the mansion like he wanted to go back there. “Get…through…”

“Don't ‘no' me, Mark Newman,” Erica told him. She pressed him against the seat and clawed at the buttons of his dress shirt and fancy tie, determined to help him get more air. “Lie still, Mark. Lie still.”

Those piercing eyes locked on her for a long second, and Erica steeled herself for his resistance. But he must have felt pretty badly, because he lay back and closed his eyes, still gasping raggedly for air.

“What happened? Can you tell me what happened?” the driver demanded. Erica noticed he'd pulled off the billed cap and now held a cell phone in
his hand. For an instant he seemed familiar, but Erica couldn't place how or why.

“I don't know,” she told him. “He's having trouble breathing…and then he just slumped over…”

As if he could hear her talking about him, Mark's eyes fluttered open. There was a sweaty sheen to his forehead, slick and unnatural. His lips twisted into a funny little grimace and once again he lurched upwards with a sudden burst of strength.

“Be still,” Erica told him and Mark nodded, panting. He was the color of a piece of chalk and just as cold.

“Be…okay…” he managed, and then vomited in a hard, gut-wrenching splash onto floor before losing consciousness.

“Mark!” Erica cried. She pled with the driver: “You've got to hurry! Something terrible is happening! Something—”

The driver was muttering into the cell phone in a low voice, and Erica thought she heard the words “police escort” and “ETA” before the man's eyes found hers in the rearview mirror.

“We'll be at a hospital in three minutes,” he told her in an authoritative voice, and Erica heard sirens closing in around them. “Describe his symptoms,” he commanded, jerking the wheel of the limo to the right and then accelerating through a red light, simultaneously pounding on his horn.

“He can't breathe,” she told the man. “He was complaining about his stomach. Actually, he's been complaining about it for days.”

The driver narrated the information into his phone.

“You're a cop, too, aren't you?”

The driver didn't answer, simply settled his hat back on his head and concentrated on his driving. But in that instant, Erica had a flash of a baseball-capped man on an airplane ride.

“You're the bodyguard!” she exclaimed. “You were on the plane…and in the pizza restaurant. That was even you on the Mall that night. The homeless man!”

But the man simply drove, seeming to gather more and more speed with every passing second, and neither confirmed nor denied her.

A few moments later he brought the limo to a brake-squealing stop in front of the ER. Instantly Mark was surrounded by medical personnel and whisked away on a gurney, an oxygen mask strapped to his face. The driver was gone, disappearing into the crowd of police, nurses and doctors like the chameleon that he was.

Bewildered, Erica started after the phalanx of medical personnel racing toward the entrance.

“Ms. Johnson?” a kind-faced male nurse took her by the elbow and guided her into the building. “Come on with me.”

 

“I don't know who you
think
you are,” Bitsi hissed at her when she arrived, reeking of cigarette smoke and looking positively pink with fury. “But let me tell you, you are
not
who you
think
you are.”

Erica rolled her eyes. Whatever the woman
thought
she was saying wasn't what she was saying at all.

The nurse had led her to a small, brightly lit room, complete with a couple of comfortable chairs, a television, coffeemaker and a bed.

“The staff uses it,” he explained. “Our media-relations person expects this place to be crawling with press when the word gets out. She thought you'd be more comfortable waiting here.”

And she had been…or at least as comfortable as she could be, as worried as she was.

Until now.

Bitsi, Chase and Angelique had arrived in a noisy clamor of concern. Or at least Chase appeared concerned, and Angie's face was crumpled into a worried frown. Bitchy—Bitsi—on the other hand, had launched into this ridiculous tirade.

“Look, Bitsi,” Erica said, struggling to keep the ragged edges of her self-control. The woman was working her nerves, had been working them all day, and was now in overdrive. “I'm sorry he happened to get sick when you weren't in the car to hold his hand. But I thought it was more important to get him
here
, where they could do something for him, than to run inside the building and get
you
!”

“You could have called me. I had to hear it from one of the officers, who heard it over the scanner!” Bitsi continued in her same “scorned woman” vein. “I mean the
scanner
! Do you know how it makes me look—not to have any idea what's happening to him? And at an event like
that
?”

Erica ignored her, but Chase patted the woman on the shoulder with an almost brotherly affection. “You handled it like a champ, though, Bits. Mark would have appreciated the announcement you made, and the way you went around to thank everyone individually for their support.”

“She really was good, Erica,” Angelique added, like now, all of the sudden, she was on “Bitchy's” side, even though it was Chase she stood closest to, looking almost as though she'd been fused to his side. They made something of an odd couple: Angelique, tall, thin and dark; Chase short, round and white. Erica looked the two of them over carefully and was a little surprised to find Chase holding Angie's hand.

What on earth was going on between these two?
she wondered, as Angelique continued to sing Bitsi's praises.

“Really tactful, really reassuring,” her friend continued, as though she were the one sleeping with the enemy and not Erica herself. “‘Just a bit of the flu.' That's what she told them. ‘He's been working two jobs, remember. Representing us in the Senate and running for reelection.'”

“Well, isn't that great,” Erica muttered.

Bitsi scowled at her.

“You're not who you're acting like. You're not Katharine. You're not important enough to him to even be here, and you know it,” she continued with a maniacal energy in her voice. “No. You're just some woman he wanted to sleep with. And now that he has, it's over. You're just—just some kind of fling. Some kind of jungle-fever fling.”

“And that eats you up inside, doesn't it, Bitsi?” Erica said, feeling her anger burning through her resolve to stay calm. “That he prefers me to you just burns you up inside. That's why you've been sending me those awful little missives.”

“Missives?” Bitsi rolled her eyes. “Not this again. What missives? I don't know what you're talking about. I haven't sent you anything.”

Erica stood, pacing the little room for what felt like the ten thousandth time in the hour since she'd been parked here. In that time, no one had come—not even the young nurse who'd been so kind at first. No one.

Mark could be dead for all I know
, she thought, and then pushed the very notion aside. No one as annoying as Mark Newman could just…die. It was impossible.

She focused every bit of her attention on Bitsi, trying to erase the image of Mark as anything less than his usual arrogant self. “If we're going to start telling the truth, like Angelique suggests, let's just tell all of it, okay?” She crossed the room, narrowing the
space between herself and Bitsi. “So here's a truth for you: I
know
you're the one doing it. It's all too sneaky, too carefully orchestrated, too thoroughly planned. Those letters have your stink all over them.”

“And I told you: I haven't sent you anything!” Bitsi's voice rose with the vehemence of her denial. “I don't know who's been following you—taking pictures of the two of you in various compromising positions—but I can assure you that it's
not
me.”

“Then how do you know someone's been following us taking pictures?” Erica demanded. “I didn't say anything about pictures. I said letters.”

“Mark told Chase,” Bitsi offered quickly, but the two spots of color highlighting her otherwise pale cheeks flamed from pink to ruby red. “Chase must have told me.”

Chase shook his head. “Wasn't me. I didn't know anything about the pictures until Angie told me two days ago. You know how Mark is. Plays personal things close, sometimes.”

“Well, then it must have been Mark himself,” Bitsi corrected nervously. “There are no secrets between us.”

“There was one.” Erica narrowed her eyes and stared hard at the woman until she looked away. “I insisted Mark not tell you—or Chase. Because I knew it was you all along. And just now, you proved me right when you said
pictures
.”

“I just happened to guess,” Bitsi attempted, but Erica shook her head.

“Admit your shit, Bits,” she said, using Mark's nickname for the woman, and feeling a fresh pang of worry for him. She saw his face as she'd seen it last: ashen, forehead damp with cold sweat, his chest working with the effort of every gasping breath. Erica shuddered.

Please God. Let him be okay. I won't war with him no more…I promise…

“Admit your shit,” she repeated when her prayer was through. “You said ‘pictures' because you knew they were pictures. You know all about it, because you're the one who got those pictures. Didn't you?” Erica demanded. “Didn't you? You and your ex-CIA spy, master-of-disguise—”

“So? What if I did?” Bitsi's chin rose in defiance. “What if I did?”

“There's no ‘what if.' You did. Of course you did,” Erica continued. “It's quite impressive, really. How did he do it? Some kind of telephoto lens for the night at Mama Tia's? Was he hiding in the ladies' room stall? Or did he disguise himself as the attendant? He's good, that one. And I'm guessing you knew Mark would take me to Mrs. Dickson's place, so you must have planted a camera and waited for your opportunity.”

A slight smile snaked across Bitsi's face. “Something like that,” she said, with not a little pride. “I asked my man to do a little surveillance from the beginning, ever since Mark insisted on inviting you on this trip. I mean, really, he knew full well Malloy would use this to try to narrow the gap during the primary. Sometimes, I don't understand what Mark is thinking…

Angelique grunted her disbelief. “Honestly, girl, that's some serious mess. Maybe he's thinking about what would make him happy. Maybe you ought to start thinking less about him and more about your own self.”

Bitsi ignored the part of Angelique's words she didn't want to hear and rolled her eyes. “Like she could make him happy. Please. These two can't agree on the time of day.” She shook her head and said to
Erica, “But he
is
a man. He finds you attractive—though for the life of me I'm not sure why. True, you have big boobs and you insist on wearing those tight T-shirts, but from where I'm standing, that's hardly enough for all of this hoopla. And the photographs are my way of convincing him of that.”

Chase frowned.

“How? What were you going to do? Sell them to the media? Give them to Malloy?” He shook his head. “How could you do something like this, Bitsi? You call yourself his friend—”

“I had his best interests at heart!” Bitsi practically shrieked, jabbing a finger in Erica's direction. “She's political poison and he's squiring her around town like she's the First Lady or something! I wanted him to understand how dangerous this could be—and what better way than to illustrate it for him in living color. Because if I could do it, Malloy could do it. Or even that dumbass Democrat he'll face in November! And then what happens to his presidential aspirations, huh?” She forgot herself and pulled a cigarette from the little beaded bag on her shoulder and popped it in her mouth before recalling her location. “See how she's eroded his support since she got here! The latest poll numbers show he's losing ground to Malloy, and his career is—”

“I don't want to hear another word from you about his career, do you understand me?” Erica hissed, blinking back the tears stinging her eyes. “They don't even know what's wrong with him yet, Bitsi! Don't you get this? He might die and you're plotting his stupid
career
!”

Bitsi studied her for a second and barked out a nasty, nervous laugh.

“Oh God. Don't tell me you really
are
in love with him?” Bitsi cackled again. “Are you? Oh come on, Er
ica. You've got to realize it would never work. I mean politics is his life. He needs a wife who agrees with his basic beliefs and agendas.”

“He needs a wife who loves him, warts and all,” Erica snapped before she thought about it. “He needs a wife who will help keep that ego in check and remind him that he's no better than the rest of us. I think I fit that job description pretty damn well!”

“Bravo!” Angelique started clapping like she was watching a theater piece for one. “You go, Erica! You fight for your man!”

“And I suppose you really believe that,” Bitsi challenged. “Even though you two are complete opposites.”

“We're not complete opposites,” Erica said, her voice shaking with the suppressed fury this woman engendered. She curled her hands into fists to keep from reaching for that lank curtain of hair and yanking on it until the other woman's scalp bled. “There's more criteria in a successful relationship than what political party you belong to, or what color you are. There's another whole list of characteristics and qualifications. Things like trust and loyalty, having passion for people. A passion for life. It doesn't matter how it's directed. It matters that you both have it, and that you both know that, when it's all said and done, you're willing to work together, to fight together, and to serve the common good together…” Erica stopped short, realizing she had just paraphrased the speech Angelique had given her days ago.