It seemed all wrong to Kezia. Admittedly it was an outrageous thing to do. But six years and his wife’s life for three cases of liquor? Her stomach turned over slowly as her mind flashed back to scenes of La Grenouille and Lutèce and Maxim’s and Annabel’s. Hundred-dollar lunches and fortunes spent on rivers of wine and champagne. But then, at those exalted watering holes, no one ordered his champagne with a shotgun.

Luke passed gracefully over his youth in Kansas. An uneventful period, when his worst problems were his size and his curiosity about life, both of which were out of proportion with his age and his “station in life.” Despite Simpson’s warning that Luke might be closed to personal probing, Kezia found him open and easy to talk to. By the end of the morning, she felt as though she knew all about him, and she had long since stopped taking notes. It was easier to hear the soul of the man just by listening—the political views, the interests, the causes, the experiences, the men he respected and those he abhorred. She would recapture it all later from memory with more depth.

What surprised her most was his lack of bitterness. He was determined, angry, pushy, arrogant, and tough. But he was also passionate in his beliefs, and compassionate about the people he cared about. And he liked to laugh. The baritone laughter rang out often in the small living room in his suite, as she questioned him and he regaled her with stories of years long since past. It was well after eleven before he stretched and rose from his chair.

“I hate to say this, Kate, but we’re going to have to stop. I’m addressing another group at noon, and I have a few things to take care of first. Can I interest you in another speech? You’re a good audience. Or do you have to get back to New York?” He circled the room, putting papers and pens in his pockets, and looked over his shoulder at her with the look one reserves for a friend.

“Both really. I should get back. But I’d like to hear you talk. What’s the group?”

“Psychiatrists. The subject is a firsthand report on the psychological effects of being in prison. And they’ll probably want to hear how real the threat of psychosurgery in prison is. They always ask about that.”

“You mean like frontal lobotomies?”

He nodded.

“Is there a lot of that?” She was momentarily stunned.

“Even a little ‘of that’ is too much. But I don’t think it happens often. Maybe occasionally. Lobotomies, shock treatment, a lot of ugly shit.”

She nodded somberly and looked at her watch.

“I’ll go pick up my things and meet you there.”

“Are you staying at a hotel around here?”

“No, my agent got me someone’s apartment.”

“That’s convenient.”

“Very.”

“Want a ride?” He said it easily as they walked toward the door.

“I … no … thanks, Luke. I’ve got a few other stops to make on the way. I’ll meet you at your speech.”

He didn’t press the point, but nodded absently as they waited for the elevator. “I’ll be interested to see this piece when it comes out.”

“I’ll have my agent send you tear sheets as soon as we get them.”

He left her in front of the hotel and she walked to the corner and hailed a cab. It was a nice day to walk, and if she had had more time, she would have walked all the way back to the apartment on Lake Shore Drive. It was a warm autumn day with a bright sky overhead, and when she reached the apartment building, she could see sailboats skimming over the lake.

The ghostly apartment echoed her footsteps as she ran up the stairs for her suitcase, pulled the dust sheet over the tidily made bed, and pulled down the shade. She laughed, wondering what Luke would have said if he’d seen it. It didn’t fit the image of Kate. Something told her he would not have approved. Or maybe he would have been amused, and together they might have pulled the sheets from all the furniture, lit the fire, and she could have played honky-tonk on the grand piano downstairs—put a little life in the place. Funny to think of doing something like that with Luke. But he looked like a good man to have fun with, to giggle at and tease and chortle with and chase. She liked him, and he had no idea who she was. It was a safe, happy feeling, and the makings of the article already felt good in her head.

Luke’s speech was interesting, and the group was receptive. She made a few notes, and nibbled absently at the steak on her plate. Luke was sitting at a long, flower-strewn table at the front of the room, and she had been seated nearby. He looked over at her now and then, with mischievous laughter in the emerald green eyes. Once, silently raising his glass toward her, he winked. It made her want to laugh in the midst of the psychiatrists’ general sobriety. She felt as though she knew Luke better than anyone there, maybe even better than anyone else. He had shared so much of his story with her all morning; he had given her the peek into the inner sanctum that Simpson had prophesied she’d never get. It was a shame she could not reciprocate.

Her flight was at three, and she had to leave the luncheon at two. He had just finished speaking when she rose. He had taken his seat at the dais, the usual crowd of admirers around him. She thought about just leaving quietly, without troubling him with thanks and goodbyes, but it didn’t feel right. She wanted to say at least something to him before leaving. It seemed so unkind to pry into a man’s head for four hours, and then simply vanish. But it was nearly impossible to get through the crowd near his table, and when she finally did, she found herself standing directly behind him, as he spoke animatedly to someone from his seat. She put a light hand on his shoulder and was surprised when he jumped. He didn’t seem the kind of man to be frightened.

“That’s a heavy thing to do to someone who spent six years in the joint.” His mouth smiled, but his eyes looked serious, almost afraid. “I get nervous about who stands behind me. By now it’s a reflex.”

“I’m sorry, Luke. I just wanted to say goodbye. I have to catch my plane.”

“Okay, just a sec.” He rose to walk her out to the lobby, and she went back to her table to pick up her coat. But Luke was waylaid on the way, and he was locked into another cluster of men as she fidgeted near the door, until she couldn’t wait any longer. Unkind or not, she had to go. She didn’t want to miss her plane. With a last look in his direction, she slipped quietly out of the room, crossed the lobby, and retrieved her valise from the doorman as he opened the door to a cab.

She settled back against the seat, and smiled to herself. It had been a good trip, and it was going to be a beautiful piece.

She never saw Lucas standing beneath the awning behind her, a look of storm clouds and disappointment on his face.

“Damn!” All right, Ms. Kate Miller. We’ll see about that. He smiled to himself as he strode back inside. He had liked her. She was so vulnerable, so funny … the kind of tiny little woman you wanted to toss up in the air and catch in your arms.

“Did you catch the young lady, sir?” The doorman had seen him run.

“No.” He broke into a broad grin which bordered on laughter. “But I will.”


Chapter 9


“Called me? What do you mean he called me? I just walked in the door. And how did he know how to get hold of you?” Kezia was almost livid with rage at Simpson.

“Calm down. Kezia. He called over an hour ago, and I assume that the magazine referred him to me. There’s no harm in that. And he was perfectly civil.”

“Well, what did he want?” She was stepping out of her clothes as she spoke, and the bath was already running. It was five minutes to seven, and Whit had said he’d pick her up at eight. They were due at a party at nine.

“He said he didn’t feel the article would be complete unless you covered the meeting for that moratorium against prisons tomorrow in Washington. And he’d appreciate it if you’d hold off turning the piece in until you’ve added that to the rest. It sounds reasonable, Kezia. If you went to Chicago, you can certainly go to Washington for an afternoon.”

“When is this thing he wants me to go to?” Goddamn Lucas Johns. He was being a pest, or at least egocentric. She had written the outline for the piece on the plane, and enough was enough. Her sense of triumph was evaporating rapidly now. A man who called scarcely before she’d stepped off the plane could hardly be trusted not to pry.

“The moratorium meeting is tomorrow afternoon.”

“Hell. And if I go by plane, I’m liable to get spotted by some asshole society reporter who’ll think I’m going down there for a party, and he’ll try to catch a quick bit of news. And then I’m liable to end up with the paparazzi down my back.”

“That didn’t happen on the way to Chicago, did it?”

“No, but Washington is a lot closer to home, and you know it. I never go to Chicago. Maybe I should drive down tomorrow, and … oh God, the tub! Hang on!”

Simpson waited while she went to turn off the water. She sounded nervous, and he assumed that the trip had been hectic. But it had been good for her. There was no doubt about that. She had braved it out, done the interview, and no one had recognized her, thank God. If they had, he’d never have heard the end of it. Now there were any number of interviews she could do. And Johns had certainly sounded pleased with her work. He had mentioned spending almost four hours with her. She must have handled it well, and Johns’ casual references to “Miss Miller” showed that he hadn’t the faintest idea who she was. So what was her problem? Why so jumpy? She came back on the line with a sigh. “Are you drowning over there?”

“No.” She laughed tiredly then. “I don’t know, Jack, I’m sorry I jumped on you, but it really makes me nervous to do this kind of thing so close to New York.”