Falling for the Enemy (Private Pleasures 3)

“None.”

“Shaun, it’s time to trust yourself.”

Okay. Fine. This was what she wanted? Damn him, he’d try and give it to her, and if he did inadvertently hurt her, he’d never forgive himself. He reached out and took her hand. “Come to my place tomorrow. Spend the night.”

“I can’t tomorrow.” She pulled her hand away, raised her chin, and looked down her straight little nose at him. “I have Josh and Melody’s engagement party tomorrow night, after the debate at the senior center.”

That’s what he got for assuming she’d jump at his invitation. He’d hurt her feelings, even if his reasons were noble, and now she was going to play hard-to-get. “Come afterwards. I don’t care if it’s late. I want to see you.”

Her mouth softened into the slightest of smiles. She reached out and fiddled with the front of his hair. “Only if you really want me to.”

He saw all kinds of uncertainty in her eyes, but absolutely no fear. “Sweet Virginia, I really want you to.”

Chapter Fourteen

Ginny shifted in her seat. Surely she wasn’t the only one suffering from the butt-numbingly uncomfortable folding chairs the senior center had broken out for this afternoon’s debate?

Ms. Van Hendler, the moderator of the only official mayoral debate, presided over a packed house of spectators—mostly seniors—all of whom seemed perfectly comfor

table. Ginny stacked her hands on the cool surface of the narrow, rectangular folding table and glanced down at her opponent seated at the other end. Tom spoke to the crowd, sidestepping a question about city taxes. He’d drawn first response, so she did her best to put her head in the game and listen to his reply. Instead she thought about the rest of her Saturday. Melody and Josh’s engagement party. She’d spend a couple hours at Rawley’s celebrating the happy couple. Maybe sneak out a little early and meet up with Shaun…

A smattering of applause warned Ginny that Tom had reached the end of his long-winded, time-defying, and ultimately unresponsive response. Ms. Van Hendler spoke into her microphone.

“Your rebuttal, Miss Boca?”

She cleared her throat and looked out at the crowd. “Thank you. I’m a small business owner, so the subject of taxes is near and dear to my heart…and my wallet. That said, I know my money supports many programs and services important to Bluelick. The fire department is a perfect example. Through our tax dollars, we’ve invested in top-notch personnel and the equipment they need to do their job safely and efficiently, and they, in return, protect our community and operate consistently within budget. The town benefits from having dedicated, local firefighters responding to emergencies, and the results absolutely justify the cost.”

“Why, thank you, Ginny,” Tom spoke into his microphone, all confidence. “I hired our new fire chief and spearheaded the effort to have the city council approve the funds for new equipment. I consider those successes two of the biggest achievements of my current term as mayor.”

“I do too, Tom,” she shot back, because she refused to appear ungracious. “But I wish we got the same bang for our buck from the county sheriff’s department.” She saw his smile slip and turned her attention to the audience. “Our contract with the county costs almost triple what it costs other towns our size to establish and maintain a small, local police department. We pay on par with what the bigger cities in this county pay, and yet we require fewer resources and worse, we get a much lower level of service.”

Murmurs of agreement hummed through the crowd. “If I’m elected mayor, I’ll propose to the city council that we establish a Bluelick police department. We have a successful local fire department and there’s absolutely no reason we couldn’t duplicate the success with a local police department. Doing so would reduce the tax burden while improving the safety and security of our town.”

The rules of the debate didn’t call for a rebuttal, but Tom spoke over the audience’s applause. “Miss Boca oversimplifies a complex issue. Comparing the cost of the fire department to the cost of the county sheriff is not an apples-to-apples comparison. Our contract with the sheriff’s department includes 911 dispatch, and—”

“Mr. Buchanan,” Ms. Van Hendler cut him off, and held up a hand for silence, but Ginny dove into the lull.

“No. You’re wrong. 911 services are provided by the county, but it’s separate from the contract with the sheriff’s department. The 911 calls to our fire department use the same service. All the contracts are available on the city website. I’ve read every word of them. I know what I’m talking about.”

Tom shook his head and gave her a patronizing look. “These are long, complicated contracts, Ginny. You may have read them, but I don’t think you understand them—and frankly, there’s no reason why you would.” He switched his attention to the audience. “I negotiated those deals. The city council and I spent weeks going over every clause with the law firm retained by the city—”

“This brings us to our next question,” Ms. Van Hendler said into her microphone. “Tell us what qualifies you to be mayor of Bluelick. Tom, you have the floor.”

“In a word? Experience,” he answered, fielding the softball in the most predictable way. Ginny looked down at her hands to keep herself from making a face. “My family has always been active in Bluelick politics. I’ve served on the city council more times than I can count, I’ve held the office of mayor twice before, and I’m currently closing in on the end of a very successful term. Unsurprisingly, the citizens of our town have urged me to run for re-election to keep the forward momentum going. I look forward to doing so.”

“And you, Ginny?”

“Sometimes people offer up the word ‘experienced’ when what they really mean is ‘entrenched’, as in, ‘resistant to movement and change’. I’m not entrenched. I’m not loyal to an arrangement simply because it’s what we’ve always done, or because I had a hand in negotiating the deal. All I ask myself is, does it work? When it comes to the sheriff’s contract, the answer is no. I’m proposing a better, more cost effective solution—”

“You have no experience—”

“I know how to read. I know when this city is paying too much and not getting its money’s worth.” Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Shaun slip into the senior center and stand along the back wall, near the door.

Tom went on as if she hadn’t spoken. “You’re young. Single. You’re bored with warming a barstool at Rawley’s and you’ve decided running for mayor is the way to bring some excitement to your life. But the people of Bluelick expect and deserve more from their leaders than to serve as a momentary distraction from”—he put on a show of searching for a more polite term to use than sleeping around—“a social life lacking in long-term prospects.”

What? She straightened in her chair, numb butt be damned. The part of her accustomed to saying exactly what she thought wanted to shout, “My social life is nowhere near lacking in prospects. In fact, thanks to your son standing back there, I’ve got all the prospects I can handle.” But she couldn’t very well announce to the entire audience that she’d been spending her time with Shaun. She opted to turn the focus to her opponent instead.

“Tom Buchanan, are you seriously going to challenge my moral character or my ability to keep a commitment? How many times have I stood before church and state and taken vows I ultimately failed to keep? That would be none. You’ve done it…let’s see”—she made a show of counting on her fingers, because he wasn’t the only one who knew how to draw out a nasty implication—“twice now, if I’m counting right. As far as distracting personal lives, I can’t think of a bigger distraction from the duties of office than extricating myself from a seventeen-year marriage after my wife discovered I was cheating on her with a cocktail waitress young enough to be my daughter.”