The Kingmaker

“I’m not sure I have a choice anyway,” I reply somewhat petulantly. “Kimba wants to do it. Everyone thinks I’m the bulldog, but behind closed doors she makes me look like Bambi.”

“Just think about it.” Wallace kisses my knuckle. “And who’s to say he’ll even be involved? Maybe he’ll keep his distance. He has for a decade. Why stop now?”

When the time is right, I’ll be back for you.

Those words remind me of how he looked at me that day in the conference room. Like we were inevitable. That hum that was always just beneath my skin when I was around him is back even though we haven’t come face to face. I can’t help but wonder if somehow he feels it, too.

37

Lennix

“He has arrived, gliko mou.”

Iasonos’ words are unnecessary since I see the two bodyguards who always accompany Owen Cade seated in the main dining room. They’re already digging into the taramasalata and bread spread on the table in front of them.

“Thanks, Nos.” I smile warmly at the man who’s been my friend since I moved to DC seven years ago. In search of good Greek, Kimba and I stumbled into this classic unassuming “hole in the wall” that ended up serving the best baklava I’ve ever tasted. It was near closing that first night, and Kimba and I shut the place down. It only took a few times for Nos to “adopt” us.

His restaurant, Trógo, is closed on Mondays, but we’ve conducted more than one covert meeting in his back room when he wasn’t open for business. Today might be the most important to date.

“Is he already here?” I tip my head toward the closed swinging door.

“Yes,” Iasonos confirms. “Just you today?”

“Yeah, Kimba’s at the office, but you know there’ll be hell to pay if I don’t take back some of your spanokopita.”

“I’ll have it ready,” he says, a pleased smile creasing cheeks. “For you, too?”

“Nah. Just a salad for me.” I roll my eyes at the obvious disapproval in his expression. “If it was up to you, I’d be popping out of all my clothes.”

“You need meat on the bones.”

“I’ve got plenty of meat on the bones,” I say, laughing and h

eading for the back room. “Salad, please.”

Owen sits at one of the few tables in the back room. It’s covered with a red-and-white gingham tablecloth and topped with unlit candles. He’s on the phone, but smiles when he sees me enter.

“Okay, Chuck,” he says. “I need to go, but I’ll see you back up on the Hill before the meeting.”

I take the seat across from him and reach for the carafe of water. “Hope you didn’t cut your call short on my account.”

“I did actually. I know how valuable your time is, and didn’t want to keep you waiting.”

More considerate than most candidates. Plus column for him.

“Did you order already?” I sip my water. “Want something stronger than water?”

“No, I have a subcommittee meeting after this and need a clear head.”

“Makes sense.”

“I was glad to hear from Kimba.” He pours water for himself. “She sounded excited about working with me, and I was curious when she mentioned you wanted to talk before finalizing?”

“Yes, she’s excited.” I offer a genuine smile, something I reserve for genuine people. “I’m excited. I know it may not seem that way, but I like all my cards on the table, so I wanted to talk with you before we go any further.”

“A woman after my own heart.” His smile is the real thing, too, and puts me at ease. Selling him to voters will be like handing out free candy apples at a county fair. He’s the perfect candidate waiting to happen.

“There are a few things we need to discuss before I sign on,” I say, tic-tac-toe-ing in the squares of the gingham tablecloth with my index finger. “Your father being the first.”