Free The Senator's Wife by Karen Robards Page B

uncomfortable. Ronnie simply looked at him without speaking. Her stomach started tying itself in knots again. His gaze met hers. “They say they have a woman who claims to have had a long-standing, intimate relationship with your husband. A prostitute. She’s telling all in the issue that hits the stands next week.”

Chapter
9
    “I T MAY NOT BE TRUE ,” Quinlan offered when Ronnie didn’t say anything. She could feel her face whitening, could feel the blood draining from her skin to pool in some deep subterranean place inside her body. She felt dizzy suddenly.
    “Are you all right?” Quinlan sat down beside her, his weight making the swing lurch. Ronnie didn’t answer. She couldn’t. Instead she concentrated on breathing: in, out, in, out.
    He repeated the question. This time she managed to nod.
    “It’s a tabloid, remember. They pay people for stories. This woman’s getting a nice chunk of change to smear your husband. Like I said, it may not be true.”
    Ronnie knew it was true. She knew it without a doubt, in the same deep place inside her body where her blood had pooled. Her gut, she supposed. Wasn’t that where gut instinct was supposed to originate? At the idea, she felt a near hysterical bubble of amusement.
    She must have looked as terrible as she felt, becausehe took her hand. His skin was warm, his fingers long and strong. With his other hand, he rubbed the back of her hand gently.
    “Miz Honneker?”
    “Ronnie.” She managed a glance at him, and a faint if wavering smile. “After everything we’ve been through together today, I think we should be on a first-name basis.”
    “Ronnie.” His hand tightened on hers, the fingers closing around her palm. His other hand joined the first, so both hands were clasping one of hers. His expression was both grim and compassionate as he looked at her. “I know this is a bad thing to dump on you, and I wish I didn’t have to be the one to do it. But as soon as this breaks, you’re going to have reporters all over you like fleas on a dog. You need to be prepared. You need to be strong, and you need to know what to say.”
    Ronnie was having trouble drawing breath. Was it possible to suffocate from emotional distress alone? she wondered. His hands holding hers seemed like the only source of heat in a suddenly icy world. “Oh, God, reporters. I don’t think I can do this. I really don’t think I can.”
    Quinlan shifted sideways on the swing so that he faced her. His knees brushed hers. His eyes were intent. “I know this is a shock. I know how you feel.”
    She made an inarticulate sound of skepticism.
    “Oh, I do,” he continued. “My marriage ended when I found out my wife had screwed half the guys in the county while I was on the road. I know it hurts, and I know you feel like you’ve been kicked in the stomach by a mule. But there’s more in the balancehere than just your relationship with your husband.” He gently chafed her hand.
    “The election.” Ronnie’s voice was wooden.
    He regarded her steadily. “That’s right, the election. If your husband has any hope of riding this thing out, you have to stand by him. You have to stand at his side with your head held high and tell everyone that you support him no matter what. Your reaction is the key to how the voters will perceive what’s happened: tabloid trash or career-ending scandal. Again, remember, it may not even be true.”
    It is true , Ronnie thought, but did not say it. “What if she has proof? What if the woman the Globe is talking to can prove that she has been—seeing—Lewis? She must have some sort of proof, or they wouldn’t dare print it.” Her voice was not quite steady, though her head was clearing. Why the knowledge that a prostitute was claiming a relationship with her husband shook her so she couldn’t imagine. She had known for some time that he would bed anything female that breathed.
    Ronnie started to tell Quinlan that, but bit back the words. Whatever the