Free Deep Cover by Brian Garfield Page B

don’t come to his house for dinner. I included you in the invitation—I hope you don’t mind?”
    She turned her face: a quick smile. “No.”
    â€œHave you met Bill Ryan?”
    She shook her head and the hair flowed softly back and forth.
    â€œI expect you’ll like him.”
    Through the window he could see the courthouse square, pooled by street lamps. A couple stood in the square with two young children, pointing and talking, the father in dungarees and a zippered windbreaker talking with wide sweeps of his arm and probably explaining to the kids the functions of the courthouse.
    He felt Ronnie’s weight beside him and moved aside to give her the view. “That’s what it all comes down to—giving them something to believe in.”
    She gave him a brief warm smile.
    On the way out they passed a few night workers—pale civil servants and fluttering clerks. Forrester smiled at them with his candid eyes and answered their greetings, addressing them by name as a political animal must, and when they reached the sidewalk Ronnie laughed at him. “Did you see the way they looked at you? You’ve got those votes sewed up.”
    â€œHitler had charisma. I don’t altogether approve of the personality cult in politics—even if I do owe it a great deal.”
    â€œYou can’t make the rules, can you?” There was something grave in her voice.
    They walked up the quiet street without speaking. Occasionallyher arm brushed his. She meant nothing overt by it; he was beginning to know that she was a woman in whom very little was obvious. She had come to work for him during his last campaign and he had become well acquainted with her, but only as one would become well acquainted with one’s military subordinate—clearly, but at a distance. He knew the quickness of her mind, the good efficiency of her talents. The rest was unanswered.
    They crossed an intersection under a street light and he stole a direct look at her. He thought of the cliché of the oblivious boss who has never really looked at his adoring and beautiful secretary before. Like all clichés it was worthless because it oversimplified reality. He had never been blind to Ronnie’s sexual attractions. He wouldn’t have hired her if she hadn’t caught his eye. That was the way he had always been: he liked to surround himself with decorative women. Angie had known that and Angie had never held it against him: in her own way she took a certain pride from the fact that of all the attractive women in his life she alone had held him. Now and then she had made a tart joke about it and he had composed a ritual reply: “Just because a man’s on a diet doesn’t mean he can’t read the menu.” They had laughed the way healthy people laugh who are sure of themselves and of each other. Angie had been complete in her femininity, men had always given her a second look, and he had enjoyed it as much as she had: it had confirmed his proprietary pride, which took pleasure from other men’s envy.
    He caught Ronnie’s short half-smile when they turned the corner. He was intensely aware of her electricity; aware, as well, that she liked him and was pleased by his attentions. She hadn’t tried to rebuff his interest by displays of indifference: she gave off none of the signals of misogamous frigidity he had discovered in otherwise coquettish women; still, curiously, she had surrounded herself with tensile barriers and by setting limits she had challenged his masculine determination. He felt like a small boy confronted by a new mechanical device: he would not be willing to quit prying it apart until he found out what made it work.
    â€œHere we are.” She handed him the keys. He unlocked thedoor for her and went around to the driver’s side and slid in under the wheel. “Why a station wagon?”
    â€œI paint,” she said, and it was only after a moment