Free The Candidate by Lis Wiehl, Sebastian Stuart Page B

says “Mike” and nods toward the front door.
    Mike escorts Erica out to her car. The driver opens the door for her.
    “I’m sorry this happened while you were here,” Mike says, but in a detached way, as if a pipe had sprung a leak or dinner had burned. Then he extends his hand to the driver. “Mike Ortiz.” Then he smiles. That blazing movie star smile.
    As Erica heads back to Nob Hill, she’s reminded again that there are some things money can’t protect you from. And there are some people who aren’t what they seem.

CHAPTER 10
    AN HOUR LATER CELESTE IS sitting at an outside table at Gott’s in the Ferry Building on the Embarcadero, waiting for Lily Lau to appear. As soon as Erica Sparks left, she called Lily. The two met in a Chinese history class their freshman year at Stanford, where the professor’s passion for the subject—coupled with Lily’s brilliance and beauty—ignited Celeste’s fascination with China. And Lily was hardly averse to having smart and socially connected Celeste in her orbit. That first day they went out for lunch after class and bonded immediately, kindred spirits. Their relationship has since evolved into something profound. Transcendent. And they’re just getting started.
    The restaurant, famous for its mahi-mahi sandwiches, is thick with tacky tourists; it’s loud and chaotic, and just blocks from the office of Pierce Holdings. Celeste finds the hubbub amusing—it’s fun to observe the masses in their element.
    She spots Lily as she approaches the restaurant—she’s hard to miss. Tall and striking with jet black hair and pearly skin set off with glistening red lipstick, she’s wearing a white shirt, a thin black men’s tie, and a dark suit that fits her toned body like a second skin. Her limbs are long and she moves with a lithe, powerful grace. The stupid little tourists stop and watch as she walks by. They’re not used to Chinese superstars in Loserville, Indiana.
    Celeste and Lily smile at each other, and Celeste feels that frisson of excitement that Lily always elicits in her. They’re partners in . . . what would you call it? Rewriting history? That sounds so immodest, Celeste thinks. But it’s the truth.
    Lily sits down. “Would you like something to eat?” Celeste asks.
    Lily waves off the suggestion—she and food have a tenuous relationship. “How did it go with Sparks?”
    “It was going well. Then my mentee took the dogs for a walk, and Jasper was run over and killed.”
    “I’m sorry, Celeste. I’ll send you a replacement.”
    “I’ll stick with two for the time being—the yapping was getting on my nerves. So Sparks left early. But not before leaving an impression. She’s very smart.”
    “Intelligence is a two-sided coin.”
    “And very curious.”
    “Another mixed blessing. Look what happened to that poor cat. Speaking of mice, how is Mike doing?”
    “He’s behaving.”
    The two women exchange tight smiles. They were in their early thirties, their plans already hatched, when Mike came into their sights. They’d been casting around for the right figurehead—someone attractive, electable, and malleable . A modern-day Ronald Reagan. Someone they could nurture and . . . mold. Congressman Mike Ortiz seemed like the perfect vehicle for their ambitions. And so Celeste went to that fateful fundraiser. She wore a tight black dress and just enough bling to make her sizzle, and introduced herself, wide-eyed and admiring. Of course he knew who she was, what she could do for his career with her wealth and network, but no one was faking the chemistry. They made a dinner date for the following night. It was the shortest dinner on record—why, they practically ran from the restaurant to Celeste’s Russian Hill penthouse, desire pulsing between them. The following morning, when he left for some dull community meeting in his district, Celeste immediately called Lily. The trap had sprung. And the rest, as they say, is history. No, her story . No, no,