QUINTRELL RANCH
EARLY MONDAY AFTERNOON
"THANK YOU, MISSY," JOSH SAID, REACHING FOR THE SANDWICH MELISSA MOORE had put in front of him. "I didn't realize how late it was."
"Thanks, honey," Pete said as his wife put another plate in front of him. "I was getting hungry enough to start in on the leather-bound ledgers."
Melissa smiled at both men. "Beer, tea, coffee, soda, wine, whiskey, water?"
"Coffee," both men said instantly.
"Coming up."
Pete watched his trim, jeans-clad wife walk out of Josh's home office. Light gleamed in her fair hair and glanced off the colorful cowboy boots she wore. The Indian turquoise necklace shifted against her silk blouse and the full breasts beneath. The breasts, the tight butt, and the huge dark eyes were the legacy of her mother.
"Sometimes she's the image of Betty," Pete said.
Josh looked up from the ranch report, followed Pete's glance, and said, "Thank the Lord she didn't inherit Betty's taste for booze and pills."
Pete's smile flashed against his narrow, almost ascetic face. "Not my Melissa. She's as smart as they come and twice as gutsy."
"If it weren't for her keeping a lid on stuff here, I'd have talked the Senator into selling the ranch and living full-time in Santa Fe long ago."
"Never happen. Quintrells have lived here for six generations."
Josh shook his head. "This place is a money sink and a pain in the ass. I love Santa Fe and Washington, D.C."
"But you look so fine on horseback or walking over the fields with your hunting dogs and shotgun. Not to mention the ranch's yearly Founders Barbecue with all the cultural mixing and fireworks, costumes and deal-making. The photographers go nuts and the voters can't get enough of it."
The governor gave a bark of laughter. "Maybe I should make you my campaign manager instead of Mark Rubin."
"No thanks," Pete said quickly. "I'm a small-town guy at heart. So is Melissa."
"Good thing, or she'd be running for my office. That is one organized female you married."
Pete grinned. "A real terror."
Melissa returned with coffee cups and pot on a tray. She fixed each man's coffee the way he liked it, set the cup in front of him, and asked, "What else do you need?"
"More feed from less land, more rain on all the land, and peace on earth while you're at it," Josh said.
"Try church," she said.
"I do every Sunday."
"God has a lot to watch over." She pushed her long hair away from her cheek. "Maybe you should go twice a week."
Josh snorted. "You and Father Roybal."
Her eyes narrowed for an instant, then she smiled again. "He's not my Father Roybal. I'm a Methodist."
"Methodist, Catholic, New Age, they're all the same in one way," Josh said.
"Spiritual?" Pete suggested.
"No." Josh tapped a computer printout. "They all want my money."
Pete looked at the list of charities Josh had told him to prepare, along with the Senator's annual contribution to each. "Everybody wants money. Nothing new about that."
"Including me," Josh agreed. "Running for president is damned expensive, and neither one of you heard me say that, understand?"
Pete and Melissa exchanged fast glances.
"Of course," Pete said.
"Nothing you say ever goes beyond this house," she added, smiling. "Do you need anything else?"
"No," Josh said.
Melissa touched her husband's shoulder and walked quietly out of the room.
Josh was too busy reading the charity list to notice if Melissa left or stayed. When he was younger, her gently swaying breasts would have required that he get in her jeans. No more. He had more important things to worry about than casual sex. After he'd married Anne, he'd stayed monogamous. He hadn't enjoyed it, but he'd known it was necessary, like eating rubber chicken at a thousand fund-raising dinners. Today a politician couldn't set one foot toward the White House without having everything about his sex life vetted on the evening news. So, like Caesar's wife, a candidate was required to be purer than pure.
And eat rubber chicken with a smile.
"About these charities," Josh said, frowning at the list. "I think several million a year is way out of line. What was he trying to do, buy his way into heaven? Most of the biggest contributions began when he was in his eighties."
Pete hesitated, choosing his words carefully. "Considering the gross receipts of the Quintrell Corporation, the amount is generous but not excessive."
"Gross receipts be damned right along with generosity."
Pete started to object, swallowed, and thought better of it. "Whatever you say, sir. It's your money now."
Josh looked at Pete with the Senator's hard blue eyes. For a few moments he wondered if his accountant was the blackmailer, then decided it wasn't very likely. Pete was an outsider, and the only things worth paying blackmail for had taken place when Pete was in Florida discovering why girls had bouncy breasts. Melissa was an insider, of sorts. She also was the daughter and granddaughter of sluts and drunks who'd never thought further ahead than their next bottle. Hardly the stuff of blackmailers.
Winifred, however, was another matter. That old bitch was too smart and too mean. If anybody knew where the bodies were buried, she did. She also had plenty of reason to make the Senator and his son miserable.
All Josh had to do was prove it.
On the other hand, maybe the Senator was right to just pay. Even if every charity on the list was a blind for blackmail, it was only five million and change per year. A small price to pay for the presidency.
But first he'd make sure he had to pay it.
"I'm talking profit," Josh said. "The ranch is a charity case all by itself. I don't need to give millions to other fools who can't balance a budget."
"If you didn't make those contributions, you would lose up to fifty percent of the total difference to taxes of one kind or another."
"Which would still leave me with millions in cash that I don't have now."
"Agreed. It would also leave a long list of charities crying to various media about the Senator's stingy son, the one who wants to be president."
"Blackmail."
Pete blew out a long breath. "What is public opinion but a kind of blackmail? Your choice is whether you pay it or not. Some do. Some don't. People who want to be president-"
"Pay," Josh finished bitterly.
The accountant shrugged. His new employer looked really pissed off. Not a good thing.
"Okay," Pete said after a moment, "which charities do you want to cancel? The one that provides chickens and llamas to poor families in South America, or the one that opened a vaccination and prenatal care clinic in Africa, or the AIDs orphanage that-"
"Shut up, Pete."
Pete shut up.
Josh sipped his coffee and thought about possibilities. Only one led to the White House.
"Keep paying," Josh said finally.
Pete nodded and made a note.
"But while you pay," Josh added, "I want you to investigate every charity the Senator contributed to since 1990."
The other man hesitated. "Investigate? Do you think something is wrong?"
"Charities have public records. See which ones have passed along the most money to the needy, as opposed to entertaining wealthy officers and contributors at luxury resorts."
Pete nodded. "Got it. Then if you cut some charities from the list, you'll have a reason to give to the press."
Josh smiled like the combat soldier he'd once been. "Something like that."