Park Avenue Secrets: Marriage, Manhattan Style

Reed paused in the foyer of Alexander’s, grateful that Selina’s informant had been right.

Third booth past the wine cellar, partially screened by a white, marble pillar, there was Senator Kendrick. He was flanked by two gorgeous young women, and there was an open bottle of Romanée-Conti on the table. No surprise there. The senator was a fairly infamous womanizer. Not that Reed cared one way or the other. The senator’s personal life was his own business.

Reed strode confidently past the maître d’, rounded the end of the polished bar and came upon Kendrick before the man had a chance to spot him.

“Good evening, Senator.” Without waiting for an invitation, Reed slipped into the burgundy velvet booth, sliding up next to the blond woman, helping himself to a breadstick.

The senator’s expression faltered, but the woman immediately curved her red lips into a welcoming smile, and she draped a long-fingered hand on Reed’s shoulder.

A waiter appeared at the table. “Would you care for a drink, sir? Some wine?”

“Macallan eighteen-year-old,” said Reed. “One ice cube.”

The waiter nodded and withdrew.

“Reed,” Kendrick finally acknowledged with a nod.

“Back from Washington?” Reed asked.

“This afternoon.”

“I’ve been trying to get hold of you.”

“I got your messages.”

“And?”

“And my lawyers have advised me not to speak publicly on the matter.”

Reed cracked the breadstick in half. “Where my lawyers have advised me to convince you to speak publicly on the matter.”

Kendrick’s bushy-browed eyes narrowed.

“I was surprised to read about Hammond and Pysanski.” Reed let his gaze bore into the man he’d known and trusted for a dozen years. Not that Kendrick would be the first politician to go bad.

“As was I.”

“Something I should know?” asked Reed.

“Should we powder our noses, Michael?” asked the brunette woman.

“No,” said Kendrick. “Mr. Wellington won’t be staying long.”

The waiter set Reed’s drink down on the white tablecloth. Then he topped up the others’ wineglasses and removed the bottle.

“Reed Wellington?” asked the blond woman.

“In the flesh,” Reed responded, giving her a brief, polite smile.

“I saw you in the paper just this morning.” She sidled a little closer, her arm stretching out along the back of the bench seat. “You’re much better looking in color and three dimensions.”

Reed took a sip of the scotch, putting his focus on Kendrick. “Do you have something to hide?”

“What do you think?”

“I think Hammond and Pysanski were a very unexpected turn of events.”

“That makes me guilty?”

“That makes me look guilty.” Reed enunciated each word.

“You go down, I go down,” said Kendrick.

“Trent says we get out front of it.”

Kendrick shook his head. “I don’t want to close any doors.”

“What about the other?” Reed didn’t have to mention the murder and blackmail for Kendrick to get the point. “I want my family safe, and the more information you can provide—”

“Can’t help you there.” But there was something in Kendrick’s eyes. Something Reed couldn’t quite put his finger on. Would Kendrick have to take the Fifth? Was the SEC actually on to something?

Reed downed the drink. “This isn’t going to sit well with my board of directors.”

“Yeah,” Kendrick snorted. “Because losing the Wellington International campaign contribution is my biggest worry right now.”

“Do you have a biggest worry right now?”

“You mean other than the SEC charges?”

“Of which we’re innocent.” Reed watched closely for a reaction.

“Like that matters.” Kendrick pasted him with a forbidding stare. “You read the papers. You follow the news. Who doesn’t want to see a corrupt senator and billionaire go to jail?”

Reed spun his crystal tumbler. “Yeah? Well, I hear you can greatly reduce your chances of being incarcerated simply by not committing a crime.”

“That’s always been my first line of defense,” said Kendrick.

“Then let Trent videotape your statement.”

Kendrick shook his head. “No can do.”

“I’m going to find out why,” Reed warned. He waited a beat, but Kendrick didn’t respond.

Then he shoved his glass to the middle of the table and rose to his feet.

Six

Home from the enlightening stop at Alexander’s, Elizabeth stood in her kitchen and struggled to remember the last time she and Reed had eaten in their dining room. Rena was also a cook, and when they were first married, she would make sumptuous four- or five-course dinners. Elizabeth and Reed would indulge in a long, candlelit meal, gazing over the park, talking about the events of the day, their hopes and dreams.