After Midnight

“You can’t risk a personal attack on Seymour at this point,” Norman Lombard muttered through a cloud of cigar smoke. His dark eyes lanced the candidate, who was tall and thin and rather nervous. “Let us take care of anything in that line. My father owns the biggest tabloid in America and my brothers and I are solidly behind you, financially and every other way. You just shake hands and make friends. For now, worry about nothing more than the Democratic nomination. When the time comes, we’ll have enough to slide you past Seymour at the polls.”

“What if I can’t gather enough support?” Hewett asked uneasily. “I’m not that well-known. I don’t have the background that Seymour does!”

“You’ll have the name identification when we get through with you,” Norman said, chuckling. “My dad knows how to get the publicity. You’ll get the votes. We guarantee it.”

“You won’t do anything illegal?” the candidate asked.

The question seemed to be perennial in Hewett’s mind. Lombard sighed angrily and puffed on his cigar. “We won’t have to,” he assured the other man for the tenth time. “A little mud here, a little doubt there, and we’ll have the seat in our grasp. Just relax, Sam. You’re a shoo-in. Enjoy the ride.”

“I want to win honestly.”

“The last person who won honestly was George Washington,” Lombard joked cynically. “But never mind, we’ll do our best to keep your conscience quiet. Now, get out there and campaign, Sam. And stop worrying, will you? I promise you, it will all work out for the best.”

Hewett wasn’t as certain as his advisor appeared, but he was a newcomer to politics. He was learning more than he wanted to about the election process every day. He’d been idealistic and enthusiastic at the outset. Now, he was losing his illusions by the minute. He couldn’t help but wonder if this was what the founding fathers had in mind when they outlined the electoral process. It seemed a real shame that qualifications meant nothing at all in the race; it was a contest of personalities and high-tech advertising and money, not issues. But on that foundation, the election rested. He did want to win, he told himself. But for the first time, he wasn’t sure why.

It had thrilled him when the Lombards backed him as a candidate. It had been Kane Lombard’s idea initially. Kane liked Sam because they were both yachtsmen, and because Sam supported tax cuts and other incentives that would help his fledgling automobile manufacturing industry in Charleston. Mainly, Sam thought, it was because Clayton Seymour had taken an instant dislike to Kane and had done everything possible to put obstacles in his path when the auto manufacturing firm first located in Charleston. The antagonism had been mutual. Now, with Kane’s latest bad luck in having a sewage spill into the river, Seymour had attacked him from every angle.

Sam didn’t like dirty politics. He wanted to win the election, but not if it meant stooping to the sort of tactics Seymour and his mentor Mosby Torrance were using against Kane. The double-dealing at city hall had been shocking to Sam, with both politicians using unfair influence to delay building permits and regulatory requirements.

Privately, Sam thought a lot of their resentment was due to the national reputation of the tabloid Kane’s father and brothers owned in New York. It was increasingly focusing on politics and it had done some nasty exposes on pet projects of Senator Torrance. It had also made some veiled threats about going on a witch-hunt to drag out scandals in Congress, beginning with southern senators and representatives. That had been about the time Kane announced the building of his plant. It had also coincided with Seymour’s bid for reelection.

Having Kane so close to home was making Seymour and Torrance nervous. Sam began to wonder what they had to hide.

Nicole had driven her small used red sports car into the village market near the medical center to get milk and bread—the eternal necessities—and fresh fruit. She’d just walked onto her porch when she heard the sound of a car pulling to a stop behind her.

She turned, and found Kane Lombard climbing out of a ramshackle old Jeep. She wondered just for an instant where he’d borrowed such a dilapidated vehicle before the sight of him in jeans and a white knit shirt made her heart start beating faster.

He smiled at the picture she made in cutoff denim shorts and a pink tank top. That dark tan gave her an almost continental look.

“You tan well,” he remarked.

“Our ancestors were French Huguenots, who came to Charleston early in the seventeenth century to escape religious persecution in Europe,” she told him. “I’m told that our olive complexion comes from them.”

“I brought back the things you loaned me.” He handed her a bundle. “Washed and pressed,” he added.

“With your own two hands?” she teased.

He liked the way her eyes sparkled when she smiled. She made him feel young again. “Not quite.” He stuck his hands in his pockets and studied her closely, with pursed lips. “Come for a ride.”

Her heart skipped. She couldn’t really afford to get mixed up with her brother’s enemy, she told herself firmly. Really she couldn’t.

“Just let me put these things away,” she said.

He followed her inside and wandered around the living room while she put the perishable things into the refrigerator and the bread in the bread box.

“I should change…” she began.

“Why?” He turned, smiling at her. “You look fine to me.”

“In that case, I’m ready.”

She locked the door, grateful that she hadn’t any photographs setting around that might clue him in to her relationship with Clayton. Nor was there anything expensive or antique in the beach house. She and Clayton didn’t keep valuables here, and the beach house remained in the name of their cousin who also had access to it. That kept nosey parkers from finding Clayton when he was up here on holiday. Records on land ownership were not hard to obtain, especially for someone like Kane Lombard.

He unlocked the passenger door and helped her inside. “It’s not very neat in here,” he said, apologizing. “I use this old rattletrap for fishing trips, mostly. I like to angle for bass down on the Santee-Cooper River.”

“You don’t look like a fisherman,” she remarked. She clipped her seat belt into place, idly watching his hard, dark face and wondering at the lines in it, the silvery hair at his temples. He was older than she’d first thought.

“I hate fishing, as a rule,” he replied. He started the Jeep and reversed it neatly, wheeling around before he sped off down the beach highway. The sun was shining. It was a glorious morning, with seagulls and pelicans scrounging for fish in the surf while a handful of residents walked in the surf and watched the ocean.

“Then, why do it?” she asked absently.

“My father loves it. He and I have very little in common, otherwise. I go fishing with him because it gives me an excuse to see him occasionally—and my younger brothers.”

“How many do you have?”

“Two. No sisters. There are just the three of us. We drove my mother crazy when we were kids.” He glanced at her. “Do you have family?”

“Not many, not anymore,” she said, her voice very quiet and distant.

“I’m sorry. It must be lonely for you.”

“It’s not bad,” she replied. “I have friends.”

“Like the one who lets you share the beach house with him?” he asked pointedly.

She smiled at him, unconcerned. “Yes. Like him.”

Kane made a mental note to find out who owned that beach house. He wanted to know the name of the man with whom Nikki was involved. It didn’t occur to him then that his very curiosity betrayed his growing involvement with her.

All along the beach, people were beginning to set up lawn chairs and spread towels in the sun. It was a warm spring day, with nothing but a sprinkling of clouds overhead.

“I love the ocean,” Nikki said softly, smiling as her wide green eyes took in her surroundings. “I could never live inland. Even the freighters and fishing boats fascinate me.”

“I know what you mean,” he agreed. “I’ve lived in port cities all my life. You get addicted to the sight and sound of big ships.”

He must mean Houston, but she couldn’t admit that she knew where he was from. “Do you live here?” she asked.

“I’m on holiday,” he said, which was true enough. “Do you stay here, all the time?”

“No,” she confessed. “I live farther down the coast.”

“In Charleston?” he probed.

“Sort of.”

“What does sort of mean?”

“I live on the beach itself.” She did. She lived in one of the graceful old homes on the Battery, which was listed in the National Register of Historic Places and which was open to tourists two weeks a year.