That little scene yesterday was exactly the sort of thing Matt couldn’t abide, the very thing that made him want to drink himself into a catatonic stupor. If he’d had a brain in his head, he would have said not just no, but hell no, the night Tom and his pals cornered him at Stetson’s. He should have known that involvement in this project was going to aggravate him. And it already had, ten times over. Which was really a pity, because Matt actually liked the work. Honest to God, he did. He found the range of political issues intriguing, the challenges facing the state invigorating. He liked the men and women he had met since signing on, the ones who were affiliated with the party and liked to joke he had the potential of being the next John Kennedy. The ones who kept whispering words in his ear, like district attorney. He had to admit he sort of liked the sound of that . . . Matthew Parrish, District Attorney.
But Matt was beginning to believe that Tom didn’t have a stance on any issue that didn’t further his personal agenda in some way. He had yet to hear Tom speak or act in a manner that would indicate that he didn’t ultimately have his own interests at heart. He hoped he was wrong, and had stood silently by when Tom had hired Gilbert, a grad student with one pair of black jeans, some computer skills, and a dubious background in speechwriting (the son of an old friend and cheap, Tom said). Then Angie, the waitress from Tom’s favorite Fourth Street haunt who had just graduated from tech school and was going to set up a phone bank for him (also cheap with the added bonus of a nice pair of ta-tas, which was, apparently, the most important consideration for Senator Masters). And when Matt had tried to add people to the team who knew something about statewide issues, like Pat, a former state attorney for the education department who knew everything there was to know about education and the goings-on at the capitol, Tom shrugged and said, “She’s kind of old, isn’t she?”
Fortunately, together, Tom and Matt had miraculously formed a decent crew. But Rebecca Lear? The woman who thought she was God’s gift? Disgusted, Matt walked to his desk, fell into his chair, and propped his feet on the corner of his extra-long mahogany desk. He pressed the tips of his fingers together, stared at a painting on his wall of a bunch of cowboys around a chuck wagon.
Matt was still fuming about her hire. In fact, he couldn’t get it off his mind. Not that he couldn’t see why a philanderer like Tom would want a woman like Rebecca Lear hanging around—she was drop-dead gorgeous, had practically knocked him out of his socks when he’d first clapped eyes on her in the park. He would never admit it aloud in a million years, but for a brief moment (before she had opened her mouth and called him cheap), he was amazed that a woman who looked like that was actually about to speak to him.
Yeah, he could definitely understand how Tom would be captivated. He was a married man and had his dalliances from time to time, and Matt had considered the possibility that this was all about getting laid. But as he recalled Rebecca’s curves in that tight white suit and the long shiny black hair and those eyes, he was pretty amazed that Tom could even know someone like Rebecca. She damn sure didn’t seem the type to hang out with an old lineman like Tom.
So then what was she doing on his campaign? As a campaign strategist, the highest position to be held in this campaign? The very same position he held, a position for which there was only one slot before she came along and Tom created another out of thin air?
That was the reason why Matt had pulled Tom aside. “I thought this was a serious strategy session, Tom,” he had said. “So what’s with Miss Texas?”
Tom had laughed, cuffed Matt on the arm. “Nice ass, huh?” When Matt did not respond to that, and wondered if Tom ever heard of sexual harassment, Tom sighed. “Okay, do you have any idea who her father is? Ever hear of Lear Transport Industries?”
Of course Matt had heard of LTI. A person couldn’t live in Texas without knowing about LTI—it was one of the biggest homegrown companies around. But what that had to do with the running of a campaign had gone right over Matt’s head, and he had demanded, “So?”
“So? So she’s got a list of contacts a mile long. She was married to Bud Reynolds—you know, the guy with all the car dealerships? We could really cover some ground with her.”
“Okay. Take her money. Wine her, dine her, and get her to make some calls. But what is she doing here? What does she know about political campaigns?”
“I guess we’ll find out, won’t we?” Tom had said cheerfully, and when he saw that did not please Matt, had added congenially, “Hey, if it turns out she has shit for brains, we’ll lose her. But it seems worth a little ass-kissing to corner some of the biggest contributors in the state, and let me just go on record here saying that I, for one, wouldn’t mind kissing that ass one bit.”
Matt could only hope that she’d get tired of it and disappear. And really, what did he care, anyway? It wasn’t like it was his campaign. He should focus on his most pressing issue at the moment, which was getting prepared for an important hearing on the Kiker case. With a sigh, Matt shoved a hand through his hair, switched on his computer, and punched the intercom, asking Harold to bring him some coffee.
A moment later, as he pulled files out of his briefcase, Harold came striding in, steaming cup of coffee in hand. “Here you are, Mr. Parrish. Exactly as you like it. Black.”
“Thanks, Harold,” he said absently.
Harold placed it on a coaster—the little bluebonnet design facing Matt, of course—and pushed it carefully toward him. “Will there be anything else, Mr. Parrish?”