Curious about the silver-tongued Texan, Addison eased her hand from Clint's and motioned to the sofa opposite the fireplace. "It sounds as though you two used to spend a good deal of time together," she said.
"Yeah, just me and Randall and our old friend J.D."
"J.D.?" Addison felt a sinking sensation in the pit of her stomach.
"Jack Daniels," Clint replied.
Randall strolled over to the bar and returned with a bottle and three glasses. Without meeting her gaze, he set the glasses on the coffee table and poured. "I thought you'd be back in Texas by now," he said.
Clint reached for his glass. "There's but one thing that can keep a Texan from Texas."
"Don't tell me you got married." Randall slid one of the glasses toward Addison.
She caught his gaze, hoping he recognized her concern that he'd poured himself a drink, but he looked away.
"Met a gal right here in Georgetown," Clint said. “We're not married yet, but I plan on asking her as soon as I get up the nerve. She owns a little bar and grill over on Wisconsin Ave. We've been together almost a year now."
Crossing an ankle over his knee, he studied the young man and woman before him. "You want to tell me what this is all about? You two look like a couple of rabbits holed up from a pack of coyotes."
Randall took a long pull of whiskey. "We're in trouble, Clint. I don't even know where to start because it's a wild story and you're not going to believe any of it."
The older man laughed easily, his hands corning down on his knees. "You're talking to someone who's been living in Disneyland for the last twenty years. I just about seen it all, amigo."
Trying to ignore her growing uneasiness over the glass of Whiskey in Randall's hand, Addison listened intently. Randall explained in detail everything that had happened, beginning with her search for her biological parents and their deaths ten months ago, and ending with the attempt on Jack's life and the fire at his office.
For several tense minutes, the only sound came from the drumming of rain against the window and the hiss of the gas logs in the fireplace. The room had grown chilly and she steeled herself against a shiver that hovered at the base of her spine.
"Jesus H. Christ," Clint said when Randall finished. "I don't do much political work anymore, but I've known for years Tate was a slimy son of a bitch." He rubbed his face and beard with big hands, then looked at Randall over his fingertips. "Mostly women, a few shady investments. But damn if the TV cameras don't love that good-lookin' mug of his. Imagine him running his senatorial campaign on a family values ticket. Don't that beat all?"
Addison hated to think that the man they were talking about was her biological father. A man whose image filled her with hatred, shame, and stone-cold fear.
"Anything we can dig up on him and take to the media?" Randall asked.
Clint shook his head. "He's got a whole army of P.R. goons dedicated to keeping him squeaky-clean. Especially now since he's announced that he'll be a candidate for the Senate in November. I take it you've gone to the police?"
"The locals back in Denver," Randall said. "Unofficially, the Wall Street Journal. But they're going to be cautious."
Clint nodded, as if finally understanding why they had come to him. ''They're not going to touch him without definitive proof."
"We don't have that kind of time."
"No, you don't." Clint's gaze slid to Addison, then back to Randall. "Tate's running a dangerous show. He's got a lot at stake. Everything, in fact. If he's running scared, you two don't stand a chance. I hate to tell you this, but you're probably still alive because you've merely been lucky."
"Here I was taking the credit," Randall said dryly.
Addison couldn't believe they could joke about something so serious. "That's hardly comforting," she said.
"Comforting's for mothers and whores." Surprising her, Clint leaned forward, put his hand over hers, and looked at her over the top fun of his spectacles: "But if you play your hand right, you can bluff him into making a mistake that'll cost him the game."
Her only thought was that it wasn't a game.
"I'm not willing to take a chance with her." Randall's eyes skittered to Addison, then back to Clint in a silent directive. "I don't want her involved."
"You know as well as I do that she's your ace in the hole."
Realizing she was gripping the armrest of the wingback so hard her knuckles hurt, Addison relaxed her hands and met Clint's gaze. "What do you have in mind?" she asked, forcing a toughness she didn't feel into her voice.
Randall shot her a nasty look.
"They always say the best defense is a good offense," Clint began. ''Until now, you've been on the defensive. Tate's not going to expect you to come at him." He turned to Addison. "Call a meeting with him. Play him a little. Tell him you'll go to the media if he doesn't meet with you."
"We've already gone to the media," Randall cut in.