* * * *
Bette watched Paul weave through the crowd, and considered this trio. Michael Dickinson, perceptive and rather intense. Grady Roberts, accepting and trading on his charm. And Paul. The man who said he believed in no strings and keeping his options open, yet clearly the glue that held the three of them together.
“They’re great guys,” Michael said, appearing not to notice when her hand jerked, dragging the wine glass an inch across the table. With an offhand directness that belied the scrutiny he focused on her, he added, “Of course, Grady’s a bit spoiled from having things go his way so much.”
Michael clearly liked Grady, yet had no delusions. “Probably understandable when you grow up good-looking, wealthy and smart and then add your own success,” she said.
“Yeah, that’d do it.”
She smiled. She liked his dryness.
He looked over to Paul and Grady at the bar. “I guess it’s understandable, too, that Paul’s the way he is.”
She felt her lips stiffen. “What way is that?”
“Oh, sort of a fly-by-night character. Not willing to be tied down long enough so anyone else can rely on him.”
“He is not.” She tried to keep the hostility out of her voice, but heard her own indignation.
“Isn’t he?” His quietness didn’t soothe her.
“He definitely is not.” What sort of idiot could be his friend for fifteen years and not see the truth about Paul? Why are you so angry at him for saying exactly the same things you’ve said to yourself? she wondered. “He’s devoted to his family and friends. Who’s the one who keeps all of you in touch? He’s a well-respected professional, who gives his clients honesty and impartiality. Plus he has the loyalty of the people who’ve worked for him.” At least the ones he wasn’t trying to drive crazy. “Look at Jan Robson. You don’t have that sort of relationship with an employee when you’re a ‘fly-by-night character!’ ”
“Don’t you?”
“No!”
“No,” he agreed.
The mildness finally reached her. The adrenaline surge faded and she examined Michael. His lips twitched and a dimple appeared high on his left cheek.
“You’re a rat,” she informed him. “A tricky, wily political rat.”
The grin completed its escape. “I just wanted to know if you’d seen through the Paul Monroe facade.”
“Facade?”
“Mmm-hmm.” He grew serious. “Not that he doesn’t believe in it—at least parts. That’s what’s such a shame.”
A skittering of panic trembled through her and settled in the pit of her stomach. Michael reached across the table to put his hand over hers. “He’s not always the free spirit he pretends to be.”
She thought she understood what he was saying: Paul did look beyond the moment—with people and responsibilities—but he didn’t want to admit it. And that frightened her, because it gave her hope.
“Hey, Dickinson, get your hands off my date.” Paul clunked down two glasses with a mock glare, but in his eyes, she saw something flare to life. A hint of possessiveness, of claiming? “Find yourself your own woman.”