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Dave wouldn't let up, waving him off.
"You're far too busy with all your important breakthroughs in robotic brain surgery, your band and humanitarian projects, Drake. I'd be more than happy to oblige, take Ms. McDermott off your hands."
"Either one of you would do fine," I said and smiled. Just then, Peter came back and put a hand on my shoulder, scooping me up and away from them. Dave made a telephone sign with his hand and mouthed call me.
"Nice to meet you Dr. Morgan."
"Please, call me Drake, considering," he said, pointing to my knees.
I gave him a quick smile and left them, limping off with Peter to the next group of wealthy suits.
For the next half hour, Peter introduced me around to everyone who mattered in the room. I was still recovering from meeting Doctor Delish, Drake Morgan, brain surgeon, bass player, philanthropist… Someone my father thought walked on water.
The conversation got going again, this time about new regulations governing tax shelters but my mind was occupied thinking of Drake. My father told me before of this brilliant young surgeon who ran his father's charitable foundation, using the wealth he earned from the robotic surgical implement business his father founded to fund charity projects in Africa. My father thought he was a stellar example of manhood. I didn't believe I'd ever seen a more beautiful man in my life. But if my father liked him, I could strike him off my list of men I would go out with. A Republican with social conservative religious roots, my father's kind of man was definitely not mine.
Despite being off-limits, Drake Morgan was imprinted on my brain. Later, I knew I would fantasize about him when I was alone in my chaste little bed back in my apartment in Harlem.
"Tell me more about Drake Morgan," I said to Nigel while we circulated, trying to keep my voice nonchalant.
"Why?" he asked, raising his eyebrows. "Are you interested?"
"No," I said a little too quickly. Then I shrugged. "My father's talked a lot about him, but I never really listened."
Nigel pursed his lips for a moment as if debating whether to say anything. "I know he's a very big supporter of your father's candidacy for the House seat and absolutely loaded with cash from his father's business. He's a Republican. I also know he's divorced and quite the lady's man."
"He is?" I frowned. Not my type, in other words.
"Quite. But he's rich and a big supporter of Africa, so I make sure to butter him up when I can, get us some of his excess money. It wouldn't hurt if you did, too."
"I don't like buttering people up, Nigel. I hate hypocrisy."
"I know, my dear." Nigel patted my cheek. "B
ut we need their money. Can you smile sweetly and stroke a few egos if it means we can fund more campaigns?"
I took in a deep breath. "I can be as fake as the next person if necessary."
"Good girl. Go out and rake in the donations. I knew you could do it."
We were talking about West Africa when I saw Drake Morgan standing on the edge of the group, watching me. I had almost finished my first glass of champagne, and my tongue was even looser and my inhibitions a bit muted. I tried my hand at buttering him up.
"People with influence have to step up to the plate and use their power to do good." I turned to Drake and looked at him directly. "Like Dr. Morgan, using his father's foundation to provide hospital equipment to Africa. Those who have the means should use them."
He seemed pleasantly surprised that I referred to him and bowed his head, touching his chest.
"My father was committed to Africa," Morgan said. "I'm just trying to fill his big shoes using whatever influence I have."
As that conversation ended, Nigel pulled me away and I noticed that Drake followed me with his eyes as I left to meet someone else. Dr. Drake Morgan was a rich doctor with family money. He was probably a lady's man like Nigel said, a jet-setting lothario. Self-absorbed, self-important. Dr. Dangerous. Republican.
My father's kind of man.
Not my kind of man.
I decided I would do the interview with Dave Mills instead of Drake. I didn't think I'd be able to stand interviewing someone that gorgeous. I'd send Dave a text later and see when we could meet for the interview.
My father didn’t show up for his own fundraiser until a few minutes before it was scheduled to end. A teleconference with several powerful types in the Party advising him about his run for the Congressional seat went longer than anticipated.
When he finally did arrive, I was just getting ready to leave, saying goodbye to Elaine and Nigel. Nigel and I were able to garner a pretty impressive amount for his pet project in West Africa, started after we returned two years earlier. My father breezed in and was greeted by Peter and others, who surrounded him, wanting to shake his hand and hear the latest on the campaign.
