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“But I’m a personal friend,” Ashley stated with a patient smile. She hadn’t spent the last two hours in the car to be thwarted by hospital politics.
“It wouldn’t matter if you were his mother,” the strict nurse replied, glancing up from the chart she had been studying. In the past two days she had dismissed five reporters, seven photographers and about fifteen “personal friends” of the famous man lying in room 214. Security in the hospital had been increased due to the celebrity of Trevor Daniels. The sooner Mr. Daniels was out of the hospital, the better, for staff and patient alike.
The nurse, whose name tag indicated that she was Janelle Wilkes, smiled warmly. “I’m sorry, Ms.—”
“Jennings. Ashley Jennings,” Ashley supplied.
“I’ll tell Mr. Daniels that you were by.”
“I’d appreciate it,” Ashley retorted, sneaking a longing look down the corridors of the building. If she could only have a quick glimpse of Trevor—just enough to ease her mind, so that she would be convinced that he was indeed recuperating and on the road to recovery.
She left the hospital in frustration, after giving the nurse her name and telephone number.
Ashley didn’t really expect Trevor to call, and she wasn’t disappointed. In the next few days, while school was ending for the holidays, Ashley had been in and out of her apartment, but either Trevor hadn’t called, or she had missed him. She suspected that the would-be senator had received her message and promptly tossed it in the trash.
She told herself that she would never try to contact him again.
* * *
His wound had healed to the point where he could take charge of his life again, and Trevor Daniels intended to start this morning. Ignoring the warnings from his concerned campaign manager, Trevor hoisted his suitcase from the closet and tossed it carelessly onto the bed.
He couldn’t wait to break away from Portland. His plan was simple. All he needed was a few hours alone with Ashley.
Hiding a grimace of pain, Trevor withdrew a faded pair of jeans from the closet and stuffed them into the open canvas bag. Determination was evident in the knit of his thick, dark brows and the hard angle of his jaw.
Everett Woodward, wearing an expression of disapproval on his round face, walked into the room and silently observed Trevor’s deliberate movements. He sipped his second drink patiently while he watched Trevor fill the bag with casual clothes. It was obvious that Trevor had a purpose in mind, a purpose he hadn’t confided to his campaign manager. Everett took a chair near the window in the master suite of Trevor’s home. The would-be senator had noticed his entrance, but chose to ignore it. Everett frowned into his drink, silently plotting his line of reasoning to deter Trevor from making the worst political decision of his life. The damned thing of it was that Trevor had never thought rationally whenever Ashley Stephens was involved. And this time, Ashley was involved. Everett knew it.
“You know that I think you’re making a big mistake,” Everett ventured, stealing a quick glance through the window at the threatening sky. The chill of December seeped through the panes. There was the promise of snow in the air.
“So what else is new?” Trevor retorted with no trace of humor. He threw a bulky ski sweater into the bag before zipping it closed and eyeing his uneasy companion. “You always think I’m making mistakes.”
“You’re a gambler,” Everett pointed out with a frown. “Gambling and politics don’t mix.”
“I can’t argue with that.” Trevor reached for his jacket and tried to change the course of the conversation. “I thought you were downstairs going over political strategy or something of the sort.”
Everett avoided the trap and concentrated on the subject at hand. “We’re not talking about some obscure issue here,” Everett reminded the lean, angry man staring at him from across the room. “Your entire political future is on the line—everything you’ve worked for. The way I see it, this is too big a risk to take.”
Trevor’s square jaw tightened and the thin lines around his eyes became more distinct as his gaze hardened. “The way I see it, I don’t have much of a choice.” The small red scar on his cheek seemed to emphasize his words.
“You’re not thinking clearly.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?” Trevor demanded. He paced restlessly in the confining room before looking pointedly at his watch. Through the window, he could see gray storm clouds gathering, their somber reflection darkening the clear waters of the Willamette River. Raindrops fell against the window, blurring his view.
Everett shifted uncomfortably in his chair and pushed his stocky fingers through his thinning hair. “Ever since the accident you’ve been obsessed with Stephens Timber.”
“It began before the accident.”
“Okay, ever since those phony charges last August, then.”
Trevor turned to face the short man seated near a small table. “The charge was bribery,” Trevor stated, his lips thinning.
“I know. But the important thing is that it was dropped.” Everett looked as exasperated as he felt. “Admit it, Trevor, that is what all this—” his upturned palm rotated to indicate the packed bag “—is all about, isn’t it?”
“Part of it,” Trevor allowed with a grimace. “The bribery was just the latest of Lazarus’s tricks. You seem to have conveniently forgotten that Lazarus Stephens was involved with my father’s disappearance.”
“Ten years ago. Idle speculation. No proof. Look, Trevor, you can’t become obsessed with that all over again.” Trevor’s cold blue eyes didn’t waver. Everett pressed his point home. “You can’t fight a corporation the size of Stephens Timber, for God’s sake! It employs over three thousand people in Oregon alone and Claud Stephens knows just whose palm he has to grease to get what he wants.”
“But Claud only works for the company. He doesn’t own it, does he?”
