Another Notch in the Beltway
Another Notch in the Beltway
AVN Publications
This book is a work of fiction. The characters, names, places, and incidents are the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, business establishments, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
ISBN: 978-0-9977273-2-6 MOBI
ISBN: 978-0-9977273-3-3 EPUB
Copyright © 2016 L.A. Long.
Cover Design: Ashley Victoria Nugent
Cover photos used under license from Shutterstock.com:
DC beltway, copyright © 2016 Sean Pavone/Shutterstock.com
Couple, copyright © 2016 conrado/Shutterstock.com
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying and recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher.
Historical romance writer, Lenore Held, AKA, LaSandra Lacy, feeling the need to step into the present century, both personally and professionally, has agreed to co-author a steamy contemporary romance with male author, MP Finnegan.
As sparks begin to fly, on and off the written page, the world around them turns into utter chaos.
Her son’s father, Senator Byron Maxwell, makes an appearance in her life after an almost 22-year absence.
Theirs was the proverbial bad cliché of a Washington romance: the gentrified, conservative, womanizing statesman and the beautiful, brilliant but naive, starry eyed intern, who had the bad taste to become pregnant with his child. He pretended they didn’t exist, until now. Now he wants something from her, something that isn’t hers to give.
Add to that a media play gone horribly wrong, a stalker, home invasion, and unhinged family members of the senator’s and Lenore and MP’s life together begins to resemble a book plot. Unlike a book, the turmoil that surrounds them is real and deadly.
Contents
Dedication
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty-One
Chapter Thirty-Two
Chapter Thirty-Three
Chapter Thirty-Four
Chapter Thirty-Five
Chapter Thirty-Six
Chapter Thirty-Seven
Chapter Thirty-Eight
Chapter Thirty-Nine
Chapter Forty
Chapter Forty-One
Chapter Forty-Two
Chapter Forty-Three
Chapter Forty-Four
Chapter Forty-Five
Chapter Forty-Six
Chapter Forty-Seven
Chapter Forty-Eight
Chapter Forty-Nine
Chapter Fifty
Chapter Fifty-One
Epilogue
Acknowledgments
About the Author
* * *
To new beginnings, second chances and those who recognize what a gift they are.
Chapter One
“Addy, I am sick to death of this Victorian romance stuff. I feel like turning Duke Thunderballs into Lord Blueballs. All the heaving bosoms and throbbing members are getting to me.”
LaSandra Lacy, yes, a pen name, was ranting at her personal assistant, Addison Connelly.
“But, La, you’re so good at it. You’re always on the bestseller list, people flock to your book signings, and preorder your works by the thousands. What’s not to like? You have critical mass.”
“Don’t placate me. I’m bored to tears with deflowering vestal virgins in the dark of the night or while fleeing on horseback to avoid some loveless marriage to a well-placed peer destined to cement the family’s place in society or shore up its financial position.”
“You write escapism, La, that’s what people want. They need a few hours of heated passion and romance. It helps to get them through their dull, harried lives. You should feel good about that.
“I’ve been watching the numbers and even with the economy in the toilet and half the publishing houses laying off thousands of staff, sales for romance books are up three percent and yours are up five. People can’t afford a lot of things but they’ll still spring for a romance paperback.”
“Who would have thought?”
“Hey, La, you’re in a place where you can coast. They want to re-release some of your backlist, kind of like a retrospective.”
“Great, maybe we can unveil a boxed set at the next Bodice Ripper Convention,” she quipped.
Addy, seemingly oblivious to the dark sarcasm, said, “That’s a great idea. I’ll mention it to Nikko the next time I talk to her.”
Nikko Martenstein of Martenstein, Martenstein and Hubble, the leading romance literary agency for over thirty years, was LaSandra’s agent.
“I was joking, Addy.”
“It’s still a wonderful idea. I think we’d need to go with three or five in a box; for some reason the box sets are never an even number, have you noticed that?”
“Toss in a vibrator, too, like a Cracker Jack surprise, a little pink one. That ought to increase sales.”
“I don’t think they can do that, La.”
“Of course not. The Victorians were supposed to be repressed prudes; that’s why they were screwing every bush in the garden! What would Victorian romance devotees want with a vibrator? They’re looking for that pulsing manhood to pop out between the buttons of Duke Thunderballs’s waistcoat and make them swoon! Addy, are you even listening to me?”
“La, I’m listening, but what are you planning on doing? Why ruin a good thing?”
“You’re still not hearing me. I need to do something different, something fresh, contemporary. I’ve had it with corsets and pantaloons. I want people to screw themselves silly and not have to worry about their virtue or social position. I want the female character to put her parents in assisted living so she can get her groove back. Her parents can take a bus trip to Las Vegas or Atlantic City and play keno while the little miss goes off and screws some Harley-riding entrepreneur who invented a better iPhone and wants not only to fuck her blind, but give her mind-blowing oral sex, too.
“I don’t want muffled cries of ecstasy because Lady Windsor might hear Lord Hardrocks and Lady Tightbud in the conservatory. I want Stone Mason and Marsha Moistcakes to come in a frenzy of loud grunts, groans and, okay, shrieking, in the neighbor’s backyard hot tub while they’re asleep upstairs. I need a change, Addy!”
“Then change, write a contemporary romance, better yet an erotic romance, maybe even under a new pen name. Anne Rice had Anne Rampling. I’m sure you remember the guilty pleasures of the Sleeping Beauty trilogy.”
“Yes, but Anne stopped at three, went on to vampires and witches, very hot vampires and witches, I might add.”
Chapter Two
Lenore Held, a.
k.a. LaSandra Lacy, was driving home from spin class, forty-two years old and looking for a change. Despite her success as a romance writer, she felt there had to be more. At least Lady Tightbud was getting it in the bushes. Her own love life was lackluster on a great night.
John Irving, the name should have been the tip-off, was more boring than… she’d say watching paint dry, but that was actually more exciting, because at least you got to see what the color truly looked like when it dried. Irving’s color was always nondescript gray, like once-snowy-white underwear washed one too many times. Lenore continued to plunder her vast store of words, both old world and this world, and could not find a word to describe him adequately.
Barbra Streisand and Bryan Adams were crooning on XM. What she wouldn’t give to have a man with a voice like that, whispering his urgent need for her into her ear.
What she’d get, if she got anything, from JI was straight missionary sex, by which she never achieved orgasm, he’d finish her off manually and be all pleased with himself. Foreplay consisted of his rubbing up against her, like a half-dead Saint Bernard and maybe, just maybe, running his hand down her leg.
He needs to go. I’d be better off with my fantasies and a large cucumber, she thought as she pulled into the garage. These pleasant musings brought me all the way home.
“Ugh.”
She noted her son’s car was in the garage and wondered what he was doing home. Lenore didn’t think he had a break from college. She hoped this wasn’t going to be a twenty-question night.
Nathan Held was twenty-one, a senior at Georgetown, majoring in International Relations. He was accepted to Yale Law and would start there in the fall. Nate was a brilliant, handsome, funny young man who until recently had never given his mother a moment’s grief. Even now, it wasn’t grief. He wanted something from her, something she couldn’t give him.
Two years ago, Nate began making noises about wanting to know who his father was. She was lucky the drumbeat hadn’t started earlier. But Lenore had sworn her silence on that front. Nate’s father was a major politician, a very wealthy, very married, very conservative politician who couldn’t keep it in his pants. It made her laugh now. It was the age old story, young intern, gentrified senator, late nights, stolen moments, intern gets knocked up, senator wants her to have an abortion, she refuses, so he buys her silence.
Money can’t buy a lot of things. But his money gave her the freedom to be a doting mother and get her writing career off the ground. By the time Nate was five, she didn’t need the senator’s money and invested it for her son. Nate didn’t even know how much money there was. He didn’t need to know now, but it would give him a good solid start in life.
Lenore’s career took off, but the senator kept his end of the bargain, and she kept her silence. Nate didn’t care about financial arrangements and promises of silence. He wanted to know who his father was.
She sighed. “Nate,” she called, walking in the door.
“Over here, Mom,” he hollered back.
She went to join him in the great room of their Yardley, Pennsylvania, home.
They met halfway and embraced.
“What are you doing here?” she asked, holding him at arm’s length.
“Not happy to see me?” he teased.
“I’m always happy to see you,” she replied with a warm smile that lit her vibrant hazel eyes. He looked happy. No sign of his being there to fish for information on his father.
“The admissions counselor at Georgetown asked if I wanted to help with the booth at the George School college fair, and I said sure. It should be fun.”
Nate was a graduate of GS, and he always liked to go back when he had time.
“That’s great. I don’t recall GS having a college fair when you were there.”
“No, we didn’t. The college reps would come and talk to anyone who was interested in the school. I think the fair makes sense so students can see a number of prospective schools. They might find they’re interested in one they never considered before.”
“I agree. Maybe you should go into college admissions instead of law.”
“Law is a good springboard for anything, Mom. I don’t even know that I’ll ever practice law.”
She nodded, ruffling his deep brown hair. “Whatever you do, you’ll be great.”
“You’re my mom; you have to say that.”
“No, I don’t, but I mean it. Do you have time for dinner?”
“I’ll grab something at the Hoagie Shack on the way over, but I’ll let you make me waffles tomorrow morning.”
“Chocolate, chocolate chip?”
“You’re the best, Mom.”
“You’re my son; you have to say that.”
Chapter Three
Nikko Martenstein was lunching at Lenore’s house the following Wednesday. It was their habit to trade lunch spots; the next one would be in New York City. It got each of them out of their respective habitats. The women were eating in Lenore’s sunroom; despite the cool day, the room was warm and bright. The sunny appearance was enhanced by vibrant yellow, overstuffed cushions that graced Victorian-style wicker.
“Lenore, it’s great to be here; maybe I’ll move.” Nikko always called her Lenore unless they were at an industry function, book signing, or other professional endeavor. She once told Lenore that LaSandra Lacy sounded like an aged whore who dressed in fuchsia spandex, crotchless panties, and feathered stiletto mules. They’d both gotten a good laugh out of the visual.
“You’d be bored after a while, Nik. I’ve known you long enough to know you need the excitement of the city.”
“Maybe, but since Howard’s death, it’s not been the same.” Howard was the first Martenstein of Martenstein, Martenstein and Hubble. They had been married for twenty years, and Howard was twenty years her senior. Even so, he was only sixty when he dropped dead of a heart attack a little over a year ago. They met when Nikko was his college intern and fell in love.
Lenore had always thought that Nikko’s internship romance had a much better outcome than hers, but as the years went by, she wasn’t so sure. At least she had Nate. Nikko and Howard never had children and now Nik was all alone.
“Come down and spend a few days; in fact, stay now if you want. The guest room is always ready. It has its own bath so you’d have privacy.”
“Can’t. I’ve got meetings, my clients, and Howard’s that don’t want Hubble.”
“When things calm down then. How is Hubble working out?”
Hubble was Nolan Hubble; he had joined M&M as a partner shortly before Howard died. He came from a large agency and had his own clients to bring to M&M. Lenore had met him several times and had found him friendly, witty, and attractive.
“Great, it’s the writers; they’re the temperamental ones,” Nikko teased.
“Speaking as a writer, if, God forbid, something happened to you and I needed a new agent, I’d be a bit shell-shocked myself.”
Nikko nodded. “I know that’s why Nolan and I decided that once we hire another agent, we’ll have a meet and greet and then do it at least annually so that, should anything ever happen to one of us, our clients have at least a passing relationship with the other agents.”
“That’s a great idea, but I still want you for my agent,” Lenore said in a mock whine of a temperamental author.
Her friend laughed.
“Lunch, as always, is wonderful. This sorbet is to die for.”
Lenore had made poached salmon salad for lunch and raspberry sorbet for dessert. The two friends were sipping Paul Hobbs Chardonnay. It was cool and crisp, making a great pairing to the salad. Lenore liked to cook and didn’t often get the chance, especially since Nate had gone off to college.
“Thanks.”
After lunch, they got down to business.
“Addy tells me you’re bored with Victorian romance and need a change,” Nikko said.
Lenore nodded.
“Do you want to abandon Victorian romance altogether or merely
throw something new into the mix?”
“I don’t think I could ever abandon it. Contrary to the way I carried on to Addy the other day, I realize I have a following, and they’ve been loyal to me, so I will continue to write VR for the foreseeable future. I want to do something else along with it.”
“That’s a relief. The way Addy sounded the other day, I thought I’d need to talk you off a ledge.”
“I did lay it on pretty thick. Addy is so literal I sometimes go out of my way to antagonize her.”
“Like suggesting a pink vibrator tucked into your retrospective gift pack?” Nikko smiled, merriment dancing in her eyes.
“Exactly, although I do think I may do a series of books about widows: young, old, in-between, and the many uses of a widow’s comforter, as they used to call it, to stave off loneliness or the desire to feel the engorged organ of a new suitor between her creamy thighs.”
Nikki was laughing unrestrainedly now. “God, Lenore, stop.”
“What? They were used by Victorian women to pleasure themselves, a precursor of the vibrator, if you will, but the term dildo, believe it or not, was a euphemism used at the time.”
Her friend kept laughing and shaking her head. “Enough,” Nikko said. “What do you want to write?”
“A witty, sexy romance with a strong independent female and an equally matched male.”
“Chick lit?’
“I’m not sure I’m quite there, but I suppose.”
“Would you consider working with another writer?”
Lenore cocked her head. “I never have, and I guess I never thought about it.”
“How about a male co-author?”
“Tell me more. I’m interested in hearing what you have to say.”
“You know MP Finnegan?”
“Michael Patrick, right?”
“Did you already know?”
“Wild guess with a name like Finnegan.”
“I suppose.” Nikko eyed her dubiously.
“Really, I haven’t even read any of the man’s work.”
“That’s surprising, too, but he wants to come out as a man and thinks it would help if he were paired with a well-recognized female author.”