Unfinished Business by Karyn Langhorne Page A

understand why this is such a big deal. It’s been a long day for both of us. You’ve got to eat, I’ve got to eat—”
    â€œBut we don’t have to eat together,” Erica reminded him. “And to be honest, Mark Newman, I’ve had just about enough of you for one day, so—”
    His face changed so abruptly Erica let the rest of the sentence die unspoken. The characteristic smirk that usually graced the man’s features slid into an expression Erica had rarely seen on any person’s face. An extreme tenderness and an extreme pain mingled in his eyes as his lips froze in a strained smile.
    â€œWhat is it?” Erica asked urgently, registering his expression in confusion. “Are you all right?”
    He shook his head, focusing his attention fully on her face again, and in that very instant that smug little smile reappeared on his face. “Of course,” he said, gathering himself to his full height and beaming down at her as though nothing unusual had happened in that half second. “My wife used to say thatto me, that’s all,” he said in the most casual of tones, like he was talking about the weather. “‘I’ve had just about enough of you, Mark.’ Katharine said that a million times if she said it once. In that exact tone of voice you just used. Said I was enough to try the patience of a saint.” He limped past her, indicating her little import. “Let me guess. Yours?” he gestured toward the bumper stickers on the rear fender: make love, not war, and It takes a village to raise a child. And Erica’s favorite: Don’t blame me, I voted for the other guy.
    Erica ignored him. “I can see why your wife would say that. What happened? She finally had enough and left?”
    He shook his head.
    â€œNo. She died. Shot in a holdup at a grocery store.” He tapped on the passenger side door with his cane, and to Erica’s surprise the lock popped open as though it had been jimmied. A moment later, the senator had folded his long, lean length into her car.
    â€œI—I’m sorry,” Erica stammered. “I didn’t—”
    â€œWednesday. Pizza,” he told her in that confident, Mr. Untouchable voice, and then slammed the car door and sat there, staring at her like she was his hired driver. “I usually have pizza on Wednesday.”
    Nerve. That’s what the man had. Pure, unadulterated nerve. It was almost funny.
    Almost.
    â€œWell, bully for you,” Erica muttered.
    He reached across to the driver’s side and rolled down the old car’s old-fashioned hand crank window. “What?” he demanded, like he was the King of the Parking Lot.
    â€œNothing,” Erica said calmly. “Except this ‘take charge’ bullshit you’re running on me is not going to work. Good night, Senator.”
    â€œCome to dinner with me, Erica,” he said, dropping drawl and drama for an earnest tone. “I need to know a few things to set up your visit to Billingham, and”—he hesitated a moment—“I’d like to tell you about my Katharine…if you feel like listening.”
    My Katharine . He spoke the name with such gentleness it was clear he’d cherished the woman as much when she was alive as he did her memory. Erica felt a lump of jealousy rise in her throat. It must be wonderful to feel cherished. If her own experiences and the experiences of her girlfriends were any measure, it was as rare as plutonium to find a man who knew the meaning of the word.
    Erica stared at him harder. He was smiling that little smirk-smile again, but this time she tried to see beyond that unfortunate habitual quirk of his lips to the man within. There had to be something beneath it, something deeper…
    But if there was any depth to him it all, it certainly wasn’t readily apparent. Erica hesitated. The last thing she wanted to do was spend another minute in the