"Methodist, Catholic, New Age, they're all the same in one way," Josh said.

"Spiritual?" Pete suggested.

"No." Josh tapped a computer printout. "They all want my money."

Pete looked at the list of charities Josh had told him to prepare, along with the Senator's annual contribution to each. "Everybody wants money. Nothing new about that."

"Including me," Josh agreed. "Running for president is damned expensive, and neither one of you heard me say that, understand?"

Pete and Melissa exchanged fast glances.

"Of course," Pete said.

"Nothing you say ever goes beyond this house," she added, smiling. "Do you need anything else?"

"No," Josh said.

Melissa touched her husband's shoulder and walked quietly out of the room.

Josh was too busy reading the charity list to notice if Melissa left or stayed. When he was younger, her gently swaying breasts would have required that he get in her jeans. No more. He had more important things to worry about than casual sex. After he'd married Anne, he'd stayed monogamous. He hadn't enjoyed it, but he'd known it was necessary, like eating rubber chicken at a thousand fund-raising dinners. Today a politician couldn't set one foot toward the White House without having everything about his sex life vetted on the evening news. So, like Caesar's wife, a candidate was required to be purer than pure.

And eat rubber chicken with a smile.

"About these charities," Josh said, frowning at the list. "I think several million a year is way out of line. What was he trying to do, buy his way into heaven? Most of the biggest contributions began when he was in his eighties."

Pete hesitated, choosing his words carefully. "Considering the gross receipts of the Quintrell Corporation, the amount is generous but not excessive."

"Gross receipts be damned right along with generosity."

Pete started to object, swallowed, and thought better of it. "Whatever you say, sir. It's your money now."

Josh looked at Pete with the Senator's hard blue eyes. For a few moments he wondered if his accountant was the blackmailer, then decided it wasn't very likely. Pete was an outsider, and the only things worth paying blackmail for had taken place when Pete was in Florida discovering why girls had bouncy breasts. Melissa was an insider, of sorts. She also was the daughter and granddaughter of sluts and drunks who'd never thought further ahead than their next bottle. Hardly the stuff of blackmailers.

Winifred, however, was another matter. That old bitch was too smart and too mean. If anybody knew where the bodies were buried, she did. She also had plenty of reason to make the Senator and his son miserable.

All Josh had to do was prove it.

On the other hand, maybe the Senator was right to just pay. Even if every charity on the list was a blind for blackmail, it was only five million and change per year. A small price to pay for the presidency.

But first he'd make sure he had to pay it.

"I'm talking profit," Josh said. "The ranch is a charity case all by itself. I don't need to give millions to other fools who can't balance a budget."

"If you didn't make those contributions, you would lose up to fifty percent of the total difference to taxes of one kind or another."

"Which would still leave me with millions in cash that I don't have now."

"Agreed. It would also leave a long list of charities crying to various media about the Senator's stingy son, the one who wants to be president."

"Blackmail."

Pete blew out a long breath. "What is public opinion but a kind of blackmail? Your choice is whether you pay it or not. Some do. Some don't. People who want to be president-"

"Pay," Josh finished bitterly.

The accountant shrugged. His new employer looked really pissed off. Not a good thing.

"Okay," Pete said after a moment, "which charities do you want to cancel? The one that provides chickens and llamas to poor families in South America, or the one that opened a vaccination and prenatal care clinic in Africa, or the AIDs orphanage that-"

"Shut up, Pete."

Pete shut up.

Josh sipped his coffee and thought about possibilities. Only one led to the White House.

"Keep paying," Josh said finally.

Pete nodded and made a note.

"But while you pay," Josh added, "I want you to investigate every charity the Senator contributed to since 1990."

The other man hesitated. "Investigate? Do you think something is wrong?"

"Charities have public records. See which ones have passed along the most money to the needy, as opposed to entertaining wealthy officers and contributors at luxury resorts."

Pete nodded. "Got it. Then if you cut some charities from the list, you'll have a reason to give to the press."

Josh smiled like the combat soldier he'd once been. "Something like that."

Chapter 11

TAOS

MONDAY AFTERNOON

Carly's stomach growled.

Twice.

Dan looked over at her. "Need a lunch break?"

She hoped she didn't blush, but she doubted it. "Considering that breakfast was a protein bar scrounged from the bottom of my purse six hours ago, yes, I need lunch."

Surprise came and went so quickly from his face that she couldn't be certain she'd seen it at all.

"Odd," Dan said, lifting a sheet out of the scanner. "The Senator is famous for his hospitality."

"The Senator is dead." Carly winced. She hadn't meant that the way it came out. "That is, there's so much going on with the funeral and, um, everything, that I…" She waved her hand and wished she'd just kept her mouth shut.

"I see."

And he did. Apparently he wasn't the only one in town who didn't want someone kicking around in the past. He wondered if that other person or persons was just being difficult, or if something darker was at work.

All things considered, Dan was betting on the dark side.

"Got any recommendations for a local lunch place?" she asked.

Before he could answer, someone knocked on the door and called down.

"Dan? You in there?"

"I'll be right up, Dad." Dan glanced at Carly. "Get your stuff. We can meet back here in an hour, okay?"

Her stomach growled.

"Was that a word?" he asked.

"Yes."

His mouth curved at one corner. The harder he tried not to like her, the more he knew he was kidding himself. Just by being herself, she seeped through his defenses. He still didn't know whether that made him glad or mad. It sure as hell made him uneasy.

While he shrugged into his shirt and jacket, she gathered up her coat and notebook, checked that her recorder didn't need a quick energy fix, and beat him to the bottom of the stairs.

"If you go up first, I can't catch you," she pointed out.

"I'll take my chances. The cellar door looks ragged, but it's plenty heavy. You'd have a hard time lifting it."

"After you," she said, waving him ahead.

A few moments later Carly felt a cold current of wind. She went up the stairs in a rush, only to collide with a solid body. Hands came out to steady her.

"Yikers, Dan," she said into his jacket. "You startled me. I thought you were holding the door."

"He is," said a voice that wasn't quite as deep as Dan's.

She jerked her head back and looked up. The man's hair was brown and silver, the shape of the face was different, he was inches shorter, and had flashes of jungle green in his hazel eyes.

"You must be Dad," she said. "I'd call you Mr. Duran, but a lot of families don't have the same last name from generation to generation."

He smiled. "Duran is correct, but call me John. You must be the stranger whose hair was the only bit of true color at the Senator's graveside."

Carly swept back the wild curls that kept wanting to lift on the wind. "I hoped nobody noticed."