Page 119 of Keep

She was tall—taller than Ricky in her heels. Dark skin, flawless makeup, a silver dress that caught the gallery lighting. Straight-backed, chin up, aware of sightlines. She held herself as if on stage. Young. Maybe twenty.

She was studying the Potomac landscape, and she said something Hank couldn’t hear, and Ricky laughed. Not the Ricky laugh—the one that filled rooms. A real one. Short. Surprised.

Hank approached.

“Senator.” Ricky straightened. “This is Zsa Zsa St. Clair. Zsa Zsa, Senator Hank Fortner.”

“The boyfriend,” Zsa Zsa said, extending her hand. Her voice was warm, with a precision underneath it.

“The boyfriend,” Hank confirmed, giving her hand a small peck.

“Lovely show. He paints water the way it actually moves. Most artists get that wrong.”

“Are you an artist?”

“Performer.” A quick smile. “But I pay attention.”

Ricky was watching her. He was performing casual—hands in pockets, weight shifted, the posture of a man with nowhere in particular to be. But his eyes kept finding her face, and each time they did, something brief and unmistakably unguarded moved through him.

“Enjoy the evening,” Hank said.

He moved on. Behind him, Zsa Zsa said something low, prompting Ricky’s real laugh again—completely enamored.

Chad found him fifteen minutes later. Flushed. Wine glass he’d been nursing for an hour.

“Diana introduced me to a woman from the Phillips Collection. I forgot how to speak. I may have told her I liked her shoes.”

“Did you?”

“Like her shoes? They were fine. That’s not the point.” A sip of wine. “I lose the ability to function around anyone with museum credentials.”

“You’re functioning now.”

“This is controlled panic.”

“In Washington, those are the same thing.”

The genuine smile—quick, cracking through. Then his eyes moved across the room and stopped.

Ricky and Zsa Zsa. Still talking. Ricky’s phone was in his hand, unused.

“Huh,” Chad said.

“You know her?”

“I know Wilson. Demarco’s kid.” Chad was watching Ricky with the bartender’s eye. “Ricky’s been different about this one. Quiet. He’s never quiet.”

Chad watched them a moment longer. Whatever he was thinking, he kept it to himself. The slight press of his mouth was the only tell.

“He’ll figure it out,” Chad said.

He turned back. “You’ve been to the back room.”

“I have.”

“And?”

Hank looked at him. Paint under his fingernails. The blazer he hadn’t wanted to wear.