Hot Ticket by Janice Weber Read Free Book Online

the older ones had passed through Berlin during my father’s ambassadorship there. I had sat on their laps, toyed with
     their buttons … now we all played headier games.
    “Quite a diner you run here,” I said after making the rounds.
    Fausto drew back a chair, smiling as a server appeared with my eggs Benedict. “Tell me what brings you, dear.”
    I swallowed perfect hollandaise. “Boredom.”
    “Ha! I’ll do my best to amuse you.”
    Enter Aurilla Perle. Today the senator wore a dress with a thick black belt excellent for tanning hides. As her eyes swept
     the room, she digested its contents with the aloofness of a tarpon swimming openmouthed through a sea of herring. In her wake
     was the beige assistant, in another prim suit. “Good morning, Fausto.” Two air kisses. Aurilla poured herself a cup of coffee
     from my pot, then extended a cool hand. “Still here?” She didn’t wait for the explanation I didn’t offer. “Perhaps you’d have
     time to hear my daughter now.” Her hard eyes sought Fausto’s. “Wouldn’t that be wonderful?”
    Host didn’t disappoint guest. “Leslie, do hear the girl. She’s amazing.”
    Aurilla opened her appointment book. “Seven tonight?”
    “Sure.”
    She placed a business card next to my orange juice before espying her next item of business, a congressman with a face full
     of pancakes. As she crossed the room, swinging her round hips, part woman, part wrecking ball, conversation dipped respectfully.
     Only Justine ignored her.
    “Aurilla knows she’s going to be vice president,” Fausto observed. “If Jojo cooperates, of course. Ah well, no one lives forever.
     Especially if they get in that woman’s way.” He leaned over my ear. “Be nice to her, sweetheart.”
    I watched Aurilla manacle the congressman with a handshake and icy smile. “Don’t tell me she’s a stage mother on top of everything.”
    “Who cares? You just received the hottest invitation in Washington. No one goes to Aurilla’s place. Not even I, believe it
     or not.”
    “Why not?”
    “She tries to keep her private life private.”
    “What’s hubby like?”
    Fausto momentarily stopped diluting his cream with coffee. “Hubby’s dead. He was a senator from New Jersey. Plane crashed
     in midterm. Aurilla replaced him and has been running the show ever since. Not one misstep in eight years. Marvel thinks she’s
     God and he hasn’t even taken her pants off.”
    “What about the girl?”
    “Gretchen? You’ll see.” Fausto dismembered a third croissant. “Aurilla’s the perfect VP for Bobby. With her on the ticket,
     no way he won’t be reelected, despite the bimbo problem.”
    Problem? Try addiction. About a year ago, Bobby’s inability to keep his cock between his own legs had nearly led to his impeachment.
     He had saved himself, as only an American politician could, with a tearful confession about temptation, forgiveness, and redemption.
     Since then, in a phenomenal display of fortitude, he had limited himself to one mistress at a time. “Au-rilla does have a
     certain probity,” I agreed. “Unlike poor Jojo.”
    Fausto sighed wistfully, as if Jordan Bailey’s demise actually saddened him. “Tell me about yourself.”
    I discussed my future engagements, neglecting to mention that Curtis had just canceled nine out of ten. Fausto reapologized
     for having missed my concert at the White House. We touched on Stradivarius, Sibelius, and Schnitzler as he occasionally tiddled
     a finger at incoming guests. “Were you always a music lover?” I asked.
    “Worse. I was a musician. Piano. I thought I was the reincarnation of Franz Liszt.” Like me, Fausto had studied with a great
     teacher, practiced ten hours a day, and performed all over Europe during his childhood.
    “Why’d you stop?”
    He cackled so harshly that all conversation in his breakfast room withered. For a moment I thought he’d choke. “Couldn’t cut
     it,” he finally whispered.
    “Lousy business,”