Description:
Artist and Washington, D.C. socialite Mercy O'Brien Davis married for love and gave up a promising job as a Smithsonian curator to support her husband's diplomatic career. But while accompanying him to Mexico City, she learns her famous photo-journalist mother has disappeared without a trace in Ukraine. Desperate to find her, Mercy runs afoul of the U. S. State Department and stumbles into a maze of lies, crime, and international intrigue. When she appeals to her husband for help in locating her mother, he is strangely reluctant.
With her marriage already on shaky ground in the aftermath of her husband's infidelity, and the U.S. government ignoring her entreaties on her mother's behalf, Mercy accepts help from a mysterious American agent who enlists her to spy on sexy cattle baron Sebastian Hidalgo, suspected of heading a Mexican crime cartel. Hidalgo is determined to keep her from discovering his darkest secrets, even as he lusts for her. Manipulated by the men in her life, and their hidden agendas, Mercy wonders if there's anyone she can trust, and what price she will have to pay for her mother's safe return.
A love story. A tale of one woman's courage in the face of tragedy. And proof that nothing is what it seems . . . where Affairs of State are concerned.
EXCERPT
Chapter 1
Minutes before she walked into his trap, a warning prickle
danced down her back. The muscle along the right side of her neck twitched. Her
bare shoulders tensed, and she lowered the crystal champagne flute of Laurent-Perrier from her lips. Turning away from the two women she’d been chatting
with, she looked around the ballroom in the former Mexican embassy. For what or
whom, she couldn’t have said.
Except.
. . she really did feel as though someone was watching her.
Merely
being a blip on someone’s curiosity radar had never rattled her. Why now? she wondered. She was
accustomed to more than her share of attention as the daughter of a man whose
political career had become the stuff of legends, whose mother had captured not
one but two Pulitzers for her photo-journalism. A stranger recognizing her from
a Washington Post article about her
resignation as a curator for National Portrait Gallery, or even the recent
interview in Town & Country,
wouldn’t rattle her. This was a darker sensation. An uncomfortably personal
feeling of being scrutinized, with a purpose. Perhaps even malice?
Victoria
Mercy O’Brien Davis scanned the room but saw nothing at all threatening.
Guests
of the United States State Department packed the ballroom. Across the polished parquet
floor, beneath glittering chandeliers, spread a sea of chic couples and
singles—men in tuxedos, women in designer gowns, looking like they’d stepped
out of the Saks-Jandel display window
in the Watergate complex. It was impossible to tell who was observing whom. Or,
indeed, who hoped to be noticed. The
room exuded Chanel, and the occasional heady whiff of Clive Christian, not to
be had for under $2,000. per precious ounce. And pheromones. Oh, yes, Mercy
thought, lots of those involuntary signals of lust. Before the night was over,
a dozen new pairings would form, if only for a few hours of sweaty pleasure. No
place on earth was sexier than Washington, DC when the elite turned out for an
event.
But the
nastiness that had set her nerves on edge didn't feel at all sexy. Mercy
pretended to study the veil of bubbles rising through her glass, only half
listening to the young female lawyer and her partner as they argued over the
latest controversial Supreme Court decision. Aren’t they all controversial? To someone at least. She sipped from
her drink, let the cool liquid flow down the back of her tight throat. Took a
calming breath then accepted a delicate lobster canapé from the tray of a
roaming server.
It’s natural for people to be
curious about the wife of the man being honored, she reasoned. Peter Davis,
freshly appointed U.S. Cultural Liaison to Mexico, was one of the youngest
attachés in the State Department. Rumors forecasting an early ambassadorship
were already circulating. Mercy couldn't have been prouder of him.
Nevertheless, she felt like jumping out of her skin.
What the hell is wrong with me?
Taking one more sip of champagne
she excused herself from the other two women. Circulate. That’s why you’re here. She scanned the room for him. It
didn’t take her long to spot him. At six-foot-three, skinny as a Georgetown
lamp post, he stood above a cluster of guests on the far side of the room.
Among them, the mocha-skinned gentleman who was the ambassador to the U.S. from
Mexico.
She shook off the annoying
sensation of being a specimen on someone’s glass microscope slide and focused
on Ambassador Rodriguez’s strained expression. Even at this distance it was
obvious something had been said to irritate him. The possibility that the
source of his irritation might be her husband set her in motion. Although a
brilliant linguist, Peter sometimes misread people and, when excited, had a
dangerous habit of speaking before thinking. That's when she needed to step in.
He hadn’t grown up in a political household as she had and was still feeling
his way through the social minefield that was Washington, DC.
Mercy wove through the crowd
toward her husband, greeting friends and Peter's colleagues as she went. The
skirt of her Vera Wang ecru silk sheath whispered at her ankles, an inch above
strappy gold leather Gianvito Rossi heels. Without interrupting the
conversation, she slipped her hand into Peter’s. His fingers reacted with a
little jolt of surprise before closing around hers. He flashed her a
smile—white-white Chiclet teeth, ice-blue gaze that somehow always worked in
reverse to melt her insides. A shingle of pale blond hair fell over his
forehead as he looked down at her. He stood in brilliant contrast to the
dark-skinned entourage of the ambassador.
They had developed signals over
time. A gentle squeeze to his arm warned him that he might be treading on
sensitive ground.
“Cooperation is an absolute,” the ambassador’s
words snapped, taut as a flamenco guitar string. His eyes, black chips of
annoyance. “My country no more wants terroristas
crossing our shared border than does yours! But this trade agreement—”
“That’s what it’s for,” Peter interrupted him. “The treaty
will severely limit illegal transits between our two countries.”
“Not only that, Senor!” Rodriguez’s face flushed a
furious red. “If my president agrees to sign this document, it will become even
more difficult for my people to legally keep jobs in your country.”
Peter’s face went rigid. He
started to open his mouth, on the verge of committing political suicide, Mercy
suspected, despite her increasingly frantic warning squeezes. It wasn’t his
place to argue treaties with Mexican officials; if his boss caught wind of this
discussion Peter would be in serious trouble.
She stepped forward, the subtle
movement of her body, the flash of jewels at her throat enough to draw the ambassador’s
attention. “I’m not a scholar of international diplomacy,” she said, her voice
so gentle Rodriguez had to lean in to hear her, “but doesn’t the agreement
include a clause that protects Mexican nationals who already have work
permits?”
The ambassador tipped his head
to one side and observed her for a moment. One of his aides leaned forward and
whispered something in his ear. “Yes, of course.” Rodriguez waved the man off.
“Your point, Signora Davis?”
Peter, thankfully, remained
silent.
“So,” she continued, “rather
than removing their right to work, this agreement formalizes it. The new
wording may actually be a first step toward loosening restrictions along our
mutual border, making it easier for residents of either Mexico or the United
States to move back and forth more freely. For work, to visit relatives, or
simply to travel whenever they wish. I expect it will result in a boon for
Mexican tourism.”
“That’s right,” Peter jumped in.
He slanted her a grateful glance. “Think of it as cracking open a door that
will someday swing wide. The United States only wants protection from those who
are intent on perpetrating acts of violence.”
The ambassador looked
thoughtful. “I will need to study this document more carefully, I can see.” He
turned back to Mercy, lifted her hand and lightly touched his lips to her
fingers. “You have a delightful and intelligent wife, sir. My government will
be most happy to welcome both of you into our country.”
“Gracias,”
Mercy murmured. “We’re looking forward to Mexico City’s famous hospitality, and
to furthering cultural enlightenment between our countries.” She smiled. “Now I
really should say hello to a few of our other friends who are here tonight.
Gentlemen, if you’ll excuse me?”
Reassured that the rest of the
conversation would go more smoothly, Mercy moved around the room. Greeting
European diplomats and their spouses with traditional alternate-cheek air kisses.
Remembering when it was proper to shake hands with a male foreign dignitary,
but never with his wife or daughter. Welcoming others whose cultural etiquette
demanded only a conservative bow, avoiding the touching of bodies
entirely.
Working the room was her job,
one she felt confident performing. She’d begun this ritual for her father when
she was a mere six years old. By taking care of Peter’s social obligations, she
left the new attaché free to do his job—promote harmony and open communication
between the two nations, through a mutual appreciation of their cultures and
the arts.
Out of the corner of her eye,
she saw Vice President Gray waving her toward his table. He stood to greet her.
“Your father would have been proud to be here tonight,” he said with affection.
She gave the big bear of a man a
hug. Their families’ friendship reached back to a time when both Glen Gray and
her dad first took their seats in the Senate. Five years had passed since her father’s
death, but she always felt close to her father at moments like this. He had
been the ultimate politician, loving nothing better than an energetic debate or
a formal reception.
“Thank you, Glen. I know Peter
will do a wonderful job representing our country.”
“I do too, Mercy my dear.” He
patted her hand, his eyes sparking with intelligence. “I just wonder why a
clever young woman like you isn’t pursuing diplomatic service herself.”
She shrugged. “What are the odds
the State Department would assign us the same post?” Lengthy separations were
hard on family life—she knew that from experience. Each of her parents had
traveled for their work. And she did
want to have children. Someday soon. If she could convince Peter that his new
assignment provided them with the perfect opportunity to start a family, she'd
be thrilled. “I’ll leave the diplomacy to Peter,” she said firmly. “Now, if
you’ll excuse me, I have to make a phone call. Enjoy the party, Mr.
Vice-President.”
As she moved away through the crowd,
Mercy glanced down at the small, beaded evening purse looped around her wrist.
In it were the bare necessities—her favorite Crimson Moonlight lipstick,
driver’s license and credit car, car and house keys, and cell phone. Earlier
that day, Mark, her mother’s live-in lover, had called from New York City. He’d
been worried that he hadn’t heard from Talia for two days.
“Whenever she travels without me,
she always calls to say good morning and good night. This isn’t like her, Mercy.”
“You’ve tried calling her?” she
said.
“Of course. But her phone
immediately goes to voice mail.”
“I’m sure Mother’s just busy
working on her assignment,” Mercy reassured him. “She loses track of time when
she’s shooting.” And you’re a born
worrier, Mark. But she didn’t say that of course.
Mercy thought it wonderful that her
mother and Mark, an extraordinarily sweet man and English professor at NYU, had
found each other. Talia had been alone for too many years. Mark balanced her
high-energy life, brought her back to center.
“Where exactly is this assignment?”
she asked.
“Eastern Europe. Prague, I
think. She wasn’t specific.”
“Don’t worry, Mark. I’ll track
her down and get back to you.”
But then the day had gotten away
from her. After her first failed attempt to reach her mother, Mercy had no time
to try again before leaving for the reception.
Now she strode with purpose
across the room, cutting through bevies of well-sauced, gaily jabbering guests.
She slipped out through the towering carved-oak doors separating the ballroom
from the two-story foyer of the 16th Street mansion. Past two
uniformed security guards and into the upper hallway.
The building had been reborn as
a museum, the Cultural Institute of
Mexico, when the consulate relocated to Pennsylvania Avenue. At any other
time, Mercy would have welcomed the opportunity to study the amazing art on
display here. A daring self-portrait by Frida Kahlo, flashed past her. A mural
by Kahlo’s brilliant but politically tortured husband, Diego Rivera. She would
have lingered and lovingly analyzed every brush stroke with her artist’s eye. Before
Peter had come along, art had been her first and only love. Now, looking after
him and his blooming career, she had little time to paint or even to enjoy
others' work. But she didn’t resent the time she spent on his behalf. Peter was
like a little boy whose dream had come true. She was ecstatic for him. How
could she not be? His appointment and their relocation to Mexico City came at
an ideal time in their young marriage. For many reasons.
But now, she needed to find her
mother—to reassure herself, as well as Mark, that Talia was safe.
Standing outside the ballroom
she checked her cell phone’s signal. Only one feeble bar. Damn. Perhaps from the ground floor, near a window? Below the
ballroom intimate galleries stood quiet and empty, the museum closed for the
event. There she could speak and hear more easily, without the competing noise
of conversation and orchestra, which had returned from a break to begin playing
again.
Mercy descended the gracefully
curving staircase and ducked into the first room she came to.
All around her, more exquisite paintings—Orozco,
Siqueiros, Camarena, Tamayo—calling to her. She promised herself a few private
moments to enjoy the art after she reached Talia. And once they were settled in
their new home in Mexico City, she’d try to find time for her own painting.
Flicking open her phone she saw four
unwavering bars. Yes!
Mercy punched in a “2” to speed
dial her mother’s cell. Rarely did she have any trouble reaching her. She heard
one ring. But then the connection cut off. No cheerful voice from her mother.
No voice mail. Nothing.
“Strange,” she whispered,
staring at the words in the display: Call
failed.
“Man, I hate when that happens.
Don’t you?”
Mercy spun around to face a
stranger standing in the doorway. She glared at him in irritation. How rude! She debated responding to him
then decided she had more important things to do than teach a jerk manners.
END CHAPTER 1
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About the author:
Kathryn Johnson (aka Mary Hart Perry), author of over 40 published novels, teaches in Washington, DC for the renowned The Writer's Center, and is a popular speaker at many conferences and venues including The Smithsonian Associates programs and the Library of Congress. CEO of Write by You, a writer's mentoring service, she's an Agatha Christy Award nominee, winner of the Heart of Excellence and Bookseller's Best Awards. Recent novels include Victorian thrillers featuring Queen Victoria's daughters. Kathryn's new contemporary Romantic-Suspense series, AFFAIRS OF STATE, launches the first two titles in 2014. She is Vice-President of the Mystery Writers of America, Mid-Atlantic chapter, a member of the Author's Guild, Romance Writers of America, Sisters in Crime, Novelists Inc, and the Historical Novel Society.
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