Power Curve Read Online Free Page A

press conference today,” Whiteside was saying, “with grace and dignity. Her elegant, but understated business suit—”
    Shaw flicked a remote control at the TV, turning it off. “They’re still looking where we want ’em to look,” he said. “So we survived after all. We won’t be so lucky next time. So remember, no fuckups next time around or someone loses their balls.” He looked around the room. Only the male members of his staff were nodding in unison. “Or their titties as the case may be.” Now everyone was nodding. He laughed. “It’s equal opportunity, folks,equal opportunity.” His staff filed out, taking his threat very seriously. He hit the intercom button to his secretary, this time swift and sure. “Tell Mizz President I’m on my way.”
    He hummed as he left his office. “Oh, my Gawd, how the money rolls in,” he half sang, half mumbled.
    Madeline Turner was working in the small office off her bedroom in the residence, the second and third floors of the White House. It was a comfortable nook, not rigidly formal like the better-known rooms, and suited her personality. Books and magazines were strewn around the floor in casual disarray, and she was sitting in the corner of a couch wearing a short-sleeved dark blue sweatshirt, matching warm-up pants, and fuzzy socks.
    “Patrick,” she called when he came in, “sit here.” She patted the couch beside her and took off her reading glasses. She laid the thick blue briefing book she had been reading on the floor.
    Shaw noticed that the TV in the corner was on and tuned to CNC, Elizabeth Gordon’s network. He glanced at the briefing book but couldn’t read its title. What is she boning up on now? he wondered. Turner was a voracious, very fast reader and could read and watch TV at the same time—a trait that bothered him.
    “I thought it went well today, didn’t you?” she began.
    Shaw settled his bulk into the designated spot and tugged at his tie, loosening it even more. “It could have been worse.”
    “The Liz Gordon thing?”
    Shaw dumped his chin onto his chest, not looking at her. “You shouldn’t have recognized her. She was out for blood and opened a floodgate.” He stood up and paced the floor, a sure sign that he was worried. “I ran the videotape. We’ve got problems with the press and—”
    “Patrick,” she interrupted, “we don’t have problems with the press. Not yet—the honeymoon, remember.” The tone in her voice warned him to drop the subject. She watched as he paced the carpet.
    He finally stopped and stood by the fireplace, looking at the small brass bell sitting on the mantle. “That’s thebell, isn’t it?” Turner nodded an answer. “I haven’t seen it in years,” Shaw mumbled, remembering.
    Maddy Turner had been a young, idealistic, and dazzled first-term California state senator when they first met. She was two years out of law school and had run for the senate in the East Bay district of San Francisco more as a lark than with any expectation of winning. Much to her surprise and that of both parties, she had won. Once in the California senate, the egos stalking the halls of the state capital relegated her to the sidelines. As the old men running the California legislature in those days liked to say, she was “marginalized” and there was nothing she could do about it. It was simply a matter of waiting for her defeat in the next election.
    Out of frustration, she had turned to Patrick Shaw, her party’s state chairman. From the very first, it was a political marriage made in heaven. Turner was eminently electable, and Shaw couldn’t be elected as an animal control officer. She could charm, Shaw could raise money. But no one was listening to her in the senate. Then Shaw gave her the bell.
    For four sessions, the bell sat on her desk on the senate floor, and whenever she felt her colleagues were ignoring or trying to intimidate her, she rang it loudly until they listened. While she made a name