Marty let out a huff and mumbled, “Are you kidding me?”
She clenched her jaw at the sight as he walked down the park’s path on a trajectory that would take him straight to her.
“Is something wrong?” Clark asked.
“No. Not really. It’s just that some guy I met at the Post Pub is here.”
“Is that a problem? Did he bother you? I can handle him.” The young photographer, looking like a strong wind might blow him away, stood a bit straighter but still didn’t quite equal Marty’s height in her wedge sandals. But the fact he was shorter than she was and built like a string bean didn’t diminish his bravado and obvious willingness to defend her.
“I appreciate that. Thanks. But, no. It’s fine.” She dismissed his offer with a shake of her head.
Peter Greenwood himself hadn’t bothered her, but his politics sure as hell had. Or, at least those of the morally inept senator for whom he worked. As well as the fact that Peter apparently had no problem with his boss.
“He bothers you, you let me know,” the kid, probably two years or so younger than Marty, offered.
“Thanks.” She smiled at him and didn’t say what she was thinking. That she could take care of herself. Especially against a man like Peter Greenwood.
He looked like he cared more about getting back to his desk than talking to her. In fact, she’d been shocked he’d walked over to speak to her at the bar.
She was even more shocked he was here today. What was a Republican senator’s lackey doing at a Greenpeace rally?
Maybe he was here to spy? Anything was possible.
Meanwhile, it was a weekend and he was dressed in a suit and tie as if he was heading to the Hill. Maybe he was. She didn’t know anything except that it was hot in the sun, even for her in a lot less clothing than his suit.
Marty lifted her hair off her neck. She’d chosen a sleeveless dress in deference to the late June heat, but she should have remembered to put up her hair.
Hopefully the speakers wouldn’t take too long. She supported the cause wholeheartedly. She had since the organization’s inception a few years ago when they first hit her radar as they took a stand against nuclear testing off the coast of Alaska.
But there was no doubt about it, she preferred action over gatherings. There were so many things she was ready, willing and able to do.
Plan a high dollar fundraiser. Lord knew she had plenty of experience doing that. Go door to door. She’d happily collect signatures. Or carry a sign and walk a picket line. Hell, she’d even board a boat to save some whales.
Marty would gladly do any of that instead of standing here and listening to speeches. But as a member of the press, she knew these rallies were good exposure for the cause and therefore important.
Her article about this event would be in tomorrow’s edition of the Post, along with Clark’s photos, to help spread the word about what Greenpeace was fighting against.
But her reason for attending brought her mind back to Peter Greenwood and his questionable and possibly suspect motivation for being here.
She was staring at the man, pondering that, when his golden-brown gaze met hers. Not that she’d taken special interest in his eye color at the bar the one time she’d talked to him or anything. But she was a journalist. It was her job and in her nature to notice details. That was all.
Peter reacted when he saw her, his eyes going wide before he quickened his stride as he headed in her direction.
“Shit,” she mumbled, then looked for Clark.
Luckily, he was standing up on a wall getting a shot of the crowd and hadn’t heard her.
Good. She didn’t need her associate rushing to her rescue and making an unnecessary scene. One man-problem solved, but the other had arrived and was now standing in front of her.
“Hey. Hi. Marty, right? Funny seeing you here, huh? What a coincidence.”
A smooth talker he was not. Although, his meandering train of thought was kind of cute—or would be if she were interested in him or any man. Which she wasn’t.
She was an independent modern woman and as such she was concentrating on her career. And in connection to her career, she was about to do a little investigative journalism.
“Is it a coincidence? Why are you here, Mr. Greenwood?”
“Peter. Please.” He smiled.
She didn’t respond to his comment and waited.
He shrugged. “I’m a supporter of the organization.”
She let out a snort. “Really? Why?”
“Why?” His brows shot high. “Because I believe in what they stand for. I have since seventy-one when they took a stand against testing in the Aleutian Islands.”
Her eyes narrowed as she evaluated if he was telling the truth. He’d certainly done his homework about the last five years of Greenpeace’s existence, but that could just as easily be so he could oppose the organization as support it.
“And your stand on whaling?” she asked.
“I’m against commercial whalers, no doubt. But I do think there should be special dispensation for the natives in Alaska. An entire indigenous population’s survival and their economy depends on whaling.”
“Killing is killing, Mr. Greenwood.”
“And as I tried to tell you at the pub, life isn’t purely black and white, Ms.—” He frowned. “I’m sorry. I don’t know your last name. Since it seems we’re not on a first name basis, perhaps you’d enlighten me?”
Inexplicably, she found herself staring at his perfectly shaped eyebrows that framed his golden brown eyes. Why were such perfect brows wasted on a man?
She knocked that errant thought out of her head and moved on to her next issue—her last name.
Being a Vanderbilt had been both a blessing and a curse. She’d learned that young. The name, and the money, opened doors. It also came with assumptions and prejudices, preconceived notions she’d fought to overturn her entire adult life.
It would be interesting to see how Peter would react to it now.
“Vanderbilt,” she provided.
She had to give him credit, he hid his reaction well, doing nothing but nodding. “Well, Ms. Vanderbilt, I believe in thoroughly considering all aspects and in doing so I often find there is no definitively right or wrong path in a situation, but rather the correct course lies somewhere in the middle.”
Marty felt her jaw tighten. “That was some fancy talking, Mr. Greenwood.”
How many politicians talked in circles to avoid a straight answer? Too many to count.
She expected him to rise to the bait, even get angry at her comment.
He didn’t. He smiled. “I suppose you can blame that on law school.”
“Law school?” she repeated.
“George Washington University Law School,” he said. “But my undergrad was at Penn State. I’m from Pennsylvania. And you? Where did you graduate from?” he asked.
That was all more than she’d asked to know about the man. In fact, she should just walk away. They had nothing in common except for their differences. Still, she found she couldn’t bring herself to end the conversation and not answer his question.
“Columbia,” she said, without further comment.
Again, he replied with a simple nod before glancing around them. “Nice turn out.”
“Were you hoping for less?” she asked.