“That went well.” Laurence Collins looked up from the small monitor discreetly recessed into the surface of his cherry wood desk and peered over the top of his thin wire-framed glass at his assistant.

“Yes, sir.” Donna Moulton was attractive enough, if a bit on the mousy side. Not short enough to be petite, not plump enough to be fat, not fair enough to be blonde; with her slightly rounded features, eyeglasses, and hair pulled back into a ponytail, she looked like millions of other young, single women from suburbia. Collins wouldn’t have spared her a second look on the street.

To her credit, she was a strong believer in the Path of Enlightenment, one of the most devoted in Collins’ flock. That graced her with a certain inner beauty Collins found alluring.

“Donna.” Collins noted with satisfaction the momentary flicker of hope in her eyes. “Send a fax of congratulations to Stonelake’s campaign headquarters. No—his limo. Let’s not allow him to forget his purpose. Or that we’re watching.”