It simply could not be

Kitt looked down at the four-year-old girl beside her. With fresh eyes, she noted the child’s dark hair lying in a familiar pattern. The perfect little nose with its faint sprinkle of freckles. The full mouth…

No! Kitt pushed the idea away. Mark would surely have told her if he had a daughter, for heaven’s sake. He was the most honest man Kitt knew. So what if this child’s father was also a reporter for the Dallas Morning News? Mark surely wasn’t the only journalist here to cover the Fourth of July celebration on the Mall.

“I want my daddy now,” the child said to her aunt, the young woman standing on her other side.

“I know you do, sweetheart.” The woman bent to kiss her niece, then looked up at Kitt. “I’ve paged my brother twice. Mark should be here soon.”

Mark!

Dear Reader,

When I visited Washington, D.C. (and nearby Alexandria, Virginia) I was enchanted by the magical mix of permanence and dynamic change that I found there. I loved the museums! The art! The historic buildings! But most of all I loved the people. There is something enthralling, electrifying, about a place where movers and shakers converge to shape a nation’s destiny. It seemed the perfect setting for characters as bold and confident as Kitt Stevens and Mark Masters.

But even the boldest and most confident among us occasionally experience the feeling of not measuring up, of being “not good enough.” We all have days when we think we’re not pretty enough, or smart enough, or strong enough. Maybe we disappoint an employer, a friend or a loved one.

But the worst form of unworthiness is the feeling that we’ve failed ourselves.

You hold in your hands the story of one woman’s triumph over that form of unworthiness. Kitt Stevens had to make a hard choice that left her disappointed in herself. And because of that choice, Kitt doesn’t believe in love anymore. She doesn’t think she deserves love. She even believes she’s unworthy to mother a child. But through the steadfast devotion of a very special man named Mark Masters, Kitt learns to believe again—not only in herself, but also in the power of true love. I hope you enjoy Kitt’s journey.

Darlene Graham

Your kind comments about my books are always appreciated. Visit my Web site at http://www.superauthors.com or write to me at P.O. Box 720224, Norman OK 73070.

This Child of Mine

Darlene Graham

www.millsandboon.co.uk

Because this is the story that first brought us together,

this book is dedicated with deep appreciation

to my very fine literary agent, Karen Solem.

CONTENTS

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

CHAPTER TWELVE

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

CHAPTER NINETEEN

CHAPTER TWENTY

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

EPILOGUE

CHAPTER ONE

KITT STEVENS was looking for a man.

But that wasn’t what brought her up short, thinking, Who is that? as she stood in the enormous Corinthian-style doorway, where she had been halted by an uncharacteristic twinge of self-doubt.

The man who’d caught her eye—handsome, young, virile looking—was definitely not the man she was searching for. For a whole lot of reasons. And as soon as that thought flitted across her mind, the memory of the worst day of her life flashed up right along with it. It always happened like that: handsome man; worst day. Like some Pavlovian response or something.

Kitt reminded herself that she needed to stay focused. Her fiercest opponent was prowling around this room, probably at this very moment undermining all that she had worked toward in the past six months. Even so, her eyes strayed back to the good-looking man hovering around the food tables. He was still watching her.

But the nervousness she felt now wasn’t the result of the intense gaze of an incredibly handsome man—Kitt got looks like that all the time, and dealt with them—and her unease wasn’t because she still felt out of place at these stuffy congressional receptions, even after a year in Washington. It was Marcus Masters—a man she’d never met—who daunted her. His power. His wealth. His influence.

She tossed her silky reddish-blond bangs aside, cranked her confidence up a notch and stubbornly reminded herself that even if she didn’t have the advantages Marcus Masters had, she was a good lawyer, and a good fighter, too. And, furthermore, she reminded herself, the cause she was fighting for was a critical one. Marcus Masters, powerful or not, would simply have to be neutralized.

She stepped inside. People in impeccable business attire, squawking like geese, milled about among the heavy Federalist furniture and plush Oriental rugs. Classical music tinkled down from speakers in the high ceiling, melting into the heated conversation below.

To Kitt’s right, heavy drapes were drawn back from ten-foot-high windows, revealing the Washington Monument in the distance, shrouded by a haze of summer heat and lit to a Titian glow by the sinking sun. The stunning view gave the country girl in Kitt a tiny thrill.

To her left, tables overflowed with exotic hors d’oeuvres, while waiters swooped around the room with trays of drinks. Lauren had outdone herself.

“Kitt! You’re finally here!” Lauren rushed up and caught Kitt’s elbow. “Jeff predicted you’d do your workaholic act and miss all the fun.”

Fun? Lauren, honey, Kitt wanted to say, if standing around eating the same old finger foods, talking to the same old politicos, is your idea of fun, then you really must acquire a life. Lauren Holmes, a devoted congressional staffer who spent her days—and often her nights—charging around the bowels of the Capitol in sensible shoes, was a fine one to lecture Kitt about workaholism.

Maybe Kitt had been in Washington too long—the polished lobbyist side of her emerged too easily: “I wouldn’t miss your little do for anything.” She jerked her head toward the extravagant spread, but didn’t permit herself another glance at the handsome man. “I thought this was supposed to be a simple ice-cream social for the congressman’s new interns.”

Lauren shrugged. “Hey. If the broadcasters’ association lobbyists want to pay Ridgeways to cater this deal, Wilkens isn’t gonna say no. Like I keep telling you, this is Washington, not Oklahoma.”

Ain’t it the truth, Kitt thought. One thing she had quickly learned, in Washington words did not carry the same meanings as they did back home. In this town, simple ice-cream social meant elaborate cocktail party.

“You know the ethics rule.” Lauren made quote marks with her fingers. “As long as the lawmakers are standing—”

“They can feed at the trough all they want,” Kitt injected. She heaved a theatrical sigh, mostly to relieve her tension. “So ridiculous.”

“You’re just jealous because your organization can’t afford to feed the hogs. Be grateful I got you in here.”

Kitt smiled at her. Lauren and her friend, Paige Phillips, were the two best roommates on the face of the earth, and Lauren also happened to be the closest connection to Congressman Wilkens. “I am extremely grateful. And I’m grateful to Jeff for letting me know that the enemy’s inside the perimeter. All I want is a chance to take one peck at each congressman or senator.” Kitt pointed her slender index finger. “One tiny sentence, one word before Marcus Masters completely corrupts them with his buckets of money.”

Lauren squeezed Kitt’s arm. “So behave. And look!” She signaled a waiter. “There is actually some token ice cream.” Then Lauren turned away to greet someone else.

The waiter lowered a hammered-silver tray bearing tiny waffle cones filled with every imaginable flavor. Kitt declined with a raised palm. Not that “Kitt the stick,” as her brothers called her, needed to watch her weight. Ice cream was just too messy to permit the kind of maneuvering she needed to do.

She hailed a different waiter and lifted a stem glass of French limewater instead—alcohol was also inadvisable—then scrutinized the crowd again.

There were a few lawmakers, all from Wilkens’s committee. A few exhausted-looking staffers. Some eager-looking interns. But mostly, there were sharp-eyed lobbyists like herself, including, of course, those who’d bankrolled this bash.

And, of course, the handful of beauty queens. One in particular was surrounded by a little cluster of power-suited men, all jockeying around the couch where the leggy young woman sat holding an ice-cream cone. Kitt sighed. Washington.

“How’d she get invited?” Kitt mumbled when Lauren turned back to her.

Lauren rolled her eyes. “Marcus Masters brought her.”

Kitt’s radar zoomed up. “Figures. Which one is Masters, by the way?”

“I have no idea what the old man looks like. Maybe he’s one of the multitude worshipping at the Shrine o’ Trisha. Look at her,” Lauren’s voice lowered, “perched on that divan like Scarlet O’Hara at Twelve Oaks. How does one woman, just sitting there eating ice cream, summon that much male attention?”

Kitt gave her friend a sarcastic smirk. “Could it have something to do with that teeny skirt, those mile-long legs and those five-inch heels? Just a wild guess.”

Lauren rolled her eyes. Short and full-figured, Lauren had to fight the battle of the bulge every day and she would look absurd in five-inch heels.

Kitt jammed one hand into the pocket of her tailored slacks and congratulated herself because she’d abandoned such feminine tricks long ago. Ever since—why did she always think about that time of her life at highly charged moments like this? She reminded herself that, though it had cost her dearly, her mistake had at least expunged Danny from her life.

“Even the men not in her immediate orbit,” Lauren mumbled, “are glancing at her from across the room. Trisha Pounds. Irk. Even good old Jeff and Eric look—”

“Struck stupid.” Kitt watched her two friends as they craned their necks to hear Miss Trisha’s comments.

Kitt aimed the rim of her glass at the cute guy by the food tables. “Well, at least there’s one man who seems unimpressed.”

Someone had grabbed Lauren’s arm, diverting her attention again.

The man by the tables was, Kitt decided, handsome enough to have any woman he wanted. In fact, Kitt noticed that Trisha kept glancing at him. Kitt smiled. The way he piled hors d’oeuvres on his plate reminded her of something her brothers would pull.

“That one looks more interested in the shrimp,” Kitt muttered when Lauren turned back to her.

“Men and their prime directives,” Lauren conceded. “Sex and food.” Lauren squinted toward Trisha. “I kinda wish I could carry off the short skirts and spiked heels—” she dropped her voice below the din of conversation “—’cause I’m sure not having any luck finding Mr. Right. I mean, not that twenty-five’s over the hill—but an occasional date would be nice.” She sighed. “All the guys I meet are so…geeky.”

Kitt listened to Lauren’s familiar lament with one ear while she searched for Masters. Her eyes trailed back to the young man at the food tables. Too young, of course. And what a stupid tie—Mickey Mouse? Probably an intern. His jaws worked like a chipmunk’s, bulging as he stuffed in shrimp. As if instinctively aware of being observed, he stopped mid-chew and shot Kitt a look with deep-set eyes that seemed to penetrate like lasers. His thick black eyebrows formed a sharp chevron for a millisecond, then he looked away and resumed chewing.

Lauren saw the exchange and elbowed Kitt. “Would you like to meet him?”

Kitt groaned. Lauren’s relentless pursuit of Mr. Right—one for each of them—was wearisome. “No.”

But Kitt felt herself blushing and took a quick sip of limewater to cool down, because the truth was, a bolt of electricity had coursed through her in that instant of eye contact. She sidled another look his way—he was assaulting the shish kebab this time—then she looked down into her glass again.

Definitely male-model material: neatly trimmed coal-black hair, square jaw, smooth tan skin. Tall. Built. And those eyes…

“Not only is he cute, that one is rich,” Lauren was saying. “Boy, is he ever rich—”

Another staffer broke in and distracted Lauren with some crisis or other, and Kitt’s gaze strayed once more.

This time he was studying her. Don’t ever stare at men. That was one of Lauren’s goofy rules for snagging Mr. Right. So, Kitt stared back.

When he didn’t look away, Kitt felt forced to, frowning and brushing the lapel of her expensive silk jacket with the backs of freshly manicured finger-nails. You do not have time for pretty boys with challenging eyes, she reminded herself. Locate Masters.

“Listen, I’ve gotta check on something,” Lauren said. “Be good.”

“I’ll try.” Kitt sighed as Lauren rushed off. She brushed her bangs back, and braced one fist on her hip as she concentrated on the task at hand.

Congressman Jim Wilkens, the ostensible host and the one with the power over her precious media bill, was still hovering near the beauty queen. Kitt studied Wilkens over the rim of her glass. He was a tough one to figure. So far, Kitt and her contingent had convinced the congressman that a bill designed to protect children from unsuitable media influences would receive popular support. Wilkens, closely flanked by his aides, Eric Davis and Jeff Smith, didn’t notice her, but Jeff mouthed “Hi,” and Kitt gave him a little wave.

None of the unidentified men in the room looked the way Kitt pictured Marcus Masters—the obscenely rich, absolutely powerful California media mogul. She wished she’d had time to pull up a file photo before she left her office.

She sipped the limewater, and her stomach growled, reminding her that she’d skipped lunch again, so she made her way toward the crowd around the food tables.

Unfortunately, the feeding frenzy at the sumptuous layout showed no sign of abating. Kitt had to squeeze into the only available space—near the fresh-fruit section of the buffet.

As she picked up an enormous strawberry, she felt, rather than actually saw, the man—the one who’d locked eyes with her—right beside her. Just as she lifted the strawberry, a tanned, muscular hand reached forward and their arms collided. The strawberry plopped into a dish of whipped cream, splashing a dollop onto Kitt’s sleeve.

“Oh…I’m so sorry,” he said, and grabbed her above the elbow. He snatched up a wad of paper napkins and started swiping at the sleeve.

“Gosh, I’m sorry,” he repeated while the grip of his strong, warm fingers penetrated Kitt’s sleeve and he succeeded in smearing the cream deeper into the delicate silk fabric.

Kitt, holding her plate aloft in the other hand, could only stare. Not at the fact that he’d made a mess of her brand-new lavender jacket. Not even at the fact that he’d grabbed her, a total stranger.

She stared at him because of the astonishing response she was having to his touch.

Shivers trilled up her spine, and she felt her face turning redder than the strawberries. And underneath the tailored lapels, underneath her modest white crepe blouse, underneath her sensible bra, her nipples had become as taut as rubies.

“It’s…it’s all right,” she protested, and wriggled her arm from his grasp.

He dropped his hands stiffly to his sides, managing to smear whipped cream down his slacks in the process. “I’m really so sorry,” he said as he grabbed more napkins and swiped at this new mess. “That’s such a pretty jacket.”

Kitt felt a split second of pity as she watched him fumbling with the napkins, then she quickly looked away, realizing she was staring at the front of a man’s pants. “Don’t worry about it,” she said. She turned and made a dainty business of retrieving the fallen strawberry from the cream with a silver spoon.

“I was trying to get some more of those.” He pointed at a tray of oval toasts topped with mounds of relish. “They’re great.” He was apparently attempting to smooth over his gaffe.

Without glancing up, Kitt said, “Yes, those are good. Bruschetta with goat cheese—a Ridgeways specialty. And they’re very healthy.”

“Shoot!” He snapped his fingers. “I was hoping they were unhealthy.”

She peeked up at him then, and was caught off guard by the most divine, flirtatious smile she’d ever seen. Ever.

He wiped his hands and held up a cracker. “Now, why do you suppose they call these things Sociables? They don’t seem all that friendly to me.”

Good grief, Kitt thought. Is he attempting to flirt with these goofy food jokes? Kitt wasn’t one to flirt. Deep inside she carried the scars of a relationship that had started out with flirting and ended in disaster.

When she glanced at him he quickly offered his name—“I’m Mark”—but not his hand. Maybe it was still sticky, or maybe someone had taught him at least that much etiquette—that you never offer your hand to a woman first.

Hearing the name Mark, Kitt felt her radar activate again, but dismissed the idea: This couldn’t be Marcus Masters. This guy’s obviously a nervous Washington newcomer. And he’s actually kind of sweet. She gave him an indulgent smile and returned to selecting some strawberries.

“Well, uh—” he leaned forward “—let’s see now. Do you come here often, and haven’t I seen you somewhere before…or, were we soul mates in a past life?”

She glanced up, and there was that dazzling smile again. She revised her assessment. Maybe he wasn’t so sweet. Maybe he was just another good-looking, arrogant guy on the make.

His grin froze in the chill of her silence. “Listen,” he said. His eyes, she noticed just before he looked away, were intensely blue. “Would you let me at least pay to have your jacket dry-cleaned? I mean, if you’ll give me your phone number, or I could give you mine—”

“Thanks, but that’s not necessary,” Kitt grabbed a napkin. “Excuse me, please.” She walked away, never glancing back.

MARK MASTERS PRETENDED nonchalance as he finished wiping his sticky fingers. Yessiree, that went real well. The first time in ages he finds himself genuinely interested in a woman and what does he do? Slimes her sleeve and makes stupid jokes. He watched the slender blonde in the lavender pantsuit as she walked away. She stopped to make eyes at some tall, skinny guy. Great. She definitely had that Washington edge, but her blushing cheeks had conveyed a vulnerability, an…innocence that he found very appealing.

He looked toward the couch where Trisha Pounds, the gorgeous anchor from Channel 12, sat poised. Waiting, no doubt, for Marcus Masters’s son to come and make his identity known. His father thought he and Trisha would make a “good match” and had chosen this opportunity to get them together. Mark would have to at least go and introduce himself. But eventually, Marcus Masters would have to give up running his son’s life.

THE WHOLE ENCOUNTER with that young man had irritated Kitt, but it also intrigued her. Maybe it was those deep-set blue eyes. Vaguely like Danny’s. To get her mind back on business, she sought out her friend Jeff, summoning him with an impatient jerk of her head.

Jeff Smith, Congressman Wilkens’s aide—brilliant, sharp-featured—was thirty-five but retained the ranginess of a fifteen-year-old. He ran marathons a lot. He biked a lot. He cross-country skied a lot. He did everything an unattached and self-indulgent male could do to keep himself distracted from the basic superficiality of his life. And he worshiped Kitt. He bounded across the room in six lanky steps.

“You called, Your Ladyship?” He folded his long arms across his concave chest.

It was Jeff who had warned her that Masters might show up at this reception, smelling of money, competing for the congressman’s favor, aiming to water down or even kill the new media regulation bill.

“Which one is Masters?” She didn’t look at Jeff, continuing instead to check out the possibilities with sharp eyes.

“Marcus Masters, of Masters Multimedia fame?”

“No, Mohammed Masters, the waiter,” she retorted.

“Kitt. Listen to me.” Jeff spoke each syllable slowly, carefully, as if she had become suddenly addled. “Do not hook horns with Masters. That man will chew you up and spit you out.”

“I’ve been chewed up and spit out for lesser causes. And I don’t intend to hook horns or anything else. I just want to size up the competition.”

Jeff sighed. “Have it your way, Joan of Arc. It just so happens I got introduced to Mark Masters right before you arrived.”

“Great! Where is he?”

“Over there,” Jeff inclined his head subtly toward the hors d’oeuvres tables where the young man, still glowing red, was standing alone, absently wiping his hands with some napkins.

Kitt was bewildered. “Him?”

“Yep. That’s Marcus Masters.”

“But that can’t be Masters. He looks so…so young,” she protested.

“Well. You don’t exactly look twenty-eight yourself, sweetie, but that doesn’t get in your way.” Jeff poured on that adoring look that made Kitt squirm. She enjoyed Jeff as a friend, nothing more. “Who would guess that a cutie pie like you is actually a dangerous legal shark?” He batted his eyelashes.

Jeff could be such a sycophant. But he had a point. Not that she considered herself any kind of cutie pie, but she was kiddish looking. Who was she—with her size four figure, her freckles, and her bangs in her eyes half the time—to fault anyone for looking young?

“But…but look at him,” she argued, mostly to herself. “That guy can’t possibly have a multimillion-dollar media empire.” Using Jeff as a shield, she peeked at him. The guy did have a fairly heavy five-o’clock shadow, and his shoulders were most impressive, but his face was as unlined as a statue of a Greek god. “That…that kid can’t possibly be the one who wrote those huge checks to the congressman’s campaign fund.”

“Well, he is. That’s Marcus Masters from Masters Multimedia in Los Angeles, California, developers of the promising—” Jeff cocked an eyebrow at Kitt “—well, some of us would claim, the threatening—LinkServe model.”

Kitt felt a little clammy. A little ill. “Damn,” she muttered.

“What’s the matter, sweetie? You look like you ate a rotten mushroom.”

“If only it had been poisonous.”

Jeff responded to her melodramatics with a skeptical frown. “Come on. It can’t be that bad.”

“Oh, yes, it can.” Kitt sipped the limewater, giving Jeff a pained look over the rim of the glass. “I just cut Mr. Marcus Masters, of all people.”

“Cut him?”

Kitt nodded, looking around for a hole to swallow her up, or at least a handy couch to dive behind.

“Cut him?” Jeff repeated.

“Yes,” Kitt hissed. “Blew him off. Gave him the cold shoulder.”

“Cut him?” Jeff insisted on mocking her choice of words instead of sympathizing over the mistake she’d made.

“The guy tried to make conversation, tried to apologize for this—” Kitt waggled her stained sleeve “—and I gave him the Miss-Manners-Please-Excuse-Me-You-Clod treatment.”

Jeff looked intrigued. “Why’d you do that?”

“He was flirting with me.”

Jeff touched his long fingers to his lips in mock horror. “That cad!”

“You know what I mean. He was acting like some kind of stud, and I thought he was just another lowly intern or something. Look at him!” Kitt whined. “He looks like a…a kid!”

Jeff grinned. “And you crushed his poor little ego.” He took a second to size up the younger man. “Well, if you rejected him, I guess I don’t feel so bad about the heartless way you treat me. Why oh why do you do all this rejecting, Kitt dear?”

“Danged if I know.” Kitt knocked her bangs aside with a punishing swat. But deep down, she did know. It was all mixed up, having something to do with her old anger toward Danny, and hence, toward all good-looking men.

Because he had no knowledge of Kitt’s past with Danny—no one in her present world did—Jeff had his own theory. “I’ll tell you why you do it.” He tried to take her elbow, but Kitt shrugged him off. She headed for a couch by the windows to collect herself.

Jeff followed and continued, “You’ve never gotten over being the only girl stuck out on that farm with no mama and all those brothers picking on you day and night. Here. Sit.” Jeff pressed her shoulder, lowering her to the prim little love seat. “Compose yourself. When you feel better, I’ll introduce you to Masters.”

“I think not,” Kitt said, keeping her face turned toward the high window. She glanced at Jeff. “New plan. How long is Masters going to be in D.C.?”

Jeff walked around, seated himself facing Kitt, facing the room, and arranged his long legs as best he could in front of the spindly settee. “The grapevine says a week. Word is he actually drove here. Besides his interest in the outcome of the media bill, he has relatives in D.C. or something.”

“A week! That doesn’t give me much time. But, okay. Can you make sure Wilkens invites us both—me and Masters—to that dinner at Gadsby’s next Tuesday? Maybe during dinner I can work in some facts about the bill, convince Masters it’s not as big a threat as he thinks. And I’ll pray that he won’t remember this.” She indicated the sleeve.

“I wouldn’t count on that, sweetie.” Jeff gave the room at Kitt’s back a veiled glance. “He’s checking you out right now. It’d be hard to forget your yard-long mop of red hair.”

“My hair is not red! It’s strawberry blond!”

Jeff raised a palm, grinning. “Hey! I’m not one of your ornery brothers. I happen to love your hair.”

Kitt ran a hand through her bangs. “I guess I’ll just have to…do something different with it.” She stood up. “Just arrange that dinner, okay? Now, if you’ll excuse me, I think I’ll make my apology to Wilkens for cutting out early and then go dye my hair black.”

Jeff smiled, assessing Kitt’s burning cheeks. It wasn’t at all like her to get so wrought up over a little social misstep. And it sure wasn’t like her to miss the opportunity to work a room. “Go on,” he said, waving a palm at her. “I’ll tell Wilkens you got sick or something.”

“And you won’t be lying,” Kitt sighed, and brushed her bangs back again. “Right now, I feel positively nauseated.”

She straightened her jacket and made a beeline for the door, permitting herself one last furtive appraisal of Marcus Masters. He was across the room, getting introduced to Trisha Pounds. Kitt studied his broad back as he reached forward and took the beauty queen’s hand. Who would have ever imagined this? That pretty boy is the media magnate!

CHAPTER TWO

DYEING HER HAIR BLACK might have been less expensive, and certainly less painful than this. The thing was called a cobra braid and was giving Kitt a headache before she’d even left the salon. But the elaborate swoop of braids was not meant to be comfortable, or even flattering. It was meant to drastically alter her appearance for tonight’s dinner at Gadsby’s Tavern.

And it certainly did the job. It was such a radical change from her blunt-cut mane and wispy bangs off a side part that Kitt found herself repeatedly checking the rearview mirror on the way home. Even the color of her hair looked different. The foreign hairdresser had kept patting it. “Thees braids you can shawmpooo and keep, yes?” Delightful news, Kitt thought, since she already wanted to rip them out.

She had dressed carefully. “Elegant casual” is how Lauren described her sleek black pantsuit, creamy silk shell and demure pearls.

The two-hundred-year-old town house that Kitt shared with her roommates, Lauren and Paige, who also worked on the Hill, was within walking distance of Gadsby’s. She decided to save herself the frustration of hunting for a parking place in crowded Old Town.

The oppressive midday heat had subsided, and she drew in a deep breath, savoring the oily sweet scent of colonial boxwood, a fragrance she loved, along with everything else about historic Alexandria, Virginia. The hand-lettered wooden signs hanging at right angles over the antique shops. The softly glowing colonial-style street lamps. The brick sidewalks and cobblestone streets. All this quaint charm only six miles from the gritty hustle and bustle of urban D.C.

She brushed the top of a boxwood hedge with her fingertips as she mapped out her strategy for the evening—convincing Marcus Masters that the new media bill posed no threat to Masters Multimedia. Convincing him, in fact, that adequate regulation would actually make his latest product easier to market. A tall order.

But Kitt loved a challenge, especially when it meant going up against good old boys like Marcus Masters.

“Go for the gonads, honey,” she had often advised her grieving divorce clients back in Tulsa, where she got her start in the law firm of Kinser, Geotch and Baines. The KGB of divorce firms, their opponents called them.

They’d stop sniveling then—those abandoned and abused and betrayed wives—and stare at her over their soggy shredded Kleenex. And then slowly, like a new day dawning, they’d smile. Kitt always treasured that first smile of recovery.

It was at KGB that Kitt discovered she loved to make the smiles of the underdog permanent, that she was good at defending the defenseless, that she could fight, when her clients wouldn’t—couldn’t—fight for themselves. And of course, it was there that she learned to go after the money. She got so skilled at it that male lawyers facing a messy divorce actually started retaining her to ensure that she couldn’t go after their gonads.

She permitted herself a flicker of a smile at the memories, but nowadays she funneled all of that skill and energy into championing the Coalition for Responsible Media. Unlike divorce law, she found her new work—lobbying for an organization that was trying to enact sensible controls over the media—uplifting.

She rounded a corner and Gadsby’s Tavern came into view. An ancient narrow three-story facade, it housed a museum and one of the finest restaurants in Old Town. Only the best for Congressman Jim Wilkens and crew.

She checked her watch, glanced up the sidewalk, and spotted none other than Marcus Masters, pumping coins into a parking meter beside a silver Lexus LS 400.

She watched his movements: a slight bend to his knees, his muscled shoulders and thighs bulging even in his tailored suit, his large hands depositing coins in the meter and turning the knob in one brisk motion.

Wow, she thought reflexively, then smiled. This was her chance to disarm the mighty Mr. Masters with a small kindness.

“In precisely two hours you’ll have a big fat parking ticket,” she said as she walked up behind him.

When he turned and frowned, Kitt felt her knees go a little quaky. Even frowning, he was extraordinarily handsome.

She inclined her head. “You’re Marcus Masters, aren’t you?”

“I’m Mark.” He smiled and nodded. In the dusky evening light the white of his teeth and his shirt collar seemed to glow against his tan skin. She reached up to brush her bangs back before she remembered they weren’t there, then brought her hand down to her side self-consciously.

“And you’ll be joining Congressman Wilkens at Gadsby’s Tavern?” she continued.

He nodded. “Have we met?” he said. “I’m sorry. I…I don’t recall.”

Thank heavens, Kitt thought. She extended her hand. “I’m Kitt…I’m a friend of Jeff Smith’s. The congressman’s aide?” This was true. She was Jeff’s friend. Masters didn’t need to know about her position at the Coalition for Responsible Media. Not yet.

He smiled broadly and Kitt was relieved to see no hint of recognition in his eyes. “Nice to meet you, Kitt,” he said as he enclosed her hand in his firm, muscular, my-oh-my-so-very-warm one. In that instant of touch her eyes took in the immaculately trimmed nails, the few spiky dark hairs on tanned skin, the crisp white cuff. And in that instant she felt it again—the unmistakable and, for Kitt, dreaded, sexual electricity.

He released her hand, still smiling that wonderful smile. “I’m glad I’m in the right place. The streets here are…well…confusing to an out-of-towner.”

“Yes,” Kitt agreed, remembering her excuse for approaching him. “And you’ve only got two hours on that meter.” She pointed. “They’ll ticket you then. And tow you eventually. Alexandria cops don’t care if it’s a clunker or a Rolls.”

“Oh, yeah?” He looked at the meter, then back at her.

He rubbed his square jaw, frowning most appealingly. “Then I guess I’ll have to put more money in the meter later.”

“Feeding the meter won’t save you,” Kitt advised. “Tell you what—” she looked at her watch “—there’s time to walk over to the Ramsey House—the visitors’ center. We’ll get you an extended parking pass, since you have an out-of-state tag—” His tag was from Oklahoma? That’s odd. But it would be imprudent to let on that she knew enough to ask, Shouldn’t it be California? “The pass will let you park here as long as you wish.”

Again, he smiled that gorgeous smile. “Thanks. That’s really nice of you.”

Kitt felt embarrassed by his gratitude, knowing her motive wasn’t hospitality so much as manipulation. “It’s just a couple of blocks. This way.”

He jammed his hands in his pockets as he strolled beside her, appearing to observe his surroundings—and her—with genuine interest. “Old Town is really fascinating.” He took in a huge breath as if trying to inhale the history. “Do you live here?” he asked.

“Down near the river, a few blocks.” She pointed east.

“How do you like Alexandria?”

“It’s charming. I guess Congressman Wilkens wanted to get away from the Hill tonight.”

“Have you lived here long?”

As they walked and talked she realized that he had a knack for open-ended questions that sounded simple, but that elicited more information than Kitt intended to give. By the time they’d completed their stroll to the Ramsey House, he’d discovered that she had lived in Washington less than a year, that she was part Irish and part Scottish, and that she was originally from a small town called Cherokee, Oklahoma.

But even when she mentioned her connection to Oklahoma, he didn’t volunteer any information about himself or his Oklahoma car tag.

As they climbed the narrow flagstone steps to the garden in front of the Ramsey House, Kitt was ready to focus the conversation back on him.

“Tell me, how did you get to be such a force in the media at such a young age?” She glanced at him over her shoulder.

“A force?” He smiled crookedly at the mounds of colorful impatiens in the planter beside him. “I wouldn’t say I’m any kind of force yet, but I’m working on it.”

Kitt stopped in her tracks and looked down at him. A man who owned eighty-six diversified media companies, with almost two thousand employees, didn’t consider himself a force in the media? His answer made no sense, but his demeanor seemed utterly sincere.

She studied the top of his dark hair while he rubbed a tiny red flower petal between thumb and finger. “Working on it?” she said quietly. “That’s an incredibly modest way to describe your position.”

He raised his eyes. The devastating blue was shadowed with confusion, but otherwise his expression was as innocent and fresh as the garden around them. “Not really,” he said. “I am just getting started.” He turned his attention back to the flowers. “What’re these called? They sure are pretty.”

She was so stunned by his comment—just getting started?—that she simply answered distractedly, “New Guinea impatiens,” as she watched his strong fingers caressing the delicate petals.

He squinted up at her. “Do you always wear your hair like that?” Another question out of the blue, this one troubling.

“No.” She blushed and touched her hair, worrying that he was remembering her as the rude woman at the hors d’oeuvre table the other night.

But he only smiled. “This garden is really neat,” he said.

“Yes, it’s lovely.” She turned and proceeded up the steps, feeling unsettled. Marcus Masters was the most baffling man she’d ever met, and, Kitt noted, he had neatly eluded her original question.

Conversation on the walk back to Gadsby’s consisted of Mark’s polite comments about their charming surroundings and Kitt’s knowledgeable responses. She told him about Georgian, Federalist and Victorian architecture. She told him about a ghost legend. She told him where the best restaurants were.

But the entire time, the conversation was overshadowed by Kitt’s uncomfortable feeling that something about Marcus Masters did not add up.

And every time their eyes met, Kitt thought she might melt into the sidewalk. And for her, the chemistry between them was wholly unanticipated. Wholly unwelcome.

As they walked into Gadsby’s, he said, “Let me guess. Federalist classical influence.”

“Yes!” He certainly caught on quickly. “The symmetry reflects the conviction of that period that—”

“—there’s order in the universe.”

“Exactly,” she said. “And see the bar? It’s actually a small cage to keep the ruffians away from the hootch. Hence the term barkeeper.”

“Neat.”

The guy kept saying “neat.”

And Kitt kept thinking, Something’s wrong.

They wound their way through the tables in the taproom, then past smaller dining rooms painted in colonial colors to a private one, where, amid glowing candles and dark plank flooring, they found the congressman’s intimate party of eight.

Oh dear, Kitt thought. The walk to the Ramsey took longer than I calculated. The waiter was already opening a second bottle of Pouilly Fuisse Latour. But no one, least of all the congressman, seemed perturbed at their tardiness. In fact, Marcus Masters was greeted effusively, like some long-lost son.

“Mark! Glad you made it!” the congressman said as he stood. “It looks like you’ve already met Kitt.” He gave her a passing smile, then grabbed Mark’s elbow and introduced him to the others at the table.

Kitt was determined to keep a low profile until she saw the right moment to make her point. She tried to seat herself quickly, but Mark dashed around the table to hold her chair, then he sat directly across from her, boring a hole through her with those blue eyes. Kitt’s pulse raced. She decided to skip the wine.

So did he, she noticed.

Her uneasiness persisted while salad was served and even as they nibbled on George Washington roast duck. A lute guitarist plucked out period songs while Congressman Wilkens dominated the table talk. The old man reviewed the latest controversy over violent and sexually explicit music, videos and Internet content, explaining the workings of the new media regulation bill intended to address the problem.

Preaching to the choir, Kitt thought. She, in particular, knew these arguments by heart. She had constructed most of them. Wilkens was obviously yak-king for Masters’s sake. Trying to convince him that the bill was fair, so Masters wouldn’t turn his money toward defeating it…and by extension, the congressman.

She tried to relax, happy to let Wilkens do the talking. But she cringed a bit every time her pal Jeff opened his mouth, even though she’d warned him not to betray her connection to the Coalition for Responsible Media. A couple of times she caught herself touching her weird braids and she swore Masters glanced at her when she did. He gave her a funny little look. Almost…amused, and it made her jumpy.

Otherwise Masters said nothing, looked gorgeous and shoveled in food. Only when he’d scraped the last crumb of English trifle from his dessert plate did he lay aside his fork and speak. Not to the congressman. To Kitt.

“Tell me, Ms. Stevens,” he said, nailing her with those intense blue eyes, “why doesn’t the Coalition for Responsible Media expend its energies supporting technologies like LinkServe instead of trying to undermine LinkServe’s efforts to give consumers more choices, more control, more freedom?”

What? Kitt stared at Masters and blinked. But before she could rally from realizing that Mark Masters knew exactly who she was, what she was doing here, why she had been so helpful about parking meters and so informative about period architecture, Congressman Wilkens jumped in and multiplied her shock and disorientation tenfold.

“Now, Mark,” he said, “I’m sure we can come up with a compromise that encompasses all interests, consumer protection, First Amendment rights and your father’s favorite, free enterprise.”

“His father?” Kitt mouthed and sent Jeff—who looked as if he’d been gut-shot—a stare that asked the obvious question: Is this the Marcus Masters or not?

Yes and no, it seemed. Kitt swiveled her head in Masters’s direction while the congressman blathered on.

“I only wish your father could have stayed in D.C. a little longer while we hash this thing out. But then I suppose you’re the next best thing. His representative, as it were.”

The old congressman, for some strange reason, grinned and winked at Kitt. As if she knew what the hell was going on.

“His representative?” Mark Masters said. “Hardly, sir.” He tossed his napkin beside his plate. “I’m pursuing my own goals here. I don’t work for Masters Multimedia anymore and I don’t think I would be a very good intern to you if I did.” He steepled his hands above his plate and pressed his forefingers to his lips as if to indicate he’d spoken his piece.

The congressman’s grin faded. He cleared his throat. “What do you mean, you don’t work for Masters Multimedia anymore? What about your Link-Serve model?” he said.

Masters’s dark eyebrows knit together. His deep blue eyes glinted with something Kitt couldn’t identify. Determination, perhaps, or…defiance. He lowered his hands before he spoke. “After I developed the prototype, I turned LinkServe over to my father for testing. In the Florida market, I think.”

Wilkens seemed surprised, even disappointed by this announcement. “Really?” he mumbled.

Kitt wondered fleetingly if Wilkens was playing both sides of this issue: Masters for the money, the CRM for the consumer votes. Great.

One of Wilkens’s female aides piped up. “How exactly would LinkServe work, Mark? I mean…” She faltered as Masters turned the full force of those blue eyes on her. “I mean…what will it do, exactly?”

The main thing it will do, Kitt thought, is make Mark Masters even more hideously wealthy than his old man.

Masters smiled that luminous smile at the aide. “Think of LinkServe as a multimedia communications system—your telephone, your TV, your computer, your best friend’s face. All coming to you over one neat, linked communications—” he hesitated here, apparently searching for the perfect word “—box to serve you.” Then his smile expanded. “LinkServe,” he summed up.

“Wow,” the aide said, and Kitt wondered if the woman was “wowing” over the technology or the blue eyes.

The congressman leaned forward, frowning now. “Pardon me for asking,” he said, “but I must know. It was my understanding that you kept your percentage in LinkServe?”

“I’ve retained some interests, but only for as long as I’m in college. I assure you, sir, I want to be treated like any other intern in your office.”

The congressman hesitated, only for a heartbeat, but long enough for Kitt to pick up on his very real discomfort with this young man’s unexpected declaration of independence. “Well, of course, of course,” he said. “Just because you’re Marcus Masters the Third doesn’t mean you’re not like any other intern, here to learn about the legislative process.” He leaned toward Masters confidentially. “And you shall. For example, I trust this dinner has been edifying?”

Masters relaxed back into his chair. “Yes, sir, it has. Working with lobbyists like Ms. Stevens here is exactly what I want to do.” He turned a thousandwatt smile of perfect teeth on Kitt. It was the same smile that had looked so warm and benevolent earlier, except now it looked utterly feral.

Kitt managed a nod and a weak smile of her own. If she’d been broadsided before, she was absolutely flattened now. This man, this Marcus Masters the Third, had known exactly who she was and what she was up to the whole time he’d had her yammering about flowers and ghosts. The whole time he’d been saying “neat” like some kid at Disneyland. Had he known even back at the ice-cream social when he tried to flirt with her? Her cheeks flamed. Do you always wear your hair like that? Geez.

“Great!” Wilkens boomed, now that his own moment of tension with the younger Masters had passed. “I have an idea. Why don’t you spend some time with Kitt here, if that’s agreeable to your people—” Wilkens shot Kitt a look that signaled she’d better play ball “—and get the CRM’s take on this whole thing. Then write it up in a report for me by, say, the end of next week.”

“If that’s agreeable to Ms. Stevens.” Masters smiled at Kitt again, and this time she swore his incisors actually looked pointier.

She swallowed, suddenly feeling like a scrawny chicken facing a wily fox. “Well,” she stalled, “I’m afraid spending time at the CRM headquarters would be kind of…kind of…dull for Mr. Masters.”

“Nonsense!” The congressman was still talking too loud. “It’s the kind of experience Mark needs, distilling both sides of an issue for me.” He looked magnanimously at Masters.

Mark held a palm up at Kitt in oath. “I promise I will state your case fairly and impartially to the congressman.” His forehead creased sincerely.

Kitt had the queasy feeling she’d been outflanked. The feeling that her prey had suddenly become the predator, and a cunning predator to boot.

CHAPTER THREE

KITT PACED the length of her narrow third-floor bedroom and raked her hands through the weird ripples the stupid braids had left.

Two stories below, she could hear Lauren and Paige practicing their new vocal number. The three women had formed a trio as a creative outlet and had become quite popular at the church. But tonight Lauren’s delicate soprano contrasted with Paige’s athletic alto, and without Kitt’s second soprano modulating between them, they sounded strained. Kitt felt a pang of guilt. She should be downstairs practicing. But at the moment she could barely breathe, much less sing.

She had beaten a retreat home from the disaster at Gadsby’s, carefully hung up her expensive black pantsuit and proceeded to pace.

The memory of Mark Masters’s face when he’d asked her that pointed question about LinkServe, of his fingers rubbing the flower petals, of the way he ate, moved, used his hands, of his eyes, so blue and deep-set, all of it played in her mind like images from some cheesy romantic comedy.

It couldn’t be, just couldn’t be, happening.

But she recognized the signs in herself already. Signs of…infatuation. And, to Kitt Stevens, having these feelings had once proved devastating. Better not to even let anything start, she warned herself. Love wasn’t a fairy tale. Love meant entanglements, trouble…pain.

She could keep these feelings of attraction at bay, she reminded herself, if she kept her mind on her business. She marched to the bed, rummaged around in the covers, retrieved her portable phone and punched in a familiar number.

Jeff’s nasal voice on the answering machine said, “Hi. Eric is out golfing, and I’m working like a slave. Leave a message.” Kitt grinned because Eric’s message was similar: “I’m killing myself for the congressman and Jeff’s out barhopping.”

“Jeff, pick up. It’s me.”

“Yes, my sweets,” a live voice immediately answered. “I presume you called to crawl my ass about the Mark Masters screwup.”

“Later. And while I’m at it, remind me to chew you out for talking so pretty. But first, tell me what you found out.”

Jeff sighed. “It seems the younger Masters is Wilkens’s intern from the University of Oklahoma. Brilliant. Chose O.U. because of the Carl Albert Center.”

“The Carl Center?” Kitt muttered. “Where they do all that in-depth research into federal government operations? Is this guy some kind of policy wonk?”

“I guess. Of course, his father could send him anywhere, and tried to. But the kid, who’s no kid, by the way, dropped out of U.C.L.A. the first go-round. Got in some kind of woman trouble. The old man, the real Marcus Masters, the one who’s trying to control Wilkens, was only in D.C. for a day before he zipped out on his Lear.”

“Dang!” Kitt dragged her hand viciously through her kinky hair at that news. So, she’d missed her chance with Masters, and gotten the old man’s son underfoot in the process.

Jeff went on in a rush, “I’m guessing the son is the relative I heard about. Sorry for the bad poop, Kitt. Old man Masters was supposed to be at that reception, I guess because his son was one of the incoming interns. But he didn’t show. In fact, Trisha was really disappointed—”

“Trisha,” Kitt injected.

“What have you got against her, anyway? She’s really nice.”

Kitt kept her thoughts to herself, but said, “Go on.”

“Well, it turns out the old man wanted Mark to meet her. She works for an affiliate owned by Masters Multimedia.”

Keepin’ it all in the family, Kitt thought.

“Anyway, I promise, I knew none of this. I mean, I knew there were two interns who arrived late in the day that I didn’t meet—we let Eric handle them—but I sure as hell didn’t know one of them was Marcus Masters’s son. I can’t apologize enough for this mix-up. Kitt?…Kitt? Did you hear me? I’m really sorry.”

Kitt quit pacing and plopped down on the bed. Thinking. Scheming, actually. She didn’t really hold Jeff accountable for this fiasco. He certainly had nothing to do with the congressman’s bright idea to send Masters over to her turf. “Don’t worry about it,” she answered. “Send me some chocolates or a couple of tickets to Aruba or something.” She yawned loudly into the phone. “Listen, I’m beat. Thanks for checking the guy out. You and Lauren really should communicate more. Turns out she knew he was Marcus Masters’s son the whole time.”

“Maybe you should communicate with Lauren more often,” Jeff said. “She’s your roommate.” His voice dropped to a seductive level. “Hey. If I do send the tickets, will you take me to Aruba with you?”

Kitt raised the mouthpiece of the phone to her forehead, rolled her eyes to the ceiling, releasing a slow hiss of impatience.

“Kitt? You there?”

Kitt lowered the phone. “I’m just tired, Jeff. I’ll talk to you tomorrow. Meanwhile, I’ve got to figure out what to do with Mark Masters in the morning. Oh, by the way. I won’t need a ride.”

“Why? You braving the traffic?”

“No. After we left the dinner, when I was slinking home, Mark Masters caught up with me and offered to pick me up tomorrow.”

“What on earth for?” Jeff sounded suddenly wary, maybe even a little peevish.

“I honestly don’t know. Maybe he was just being nice. But I don’t buy the I’m-Just-Here-To-Learn routine he handed the congressman.”

“If he’s Marcus Masters’s son, you can bet he’s after something.”

“I can handle him.” Kitt yawned again.

“Uh, yeah, if anybody can, you can. That’s cool.”

But Kitt got the feeling Jeff didn’t think it was cool at all, and the truth was, neither did she. In fact, the whole idea of doing anything with Mark Masters, anything at all, felt vaguely…dangerous.

And that night, for the first time in a very long time, Kitt dreamed the old dream. The nightmare about her baby.

This time it came to her like a dream within a dream. She was blinking at the golden shafts of evening sun that seeped through the bent miniblinds in her tiny student apartment at the University of Tulsa. It was late summer, when the university was as dead as a ghost town, and here she was, alone and heart-sore.

She was curled up in a ball on her side, and, despite the oppressive Oklahoma heat, she pulled the comforter tighter around herself, like a cocoon, sealing the pain out…or sealing it in, she wasn’t sure which.

All she wanted was sleep, but with sleep came the dream.

A dream that plagued her so much throughout her last year of law school that Kitt had worried that she might not have the strength to finish. But she couldn’t—wouldn’t—let Danny take that one hope away from her. Not after working so hard for so long. Not after only one mistake. All through that last year of school, the dream tormented her.

An infant—so small, so weak—clung to her, grasping with transparent fingers, floating from the filament of a tiny, reaching arm, surrounded by a soft white light.

But the baby always floated away. Each time Kitt reached out frantically to draw him back, he drifted farther. The child, she sensed, even as she dreamed, was forever lost to her.

Her baby.

Her endless nightmare.

Tonight she awoke in her Alexandria town house in a sweat, gasping. She sat up, switched on the lamp, stared down at the front of her T-shirt, half expecting to actually see something there. But the faded letters of a No Fear logo was all she saw. Shaking, she swung her slender legs over the side of the bed and scrubbed her hand over her face.

No fear indeed. Whenever the dream overtook her in the middle of the night, all Kitt Stevens felt was fear. Pounding fear. Fear that she had made the wrong decision. Fear that her baby was not all right.

During that time—four years ago now—that Kitt had decided she didn’t believe in love. No, she’d told herself, she couldn’t believe in love, never would again. She could believe in a lot of things—her faith, her friends, her ideals—but never love. That decision had been her only defense.

Love. Now she shivered at the idea.

Why had the dream returned now, when she’d thought it was all finally behind her?

CHAPTER FOUR

THE OFFICES OF the Coalition for Responsible Media consisted of four cramped rooms at the top of three flights of stairs in an ancient, crumbling nineteenth-century building on the fringes of Old Town.

Enthusiastic volunteers teemed in and out of cubicles crammed with file cabinets, beat-up desks, computers and a perpetually zipping photocopier.

“Where do all these people come from?” was Mark Masters’s first question as he observed the beehive of activity, already at a fever pitch at eight in the morning.

Before Kitt could answer, a young man hailed her. “Ms. Stevens, Senator Goins on line one.”

She pushed her back-to-normal bangs aside, and said, “Take a seat,” to Masters without introducing him to anybody. She had no intention of making this guy too comfortable.

Then she got so busy bending congressional ears that she didn’t see him for the next hour. Which was just as well. Their beginning this morning had been rocky.

The first thing out of his mouth when he picked her up in the disgusting foreign Lexus was, “What a relief! I was afraid you’d still have your hair up in that snaky braidy thing.”

Little snot.

Kitt had blushed at her own folly. The expense. The discomfort. For nothing. “Oh, you didn’t like my wig?” she cracked as she settled herself into the leather seat.

He grinned as the precision engine purred to life. “You borrowed it from the Star Trek props room, right?”

Kitt pursed her mouth sourly. Normally, she loved this kind of repartee. With four brothers, she’d grown up on a steady diet of it. But from this man, it rankled. Because he’d known who she was the whole time, stupid hairdo or no stupid hairdo. Had he even known at the ice-cream social? Had he been mocking her instead of flirting with her? Pride prevented her from asking.

She looked over at him. Again, he was immaculately groomed in a navy-blue worsted-wool suit—the same tailored suit he’d worn before, she was certain—and a starched white shirt. Only his tie was a contradiction to his classic apparel. Today it was panda bears tumbling over themselves, munching bamboo. The black-and-white pandas and kelly-green bamboo looked absolutely ghastly with the navy suit. But rich boys, she supposed, could wear any ugly tie they pleased.

She stared out the windshield at the hazy morning scene of Alexandria-near-the-Potomac and wondered why she had agreed to let this spoiled brat pick her up this morning.

“So,” she said as she adjusted her seat belt, “you’re Marcus Masters the Third. Marcus Masters’s kid.”

“No. I am Mark Masters. The adult son of a man whose name is Marcus Masters, whose father also happens to be named Marcus Masters.”

He was still smiling, but not quite so brightly now, and Kitt thought, Touchy, touchy. She wanted to say, No, you are the spoiled son of a man who doesn’t care how he pollutes the culture as long as it makes a profit. But she steered clear of that honey pot. This was the congressman’s new intern, and she couldn’t do anything to jeopardize the CRM’s position with Congressman Wilkens.

“Well, Mr. Masters—” she couldn’t help the sarcasm “—exactly how did you happen to obtain this plum of an internship with Congressman Wilkens?”

“Don’t call me Mr. Masters.” The smile was gone and his face looked suddenly older, hardened. “That’s my father. I’m Mark.”

So this is some kind of sore point, his father. “Not Marcus?”

“That’s my father as well. And Mac is my grandfather. I’m Mark.”

“Does everybody call you that?”

“Only since I’ve been born.” Now he smiled.

“Okay. Mark. How?”

“My father didn’t pull strings for me if that’s what you’re asking. I applied for the internship like everybody else, and I got it.”

“Yes,” Kitt said, eyeing the supple leather upholstery, the walnut trim, his handsome profile as he steered the car smoothly through the tangle of rush-hour traffic, “I imagine it was just that simple.”

He cocked an eyebrow at her, a dark slash of disapproval. “Rich does not equal spoiled.”

She blushed at his perceptiveness, and he smiled, but not warmly. “I get this all the time, Ms. Stevens.”

Kitt turned her face to the window. All this Mr. and Ms. doo-doo was purely antagonistic posturing, but even so, she did not invite him to call her Kitt. A tense silence ensued as they waited at one of the interminable stoplights that control the infamous five-way intersections in northern Virginia.

“So you study at the Carl Albert Center?” she said after a moment, trying to be civil.

“Yes, ma’am.”

She ignored the ma’am. “Is that your major? Political Science?”

“I study writing.”

“Writing?” Kitt’s own undergraduate major had been journalism, in its own way as tough a nut to crack as law school. “I’d think writing would be somewhat quaint and antiquated for the LinkServe genius.”

“Do you actually know anything about my LinkServe experiment?”

“I know it’s a comprehensive communications technology that you’ve been working on ever since you graduated from creating video games in high school. I know it’s the technology that threatens to make other technologies obsolete. I know you—and your father—don’t want LinkServe—and others like it—regulated by the new bill designed to control the glut of filth and violence in the media.”

“I see I’m not the only one who does my homework.”

“Is that what you call it? Homework?”

“Yeah. What do you call it?” He watched the stoplights above them.

“Espionage. Skulduggery.”

He had glanced over then, blue eyes sparkling with challenge, and had given her a crooked little smile, which she had wanted to slap off his pretty-boy face. “You don’t like me much,” he said. “I can tell.”

“I wouldn’t say that I don’t like you personally, Mark,” she answered.

“Oh, what don’t you like impersonally, then?”

Your father, the way he’s polluting the mindscape of this country’s kids for the bottom line, she thought. The way he’s planning to use LinkServe to keep on doing it, no matter what kinds of legislation my people get passed. But, again, she avoided all that by squinting at his chest and saying, “It’s your tie I think.”

He laughed—a surprised, delighted laugh—and flapped the tie. “Hey. Don’t knock it. This tie is a gift from a girl with impeccable taste.”

“Oh, yeah?” Kitt imagined he probably had girls with impeccable taste buying him gifts every day of the week. And then, for some reason she couldn’t fathom, she’d turned ten shades of red, and, trapped right there in his Lexus, all she could do was turn her face to the passenger window again.

Thank you, dear Congressman Wilkens, she’d seethed, for arranging this delightful week with this delightful young man.

WHEN KITT FINISHED her phone calls, she found him with his butt propped on a corner of one of the volunteer’s desks, his handsome head cocked to one side, listening intently while two women and one man blasted their faces off with flushing zeal about the future plans of the Coalition for Responsible Media.

And in his palm he held a microrecorder.

“What’s that for?” Kitt charged forward, pointing at the thing.

He stood. “I asked Mary and Shirley and Howard—” he smiled at the three “—if I could tape their comments. My memory is sort of feeble,” he explained, then smiled again at the trio, who beamed back.

“But you didn’t ask me,” Kitt said. “Turn it off.”

Mary’s and Shirley’s and Howard’s smiles shriveled and they looked stunned, offended. At Kitt.

She ignored them. “If you want information, we’ll get you some literature. Follow me.” She whirled away.

Behind her, she heard him making his apologies to the group, saying maybe they could visit more later.

When she got him alone in her tiny office, she closed the door. “Don’t do that again.”

“Do what?” His face was guileless.

“Record the staff’s comments. This is a coalition, and a very loose, diverse one at that. Made up of child advocacy groups, church groups, parents, cops, educators. Most of these folks are not political players. They’re volunteers. They believe in what they are doing, but they are very naive. Did you even tell them you are an intern from Wilkens’s office? That you’re gathering data to report to the congressman?”

“Nobody asked.”

Just as she’d thought. “Listen, Mr. Masters—”

“Mark,” he corrected.

But at that she only squinted and repeated: “Mr. Masters, those folks wouldn’t, of course, ask. They wouldn’t know to ask. And while I appreciate your efforts to be accurate—”

“That’s right. I’m only striving to be accurate.” He raised his palms in a helpless gesture. “I have a very poor memory. In fact—” he pumped his eyebrows Groucho style “—I have absolutely no memory of the first three years of my life.” He dropped his hands and grinned.

But his silly joke and his goofy grin did not amuse Kitt. “While I do want your report to the congressman to be as accurate as possible, you surely realize there are people who are anxious to undermine what we’re doing here, to make us look like zealots, like twenty-first century thought police.”

“How can I undermine you if I simply give the congressman the facts? You don’t have anything to hide here, do you?” He smiled that smile. That smile that, Kitt was convinced by now, he surely must know was completely disarming and endearing. Completely sexy.

“From now on just stick with me,” she said.

“Like ugly wallpaper.” He pumped those eyebrows again, smiled that smile.

Kitt looked pointedly at his tie. He should know from ugly.

And the remainder of the day went like that: Kitt feeling threatened, edgy, thinking mean little thoughts; Masters being sunny, straightforward, thinking only heaven-knew-what. Smiling, smiling, smiling that damn winning smile. All the while Kitt felt certain he was gathering data that would somehow be used against her cause, given who he really was. Intern, schmintern.

He had to be doing everything he could to protect his LinkServe—how had he phrased it to Wilkens?—his interests? Interests indeed.

She felt despair when she realized that by some grotesque twist of fate, Marcus Masters’s own son had become their unsympathetic pipeline to Congressman Wilkens. And The Pipeline seemed to be everywhere, getting into everything, persisting in being so nice that the staff was blinded to the dangers of opening up to him. Their underfunded little organization would be laid before the Masters Multimedia giant like a deer caught in the headlights of a semitruck.

By late afternoon Kitt was exhausted from the mental gymnastics, and the very sight of Mark Masters was giving her a torpid headache. She couldn’t wait to get him out of their offices, to get away from the man.

But Jeff Smith neatly destroyed all hope of that when he arrived shortly after five to offer Kitt a ride home.

She went to gather her paraphernalia: jacket, clutch, pager, cell phone. While she crammed it all into her tote, Jeff reviewed their plans to go to Murphy’s, her favorite Irish pub in Old Town. A little too loudly, Kitt realized, when she saw Mark Masters’s head pop up from a stack of deadly-dull media-content analysis statistics.

“Hey! I’ve heard of that place!” Masters said from across the room.

Jeff turned. “Oh?”

“Yeah. One of the other interns mentioned it. Authentic Irish music, live.” Masters smiled that choir-boy smile. “Sounds neat.”

Kitt wished to heaven the man would stop saying neat.

Mark’s reminder that he was the congressman’s intern was not lost on Jeff. “Would you care to join us?” said Jeff, the charming congressional aide, being hospitable to the lonesome little intern. “Whatdaya say, Kitt? Don’t you think Mark should get a taste of authentic Alexandria nightlife?”

“Well…” Kitt knew she looked caught, trapped again, and she tried to compose her expression into one of nonchalance as Mark stood and crossed the room.

She shrugged. “Well, Murphy’s isn’t really a good example of Old Town nightlife. It’s pretty dull, actually. The place would bore Mark, I’m afraid.”

Mark gave her a small frown, cocked his head, regarded her with glittering eyes that seemed to see right through her. “I’m not nearly so prone to boredom as you seem to imagine,” he said. “And how could anything be dull—” he paused, narrowing those already-narrow eyes at her “—as long as you’re there.”

Kitt’s face flamed, and she opened her mouth to speak, but Jeff wedged his lanky frame between Kitt and Mark. “Does that mean you’ll be joining us?” he asked.

Mark quirked a dark eyebrow at Jeff. “Absolutely. How do I get there?”

CHAPTER FIVE

THE PLANK DOORWAY to Murphy’s Irish Tavern was so narrow that Mark actually had to tilt his shoulders sideways as he squeezed in. He stood inside a cramped little vestibule, allowing himself a moment to adjust to the dim lighting, the noise and the pressing crowd.

Mark hated crowds, and he was already thoroughly sick of the trendy Washington bar scene—self-important men in overpriced suits, narcissistic women in clever little day-to-evening getups. Tonight the regulars were doing their best to outshout each other over loud music in this dark forty-by-sixty room saturated with smoke, strong cooking odors and humidity that floated up from the Potomac like clingy polyester netting. Grateful that he’d left his jacket and tie in the Lexus, Mark rolled up his shirtsleeves and stepped into the melee.

A svelte woman said, “Excuse me,” while brushing up against him as she passed. She made an elaborate business of raising two full glasses to shoulder level, to emphasize, he supposed, her trim shape, sheathed in a brown dress that poured over her curves like melted chocolate. The dense perfume she left in her wake clogged his sinuses.

Three girls, ponytails pulled through baseball caps and cleavage spilling out of athletic spandex, smiled from a nearby table and one raised a glass of ale at him. A woman at the bar turned her head, arched her back and lowered her eyelashes as he passed.

Mark spotted Kitt near the back of the narrow room. Squeezed into one of the old high-backed booths, with Jeff and that blond girl Mark had seen at the ice-cream social.

As he made his way to the booth, a trio onstage struck up a rowdy rendition of “Gary Owen,” making normal conversation strenuous and even shouted greetings difficult to hear.

“Mark!” Jeff jumped up. “You found us!”

Mark tried to discreetly wipe the sweat from his temple. “This place is certainly tucked in here, like you said,” he shouted at Jeff. “Had to circle the block twice before I found it, and a couple more times looking for a parking space.” He glanced at Kitt. Although she smiled up at him, she looked as if she couldn’t make out his words.

“Yeah, well,” Jeff hollered in Mark’s ear, “I guess Alexandria’s a far cry from Oklahoma, where everything is surrounded by miles and miles of absolutely totally nothing.” Jeff backed up a fraction, gave him a bland smile.

Even though Mark was not a native Oklahoman, he was irked by this condescending attitude. “Not absolutely totally nothing.” He smiled back, parroting Jeff’s redundancy. “There is the occasional Injun teepee.”

Jeff’s smile frosted a bit.

Kitt still seemed unable to hear the men above the music, but her eyes narrowed as if she had become aware that something was subtly amiss. “Mark—” she leaned forward “—this is Lauren Holmes, one of my roommates. Perhaps you two met at Congressman Wilkens’s ice-cream social.”

Mark extended his hand to the blonde, and she offered hers with that fingertips-only handshake some women employ.

“Sit down!” Jeff yelled and slapped Mark’s back, pointing to the seat next to Lauren. Then he squeezed into the booth beside Kitt.

Were Kitt Stevens and Jeff Smith a couple? Mark studied Kitt. The moment he’d seen her at that ice-cream social, he’d thought, Now there’s an interesting woman. Okay. More than interesting. Attractive. He’d found her even more intriguing at Gadsby’s, and downright fascinating as he observed her in her offices today.

She glanced at him, brushed her bangs out of her eyes self-consciously, and he realized he was staring. He turned his face toward the singers. Steady, boy, he told himself. Think of Tanni. Always of Tanni. Don’t let yourself get all hot about a woman you don’t even know.

“How about a beer?” Jeff, the grand host, offered.

“Have a Harp,” Kitt shouted, “the best of Ireland.” She raised her glass. The orange glow from the green-shaded lamp hanging over the table enriched the color of her hair to a honey gold.

Jeff jerked his thumb at Kitt’s glass of Harp. “The only alcoholic thing she’ll drink, but she claims Harp is some kind of patriotic ritual. Murphy’s and church are about the extent of her social life, you know.” Jeff winked at Mark and then grinned at Kitt indulgently.

Kitt smiled at Mark. An impudent little smile. “Irish music and a glass of Harp are good for the soul,” she said, then closed her eyes and broke into a mellow, perfect-pitch harmony with the singers onstage. Some song about a minstrel boy.

Above her singing, Jeff teased, “Maybe good for the soul, but not the ears.”

Without opening her eyes, Kitt jabbed Jeff in the ribs, and sang louder. Jeff clutched his side, feigning injury, then covered his ears.

Ignoring this silliness, Mark fixed his gaze on Kitt, but spoke to Jeff. “Actually, she has a beautiful voice.”

Abruptly, she opened her eyes and stopped singing. She blushed, he noted with satisfaction, most attractively.

“Please. Don’t stop.” He smiled.

She gave him a quick wide-eyed stare, then dragged her gaze to the singers onstage, and picked up the melody. But her singing was softer, more subdued now.

As the last strains of the music died away, Kitt looked into Mark’s eyes. While they studied each other, a crease formed between her eyebrows, and her lips parted. Mark’s gut tightened and a quickening shot to his groin as he watched her mouth.

The crowd was applauding and cheering, Jeff and Lauren with them. But Kitt and Mark continued to analyze each other in motionless silence.

The waitress came. Mark smiled up at her, then fixed his gaze back on Kitt and said, “I’ll have a Harp, please.” He glanced back up at the waitress and added, “And could you run me a tab?”

“Sure,” the waitress said as she scribbled on her pad. But then she gave Mark a closer look and hesitated. “Uh, may I see your ID, sir?”

Mark leaned forward, extracted his billfold and flashed his driver’s license.

“Thanks.” The waitress gave him a second glance, smiled in apology and left.

“Bet you get sick of that,” Jeff piped up. “How old are you, anyway? If you don’t mind my asking.”

“Twenty-seven,” Mark said flatly. “And you?” He asked this with his eyebrows raised as if this were a real conversation and not a put-down contest. From the first, he’d suspected Jeff had some kind of territorial thing about Kitt.

The little blonde smiled into her beer glass.

“Old enough not to get carded,” Jeff answered, and draped his arm on the booth behind Kitt.

“Congratulations,” Mark said dryly.

This time it was the blonde who stepped in to calm the waters. “So, Mark, you’re in Washington on an internship,” she said.

He turned to Lauren. She was pretty, but not like Kitt. Not fascinating. “Yes,” he answered. “And I’m also doing some stringing for the Dallas Morning News.”

Kitt nearly lunged across the table, grabbing his wrist. “You’re a reporter?” she said.

He looked at his wrist. She released it. “Not yet,” he answered. “I’m only a cub. I don’t really know what I’m doing. Yet.”

“That’s why you took this internship,” Kitt said, realization dawning on her face. She made it sound like a crime or something. “And you’re already stringing for the Dallas Morning News,” she challenged. “That’s what you were doing with that microrecorder.”

“I was putting out feelers for a feature, that’s all. Just an idea. They don’t have to buy it.”

Now Kitt’s green eyes flashed like heat lightning. “Don’t you have some ethical obligation to tell us that?” She was practically shouting. Mark noticed that people at surrounding tables were glancing their way.

“If I decide to actually write it, sure. But right now I’m just researching, seeing if there’s a story there. You know, something along the lines of the tiny idealistic coalition taking on the media giants.”

“Just researching? You were recording people’s remarks.” Now Kitt was shouting, and her face was getting redder by the second.

The duo onstage struck up a livelier song, a Scottish ditty about two young ladies peeking under the kilt of a passed-out drunken Scot.

Kitt pointed an accusing finger at Mark. “You were extracting material from sources who didn’t know they were sources.”

“Kitt, this is not a courtroom,” Jeff tried to calm her.

“Oh shut up.” She whirled her head at Jeff, and her hair made a glittering saffron fan over her cheek.

Mark pointed at the pint glass of Harp in front of her. “How many of those have you had?”

She spun her face back toward Mark. “I’m perfectly clear-headed.” Kitt pounded the table with her fist. “What I want to know is what you were planning to do. Paint our organization as zealots—fools? Anything to undermine the CRM’s efforts to limit the violence and filth glutting the media? Anything to help your daddy profit off his dirty rock-and-gangsta rap? Anything to clear the way for your precious LinkServe to operate free of constraints? Is that it?”

Mark eyed her. Even if she was a little stewed, it was obvious she meant every word. He matched her ardent fire with the cold sobriety of a stone. “No, ma’am. That is not it. I do not work for my father. And I wasn’t being sneaky. I told your people I was recording them. And I haven’t done a feature article yet that wasn’t totally unbiased—”

“Unbiased? How can you even pretend to be unbiased about the CRM when you yourself are the developer of that…that LinkServe monstrosity?”

“Monstrosity? Monstrosity? This happens to be the twenty-first century. Technologies like LinkServe are here to stay.”

“The CRM is only trying to protect children from undue violence and sexually explicit material. Seems to me that used to be a given in this country, before kids with guns and dirty music became commonplace. No thanks to Masters Multimedia.”

“Masters Multimedia has nothing to do with guns, and as for dirty music, et cetera, we didn’t exactly invent it.” He cocked his head toward the stage, where the duo was still singing the bawdy Scottish song. “Just listen.

“This nonsense has been around for ages. Think of all the old Scottish, Irish, Appalachian ballads that are full of murder and mayhem, not to mention—pardon my French—sex.”

Kitt glared at him, picked up her Harp, took a swig, then carefully lowered the glass to the table. “Oh, this nonsense—” she made quote marks in the air with her fingers “—has been around all right, in the form of subtle innuendo. Like that last one. But not a dirty word in it. Even in the most tasteless old drinking songs, it’s all innuendo. Nothing explicit. I have nothing against sex…or fun. But there is a vast difference between bawdy old tunes for adults and the stuff your father’s company—” she shook her finger at him—twice “—your company, is producing, packaging and distributing to children—”

His mouth opened as he tried to say something about it not being his company, or about First Amendment rights, or about parental responsibility, but Kitt charged on, shouting over the music.

“Stuff so violent—” she actually jabbed his chest this time “—that it’s threatening to change the very fabric of this country. Kids are listening to those lyrics, they memorize them, they adopt their worldview. As the saying goes, it takes a village to raise a child, Mr. Masters, but today the village is destroying the child, all for the sake of money,” the word money came out muh-nee and Mark recognized a trace of Okie accent. “The CRM’s goal—and mine—is to halt that trend, Mr. Masters—” she jabbed again “—and neither you nor your rich daddy can stop us!”

The rich-daddy crack left Mark so blistered he was momentarily speechless.

Their eyes locked and it was as if Jeff and Lauren had shrunk to vanishing points at the edges of the room. And in that moment, Mark thought he felt something pass between himself and Kitt Stevens, something mystical but real. Her eyes, green as emeralds, were flashing, reflecting the fire in his own, he guessed.

He saw that she was looking at him, too, in a way no other woman ever had. Really looking at him. Into his eyes. And suddenly it hit him. This woman was the one. The One. Which was totally crazy. Surely he was imagining this, whatever it was. He tried to regain control. But it didn’t work. He felt shaken. And again he thought, as plainly as if it were a neon sign flashing behind the bar: She’s The One.

But The One broke off their eye contact, rummaged around wildly in her oversize tote and tossed a twenty on the table. “Let me out.” She nudged Jeff out of the way. “I refuse to drink Harp with the devil.”

“The devil?” Mark repeated sarcastically.

Kitt scooted to the edge of the seat, then twisted toward Mark before she stood up. ‘“Knocked yo’ mama outta her bed,’” she rapped. ‘“Jumped her bones and split her head.’”

“Dead Tuna,” Mark informed her. “Nobody takes them seriously.”

“The hell they don’t,” Kitt retorted, and stood. “You should check your own company’s sales records. Five hundred thousand copies sold and those precious lyrics inside every CD jacket.” She hoisted her tote over her shoulder and whirled away before Mark could respond.

“Sweetie! How will you get home?” Jeff whined at her departing back.

“I’ll be fine,” Kitt retorted as she pushed through the crowd.

Jeff stared after her for some seconds, then resettled himself in the booth. “The lass has a bit of a temper on her, a bit of a temper,” he said with a dreadful Irish brogue, which irked Mark at him afresh. What business did Jeff Smith have, apologizing for her? Jeff Smith wasn’t responsible for Kitt Stevens.

But yes, Mark warned himself, his face still scalding from her verbal excoriation, the woman has apparently got a temper. And a fantastic mind. And a kind of righteousness that he found both intimidating and thrilling. A righteousness he envied.

He glanced at Lauren next to him. She smiled uncertainly, her face betraying acute embarrassment. Much as he wanted to leave, he’d stay long enough to smooth this over with her. After all, she wasn’t to blame for the tremors rumbling beneath the surface between him and Kitt Stevens.

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