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“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.”
