Читать книгу This Child Of Mine - Darlene Graham - Страница 7

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!