Читать книгу This Child Of Mine - Darlene Graham - Страница 8

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.