Книга - The Raven’s Assignment

The Raven's Assignment
Kasey Michaels


Special Agent Jesse Colton had a strong instinct to say no to sweet, vulnerable Samantha Cosgrove.Not because he doubted her shocking claim - that her boss was sharing government secrets - but because the innocently seductive blond beauty made him want to say yes…to anything her heart desired. He was one of the Agency's finest. But Samantha wished someone had warned her that Jesse Colton was tall, dark and handsome.Now he was posing as her boyfriend to protect her from a dangerous web of deceit - but his own "pretend" kisses made her traitorous body wish he'd perform more husbandly duties….









THE COLTONS: COMANCHE BLOOD


Discover a proud, passionate clan of men and women who will risk everything for love, family and honor.

Jesse Colton:

As a special government agent, danger comes with the job. But protecting breathtaking Samantha Cosgrove—and his heart—could prove to be his toughest assignment ever.

Samantha Cosgrove:

The sweet, idealistic campaign staffer has stumbled upon a troubling secret. Only Jesse Colton can help her discover the truth—and unlock the passions hidden inside her.

Gloria Whitebear:

Will the secret past of the Oklahoma Coltons’ matriarch come back to haunt her grandchildren?

Sky Colton:

Jesse’s hardworking younger sister is fast becoming famous for her Native American jewelry. But life has a very different design in store for this independent woman.


Dear Reader,

Summer is over and it’s time to kick back into high gear. Just be sure to treat yourself with a luxuriant read or two (or, hey, all six) from Silhouette Romance. Remember—work hard, play harder!

Although October is officially Breast Cancer Awareness month, we’d like to invite you to start thinking about it now. In a wonderful, uplifting story, a rancher reluctantly agrees to model for a charity calendar to earn money for cancer research. At the back of that book, we’ve also included a guide for self-exams. Don’t miss Cara Colter’s must-read 9 Out of 10 Women Can’t Be Wrong (#1615).

Indulge yourself with megapopular author Karen Rose Smith and her CROWN AND GLORY series installment, Searching for Her Prince (#1612). A missing heir puts love on the line when he hides his identity from the woman assigned to track him down. The royal, brooding hero in Sandra Paul’s stormy Caught by Surprise (#1614), the latest in the A TALE OF THE SEA adventure, also has secrets—and intends to make his beautiful captor pay…by making her his wife!

Jesse Colton is a special agent forced to play pretend boyfriend to uncover dangerous truths in the fourth of THE COLTONS: COMANCHE BLOOD spinoff, The Raven’s Assignment (#1613), by bestselling author Kasey Michaels. And in Cathie Linz’s MEN OF HONOR title, Married to a Marine (#1616), combat-hardened Justice Wilder had shut himself away from the world—until his ex-wife’s younger sister comes knocking…. Finally, in Laurey Bright’s tender and true Life with Riley (#1617), free-spirited Riley Morrisset may not be the perfect society wife, but she’s exactly what her stiff-collared boss needs!

Happy reading—and please keep in touch.






Mary-Theresa Hussey

Senior Editor




The Raven’s Assignment

Kasey Michaels








To Julie Barrett, who has the patience of a saint.




KASEY MICHAELS


is the New York Times and USA TODAY bestselling author of more than sixty books. She has won the Romance Writers of America RITA


Award and the Romantic Times Career Achievement Award for her historical romances set in the Regency era, and also writes contemporary romances for Silhouette and Harlequin Books.










Contents


Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight




Chapter One


P OTUS is on the move.

“Copy that.”

“Copy what, Sean? It’s a little late for activity from the residence, isn’t it?” Jesse Colton asked, looking up from the page he’d been reading as he walked through the West Wing toward the doors and what was left of his evening.

“Nothing, Jesse,” Sean said, no longer talking into his shirt collar. “POTUS is on the move. It’s nearly midnight, so he’s on the way to the main kitchen, probably. FLOTUS keeps stashing the residence fridge with apples and pears. POTUS wants coconut-cream pie.”

“I wonder what the American Heart Association would have to say about President’s sweet tooth,” Jesse said, perching on a corner of Sean’s desk just inside the main vestibule. As jobs went, Sean’s was pretty cushy—but guarding the West Wing was also pretty boring. “And the loyal opposition would probably start demanding monthly cholesterol checks.”

“Yes, but with us all sworn to fall on our swords rather than play tattletale, I guess POTUS is safe, both from the AHA and FLOTUS.”

Jesse looked at the small, boxy screen on Sean’s desk, a constantly updated listing showing the location of the first family. Sure enough, POTUS, better known as President Jackson Coates, now showed in the main kitchen, with FLOTUS still in the second-floor residence, probably sound asleep. “POTUS. President of the United States. FLOTUS, first lady of the etcetera, etcetera. The acronyms ought to sound more presidential, don’t you think?”

“I’ll mention it at tomorrow’s meeting of the Proper Presidential Acronym Committee—that would be P-PAC, of course,” Sean said, shaking his head. Sean was the perfect Secret Service agent; his hair was neatly clipped, his suit neatly pressed, and his smile neatly neutral. “What do you have there, Jesse?”

Jesse looked down at the now-closed manila folder. “This? Personal stuff. Don’t worry, I’m not planning to remove state secrets on your watch, and sell them to the tabloids. I mean, how much could they pay for a headline like POTUS Caught in Coconut-Cream Orgy.”

“That’s a relief. So, what do you have there?”

Jesse grinned. “That’s it, Sean, trust nobody.”

“No, seriously. You were frowning. Frowning over personal stuff is never a good thing.”

Jesse opened the folder and looked at the single sheet inside. “My family seems to have inherited a house in Georgetown.”

“And this is bad news? Georgetown? Cushy address. Oh, wait a minute. Does it come with fifty years of back taxes they all want you to pay because you’re getting rich here at the White House, feeding from the public trough?”

“Not quite, no,” Jesse said, knowing that if Sean knew the whole truth, he’d probably fall off his chair. “The place has been rented out for about sixty years now. I’m just trying to figure out a way to explain to the Senate Ethics Committee how I, a lowly public servant, came to be part owner of the Chekagovian embassy.”

“You’re kidding,” Sean said, grabbing for the folder, which Jesse quickly raised beyond his reach. “Is that legal? I mean, for a member of the president’s staff to own part of a foreign consulate?”

“I probably own a third of the garage, Sean. There’s a bunch of us who each own a small chunk of the place. The whole Colton tribe, as we call ourselves when we’re being facetious, inherited it. But I’ll admit, it is dicey. I mean, if we have a slow news week, who knows what could happen if this gets out. So I guess I have to tell…somebody.”

“Chief of staff?”

Jesse blew out a quick breath. “Might as well start at the top.” He slid the folder back into his briefcase and stood up. “Luckily, he went home at a decent hour, so it will have to wait. Besides, I need to do a little more digging into the deed, all that legal stuff, to be sure of my facts. See you tomorrow, Sean.”

“See you, Mr. Moneybags, Mr. I-Own-Part-of-Georgetown,” Sean called after him, then said, “Hey, wait! I forgot something.”

“You never forget anything, Sean,” Jesse said, slowly walking back to the desk. “You just want to pump me for more information.”

“Not me. The more you know the less you want to know, that’s my byword. No, seriously,” he said, rooting through some messages on his desk. “This came in late, after your secretary left. Now where in hell—ah, got it.”

He handed Jesse a “while you were out” memo.

Jesse frowned at the unfamiliar name as he read the memo. “Urgent? You did see that part of the message, right, Sean? The urgent part?”

“Hey, everything’s urgent around here. The message arrived via the main switchboard, after being routed to the OEOB first, and then a couple of other places, which is probably how I ended up with it.”

“The Old Executive Office Building? I haven’t worked there in months.”

“Well, guess not everyone knows you’ve been bumped up to a big-deal office in the West Wing. You should have taken an ad. Most do.”

“Funny, Sean,” Jesse said, heading out once more, this time frowning over the pink memo. “Samantha Cosgrove. Urgent. Now, who the hell is Samantha Cosgrove?”



Samantha Cosgrove, all the long blond hair and petitely formed five feet four inches of her, sat behind her desk, staring daggers at her telephone.

She hadn’t gone on her coffee break with Bettyann. She had turned down lunch with Rita.

She hadn’t left her desk all day. She was starving, and her stomach had begun to growl, she was nervous, and she was beginning to get angry.

Okay, so she’d been angry at one o’clock. It was now quarter to five. Now she was incensed.

Bettyann, the staff secretary, stuck her head inside the small office. “I’m heading out now, Samantha. Dinner at the golden arches? My treat.”

“No thanks, Bettyann,” Samantha said, pretending an interest in a pile of campaign literature that was about as exciting as the Weather Channel on a calm, clear day across America.

That’s what the latest slogan was all about: a calm, clear-minded, new day across America. Vote for Senator Mark Phillips for President. Bor-ring. Surely somebody, somewhere, could come up with something better than that?

“You sure, Sam? You haven’t eaten anything all day, except for that cupcake you stole from Rita. Her only satisfaction is that it had been sitting on her desk for two days, and had to be very, very stale.”

“It was,” Samantha said, sighing. “Okay, I’m going home. The world will keep on turning without me if I go home. But no thanks to the golden arches, Bettyann. I can hear leftover stuffed peppers calling my name.”

“Right. See you here tomorrow.”

“See me here, will she?” Samantha grumbled about a half hour later, grimacing as she shoved work into her briefcase. “Why not. Where else would I be?”

She grabbed her light, full-length burgundy raincoat and followed a few other stragglers into the elevator once she’d looked through the outgoing mail, first checking to be sure nobody saw her.

Once outside, Samantha turned right and headed toward the White House on foot.

She had seen photographs of Jesse Colton, so she knew what he looked like: about six feet tall, short black hair, dark eyes. Sort of mysterious-looking, even primal.

“Okay, so he’s a hunk,” Samantha muttered to herself as she pulled up her hood, because it had begun to drizzle. Even in the rain, she loved living in Washington, D.C.

She’d been back in town for two years, because it took at least two years for a presidential candidate like Senator Mark Phillips to float test balloons to see if anyone would vote for him, pretend for months that he wasn’t interested in running, announce the setting up of an informal Phillips for President Committee, talk to the money people, promise everybody everything, and then finally announce his formal candidacy.

Now, with the primaries beginning soon in New Hampshire, the Committee to Elect Mark Phillips had gone into full swing, had gone public, and Samantha was working hard.

She just needed to know if she was working hard for the right man.

Jesse Colton might work in the West Wing now, as she’d been informed, but she already knew he still had to walk to his old parking space, in a parking garage some distance away. It was easier to get into the West Wing than it was to get a better parking place near the White House.

He drove a black sedan, nondescript, yet somehow classy. He arrived at the parking garage by seven o’clock in the morning, six days a week, and could leave again anywhere between five o’clock and midnight.

She knew, because she’d watched him for five long, worrisome days before making the call yesterday. The call that hadn’t been returned today.

“Not stalking, Samantha, watching,” she assured herself tightly as she quickly joined some other people as if she belonged with them, and then stepped into the parking garage, out of the drizzle that was rapidly turning into a downpour. “There’s a difference.”

The difference, she decided two hours later, was that stalkers probably planned better. Maybe even brought a peanut butter and jelly sandwich and a thermos of piping-hot coffee with them.

She’d finally given in and jogged to a small local restaurant to grab a take-out hot dog and a soda, along with a bag of potato chips, then jogged all the way back to breathe a sigh of relief when she saw the black sedan still in its assigned parking spot.

It was nine o’clock and she had begun fantasizing about peanut butter and jelly sandwiches again, when she finally saw him.

She thought it was him. She could be delirious from lack of food, but she was ninety-nine percent sure the man walking toward her was Jesse Colton.

When he clicked something on his key chain and the black sedan’s lights went on, she was sure.

Stepping out from behind her second home—the concrete pillar—she said, “Jesse Colton? If I could have a minute of your time, please?”

He kept walking. “Call my office.”

“I did.”

“Did you leave a message?”

“I did. For you to call me. You didn’t.”

“Now there’s a clue,” he said, opening the rear door of the sedan and throwing his briefcase inside. “It’s late. If you want an interview, go through the press secretary’s office.”

“I don’t want an interview,” she said, walking toward him. “I’m not a reporter.”

“Darn. And I’ll bet you’re not this generation’s Deep Throat, either, ready to tell me deep dark secrets, or Mr. White, who was going to let me know that Mr. Green did it, in the library, with the rope. I don’t get any luck.”

He had opened his car door and slid inside, but before he could close the door again, Samantha was there, her body between the door and the car.

“Are you always an ass?” she asked him, shaking her head so that her hood slipped off. She reached beneath her collar and freed her long blond hair, let some of the thick curls spill onto her shoulders.

She wasn’t dumb. She was blond, fairly pretty, and had fabulous legs. She had yet to meet a single man in D.C. who had found her unattractive.

“Am I being propositioned?” Jesse asked, and his smile was a little too amused for Samantha’s comfort.

“No!” she said, backing up a pace. Which was a bad move, but she realized that too late.

“Pity,” he said, then reached out and closed the door. But then he rolled down the window. “You’re Samantha Cosgrove, right?”

She bent down, looked in the window. “You knew that?”

“Oh yeah, I knew that. Blond, pretty and tenacious as a bulldog. I had you checked out.”

“Why?”

“Because you want to talk to me. Do you have any idea how many people want to talk to me, Samantha Cosgrove, now that I’m in the West Wing?”

“Oh, aren’t we popular. I’m so impressed.”

“I’ll bet you are. I know I am,” he said, flashing her that whiter-than-white smile again.

She wanted to bang him over the head with her briefcase. Instead, she turned her back and began walking away.

“Hungry?” he asked, backing up the sedan so that he was beside her once more.

“Only if I could find a way to make your entrails appetizing,” she said, and kept walking.

He kept backing up. “Ah, don’t go away mad, Samantha. I was going to call you.”

“When? Christmas?”

“No, I go home to Oklahoma for Christmas. Tomorrow. I was going to call you tomorrow. First I had to check you out.”

“Did I pass?” she asked, interested, but she kept walking. The man set her teeth on edge.

“Well, let’s see what I’ve got. Daughter of megarich parents residing in Connecticut after living here for decades. One brother, younger, still in college. Freshman, I believe. One sister, older, a literary agent. Juliet, right? Mommy does charity work and belongs to all the right social groups. Daddy’s a lawyer, and personal friends with and a large contributor to the presidential primary campaign for Senator Mark Phillips, who is personally endorsed by my boss, the current president. Graduated with honors, double major, in both journalism and political science. Very nice, Samantha. Cum laude. Even nicer. Senior staffer on Phillips’s committee. Hardworking, clean-living, good cook, lousy dancer—”

“I am not a lousy dancer! I’m a very good dancer,” Samantha protested hotly, stopping so that she could turn, glare at him.

“And here I thought you weren’t listening. Okay, good dancer, although that wasn’t in my report. So, you want to go get something to eat, and then prove to me that you’re really a good dancer?”

“I wouldn’t dance with you for all the tea in—”

“You did say urgent,” he interrupted.

“Are you always this arrogant?”

“No, it comes with the White House credentials. Honest. You can look at the job description. It’s right there—once cleared to work in the West Wing and given a blue badge, arrogance is mandatory. Red badge? Orange badge? I spit on red and orange badges.”

“You’re insane,” Samantha said, but then she laughed. She couldn’t help herself. “Really. Insane.”

“But I’m buying. How about a New York strip, since you look ready to bite something. Baked potato dripping in sour cream. A good bottle of white zinfandel? You look like a white-zinfandel drinker to me.”

“I like merlot.”

“So much for my source. I’ll have to order her head chopped off in the morning. So, are you getting in, or are you just going to take the Metro home and eat those leftover filled peppers?”

“How did you—oh my God. It’s true. You people know everything. You had someone in my house? Going through my refrigerator?”

“Nothing that illegal. But Brenda—she’s my secretary—did happen to stop in at Senator Phillips’s election headquarters late this afternoon. She told me someone named Bettyann would have given out your shoe size if anyone asked. Brenda also told me that you’re blond and a looker. She was right. Now, come on. Get in.”

Samantha threw up her hands. “Why not. I deserve a free steak after you invaded my privacy that way. You are buying, you know.”

“I wouldn’t have it any other way,” he said once she was in the passenger seat, her briefcase on the floor.

“Neither would I,” she said, arranging her oversize raincoat across her legs. He didn’t deserve to see her legs. “And then we’ll talk?”

“And then we’ll talk. Promise,” he said, slipping the car into Drive and heading out of the parking deck. “But first we eat. I don’t know about you, but I’m starving.”

“I can relate,” Samantha said, hoping her stomach wouldn’t growl before she could feed it.



Finding an empty table in any half-decent restaurant close to the White House was darn near impossible, anytime day or night, but as they approached one of the best ones, Samantha told him to pull up out front at the valet service area.

“Much as I’d like to tell you I’m even smarter than my personnel file says I am, I didn’t know you were going to be lying in wait for me in the parking lot, or that you’d agree to come to dinner with me. That said, I don’t have reservations.”

“That’s all right. Just pull over.”

He did, and the valet opened the passenger-side door. Samantha accepted the hand she was offered, and said, “Good evening, Anthony. It’s good to see you again.”

“And it’s wonderful to see you again, Ms. Cosgrove,” Anthony the valet said, guiding her under the canopy and out of the rain.

“I guess I’m just supposed to schlep it on my own,” Jesse grumbled to himself as Anthony and his large black golf umbrella didn’t move from the canopy again.

He got out, tossed his keys to Anthony, and found himself following Samantha inside the dimly lit foyer of the restaurant known for its old boys’ club decor and aged steaks.

She was already standing in front of the podium, with an Anthony look-alike holding her raincoat over his arm, and speaking fluent Italian with the maître d’.

A few more Italian phrases, some sharp snapping of the fingers by the maître d’, and they were being escorted past the line of diners waiting to be seated and to a prime table. Jesse was pretty sure he recognized a representative from Pennsylvania in the line, as well as a second assistant undersecretary of state.

“How’d you do that?” he asked once they were seated.

“So much for your thorough research. I was raised in the District, remember, before Dad decided to relocate in Connecticut. I’ve known Anthony and his family for years, since my father and mother first began coming here,” she told him as she spread her napkin in her lap.

Then she leaned forward and said with an unholy grin on her lovely, patrician face, “You see, Mr. Colton? Badges? I don’t need no steenkin’ badges.”

If he were less a man of the world, Jesse would have believed he fell in love with Samantha Cosgrove the moment the words were out of her mouth.

Instead, he threw back his head and laughed, and banished any other thoughts as unprofessional. And definitely personally dangerous.

They were handed oversize menus, leather-clad, and Jesse watched as Samantha frowned over hers.

She was so blond. So sleek. So High Society.

And he was the part Comanche nobody from Black Arrow, Oklahoma.

Man. Who would have thunk it.

“I think I want two of everything,” she said at last, smiling at him overtop the menu. “Is that all right?”

“That depends. How good are you at washing dishes?”

“Ah, the woefully underpaid public servant,” Samantha said, closing the menu and placing it beside her cutlery so that she could fold her hands on the tabletop. “Do you like it?”

“Being a public servant, or being underpaid?” he asked, closing his own menu.

“No, seriously, do you like it? I mean, I get chills, just thinking about the West Wing. The Oval Office. All that power, all in one place.”

“And the doughnuts ain’t bad,” Jesse said, grinning.

She sat back. “All right, so I’m not immune to the idea that you work in the West Wing. It’s heady. How did you get there, anyway?”

“Hard work, determination, knowing the right people—all that good stuff.”

“Will you please be serious. I mean, I know you started in the Secret Service.”

“Not much of a secret, is it?” he commented, trying to look upset. “And then I moved on to the NSA—National Security Agency.”

“Yes, and from there to the West Wing. One of the president’s trusted advisers. I don’t remember reading that you stopped a bullet for him, or anything like that.”

“No, nothing that dramatic. Let’s just say I’m ambitious, and that, yes, I did know the right people, and that I was in the right place at the right time. When the president’s second term is over, and your guy’s in the Oval Office, I’ll head back to the NSA. I’m only on loan, you know. That was the deal.”

“You won’t want to be part of Phillips’s staff?”

“I won’t be asked. Same party, Samantha, but each man comes in with his own people. And, frankly, I think I’ll be glad. The NSA is where I really want to be. I’m not all that political. I’d rather think I’m serving my country, not just the current administration. Since the president agreed, and really wants more of an outsider’s opinion on national security, we’re fine. This was, hell, this was an ego thing as much as anything else. But enough about me. Why do you want to be part of Phillips’s staff?”

The waiter approached, and they both gave their orders, then were silent as the wine—compliments of the owner—was opened and poured.

“Nice touch, even if I am going to have to pay for it. We’re not allowed to accept gifts, you know. Still, I could get used to this,” Jesse said, sipping the wine. “So, Samantha, are you going to tell me? Why do you want to be part of Phillips’s staff?”

“Because he’s right for America,” Samantha said, and then she grimaced. “Okay, okay, the truth. Not that he isn’t right for America. He’s a wonderful man. But to get the chance to walk into the West Wing? Stand inside the Oval Office? Be even a small piece of the power behind the man in that office? You’ve admitted it, so I can say it. Who wouldn’t want that?”

“True, true. Fifteen-hour days, constant emergencies, news leaks, congressmen who need their hands held. It’s great.”

“You’re just saying that. I don’t think you’d ever be anywhere you didn’t want to be.”

Jesse didn’t answer her. He just lifted his glass in salute and took another sip of wine as the waiter placed large bowls of salad in front of them.

Oh, he liked this woman. He really, really liked her. And she was correct. He was right where he wanted to be. Across the table from a very interesting woman.

By the time they’d finished their steaks, Jesse was feeling pretty mellow.

Mellow enough to ask a question he probably shouldn’t have asked.

“Have you ever been to the Chekagovian embassy?” he asked, because it seemed as if she’d been everywhere else in the District, and most parts of Virginia. She knew everybody, probably through her parents or Senator Phillips, and had been invited to all the right parties.

Samantha sat back and rolled her eyes. “Oh, the Chekagovian embassy! Isn’t it beautiful?”

“I don’t know. I’ve never seen it.” That much was true. He’d only gotten the fax from the local law firm yesterday, and was still trying to grasp the idea that he and his relatives owned the pricey mansion…and the rest of it.

“You’ve never seen it? Oh, you have to see it. I mean, I’ve never been inside, but from the outside? The grounds are magnificent, just for starters. I was there for a photo op with the senator’s wife, but we didn’t get to go inside. Gorgeous gardens, with flowers all over—”

“I’ve heard that. Gardens, with flowers in them. Very unique.”

“Don’t be funny,” she said, then waited until their plates were cleared from the table. “And it’s not just the gardens. The mansion is truly extraordinary. Federal style. Wonderful old redbrick. A million windows. Exterior wood all painted creamy white, and definitely handcrafted by experts. It’s…it’s a slice of American history. Really.”

“And it serves as the Chekagovian embassy.”

She nodded. “That’s what happened to so many of the best old houses. It’s the price we pay for being the center of the political world. Of course, if we weren’t, who knows what would have happened to those lovely old mansions.”

“They’d never have been built.”

“Good point. I hadn’t thought of that. Anyway, I’d love to get inside that place, just for a look around. Why did you mention it?”

Jesse drew back, knowing he’d probably already said too much. “Oh, no real reason. I’d just heard it was a…a nice place.”

Her gorgeous blue eyes narrowed. “Liar.”

“I beg your pardon,” he said as the waiter poured coffee for them. “I never lie.”

“Oh, the new millennium’s George Washington. You cannot tell a lie. This city hasn’t seen another one like him, until you, of course. I’m so impressed. Really.”

“All right, all right,” Jesse said, holding out his hands. “But only because you dragged it out of me at fork-point.”

“I did not,” she told him. “That was next.”

Jesse laughed. He didn’t know if the good food had made him feel so comfortable, or the good wine…or the great company. What he did know was that if he didn’t soon tell someone what he’d learned in that fax, he was probably going to burst. Just like a little kid with good news.

“First I have to swear you to secrecy,” he told her.

“Certainly,” she said, then held up her right hand. “I, Samantha Cosgrove, do solemnly swear that I won’t breathe a word of what Jesse Colton is about to tell me, so help me spit. There. Is that good enough?”

“Pretty good. Although I’ll still have to kill you once you know everything.”

“That seems only fair. You were Secret Service. Does that mean you could kill me with a rubber band or pencil sharpener?”

“We don’t do those anymore. Now we use Post-it notes. I’m hell with a Post-it note.”

“I’ll bet you are. Now, come on, tell me. What do I want to know about the Chekagovian embassy?”

“That I own it?” he said, raising his eyebrows.

“That you…that you…oh, you fibber you. You own it? Well, that makes us even. I own the Washington Monument. Oh, and we rent out the Lincoln Memorial. Tax reasons, you know.”

He smiled, shook his head. “I know, it’s hard to believe, but I own it. Really. Well, I own some of it.”

“Some of it,” she repeated, spooning three sugars into her coffee.

“Hey, easy on the sugar.”

“Never mind me. You’d better take yours black, because I think you’ve had too much wine, and you’ll need to sober up before you drive home.”

“You think I’m handing you a line?” he asked, tipping his head to one side as he looked at her. God, she had a wise mouth. He loved to hear her talk. He’d love more to shut her up…with his own mouth.

“If you are, I have to admit I’ve never heard this particular one before tonight. So, if I promise to be good, and not laugh too hard, why don’t you tell me why you own part of the mansion?”

“That would take until tomorrow morning,” Jesse said, wincing. “So we’ll leave that for another time, if that’s all right with you.”

“There’s going to be another time?”

“If you want, yes. But it’s getting late, and I’ve got a six-thirty meeting at the White House. So…”

“So I should tell you my reason for contacting you in the first place? For…for stalking you?”

“What a good idea,” he said, grinning. “You can tell me part of it, the way I told you part of mine, and then we’ll go on from there. If you want to.”

“I shouldn’t. You’re much, much too sure of yourself, Jesse Colton.”

“It’s a failing, I agree. So? Do we have a deal?”

She nodded. “We have a deal. But not here, there are too many ears. Pay the check, and I’ll tell you once you drive me home. At the curb, Colton—I’m not inviting you into my house. Agreed?”

He eased his wallet from his slacks pocket and pulled out a credit card. “Agreed. Spoilsport.”

They left the restaurant after Samantha was kissed on both cheeks by the maître d’, two interchangeable Anthonys and a plump woman who came out from the kitchen, wiping her hands on an apron as she called out, “Bella! Sweet Bella!”

“Are you this popular in all the District restaurants? If so, I think ours could be a beautiful relationship, at least until my credit card maxes out.”

“I’ll bet everyone in every gym in town knows you,” she said as he tried to open the car door for her, only to be beaten out by Anthony Number One.

When he slid in behind the wheel, he said, “Actually, they know me at most of the museums. I’m big on museums.”

“I wouldn’t have guessed that,” she said as he pulled away from the curb. “Head toward Dupont Circle, and I’ll give you directions from there.”

Fifteen minutes later he pulled the sedan over to the curb in front of an old redbrick town house. “Apartment?” he asked, looking at the well-kept building.

“Mom and Dad’s place, for when they come to the city. We never sold it. Juliet doesn’t stay here, not that she’s ever in town, but I’m the younger daughter, and part of my permission to come here to work hinged on my agreeing to stay at the old homestead. Mom’s a worrywart,” she told him, fishing in her purse for her key and not finding it. “Now, remember that sworn-to-secrecy stuff?”

“Hope to spit,” he said, turning off the ignition, knowing the windows would fog up within minutes. But if he didn’t turn off the ignition, the chances were lower that he’d be invited in for a nightcap. Hope to spit, yes. And hope springs eternal—that was Jesse’s motto, or at least it was since meeting Samantha Cosgrove.

She took a deep breath, then stared through the rapidly steaming-up windshield, her fingers nervously opening and closing the snap on her purse. “I have fairly varied duties at campaign headquarters. I handle press releases sometimes, organize fund-raisers, help write some of the lesser important speeches. Even lick stamps if we’re shorthanded. I do everything.”

“All right,” Jesse said, and that’s all he said, because he could tell that Samantha was nervous and still might change her mind about talking to him.

“In the course of my…duties,” she went on after a moment, her cheeks pale in the light of a strong street-lamp across the way, “I learned a few names. More than a few names. I learned yours, for instance.”

“But not my whereabouts, because you tried to reach me through the OEOB.”

“I used an old directory,” she said with a wave of her hand. “That doesn’t matter. What matters is that you have a reputation, Jesse.”

“Whatever it is, I didn’t do it,” he said, then winced. “Sorry. It was getting a little tense in here. I thought I’d try to lighten the mood.”

“That’s all right. I’m not saying this very well. This is embarrassing, because I’m usually very good with words. But you do have a reputation, Jesse. For honesty. For being a straight shooter. For being intensely loyal and definitely trustworthy.”

“Now I’m embarrassed.”

She shifted on the seat, turning to face him. “Last week,” she began, then closed her eyes for a moment before looking at him again. “Oh, this is so hard.”

“Just say it fast, Samantha,” he advised her, taking her hand in his. Her fingers were icy cold, nearly bloodless. He didn’t know what was wrong, but whatever it was, she wasn’t only worried, she was scared.

“All right. Last week, Thursday, I think, I…I was licking stamps. I mean, not really licking stamps, but I was there late, and there was mail to go out, and since I was there and had no plans, I stayed to do it.”

Jesse’s radar switched on. Mail. Mail leaving a senator’s campaign office. The possibilities were endless. “Go on,” he urged when she stopped speaking.

“I can’t. I can’t do this. Senator Phillips has been so good to me. And my father? He adores the man. They were in the army together. I mean, I used to call him Uncle Mark. I still do, in private.”

“Samantha, sorry, but you can’t stop here. What was in the mail?”

“Outgoing mail,” she clarified, then sighed. “It had to be a mistake. I mean, he wouldn’t do anything wrong, I know he wouldn’t.”

“What was in the mail?” Jesse repeated, squeezing her fingers.

“Something…something that shouldn’t even have been in there, in the campaign office,” she said quietly, pulling her hand free. “You know he chairs the Senate Ways and Means Committee, and they deal with some very sensitive material…”

“Money, Samantha. They deal with a lot of money. In Washington, money equals power, and power equals money. Now, one more time, Samantha. What was in the mail?”

“Tomorrow,” she said quickly, one hand on the door handle. “Come to the office tomorrow evening. Around seven. Everybody else should be gone. I…I’ll show you then.”

“You didn’t send it out?”

She shook her head. “No. I couldn’t. I’m sure that information should never have been released. I shouldn’t even have seen it.”

“Did you also save the envelope?” Jesse asked, thinking ahead.

“Yes. That’s how I got to see the contents. The envelope wasn’t sealed correctly and the glue was all gone. I wanted to tape it shut but couldn’t find any tape—sometimes our office is a real mess—so I slipped everything out of the envelope to put it into a new one and I saw…I saw…” Her voice was so quiet he had to lean over to hear her above the sound of rain pelting the roof of the sedan. “I’ll…I’ll show you everything.”

She opened the car door, then turned back, grabbed his arm. “But you can’t tell anybody. Not until we know exactly what’s going on. I mean, it was the senator’s mail, but that doesn’t mean that he—”

“We’ll talk about it tomorrow, Samantha,” Jesse said, putting his hand over hers. “It’s probably nothing.”

“That’s what I think. It’s nothing. Just a…a mistake. Good night.”

And then she was gone, running through the rain to the steps of the town house. She knocked, and a few moments later a uniformed maid opened the door, spilling mellow yellow light out onto the brick sidewalk.

“Nice work if you can get it,” Jesse muttered, putting the car in gear to head home to a sleepless night.




Chapter Two


A t ten o’clock the next morning, Jesse passed by the well-dressed secretary who held the door open for him, and into the large, teak-paneled law office of Rand Colton, oldest son of former Senator Joseph Colton.

His relatives. Amazing. A whole, huge branch of the family Jesse and his family hadn’t known existed until a few short weeks ago. The wealthy, socially and politically prominent branch of the family, about as far away from Oklahoma and Black Arrow as a person could get.

He’d seen photographs of Senator Colton, read stories of the scandal and murders and near tragedies that had nearly torn the California family apart.

He’d run several Colton names through the Internet, read the microfiche newspaper articles at the library, and had come to the conclusion that the last thing these people needed was for another problem to rear its ugly head, both privately and for public consumption.

The public had consumed plenty already, with the murder attempts on the former senator by both his business partner and his supposed wife.

That had been the double whammy, that his wife had been the victim of amnesia for ten years while her twin sister, a convicted murderer, had impersonated her, taken her place in Joe Colton’s house, Joe Colton’s bed.

Bizarre.

It was the stuff of tabloids, made for TV docudramas, all that sleazy stuff. Except it all had happened to good people.

But all of that was over, in the past. Problems solved, lives mended, the future bright.

Until these latest revelations that, thankfully, were still hiding under the press’s radar. Until, if the information Jesse had received thus far was correct, it had been learned that his grandmother had been the legal wife of Joe Colton’s father, Teddy. The only legal wife of Joe Colton’s father.

Making Senator Joseph Colton the bastard born on the wrong side of the blanket. Oh yeah, the tabloids would gobble it up if they knew. One thing Jesse wanted to make very clear to the senator’s son was that nobody in the Oklahoma branch of the Coltons planned to go public with anything. Ever.

“Jesse,” Rand Colton said, walking around from behind his desk, his right hand extended in greeting. “Or should I say, cousin?”

Jesse took the man’s hand in his, felt the dry warmth and solid strength he hadn’t expected to find in the grip of a lawyer. “Jesse’s fine,” he said, then took a seat on a chair that was part of a small conversational gathering of chairs and couch on one side of the large office. “Are we really sure?”

“You’ve spoken to your family?” Rand asked, lowering his six-foot-two-inch frame into the facing chair.

“Yes, when I went home after my grandmother’s funeral. I couldn’t be there in July, as I was traveling in Europe with the president, but I finally got there. They’ve been having some pretty interesting times in Black Arrow.”

“Thanks to my uncle, yes,” Rand said, shaking his head, then looking toward the now-open door. “Is there something wrong, Sylvia?”

“Oh, no sir, Mr. Colton. I only wondered if you and Mr. Colton might like some coffee,” the secretary said.

“Coffee?” Rand asked, looking at Jesse.

“Sure,” he answered, and turned to smile at the secretary. “I take it black, thank you.”

“Oh, no trouble, Mr. Colton,” Sylvia gushed, and Jesse saw a slight flush in her cheeks. “Really. It’s absolutely no trouble at all.”

As the secretary turned to exit, and nearly collided with the doorjamb, Rand said, “Do you always have that impact on women? I doubt I’ll get any coffee at all. You’ll probably get coffee and doughnuts.”

Jesse settled himself in his chair once more, and grinned. “It’s my Comanche blood, I suppose. Some women find that exciting.”

“I find that Comanche blood interesting, frankly,” Rand said, crossing one long leg over the other. “From everything I’ve learned about Teddy Colton—our mutual paternal grandfather—he was a heavy drinker, a social climber, a pompous ass—and a world-class bigot.”

“I really wouldn’t know,” Jesse said, resting his arms on the chair. “But I’ve seen early photographs of my grandmother just before she went to Reno to get a job that would allow her to send money home to her parents, and she was a beautiful woman. I mean, truly beautiful. He probably couldn’t help himself.”

“I can believe that. I can also believe that Teddy met her and married her—before his society marriage to my grandmother. My paternal granddaddy, a bigamist. It’s still mind-boggling. Have you seen the documentation?”

Jesse nodded. “On my visit home, yes. I brought the deed and marriage license back with me so I could look into the matter here. Although why Gloria—my grandmother—never told her sons the full truth is still beyond me.”

“Pride,” Rand said with a slight nod of his head. “The way I’ve heard it, thanks to my father, is that when she realized she was pregnant and contacted Teddy, it was to learn that my grandmother was also pregnant. She could have raised one hell of a stink but she didn’t. She just went home to raise her twin sons on her own. I admire her greatly. A simple woman with real class and a giving heart. Teddy, on the other hand, didn’t trust her.”

“Never measure others by the length of your own lodgepole, as my great-grandfather would say. Teddy would have used information like that as a hammer, and so he felt sure Gloria would, as well. But she never did.”

“And she never took a penny from the trust Teddy set up in her name,” Rand said, “or from the house he put into the trust for her. The Chekagovian embassy. I’ve already asked the lawyers who handle the trust to request that the embassy be vacated, and that’s well in hand.”

“I can’t believe we can evict the Chekagovians,” Jesse said with a smile.

“We didn’t have to. It seems the embassy was already in the process of being emptied in favor of a newer building closer to the Capitol. It should be entirely vacant by the end of next week. I’ll make sure you have keys waiting for you at the lawyers’ office, as I’m sure you’ll want to see the place. I know I would. Say, next Friday?”

Jesse lowered his eyelids, thinking that Samantha would be pleased when he told her he could take her on a tour of the estate. Nothing like turning this entire thing into a dating opportunity. He blinked, ordered his mind to concentrate on the matters at hand.

“Thank you. And about the trust? I’m still having a hard time getting my mind wrapped around that number. Ten million dollars?”

“Rounded down, yes. Sixty years of interest is a lot of interest, especially when the stock market began taking off—and especially when the trust was handled well enough to get out of that market and into safer funds while it was still high,” Rand said, grinning. “And imagine. If my uncle Graham hadn’t gotten greedy, nobody might have known about any of this.”

“Yes, how did that happen?”

Rand and Jesse both stood up as Sylvia entered, carrying a tray holding a small pot, two cups and saucers and one plate of doughnuts. “Thank you, Sylvia. Sylvia?” Rand prompted as his secretary continued to stare at Jesse.

“Thank you, Sylvia,” Jesse said, and the secretary blushed again, then backed her way out of the room.

“Truly amazing. I believe it’s called charisma, Jesse,” Rand said as he sat down once more. “Living in this town, you ought to run for office. You’d certainly get the female vote, if Sylvia’s any indication.”

“I’ll keep that in mind,” Jesse said, then took a bite of the glazed doughnut he’d selected.

“Anyway,” Rand said, picking up his coffee cup, “it was Graham, my father’s brother, who contacted our lawyers here in some desperation, wanting to sell up anything that might be left of their father and mother’s estate.”

“Yes, I remember the name now. Graham. The younger brother?”

“That’s him. Graham earns plenty working for my dad, but money just runs through his fingers, so he was looking for another way to make a quick buck. The way I heard it, some junior law clerk, God knows why, mentioned the Georgetown mansion. Never should have happened because my grandfather had apparently explicitly demanded the estate be kept private unless the inquisitor had the deed in hand. Anyway, the clerk was disciplined, although I’m rather glad he made the mistake, if not happy how Graham reacted to learning of your grandmother’s existence. He went ballistic, thinking about the money and the possible scandal.”

“So you don’t mind any of this?”

Rand shook his head. “The money simply isn’t an issue. As for the scandal? It’s ancient history. Besides, if the news had come out years ago, when Dad was running for the Senate, I imagine his handlers would have put a hell of a spin on it. Who knows, he could have ended up as president.”

Jesse laughed, as did Rand. “My family met your father in Black Arrow. They were very impressed with him. Even my great-grandfather, and let me tell you, the old boy isn’t an easy sell.”

“Dad’s good at impressing people. It comes naturally to him, probably because he’s a good man. I wish I could say the same for Graham.”

“He’s the one who hired somebody to find the marriage license, birth certificates, the deed to the Georgetown mansion, and destroy them? The same guy who ordered the town hall burnt down?”

“Not to mention the break-ins at the newspaper office and your late grandmother’s feed and grain store, yes. Busy, busy, busy. Although Graham swears he never told his hireling to do any of that. No violence, he told the guy, or so he says. Just to find the papers and destroy them, as if destroying evidence and robbing a family of its just inheritance were forgivable. But that’s Graham. He sees things his own way. Luckily, the documents were always in a locked box in your grandmother’s bedroom.”

“And the lawyers here have verified everything from the original deed for the Georgetown property to the marriage license,” Jesse said, perhaps a bit too sternly.

“Your whole branch of the Colton family is quite legitimate. You can rest assured that nobody on our side of the family is going to oppose your claim in any way.”

“Thank you. And I can tell you that no one on our side of the family is going to look this gift horse in the mouth, or try to profit from a sad situation by going public with it.”

Rand seemed relieved by his last statement. “Sounds like we’ve agreed, then. Good, and I thank you. So, what do you and your family plan to do with the estate? With all that money?”

Jesse grinned, looked quite boyish for a moment. “We haven’t the faintest damn idea, cousin.”



Samantha ate at her desk, some quite wonderful beef sandwiches left over from the Sunday roast.

She knew the meat was good; it had been a nearly perfect rump roast she’d prepared with garlic mashed potatoes and freshly steamed broccoli. Rose, the live-in maid, who was a full-time student and the only staff Samantha would allow her mother to put in the house, had sworn it tasted like ambrosia. Samantha had agreed.

Yet, today, it tasted like cardboard.

She lifted the top piece of bread and stared at the meat, lettuce and mayonnaise. Nope. Not cardboard.

“Damn,” she said, closing the sandwich once more and putting it back down on the desk.

“Something wrong?” Bettyann entered the office and put some papers down on Samantha’s desk, then deposited her rounded rump there as well.

“Nothing I’d want the media alerted for,” Samantha said, and watched as Bettyann blushed to the roots of her dyed blond hair.

“What…what does that mean?” the secretary asked, looking so guilty Samantha was surprised to not see the woman’s hand stuck wrist-deep in a cookie jar.

“It means, Bettyann, that someone was here yesterday, asking questions about me, and you answered them.”

“I did? What did I say?”

Samantha shook her head. Some things just weren’t worth the effort. “Nothing, forget it.”

“No, really,” Bettyann said, standing up once more, and leaning her hands on the desktop. “Did I say something I shouldn’t have said? And who did I say it to?”

“I’m not sure. Some secretary. Do you remember someone asking questions about me?”

Bettyann shook her head. “No. I do remember someone—a woman—coming in here yesterday, asking questions about everyone. You know, run-of-the-mill gossip. What it’s like to work here, how are the bosses—stuff like that. I thought she was thinking of applying for the job we advertised last week. You know, sort of feeling us out without actually handing us a résumé? Why? Was it a reporter? Oh, cripes, Samantha, please tell me it wasn’t a reporter.”

“It wasn’t a reporter,” Samantha assured her. “Still, Bettyann, in the future, please try not to be so helpful to strangers, okay?”

“No, not okay. I shouldn’t have said anything. I’m really, really sorry.”

“I know. But we’re getting closer and closer to New Hampshire, Bettyann, and the magnifying glass is being applied everywhere, including this office. I’ve been working on a memo directed to all staff, concerning questions that may come into the office. A sort of protocol to follow. I should have done it sooner.”

Bettyann grinned. “Oh, good, it’s your fault. I knew it wasn’t my fault.”

“Spoken like a true politician. Get out of here,” Samantha said on a laugh, and watched as Bettyann, hips exaggeratedly wiggling, left the office.

Once the secretary was gone, Samantha rewrapped her half-eaten sandwich and shoved it back into the navy-blue thermal bag she’d brought from home. Maybe she’d be hungry later, although she doubted it.

After Jesse Colton showed up, and looked at the papers locked in her bottom drawer? Maybe then she’d eat. Or she’d never be able to eat again.



Three hours later, while considering designs for a new series of campaign buttons, Samantha looked up at a knock on her opened office door.

She put down the buttons and stood up, then walked around the desk to give the well-dressed brunette a hug. “Aunt Joan, what brings you to the salt mines?”

Mrs. Mark Phillips bestowed an air kiss on Samantha, then stepped back to look around the cluttered office. “Oh, my. Time to get the bulldozers in here again, my dear,” she said as Samantha quickly moved a stack of files from the only other chair and motioned for the senator’s wife to sit down.

Joan Phillips was in her early fifties, but good genes and even better plastic surgery had her looking like a well-preserved forty. Or less.

Dark hair, marvelous blue eyes, skin the consistency of cream. A figure that flattered her designer suits. Jewels glittering on her hands and at her throat and ears, but discreetly, and half of them heirlooms that whispered rather than screamed “old money.” A cultured voice, the ability to look adoringly at her husband as he made the same stump speech for the fiftieth time.

In short, Joan Phillips was the perfect candidate’s wife.

Joan bent down and picked up the “Calm Day Across America” advertisement proposal Samantha had fashioned into an airplane and soared across the office…which was about as far as she thought it should go.

“Is this an editorial comment, or were you just playing?” the senator’s wife asked, unfolding the makeshift airplane and reading the copy.

Samantha smiled. “I’ll let you decide after you read it, okay?”

“Well, that must have taken at least two seconds of thought,” Joan Phillips said after a moment, and then she refolded the page, sent it soaring toward the most distant corner of the room. “Did they come up with anything better than that, I most sincerely hope?”

“I’ve narrowed it down to two, yes, and I’ll send those over for you and the senator to make the final decision. Or would you like to see them now?”

“No, no, not now. There’s plenty of time for that when Mark and I are alone. I don’t want to make up my mind without his input.”

“Okay,” Samantha said, wishing she didn’t feel so nervous. Clumsy. All those bad things she always felt when in the presence of the neatly put-together Mrs. Mark Phillips.

It had always been that way, since she’d been a child. Uncle Mark was a doll, a peach. And his wife was lovely, ambitious. Very, very perfect.

Samantha always felt as if her own hair had to be messy and tangled, her blouse missing a button, her panty hose laddered with runs, whenever she was in Joan’s presence. The woman didn’t mean to make Samantha, or anyone, feel uncomfortable, but that perfection of hers could be intimidating to those who had to deal with her day to day in any official capacity.

To the public, she was just perfect. Pretty, friendly, articulate…even hip.

“Um…so…what does bring you down here, Aunt Joan?” Samantha asked when the silence became uncomfortable. For her, not for Joan. Joan was never uncomfortable.

“Well, dear, to tell you the truth, I just came to use the postal machine for some correspondence your uncle Mark and I want sent out. Is that what it’s called? A postal machine? You know, that machine that marks envelopes with postage so that there’s no need for stamps?”

“Close enough,” Samantha said with a smile. “Would you like me to arrange to have one purchased for your home office? It would be more convenient for you.”

“No, that’s all right. I’m just as happy for an excuse to come see you and all our eager volunteers, dear. Besides, I have an appointment to have my nails done in a half hour.” She reached into the lizard-skin briefcase she’d carried into the room with her and pulled out several flat, brown envelopes. “I’ll just have someone stamp the postage on these and then I’ll be out of your way.”

“Oh, I’ll do that,” Samantha said, coming around the desk to take the envelopes from the woman.

“Really? Goodness, we don’t pay you enough, dear. Thank you.”

Samantha’s heart was pounding as she accepted the envelopes.

And that’s what they were. Envelopes, just envelopes. Four brown envelopes, the size needed to slip a typewritten page inside without folding it. Didn’t all envelopes look alike? Of course they did.

Samantha put them on the desk behind her, then sort of blocked them with her body as she asked, “Is the president still deciding whether or not he’ll be able to attend the fund-raiser next week?”

Joan rolled her eyes. “You know him, always trying to be the center of attention. Will he, won’t he? I told your uncle Mark to announce that some Broadway cast, or one of those popular boy bands, or somebody like that would be there to perform. Entertainers always mean more media coverage. That would get Jackson to the affair, you could count on that, humming ‘Hail To the Chief’ to himself all the way.”

“The whole world would want to be there if we could get that sort of entertainment, Aunt Joan. Even the opposition. But this isn’t going to be that big a do, you know. Just two hundred of Uncle Mark’s closest friends and supporters. Individuals. Nothing corporate. Nothing to excite or upset anyone. We’re just getting our feet wet.”

“Nonsense, Samantha. Your uncle has been raising funds on a daily basis for all of his three terms in the Senate. It’s what has to be done. Only two hundred people? He doesn’t need something small to get his feet wet. We’re in fund-raising up to our ears, and have been since the beginning. You know as well as I that money for this presidential bid has been collecting in the proper accounts for almost two years. How else are we able to underpay you so badly, hmm? Now, who do you have for entertainment?”

“I’m…um…I’m still considering several options,” Samantha said, desperately running through the file cabinet in her brain, wondering who she could call at the last moment, because she had not booked any entertainment.

“Well, good, then it’s not to worry, is it?” Joan said, getting to her feet in one fluid, graceful movement. “I must be off, I’m afraid. A stop at the salon, and then we have a dinner with several members of the party’s California Primary Committee tonight at seven. We all know a candidate, to be viable, has to carry California. Have to plan ahead, right?”

“Definitely, and we’re already polling well there, I’m happy to say,” Samantha agreed, following Joan Phillips out of the office and through the central room that was loud with ringing telephones, clicking computer keys and the general babble of any office. “I’ll…I’ll be sure to get those envelopes in the mail for you, Aunt Joan. You said they were from both you and Uncle Mark?”

“Did I? Oh, yes, of course. Although we all know that, to your uncle, we’re all errand boys, happy to do his bidding. Mine, his, ours, what does it matter? We must send out mail by the ton. Maybe I will take you up on that offer of one of those postal machines, dear. Except then I wouldn’t get to see you so often, now, would I?”

With another exchange of air kisses, Joan Phillips was gone, and Samantha, after heaving a relieved sigh, was heading back into her office, carefully closing and locking the door behind her.

She spent the next two hours with a phone pressed to her ear, trying to round up some sort of entertainment that would follow the thousand-dollar-a-plate fund-raiser. As she dialed, then was put on hold, she pushed the envelopes Joan had left around her desktop with the eraser tip of a pencil.

She wanted to keep her distance, just in case one of them tried to bite her.

No return address, not on any of the envelopes. Just like the envelope locked in her bottom drawer. Computer-printed address labels, and all the addresses post office boxes, again just like the envelope locked in her bottom drawer.

Could she open the envelopes? Was that legal? There weren’t any stamps on them yet, so it wasn’t as if she’d be tampering with the U.S. mail.

Technically.

But it would be a breach of trust. Uncle Mark’s trust in her. Her trust in him.

After two long, frustrating hours, Samantha had wrangled a gratis appearance at the fund-raiser out of a popular female country-music trio, promising their agent that the media coverage would be “substantial.” Three very pretty girls; talented, and they wore skimpy costumes. That alone ought to make that thousand-dollar-a-plate rubber chicken go down easier.

But she still didn’t know what to do with the envelopes. Five of them now. Fairly bulky.

No wonder her aunt Joan, known to be tight with a penny so she could spend lots of dollars, hadn’t wanted to trust licking the correct amount of stamps. With only a post office box address, and no return address, the envelopes would end up in the dead letter office if the postage wasn’t sufficient.

So much more efficient to use the postal machine in the campaign office.

Except that, Samantha knew, as a senator, Uncle Mark could send out all the official mail he wanted via his office, and at no charge.

So this wasn’t official mail. Without the return address, it probably wasn’t campaign literature, either.

So what was in these other envelopes? More of what she’d found in the first one?

It was that last thought, the one that had been nagging at her all afternoon, that had Samantha unlocking the bottom drawer and sliding the four envelopes into it, on top of the first envelope.



Jesse checked his watch for the second time in as many minutes. Was he already too late? He should have known he wouldn’t get out of the office at a reasonable hour. Reasonable, in his line of work, meant anywhere between six and eight. Face it, reasonable quitting times, for those working in the West Wing, were a joke.

It was now almost nine, and he had chosen to jog over to Phillips’s campaign headquarters rather than take his car and spend another twenty minutes hunting up a parking space.

He stopped outside the office building and looked up. Second floor. Yes, there were still lights on, which meant that Samantha was there, waiting for him.

Probably with her lovely slim, coral-tipped fingers drawn up into fists. Pacing, cursing him, second-guessing herself for having contacted him in the first place.

No matter what, he was pretty certain he wasn’t going to be greeted as if he’d brought the flowers of May along with him. Not when she was so nervous about whatever the hell she thought was so important about the mail she’d discovered.





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