by Ana Barrons
She dabbed at the wetness running down her cleavage, too embarrassed to lift her head. Not an auspicious start to the evening.
“Need any help mopping up?” he asked. Was there a hint of amusement in his voice?
“I’m fine.” You clumsy idiot. She glanced up and found herself looking into wide, intelligent brown eyes. One side of the man’s mouth twisted in an apologetic grin.
“I hope your dress is okay.” He ran his eyes over her appreciatively. “Everything else is perfect.”
The hair on the back of Catherine’s neck prickled. There was something familiar about this man, although she was certain that if they’d met she would have remembered him. He was tall and broad-shouldered, with thick brown hair that was a little too long, and strong, handsome features most women would be unlikely to forget.
“Have we met?” she asked, certain they hadn’t but unable to shake the sense of connection.
He shook his head. “Believe me,” he said. “I would have remembered.
She laughed nervously. “I could say the same thing about you.”
He laid his hand lightly on her arm and she felt a warm tingle down to her toes and all points in between. “How about if I snag us a couple glasses of champagne. Wait for me?”
“Sure,” she said. She was actually a little breathless. Now that was unlike her. She was no stranger to men’s attentions, but most of the time she didn’t let them know they were getting to her. Yet here she was, smiling into a strange man’s eyes.
The butler who had opened the door appeared beside her. “Excuse me, Miss Morrissey.”
Catherine was startled to hear her name. The stranger’s brown eyes widened, and then he turned and walked away. The butler handed her an envelope with her name on it.
“A gentleman left this for you.”
Catherine studied the envelope, wondering if the handwriting was the same as on the invitation. “How did you know who I was?”
“The gentleman said you’d be wearing a black gown with tiny beads.” The butler glanced quickly at her bodice and back to her face. “Just so.”
Her gut froze. He’s here. She extracted a blank note card that was folded in half and flipped it open with a mixture of excitement and dread.
“Be careful, Catherine,” the note read. “He’s not what he appears to be.”
“What?” she gasped. She whirled toward the foyer. “Did he— Is he still here?”
The butler shook his head. “I’m afraid not, Miss.”
She took a step closer to him. “Who was it? What’s his name?”
He raised his hands and dropped them. “I’m sorry, I didn’t see the gentleman. He phoned a moment ago and told me where he had left the note and asked me to hand it to you.”
Catherine stared at the note. He’s not what he appears to be. “What who appears to be?” she whispered.
“I beg your pardon, Miss?”
She glanced up at the butler. “Nothing.” She managed a weak smile. “Thank you.” He left and she stood there with her heart still racing, frowning at the note, trying to think and finding it next to impossible. Someone was trying to warn her. But who had sent the warning, and who was he referring to?
The flirt?
“Oh, God,” she whispered. She’d been talking—flirting—with him when the butler had handed her the note. He’s not what he appears to be. Well, he was certainly someone Blair would have been attracted to—gorgeous, charming and, considering the company he kept, probably rich. Could he have lured Blair out to Roosevelt Island?
Maybe. But he was no killer. How she knew that she couldn’t say. For heaven’s sake, she’d just met the man, but there was something about him, in his eyes...
Cool fingers on her arm startled her, and she turned, expecting to see her brown-eyed stranger. A small woman with red-tinted hair and an enormous gold necklace gazed at her with kind blue eyes that were huge behind her thick lenses. Catherine figured her to be on the far side of seventy.
“Is everything all right, dear?” the woman asked. “You look like you’ve received bad news.”
Catherine forced herself to stop frowning. “Oh, I’m fine, thank you, just a bit puzzled about something.”
The woman glanced down at the note Catherine still clutched but didn’t comment. She stopped a passing waiter and grabbed two glasses of champagne. “I suspect you need something to calm your nerves.”
Catherine slipped the note and envelope in her tiny beaded purse and took the glass gratefully. The last thing she needed was to try to explain the note to anyone, particularly a total stranger. “Actually, I was about to leave.”
“Oh, no,” the woman said, her eyes impossibly wide. “You’ll miss Vice President and Mrs. Mitchell.”
Catherine was speechless for a moment. “You mean...they’re coming here?”
The woman smiled and patted Catherine’s arm. “Don’t worry. I’ll introduce you.”
Catherine gazed longingly toward the foyer. She had to get out, go back to the apartment, ghosts and all, and try to think.
Be careful, Catherine. He’s not what he appears to be.
Her pulse was racing as the words tumbled over and over in her head.
How on earth could she explain to this sweet little woman that she wasn’t the least bit interested in meeting the vice president and second lady of the United States, thanks anyway?
“I’m not even supposed to be here,” she blurted. “The hostess has no idea who I am and I don’t have any idea who invited me and I’m not a donor.” The red-haired matron stood there, smiling, like a patient teacher listening to an inarticulate eight-year-old. “I mean, I appreciate the offer and it’s a lovely party, but I really have to go.”
The woman began to reply when she spotted someone over Catherine’s shoulder and broke into a wide smile. “Ned! You made it.” She opened her arms. A tall man in a tuxedo pulled her in for an embrace and kissed her cheek.
“Ah, my favorite hostess,” he teased. “You’re looking especially hot tonight, Betsy.”
“And you lie with greater ease every time I see you.” She laughed, stepping back. Her eyes moved to Catherine and she smiled. “My dear, I’d like you to meet one of Washington’s most eligible bachelors, Ned Campbell, the White House counsel.”
White House counsel? Catherine glanced back and forth between the two, settling on the woman, who was now holding one of Catherine’s arms and one of Ned Campbell’s. “Did he say you were the hostess?”
The woman laughed. “Yes, yes. I was about to introduce myself when I caught sight of this rascal heading toward me. I’m Betsy Eberhart, and I’m delighted you’re here.”
Catherine felt the flush creeping up her cheeks. “I’m sorry, Mrs. Eberhart. I should have introduced myself earlier.” She offered her hand, and Betsy took it between both of hers. “I’m Catherine Morrissey.” She waited a beat to see if Betsy reacted, but the woman continued to smile at her. Catherine nodded to the man Betsy had practically thrust toward her. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Mr. Campbell.”
Ned Campbell made a small bow, causing his light brown hair to cascade over his forehead. In a gesture that appeared habitual, he pushed his hair off his brow then nudged his wire-rimmed glasses farther up his nose. His grin made him appear boyish. “The pleasure is all my mine, Miss Morrissey. And please call me Ned.”
Catherine smiled. As a member of the president’s inner circle, Ned Campbell was definitely a power player in this city, and an ace in the hole for a high-level position in a Mitchell administration. Yet he struck her as very down to earth. “If you’ll call me Catherine,” she said.
Ned’s grin widened. “Catherine it is.”
“Exquisite, isn’t she, Ned?” Betsy whispered, loud enough for Catherine to hear.
“That she is,” h
e said, not taking his eyes off Catherine.
Ah, so Betsy was playing matchmaker. Catherine squirmed. “Well, it’s been a pleasure meeting both of you—”
“Ned’s father and I were dear friends,” Betsy said smoothly. “Dr. Campbell passed away five years ago, God bless his soul.”
Ned was still gazing at Catherine, looking a little tongue-tied. It was comforting to know she wasn’t the only one who felt awkward. She decided to help him out. “What kind of doctor was your father?”
“A psychiatrist,” he said.
“Dr. Campbell and my late husband were roommates at Georgetown,” Betsy added. “Ned went to Georgetown College and Law School.”
Catherine sneaked a glance toward the foyer.
“Of course you know that Suzannah Mitchell attended Georgetown,” Betsy said. “She and Ned were there at the same time.”
In spite of her desire to leave, Catherine found herself getting drawn into the conversation. “Oh, did you know each other well?”
“We were good friends,” Ned said. “Still are.”
“Do you live here in the city, Catherine?” Betsy asked.
“Oh, no. I’ll only be here through the end of July at the latest. I live in New Hampshire.”
“Pity,” Betsy said. A middle-aged couple rushed forward and she excused herself, but paused to lay a hand on Catherine’s shoulder.
“I hope you’ll stay and enjoy yourself,” she said. She glanced at Ned, then smiled back at Catherine. “I’m sure Ned will be happy to introduce you around.”
As soon as Betsy departed, Ned plucked a glass of champagne off a passing tray. “I’m so sorry about your sister.”
So he had recognized the name. “Thank you. I’m kind of glad Mrs. Eberhart didn’t make the connection, actually. I’m not sure I could deal with a room full of pitying glances and forced condolences. Not to mention—” She stopped, a familiar pain settling into her gut. Don’t go there.
Ned was watching her closely. “Not to mention?”
She shook her head, more to clear away the memory of that betrayal than to avoid answering him. She took a deep breath before she spoke and forced herself to make eye contact. “The newspaper articles. The things they said about Blair and me.”
Ned frowned. “For what it’s worth, I blame Rossi for starting all that. There was no need for him to tell the world about your marriage and so forth.”
Catherine winced at the reporter’s name. Joe Rossi. Talk about a smooth operator. Why did it hurt so much? Why couldn’t she simply be angry with him and let it go? She turned away, unwilling to say any more.
“I’m sorry,” Ned said. “It’s none of my business.”
While he appeared to be studying his shoes, Catherine considered how to detach herself without appearing rude. Before she could speak he raised his head.
“How about this,” he said. “I’ll use a fake name when I introduce you. Morris? That’s close enough.”
“That’s really sweet of you, Ned, but you’re under no obligation to introduce me to anyone.”
His expression was incredulous. “Do you honestly believe it would be a hardship for me to introduce the most beautiful woman in the room to this crowd?” He grinned and held his arm out. “You can’t imagine the boost this will give to my image.”
She hesitated a moment before tucking her arm into his. No way to get out of this gracefully.
At least a dozen people approached Ned over the next hour, and to each he introduced her as Catherine Morris. It was strange and not altogether comfortable, but it beat the alternative. The older guests were friendly and welcoming to Catherine, but she definitely received a cool reception from some of the younger women, who no doubt envied her position at Ned Campbell’s side. What a great catch he had to be in this set. She sipped champagne and glanced around, hoping to spot her flirtatious stranger, but he was nowhere in sight.
There was a palpable change in the atmosphere at around eleven o’clock, and Catherine knew instinctively that the vice president and his wife had arrived. She followed Ned’s gaze and caught a glimpse of the vivacious and beautiful Suzannah Mitchell, who, in her mid-thirties, would be the youngest first lady since Jackie Kennedy if her husband followed President Wayland into the oval office. Sam Mitchell was also young by Presidential standards. Just forty-eight years old, he had served as a legislator since his early thirties and was in his third year as vice president. Like most people, Catherine knew that as a first-term representative from Nebraska, Mitchell had been totally smitten by blonde and spirited Suzannah Hamilton, who was an intern in his office the summer before her senior year at Georgetown. He married her the day after she graduated.
Suzannah Mitchell glided into the room, flanked by two Secret Service agents who were scanning the crowd, as she herself appeared to be. She was smiling, greeting people, shaking hands, kissing cheeks, but Catherine sensed the second lady was distracted. Suzannah’s eyes lit up when she spotted Ned. She excused herself and walked briskly to where he was standing.
She kissed Ned on both cheeks in European fashion and whispered something in his ear. There was a trace of anxiety in her expression. Not enough to be picked up by the casual observer, but Catherine was good at reading people.
The vice president appeared at his wife’s side. He grasped Ned’s outstretched hand and slapped him on the back. Catherine felt dwarfed by his presence, not because the vice president was particularly tall at five-ten or eleven, but because he was, well, larger than life. And much more attractive in person than on TV. The champagne had taken the edge off her nervousness, and in spite of the adrenaline rush of standing two feet from the man most likely to be the next president of the United States, she was surprisingly relaxed.
“Sam and Suzannah,” Ned said, “I’d like you to meet Catherine Morris. Catherine, meet Vice President and Mrs. Mitchell.”
Sam Mitchell turned to shake Catherine’s hand and his smoky gray eyes widened in surprise. He studied her face. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Catherine,” he said. He held her hand longer than necessary and continued to study her with undisguised interest. Catherine felt herself blush. Before she could open her mouth to return the vice president’s greeting, Suzannah aimed her megawatt smile at her.
“Forgive me for not greeting you sooner, Catherine,” she said in her elegant Southern accent. “I didn’t realize you were with Ned.”
“It’s an honor to meet both of you,” Catherine said, taking the hand Suzannah held out to her. It was cool and steady. Ned seemed content to let the Mitchells think they were together, so she let it go. When she glanced at the vice president he was frowning slightly at something or someone over her shoulder. She resisted the urge to turn around. Then his gaze was back on her with an intensity that was slightly unnerving.
“I hope we’ll be able to talk later, Catherine,” the vice president said. He glanced between her and Ned, then settled his gaze on her for another few seconds. She was tempted to ask him why in the world he would want to talk to her.
“I would be honored, sir,” she said.
As the vice president left to greet other guests, Suzannah moved her head close to Ned’s ear and whispered to him again. There was a new light in her eyes as she gazed at the same spot that had drawn her husband’s attention moments earlier. “Excuse me, won’t you?” She clasped Catherine’s hand between both of hers. “Enjoy your evening, Miss...”
“Morrissey,” Ned said. “Catherine Morrissey. Blair Morrissey’s sister.”
Suzannah’s mouth opened slightly, then closed. “I’m so sorry about your sister, Catherine.” There was a slight tremor in her voice. “How horrible for your family.”
“Thank you.” Catherine was embarrassed by Suzannah’s discomfort. Why had Ned suddenly exposed her identity?
Curious to see who Suzannah was so anxio
us to talk to, Catherine turned slightly and was stunned to see him—the flirt—moving slowly around the perimeter of the room. There was something predatory about the slow, fluid way he moved. She wondered, with a twinge of envy, who the prey was.
She sipped her champagne and tried not to track his movement but her eyes were drawn to him. He stopped then and stared through the crowd at her, unsmiling. The connection was stunningly intimate. Blood rushed to her cheeks. Her pulse quickened and her mouth went dry. She turned away.
Out of the corner of her eye, Catherine glimpsed Suzannah Mitchell struggling not to track the man with her eyes. She nodded and smiled at other guests, but Catherine didn’t miss the second lady’s furtive glances, the nervous clutching of her beaded evening bag.
My God, that must be who she was so excited to see.
Catherine risked a glance between them, searching for some thread, some unspoken connection, but the stranger’s eyes were still on her. Suzannah Mitchell was staring at her as well.
And Catherine understood that she had trespassed.
She felt light-headed. Whether it was the champagne getting to her or the craziness of the evening, her knees weren’t holding her up so well anymore. She moved away from Ned, who was engaged in conversation with a youngish woman with her hand on his arm, and toward the closest buffet table. Maybe if she put something in her stomach she would feel less woozy.
She didn’t dare glance in the direction of the stranger, whoever he was, as she made her way through the crowd. Who or what was he to Suzannah Mitchell? All she knew was that he was an accomplished flirt, a major hunk and a very smooth operator.
Smooth operator. It was the second time this evening those words had flashed into her head. She shuddered as a fragment of her last conversation with Joe Rossi replayed itself in her mind.
“I feel as though I know you after all this time, Catherine. You’re so easy to talk to.”
“I feel the same way. If I didn’t, I wouldn’t have been sharing all my deep, dark secrets with you. A reporter, for God’s sake!”
“Yeah, what were you thinking?”
