by Susan Crosby
She called his cell phone before she lost her nerve.
“This is Sam Remington. Please leave a message.”
Voice mail. Damn. She straightened her shoulders. “Hi, Sam. It’s Dana Sterling. I just learned I might have to be in L.A. tomorrow, so I thought I could drop off your medal in person. Could you give me a call, please?” She gave him her unlisted home number and the private line to her office then hung up and took a deep breath.
Exhaustion caught up with her, making her office sofa look a little too inviting. Standing, she shuffled the papers on her desk into something that resembled a stack and shoved them into her briefcase for her nightly bedtime story. She’d forgotten what it was like to curl up in bed with a good novel. Regardless, she looked forward to an evening at home.
Her private line rang. She let it ring a second time before picking it up.
“Dana Sterling.”
“You’re working late, Senator.”
Sam. She leaned a hip against her desk and smiled, taking it as a good sign that he’d returned her call so quickly. He didn’t seem surprised to hear from her. “No later than usual.”
“You know what they say about all work and no play.”
“You’re speaking from personal experience?”
He made a sound of agreement. “I caught you on the news a few times.”
“Just part of the job.”
“Which is one of the reasons you’re not running for a second term.”
She pushed away from the desk. “I didn’t say that.”
“When you’re bluffing, you move your left shoulder back and forth. It’s harder to pick up than, say, avoiding eye contact, but it’s your tell. I figured that out in tenth grade.”
He’d watched her that closely? That carefully?
She didn’t answer. She couldn’t. To say anything meant she would either lie or confide in him. Neither was a viable option.
“No one will hear it from me,” he said into the silence. “Rumor is, by the way, that you’re going to run.”
She lowered herself into her chair. “Except for the press and the three men waiting to take my place, I didn’t know there was such interest. Where did you hear the gossip?”
“I took an unofficial poll at a couple of watering holes on Monday.”
“And the margin of error?”
“Plus or minus thirty points.”
After a moment she laughed. “I suppose it’ll be old news by tomorrow.”
“For the general population maybe.”
“It’s the voters that count.”
“Then I think you’re safe,” he said. “Politicians, on the other hand…”
“You don’t have to tell me, Sam. I’ve been part of the process since I was twenty.”
A beat passed. “Is that when you met your late husband?”
“Yes.” She didn’t want to discuss Randall. There had to be some rule of etiquette that said you shouldn’t talk about the man you loved with the man you lusted after. “So, about the medal.”
To his credit he didn’t miss a beat at the change of subject. “I’ll be in L.A. tomorrow, but I’m actually in San Francisco at the moment. I’ve got an eleven o’clock flight tonight. I could swing by your office.”
He was in San Francisco and he hadn’t called before now. Not interested. The words might as well be flashing in neon. “The medal’s at home,” she said coolly. “I’m headed there now. You’re welcome to stop by, or I can still mail it.”
“I’ll stop by.”
Really? Another mixed message. “Okay. My address is—”
“I know where you live. See you in half an hour.”
Dana listened to the dial tone for a few seconds before cradling the phone. She liked his confidence, had always been attracted to confident men—
He knows where I live?
A quick knock on the door preceded Maria’s entrance. “About tomorrow?”
“Don’t cancel my appointments. I’ll go to the L.A. office next week, as planned.” She took a final glance at her desk to see if she’d missed anything. “Now, go home.”
“I will if you will.”
“We’ll walk each other to our cars.” Dana scooped up her briefcase and jacket then stepped into her shoes. Energy replaced exhaustion. Sam was coming.
Sam pressed the intercom button outside Dana’s security gate, then pulled into her driveway when the iron gate swung open. He studied the Pacific Heights home, as he had the day before from outside the fence. She didn’t live in a house but a mansion, magnificent in its grandeur but not ostentatious, the front-yard landscaping established and unfussy.
Architecture was Sam’s passion. He’d looked up the history of this particular house: Mediterranean-style, built shortly after the 1906 earthquake, dominated by a red tile roof and terra-cotta colored textured stucco. The knoll-top parcel had a panoramic view from its lush rear garden of the Golden Gate Bridge, San Francisco Bay and the Presidio.
Randall Sterling had been born to money.
Sam had conducted his own research on the man when he’d first read about Dana marrying him. His rise in politics began in high school as student-body president, continued at Stanford, then went into public arenas, on committees and boards. He was voted in as congressman when he was only twenty-eight, serving twelve years before being elected to the Senate. He’d finished one six-year term and two years of a second term before dying of a massive heart attack while jogging in Golden Gate Park almost two and a half years ago.
The charismatic, beloved and respected Randall Sterling was a true man of the people. He’d earned Sam’s vote. And now his widow sat in his place. No scandal had ever touched her husband or her, the only gossip the twenty-year age difference, and the fact she worked for him.
Sam had thought about her a lot through the years, had even fantasized seeing her again, but had made no effort. He hadn’t been in a position to.
Now he was.
And now he couldn’t.
He glanced at his watch and calculated the time until his flight. He’d allowed himself five minutes with her.
Sam set his car alarm out of habit then walked up the flagstone path to the enormous front door. He rang the bell, heard the chimes from deep within the house. He wondered whether a servant would greet him, but Dana did, looking serene in blue silk pants and blouse, which was unbuttoned one button lower than conservative. A sliver of ice-blue lace bra teased him, its texture contrasting seductively with her skin. A jolt like lightning zapped him in the midsection and turned up the heat. Fifteen years of life experience had given her a mature sexuality that appealed to him as much as her innocence had years ago.
She backed up, inviting him inside. “You look very nice in your suit and tie. Kind of Secret Serviceish.”
“Secret Service men appeal to you?”
“Oh, well, actually I prefer a CIA man.”
“It’s that furtive look, I imagine. Makes all the women swoon.”
Her eyes lit with humor as he walked past her and she shut the door. She smelled good—not flowery, but cool and tranquil. He’d bet her perfume came in a curvy blue bottle. But he missed the hot pink she always used to wear.
The tiled foyer boasted cathedral ceilings and vivid stained-glass windows, a dramatic curving staircase, textured walls painted a rich antique gold and a spectacular wrought-iron chandelier. Bold simplicity. He’d been in a lot of fancy homes in the past few years, but this one had the added element of old-world elegance, as if the furnishings had been there forever. He wondered if she’d had any hand in the decorating.
“Would you like a glass of wine, Sam? I’ve got a wonderful Chardonnay chilling in the living room.” She gestured toward open double doors off the foyer.
He saw a flicker of candlelight, heard the strains of a classical piece he couldn’t have identified if his life depended on it. She’d set a scene. For him.
Dammit. Dammit.
“I’ll pass on the wine, but thanks,” he said.
She looked mildly embarrassed. “Oh. You probably don’t drink, do you?”
“Why wouldn’t I?”
“Because of your—” She stopped, her embarrassment deepening.
He knew how the sentence ended. “Because of my father?” he asked.
“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to—”
He cut her off with a gesture. There was no faster way to change his mood than to bring up his father, but especially coming from Dana, who knew too many details of his childhood. “I drink socially. What that man did or didn’t do has no bearing on who I am or how I live. I’m not drinking because I can’t stay. I’m on my way to the airport.”
“Already? Your flight’s at eleven.”
“And I have to park and go through security. You know how long that takes these days.”
“Of course,” she said crisply, matching his tone, making him aware of it. She walked toward the living room, giving him time to admire her backside, something he’d done too often as a teenager. When she returned she held out the medal to him.
“Thanks.” He stuffed it in his pocket and turned to leave, the hardest thing he’d done in recent memory. She was a temptation beyond his expectations.
“Why’d you even bother to come?” she asked.
He glanced back. He couldn’t read her expression, something between curious and hurt.
“I might as well have mailed it, you know,” she said, not letting him off the hook.
I wanted to see where you live, how you live. Not from the outside, but inside, where her life wasn’t open for public viewing. How could he tell her that and still play fair with her? He wished now that he’d never given her his card. He couldn’t have a relationship with her. Not now. Not ever. “I thought I’d save you the trouble.”
“Right. It would’ve been such a burden on me.”
Sarcasm now. “You were the one all fired up to give it to me.”
“Of course I was. You worked hard for that medal.”
“Dana. It was fifteen years ago. Who cares?”
“I do.” Her voice quavered; her cheeks flushed. “I liked battling with you all those years. Sure I wanted to win, to be the best, but, Sam, I was happy that if I didn’t win, you did.”
He felt like the biggest jerk on earth. “Dana—”
“Go on or you’ll miss your plane.”
He wanted to find a way to end this better. Instead he opened the door and stepped out into the night.
“Wait.” She hurried toward him and grabbed his arm long enough to stop him.
“I apologize,” she said. “Truly. All I can say in my defense is that it’s been a long three days. I’m exhausted, and not thinking clearly. I’m sorry I called you and made you go out of your way. I should’ve just mailed the medal and been done with it.”
He didn’t know what to say, couldn’t dare continue the conversation, not when he wanted to carry her up that sweeping staircase, find the nearest bed and bury himself in her.
“I wasn’t expecting anything of you tonight,” she said. “Just to share a glass of wine and some conversation. Work consumes me. I wanted a little time away from it with an old friend. I didn’t mean to put you on the spot.”
She sounded lonely. He understood loneliness. And because he was only human, he brushed his fingertips down her cheek, although whether for him or for her, he wasn’t sure. A little sound came from her, sexier than any he’d ever heard in bed.
He walked away. She followed.
“You don’t have to walk me to my car,” he muttered over his shoulder, frustrated now.
He heard her stop walking for a second, then continue at a more leisurely pace.
“I’m getting my mail,” she said, a little lilt to her voice.
“You get your own mail?”
“My housekeeper was off today.”
He liked the self-protective arrogance in her voice. He pushed the remote unlock button for the car. “Nice house, by the way.”
“Nice car. Is it yours?”
“Yes.”
“You don’t have to sound so defensive. You don’t live in San Francisco and you’re flying back to L.A. tonight. Logic says it’s a rental.”
“A Mercedes?” He climbed inside knowing he’d spend the rest of the night analyzing their conversation. “See you, Senator.”
Moving closer to the car, she continued to eye it speculatively. “Were you… Is this what you were driving at the reunion?”
“Yes.”
“You—” She stopped. “Did you guard my parents’ house after the reunion, Sam?”
Distracted by the breast-level view, he hesitated a few seconds before answering. “Why would I do that?”
“Answering a question with a question doesn’t work with me.” She turned those dark eyes on him then, not with humor this time. “If you’re leaving your car at the airport, you’re coming back to the city.”
“I have business here.”
“When will you be back?”
“Tomorrow night.” He started the car, ending the conversation, ending what might have become a relationship that mattered.
I can’t be seen with you and you can’t be seen with me. It’s that simple.
He watched her in his rearview mirror as he pulled away. She didn’t move except to cross her arms. He’d bet she was giving him hell. And damned if he didn’t deserve it.
“Well,” Dana said as the gate closed. “That was fun.”
She heard the sarcasm in her voice, felt her face heat up and her pulse thunder.
It had been fun, she realized. More fun than she’d had in a long time.
People rarely argued with her anymore. Debated, yes, but nothing with fire behind it, at least not personal fire. There’d been heat between her and Sam. Lots of it. She welcomed the warmth as it settled in parts of her body she’d thought frozen.
Dana walked down the driveway to the mailbox, wondering why she bothered, except that she’d told Sam she was going to. She rarely got personal mail at home. Almost everything came to the office or was transmitted by e-mail or fax. Few people knew this address.
So how did Sam know?
Dana retrieved her Occupant mail from the box that was mounted to the iron fence and headed back to the house, resignation settling in. He’d planned his visit tonight to be short. He’d taken advantage of his flight to L.A. to stop by with a narrow time frame. If he’d wanted to spend time with her, he could have made plans to see her when he got back instead of tonight. What difference would a day or two make?
She locked the house, set the alarm, blew out the candles in the living room and grabbed the bottle of Chardonnay to return to the refrigerator.
The house seemed quieter than usual as she climbed the staircase. She no longer missed Randall’s presence the way she had when he first died. She’d gotten used to coming home by herself. She hated it, but she was used to it.
She stopped in her bedroom doorway and stared at the briefcase she’d flung onto the bed, the same bed she’d shared with Randall. She hadn’t changed anything, hadn’t had time or interest. She felt a sudden need to redecorate, to make it hers, a lighter, airier look instead of the heavy masculine style.
She tossed the mail on top of the bed as she headed for her closet, where she changed into cotton pajamas, then climbed into bed and dragged her briefcase into her lap. Everything inside her churned.
The phone rang. She hated the hope that rose before she could tamp it down. It couldn’t be Sam, and she knew it.
“Hello?”
“Hey, pal. How’re you doing?”
She hid her disappointment. “Lilith, hi. I’m worn out but the worst is over. I’m pretty sure that every network and wire service has a quote by now. How are you feeling?”
“Fat.”
Dana laughed, as she was supposed to, but she envied Lilith her pregnancy, her happy and full life with a husband who adored her and work that satisfied her. “This too shall pass.”
“I’m an elephant. I’m sure this is month twenty-two of my pregnancy.”
“You look beautiful. Jonathan undoubtedly tells you every day.”
“I also look in the mirror every day. Listen, Jonathan and I would like you to come to dinner tomorrow night. Just a small group, six or eight, depending on who’s available on such short notice.”
“Any single men?”
“One, but it’s not a setup,” she rushed to add. “He’s—”
“It’s okay, Lilith. Really. I’m ready.” She had to do something with her newly resurrected feelings, and Sam wasn’t interested. A little flirtation might be a good thing.
“That’s a change.”
“I know. It’ll be two and a half years next week. I can’t survive on work alone, as much as I love it.”
“Does that mean I can officially start sending men your way?”
“You mean you were telling the truth when you said tomorrow night wasn’t an unofficial date?”
“Well, not exactly. But there are other men besides this one, Dana. Interesting, intelligent, emotionally secure men.”
More interesting than Sam? “Okay.”
“It’s going to take a while for me to get used to hearing you say that. Um, I take it you didn’t listen to the show today.”
“I didn’t have time, why?”
“Harley called in to the program.”
Dana let that news sink in. Lilith hosted a Monday-through-Friday, commute-time, radio-advice show, Dr. Lilith. Her Ph.D. in psychology qualified her; her warm but no-nonsense personality made her a success, even though she was an ultraconservative living in a predominantly liberal city.
“Something tells me he wasn’t looking for advice on his sex life,” Dana said. “Although he probably needs it.”
“Meow.”
Dana smiled. “Did he identify himself?”
“Of course not. Coward that he is, he got on the air by telling my producer he had a question about how to help a woman lose her frigidity.”
“He said that?”
“Those words exactly. I started to ask him for more specifics, when he said that surely I knew who he was talking about—the princess of Prospector High School. Anyway, I’ll send over a tape to your office so you can hear it. He didn’t name you, but your bio says you graduated from there.”
