Private Indiscretions (5 page)

“Okay.” Static almost covered his words. “I'm pulling in to the hotel.”

She heard the line go dead. Lost reception or had he hung up? “Good night,” she said, in case he could hear her.

She returned the phone to her nightstand and reached for the budget report again, forcing herself to concentrate. But when she turned out the light an hour later, she was free to think of Sam. She tried to imagine what he planned to give her but—

No. It better not be.

Before she could let a contrary voice dictate her actions, she phoned him.

“Sam Remington.”

“Oh, good, you weren't asleep.”

“Actually, I was.”

“You sound wide awake.”

“Training. What can I do for you, Blush?”

His voice softened with the question. She heard a rustle of fabric, as if he were resituating pillows. He made a sleepy kind of sound that turned her on. She considered what it would be like to be curled up next to him. She was so tired of being alone. Of handling everything alone. But it was more than that. No other man made her as deeply aware of the emptiness—and the longing.

“Dana?” he asked into the silence.

She considered his previous question. What could he do for her? You could rub my back. Hold me. Kiss me. Make love with me…. The vivid thoughts caught her by surprise. “Um, I was wondering if you'd like to come to breakfast instead.”

“The suspense is killing you?”

Oh, he was enjoying this. “You'd better not be giving me the medal back.”

“Or what?”

He had her there. What kind of threat could she make? She was acting like a teenager, she with her Ph.D. in political science, her position as a U.S. senator, no matter that she'd taken the fast track there. Her brains were being fried by the giddiness of infatuation, like some hormonal adolescent.

“I'm not trying to give you back the medal,” he said into the long void.

“Oh.” She'd been sure that was his plan. “Okay. Good. All right, then.”

His laugh was low and sexy.

“So, could you come to breakfast?” she asked.

“No, but thanks for the invitation. I'll see you as planned.”

“But—” She heard the click of a hang-up. Really. Did the man have something against ending conversations normally?

Well, he'd been a good sport about her waking him. She'd never done that before, called someone that late at night, unless it had been an emergency.

“What can I do for you?” he'd asked.

Even if she'd answered him honestly she doubted he would be on his way to her house. He was too independent, too strong-willed to let himself go on a whim. And, perversely, it made her want him even more.

 

Sam set the phone on the nightstand and rolled onto his back. Cradling his head in his hands, he tried to decide whether to smile or curse. She'd woken him up from a dream where she had the starring role. He'd survived his high-school years on those dreams, ones more dangerous now that she was a woman and even more complex, therefore more intriguing.

Even as a child she'd been unique. They hadn't been in
the same class until fifth grade, and only then because she'd skipped fourth. His mother died a month after the school year started. When he went back to class after a week, the rest of the kids wouldn't look at him, including his friends, not knowing what to say, he supposed. Even the teacher treated him differently. But Dana came up to him at recess where he stood alone against the building and told him she was sorry his mother died.

No one had used that word—died. His mother had passed away or was gone or was in heaven. He didn't know why he appreciated her directness when everyone else had talked around the painful subject, but he had. Her sympathy had made his throat ache and his eyes burn. Because of it, he'd turned away.

He also fell in love that day, had fallen for the sweet little girl with the caring eyes and tender voice. As his feelings deepened through the years, he avoided her outside of class, guarding his heart, sometimes successfully. More often not. In the end he was grateful he'd had the foresight not to say anything to her since he had nothing to offer, as her father pointed out to him the night of the prom, the one night his dreams had a chance to come true. He could not ask her out again, that point was made clear.

He'd blocked the memory for years, but he remembered now. Remembered tugging at his tie as he climbed her porch steps. Could still see her come down the stairs dressed in pink, how beautiful she looked. And she was smiling at him. Her mother and father hovering nearby, taking their picture. His awkwardness at pinning on her corsage, and her mother finally taking over. The pungent fragrance of gardenias still aroused him.

It didn't matter that he'd gotten the prom date by default when her original date broke his leg. It only mattered that she'd said yes. That she was there. That she would be dancing with him. Rosa Giannini had taught him in two days.

He could even smile now about how he'd stumbled a little the first time he'd held Dana in his arms. At the time
he'd been embarrassed, but she'd kept talking as if he was the smoothest dancer in the world. She'd made him feel appreciated. Cherished. Valued.

Mr. and Mrs. Cleary chaperoned the dance. Sam was always aware of them on the sidelines, watching. When Dana went to the rest room with her girlfriends, Mr. Cleary pulled Sam aside.

“Dana has quite a future ahead of her,” he said.

“Yes, sir,” Sam answered, nervous about having to talk with him.

“Her mother and I don't want anything to interfere with those plans.”

“No, sir. I'm sure you don't.”

“I can see you care about her.”

“Yes, sir.”

“If you really care about her, you won't see her again after tonight.”

The words hit him like a sucker punch. He should have been prepared. He would never be good enough for anyone in this town, much less Dana Cleary. His father was a drunk. He knew what people thought—the apple didn't fall far from the tree.

“I was just doing her a favor, sir,” he managed to say. The evening was ruined, his dreams were shattered, and life changed. He'd barely spoken with her again, at least not until he'd come upon Harley trying to force himself on her in the woods a month later, the day before graduation. Sam wouldn't have been there in time to help her if he hadn't gone specifically to see her, violating her father's order. She never knew that, however.

Now he could see Mr. Cleary was right. Her possibilities had been endless. If something more had developed between them, he could've held her back. But the pain of her father's rejection had sucked the joy out of the evening. He had a hard time talking with her after that, and he knew she was confused by how he'd backed away. He couldn't explain it, though, without telling her what Mr. Cleary had
said. She was the lucky one. She had parents who cared enough to make sure their daughter didn't get hurt.

An awkward end to the evening had followed. She'd waited expectantly, but he wasn't sure if it was for a kiss. Maybe he should have taken advantage of his one opportunity to kiss her, but he couldn't do that. It would be like a lie. Instead, he'd stepped backward down the porch stairs, muttering his thanks. The next day she approached him hesitantly and said she'd had a wonderful time, but he turned from her, leaving her to wonder what happened.

Sam rolled onto his side and pulled the sheet over his shoulder. He'd hurt her, still she'd seemed to forgive him. What kind of woman was that?

D
ana handled the most critical issues her staff threw at her the next morning then met privately with her chief of staff, Abe Atwater. At age sixty-two he'd been with Randall from his first days as a member of the House and had stuck with Dana during the transition and beyond. He moved like a tornado, pulling problems into the whirlwind surrounding him and spitting them back out, solved. She couldn't have survived without him. Period. He was also the only person on her staff who knew she wasn't running for reelection.

Dana passed him the threat she'd received, having finally decided she shouldn't attempt to handle it alone.

He puzzled over the note. “‘If you run for reelection, I'll make public everything I know about your
saintly
late husband.' How'd you get this? It couldn't have come through this office.”

“At home. In the mail. I had no idea what was inside or I would've handled it more carefully. I've probably wiped out any fingerprints that might have been there.”

Abe ran a hand over his bald head. “We've come a long way from the days when people cut letters out of newspapers and magazines and glued them on a piece of paper.” His smile was wry. “Computer generated, don't you think? Some fancy typeface.”

“A calligraphy font,” Dana said, agreeing, relaxing because he smiled. “I thought at first it was a wedding invitation. What do you think, Abe? Serious?”

“It came to your house not your office. Then there's the timing.”

She nodded. “Who would've thought my nonannouncement to run would cause such a stir. Obviously someone doesn't want me to be reelected, but what could they have on Randall?”

“Nothing that I know of.” He paced her office, staring at the piece of paper as if something else would appear on it.

“Are you sure?” she asked. “Doesn't everyone have something in their past they wouldn't want revealed?”

“Do you, Senator?”

“Nothing morally reprehensible, but certainly embarrassing things I wouldn't want everyone to know. How do I protect Randall's reputation when he's not here to counter any accusation?”

He rubbed his chin. “I don't think we can turn this over to the staff, much as I'd like to.”

“Why not?”

“Because I have a sense that it will need to be handled privately and quietly. The fewer people involved, the better.” He snapped his fingers. “That P.I. whose card was on your desk, Remington? What do you know about him?”

She didn't even have to think about it. “That I don't want to use him.”

“Why not?”

Why not, indeed? It wasn't that she didn't trust Sam. He knew in high school how to keep his mouth shut, and she assumed he hadn't changed in that regard. But what if the
threat had teeth? What if there was something in Randall's past? Politics were a dirty business, with surprising and often devastating consequences. What if she was inadvertently putting Sam or his reputation at risk?

She refused to be responsible for something happening to him
again
because of her. Anyone willing to smear a dead man's reputation wouldn't hesitate to ruin someone else's.

“Senator?”

Dana picked up a pen as if getting back to work. “See what you can find out on your own first, please. Sam's a friend. I'd rather not involve him.”

“I'm not sure I know where to start.”

“I have faith in you.” She smiled at him. “You can do anything.”

“Including finding a needle in a haystack?” He walked toward the door, taking the letter with him. “I'll see what I can do.”

Dana left the problem in his competent hands and got back to work.

 

Sam stood at a window of his hotel suite, more curious than he'd been in a long time. He glanced at his watch—almost 5:00 p.m. An hour ago he'd gotten a call on his cell phone from Abe Atwater, Dana's chief of staff, asking for a meeting. A private meeting. Echoes of her father taking him aside at the prom had reverberated in his mind first, followed by the self-admonition that he wasn't that teenager anymore, that he was a successful adult, equal to Dana in every way.

Still, what could her chief of staff want with him?

The knock on the door heralded an end to his question. Sam greeted the immaculately dressed man, inviting him into the sitting area of the suite before taking a seat across from him.

“What can I do for you, Mr. Atwater?”

“I assume everything we discuss will be in confidence?”

Sam resented the start of the conversation. No one questioned his integrity. No one. And if this man intended to warn him off Dana… “You're not a client,” Sam said.

“I hope to be.” Abe leaned forward. “I didn't mean to insult you. I wouldn't be here if I didn't already trust you, based on what I've learned.”

Sam relaxed his hands and nodded.

Abe passed him a plastic bag containing a sheet of heavy paper. “Dana received this at her home night before last.”

Sam read the note. Night before last? He'd been at her house night before last. She'd intended to go to her mailbox after he pulled away, must've gotten it then. “What does it mean?” Sam asked.

“If I knew, I wouldn't be here.”

“You want me to find out?”

“Yes. We need to keep this under wraps, obviously. I'd rather not involve anyone else on staff until we know what we're dealing with.”

Sam turned the bag over and examined the envelope. San Francisco postmark. “Is that why you came here instead of having me go to Dana's office?”

“Dana doesn't know I'm here.”

Sam lifted his gaze sharply to Abe's. Dana hadn't asked for him? “Then how do you know about me?”

“I saw your business card on her desk yesterday and asked about it, although I've known about you for a couple of years. She said you were a friend. You're good. You're discreet. You get the job done.”

“I'm in San Francisco because I'm already working a case.” Sam passed the note back to Abe. “I can't take the job.”

“Why not?”

“There's too little information to go on for a quick resolution.” More important, Dana hadn't asked for him. Didn't have faith in him. Why should he help? “I can recommend someone.”

“No, thanks.” Abe stood, irritation evident in his pos
ture. “I have other sources. I thought because you were her friend…” The sentence trailed off. “My mistake.”

Sam shut the door after him and returned to the window. The view of the city barely registered. He'd earned the trust of countless people, people of higher rank than Dana. People who didn't doubt his abilities.

How could he go to her house now and act as if he didn't know she didn't trust him?

 

Sam made his decision to finish what he'd started, which meant meeting Dana when she called so that he could thank her properly for returning his medal. He hadn't gotten where he was by backing down from tough decisions or situations.

He arrived at her house ahead of her. Knowing she'd be along momentarily, he sat in his car, his engine idling, and glanced at the box on the passenger seat. A rare lack of confidence slithered through him. Any gift he usually gave was wrapped at the store and delivered. He'd wrapped this one himself, and it showed. Simple rice paper and twine, nothing fancy. There was no note because he'd had no idea how to balance the meaning of the gift with his desire to keep his distance. Although, keeping his distance had gotten easier, thanks to Abe Atwater's visit.

In his rearview mirror he spotted her white Lincoln approaching. She waved as she passed by, and he followed her through the gate then met her at the garage.

Her face lit up when she greeted him. A fierce and uncontrolled longing roared through him. He was no longer bound by any promises, but Dana Sterling was untouchable in a different way now, more for his sake than hers this time. Plus, there was the new issue between them.

“Hi, honey, I'm home,” she said, a sparkle in her eyes.

“What's for dinner?”

She laughed, the sound pure magic, then reached for his hand and started walking toward a back courtyard encircled by a lush garden. He let her take him along, deciding to
share the moment as he might have had he not known she didn't have faith in him as an investigator.

“Let's sit outside. It's such a beautiful evening,” she said.

Her skin felt good, soft and smooth. She brought her body a little closer, enough that he became aware of her perfume. He closed his hand around hers a little more tightly.

Her steps slowed. She didn't say a word, although he caught her eyeing his gift. When they reached a cushioned swing big enough for two, she slipped her hand from his and sat just to the right of middle.

He sat beside her, setting the package in her lap. Her hands shook as she curved her fingers over the box, keeping it from falling. Nerves? Over him? He didn't know how he felt about that.

Or was she thinking about the threat?

“You can open it,” he said when she made no attempt to do so.

“I'm practicing self-control.”

“What, you usually tear into a package?”

She shook her head but didn't explain. She toyed with the twine. Finally she unwrapped the box without tearing the delicate paper, lifted the lid and peeled back the bubble wrap and tissue paper. “Oh! It's beautiful. Breathtaking. It's a Japanese Noh mask, isn't it?”

“Zo-onna, she's called. She represents calmness and purity. This one is a century old.”

“A century… Imagine.” She ran her fingers over the beautifully carved face, tracing the features. She met his gaze. “She's exquisite, truly, Sam, but I couldn't possibly accept it.”

“I would've thought you would know how to accept a present. You say thank-you. And that's all you say.”

“But I didn't do anything to warrant this spectacular gift.”

He angled toward her, sliding his arm along the back of
the swing. “I finally realized what the medal meant. Thank you.”

Her eyes seemed to see so far into his soul he almost couldn't breathe. Her lips curved into a soft smile. “You're welcome.”

The simplicity of her words and the open pleasure on her face warmed him, making him ignore the hurt she'd caused. She held the mask to her chest and sat back, bringing her shoulder in contact with his hand. Everything stilled—the insects, the birds, the air. She looked at him with such need….

From the corner of his eye he caught a movement, then saw a gray-haired woman carrying a tray, walking along the flagstone path.

Dana leaned toward him, her voice low. “You're not getting away so fast tonight. I asked my housekeeper to bring some wine and hors d'oeuvres. You'll stay, won't you?”

“It seems to be an executive order.”

“What good is power if you don't use it?” she asked sweetly, even though they both knew it hadn't been an order and he certainly wasn't obligated to accept.

“Thank you, Hilda,” she said as the woman set the tray on a table in front of the swing. “This is Sam Remington.”

“Mr. Remington.”

Starched, he decided. Or she hated him on sight. “The food looks great.”

She nodded.

He watched her march back to the house. “She could take on a few drill sergeants I know.”

“I'd like to say that under that surface lurks a heart of gold, but I haven't seen it. She's the most consistent person I know, however. You're the first man I've had to the house, so she's a little curious.”

“You haven't dated?”

She busied herself with the wine. He came to his own conclusion.

“Why not, Dana?”

“Oh, time. Energy. Interest. The fishbowl. You know.”

He was reading between the lines and purposefully kept his voice gentle. “We can't date, you know.”

“I know.” She lifted her head. “Why can't we?”

He almost smiled. She used to question everything. He'd liked that. He still liked it, even though he didn't really want her to be so appealing.

“That fishbowl you mentioned,” he told her, taking the wine bottle from her to pour. He passed her a glass and gave her the only reason out of several complicated ones he thought she would believe. “You're public and I'm private. Anonymity is critical to my job.”

“I checked you out.” She looked at him over the rim of her wineglass.

“I expected nothing less. What'd you find out?”

“That you're the R in ARC Security & Investigations, a private-investigation firm not listed in the Yellow Pages. From what I can tell, you work by referral only and take only high-profile cases. Politicians, celebrities, business executives and the wealthy in general. Your reputation is impeccable. Yours and the firm's.”

Yet you don't trust me?

She sipped her wine. “But as far as anonymity goes, Sam, you don't exactly blend into the background, you know.”

“Are you flattering me? I can become as invisible as I need to be.”

“Not when there are women around.”

He didn't have an answer to that compliment, so he let it go.

“Although you scare Lilith,” she said.

“Well, you know those conservatives. Afraid of their own shadows.”

They drank Chardonnay and ate an entire platter of antipasto—tangy marinated green olives, a mellow cheese he
didn't recognize, paper-thin slices of prosciutto, and bruschetta piled with diced tomato and drizzled with olive oil.

“How did you end up in the army?” she asked.

His gaze was drawn to a drop of oil glistening at the corner of her mouth. Thoughts of the ways he could remove it had his imagination working overtime, but he picked up his wine instead. “My car broke down in front of an army recruiting office. The recruiter bought me breakfast and talked me into enlisting, said I'd have plenty of money for college when I got out. I stayed in for eight years.”