Private Indiscretions. Susan Crosby

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