A Conflict of Interest. Barbara Dunlop

to the bandleader, which he thankfully picked up on, and the energetic strains of a jazz tune filled the room.

      Covered by the music, Cara quickly slipped from the stage.

      Max was standing at the bottom of the stairs to meet her, but her warning glare kept him back—which was probably the first time that had ever happened. But then he mouthed the word “later,” and she knew they weren’t done.

      There were times when being a recognizable television personality was frustrating and inconvenient. But for Max Gray, tonight wasn’t one of them. He’d only been to Cara’s Logan Circle apartment a handful of times, but the doorman remembered him from his national news show, After Dark, and let him straight into the elevator without calling upstairs for Cara’s permission.

      That was very convenient for Max, because there was a better than even chance Cara would have refused to let him come up. And he needed to see her.

      The ANS inaugural ball debacle had been a huge blow to the White House, particularly to the press office. Cara and Lynn had handled it professionally, but even Cara had to be rattled. And she had to be worried about what happened next. The scandal whipping its way through D.C. tonight had the potential to derail the White House agenda for months to come. Max needed to see for himself that Cara was all right.

      He exited the aging elevator into a small, short hallway. Her apartment building had once been an urban school, but it now housed a dozen loft apartments, characterized by high ceilings, large windows and wide-open spaces. Cara’s had a small foyer hall off the public hallway. From there, a winding staircase led to a light-filled, loft-style grand room with bright walls and gleaming hardwood floors. The single room had a marble-countered kitchen area in one corner, with a sleeping area separated by freestanding latticework wood screens.

      Max had loved it at first sight. It reminded him of Cara herself, unpretentious, breezy and fun. She was practical, yet unselfconsciously beautiful, from her short, wispy, sandy-brown hair to her intense blue eyes, from her full, kissable lips to her compact, healthy body. She never seemed to run out of energy, and life didn’t faze her in the least.

      The short public hallway had four suite doors. The last time Max had been here was mid-December. Cara had kept him at arm’s length after Ted Morrow won the election in November. But he’d bought her a present while he was in Australia, pink diamond earrings from the Argyle Mine. He’d selected the raw stones himself, them had them cut and set in eighteen-karat gold, especially for her.

      She’d let him in that night, and they’d made love for what was likely the last time—at least the last time during this administration. Cara had been adamant that they keep their distance, since he was a television news host, and she was on the president’s staff. Max shuddered at the thought. He really didn’t want to wait four years to hold her in his arms again.

      He knocked on Cara’s door, then waited as her footsteps sounded on the spiral wrought-iron staircase.

      He heard her stop in front of the door and knew she was looking through the peephole. There were a limited number of people who could get through the lobby without the doorman announcing them. So she probably expected it was Max. That she’d come down the stairs at all was a good sign.

      “Go away,” she called through the door.

      “That seems unlikely,” he responded, touching his fist to the door panel.

      “I have nothing to say to you.”

      He moved closer to the door to keep from having to raise his voice and alert her neighbors. “Are you okay, Cara?”

      “Just peachy.”

      “I need to talk to you.”

      She didn’t respond.

      “Do you really want me to talk from out here?” he challenged.

      “I really want you to leave.”

      “Not until I make sure you’re okay.”

      “I’m over twenty-one, Max. I can take care of myself.”

      “I know that.”

      “So, why are you here?”

      “Open up, and I’ll tell you.”

      “Nice try.”

      “Five minutes,” he pledged.

      She didn’t answer.

      “Ten if I have to do it from the hallway.”

      A few seconds later he heard the locks slide open. The door yawned to reveal Cara wearing a baggy, gray T-shirt and a pair of black yoga pants. Her feet were bare, her hair was slightly mussed and her face was free of makeup, showing the few light freckles that made her that much cuter.

      “Hey,” he said softly, resisting an urge to reach out and touch her.

      “I’m really doing fine,” she told him, lips compressed, jaw tight, her knuckles straining where she held the door.

      He nodded as he moved inside, easing the door from her hands to close it behind himself. He looked meaningfully at the spiral staircase.

      “Five minutes,” she repeated.

      “I can finish a soft drink in less than five minutes.”

      She shook her head in disgust but headed up the stairs anyway. Max followed, resisting once again the urge to reach out and touch. There was a time, a very short time in the scheme of things, when he’d felt free to do that.

      “Cola or beer?” she asked, coming to the top of the stairs and padding across the smooth floor to the kitchen area.

      “Beer,” Max decided, shrugging out of his tux jacket and releasing his bow tie.

      He moved to the furniture grouping of two low, hunter-green leather couches, a pair of matching armchairs and low tables with lamps, all tastefully accented by a rust, gold and brown patterned rug. Her view of the city was expansive. The night had turned clear, with a new blanket of snow freshening up the buildings and the trees, reflecting the lights in the park across the street.

      Cara returned with a can of beer for him and a cola for her. She handed the can to Max and then curled into one of the armchairs, popping the top on her own drink.

      “Four minutes,” she warned him.

      He opened his beer and eased onto the corner of a couch. He pulled off his wristwatch and set it on the coffee table, faceup where he could see it.

      He caught her slight, involuntary smile at the gesture.

      “You okay?” he asked in a soft voice.

      “I’m fine,” she assured him one more time.

      “Did you know?” he couldn’t stop himself from asking.

      “You know I can’t answer that.”

      “Yeah,” he agreed. “I was counting on being able to read your expression when you told me to back off.”

      She lifted her brows. “And did you?”

      “You’re as inscrutable as ever.”

      “Thank you. It helps in my business.” She took a sip.

      He followed suit. Then he set the can down on a coaster. “You know I’ll have to go after the story.”

      “I know you will.”

      “I don’t want to hurt you. And I respect the hell out of this president. But a secret daughter?”

      “We don’t know for sure she’s his daughter.”

      Max stilled. He was surprised Cara had offered even that much insight. “We will soon enough.”

      She nodded.

      “Have you talked to Ariella?” He knew the two women were friends. Cara had casually introduced Max to Ariella at a fundraising