This Child Of Mine. Darlene Graham

to limit the violence and filth glutting the media? Anything to help your daddy profit off his dirty rock-and-gangsta rap? Anything to clear the way for your precious LinkServe to operate free of constraints? Is that it?”

      Mark eyed her. Even if she was a little stewed, it was obvious she meant every word. He matched her ardent fire with the cold sobriety of a stone. “No, ma’am. That is not it. I do not work for my father. And I wasn’t being sneaky. I told your people I was recording them. And I haven’t done a feature article yet that wasn’t totally unbiased—”

      “Unbiased? How can you even pretend to be unbiased about the CRM when you yourself are the developer of that…that LinkServe monstrosity?”

      “Monstrosity? Monstrosity? This happens to be the twenty-first century. Technologies like LinkServe are here to stay.”

      “The CRM is only trying to protect children from undue violence and sexually explicit material. Seems to me that used to be a given in this country, before kids with guns and dirty music became commonplace. No thanks to Masters Multimedia.”

      “Masters Multimedia has nothing to do with guns, and as for dirty music, et cetera, we didn’t exactly invent it.” He cocked his head toward the stage, where the duo was still singing the bawdy Scottish song. “Just listen.

      “This nonsense has been around for ages. Think of all the old Scottish, Irish, Appalachian ballads that are full of murder and mayhem, not to mention—pardon my French—sex.”

      Kitt glared at him, picked up her Harp, took a swig, then carefully lowered the glass to the table. “Oh, this nonsense—” she made quote marks in the air with her fingers “—has been around all right, in the form of subtle innuendo. Like that last one. But not a dirty word in it. Even in the most tasteless old drinking songs, it’s all innuendo. Nothing explicit. I have nothing against sex…or fun. But there is a vast difference between bawdy old tunes for adults and the stuff your father’s company—” she shook her finger at him—twice “—your company, is producing, packaging and distributing to children—”

      His mouth opened as he tried to say something about it not being his company, or about First Amendment rights, or about parental responsibility, but Kitt charged on, shouting over the music.

      “Stuff so violent—” she actually jabbed his chest this time “—that it’s threatening to change the very fabric of this country. Kids are listening to those lyrics, they memorize them, they adopt their worldview. As the saying goes, it takes a village to raise a child, Mr. Masters, but today the village is destroying the child, all for the sake of money,” the word money came out muh-nee and Mark recognized a trace of Okie accent. “The CRM’s goal—and mine—is to halt that trend, Mr. Masters—” she jabbed again “—and neither you nor your rich daddy can stop us!”

      The rich-daddy crack left Mark so blistered he was momentarily speechless.

      Their eyes locked and it was as if Jeff and Lauren had shrunk to vanishing points at the edges of the room. And in that moment, Mark thought he felt something pass between himself and Kitt Stevens, something mystical but real. Her eyes, green as emeralds, were flashing, reflecting the fire in his own, he guessed.

      He saw that she was looking at him, too, in a way no other woman ever had. Really looking at him. Into his eyes. And suddenly it hit him. This woman was the one. The One. Which was totally crazy. Surely he was imagining this, whatever it was. He tried to regain control. But it didn’t work. He felt shaken. And again he thought, as plainly as if it were a neon sign flashing behind the bar: She’s The One.

      But The One broke off their eye contact, rummaged around wildly in her oversize tote and tossed a twenty on the table. “Let me out.” She nudged Jeff out of the way. “I refuse to drink Harp with the devil.”

      “The devil?” Mark repeated sarcastically.

      Kitt scooted to the edge of the seat, then twisted toward Mark before she stood up. ‘“Knocked yo’ mama outta her bed,’” she rapped. ‘“Jumped her bones and split her head.’”

      “Dead Tuna,” Mark informed her. “Nobody takes them seriously.”

      “The hell they don’t,” Kitt retorted, and stood. “You should check your own company’s sales records. Five hundred thousand copies sold and those precious lyrics inside every CD jacket.” She hoisted her tote over her shoulder and whirled away before Mark could respond.

      “Sweetie! How will you get home?” Jeff whined at her departing back.

      “I’ll be fine,” Kitt retorted as she pushed through the crowd.

      Jeff stared after her for some seconds, then resettled himself in the booth. “The lass has a bit of a temper on her, a bit of a temper,” he said with a dreadful Irish brogue, which irked Mark at him afresh. What business did Jeff Smith have, apologizing for her? Jeff Smith wasn’t responsible for Kitt Stevens.

      But yes, Mark warned himself, his face still scalding from her verbal excoriation, the woman has apparently got a temper. And a fantastic mind. And a kind of righteousness that he found both intimidating and thrilling. A righteousness he envied.

      He glanced at Lauren next to him. She smiled uncertainly, her face betraying acute embarrassment. Much as he wanted to leave, he’d stay long enough to smooth this over with her. After all, she wasn’t to blame for the tremors rumbling beneath the surface between him and Kitt Stevens.