This Child Of Mine. Darlene Graham

hovering near the beauty queen. Kitt studied Wilkens over the rim of her glass. He was a tough one to figure. So far, Kitt and her contingent had convinced the congressman that a bill designed to protect children from unsuitable media influences would receive popular support. Wilkens, closely flanked by his aides, Eric Davis and Jeff Smith, didn’t notice her, but Jeff mouthed “Hi,” and Kitt gave him a little wave.

      None of the unidentified men in the room looked the way Kitt pictured Marcus Masters—the obscenely rich, absolutely powerful California media mogul. She wished she’d had time to pull up a file photo before she left her office.

      She sipped the limewater, and her stomach growled, reminding her that she’d skipped lunch again, so she made her way toward the crowd around the food tables.

      Unfortunately, the feeding frenzy at the sumptuous layout showed no sign of abating. Kitt had to squeeze into the only available space—near the fresh-fruit section of the buffet.

      As she picked up an enormous strawberry, she felt, rather than actually saw, the man—the one who’d locked eyes with her—right beside her. Just as she lifted the strawberry, a tanned, muscular hand reached forward and their arms collided. The strawberry plopped into a dish of whipped cream, splashing a dollop onto Kitt’s sleeve.

      “Oh…I’m so sorry,” he said, and grabbed her above the elbow. He snatched up a wad of paper napkins and started swiping at the sleeve.

      “Gosh, I’m sorry,” he repeated while the grip of his strong, warm fingers penetrated Kitt’s sleeve and he succeeded in smearing the cream deeper into the delicate silk fabric.

      Kitt, holding her plate aloft in the other hand, could only stare. Not at the fact that he’d made a mess of her brand-new lavender jacket. Not even at the fact that he’d grabbed her, a total stranger.

      She stared at him because of the astonishing response she was having to his touch.

      Shivers trilled up her spine, and she felt her face turning redder than the strawberries. And underneath the tailored lapels, underneath her modest white crepe blouse, underneath her sensible bra, her nipples had become as taut as rubies.

      “It’s…it’s all right,” she protested, and wriggled her arm from his grasp.

      He dropped his hands stiffly to his sides, managing to smear whipped cream down his slacks in the process. “I’m really so sorry,” he said as he grabbed more napkins and swiped at this new mess. “That’s such a pretty jacket.”

      Kitt felt a split second of pity as she watched him fumbling with the napkins, then she quickly looked away, realizing she was staring at the front of a man’s pants. “Don’t worry about it,” she said. She turned and made a dainty business of retrieving the fallen strawberry from the cream with a silver spoon.

      “I was trying to get some more of those.” He pointed at a tray of oval toasts topped with mounds of relish. “They’re great.” He was apparently attempting to smooth over his gaffe.

      Without glancing up, Kitt said, “Yes, those are good. Bruschetta with goat cheese—a Ridgeways specialty. And they’re very healthy.”

      “Shoot!” He snapped his fingers. “I was hoping they were unhealthy.”

      She peeked up at him then, and was caught off guard by the most divine, flirtatious smile she’d ever seen. Ever.

      He wiped his hands and held up a cracker. “Now, why do you suppose they call these things Sociables? They don’t seem all that friendly to me.”

      Good grief, Kitt thought. Is he attempting to flirt with these goofy food jokes? Kitt wasn’t one to flirt. Deep inside she carried the scars of a relationship that had started out with flirting and ended in disaster.

      When she glanced at him he quickly offered his name—“I’m Mark”—but not his hand. Maybe it was still sticky, or maybe someone had taught him at least that much etiquette—that you never offer your hand to a woman first.

      Hearing the name Mark, Kitt felt her radar activate again, but dismissed the idea: This couldn’t be Marcus Masters. This guy’s obviously a nervous Washington newcomer. And he’s actually kind of sweet. She gave him an indulgent smile and returned to selecting some strawberries.

      “Well, uh—” he leaned forward “—let’s see now. Do you come here often, and haven’t I seen you somewhere before…or, were we soul mates in a past life?”

      She glanced up, and there was that dazzling smile again. She revised her assessment. Maybe he wasn’t so sweet. Maybe he was just another good-looking, arrogant guy on the make.

      His grin froze in the chill of her silence. “Listen,” he said. His eyes, she noticed just before he looked away, were intensely blue. “Would you let me at least pay to have your jacket dry-cleaned? I mean, if you’ll give me your phone number, or I could give you mine—”

      “Thanks, but that’s not necessary,” Kitt grabbed a napkin. “Excuse me, please.” She walked away, never glancing back.

      MARK MASTERS PRETENDED nonchalance as he finished wiping his sticky fingers. Yessiree, that went real well. The first time in ages he finds himself genuinely interested in a woman and what does he do? Slimes her sleeve and makes stupid jokes. He watched the slender blonde in the lavender pantsuit as she walked away. She stopped to make eyes at some tall, skinny guy. Great. She definitely had that Washington edge, but her blushing cheeks had conveyed a vulnerability, an…innocence that he found very appealing.

      He looked toward the couch where Trisha Pounds, the gorgeous anchor from Channel 12, sat poised. Waiting, no doubt, for Marcus Masters’s son to come and make his identity known. His father thought he and Trisha would make a “good match” and had chosen this opportunity to get them together. Mark would have to at least go and introduce himself. But eventually, Marcus Masters would have to give up running his son’s life.

      THE WHOLE ENCOUNTER with that young man had irritated Kitt, but it also intrigued her. Maybe it was those deep-set blue eyes. Vaguely like Danny’s. To get her mind back on business, she sought out her friend Jeff, summoning him with an impatient jerk of her head.

      Jeff Smith, Congressman Wilkens’s aide—brilliant, sharp-featured—was thirty-five but retained the ranginess of a fifteen-year-old. He ran marathons a lot. He biked a lot. He cross-country skied a lot. He did everything an unattached and self-indulgent male could do to keep himself distracted from the basic superficiality of his life. And he worshiped Kitt. He bounded across the room in six lanky steps.

      “You called, Your Ladyship?” He folded his long arms across his concave chest.

      It was Jeff who had warned her that Masters might show up at this reception, smelling of money, competing for the congressman’s favor, aiming to water down or even kill the new media regulation bill.

      “Which one is Masters?” She didn’t look at Jeff, continuing instead to check out the possibilities with sharp eyes.

      “Marcus Masters, of Masters Multimedia fame?”

      “No, Mohammed Masters, the waiter,” she retorted.

      “Kitt. Listen to me.” Jeff spoke each syllable slowly, carefully, as if she had become suddenly addled. “Do not hook horns with Masters. That man will chew you up and spit you out.”

      “I’ve been chewed up and spit out for lesser causes. And I don’t intend to hook horns or anything else. I just want to size up the competition.”

      Jeff sighed. “Have it your way, Joan of Arc. It just so happens I got introduced to Mark Masters right before you arrived.”

      “Great! Where is he?”

      “Over there,” Jeff inclined his head subtly toward the hors d’oeuvres tables where the young man, still glowing red, was standing alone, absently wiping his hands with some napkins.

      Kitt was bewildered. “Him?”

      “Yep. That’s Marcus Masters.”