This Child Of Mine. Darlene Graham

called them.

      They’d stop sniveling then—those abandoned and abused and betrayed wives—and stare at her over their soggy shredded Kleenex. And then slowly, like a new day dawning, they’d smile. Kitt always treasured that first smile of recovery.

      It was at KGB that Kitt discovered she loved to make the smiles of the underdog permanent, that she was good at defending the defenseless, that she could fight, when her clients wouldn’t—couldn’t—fight for themselves. And of course, it was there that she learned to go after the money. She got so skilled at it that male lawyers facing a messy divorce actually started retaining her to ensure that she couldn’t go after their gonads.

      She permitted herself a flicker of a smile at the memories, but nowadays she funneled all of that skill and energy into championing the Coalition for Responsible Media. Unlike divorce law, she found her new work—lobbying for an organization that was trying to enact sensible controls over the media—uplifting.

      She rounded a corner and Gadsby’s Tavern came into view. An ancient narrow three-story facade, it housed a museum and one of the finest restaurants in Old Town. Only the best for Congressman Jim Wilkens and crew.

      She checked her watch, glanced up the sidewalk, and spotted none other than Marcus Masters, pumping coins into a parking meter beside a silver Lexus LS 400.

      She watched his movements: a slight bend to his knees, his muscled shoulders and thighs bulging even in his tailored suit, his large hands depositing coins in the meter and turning the knob in one brisk motion.

      Wow, she thought reflexively, then smiled. This was her chance to disarm the mighty Mr. Masters with a small kindness.

      “In precisely two hours you’ll have a big fat parking ticket,” she said as she walked up behind him.

      When he turned and frowned, Kitt felt her knees go a little quaky. Even frowning, he was extraordinarily handsome.

      She inclined her head. “You’re Marcus Masters, aren’t you?”

      “I’m Mark.” He smiled and nodded. In the dusky evening light the white of his teeth and his shirt collar seemed to glow against his tan skin. She reached up to brush her bangs back before she remembered they weren’t there, then brought her hand down to her side self-consciously.

      “And you’ll be joining Congressman Wilkens at Gadsby’s Tavern?” she continued.

      He nodded. “Have we met?” he said. “I’m sorry. I…I don’t recall.”

      Thank heavens, Kitt thought. She extended her hand. “I’m Kitt…I’m a friend of Jeff Smith’s. The congressman’s aide?” This was true. She was Jeff’s friend. Masters didn’t need to know about her position at the Coalition for Responsible Media. Not yet.

      He smiled broadly and Kitt was relieved to see no hint of recognition in his eyes. “Nice to meet you, Kitt,” he said as he enclosed her hand in his firm, muscular, my-oh-my-so-very-warm one. In that instant of touch her eyes took in the immaculately trimmed nails, the few spiky dark hairs on tanned skin, the crisp white cuff. And in that instant she felt it again—the unmistakable and, for Kitt, dreaded, sexual electricity.

      He released her hand, still smiling that wonderful smile. “I’m glad I’m in the right place. The streets here are…well…confusing to an out-of-towner.”

      “Yes,” Kitt agreed, remembering her excuse for approaching him. “And you’ve only got two hours on that meter.” She pointed. “They’ll ticket you then. And tow you eventually. Alexandria cops don’t care if it’s a clunker or a Rolls.”

      “Oh, yeah?” He looked at the meter, then back at her.

      He rubbed his square jaw, frowning most appealingly. “Then I guess I’ll have to put more money in the meter later.”

      “Feeding the meter won’t save you,” Kitt advised. “Tell you what—” she looked at her watch “—there’s time to walk over to the Ramsey House—the visitors’ center. We’ll get you an extended parking pass, since you have an out-of-state tag—” His tag was from Oklahoma? That’s odd. But it would be imprudent to let on that she knew enough to ask, Shouldn’t it be California? “The pass will let you park here as long as you wish.”

      Again, he smiled that gorgeous smile. “Thanks. That’s really nice of you.”

      Kitt felt embarrassed by his gratitude, knowing her motive wasn’t hospitality so much as manipulation. “It’s just a couple of blocks. This way.”

      He jammed his hands in his pockets as he strolled beside her, appearing to observe his surroundings—and her—with genuine interest. “Old Town is really fascinating.” He took in a huge breath as if trying to inhale the history. “Do you live here?” he asked.

      “Down near the river, a few blocks.” She pointed east.

      “How do you like Alexandria?”

      “It’s charming. I guess Congressman Wilkens wanted to get away from the Hill tonight.”

      “Have you lived here long?”

      As they walked and talked she realized that he had a knack for open-ended questions that sounded simple, but that elicited more information than Kitt intended to give. By the time they’d completed their stroll to the Ramsey House, he’d discovered that she had lived in Washington less than a year, that she was part Irish and part Scottish, and that she was originally from a small town called Cherokee, Oklahoma.

      But even when she mentioned her connection to Oklahoma, he didn’t volunteer any information about himself or his Oklahoma car tag.

      As they climbed the narrow flagstone steps to the garden in front of the Ramsey House, Kitt was ready to focus the conversation back on him.

      “Tell me, how did you get to be such a force in the media at such a young age?” She glanced at him over her shoulder.

      “A force?” He smiled crookedly at the mounds of colorful impatiens in the planter beside him. “I wouldn’t say I’m any kind of force yet, but I’m working on it.”

      Kitt stopped in her tracks and looked down at him. A man who owned eighty-six diversified media companies, with almost two thousand employees, didn’t consider himself a force in the media? His answer made no sense, but his demeanor seemed utterly sincere.

      She studied the top of his dark hair while he rubbed a tiny red flower petal between thumb and finger. “Working on it?” she said quietly. “That’s an incredibly modest way to describe your position.”

      He raised his eyes. The devastating blue was shadowed with confusion, but otherwise his expression was as innocent and fresh as the garden around them. “Not really,” he said. “I am just getting started.” He turned his attention back to the flowers. “What’re these called? They sure are pretty.”

      She was so stunned by his comment—just getting started?—that she simply answered distractedly, “New Guinea impatiens,” as she watched his strong fingers caressing the delicate petals.

      He squinted up at her. “Do you always wear your hair like that?” Another question out of the blue, this one troubling.

      “No.” She blushed and touched her hair, worrying that he was remembering her as the rude woman at the hors d’oeuvre table the other night.

      But he only smiled. “This garden is really neat,” he said.

      “Yes, it’s lovely.” She turned and proceeded up the steps, feeling unsettled. Marcus Masters was the most baffling man she’d ever met, and, Kitt noted, he had neatly eluded her original question.

      Conversation on the walk back to Gadsby’s consisted of Mark’s polite comments about their charming surroundings and Kitt’s knowledgeable responses. She told him about Georgian, Federalist and Victorian architecture. She told him about a ghost legend. She told him where the best restaurants were.

      But