Darlene Graham - This Child Of Mine

Lauren squeezed Kitt’s arm. “So behave. And look!” She signaled a waiter. “There is actually some token ice cream.” Then Lauren turned away to greet someone else.

The waiter lowered a hammered-silver tray bearing tiny waffle cones filled with every imaginable flavor. Kitt declined with a raised palm. Not that “Kitt the stick,” as her brothers called her, needed to watch her weight. Ice cream was just too messy to permit the kind of maneuvering she needed to do.

She hailed a different waiter and lifted a stem glass of French limewater instead—alcohol was also inadvisable—then scrutinized the crowd again.

There were a few lawmakers, all from Wilkens’s committee. A few exhausted-looking staffers. Some eager-looking interns. But mostly, there were sharp-eyed lobbyists like herself, including, of course, those who’d bankrolled this bash.

And, of course, the handful of beauty queens. One in particular was surrounded by a little cluster of power-suited men, all jockeying around the couch where the leggy young woman sat holding an ice-cream cone. Kitt sighed. Washington.

“How’d she get invited?” Kitt mumbled when Lauren turned back to her.

Lauren rolled her eyes. “Marcus Masters brought her.”

Kitt’s radar zoomed up. “Figures. Which one is Masters, by the way?”

“I have no idea what the old man looks like. Maybe he’s one of the multitude worshipping at the Shrine o’ Trisha. Look at her,” Lauren’s voice lowered, “perched on that divan like Scarlet O’Hara at Twelve Oaks. How does one woman, just sitting there eating ice cream, summon that much male attention?”

Kitt gave her friend a sarcastic smirk. “Could it have something to do with that teeny skirt, those mile-long legs and those five-inch heels? Just a wild guess.”

Lauren rolled her eyes. Short and full-figured, Lauren had to fight the battle of the bulge every day and she would look absurd in five-inch heels.

Kitt jammed one hand into the pocket of her tailored slacks and congratulated herself because she’d abandoned such feminine tricks long ago. Ever since—why did she always think about that time of her life at highly charged moments like this? She reminded herself that, though it had cost her dearly, her mistake had at least expunged Danny from her life.

“Even the men not in her immediate orbit,” Lauren mumbled, “are glancing at her from across the room. Trisha Pounds. Irk. Even good old Jeff and Eric look—”

“Struck stupid.” Kitt watched her two friends as they craned their necks to hear Miss Trisha’s comments.

Kitt aimed the rim of her glass at the cute guy by the food tables. “Well, at least there’s one man who seems unimpressed.”

Someone had grabbed Lauren’s arm, diverting her attention again.

The man by the tables was, Kitt decided, handsome enough to have any woman he wanted. In fact, Kitt noticed that Trisha kept glancing at him. Kitt smiled. The way he piled hors d’oeuvres on his plate reminded her of something her brothers would pull.

“That one looks more interested in the shrimp,” Kitt muttered when Lauren turned back to her.

“Men and their prime directives,” Lauren conceded. “Sex and food.” Lauren squinted toward Trisha. “I kinda wish I could carry off the short skirts and spiked heels—” she dropped her voice below the din of conversation “—’cause I’m sure not having any luck finding Mr. Right. I mean, not that twenty-five’s over the hill—but an occasional date would be nice.” She sighed. “All the guys I meet are so…geeky.”

Kitt listened to Lauren’s familiar lament with one ear while she searched for Masters. Her eyes trailed back to the young man at the food tables. Too young, of course. And what a stupid tie—Mickey Mouse? Probably an intern. His jaws worked like a chipmunk’s, bulging as he stuffed in shrimp. As if instinctively aware of being observed, he stopped mid-chew and shot Kitt a look with deep-set eyes that seemed to penetrate like lasers. His thick black eyebrows formed a sharp chevron for a millisecond, then he looked away and resumed chewing.

Lauren saw the exchange and elbowed Kitt. “Would you like to meet him?”

Kitt groaned. Lauren’s relentless pursuit of Mr. Right—one for each of them—was wearisome. “No.”

But Kitt felt herself blushing and took a quick sip of limewater to cool down, because the truth was, a bolt of electricity had coursed through her in that instant of eye contact. She sidled another look his way—he was assaulting the shish kebab this time—then she looked down into her glass again.

Definitely male-model material: neatly trimmed coal-black hair, square jaw, smooth tan skin. Tall. Built. And those eyes…

“Not only is he cute, that one is rich,” Lauren was saying. “Boy, is he ever rich—”

Another staffer broke in and distracted Lauren with some crisis or other, and Kitt’s gaze strayed once more.

This time he was studying her. Don’t ever stare at men. That was one of Lauren’s goofy rules for snagging Mr. Right. So, Kitt stared back.

When he didn’t look away, Kitt felt forced to, frowning and brushing the lapel of her expensive silk jacket with the backs of freshly manicured finger-nails. You do not have time for pretty boys with challenging eyes, she reminded herself. Locate Masters.

“Listen, I’ve gotta check on something,” Lauren said. “Be good.”

“I’ll try.” Kitt sighed as Lauren rushed off. She brushed her bangs back, and braced one fist on her hip as she concentrated on the task at hand.

Congressman Jim Wilkens, the ostensible host and the one with the power over her precious media bill, was still 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.