Barbara Dunlop - A Conflict of Interest

“I will get some sleep,” Lynn agreed. “Barry’s working on a statement, and we’ll put the press off until the afternoon. Do you think you’d be able to find Ariella?”

Cara got to her feet. She had to believe her womb was a safe place for the first few weeks of gestation no matter what chaos was going on outside it. She reassured herself that many women wouldn’t even know they were pregnant this early.

“I can try,” she told her boss.

“Then go. Get out of here.”

Cara headed for her own office, quickly retrieving her coat and purse. If she could find Ariella, at the very least they could offer her Secret Service protection. She wrapped the scarf around her neck before heading out into the snow.

If the story was true, Ariella would need protection for the rest of her life, and that would only be the start of the chaos. Merely being a member of the White House staff had sent Cara’s personal life into a tailspin. She couldn’t imagine what Ariella was going through.

After combing the city for countless hours, looking everywhere she could think to find Ariella, Cara gave up. It was nearly nine in the evening, and she’d left dozens of messages and asked everyone who might know anything. She was exhausted when she finally took the elevator back to her loft. Maybe Ariella really had fled to Canada.

Cara twisted her key in the dead bolt, then unlocked the knob below, pushing open the solid oak door.

As soon as she stepped inside, she knew something was wrong. A light was on upstairs and someone was playing music.

Her hand reflexively went to her purse, where she’d stashed Max’s watch. If he’d used it as an excuse to come back, if the superintendent had actually let him into her apartment, well, there was going to be hell to pay for both of them. Max might be a famous television personality, trusted and admired by most of D.C., but that didn’t give him the right to con the super, break into her apartment and make himself at home.

She tossed her coat and scarf on the corner bench in the entry hall and pulled off her boots, not even bothering to put them in the closet. She paced her way up the spiral staircase, working up her outrage, planning to hit him with both barrels before he had a chance to start the smooth talk.

Then she realized Beyoncé was playing. And it smelled like someone was baking. She made it to the top of the stairs and stopped dead.

Ariella stood in the middle of her kitchen, surrounded by flour-sprinkled chaos. She had one of Cara’s T-shirts pulled over her short dress and a pair of red calico oven mitts on her hands. Midstep between the oven and the island counter, she held a pan of chocolate cupcakes.

“I hope you don’t mind.” She blinked her big, blue eyes. “I didn’t know where else to go.”

“Of course I don’t mind.” Cara quickly made her way across the room. “I’ve been out looking for you.”

Ariella set down the cupcake pan. “They’ve staked out my house, the club, even Bombay Main’s. I didn’t dare go to a hotel, and I was afraid of the airport. The doorman always remembered me, and I pretended I misplaced your spare key.”

“You were right to come here.” Cara gave her a half hug, avoiding the worst of the flour.

Then she glanced at the trays of beautifully decorated cupcakes. Vanilla, chocolate and red velvet, they were covered in mounds of buttercream icing, and Ariella had turned marzipan into everything from flowers and berries to rainbows and butterflies.

“Hungry?” she jokingly asked Ariella.

“Nervous energy.”

“Maybe we can take them to the office or sell them for charity.” There had to be five dozen already. They couldn’t let them go to waste.

Ariella pulled off the oven mitts and turned off the music. “You got any wine?”

“Absolutely.” Cara’s wine rack was small, but she kept it well stocked.

She moved to the bay window alcove to check out the selection. “Merlot? Shiraz? Cab Sauv? I’ve got a nice Mondavi Private Selection.”

“We might not want to waste a good bottle tonight.”

Cara laughed and pulled it out anyway.

“I’m going for volume,” said Ariella.

“Understandable.” Cara returned to the kitchen, finding a small space among the mess to pull the cork. “Glasses are above the stove,” she told Ariella.

Ariella retrieved them, and the two women moved to the living room.

Ariella peeled off the T-shirt, revealing a simple, steel-gray cocktail dress. She plunked into an armchair and curled her feet beneath her. “Do we have to let it breathe?”

“In an emergency—” Cara began to pour “—not necessary.”

Ariella rocked forward and snagged the first glass.

Cara filled her own and sat back on the couch. Then she suddenly remembered the pregnancy and guiltily set the glass down beside her. What was she thinking?

“Mine can breathe for a few minutes,” she explained. Then focused on Ariella. “How are you holding up?”

“How would you guess I’m holding up?”

“I’d be flipping out.”

“I am flipping out.”

“Could it be true?” Cara asked. “Do you know anything at all about your biological parents?”

Ariella shook her head. “Not a single thing.” Then she laughed a little self-consciously. “They were Caucasian. I think they were American. One of them might have grown up to be president.”

“I always knew you had terrific genes.”

Ariella came to her feet, moving to a mirror that hung at the top of the stairs, gazing at her reflection. “Do you think I look anything like him?”

Cara did. “Little bit,” she said, rising to follow Ariella and stand behind her. “Okay, quite a bit.”

“Enough that …”

“Yes,” Cara whispered, squeezing Ariella’s shoulders.

Ariella closed her eyes for a long second. “I need to get away, somewhere where this isn’t such a big deal.”

“You should stay in D.C. We can protect you. The Secret Service—”

“No.” Ariella’s eyes popped wide.

“They’ll take good care of you. They know what they’re doing.”

“I’m sure they do. But I need to get out of D.C. for a while.”

“I understand.” Cara wanted to be both sympathetic and supportive. Ariella was first and foremost her friend. “This is a lot for you to take in.”

“You are the master of understatement.”

Their eyes met in the mirror.

“You need to take a DNA test,” said Cara.

But Ariella shook her brunette head.

“Not knowing is not an option,” Cara gently pointed out.

“Not yet,” said Ariella. “It’s one thing to suspect, but it’s another to know for sure. You know?”

Cara thought she understood. “Let us help you. Come to the office with me and talk to Lynn.”

“I need time, Cara.”

“You need help, Ari.”

Ariella turned. “I need a few days. A few days on my own before I face the media circus, okay?”

Cara hesitated. She didn’t know how she was going to go back to her boss and say she’d found Ariella and then lost her again. But her loyalty was also to her friend. “Okay,” she finally agreed.

“I’ll take the DNA test, but not yet. I don’t think I could wrap my mind around it if it was positive.”

“Where will you go?”

“I can’t tell you that. You have to keep a straight face when you tell them you don’t know.”

“I can lie.”

“No, you can’t. Not to the American press, you can’t. And not to your boss, and definitely not to your president.”

Cara knew she had a point. “How can I contact you?”

“I’ll contact you.”

“Ariella.”

“It has to be this way.”