Barbara Dunlop - A Conflict of Interest

“No, it doesn’t. We can help you, protect you, find out the truth for you.”

“It has to be this way for me, Cara. Just for now. Only for a while. I know it’s better for the president if I stay, better for you if I stay and face the music.” Her voice broke ever so softly. “But I just can’t.”

“None of this is your fault,” Cara felt compelled to point out, putting an arm around Ariella’s shoulders.

Ariella nodded her understanding.

“He’s a very good man.”

“I’m sure he is. But he’s the president. And that means …” Ariella’s voice trailed off.

“Yeah,” Cara agreed into the silence. That meant the circus would never end.

Her cell phone chimed a distinctive tone, telling Cara it was a text from Lynn. She moved away and pulled it from her pocket. The message told her to turn on ANS.

“What?” asked Ariella, watching Cara’s expression.

“It’s from Lynn. There’s something going on. It’s on the news.” Cara moved to the living area and pressed a button on the remote, changing the channel to ANS.

Ariella moved up beside her. “Oh, I have a bad feeling about this.”

Field reporter Angelica Pierce was speaking. She was speculating about Ariella and her relationship to the president, and was saying something about a woman named Eleanor Albert from the president’s hometown of Fields, Montana. Then old yearbook photos of the president and Eleanor Albert came up side by side on the screen. With a dramatic musical flourish, a picture of Ariella settled in between them.

Cara’s eyes went wide.

Ariella sucked in a breath, gripping the sofa for support. “No,” she rasped.

Cara wrapped her arm around her friend and held on tight. There was no mistaking the resemblance. Cara wasn’t even sure they needed a DNA test.

Max knew the excuse of having forgotten his watch in Cara’s apartment was lame. But it was the best he’d been able to come up with on short notice. She was home now. He could see the lights on in her apartment.

He’d just seen the pictures of the president, Ariella and Eleanor on a news site on his tablet. All hell was about to break loose at the White House, and it was doubtful he’d be able to see Cara again for weeks to come.

He exited from his Mustang GT, turning up his coat collar against the blowing snow. He was on his way home from dinner with the NCN network brass and wearing dress shoes, so he was forced to dodge puddles, taking a circuitous route on his way across the street.

He made it to the awning, brushed the flakes from his sleeves, then looked up, straight into the eyes of Ariella Winthrop. They both froze.

“Ariella?” He swiftly glanced both ways to see if anyone else was out on the dark street.

“Hi, Max.”

He moved close, taking her arm to guide her away from the streetlight. “What are you doing? You can’t be out on the street.” There didn’t appear to be any other reporters around, but it wasn’t safe for her. He’d met her only a few times, but he liked her a lot. She was Cara’s close friend, and Max seemed to have a protective streak when it came to Cara.

“The doorman called me a cab.”

“A cab? Have you seen the news? You’re plastered all over it.”

“I saw.”

“Let me take you home.” He immediately realized that was a ridiculous suggestion. “Let me take you to a hotel. I’ll take you anywhere you need to go. But you can’t stand out here alone waiting for a cab.”

He made a move toward his own car, but she stood her ground, tugging her arm from his.

“Max,” she commanded.

He reluctantly stopped and turned to her.

“You’re one of the guys I’m avoiding, remember?”

“I’m not a reporter right now.”

“You’re always a reporter.”

“You don’t have to talk. Don’t say a word.” He paused. “But can I ask you one question?”

She shot him an impatient look.

He asked anyway. “Was it you? Did you leak tonight’s information to ANS?”

“I’d never even heard of Eleanor Albert before tonight. And the pictures don’t prove a thing. I still don’t know for sure.”

He recognized that she was in denial. “The rest of the world knows for sure,” he told her gently. “Let me take you to the White House.”

“No!”

“You’ll be safe there.” And maybe it would earn him some goodwill with the administration, maybe even with Cara.

Wait a minute. Cara . Why was Cara letting Ariella leave her apartment all alone? Why hadn’t she called in reinforcements?

“Did you talk to Cara up there?” It occurred to him that maybe Cara wasn’t home.

“That’s two questions,” said Ariella.

“Is she upstairs? She let you leave?”

“I’m a grown woman, Max.”

“And you’re the president’s daughter.”

“Not until they prove it, I’m not.”

A new thought occurred to Max. And, if he was right, it wasn’t a half bad idea. “Are you going into hiding?”

Her silence confirmed his suspicions.

“I can help. I can take you somewhere safe.”

This time she rolled her eyes. “It won’t be hiding if an NCN reporter knows where I am. You’re already going to report this entire conversation.”

Max was used to walking fine ethical lines. He couldn’t lie to his network, but he could choose the facts he shared and the order in which he disclosed them. “It’s up to me to decide how to frame my story.”

Her expression was blatantly suspicious. “What does that mean?”

“What do you want me to report?”

She hesitated, then seemed to decide she had little to lose. “That I have no knowledge of my biological parents, and I’ve left the D.C. area.”

“Done.”

“You’d do that for me?”

“Yes,” he told her with sincerity.

But her guard was obviously still up. “Are you serious?”

“I am serious.”

After a moment, her expression softened. “Thank you, Max.”

“At least let me take you to Potomac Airfield. You’ll be able to grab a private charter and take it anywhere you want to go. If you need money—”

“I don’t need money.”

“If you need anything, Ariella.”

“How can you take me to Potomac and not report on it?”

He put on his best broadcaster voice. “Sources close to Ariella Winthrop disclose that she has left the D.C. area, likely on a private plane out of Potomac. Nothing is known about the destination, the aircraft or the pilot.”

He gave another glance around the dark street to make sure they were still alone. “You can put up your hair, Ariella. We’ll stop somewhere and buy you a pair of blue jeans, a baseball cap and dark glasses. Take a Learjet or something even better. Those guys don’t talk about their passengers.”

He could feel her hesitation. Her teeth came down on her lower lip.

“You got a better idea?” he asked.

“What’s in it for you?”

“Goodwill. Yours, eventually the White House’s and the president’s. Plus, I’m a nice guy.”

“You’re with the press.”

“I’m still a nice guy. And I’m a sucker for a maiden in distress.”

That brought a reluctant smile to her lips.

“My car’s across the street.” He nodded to the Mustang. “Every minute we stand out here, we risk someone recognizing you.”

Just then, a taxi pulled up and stopped at the curb, its light on.

Ariella glanced at it. But then she nodded to Max. “Take me to Potomac Airfield.”

“Two things,” Lynn said to Cara from behind her office desk.

It was ten the next morning, and Lynn had just finished addressing reporters in the press room for a second day in a row. So far, President Morrow had remained out of sight, his schedule restricted to small, private functions where the White House could control the guest list. But Cara knew that was about to change. He was scheduled to attend a performance tonight at the Kennedy Center.