finally given in and jogged to a small local restaurant to grab a take-out hot dog and a soda, along with a bag of potato chips, then jogged all the way back to breathe a sigh of relief when she saw the black sedan still in its assigned parking spot.
It was nine o’clock and she had begun fantasizing about peanut butter and jelly sandwiches again, when she finally saw him.
She thought it was him. She could be delirious from lack of food, but she was ninety-nine percent sure the man walking toward her was Jesse Colton.
When he clicked something on his key chain and the black sedan’s lights went on, she was sure.
Stepping out from behind her second home—the concrete pillar—she said, “Jesse Colton? If I could have a minute of your time, please?”
He kept walking. “Call my office.”
“I did.”
“Did you leave a message?”
“I did. For you to call me. You didn’t.”
“Now there’s a clue,” he said, opening the rear door of the sedan and throwing his briefcase inside. “It’s late. If you want an interview, go through the press secretary’s office.”
“I don’t want an interview,” she said, walking toward him. “I’m not a reporter.”
“Darn. And I’ll bet you’re not this generation’s Deep Throat, either, ready to tell me deep dark secrets, or Mr. White, who was going to let me know that Mr. Green did it, in the library, with the rope. I don’t get any luck.”
He had opened his car door and slid inside, but before he could close the door again, Samantha was there, her body between the door and the car.
“Are you always an ass?” she asked him, shaking her head so that her hood slipped off. She reached beneath her collar and freed her long blond hair, let some of the thick curls spill onto her shoulders.
She wasn’t dumb. She was blond, fairly pretty, and had fabulous legs. She had yet to meet a single man in D.C. who had found her unattractive.
“Am I being propositioned?” Jesse asked, and his smile was a little too amused for Samantha’s comfort.
“No!” she said, backing up a pace. Which was a bad move, but she realized that too late.
“Pity,” he said, then reached out and closed the door. But then he rolled down the window. “You’re Samantha Cosgrove, right?”
She bent down, looked in the window. “You knew that?”
“Oh yeah, I knew that. Blond, pretty and tenacious as a bulldog. I had you checked out.”
“Why?”
“Because you want to talk to me. Do you have any idea how many people want to talk to me, Samantha Cosgrove, now that I’m in the West Wing?”
“Oh, aren’t we popular. I’m so impressed.”
“I’ll bet you are. I know I am,” he said, flashing her that whiter-than-white smile again.
She wanted to bang him over the head with her briefcase. Instead, she turned her back and began walking away.
“Hungry?” he asked, backing up the sedan so that he was beside her once more.
“Only if I could find a way to make your entrails appetizing,” she said, and kept walking.
He kept backing up. “Ah, don’t go away mad, Samantha. I was going to call you.”
“When? Christmas?”
“No, I go home to Oklahoma for Christmas. Tomorrow. I was going to call you tomorrow. First I had to check you out.”
“Did I pass?” she asked, interested, but she kept walking. The man set her teeth on edge.
“Well, let’s see what I’ve got. Daughter of megarich parents residing in Connecticut after living here for decades. One brother, younger, still in college. Freshman, I believe. One sister, older, a literary agent. Juliet, right? Mommy does charity work and belongs to all the right social groups. Daddy’s a lawyer, and personal friends with and a large contributor to the presidential primary campaign for Senator Mark Phillips, who is personally endorsed by my boss, the current president. Graduated with honors, double major, in both journalism and political science. Very nice, Samantha. Cum laude. Even nicer. Senior staffer on Phillips’s committee. Hardworking, clean-living, good cook, lousy dancer—”
“I am not a lousy dancer! I’m a very good dancer,” Samantha protested hotly, stopping so that she could turn, glare at him.
“And here I thought you weren’t listening. Okay, good dancer, although that wasn’t in my report. So, you want to go get something to eat, and then prove to me that you’re really a good dancer?”
“I wouldn’t dance with you for all the tea in—”
“You did say urgent,” he interrupted.
“Are you always this arrogant?”
“No, it comes with the White House credentials. Honest. You can look at the job description. It’s right there—once cleared to work in the West Wing and given a blue badge, arrogance is mandatory. Red badge? Orange badge? I spit on red and orange badges.”
“You’re insane,” Samantha said, but then she laughed. She couldn’t help herself. “Really. Insane.”
“But I’m buying. How about a New York strip, since you look ready to bite something. Baked potato dripping in sour cream. A good bottle of white zinfandel? You look like a white-zinfandel drinker to me.”
“I like merlot.”
“So much for my source. I’ll have to order her head chopped off in the morning. So, are you getting in, or are you just going to take the Metro home and eat those leftover filled peppers?”
“How did you—oh my God. It’s true. You people know everything. You had someone in my house? Going through my refrigerator?”
“Nothing that illegal. But Brenda—she’s my secretary—did happen to stop in at Senator Phillips’s election headquarters late this afternoon. She told me someone named Bettyann would have given out your shoe size if anyone asked. Brenda also told me that you’re blond and a looker. She was right. Now, come on. Get in.”
Samantha threw up her hands. “Why not. I deserve a free steak after you invaded my privacy that way. You are buying, you know.”
“I wouldn’t have it any other way,” he said once she was in the passenger seat, her briefcase on the floor.
“Neither would I,” she said, arranging her oversize raincoat across her legs. He didn’t deserve to see her legs. “And then we’ll talk?”
“And then we’ll talk. Promise,” he said, slipping the car into Drive and heading out of the parking deck. “But first we eat. I don’t know about
