ran a hand through her bangs. “I guess I’ll just have to…do something different with it.” She stood up. “Just arrange that dinner, okay? Now, if you’ll excuse me, I think I’ll make my apology to Wilkens for cutting out early and then go dye my hair black.”
Jeff smiled, assessing Kitt’s burning cheeks. It wasn’t at all like her to get so wrought up over a little social misstep. And it sure wasn’t like her to miss the opportunity to work a room. “Go on,” he said, waving a palm at her. “I’ll tell Wilkens you got sick or something.”
“And you won’t be lying,” Kitt sighed, and brushed her bangs back again. “Right now, I feel positively nauseated.”
She straightened her jacket and made a beeline for the door, permitting herself one last furtive appraisal of Marcus Masters. He was across the room, getting introduced to Trisha Pounds. Kitt studied his broad back as he reached forward and took the beauty queen’s hand. Who would have ever imagined this? That pretty boy is the media magnate!
CHAPTER TWO
DYEING HER HAIR BLACK might have been less expensive, and certainly less painful than this. The thing was called a cobra braid and was giving Kitt a headache before she’d even left the salon. But the elaborate swoop of braids was not meant to be comfortable, or even flattering. It was meant to drastically alter her appearance for tonight’s dinner at Gadsby’s Tavern.
And it certainly did the job. It was such a radical change from her blunt-cut mane and wispy bangs off a side part that Kitt found herself repeatedly checking the rearview mirror on the way home. Even the color of her hair looked different. The foreign hairdresser had kept patting it. “Thees braids you can shawmpooo and keep, yes?” Delightful news, Kitt thought, since she already wanted to rip them out.
She had dressed carefully. “Elegant casual” is how Lauren described her sleek black pantsuit, creamy silk shell and demure pearls.
The two-hundred-year-old town house that Kitt shared with her roommates, Lauren and Paige, who also worked on the Hill, was within walking distance of Gadsby’s. She decided to save herself the frustration of hunting for a parking place in crowded Old Town.
The oppressive midday heat had subsided, and she drew in a deep breath, savoring the oily sweet scent of colonial boxwood, a fragrance she loved, along with everything else about historic Alexandria, Virginia. The hand-lettered wooden signs hanging at right angles over the antique shops. The softly glowing colonial-style street lamps. The brick sidewalks and cobblestone streets. All this quaint charm only six miles from the gritty hustle and bustle of urban D.C.
She brushed the top of a boxwood hedge with her fingertips as she mapped out her strategy for the evening—convincing Marcus Masters that the new media bill posed no threat to Masters Multimedia. Convincing him, in fact, that adequate regulation would actually make his latest product easier to market. A tall order.
But Kitt loved a challenge, especially when it meant going up against good old boys like Marcus Masters.
“Go for the gonads, honey,” she had often advised her grieving divorce clients back in Tulsa, where she got her start in the law firm of Kinser, Geotch and Baines. The KGB of divorce firms, their opponents 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—”
