he smiled that gorgeous smile. “Thanks. That’s really nice of you.”
Kitt felt embarrassed by his gratitude, knowing her motive wasn’t hospitality so much as manipulation. “It’s just a couple of blocks. This way.”
He jammed his hands in his pockets as he strolled beside her, appearing to observe his surroundings—and her—with genuine interest. “Old Town is really fascinating.” He took in a huge breath as if trying to inhale the history. “Do you live here?” he asked.
“Down near the river, a few blocks.” She pointed east.
“How do you like Alexandria?”
“It’s charming. I guess Congressman Wilkens wanted to get away from the Hill tonight.”
“Have you lived here long?”
As they walked and talked she realized that he had a knack for open-ended questions that sounded simple, but that elicited more information than Kitt intended to give. By the time they’d completed their stroll to the Ramsey House, he’d discovered that she had lived in Washington less than a year, that she was part Irish and part Scottish, and that she was originally from a small town called Cherokee, Oklahoma.
But even when she mentioned her connection to Oklahoma, he didn’t volunteer any information about himself or his Oklahoma car tag.
As they climbed the narrow flagstone steps to the garden in front of the Ramsey House, Kitt was ready to focus the conversation back on him.
“Tell me, how did you get to be such a force in the media at such a young age?” She glanced at him over her shoulder.
“A force?” He smiled crookedly at the mounds of colorful impatiens in the planter beside him. “I wouldn’t say I’m any kind of force yet, but I’m working on it.”
Kitt stopped in her tracks and looked down at him. A man who owned eighty-six diversified media companies, with almost two thousand employees, didn’t consider himself a force in the media? His answer made no sense, but his demeanor seemed utterly sincere.
She studied the top of his dark hair while he rubbed a tiny red flower petal between thumb and finger. “Working on it?” she said quietly. “That’s an incredibly modest way to describe your position.”
He raised his eyes. The devastating blue was shadowed with confusion, but otherwise his expression was as innocent and fresh as the garden around them. “Not really,” he said. “I am just getting started.” He turned his attention back to the flowers. “What’re these called? They sure are pretty.”
She was so stunned by his comment—just getting started?—that she simply answered distractedly, “New Guinea impatiens,” as she watched his strong fingers caressing the delicate petals.
He squinted up at her. “Do you always wear your hair like that?” Another question out of the blue, this one troubling.
“No.” She blushed and touched her hair, worrying that he was remembering her as the rude woman at the hors d’oeuvre table the other night.
But he only smiled. “This garden is really neat,” he said.
“Yes, it’s lovely.” She turned and proceeded up the steps, feeling unsettled. Marcus Masters was the most baffling man she’d ever met, and, Kitt noted, he had neatly eluded her original question.
Conversation on the walk back to Gadsby’s consisted of Mark’s polite comments about their charming surroundings and Kitt’s knowledgeable responses. She told him about Georgian, Federalist and Victorian architecture. She told him about a ghost legend. She told him where the best restaurants were.
But the entire time, the conversation was overshadowed by Kitt’s uncomfortable feeling that something about Marcus Masters did not add up.
And every time their eyes met, Kitt thought she might melt into the sidewalk. And for her, the chemistry between them was wholly unanticipated. Wholly unwelcome.
As they walked into Gadsby’s, he said, “Let me guess. Federalist classical influence.”
“Yes!” He certainly caught on quickly. “The symmetry reflects the conviction of that period that—”
“—there’s order in the universe.”
“Exactly,” she said. “And see the bar? It’s actually a small cage to keep the ruffians away from the hootch. Hence the term barkeeper.”
“Neat.”
The guy kept saying “neat.”
And Kitt kept thinking, Something’s wrong.
They wound their way through the tables in the taproom, then past smaller dining rooms painted in colonial colors to a private one, where, amid glowing candles and dark plank flooring, they found the congressman’s intimate party of eight.
Oh dear, Kitt thought. The walk to the Ramsey took longer than I calculated. The waiter was already opening a second bottle of Pouilly Fuisse Latour. But no one, least of all the congressman, seemed perturbed at their tardiness. In fact, Marcus Masters was greeted effusively, like some long-lost son.
“Mark! Glad you made it!” the congressman said as he stood. “It looks like you’ve already met Kitt.” He gave her a passing smile, then grabbed Mark’s elbow and introduced him to the others at the table.
Kitt was determined to keep a low profile until she saw the right moment to make her point. She tried to seat herself quickly, but Mark dashed around the table to hold her chair, then he sat directly across from her, boring a hole through her with those blue eyes. Kitt’s pulse raced. She decided to skip the wine.
So did he, she noticed.
Her uneasiness persisted while salad was served and even as they nibbled on George Washington roast duck. A lute guitarist plucked out period songs while Congressman Wilkens dominated the table talk. The old man reviewed the latest controversy over violent and sexually explicit music, videos and Internet content, explaining the workings of the new media regulation bill intended to address the problem.
Preaching to the choir, Kitt thought. She, in particular, knew these arguments by heart. She had constructed most of them. Wilkens was obviously yak-king for Masters’s sake. Trying to convince him that the bill was fair, so Masters wouldn’t turn his money toward defeating it…and by extension, the congressman.
She tried to relax, happy to let Wilkens do the talking. But she cringed a bit every time her pal Jeff opened his mouth, even though she’d warned him not to betray her connection to the Coalition for Responsible Media. A couple of times she caught herself touching her weird braids and she swore Masters glanced at her when she did. He gave her a funny little look. Almost…amused, and it made her jumpy.
Otherwise Masters said nothing, looked gorgeous and shoveled in food. Only when he’d scraped the last crumb of English trifle from his dessert plate did he lay aside his fork and speak. Not to the congressman. To Kitt.
“Tell me, Ms. Stevens,” he said, nailing her with those intense blue eyes, “why doesn’t the Coalition for Responsible Media expend its energies supporting technologies like LinkServe instead of trying to undermine
