Mark Masters knew exactly who she was, what she was doing here, why she had been so helpful about parking meters and so informative about period architecture, Congressman Wilkens jumped in and multiplied her shock and disorientation tenfold.
“Now, Mark,” he said, “I’m sure we can come up with a compromise that encompasses all interests, consumer protection, First Amendment rights and your father’s favorite, free enterprise.”
“His father?” Kitt mouthed and sent Jeff—who looked as if he’d been gut-shot—a stare that asked the obvious question: Is this the Marcus Masters or not?
Yes and no, it seemed. Kitt swiveled her head in Masters’s direction while the congressman blathered on.
“I only wish your father could have stayed in D.C. a little longer while we hash this thing out. But then I suppose you’re the next best thing. His representative, as it were.”
The old congressman, for some strange reason, grinned and winked at Kitt. As if she knew what the hell was going on.
“His representative?” Mark Masters said. “Hardly, sir.” He tossed his napkin beside his plate. “I’m pursuing my own goals here. I don’t work for Masters Multimedia anymore and I don’t think I would be a very good intern to you if I did.” He steepled his hands above his plate and pressed his forefingers to his lips as if to indicate he’d spoken his piece.
The congressman’s grin faded. He cleared his throat. “What do you mean, you don’t work for Masters Multimedia anymore? What about your Link-Serve model?” he said.
Masters’s dark eyebrows knit together. His deep blue eyes glinted with something Kitt couldn’t identify. Determination, perhaps, or…defiance. He lowered his hands before he spoke. “After I developed the prototype, I turned LinkServe over to my father for testing. In the Florida market, I think.”
Wilkens seemed surprised, even disappointed by this announcement. “Really?” he mumbled.
Kitt wondered fleetingly if Wilkens was playing both sides of this issue: Masters for the money, the CRM for the consumer votes. Great.
One of Wilkens’s female aides piped up. “How exactly would LinkServe work, Mark? I mean…” She faltered as Masters turned the full force of those blue eyes on her. “I mean…what will it do, exactly?”
The main thing it will do, Kitt thought, is make Mark Masters even more hideously wealthy than his old man.
Masters smiled that luminous smile at the aide. “Think of LinkServe as a multimedia communications system—your telephone, your TV, your computer, your best friend’s face. All coming to you over one neat, linked communications—” he hesitated here, apparently searching for the perfect word “—box to serve you.” Then his smile expanded. “LinkServe,” he summed up.
“Wow,” the aide said, and Kitt wondered if the woman was “wowing” over the technology or the blue eyes.
The congressman leaned forward, frowning now. “Pardon me for asking,” he said, “but I must know. It was my understanding that you kept your percentage in LinkServe?”
“I’ve retained some interests, but only for as long as I’m in college. I assure you, sir, I want to be treated like any other intern in your office.”
The congressman hesitated, only for a heartbeat, but long enough for Kitt to pick up on his very real discomfort with this young man’s unexpected declaration of independence. “Well, of course, of course,” he said. “Just because you’re Marcus Masters the Third doesn’t mean you’re not like any other intern, here to learn about the legislative process.” He leaned toward Masters confidentially. “And you shall. For example, I trust this dinner has been edifying?”
Masters relaxed back into his chair. “Yes, sir, it has. Working with lobbyists like Ms. Stevens here is exactly what I want to do.” He turned a thousandwatt smile of perfect teeth on Kitt. It was the same smile that had looked so warm and benevolent earlier, except now it looked utterly feral.
Kitt managed a nod and a weak smile of her own. If she’d been broadsided before, she was absolutely flattened now. This man, this Marcus Masters the Third, had known exactly who she was and what she was up to the whole time he’d had her yammering about flowers and ghosts. The whole time he’d been saying “neat” like some kid at Disneyland. Had he known even back at the ice-cream social when he tried to flirt with her? Her cheeks flamed. Do you always wear your hair like that? Geez.
“Great!” Wilkens boomed, now that his own moment of tension with the younger Masters had passed. “I have an idea. Why don’t you spend some time with Kitt here, if that’s agreeable to your people—” Wilkens shot Kitt a look that signaled she’d better play ball “—and get the CRM’s take on this whole thing. Then write it up in a report for me by, say, the end of next week.”
“If that’s agreeable to Ms. Stevens.” Masters smiled at Kitt again, and this time she swore his incisors actually looked pointier.
She swallowed, suddenly feeling like a scrawny chicken facing a wily fox. “Well,” she stalled, “I’m afraid spending time at the CRM headquarters would be kind of…kind of…dull for Mr. Masters.”
“Nonsense!” The congressman was still talking too loud. “It’s the kind of experience Mark needs, distilling both sides of an issue for me.” He looked magnanimously at Masters.
Mark held a palm up at Kitt in oath. “I promise I will state your case fairly and impartially to the congressman.” His forehead creased sincerely.
Kitt had the queasy feeling she’d been outflanked. The feeling that her prey had suddenly become the predator, and a cunning predator to boot.
CHAPTER THREE
KITT PACED the length of her narrow third-floor bedroom and raked her hands through the weird ripples the stupid braids had left.
Two stories below, she could hear Lauren and Paige practicing their new vocal number. The three women had formed a trio as a creative outlet and had become quite popular at the church. But tonight Lauren’s delicate soprano contrasted with Paige’s athletic alto, and without Kitt’s second soprano modulating between them, they sounded strained. Kitt felt a pang of guilt. She should be downstairs practicing. But at the moment she could barely breathe, much less sing.
She had beaten a retreat home from the disaster at Gadsby’s, carefully hung up her expensive black pantsuit and proceeded to pace.
The memory of Mark Masters’s face when he’d asked her that pointed question about LinkServe, of his fingers rubbing the flower petals, of the way he ate, moved, used his hands, of his eyes, so blue and deep-set, all of it played in her mind like images from some cheesy romantic comedy.
It couldn’t be, just couldn’t be, happening.
But she recognized the signs in herself already. Signs of…infatuation. And, to Kitt Stevens, having these feelings had once proved devastating. Better not to even let anything start, she warned herself. Love wasn’t a fairy tale. Love meant entanglements, trouble…pain.
She could keep these feelings of attraction at bay, she reminded herself, if she kept her mind on her business. She marched to the bed, rummaged around in the covers, retrieved her portable phone and punched
