mansions.”
“They’d never have been built.”
“Good point. I hadn’t thought of that. Anyway, I’d love to get inside that place, just for a look around. Why did you mention it?”
Jesse drew back, knowing he’d probably already said too much. “Oh, no real reason. I’d just heard it was a…a nice place.”
Her gorgeous blue eyes narrowed. “Liar.”
“I beg your pardon,” he said as the waiter poured coffee for them. “I never lie.”
“Oh, the new millennium’s George Washington. You cannot tell a lie. This city hasn’t seen another one like him, until you, of course. I’m so impressed. Really.”
“All right, all right,” Jesse said, holding out his hands. “But only because you dragged it out of me at fork-point.”
“I did not,” she told him. “That was next.”
Jesse laughed. He didn’t know if the good food had made him feel so comfortable, or the good wine…or the great company. What he did know was that if he didn’t soon tell someone what he’d learned in that fax, he was probably going to burst. Just like a little kid with good news.
“First I have to swear you to secrecy,” he told her.
“Certainly,” she said, then held up her right hand. “I, Samantha Cosgrove, do solemnly swear that I won’t breathe a word of what Jesse Colton is about to tell me, so help me spit. There. Is that good enough?”
“Pretty good. Although I’ll still have to kill you once you know everything.”
“That seems only fair. You were Secret Service. Does that mean you could kill me with a rubber band or pencil sharpener?”
“We don’t do those anymore. Now we use Post-it notes. I’m hell with a Post-it note.”
“I’ll bet you are. Now, come on, tell me. What do I want to know about the Chekagovian embassy?”
“That I own it?” he said, raising his eyebrows.
“That you…that you…oh, you fibber you. You own it? Well, that makes us even. I own the Washington Monument. Oh, and we rent out the Lincoln Memorial. Tax reasons, you know.”
He smiled, shook his head. “I know, it’s hard to believe, but I own it. Really. Well, I own some of it.”
“Some of it,” she repeated, spooning three sugars into her coffee.
“Hey, easy on the sugar.”
“Never mind me. You’d better take yours black, because I think you’ve had too much wine, and you’ll need to sober up before you drive home.”
“You think I’m handing you a line?” he asked, tipping his head to one side as he looked at her. God, she had a wise mouth. He loved to hear her talk. He’d love more to shut her up…with his own mouth.
“If you are, I have to admit I’ve never heard this particular one before tonight. So, if I promise to be good, and not laugh too hard, why don’t you tell me why you own part of the mansion?”
“That would take until tomorrow morning,” Jesse said, wincing. “So we’ll leave that for another time, if that’s all right with you.”
“There’s going to be another time?”
“If you want, yes. But it’s getting late, and I’ve got a six-thirty meeting at the White House. So…”
“So I should tell you my reason for contacting you in the first place? For…for stalking you?”
“What a good idea,” he said, grinning. “You can tell me part of it, the way I told you part of mine, and then we’ll go on from there. If you want to.”
“I shouldn’t. You’re much, much too sure of yourself, Jesse Colton.”
“It’s a failing, I agree. So? Do we have a deal?”
She nodded. “We have a deal. But not here, there are too many ears. Pay the check, and I’ll tell you once you drive me home. At the curb, Colton—I’m not inviting you into my house. Agreed?”
He eased his wallet from his slacks pocket and pulled out a credit card. “Agreed. Spoilsport.”
They left the restaurant after Samantha was kissed on both cheeks by the maître d’, two interchangeable Anthonys and a plump woman who came out from the kitchen, wiping her hands on an apron as she called out, “Bella! Sweet Bella!”
“Are you this popular in all the District restaurants? If so, I think ours could be a beautiful relationship, at least until my credit card maxes out.”
“I’ll bet everyone in every gym in town knows you,” she said as he tried to open the car door for her, only to be beaten out by Anthony Number One.
When he slid in behind the wheel, he said, “Actually, they know me at most of the museums. I’m big on museums.”
“I wouldn’t have guessed that,” she said as he pulled away from the curb. “Head toward Dupont Circle, and I’ll give you directions from there.”
Fifteen minutes later he pulled the sedan over to the curb in front of an old redbrick town house. “Apartment?” he asked, looking at the well-kept building.
“Mom and Dad’s place, for when they come to the city. We never sold it. Juliet doesn’t stay here, not that she’s ever in town, but I’m the younger daughter, and part of my permission to come here to work hinged on my agreeing to stay at the old homestead. Mom’s a worrywart,” she told him, fishing in her purse for her key and not finding it. “Now, remember that sworn-to-secrecy stuff?”
“Hope to spit,” he said, turning off the ignition, knowing the windows would fog up within minutes. But if he didn’t turn off the ignition, the chances were lower that he’d be invited in for a nightcap. Hope to spit, yes. And hope springs eternal—that was Jesse’s motto, or at least it was since meeting Samantha Cosgrove.
She took a deep breath, then stared through the rapidly steaming-up windshield, her fingers nervously opening and closing the snap on her purse. “I have fairly varied duties at campaign headquarters. I handle press releases sometimes, organize fund-raisers, help write some of the lesser important speeches. Even lick stamps if we’re shorthanded. I do everything.”
“All right,” Jesse said, and that’s all he said, because he could tell that Samantha was nervous and still might change her mind about talking to him.
“In the course of my…duties,” she went on after a moment, her cheeks pale in the light of a strong street-lamp across the way, “I learned a few names. More than a few names. I learned yours, for instance.”
“But not my whereabouts, because you tried to reach me through the OEOB.”
“I used an old directory,” she said with a wave of her hand. “That doesn’t matter. What matters is that you have a reputation,
