who’d read the news in the Orlando newspaper before she could contact them.
The quiet of her office suddenly surrounded Dana. She’d sent everyone home, although a few still lingered, wrapping things up. She would go home herself if she could work up the energy to put on her shoes and walk to her car.
Her personal assistant, Maria Sanchez, wandered in, yawning. She smiled. “Sorry.”
Dana waved off the apology. “Sleep in tomorrow. If you come in before ten I’m docking your pay.”
“I will if you will.”
Dana smiled at Maria’s perpetual mantra. She was always trying to get Dana to take time off. “Actually I was considering going to L.A. for the day. My calendar looks like it could be cleared.”
“Do you need a plane reservation?”
“I have to make a call first. I’ll phone in my own reservations, thank you, Maria. And I’ll let you know in time for you to postpone my meetings.”
“Do you need any paperwork gathered to take along?”
“No. It’s personal business.”
Although curiosity lit her eyes, Maria kept her questions and comments to herself. Dana had inherited Randall’s staff, and she valued each and every one of them. She’d been a staff member before her marriage four years ago and unofficially his speechwriter and strategist for the year and a half until his death.
Maria took a few steps backward. “I’ll clean off my desk while you make that call.” She shut the door behind her.
Dana pulled Sam’s business card out of her pocket. The paper was breaking down. She really needed to stop using it like a strand of worry beads. Soon she wouldn’t be able to read the print.
He’d been on her mind constantly since the reunion, and she’d been debating calling him, feeling she needed a reason. She’d finally come up with one.
She called his cell phone before she lost her nerve.
“This is Sam Remington. Please leave a message.”
Voice mail. Damn. She straightened her shoulders. “Hi, Sam. It’s Dana Sterling. I just learned I might have to be in L.A. tomorrow, so I thought I could drop off your medal in person. Could you give me a call, please?” She gave him her unlisted home number and the private line to her office then hung up and took a deep breath.
Exhaustion caught up with her, making her office sofa look a little too inviting. Standing, she shuffled the papers on her desk into something that resembled a stack and shoved them into her briefcase for her nightly bedtime story. She’d forgotten what it was like to curl up in bed with a good novel. Regardless, she looked forward to an evening at home.
Her private line rang. She let it ring a second time before picking it up.
“Dana Sterling.”
“You’re working late, Senator.”
Sam. She leaned a hip against her desk and smiled, taking it as a good sign that he’d returned her call so quickly. He didn’t seem surprised to hear from her. “No later than usual.”
“You know what they say about all work and no play.”
“You’re speaking from personal experience?”
He made a sound of agreement. “I caught you on the news a few times.”
“Just part of the job.”
“Which is one of the reasons you’re not running for a second term.”
She pushed away from the desk. “I didn’t say that.”
“When you’re bluffing, you move your left shoulder back and forth. It’s harder to pick up than, say, avoiding eye contact, but it’s your tell. I figured that out in tenth grade.”
He’d watched her that closely? That carefully?
She didn’t answer. She couldn’t. To say anything meant she would either lie or confide in him. Neither was a viable option.
“No one will hear it from me,” he said into the silence. “Rumor is, by the way, that you’re going to run.”
She lowered herself into her chair. “Except for the press and the three men waiting to take my place, I didn’t know there was such interest. Where did you hear the gossip?”
“I took an unofficial poll at a couple of watering holes on Monday.”
“And the margin of error?”
“Plus or minus thirty points.”
After a moment she laughed. “I suppose it’ll be old news by tomorrow.”
“For the general population maybe.”
“It’s the voters that count.”
“Then I think you’re safe,” he said. “Politicians, on the other hand…”
“You don’t have to tell me, Sam. I’ve been part of the process since I was twenty.”
A beat passed. “Is that when you met your late husband?”
“Yes.” She didn’t want to discuss Randall. There had to be some rule of etiquette that said you shouldn’t talk about the man you loved with the man you lusted after. “So, about the medal.”
To his credit he didn’t miss a beat at the change of subject. “I’ll be in L.A. tomorrow, but I’m actually in San Francisco at the moment. I’ve got an eleven o’clock flight tonight. I could swing by your office.”
He was in San Francisco and he hadn’t called before now. Not interested. The words might as well be flashing in neon. “The medal’s at home,” she said coolly. “I’m headed there now. You’re welcome to stop by, or I can still mail it.”
“I’ll stop by.”
Really? Another mixed message. “Okay. My address is—”
“I know where you live. See you in half an hour.”
Dana listened to the dial tone for a few seconds before cradling the phone. She liked his confidence, had always been attracted to confident men—
He knows where I live?
A quick knock on the door preceded Maria’s entrance. “About tomorrow?”
“Don’t cancel my appointments. I’ll go to the L.A. office next week, as planned.” She took a final glance at her desk to see if she’d missed anything. “Now, go home.”
“I will if you will.”
“We’ll walk each other to our cars.” Dana scooped up her briefcase and jacket then stepped into her shoes. Energy replaced exhaustion. Sam was coming.
Sam
