future plans of the Coalition for Responsible Media.
And in his palm he held a microrecorder.
“What’s that for?” Kitt charged forward, pointing at the thing.
He stood. “I asked Mary and Shirley and Howard—” he smiled at the three “—if I could tape their comments. My memory is sort of feeble,” he explained, then smiled again at the trio, who beamed back.
“But you didn’t ask me,” Kitt said. “Turn it off.”
Mary’s and Shirley’s and Howard’s smiles shriveled and they looked stunned, offended. At Kitt.
She ignored them. “If you want information, we’ll get you some literature. Follow me.” She whirled away.
Behind her, she heard him making his apologies to the group, saying maybe they could visit more later.
When she got him alone in her tiny office, she closed the door. “Don’t do that again.”
“Do what?” His face was guileless.
“Record the staff’s comments. This is a coalition, and a very loose, diverse one at that. Made up of child advocacy groups, church groups, parents, cops, educators. Most of these folks are not political players. They’re volunteers. They believe in what they are doing, but they are very naive. Did you even tell them you are an intern from Wilkens’s office? That you’re gathering data to report to the congressman?”
“Nobody asked.”
Just as she’d thought. “Listen, Mr. Masters—”
“Mark,” he corrected.
But at that she only squinted and repeated: “Mr. Masters, those folks wouldn’t, of course, ask. They wouldn’t know to ask. And while I appreciate your efforts to be accurate—”
“That’s right. I’m only striving to be accurate.” He raised his palms in a helpless gesture. “I have a very poor memory. In fact—” he pumped his eyebrows Groucho style “—I have absolutely no memory of the first three years of my life.” He dropped his hands and grinned.
But his silly joke and his goofy grin did not amuse Kitt. “While I do want your report to the congressman to be as accurate as possible, you surely realize there are people who are anxious to undermine what we’re doing here, to make us look like zealots, like twenty-first century thought police.”
“How can I undermine you if I simply give the congressman the facts? You don’t have anything to hide here, do you?” He smiled that smile. That smile that, Kitt was convinced by now, he surely must know was completely disarming and endearing. Completely sexy.
“From now on just stick with me,” she said.
“Like ugly wallpaper.” He pumped those eyebrows again, smiled that smile.
Kitt looked pointedly at his tie. He should know from ugly.
And the remainder of the day went like that: Kitt feeling threatened, edgy, thinking mean little thoughts; Masters being sunny, straightforward, thinking only heaven-knew-what. Smiling, smiling, smiling that damn winning smile. All the while Kitt felt certain he was gathering data that would somehow be used against her cause, given who he really was. Intern, schmintern.
He had to be doing everything he could to protect his LinkServe—how had he phrased it to Wilkens?—his interests? Interests indeed.
She felt despair when she realized that by some grotesque twist of fate, Marcus Masters’s own son had become their unsympathetic pipeline to Congressman Wilkens. And The Pipeline seemed to be everywhere, getting into everything, persisting in being so nice that the staff was blinded to the dangers of opening up to him. Their underfunded little organization would be laid before the Masters Multimedia giant like a deer caught in the headlights of a semitruck.
By late afternoon Kitt was exhausted from the mental gymnastics, and the very sight of Mark Masters was giving her a torpid headache. She couldn’t wait to get him out of their offices, to get away from the man.
But Jeff Smith neatly destroyed all hope of that when he arrived shortly after five to offer Kitt a ride home.
She went to gather her paraphernalia: jacket, clutch, pager, cell phone. While she crammed it all into her tote, Jeff reviewed their plans to go to Murphy’s, her favorite Irish pub in Old Town. A little too loudly, Kitt realized, when she saw Mark Masters’s head pop up from a stack of deadly-dull media-content analysis statistics.
“Hey! I’ve heard of that place!” Masters said from across the room.
Jeff turned. “Oh?”
“Yeah. One of the other interns mentioned it. Authentic Irish music, live.” Masters smiled that choir-boy smile. “Sounds neat.”
Kitt wished to heaven the man would stop saying neat.
Mark’s reminder that he was the congressman’s intern was not lost on Jeff. “Would you care to join us?” said Jeff, the charming congressional aide, being hospitable to the lonesome little intern. “Whatdaya say, Kitt? Don’t you think Mark should get a taste of authentic Alexandria nightlife?”
“Well…” Kitt knew she looked caught, trapped again, and she tried to compose her expression into one of nonchalance as Mark stood and crossed the room.
She shrugged. “Well, Murphy’s isn’t really a good example of Old Town nightlife. It’s pretty dull, actually. The place would bore Mark, I’m afraid.”
Mark gave her a small frown, cocked his head, regarded her with glittering eyes that seemed to see right through her. “I’m not nearly so prone to boredom as you seem to imagine,” he said. “And how could anything be dull—” he paused, narrowing those already-narrow eyes at her “—as long as you’re there.”
Kitt’s face flamed, and she opened her mouth to speak, but Jeff wedged his lanky frame between Kitt and Mark. “Does that mean you’ll be joining us?” he asked.
Mark quirked a dark eyebrow at Jeff. “Absolutely. How do I get there?”
CHAPTER FIVE
THE PLANK DOORWAY to Murphy’s Irish Tavern was so narrow that Mark actually had to tilt his shoulders sideways as he squeezed in. He stood inside a cramped little vestibule, allowing himself a moment to adjust to the dim lighting, the noise and the pressing crowd.
Mark hated crowds, and he was already thoroughly sick of the trendy Washington bar scene—self-important men in overpriced suits, narcissistic women in clever little day-to-evening getups. Tonight the regulars were doing their best to outshout each other over loud music in this dark forty-by-sixty room saturated with smoke, strong cooking odors and humidity that floated up from the Potomac like clingy polyester netting. Grateful that he’d left his jacket and tie in the Lexus, Mark rolled up his shirtsleeves and stepped into the melee.
A svelte woman said, “Excuse me,” while brushing up against him as she passed. She made an elaborate business of raising two full glasses to shoulder level, to emphasize, he supposed, her trim shape, sheathed in a brown dress that poured over her curves
