This Child Of Mine. Darlene Graham
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Kitt’s elbow. “Jeff predicted you’d do your workaholic act and miss all the fun.”
Fun? Lauren, honey, Kitt wanted to say, if standing around eating the same old finger foods, talking to the same old politicos, is your idea of fun, then you really must acquire a life. Lauren Holmes, a devoted congressional staffer who spent her days—and often her nights—charging around the bowels of the Capitol in sensible shoes, was a fine one to lecture Kitt about workaholism.
Maybe Kitt had been in Washington too long—the polished lobbyist side of her emerged too easily: “I wouldn’t miss your little do for anything.” She jerked her head toward the extravagant spread, but didn’t permit herself another glance at the handsome man. “I thought this was supposed to be a simple ice-cream social for the congressman’s new interns.”
Lauren shrugged. “Hey. If the broadcasters’ association lobbyists want to pay Ridgeways to cater this deal, Wilkens isn’t gonna say no. Like I keep telling you, this is Washington, not Oklahoma.”
Ain’t it the truth, Kitt thought. One thing she had quickly learned, in Washington words did not carry the same meanings as they did back home. In this town, simple ice-cream social meant elaborate cocktail party.
“You know the ethics rule.” Lauren made quote marks with her fingers. “As long as the lawmakers are standing—”
“They can feed at the trough all they want,” Kitt injected. She heaved a theatrical sigh, mostly to relieve her tension. “So ridiculous.”
“You’re just jealous because your organization can’t afford to feed the hogs. Be grateful I got you in here.”
Kitt smiled at her. Lauren and her friend, Paige Phillips, were the two best roommates on the face of the earth, and Lauren also happened to be the closest connection to Congressman Wilkens. “I am extremely grateful. And I’m grateful to Jeff for letting me know that the enemy’s inside the perimeter. All I want is a chance to take one peck at each congressman or senator.” Kitt pointed her slender index finger. “One tiny sentence, one word before Marcus Masters completely corrupts them with his buckets of money.”
Lauren squeezed Kitt’s arm. “So behave. And look!” She signaled a waiter. “There is actually some token ice cream.” Then Lauren turned away to greet someone else.
The waiter lowered a hammered-silver tray bearing tiny waffle cones filled with every imaginable flavor. Kitt declined with a raised palm. Not that “Kitt the stick,” as her brothers called her, needed to watch her weight. Ice cream was just too messy to permit the kind of maneuvering she needed to do.
She hailed a different waiter and lifted a stem glass of French limewater instead—alcohol was also inadvisable—then scrutinized the crowd again.
There were a few lawmakers, all from Wilkens’s committee. A few exhausted-looking staffers. Some eager-looking interns. But mostly, there were sharp-eyed lobbyists like herself, including, of course, those who’d bankrolled this bash.
And, of course, the handful of beauty queens. One in particular was surrounded by a little cluster of power-suited men, all jockeying around the couch where the leggy young woman sat holding an ice-cream cone. Kitt sighed. Washington.
“How’d she get invited?” Kitt mumbled when Lauren turned back to her.
Lauren rolled her eyes. “Marcus Masters brought her.”
Kitt’s radar zoomed up. “Figures. Which one is Masters, by the way?”
“I have no idea what the old man looks like. Maybe he’s one of the multitude worshipping at the Shrine o’ Trisha. Look at her,” Lauren’s voice lowered, “perched on that divan like Scarlet O’Hara at Twelve Oaks. How does one woman, just sitting there eating ice cream, summon that much male attention?”
Kitt gave her friend a sarcastic smirk. “Could it have something to do with that teeny skirt, those mile-long legs and those five-inch heels? Just a wild guess.”
Lauren rolled her eyes. Short and full-figured, Lauren had to fight the battle of the bulge every day and she would look absurd in five-inch heels.
Kitt jammed one hand into the pocket of her tailored slacks and congratulated herself because she’d abandoned such feminine tricks long ago. Ever since—why did she always think about that time of her life at highly charged moments like this? She reminded herself that, though it had cost her dearly, her mistake had at least expunged Danny from her life.
“Even the men not in her immediate orbit,” Lauren mumbled, “are glancing at her from across the room. Trisha Pounds. Irk. Even good old Jeff and Eric look—”
“Struck stupid.” Kitt watched her two friends as they craned their necks to hear Miss Trisha’s comments.
Kitt aimed the rim of her glass at the cute guy by the food tables. “Well, at least there’s one man who seems unimpressed.”
Someone had grabbed Lauren’s arm, diverting her attention again.
The man by the tables was, Kitt decided, handsome enough to have any woman he wanted. In fact, Kitt noticed that Trisha kept glancing at him. Kitt smiled. The way he piled hors d’oeuvres on his plate reminded her of something her brothers would pull.
“That one looks more interested in the shrimp,” Kitt muttered when Lauren turned back to her.
“Men and their prime directives,” Lauren conceded. “Sex and food.” Lauren squinted toward Trisha. “I kinda wish I could carry off the short skirts and spiked heels—” she dropped her voice below the din of conversation “—’cause I’m sure not having any luck finding Mr. Right. I mean, not that twenty-five’s over the hill—but an occasional date would be nice.” She sighed. “All the guys I meet are so…geeky.”
Kitt listened to Lauren’s familiar lament with one ear while she searched for Masters. Her eyes trailed back to the young man at the food tables. Too young, of course. And what a stupid tie—Mickey Mouse? Probably an intern. His jaws worked like a chipmunk’s, bulging as he stuffed in shrimp. As if instinctively aware of being observed, he stopped mid-chew and shot Kitt a look with deep-set eyes that seemed to penetrate like lasers. His thick black eyebrows formed a sharp chevron for a millisecond, then he looked away and resumed chewing.
Lauren saw the exchange and elbowed Kitt. “Would you like to meet him?”
Kitt groaned. Lauren’s relentless pursuit of Mr. Right—one for each of them—was wearisome. “No.”
But Kitt felt herself blushing and took a quick sip of limewater to cool down, because the truth was, a bolt of electricity had coursed through her in that instant of eye contact. She sidled another look his way—he was assaulting the shish kebab this time—then she looked down into her glass again.
Definitely male-model material: neatly trimmed coal-black hair, square jaw, smooth tan skin. Tall. Built. And those eyes…
“Not only is he cute, that one is rich,” Lauren was saying. “Boy, is he ever rich—”
Another staffer broke in and distracted Lauren with some crisis or other, and Kitt’s gaze strayed once more.
This time he was studying her. Don’t ever stare at men. That was one of Lauren’s goofy rules for snagging Mr. Right. So, Kitt stared back.
When he didn’t look away, Kitt felt forced to, frowning and brushing the lapel of her expensive silk jacket with the backs of freshly manicured finger-nails. You do not have time for pretty boys with challenging eyes, she reminded herself. Locate Masters.
“Listen, I’ve gotta check on something,” Lauren said. “Be good.”
“I’ll try.” Kitt sighed as Lauren rushed off. She brushed her bangs back, and braced one fist on her hip as she concentrated on the task at hand.
Congressman Jim Wilkens, the ostensible host and the one with the power over her precious media bill, was still hovering near the beauty queen. Kitt studied