This Child Of Mine. Darlene Graham
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Not that she considered herself any kind of cutie pie, but she was kiddish looking. Who was she—with her size four figure, her freckles, and her bangs in her eyes half the time—to fault anyone for looking young?
“But…but look at him,” she argued, mostly to herself. “That guy can’t possibly have a multimillion-dollar media empire.” Using Jeff as a shield, she peeked at him. The guy did have a fairly heavy five-o’clock shadow, and his shoulders were most impressive, but his face was as unlined as a statue of a Greek god. “That…that kid can’t possibly be the one who wrote those huge checks to the congressman’s campaign fund.”
“Well, he is. That’s Marcus Masters from Masters Multimedia in Los Angeles, California, developers of the promising—” Jeff cocked an eyebrow at Kitt “—well, some of us would claim, the threatening—LinkServe model.”
Kitt felt a little clammy. A little ill. “Damn,” she muttered.
“What’s the matter, sweetie? You look like you ate a rotten mushroom.”
“If only it had been poisonous.”
Jeff responded to her melodramatics with a skeptical frown. “Come on. It can’t be that bad.”
“Oh, yes, it can.” Kitt sipped the limewater, giving Jeff a pained look over the rim of the glass. “I just cut Mr. Marcus Masters, of all people.”
“Cut him?”
Kitt nodded, looking around for a hole to swallow her up, or at least a handy couch to dive behind.
“Cut him?” Jeff repeated.
“Yes,” Kitt hissed. “Blew him off. Gave him the cold shoulder.”
“Cut him?” Jeff insisted on mocking her choice of words instead of sympathizing over the mistake she’d made.
“The guy tried to make conversation, tried to apologize for this—” Kitt waggled her stained sleeve “—and I gave him the Miss-Manners-Please-Excuse-Me-You-Clod treatment.”
Jeff looked intrigued. “Why’d you do that?”
“He was flirting with me.”
Jeff touched his long fingers to his lips in mock horror. “That cad!”
“You know what I mean. He was acting like some kind of stud, and I thought he was just another lowly intern or something. Look at him!” Kitt whined. “He looks like a…a kid!”
Jeff grinned. “And you crushed his poor little ego.” He took a second to size up the younger man. “Well, if you rejected him, I guess I don’t feel so bad about the heartless way you treat me. Why oh why do you do all this rejecting, Kitt dear?”
“Danged if I know.” Kitt knocked her bangs aside with a punishing swat. But deep down, she did know. It was all mixed up, having something to do with her old anger toward Danny, and hence, toward all good-looking men.
Because he had no knowledge of Kitt’s past with Danny—no one in her present world did—Jeff had his own theory. “I’ll tell you why you do it.” He tried to take her elbow, but Kitt shrugged him off. She headed for a couch by the windows to collect herself.
Jeff followed and continued, “You’ve never gotten over being the only girl stuck out on that farm with no mama and all those brothers picking on you day and night. Here. Sit.” Jeff pressed her shoulder, lowering her to the prim little love seat. “Compose yourself. When you feel better, I’ll introduce you to Masters.”
“I think not,” Kitt said, keeping her face turned toward the high window. She glanced at Jeff. “New plan. How long is Masters going to be in D.C.?”
Jeff walked around, seated himself facing Kitt, facing the room, and arranged his long legs as best he could in front of the spindly settee. “The grapevine says a week. Word is he actually drove here. Besides his interest in the outcome of the media bill, he has relatives in D.C. or something.”
“A week! That doesn’t give me much time. But, okay. Can you make sure Wilkens invites us both—me and Masters—to that dinner at Gadsby’s next Tuesday? Maybe during dinner I can work in some facts about the bill, convince Masters it’s not as big a threat as he thinks. And I’ll pray that he won’t remember this.” She indicated the sleeve.
“I wouldn’t count on that, sweetie.” Jeff gave the room at Kitt’s back a veiled glance. “He’s checking you out right now. It’d be hard to forget your yard-long mop of red hair.”
“My hair is not red! It’s strawberry blond!”
Jeff raised a palm, grinning. “Hey! I’m not one of your ornery brothers. I happen to love your hair.”
Kitt ran a hand through her bangs. “I guess I’ll just have to…do something different with it.” She stood up. “Just arrange that dinner, okay? Now, if you’ll excuse me, I think I’ll make my apology to Wilkens for cutting out early and then go dye my hair black.”
Jeff smiled, assessing Kitt’s burning cheeks. It wasn’t at all like her to get so wrought up over a little social misstep. And it sure wasn’t like her to miss the opportunity to work a room. “Go on,” he said, waving a palm at her. “I’ll tell Wilkens you got sick or something.”
“And you won’t be lying,” Kitt sighed, and brushed her bangs back again. “Right now, I feel positively nauseated.”
She straightened her jacket and made a beeline for the door, permitting herself one last furtive appraisal of Marcus Masters. He was across the room, getting introduced to Trisha Pounds. Kitt studied his broad back as he reached forward and took the beauty queen’s hand. Who would have ever imagined this? That pretty boy is the media magnate!
CHAPTER TWO
DYEING HER HAIR BLACK might have been less expensive, and certainly less painful than this. The thing was called a cobra braid and was giving Kitt a headache before she’d even left the salon. But the elaborate swoop of braids was not meant to be comfortable, or even flattering. It was meant to drastically alter her appearance for tonight’s dinner at Gadsby’s Tavern.
And it certainly did the job. It was such a radical change from her blunt-cut mane and wispy bangs off a side part that Kitt found herself repeatedly checking the rearview mirror on the way home. Even the color of her hair looked different. The foreign hairdresser had kept patting it. “Thees braids you can shawmpooo and keep, yes?” Delightful news, Kitt thought, since she already wanted to rip them out.
She had dressed carefully. “Elegant casual” is how Lauren described her sleek black pantsuit, creamy silk shell and demure pearls.
The two-hundred-year-old town house that Kitt shared with her roommates, Lauren and Paige, who also worked on the Hill, was within walking distance of Gadsby’s. She decided to save herself the frustration of hunting for a parking place in crowded Old Town.
The oppressive midday heat had subsided, and she drew in a deep breath, savoring the oily sweet scent of colonial boxwood, a fragrance she loved, along with everything else about historic Alexandria, Virginia. The hand-lettered wooden signs hanging at right angles over the antique shops. The softly glowing colonial-style street lamps. The brick sidewalks and cobblestone streets. All this quaint charm only six miles from the gritty hustle and bustle of urban D.C.
She brushed the top of a boxwood hedge with her fingertips as she mapped out her strategy for the evening—convincing Marcus Masters that the new media bill posed no threat to Masters Multimedia. Convincing him, in fact, that adequate regulation would actually make his latest product easier to market. A tall order.
But Kitt loved a challenge, especially when it meant going up against good old boys like Marcus Masters.
“Go for the gonads, honey,” she had often advised her grieving divorce clients back in Tulsa, where she got her start in the law firm of Kinser, Geotch and Baines. The KGB of divorce