This Child Of Mine. Darlene Graham
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melt into the sidewalk. And for her, the chemistry between them was wholly unanticipated. Wholly unwelcome.
As they walked into Gadsby’s, he said, “Let me guess. Federalist classical influence.”
“Yes!” He certainly caught on quickly. “The symmetry reflects the conviction of that period that—”
“—there’s order in the universe.”
“Exactly,” she said. “And see the bar? It’s actually a small cage to keep the ruffians away from the hootch. Hence the term barkeeper.”
“Neat.”
The guy kept saying “neat.”
And Kitt kept thinking, Something’s wrong.
They wound their way through the tables in the taproom, then past smaller dining rooms painted in colonial colors to a private one, where, amid glowing candles and dark plank flooring, they found the congressman’s intimate party of eight.
Oh dear, Kitt thought. The walk to the Ramsey took longer than I calculated. The waiter was already opening a second bottle of Pouilly Fuisse Latour. But no one, least of all the congressman, seemed perturbed at their tardiness. In fact, Marcus Masters was greeted effusively, like some long-lost son.
“Mark! Glad you made it!” the congressman said as he stood. “It looks like you’ve already met Kitt.” He gave her a passing smile, then grabbed Mark’s elbow and introduced him to the others at the table.
Kitt was determined to keep a low profile until she saw the right moment to make her point. She tried to seat herself quickly, but Mark dashed around the table to hold her chair, then he sat directly across from her, boring a hole through her with those blue eyes. Kitt’s pulse raced. She decided to skip the wine.
So did he, she noticed.
Her uneasiness persisted while salad was served and even as they nibbled on George Washington roast duck. A lute guitarist plucked out period songs while Congressman Wilkens dominated the table talk. The old man reviewed the latest controversy over violent and sexually explicit music, videos and Internet content, explaining the workings of the new media regulation bill intended to address the problem.
Preaching to the choir, Kitt thought. She, in particular, knew these arguments by heart. She had constructed most of them. Wilkens was obviously yak-king for Masters’s sake. Trying to convince him that the bill was fair, so Masters wouldn’t turn his money toward defeating it…and by extension, the congressman.
She tried to relax, happy to let Wilkens do the talking. But she cringed a bit every time her pal Jeff opened his mouth, even though she’d warned him not to betray her connection to the Coalition for Responsible Media. A couple of times she caught herself touching her weird braids and she swore Masters glanced at her when she did. He gave her a funny little look. Almost…amused, and it made her jumpy.
Otherwise Masters said nothing, looked gorgeous and shoveled in food. Only when he’d scraped the last crumb of English trifle from his dessert plate did he lay aside his fork and speak. Not to the congressman. To Kitt.
“Tell me, Ms. Stevens,” he said, nailing her with those intense blue eyes, “why doesn’t the Coalition for Responsible Media expend its energies supporting technologies like LinkServe instead of trying to undermine LinkServe’s efforts to give consumers more choices, more control, more freedom?”
What? Kitt stared at Masters and blinked. But before she could rally from realizing that Mark Masters knew exactly who she was, what she was doing here, why she had been so helpful about parking meters and so informative about period architecture, Congressman Wilkens jumped in and multiplied her shock and disorientation tenfold.
“Now, Mark,” he said, “I’m sure we can come up with a compromise that encompasses all interests, consumer protection, First Amendment rights and your father’s favorite, free enterprise.”
“His father?” Kitt mouthed and sent Jeff—who looked as if he’d been gut-shot—a stare that asked the obvious question: Is this the Marcus Masters or not?
Yes and no, it seemed. Kitt swiveled her head in Masters’s direction while the congressman blathered on.
“I only wish your father could have stayed in D.C. a little longer while we hash this thing out. But then I suppose you’re the next best thing. His representative, as it were.”
The old congressman, for some strange reason, grinned and winked at Kitt. As if she knew what the hell was going on.
“His representative?” Mark Masters said. “Hardly, sir.” He tossed his napkin beside his plate. “I’m pursuing my own goals here. I don’t work for Masters Multimedia anymore and I don’t think I would be a very good intern to you if I did.” He steepled his hands above his plate and pressed his forefingers to his lips as if to indicate he’d spoken his piece.
The congressman’s grin faded. He cleared his throat. “What do you mean, you don’t work for Masters Multimedia anymore? What about your Link-Serve model?” he said.
Masters’s dark eyebrows knit together. His deep blue eyes glinted with something Kitt couldn’t identify. Determination, perhaps, or…defiance. He lowered his hands before he spoke. “After I developed the prototype, I turned LinkServe over to my father for testing. In the Florida market, I think.”
Wilkens seemed surprised, even disappointed by this announcement. “Really?” he mumbled.
Kitt wondered fleetingly if Wilkens was playing both sides of this issue: Masters for the money, the CRM for the consumer votes. Great.
One of Wilkens’s female aides piped up. “How exactly would LinkServe work, Mark? I mean…” She faltered as Masters turned the full force of those blue eyes on her. “I mean…what will it do, exactly?”
The main thing it will do, Kitt thought, is make Mark Masters even more hideously wealthy than his old man.
Masters smiled that luminous smile at the aide. “Think of LinkServe as a multimedia communications system—your telephone, your TV, your computer, your best friend’s face. All coming to you over one neat, linked communications—” he hesitated here, apparently searching for the perfect word “—box to serve you.” Then his smile expanded. “LinkServe,” he summed up.
“Wow,” the aide said, and Kitt wondered if the woman was “wowing” over the technology or the blue eyes.
The congressman leaned forward, frowning now. “Pardon me for asking,” he said, “but I must know. It was my understanding that you kept your percentage in LinkServe?”
“I’ve retained some interests, but only for as long as I’m in college. I assure you, sir, I want to be treated like any other intern in your office.”
The congressman hesitated, only for a heartbeat, but long enough for Kitt to pick up on his very real discomfort with this young man’s unexpected declaration of independence. “Well, of course, of course,” he said. “Just because you’re Marcus Masters the Third doesn’t mean you’re not like any other intern, here to learn about the legislative process.” He leaned toward Masters confidentially. “And you shall. For example, I trust this dinner has been edifying?”
Masters relaxed back into his chair. “Yes, sir, it has. Working with lobbyists like Ms. Stevens here is exactly what I want to do.” He turned a thousandwatt smile of perfect teeth on Kitt. It was the same smile that had looked so warm and benevolent earlier, except now it looked utterly feral.
Kitt managed a nod and a weak smile of her own. If she’d been broadsided before, she was absolutely flattened now. This man, this Marcus Masters the Third, had known exactly who she was and what she was up to the whole time he’d had her yammering about flowers and ghosts. The whole time he’d been saying “neat” like some kid at Disneyland. Had he known even back at the ice-cream social when he tried to flirt with her? Her cheeks flamed. Do you always wear your hair like that? Geez.
“Great!”