CHAPTER THREE

      KITT PACED the length of her narrow third-floor bedroom and raked her hands through the weird ripples the stupid braids had left.

      Two stories below, she could hear Lauren and Paige practicing their new vocal number. The three women had formed a trio as a creative outlet and had become quite popular at the church. But tonight Lauren’s delicate soprano contrasted with Paige’s athletic alto, and without Kitt’s second soprano modulating between them, they sounded strained. Kitt felt a pang of guilt. She should be downstairs practicing. But at the moment she could barely breathe, much less sing.

      She had beaten a retreat home from the disaster at Gadsby’s, carefully hung up her expensive black pantsuit and proceeded to pace.

      The memory of Mark Masters’s face when he’d asked her that pointed question about LinkServe, of his fingers rubbing the flower petals, of the way he ate, moved, used his hands, of his eyes, so blue and deep-set, all of it played in her mind like images from some cheesy romantic comedy.

      It couldn’t be, just couldn’t be, happening.

      But she recognized the signs in herself already. Signs of…infatuation. And, to Kitt Stevens, having these feelings had once proved devastating. Better not to even let anything start, she warned herself. Love wasn’t a fairy tale. Love meant entanglements, trouble…pain.

      She could keep these feelings of attraction at bay, she reminded herself, if she kept her mind on her business. She marched to the bed, rummaged around in the covers, retrieved her portable phone and punched in a familiar number.

      Jeff’s nasal voice on the answering machine said, “Hi. Eric is out golfing, and I’m working like a slave. Leave a message.” Kitt grinned because Eric’s message was similar: “I’m killing myself for the congressman and Jeff’s out barhopping.”

      “Jeff, pick up. It’s me.”

      “Yes, my sweets,” a live voice immediately answered. “I presume you called to crawl my ass about the Mark Masters screwup.”

      “Later. And while I’m at it, remind me to chew you out for talking so pretty. But first, tell me what you found out.”

      Jeff sighed. “It seems the younger Masters is Wilkens’s intern from the University of Oklahoma. Brilliant. Chose O.U. because of the Carl Albert Center.”

      “The Carl Center?” Kitt muttered. “Where they do all that in-depth research into federal government operations? Is this guy some kind of policy wonk?”

      “I guess. Of course, his father could send him anywhere, and tried to. But the kid, who’s no kid, by the way, dropped out of U.C.L.A. the first go-round. Got in some kind of woman trouble. The old man, the real Marcus Masters, the one who’s trying to control Wilkens, was only in D.C. for a day before he zipped out on his Lear.”

      “Dang!” Kitt dragged her hand viciously through her kinky hair at that news. So, she’d missed her chance with Masters, and gotten the old man’s son underfoot in the process.

      Jeff went on in a rush, “I’m guessing the son is the relative I heard about. Sorry for the bad poop, Kitt. Old man Masters was supposed to be at that reception, I guess because his son was one of the incoming interns. But he didn’t show. In fact, Trisha was really disappointed—”

      “Trisha,” Kitt injected.

      “What have you got against her, anyway? She’s really nice.”

      Kitt kept her thoughts to herself, but said, “Go on.”

      “Well, it turns out the old man wanted Mark to meet her. She works for an affiliate owned by Masters Multimedia.”

      Keepin’ it all in the family, Kitt thought.

      “Anyway, I promise, I knew none of this. I mean, I knew there were two interns who arrived late in the day that I didn’t meet—we let Eric handle them—but I sure as hell didn’t know one of them was Marcus Masters’s son. I can’t apologize enough for this mix-up. Kitt?…Kitt? Did you hear me? I’m really sorry.”

      Kitt quit pacing and plopped down on the bed. Thinking. Scheming, actually. She didn’t really hold Jeff accountable for this fiasco. He certainly had nothing to do with the congressman’s bright idea to send Masters over to her turf. “Don’t worry about it,” she answered. “Send me some chocolates or a couple of tickets to Aruba or something.” She yawned loudly into the phone. “Listen, I’m beat. Thanks for checking the guy out. You and Lauren really should communicate more. Turns out she knew he was Marcus Masters’s son the whole time.”

      “Maybe you should communicate with Lauren more often,” Jeff said. “She’s your roommate.” His voice dropped to a seductive level. “Hey. If I do send the tickets, will you take me to Aruba with you?”

      Kitt raised the mouthpiece of the phone to her forehead, rolled her eyes to the ceiling, releasing a slow hiss of impatience.

      “Kitt? You there?”

      Kitt lowered the phone. “I’m just tired, Jeff. I’ll talk to you tomorrow. Meanwhile, I’ve got to figure out what to do with Mark Masters in the morning. Oh, by the way. I won’t need a ride.”

      “Why? You braving the traffic?”

      “No. After we left the dinner, when I was slinking home, Mark Masters caught up with me and offered to pick me up tomorrow.”

      “What on earth for?” Jeff sounded suddenly wary, maybe even a little peevish.

      “I honestly don’t know. Maybe he was just being nice. But I don’t buy the I’m-Just-Here-To-Learn routine he handed the congressman.”

      “If he’s Marcus Masters’s son, you can bet he’s after something.”

      “I can handle him.” Kitt yawned again.

      “Uh, yeah, if anybody can, you can. That’s cool.”

      But Kitt got the feeling Jeff didn’t think it was cool at all, and the truth was, neither did she. In fact, the whole idea of doing anything with Mark Masters, anything at all, felt vaguely…dangerous.

      And that night, for the first time in a very long time, Kitt dreamed the old dream. The nightmare about her baby.

      This time it came to her like a dream within a dream. She was blinking at the golden shafts of evening sun that seeped through the bent miniblinds in her tiny student apartment at the University of Tulsa. It was late summer, when the university was as dead as a ghost town, and here she was, alone and heart-sore.

      She was curled up in a ball on her side, and, despite the oppressive Oklahoma heat, she pulled the comforter tighter around herself, like a cocoon, sealing the pain out…or sealing it in, she wasn’t sure which.

      All she wanted was sleep, but with sleep came the dream.

      A dream that plagued