LITMIR.BIZ

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pulled her hand free and shoved both fists into her robe pockets, the backs of her fingers brushing Sam’s card. “I’ll be careful. I’m always careful.”

      Lilith seemed about to say something but stood instead, her hand resting on her belly. “Baby’s finally gone to sleep. That’s my cue.”

      Five minutes later Dana went to her bedroom. The familiarity of the space that hadn’t changed in all these years held a kind of comfort she hadn’t felt for a long time. She stood at the open window, her long-buried needs doing battle with her longer-held sense of responsibility—to everyone but herself. She’d felt…female tonight. Sexy. And Sam had barely touched her.

      Sam. He’d intruded in her thoughts for years and years. A question without answer. A temptation without satisfaction. Not even a kiss at the end of the prom. She’d wanted to kiss him tonight. Dancing with him, being held by him, had made her want more. A lot more.

      Dana leaned her cheek against the window frame and stared at the stars. She was achingly lonely, but she wasn’t in a position to do anything about it, not at this point. Nor could she tell Lilith the truth about her bid for reelection. Dana had made up her mind, but she couldn’t make that decision public for another two months. There was too much riding on it. A promise was a promise.

      As she lowered the sash to close off the night air, Dana heard a car engine start. Headlights came on from about fifty feet up the road. A black sedan headed slowly down the hill and passed in front of her parents’ house. She relaxed. Harley would drive a truck. So would his friends.

      It was probably a couple of teenagers necking—she looked at the clock and saw it was 1:00 a.m.—and breaking the midnight curfew, a long tradition in Miner’s Camp.

      Ah, adolescence. Years ago she’d been an hour late. Her parents caught her tiptoeing into the house, and she was punished by having certain privileges taken away, like no solo dating for a month. At the time it seemed too harsh for a first offense.

      In reality it had been good preparation for her public life now, where first offenses mattered enormously. She’d been careful not to make any—until now. She should’ve corrected Candi’s statement that she was running for reelection right when it happened, no excuses, before it became the problem she expected it would become.

      Because now when she made a mistake, she wasn’t accountable to two loving parents but to millions of people—friend and foe. The repercussions had probably already begun.

      Three

      Tuesday evening Dana rested her elbows on her desk, propped her chin on her fists and studied her calendar for the rest of the month. Congress was in recess, but she was busier than ever. August was supposed to be a time to reconnect with constituents. So far, all she’d done was reconnect with the media.

      She leaned back in her leather chair and closed her eyes, the hectic pace of the past few days not only catching up but hitting hard. She’d skipped the Sunday reunion picnic to head back to her San Francisco office to deal with the anticipated backlash of Candi’s unfortunate misstatement, and had been home only long enough to sleep and shower since then.

      In need of damage control, she’d sent for her communications director and press secretary from her Washington, D.C., office. Her chief of staff and director of state operations had apartments in San Francisco and met her at the office. More than a dozen staffers had given up their Sunday. They’d bustled in and out. Phones rang, the fax machine churned, meetings overlapped.

      Sunday, Monday and Tuesday blurred into one long day. She’d been on the phone to party leaders, Senate leaders, and even her parents, who’d read the news in the Orlando newspaper before she could contact them.

      The quiet of her office suddenly surrounded Dana. She’d sent everyone home, although a few still lingered, wrapping things up. She would go home herself if she could work up the energy to put on her shoes and walk to her car.

      Her personal assistant, Maria Sanchez, wandered in, yawning. She smiled. “Sorry.”

      Dana waved off the apology. “Sleep in tomorrow. If you come in before ten I’m docking your pay.”

      “I will if you will.”

      Dana smiled at Maria’s perpetual mantra. She was always trying to get Dana to take time off. “Actually I was considering going to L.A. for the day. My calendar looks like it could be cleared.”

      “Do you need a plane reservation?”

      “I have to make a call first. I’ll phone in my own reservations, thank you, Maria. And I’ll let you know in time for you to postpone my meetings.”

      “Do you need any paperwork gathered to take along?”

      “No. It’s personal business.”

      Although curiosity lit her eyes, Maria kept her questions and comments to herself. Dana had inherited Randall’s staff, and she valued each and every one of them. She’d been a staff member before her marriage four years ago and unofficially his speechwriter and strategist for the year and a half until his death.

      Maria took a few steps backward. “I’ll clean off my desk while you make that call.” She shut the door behind her.

      Dana pulled Sam’s business card out of her pocket. The paper was breaking down. She really needed to stop using it like a strand of worry beads. Soon she wouldn’t be able to read the print.

      He’d been on her mind constantly since the reunion, and she’d been debating calling him, feeling she needed a reason. She’d finally come up with one.

      She called his cell phone before she lost her nerve.

      “This is Sam Remington. Please leave a message.”

      Voice mail. Damn. She straightened her shoulders. “Hi, Sam. It’s Dana Sterling. I just learned I might have to be in L.A. tomorrow, so I thought I could drop off your medal in person. Could you give me a call, please?” She gave him her unlisted home number and the private line to her office then hung up and took a deep breath.

      Exhaustion caught up with her, making her office sofa look a little too inviting. Standing, she shuffled the papers on her desk into something that resembled a stack and shoved them into her briefcase for her nightly bedtime story. She’d forgotten what it was like to curl up in bed with a good novel. Regardless, she looked forward to an evening at home.

      Her private line rang. She let it ring a second time before picking it up.

      “Dana Sterling.”

      “You’re working late, Senator.”

      Sam. She leaned a hip against her desk and smiled, taking it as a good sign that he’d returned her call so quickly. He didn’t seem surprised to hear from her. “No later than usual.”

      “You know what they say about all work and no play.”

      “You’re speaking from personal experience?”

      He made a sound of agreement. “I caught you on the news a few times.”

      “Just part of the job.”

      “Which is one of the reasons you’re not running for a second term.”

      She pushed away from the desk. “I didn’t say that.”

      “When you’re bluffing, you move your left shoulder back and forth. It’s harder to pick up than, say, avoiding eye contact, but it’s your tell. I figured that out in tenth grade.”

      He’d watched her that closely? That carefully?

      She didn’t answer. She couldn’t. To say anything meant she would either lie or confide in him. Neither was a viable option.

      “No one will hear it from me,” he said into the silence. “Rumor is, by the way, that you’re going to run.”

      She lowered herself into her chair. “Except

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