LITMIR.BIZ

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the lapels of her robe closer to her chest. Food was the last thing she wanted but she desperately wanted a Diet Coke. “Hi, Glen. Is there... I saw a kitchen. A Diet Coke, maybe?”

      “I’ll have one sent up, miss.”

      “Thanks. I’ll just be in my...room.”

      She dashed across the open space and ducked into the bedroom the guard had pointed out. A lamp glowed next to the bed, on which the linens had been turned down. Her suitcase occupied a low bench. Checking the closet, she found her hang-up bag with her clothing inside. The case holding her personal care items had been tucked into the adjoining bath. While not nearly as opulent as the one in the master suite, it was far fancier than the bath in her previous room and was Architectural Digest-worthy compared to the one in her apartment back in DC. The room itself, even though it was probably the smallest bedroom in the suite, was magnificent. She needed to focus on something normal—as if brocade coverlets, silken accent rugs and needlepoint chair upholstery was normal. A hysterical giggle erupted from the back of her throat before she could stop it.

      Digging through her suitcase, Georgie found her comfort jammies—worn sweats and a long-sleeved T-shirt that said “Ways to win my heart...1. Buy me coffee 2. Make me coffee 3. Be coffee.” Not that she was a caffeine addict. Much. She wondered if there was a coffeemaker in the kitchen. If she couldn’t sleep—and she suspected it would be hard—she’d go look. Coffee would be a godsend.

      A light tap on the bedroom door had her scrambling back into the robe. “Yes?”

      “I’ve got your Coke, and the hotel doctor is here to see you.”

      “Doctor?” She’d forgotten, in the midst of her mortification, that Clay had offered to send a doctor. Georgie opened the door a crack and a kindly face with wild black eyebrows peered at her over Glen’s shoulder. “Miss Dreyfus, I’m Dr. Bruce. The senator asked me to look in on you.”

      “Um...sure. Come in.” Glen handed her a bottle of Diet Coke so cold it still had little bits of ice clinging to it.

      “I’ll be right out here, ma’am.”

      Ma’am? Ouch. She was only thirty. She pushed her glasses to the bridge of her nose and nodded, suddenly reminded of her dowdy looks. Stepping back, she opened the door wide enough for the doctor to enter.

      He waved her toward the edge of the bed. “Do you mind sitting here, Ms. Dreyfus? I fear I’ll need to do some prodding and poking. I hear you’ve had quite a day.”

      The snort escaped before she could stop it. “You could say that.”

      “Are you wearing anything under the T-shirt? Perhaps a tank or bra?”

      Georgie blushed. “Oh, yeah. That would probably keep both of us from being embarrassed. Just a sec.” She grabbed a spaghetti-strapped tank and dashed into the bathroom. She whipped off her sweatshirt and pulled the tank on before returning and settling on the bed once again.

      She had to lift the tank so he could see her torso. Dr. Bruce tsked at the bruises staining the ribs on her right side and her cheek. He hmmed at the knot on the back of her head. “You’ve got quite a collection of injuries, young lady. Are you in discomfort?”

      “Only when I laugh?” She waggled her brows and the man smiled.

      “Good to have a sense of humor, Ms. Dreyfus.” He made sure her eyes were equal and reactive then checked her blood pressure, temperature and other vital signs before continuing. “You were lucky. You’ll be sore for a few days, but the bruises will fade in a week or so.” He coiled his stethoscope and dropped it into his bag before digging around in a side pocket. He pulled out a white envelope and wrote on it before retrieving a bottle of pills. He emptied six into the envelope and handed it to her. “I don’t see signs of a concussion so I’m prescribing a light sleep aid. I suggest you take two tonight and then use the others as needed. Take one at bedtime over the next few nights. I’ll also leave you some cold packs to help with the bruising and the bump. Once you get back to Washington, I want you to see your regular physician if you continue having trouble. Any questions?”

      “No, sir. I’m good.”

      He patted her on the shoulder. “Get some rest, Ms. Dreyfus. That’s the best thing for you.”

      The doctor opened the door and Glen almost fell through. Her guard was taking his duties seriously. He ushered Dr. Bruce out, shutting the door behind him. Georgie looked at the envelope and debated the pros and cons. She hated taking medicine but suspected the doctor was right. She’d replay the day’s events—especially Clay’s actions—on an endless loop guaranteed to keep her tossing and turning all night. Clay. She had to stop thinking of him by his first name. The senator. Her boss. The unattainable symbol of every feminine fantasy she’d had since the day she’d first walked into his campaign headquarters ten years before.

      “Argh!” If her head wasn’t already pounding, she might beat it against the wall. “Georgeanne Ruth Dreyfus, you are a complete and utter idiot.” In self-defense, she shook two pills into her palm, twisted the top off the Diet Coke and took her medicine. Settling in bed, she snuggled into a world-class pillow.

      * * *

      The song “Girls Just Want to Have Fun” invaded her dream. Over and over. Georgie fumbled for her cell phone but it wasn’t on the bedside table. The song stopped and she snuggled back under the covers, her brain as foggy as San Francisco Bay. She’d barely closed her eyes when the song played again. This time she threw off the covers and went hunting. She found the blasted phone in the side pocket of her messenger bag—the bag with the strap that broke yesterday when she tumbled off the loading dock, but was now perfect.

      The hair prickled on the back of her neck. She didn’t remember bringing it from the car last night and there was no way it could have been repaired. The phone stopped ringing, again, and she noticed the price tag still attached to the intact shoulder strap. This wasn’t her bag, even though it was full of her stuff. Hers was a cheap knockoff. This one was the real deal, according to the amount listed on the tag.

      Before her brain could cycle through the implications, the phone sang a third time. She answered with a snarled, “What!”

      “OMG, Georgie! Are you okay? I’ve been so worried and then you didn’t answer and where are you and are you all right, what happened—” Jennifer Antonelli, her best friend, paused to inhale.

      “Slow down, Jen. How did you know something happened?”

      “How did I know?” Jen’s voice rose in pitch. “How did I know? Georgeanne, you’re all over the morning news!”

      Her stomach dropped. She found the remote control for the television and thumbed it to life. Scrolling through, she found an all-news channel. And sank to the edge of the bed, her legs no longer steady. “Oh, no. The cameras. I’m screwed.”

      “Georgie! What the heck happened yesterday? And were you really rescued by the senator?”

      She had to put her head between her knees and breathe to keep from hyperventilating and passing out. “Dang, dang, dang,” was all she could manage.

      Jennifer had no such handicap. “What did it feel like? Is he as strong as he looks? I mean, gracious! He scooped you up and carried you away like...like...I don’t know who! Holy cannoli, girl. Clay Barron was like Kevin Costner in that movie where he rescued Whitney Houston. Georgie? Georgie, are you listening to me?”

      “Shush, Jen. I’m trying to hear the commentary on TV.”

      Voices droned in the background as footage played of the Tate brothers hustling her—clothes torn, knees bloody—into the rear seat of the senator’s SUV. Clay looked shocked and angry as he ducked back inside to make room for her. The scene changed to their arrival at the hotel. The guards jogged up and opened the back door. Clay emerged holding her hand. Holding her hand? Georgie couldn’t breathe for a minute and then, moments later when she stumbled and he swept her into his arms, she choked.

      “Oh,

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