Kasey Michaels - The Raven's Assignment p.02

Chapter Three

Very high on Samantha's to-do list was getting Jesse Colton to kiss her again. Definitely.

But it wasn't number one.

It couldn't be.

The moment they were outside the office building, she grabbed his arm, half spun him around and whispered hoarsely, "A bug? My office is bugged? Who? How? Why?"

Jesse ran a fingertip down her cheek. "You're cute when you're panic-stricken."

"Oh, shut up," she said, rapidly walking ahead of him down the wide pavement. Then she stopped. "Wait. Where are we going?"

"That depends, I suppose. My car's back at the lot. Where's yours?"

"Closer. We have our own lot out back. I'll drive you to yours. And then we're going somewhere to talk."

"I thought I'd been invited home to dinner?"

Samantha frowned as they turned the corner, headed for the back of the building. "Did I do that? I can't remember much at the moment."

"You did it, sweetheart. I accepted the roast beef, rejected the garlic mashed potatoes. Ring any chords in your memory?"

No, she thought. She was pretty sure her memories would pretty much concentrate on his mouthing the words I love you, and then kissing her. Again.

Even more, her dreams would be haunted by his words when she told him to let her go: "I don't want to."

The man had a way with words….

She shook herself out of her definitely mushy mood. "Too bad about the potatoes, because I'm having them."

"In that case, so will I. Well, that's one problem solved. Now, where did you park?"

She pressed a hand to her forehead and looked around the parking lot. Where had she parked her car? She had driven to work, right?

Now, there was a thought she should have had sooner.

Samantha looked at him, felt her cheeks growing hot. "I remember now. I took the Metro this morning."

"Easy enough to forget," Jesse said, swinging her around so that they were heading in the direction of the parking deck where his sedan waited. "After all, you've had an interesting few minutes."

She nodded as she did a quick double-step to keep up with his long strides. "Bugged. I can't believe this. Who'd do that?"

"Well, for starters, the bug isn't government issue. That rules out a lot."

"So I'm not under some federal investigation?"

"I don't think so. But that leaves some even more uncomfortable conclusions."

"Name one."

"Okay. The opposition. It's a stretch, but dumb has been done before. Then there's the question of who rented the space before you guys moved in. This could be a leftover bug, inoperative now, from someone who'd been listening in on the last tenants."

Samantha liked that idea a lot. "Yes, that could be it. That has to be it. A leftover bug, one they missed when they cleaned out all the other bugs. Do you think there could be other bugs?"

"You like that scenario, do you? It's Washington, sweetheart, so we'll say scenario. It sounds so official."

"Would you just shut up and tell me what you think, please?"

"Ah, the lady has a temper. Okay, okay, how about this one? Your own people have bugged their own campaign office. You know, just to keep themselves informed about everything that goes on?"

Samantha stopped dead on the sidewalk. "No," she said, her heart pounding. "Uncle Mark wouldn't do that."

"Which answers my next question. You're not going to ask him, are you?"

"Ask him! Are you nuts? Are you out of your mind? I can't ask him."

"Probably not," Jesse said as they entered the parking deck. "Besides, I really should check out the bug more, make sure it is active. We can do that tomorrow night, after hours. I just need a few pieces of equipment, especially since I want to check for more listening devices."

"Yes, that's another thing. Why did you check? Do you know something I don't know?"

"Volumes, darling, when it comes to this kind of stuff," he said, his smile taking any sting out of his words. "And I don't know why I checked. Just a natural response for someone with my training, I guess. Little kids check under the bed for ogres, and I check everywhere else for listening devices, hidden cameras, all kinds of goodies."

"Well…thank you. I think," Samantha said as he held open the passenger-side door for her and she slipped inside. This time she let her raincoat fall open and gave him a glimpse of knee. He deserved that, at the least.

He started the car and backed out of the parking space, headed for the exit. "You didn't answer me. Do you know who the last tenant was in your office?"

"I don't know, no, but I don't have to know, because I just remembered something else. I bought that table. It wasn't in my office when we moved in."

"That's not good news."

"Duh," Samantha said, rolling her eyes. "Oh, I'm sorry, I didn't mean to be nasty," she said a moment later. "I'm…I'm pretty stressed right now."

"And still very pretty, sweetheart," Jesse said, reaching over to pat her arm. "I kind of like how you forgot you took the Metro to work this morning."

She nodded. "Yes. I couldn't find my car keys. I have an extra set, but for some strange reason I keep those in my office desk."

"Is that so?" Jesse said, then shook his head slightly.

"Bugged," Samantha said in aid of nothing except her own inability to absorb this news.

They drove the rest of the way in silence, both wrapped up in private thoughts.

Jesse pulled into a clear spot a few doors down from her house and cut the engine, but when she moved to open the door he placed a restraining hand on her arm.

"What? Don't tell me you want me to wait for you to be a gentleman?"

"That, too, but first I want to ask you a question. Last night, when I brought you home, you searched in your purse for something, then rang to have your maid let you into the house. Why?"

Samantha sat back against the soft leather seat. "Why? Because I couldn't find my keys. I told you that."

"Okay, I was just laying background here. It helps me think. Now, tell me, what keys do you keep on that particular ring? House key, key to the car—anything else?"

She reached into her purse and came out with a burgundy leather key case that snapped shut over her ample store of keys, waved it at him. "Sure. The keys to the offices, the main one and mine. The key to my bike chain. The key to my desk drawers, the one to my files, the—oh, boy."

"Exactly, sweetheart. Oh boy. But you had the keys tonight, right?"

She nodded. "I keep extra office keys, desk keys, hidden in Bettyann's desk, so I could work, but it was late this afternoon before Bettyann found my case on the floor next to the copy machine in the main office. I don't remember using the machine, but I must have, and then left them there."

"Uh-huh."

"What uh-huh? I don't think I like when you say uh-huh. Scratch that. I definitely don't like it when you say uh-huh. So, what uh-huh? What are you thinking?"

"Nothing," he said, but he said it too quickly for Samantha's comfort.

"Don't do that, Jesse. If you're thinking something, I want to know what something you're thinking."

"Okay, here goes. Someone lifted your keys yesterday, and used them to get into the office last night."

"To plant that bug?"

He shook his head. "No, I don't think so. That's probably been there for a while, maybe even since you first opened up shop. Maybe there's something wrong with the bug, and they needed to get in to fix it…or to plant something else. You didn't notice anything unusual, like on your desk, in your desk drawers? Did anything look out of place?"

She laughed without humor. "You have seen my office, haven't you? I wouldn't notice an elephant sitting smack in the middle of the room playing a fiddle."

"True. They probably counted on that."

"They counted on what? And who's they? Who counted on it?"

"Whoever borrowed your keys, Samantha. Don't panic, and stay with me on this, okay? Someone needed the key to your office, maybe even to your desk. They just happened to get your car key and house key, but what they probably wanted was your desk key. Tell me, have you kept those envelopes in that locked drawer all along?"

Samantha began biting on the side of her thumb, a nervous habit she thought she'd left behind her in the third grade. "Yes, that's where I put it last week. Those other envelopes just came in today, and I put them with the first one."

"I was going to ask about that. I thought you'd only said one envelope. Okay. So you took an envelope that was supposed to go out in the mail last week. The envelope doesn't arrive where it's supposed to, when it's supposed to, and someone comes to check out why. You with me so far?"

"Sort of. But what about the bug?"

"Amateur-hour stuff, I'm sure of it. The kind of thing you can buy mail order these days, when nobody trusts anybody else. We may be working with two entirely different things. Or just one person with a whacking-great paranoia problem."

"Uncle…you mean Senator Phillips? No, I can't see it. I just can't."

"You're loyal, Samantha, and that's nice. I, on the other hand, am suspicious of everyone. It's my training. That said," he continued, pulling the keys out of the ignition, "we're going into your house now, but we're not talking until I've at least given it a visual once-over for bugs. Your house key was missing all day and night, right?"

"Right. But I've got Rose."

"She was in the house all day yesterday?"

Samantha sighed. "No. Rose is also a full-time college student. She had a full boatload of classes yesterday. She only wears the uniform once in a while, as a joke, and to get a rise out of me—like when she has to take out the garbage. She keeps calling me the czarina and herself a prime example of the oppressed proletariat laboring class. She's majoring in Russian history, you understand."

"Cute. So she wasn't home? Still, we can't be sure. Do you have a security system?"

Samantha brightened. "Yes! We have a security system. How could I forget that? You have to punch in a code within so many seconds of unlocking the door and—oh, damn it!"

"Now, why do you suppose I'm thinking that the next thing you're going to say isn't going to make me happy?"

"This tears it. Mother and Dad find out and I'm home before I can pack. You know that, don't you? Juliet gets to run all over New York, and our brother is on his own at college, but not me. Oh, no. Not Samantha. Why do parents always pick one to keep on a shorter leash?"

He took her leather key case from her slack hand and opened it. "Oh, I don't know, Samantha. But if I were to hazard a guess, I'd say it might be because one of their kids just might think she's going to forget things like, say, a security code, and so she writes it down inside her key case with permanent black marker. How's that for a guess?"

"I hate you," she muttered, grabbing the key case from him. "If I give you a quarter, will you promise not to tell my parents?"

"If you give me a kiss, I won't even give you a lecture on security. At least not one that lasts more than about ten minutes. How's that?"

Samantha glared at him, then opened the car door. "Come on. I want you to see if there are any bugs in my house. Then I'll feed you, and then I'll show you the papers. After that, hey, buying me one dinner and finding a bug in my office do not count toward kissing privileges. You didn't even kill the bug for me."

"I knew she'd get around to saying that one at some point," she overheard him grumble to himself before he, too, got out of the car.

* * *

Jesse spoke with Rose for about twenty minutes, the same amount of time it took for Samantha to go from looking great but professional to great but touchable.

Oh, boy. Definitely touchable.

When she reappeared downstairs, dressed in soft burgundy velour slacks and an ivory angora sweater with a large cowl collar, her blond hair pulled back in a casual ponytail at her nape, he was in the middle of one last question to Rose…a question which he promptly forgot.

"Yoo-hoo, still in there?" Rose asked with a grin, waving a hand in front of Jesse's face. "Man, I wish I had that effect on men," the short brunette continued, making a face. "Heck, I'd settle for one man. And he could be bald, really. I'm not choosy."

"Oh, stop it, Rose," Samantha said. "I had to put a separate telephone line in here in order to be able to use the phone, because you get so many calls."

Rose beamed. "That's true. I'm a goddess. Okay, I'm fine now. It was a momentary lapse. I have those when she's around," she added, looking at Jesse while she hooked a thumb in Samantha's direction. "Hey, why am I telling you? You're one of the poleaxed, right? Because you sure looked it when she came down those stairs."

"Guilty as charged, Rose," Jesse said, winking at the girl. "She's a babe."

"Cut that out," Samantha protested, sitting down in a large green leather chair, tucking her bare feet up beside her on the seat cushion. "I can see Rose has found a kindred spirit in you. I probably should have a shield, or a sword, or something, just to make things even."

"Yeah, well, fun's fun and all that," Rose said, getting to her feet, "but the books are calling me. Rasputin. Now, there was a piece of work, let me tell you. Do you know how many times they had to kill him until he finally died? I mean, this is big stuff!"

"Go away, Rose," Samantha said, shaking her head, and Rose skipped out of the room.

"She's not really a maid, is she?" Jesse asked once the young woman was gone.

"Technically, she is. In reality, she rules me. But it was the only way Mother would let me move back here, so Rose moved in and earns her keep and I have someone to talk to, someone who'd call the police if I didn't come home one night and ask them to drag the river for my body. That sort of thing. My mother's a good egg, honest, but she has this tendency to think in potential tragedies."

Jesse nodded. "Mothers can be like that. I know, because I have one, too. Oh, and you were right. Rose was gone most of yesterday."

Samantha leaned forward in her chair. "Can we really talk here?"

"Yeah, it's okay, we're clear, at least in this room. Although you might want Rose to dust behind the couch if you don't think she'll give you a lecture on abuse of the working classes. I think the dust bunnies have begun to mate."

"Funny." Samantha made a face at him. He loved when she did that. She went from looking like a sleek high-fashion model to being this cute, comic girl-woman. The kind who could make one hell of an entrance at a party in her designer gown, yet look just as good in a sweater and corduroys, rolling around in the fall leaves.

Man, he was getting hooked. He was really getting hooked.

"Anyway, I think we're pretty safe in assuming that nobody was in here. It's a lot neater here than in your office, and Rose didn't think anything was out of place. Still, I'll give it a much more thorough check tomorrow."

"So whoever took my keys—if anyone took my keys—wanted them to get into my office, into my desk?"

"That would be my guess. Are you hungry?"

"Probably. But I'm still too upset. No, scratch that. I'm angry. I'm really, really angry."

Jesse understood. "The violation, right?"

"Yes, exactly. I feel as if I've been violated. Is that stupid?"

"Not at all. Now, how about we hit the kitchen and warm up those leftovers."

She got to her feet and led the way. "You don't mind leftovers?"

"Sweetheart," he said, "I don't mind any food that started out as home-cooked, trust me. I'd even eat it cold."

She turned to him in the narrow hallway leading to the kitchen. "Why do you do that?"

"Why do I do what?" She smelled good, really good. Like spring flowers.

"Call me sweetheart. Call me darling."

"I do?"

She gave him a small push in the chest. "You know darn full well you do."

"Hmm," he said as she continued into the small but perfect kitchen. "I'll have to think about this. Do you think it's subconscious?"

"No, I don't think it's subconscious," she told him, pulling containers of food out of the refrigerator. "I think you're very conscious of everything you do."

"In that case, should I stop?"

She hesitated, holding plastic containers in both hands. "Let me think about that."

Feeling pretty darn good about himself, Jesse took the containers from her and she dived back into the refrigerator for two more.

"Sit," she said, taking the containers from him and motioning toward a heavy round oak table and ladder-back chairs. "This kitchen is too small for two people, or at least that's what Rose says when she wants to get out of kitchen duty."

Jesse decided that, where Samantha was concerned, he was nothing if not obedient. He sat down, cupped his chin in one hand and happily watched her swift, efficient movements as she loaded containers of food into the microwave, ripped some romaine for salad.

"You like to cook," he said, and it wasn't a question.

"I love it," she said, looking at him over her shoulder. "I used to haunt this kitchen, and then the one in Connecticut. The colors, the smells, the textures. Even the cleanup doesn't bother me. Rose is very grateful for that, and in exchange, she does all the washing and ironing. I think I got the better end of the bargain."

"I think Rose fell into a pile of more roses, myself," Jesse said, pulling two glasses from a glass-fronted cabinet and filling them with ice from the dispenser built into the front of the refrigerator. "Ice water? Something else?"

"There are cans of soda in the pantry—that long cabinet over there. I'd offer you wine, but I want to keep a clear head, and I think even a sip of wine, with me feeling the way I do now, would send me over the edge into full-blown hysteria."

Ten minutes later, they were sitting across from each other at the table, and Jesse was falling deeper into love. The roast beef was tender and tasty, the gravy thick and dark, and the garlic mashed potatoes were a gift from the gods he was glad he hadn't turned down.

"If your leftovers taste this good, tell me who I have to kill to be invited for Sunday dinner."

"I'm glad you like everything," Samantha said, looking both pleased and proud at his comment. "I'm a plain cook, but I'm a good cook, if I do say so myself. Now, how about we leave these dishes and go look at the envelope that first had me calling you for help."

"I thought you said you liked to clean up."

"No, sir, Mr. Colton, sir, I certainly did not say that. I said I don't mind. Nobody likes cleaning up. Oh, all right, let's do it. I swear, sometimes there are more dishes and containers just heating leftovers than there are in making a full dinner."

Jesse picked up his own dinner plate and salad bowl and headed for the sink. This felt good. Natural. Being in this cozy kitchen with Samantha Cosgrove. Doing simple, domestic things.

He suddenly wanted things he'd never wanted before. A home of his own. Kids sleeping upstairs.

Samantha.

He watched appreciatively as she bent over the dishwasher, loading the last of the dishes, then started the appliance. Some people might say Mount Rushmore had a great view. Others, the Grand Canyon.

He'd take this view, any day…

"So," she said, straightening, wiping her hands on a dish towel. "I guess we can't put this off any longer. Back to the living room?"

"Since I checked it out already, yes. And you know, you never told me what you found in that envelope."

"You never asked," she said, preceding him back down the hallway.

"That's because I figured you were overreacting, but if I found out you were, you'd say we didn't have to see each other anymore, and I wasn't ready for that. How's that for honest, sweetheart?"

She half stumbled over a Persian-style throw rug, then kept walking.

Once back in the living room, she removed the envelopes from her briefcase, handed them to him, and sat down in the green leather chair once more.

He picked the couch, a soft, chintz-covered affair that probably had been restuffed and recovered umpteen times. Good furniture was like that, he'd heard. Kept forever, recovered and restrung, and always as comfortable as an old slipper.

"This is a great room," he said, laying the envelopes in his lap. "Does that fireplace work?"

"It's gas, yes. Should I turn it on?"

Would he like to see Samantha's blond hair and clear features in firelight? Yeah, he could handle that. "I'll do it," he said, but when he was only halfway to his feet the fire had already gone on.

"How'd you do that?" he asked, subsiding again.

She held up a small remote control. "Magic," she said, and grinned. "Okay. Fire's on, room's been commented on. Can we get on with this before I burst?"

So she knew he'd been stalling. Hell, that wasn't a stretch. He'd already admitted why he'd been stalling. But, he would admit only to himself, there was also a part of him that couldn't wait to see the papers that had set off such an alarm in Samantha's mind.

"Do the open one first. That way, if it's nothing, we don't even have to look at the others, right?"

"Beautiful, a great cook, and logical, too," Jesse said, locating the open envelope and sliding out the ten or so pages it held.

He looked at the first page, then looked at Samantha.

Poor baby. She was staring at him, eyes wide, and biting on the side of her thumb again.

He looked back at the page, then turned to the next, quickly flipped to the next.

"Oh boy," he said at last, sitting back on the couch. "Do you know what this is?"

She nodded. "I do. At least I think I do. I think it's planned legislation for a possible targeted tax break to certain types of industries."

"It sure is. And it's committee-stage work, not for public consumption. Nobody knows about this yet. I mean, sure, the president probably knows, and the majority leader, and the committee heads, of course. But this is early stuff, supposition, trial balloon-type stuff. Sort of a feasibility test, to see if it could work, help the economy. If these industries knew what was being discussed in this memo, the lobbyists would be out in droves, covering the Capitol, wining and dining, hoping for votes."

"So it shouldn't have gone out in the mail," Samantha said, twisting her hands in her lap.

"Hell no," Jesse said, looking at the pages again. "These are internal notes, an internal memo, and just to the majority's side of the committee at that. I don't get it."

"Yes, you do," Samantha said, and she turned away from him, stared into the fire.

"Okay, yes I do. If I wanted to sell my vote to the highest bidder, I'd want companies involved in these industries to know I'm up for sale."

"Like, maybe, they could buy a friend in government by contributing, big time, to a certain senator's presidential election campaign?"

"Move that girl to the head of the class," Jesse said, shoving the papers back into the envelope.

"What are you going to do?"

Jesse was angry, and it took him a moment to realize that although Samantha might also be angry, she also had other problems. She worked for Senator Phillips. She was, at this point, a reluctant whistle-blower. Not anyone's favorite place to be in Washington, D.C.

"First," he said carefully, "I'm going to look at the rest of these envelopes, see what's in them. I see that each one is addressed to a different post office box. Five envelopes, five different cities and states. Maybe they all contain copies of that same memo?"

"Are you sure we can open them? I mean, aren't they U.S. mail?"

"Not yet. There are no stamps on them."

"That's splitting hairs, Jesse," she told him. "I did the same thing. But I have to tell you, I still feel guilty about it."

"Close your eyes, then, and don't look," Jesse said as he opened the first sealed envelope.

He opened the second, the third. Didn't bother with the fourth.

"Blank. Nothing but blank pages," he said as Samantha gnawed on the side of her thumb once more, realized what she was doing and immediately stopped.

"I don't get it. Why would Aunt Joan be sending out blank pages?"

Jesse laid the envelopes to one side. "Do the words this is a test sound at all familiar?"

"A test? Of who? Whom, I mean. I'm sure I mean whom. A test of whom?"

Jesse wasn't sure. He hated not being sure. "I don't know. A test of the delivery system? A test meant for you? Tell me again about Mrs. Phillips's visit today. Step by step, sweetheart, don't leave anything out."

She did as he asked, with amazing detail, all the way down to Joan Phillips's move with the discarded advertising copy, how she sent it winging into a corner of the room.

"Okay," he said when Samantha had finished speaking. "This is just off the top of my head, but here goes. One, Mrs. Phillips brought the envelopes into your office, walking past all the people in the outside office, the postage machine, you name it, to let you see the envelopes."

"That's true. She could have handed them to Bettyann. Or Rita. Anybody. She certainly didn't have to carry them into my office."

"Two," Jesse went on, getting into it now. "She diverted your attention throwing that paper airplane. You did follow its flight, right?"

"Right," Samantha said, nodding. "It was a short flight, though, Jesse. I probably only took my eyes off her for a couple of seconds."

"But she was sitting in the chair directly next to the worktable? The one with the bug stuck underneath it? It takes less than three seconds to place a bug, Samantha. They come with their own built-in sticky bottoms now."

Samantha got to her feet, began to pace. "You think…you think Aunt Joan placed the bug under the table?"

"It's just one scenario, sweetheart, but yeah, it's possible. At the same time, she returned your keys, leaving them near the photocopier in the main office."

"No. I don't get it," Samantha said, returning to her chair. "Why would she take my keys?"

"Samantha. If she's the one who brought the first envelope to the office, to have it sent from there, then she knows it didn't arrive at its destination, because whoever was waiting for it told her it hadn't arrived. So she comes back—was she at the office yesterday?"

Samantha considered this. "I don't—wait, yes, she was. Bettyann told me she'd stopped by while I was out. I think I was stalking you at the time, as a matter of fact."

"Did you take your car, or walk?"

"I walked." She rolled her eyes toward the ceiling. "Yes. Yes, I'm sure of that. I walked."

"So your keys were…?"

"In my desk?" She shrugged. "I really don't know. But probably in my desk, because I would have used them to open my office, then my desk drawers. Okay, yes, they were on top of my desk not in it."

"Where anyone had access to them?"

"Well, it isn't as if my office is a high-security area. Although maybe it should be."

"Good thinking."

"All right, so let's go with it. Your keys were there, you weren't there, and someone walked off with them. Agreed?"

"And you think my aunt Joan took them? I know you aren't saying that, but you're thinking it, aren't you?"

Jesse raised one eyebrow as he looked at her.

"I don't believe it, not for a moment." She sighed. "Okay, maybe for a moment. Tell me more."

"All right. If she did take the keys, she took them because she was looking for the envelope that was supposed to have been mailed from here last week. You're the head of the office, Samantha. She knows you oversee everything. So you'd be the logical choice, because Bettyann, or this Rita person, or anyone else, would probably just have mailed the thing. Agreed? She was looking for the envelope, some evidence of it at least."

"And she found it? The envelope, I mean. I don't want to call it evidence."

"No, I don't think she saw it. That's why she came back, with the faked envelopes as red herrings, to see what would happen to them."

"It…it sounds so…I don't know—Tom Clancy?"

"Sure. But now we're doing the hunt for another sort of red October."

"Don't make jokes. This is serious."

"This is also something I can't keep the lid on for very long, Samantha, you do know that, don't you?"

Samantha's stomach knotted. "But you can't! I mean, who would you tell? I didn't bring you in on this because I wanted to break some awful new political scandal. I brought you in on this because…because…"

"Because you wanted me to pat you on the head and tell you everything would be all right. Sorry, sweetheart, that's just not going to happen."

"No, I suppose not. But we can't be sure it was Aunt Joan."

"No. It could be the senator. Which is worse? Oh, wait, I know," he said, shaking his head. "It could be both of them. How's that for a scenario?"

"I won't believe it. Not Uncle Mark. He's honest. And he's really not all that ambitious. I mean, if it weren't for Aunt Joan, I doubt he'd even be thinking about the nomination. He's very happy in the Senate."

"Really? I didn't know that. Ambitious, is she?" Jesse was silent for a few moments.

"What? You have this look on your face. What are you thinking?"

"Nothing." Jesse knew it was time to shut up, keep his thoughts to himself. He also knew that Samantha probably wasn't above torturing him with whatever could be handy in the kitchen, to get him to say what he was thinking.

And how could he tell her that? Because what he was thinking was that her dear aunt Joan and uncle Mark were, in fact, planning on selling the presidential nomination to the highest bidder.





Chapter Four

Samantha had walked no more than two feet into the office the next morning when Bettyann came racing out of the coffee room and made a beeline for her.

"Talk. Speak. Utter the words. He is who? You met him where? He has a brother just my age? A cousin? I'm not hard to please, I'd take a cousin. This would be a good thing, Samantha, because I want to bear his children. My God, Sam, the man is a dream. And those cheekbones? I haven't seen cheekbones like that since…I don't know when. He could slice granite with them, I swear it. Where did you get him? And, if you're going to throw him back, where do I apply for rebound babe?"

"Would you stop?" Samantha said, throwing her purse on the desk and then walking behind it, all but falling into her chair. "Oh, I'm sorry, Bettyann. I've had a bad night."

Bettyann leaned her palms on the desktop. "Define bad night. Would that be bad as in a you-ate-a-bad-burrito night, or bad as in the man kept me up all night, making mad passionate love to me until dawn, so now I really need some sleep?"

Samantha opened her mouth to deny either scenario—ah, scenario; she was thinking in D.C. talk. How…awful.

"The first one," she said at last, pretending an interest in the stack of national and local daily newspapers that were delivered to the office every day. "Have you checked these yet? Anything for our scrapbook? Anything that might need a press release before the next news cycle? Any mention at all of the senator?"

"Nope, none, and nothing. For the senator, at least. But Mrs. Phillips is on the society page in the local gossip rag. She was a guest at some kind of save-the-endangered-snail-darter fund-raiser, or something like that. Man, the camera loves her. I should look so good, and I must be thirty years younger than she is. Oh, okay, so maybe twenty."

Samantha hadn't planned to say anything to Bettyann, at least she hadn't a specific subject in mind, but since the woman had brought up Joan Phillips's name, she decided to do a little judicious poking. "Mrs. Phillips was in here yesterday."

"Yeah, so?"

"Nothing," Samantha said, busying herself in pretending to look at the headlines above the fold in the many sections of the first newspaper. "That's two days in a row though, isn't it? I mean, I wasn't here, but I think you'd mentioned that she was here two days ago, too."

"I did? She was? Oh, yeah, she was. She asked if she could make a couple of calls from your office while she was in town, and I said sure, since you weren't in anyway. That was all right, wasn't it?"

"Fine, no problem," Samantha said, her heart pounding. So it was possible. Aunt Joan had been in her office, where her keys had lain in plain sight. The evidence was mounting, even as Samantha's spirits plummeted, because she knew she had to tell Jesse.

"Good. Because we've got to really get to work on this thousand-dollar-a-plate deal for next week, you know. I'm still trying to figure out how we can serve chicken for that amount of money and still sleep nights. I mean, at the least, we should give them the plate to take home with them."

"Funny," Samantha said, rolling her eyes. Then she frowned. "You know, I sort of like that idea, Bettyann. Not for next week, because we wouldn't have enough lead time, but for other dinners."

"You're going to give them their dirty plates to take home? Gee, that's brilliant—not. Although the dishwashers at the hotel would probably give you a rousing cheer."

"No, no. I mean we could give each contributor a plate. A really nice one, dessert-plate size probably, with the state seal on it, the senator's name, the date of the dinner, that sort of thing. And a small stand to display the plate. What do you think?"

"I think you were telling the truth, and you really did have a bad burrito last night."

"Not funny. Okay, on to other things. Do you have the seating chart handy?"

"Right here," Bettyann said, pointing to her head. "I swear I've got the whole darn thing committed to memory after doing it so many times, in so many ways. Do it with the president there, do it without the president there. Do it with the president and the first lady there, do it with the first lady and not the—"

"I've got it, Bettyann, I've got it. You know the seating plan. Now tell me, where am I sitting? Did you leave a spot next to me for a guest, or am I to spend the whole evening making nice-nice with some heavy donor from North Dakota?"

"A guest? You want to bring a guest? What do we do about the thousand bucks?"

"I donate it?" Samantha shrugged. "Yes, it will be the standard donation. There's no problem with that, is there?"

"If you're bringing Jesse James? And we're all sitting at the same table? Couldn't possibly be a problem with that," Bettyann said, rubbing her hands together. "That hunk-a-hunk-a-burning-love in black tie? Hey, if you're running a little short, maybe I can chip into the kitty, because he'd be worth every penny."

"Are you taking hormones or something?" Samantha asked, laughing. "I mean, are you on estrogen overload?"

"We will not discuss my love life," Bettyann said with mock seriousness, "or the current lack thereof."

"You and Benny are still on the outs?"

"And Benjamin is definitely not a part of any conversation that I'm a part of. Oops, ended that with a preposition, didn't I? Okay, Benjamin is definitely not included in any conversation in which I also partake. Better?"

"Remind me not to let you proof any more press releases," Samantha said, shaking her head. "Now scoot, I've got work to do."

"So do I, so do I."

Samantha looked up. "What are you working on? Yes, yes, ending with a preposition. Whatever you've got, Bettyann, it must be contagious. So?"

"A couple of things. Updating and correlating mailing lists for Florida, for one. I wouldn't want to live there, sun or no sun. People keep dying there."

Samantha grinned. It was good to grin, after the long, sleepless night she'd had once Jesse had left with the envelopes. "People retire there, Bettyann. Sometimes retired people are actually old, and they eventually die."

"Oh, okay, that makes sense," Bettyann said, winking. "What else? I have to be busier than that. Oh, yeah, and Mrs. Phillips wants an updated list of corporate contributors."

Samantha's ears perked up as she sat up. "Corporate contributors? Why?"

"Mine is not to reason why, mine is but to print out and fax," Bettyann said, shrugging.

"Okay," Samantha said, trying to sound casual. "And, since Mrs. Phillips wants an updated list, I guess I do, too. Fax hers to her, then give me the printout copy."

"You got it," Bettyann said, heading for the door. Then she stopped, turned. "And you do, you know. You've really got it. At least Jesse James thinks so, you lucky dog."

"Oh, close the door and go away, in any order you want to do that," Samantha said, sure her cheeks were burning.

Once she was alone, the door closed, Samantha looked at the telephone, willing it to ring. She had Jesse's cell phone number, but she wasn't going to call him. No way. He had to call her.

He had to…

* * *

Jesse adjusted the badge clipped to his suit jacket and took a deep breath before knocking on the doorjamb. Bob Forrester always kept his door open. It was the chief of staff's open-door policy, or so the man said whenever he was asked.

Mostly, Jesse thought, it was because the man was in and out of the office a thousand times a day, and had gotten tired of closing the door.

Bob Forrester was an impressive man, in reputation, in intelligence and physically. Over six feet six inches tall, rail thin, and with dark hair and eyes, he was often referred to by the interns as Old Abe, after Abraham Lincoln.

But never within earshot of the man, that was for sure.

"Sir?" Jesse said a moment later, sort of leaning into the room without actually stepping inside. To do that, he'd wait for an invitation.

"Ah, we quoth the Raven—Nevermore," Bob Forrester said, tipping back in his burgundy leather desk chair, referring to Jesse by his longtime code name. "I was just thinking about asking you to stop by and see me."

"Really, sir?"

The chief of staff sat forward once more, grabbing at some papers on his large, cluttered desk. "Yes. A new report just came in on security plans for the Phillips fund-raiser next week, as the president has decided to be there, lend his support. Personally, I think it's because he likes the desserts at that place, but who am I to question our commander in chief?"

"Yes, sir."

The Phillips fund-raiser? Could the president afford to be seen with Senator Phillips? What if all hell broke loose before the dinner, or after it?

No. Jesse sighed. He couldn't let that happen.

Yet, at the same time, he wasn't ready to betray Samantha's confidence, act without knowing all the facts. Careers in Washington could be ruined with a rumor, true or untrue. He had to know more before he acted.

"May I see the report, sir?" Jesse asked, an idea forming in his head.

"That's what I'd hoped. I know you're vetting national security for us now, but you used to arrange presidential security for events like this, and I value your opinion."

Forrester picked up a sheaf of different-size papers and handed it to Jesse in one big pile. "Here you go. Ingress route, egress route. From the White House to the restaurant, and back again. From the door to the dais. From the dais to the men's room, you name it. Positioning of Secret Service. On the nearby roofs, behind the usual potted plants. Floor plans, everything. Go on, Jesse, sit down, read it all while you're here. Let me know what you think."

Jesse sat. He paged through the very detailed plan and found absolutely no fault with it, then looked across the desk at the chief of staff. "I don't like it."

Forrester furrowed his brow—his furrowed brow was famous, or infamous, in the West Wing. "You don't like it? What's not to like? I thought this was going to be a peaceful morning around here. Not that I'd recognize one, because I've never had one. Okay, this is why you're here, to give everything to us straight, without political spin—so talk to me. What don't you like, Jesse?"

"Well, sir—" Jesse said, trying to be earnest, but not too earnest. Liars always tried too hard to be earnest. "It's the timing more than the plan, the fact that the president will be there at all, at this time of the campaign process. The plan itself is good. Very thorough."

"The timing," Forrester repeated, folding his hands together on top of the desk. "Go on. What bothers you about the timing?"

"I'm not very political…"

"Jesse, for crying out loud, no matter what we say or what we even believe, we're all political. You can't be in this town and not be political."

"Yes, sir. Okay, here goes. Senator Phillips is running around collecting money left and right now that he has formally announced."

"Agreed. So are the three other candidates from our party, and the five from the opposition. So what?"

"So, and I'm speaking hypothetically now, sir, if the president has already publicly decided to back Senator Phillips, and something were to come out, come up, come whatever, then whoever he had to switch to next would look like just what he was, a second choice."

Forrester's eyes narrowed. "Why do I get the feeling I'm suddenly talking to the Raven, agent, instead of just to Jesse Colton, currently—and supposedly benignly—serving at the president's pleasure in the West Wing? What do you know? What the hell do you know?"

"Nothing I'm prepared to share at this time, sir, because that would be premature. Senator Phillips seems to be a good man, a good choice. But there are a few questions that have come up…"

"Damn it," Forrester bit out. "I hate this town. What is it? Rumors, right? Drinking? Women?"

You wish, Jesse thought, but said nothing.

"So, Raven," Forrester said, picking up a pencil and holding it at both ends, "when will you know?"

"Can you give me a week? I mean, the press secretary hasn't announced that the president will be at the fund-raiser, has she? Nobody's planned any leaks? Nobody knows yet that Senator Phillips is the president's choice, or that he'll attend this fund-raiser?"

"No. Not yet. We've got a leak planned, but we haven't given the final okay. It's the World Series, Jesse. If it goes to seven games, the president doesn't want to be listening to boring speeches, he wants to be here, popping popcorn and watching the game. We could tape it for him, but he says that's just not the same."

"Played college ball, didn't he, sir?" Jesse said, smiling.

"And some semipro," Forrester said, nodding. "And I don't blame him. You ever go to one of those thousand-dollar-a-plate dealies? I never knew you could put so much bad food in one dining room at one time."

Jesse laughed, then got to his feet, placed the papers back on Forrester's desk. "I'm sorry I can't say more, sir."

"You said plenty, son," the chief of staff said, picking up a memo, his attention already on the next piece of business. "Keep me informed?"

"Yes, sir, I'll do that," Jesse said, turning for the door.

"By informed, Raven, I mean I expect to be the first to know."

"Yes, sir, I knew that. Thank you, sir."

"Wait a minute," Forrester called after him. "You didn't come here because you knew I wanted to see you. You national security types are good, but you're not clairvoyant, at least I haven't been briefed that you are. So? What do you want?"

"Another time, sir. I can see that you're busy."

"Son, I work seven days a week, sometimes sixteen hours a day. My wife insisted I show her a picture ID before she'd let me in the house the other night. If you waited until I wasn't busy, we'd never speak again. Now come here, sit down and spit it out."

"Yes, sir," Jesse said, retaking his seat. "It's personal, sir, but as it might have an impact on the president if we can't put our own spin on it, I thought you should know."

The pencil snapped in two. "My day's just getting better and better," Forrester said under his breath. "So it's not women or booze. Even the press is bored with those. It's money, right? That's the new thing, follow the money."

Jesse nodded. "That would be it, sir. Money. Although that part of it really probably would never come out. It's the other part…"

"What else is there, if it isn't money?"

"Property, sir."

"Property? Jewels? Land? What?"

"The Chekagovian embassy, sir. I, we, my family, that is…we recently found out that we own it." Jesse took a deep breath as two broken pieces of pencil sailed into the air, and began to explain his words.

"Ten million dollars?" Forrester said when Jesse finally finished. "That's a nice piece of change."

"Yes, sir, we think so, sir. Although we still don't know what we're going to do about it. We're talking about forming some sort of foundation."

"Nice. Most people would be talking about yachts and fur coats and condos in Switzerland."

"Not my family, sir," Jesse said with a grin, relaxing a little for the first time since he'd entered the room. It felt good to have all of this off his chest, even if the Senator Phillips problem was still boiling on the front burner of his brain.

"I know Joe Colton," Forrester said, sitting back in his chair. "Good man. How'd he take the news that his father was a bigamist, that he and his brother were products of an invalid marriage?"

"He's fine, at least his oldest son, Rand Colton, a lawyer here in the District, assures me he's fine. It was the former senator's brother, Graham, who went a little crazy when he heard the news."

"How so?"

"He hired some goon to find and destroy any papers that showed that my grandmother and his father had been married. The goon, obviously an independent thinker, went further than that, trying to burn down the town hall to destroy any records. Among other larcenies." Jesse grinned. "But Rand says that Graham is very sorry."

"I'll bet he is," Forrester said with a laugh. "Joe is so honest he squeaks. He probably tore a couple of strips off his brother's hide for that one. But back to business. Your family owns the Chekagovian embassy, and you work for this president. Certainly nothing illegal about any of that, not that I can see. It's also not the sort of thing that looks good in the papers, son, but you already know that, or you wouldn't be here, telling me about it."

"Yes, sir, I do. That's why I'm glad I'm also able to tell you that the ambassador and his family are moving out next week, to occupy newer quarters elsewhere in the city."

"That was a stroke of luck. How long was this estate the embassy?"

"Sixty years, sir. But nobody in our family knew about it until recently. So, it's really not anything the newspapers could do much with, except if it's a slow news day or something like that."

Jesse winced inwardly. There wouldn't be any slow news days in the District for months, if what he suspected about Senator Phillips and his wife were ever to become public knowledge.

"I think you're right," Forrester said, getting to his feet as Jesse watched. It was always interesting to watch the chief of staff slowly unfold his long body. The president was actually only five feet eight inches tall, so Forrester was always careful never to stand directly beside him, as people seemed to like their presidents to be tall, as if mere height lent more credibility to the man.

"Sir?" Jesse said, also rising so he could look the man more levelly in the eye.

"It's not really news. Okay, so it's juicy, the Joe Colton part at least, but I don't see any of this coming out if nobody talks about it. And now, with Ambassador Ritka, his family and the embassy staff moving out…? After next week, it's not only not really news, it's old news."

He put his long arm over Jesse's shoulder as they both walked toward the doorway. It was, Jesse thought, rather like being embraced by a giant California condor. "I'm still glad you told me, Jesse. I appreciate it."

"You're welcome, sir."

"And I'll appreciate it when I have the full report on whatever the hell it is you're watching with Senator Phillips. An oral report, Jesse. Nothing on paper. Not yet."

With a final nod, Jesse turned left out of Forrester's office, while the chief of staff headed straight down the hallway to the press secretary's office, probably to cancel the leak that the president would be at the Phillips fund-raiser.

Jesse decided he wouldn't tell Samantha that piece of news, because she was smart enough to know that he'd probably had something to do with the cancellation.

This was getting dicey. He was falling in love with a woman who was loyal to a man who might be the next big political scandal—while he was the man who brought the senator down.

Not the greatest subject for pillow talk…

* * *

Samantha was staring at her telephone again, and gave a small, startled jump in her chair when it finally rang and the light for her private line lit.

"Hello?" she said into the phone, and when her mother's voice came back to her she slumped in her chair and said, "Hiya, Mom. How are you?"

Fifteen minutes later she knew how her mom was, how her dad was, how her sister and brother were, how the housekeeper was doing after her bunion surgery and how the lilac on the west side of the house was looking really pitiful and probably wouldn't make it through the winter.

That was the thing with Samantha's mother. You said "Hello," you said "How are you?" and the woman took it from there. Put a few "Wow, reallys" and a couple of "No kidding, he said thats" in there, and you were home free.

After promising she'd fly home for Thanksgiving—she'd already promised that, twice, but obviously her mother needed to be really, really sure—Samantha was able to hang up, wondering if Jesse had tried to call her.

She pulled a small notepad onto the center of the desk and scribbled: Note to self—Have call-waiting option installed on private line.

"Here you go," Bettyann said as she walked into the office, holding out a thick printout. "Names and amounts, broken down by alphabet, and again by amount. I can do much more for you, master. I can break it down by dates of contributions, even by type of company."

Samantha looked up at the woman. "You can do that? You can break it down by type of company? Like, for instance, you could give me, oh, say, all the mining companies?"

"Sure, why not. This is the age of the computer, you know. A couple of quick keystrokes, and you'll get all the mining companies, conglomerates that have mining divisions, etcetera, etcetera, etcetera, to quote Yul Brynner in The King and I. I love that movie."

"I'd like to see that. The breakdown, I mean. I've seen the movie," Samantha said, tamping down her reaction that, if she'd let it loose, would probably mean she'd be dancing on top of the desk right now. "Let's see, let's try it. Mining companies, all right? And oil and gas. Companies that make rigging and drills and whatever for oil and gas companies. Hydropower. Nuclear power."

"Power, period. What you want is for me to give you a listing that includes everyone in the energy industry who already contributed to the senator's campaign, or that we believe will be coming through for us soon. Have I got that?"

"Yes, that's what I want." And then, because it seemed like a good idea, she also asked for something she didn't really need. "And agriculture. I'd like all of those, too. You know, agribusiness? Suppliers, wholesalers, you name it. Is your computer software up to that?"

Bettyann folded her arms high across her chest and gave a quick, sharp bow of her head. "Before you can blink, master, they are yours."

"Thanks, Bettyann, I appreciate that. And then you can go to lunch."

"You're not coming?"

"Not today, Bettyann, sorry. She's got a date," Jesse said from the doorway. "Don't you, sweetheart?"

Samantha looked to the doorway, to see him lounging there, one shoulder against the doorjamb, his eyes twinkling as he looked at her. Her stomach dropped to her toes.

"Oh, hubba-hubba," Bettyann said, taking her time as she walked past him. "See you around, Jesse James. Oh, and you can rob my bank anytime."

"Sorry about that," Samantha said as he closed the door and walked over to the desk. "She's just full of talk, that's all. She has a boyfriend. Benny. They just aren't speaking right now."

"Lucky Benny," Jesse said with a grin. "Are you ready to go to lunch, darling?"

Was she ready? She'd been waiting for his call, for him to show up, for hours. Hours that seemed like days, days that stretched into years. But fat chance that she'd tell him that, or look too eager. "Oh, I don't know. I'm really pretty busy. Why don't we order in?"

Jesse pointed toward the worktable. "I'd really rather go out, sweetheart."

Samantha closed her eyes, nodded. "I'll just go get my coat."

He retrieved it for her, taking the raincoat from the clothes tree in the corner, then helped her into it. He rested his hands on her shoulders for a moment when she made to move away, then leaned forward and sniffed at her hair. "You smell good."

"Um-hmm," she said, quickly stepping away from him before she melted into one great big puddle on the floor.

He was so lovey-dovey here, in the office, where someone was listening. But had he kissed her good-night last night?

No, he hadn't. He'd been a perfect gentleman. And all business, from the moment he'd seen what was inside that first envelope.

So this sweetheart, darling, you smell good stuff was just for here, where the listening device was stuck under the worktable.

She had to remember that. Jesse was playing at being her boyfriend because it was a good cover for him. Nothing more. Because he worked at the pleasure of the president, and that's why he was here, to protect that president.

Her heart had to remember that.

* * *

Jesse carried Samantha's raincoat over his arm because the sun had found its way to the District and the air had turned warm once more. Just a beautiful October day.

He suggested that they grab sandwiches and drinks from one of the shops and eat them while sitting on a park bench, and Samantha had agreed, probably knowing that he was deliberately trying to keep their location as isolated from other people as possible so that they could talk more freely.

Real Secret Squirrel stuff, straight out of the secret agent handbook or something like that. He hated involving Samantha in all this cloak-and-dagger routine, but it was unavoidable.

They sat down on a green wooden bench, the bag of food between them, and Samantha began doling out the contents. He got the pastrami on rye, and she got the tuna fish on whole wheat. He got the tortilla chips, she got the potato chips. They both got bottles of soda.

She handed him a napkin as she said, "You slept last night, didn't you?"

"Fairly well, yes," he answered, and was rewarded when she made one of those scrunched-up faces that he found increasingly adorable.

"I hate you," she said, then took a bite of her sandwich.

"You didn't sleep well?" he asked, already knowing the answer. Not because she looked tired; she looked wonderful. But because she did look worried, and he'd like to tear Senator Phillips's throat out for worrying her.

He took a bite of pastrami, reminding himself he was a civilized man, not a lion on the prowl. No, not a lion. A raven. Maybe he'd fly on over to the Capitol building and peck the man's eyes out. Metaphorically, that is, because he was a civilized man.

On a very short leash.

Samantha patted her lips with her paper napkin, her manners as refined as they'd be if she was sitting down to a table loaded with fine china and silver, with a crystal chandelier hanging overhead. "I thought about it all night. What did you do with the envelopes?"

"There wasn't anything incriminating in them, even anything to photocopy except for the envelopes themselves, which I did. Then I sent them out in this morning's mail," he said, then banged her on the back as she choked a little. "But not the fifth one—not the first one, I mean. Jeez, Samantha, I'm sorry. I didn't mean to startle you."

She used the paper napkin now to wipe at her watering eyes. "You could be a little clearer, you know. I almost swallowed my tongue. Why did you send them out?"

"Why?" Jesse wadded the waxed paper into a ball and put it back in the paper bag. "Mrs. Phillips brought those envelopes to you, and you said you'd put them in the mail. She was playing a sort of game yesterday, like maybe a game of tag, to see what would happen. If they didn't get into the mail? Hey, then tag, you're it. You're the reason the first envelope never got into the mail."

"Good point," Samantha said, picking up the second half of her sandwich, then looking at him. "You eat too fast. Don't you know that you're supposed to chew each bite twenty-two times, then swallow?"

"Twenty-two? Not twenty-one, or twenty-three?"

"Nope. According to my mom, the magic number is twenty-two. It aids the digestion, and you don't choke quite so often."

"I didn't choke, and my digestion's fine."

"Lucky you. Just don't tell my mom."

"I'm going to meet her?" Jesse asked, knowing he was teasing her, and liking it. Besides, he wanted an answer. He really wanted an answer.

"Maybe. Mom always likes it when we bring home lost souls for holidays."

"Now I'm a lost soul?"

"Maybe not, but you'll look the part if you don't soon tell me what you're going to do next about that first envelope and everything that's in it."

It was time to be honest, brutally honest, with her. "Samantha, I haven't the faintest damn idea what I'm going to do about it."

"Oh, that's great," she said, wrapping the remainder of her sandwich in the waxed paper and shoving it back into the bag. "That's really just great, isn't it? You do know you hold the next election smack in your two hands, don't you?"

"I wouldn't go that far, sweetheart," he said, shaking his head. "Senator Phillips doesn't have the nomination for his own party sewn up yet, let alone the results of next November's election."

"He's getting the president's endorsement at the fund-raiser next week, Jesse. A two-time president, still with his popularity numbers in the high sixties, entering the last year of his last term—which is pretty darn unheard of? With that endorsement, how could Uncle Mark lose? Unless you break this…this mess."

"Which I can't do, Samantha. We aren't exactly loaded down with proof." He averted his face as he said this because he had the feeling he had the word tattletale branded on his forehead. If she ever found out he'd told Old Abe to keep the president away from the fund-raiser, hold back his endorsement, there was going to be a war between he and this woman he was falling for so hard. A big one.

She stood up, began to walk down the path. "Proof? Facts? Oh, wait, you're a Boy Scout, chock-full of ideals and principles and—no, not a Boy Scout. You're a Pollyanna, and everything's rosy, there's no ending except for a happy ending. Sure, right. And here I thought you lived here, worked here. Since when does proof mean anything around here? Facts? This is a lynch 'em, then listen later town, remember? I never should have called you. Never!"

Jesse took hold of her elbow, hoping to slow her pace. "But you did call me, Samantha. So if we're talking about Boy Scouts, and Pollyannas, let's not forget Pandora, all right? She opened the box, and there was nothing left to do but try to pick up the pieces. That's what I'm doing, Samantha—what you're helping me do. Pick up the pieces. Sort them out. Then act, because neither one of us may be happy about what we find, but we'll both be damned if we'll be part of some sort of cover-up. Am I right?"

She stopped, then looked at him. "I still hate you," she said, but he knew she didn't mean it.

He stepped a little closer, put his hand under her chin. "No, you don't. In a town piled high with lies, let's keep this honest, okay, sweetheart? You don't hate me, and I damn well don't hate you."

"Oh, Jesse, I don't know if—"

He didn't want to hear what she might say next, so he implemented his latest "shut her up" ploy and lowered his mouth to hers.

Okay, so it wasn't a ploy. It was a hunger he couldn't fight, didn't want to fight. It was a need that burned deep inside him. To touch her, to taste her, to tell her without words that he was there for her, wanted to be there for her.

Wanted all of that…and so much more.





Chapter Five

Samantha sat across the table from Jesse in a restaurant she hadn't known existed until he walked her into it from the street.

The establishment was small, fairly dark, and there was a heavenly aroma coming from the postage stamp-size kitchen she could see through a pass-through the single waitress used to both order and pick up food.

"I know, less than classy," Jesse said as she spread her napkin in her lap…her paper napkin. "But the spaghetti is the best in town, I promise."

"You only say that because you haven't tried mine. One of my meatballs and you'd spill government secrets in a heartbeat just to have another," she said, keeping the conversation light, the way it had been all afternoon, as they'd slowly made their way through Jesse's favorite museum, sometimes even holding hands. For a while, she'd even forgotten the envelope and its damning contents.

"I'll take that bet," Jesse told her. "Is Saturday night good for you? I'll bring the wine."

"Sounds good, if I'm still talking to you by then. I think I like playing hooky, by the way. Are you sure you can do that when you work in the West Wing?"

He took a sip of water from the glass the waitress had plunked down on the table along with two ragged-looking menus before heading back to the pass-through shelf behind the counter to pick up another order.

"We don't punch in and out, if that's what you mean. Besides, Brenda's covering for me. My secretary," he added, when Samantha looked puzzled.

"Bettyann's covering for me, too. Did Brenda ask a million questions, most of them painfully personal, before she'd agree to cover for you?"

"Not Brenda. She knows not everything I do is the sort of thing you write down on an appointment pad. Man, that sounds all cloak-and-daggerish, doesn't it?"

Samantha leaned her elbows on the table. "I still don't know exactly what you do, you know."

"That makes two of us. I guess I'm sort of a…sort of a floater? I'm there to be objective, brutally honest, and lend my expertise wherever it's needed. The president's idea. He wanted someone other than just the usual lifelong politicians to advise him, most especially on national security. I'm it."

"That sounds so official yet so vague. You're not telling me everything, are you?"

His grin was endearingly boyish. "Nope."

"I didn't think so," Samantha said as she selected a bread stick from the lopsided basket the waitress had slammed onto the table. "I'm sorry, we've been talking, so we haven't looked at the menus yet," she told the woman who was now standing there, pad and pencil at the ready.

"That's okay," Jesse interrupted. "Two plates of Gino's special spaghetti with meat sauce, and two salads with the house dressing, please, Lulu. Just ice water, no wine. That's where we start, at least. Who knows where we'll go from there."

"Straight for the antacids, bucko," the waitress grumbled, then headed for the kitchen area once more.

"That was Lulu, the owner's wife. She's part of the ambience."

"Utterly charming," Samantha said, grinning as she took a bite of bread stick. "Mmm…this is good."

"Everything's good. So tell me, have you enjoyed your afternoon?"

"Translation, have I calmed down enough to talk rationally and unemotionally about the envelope and what it means? I'm not sure."

"Well, she's honest," Jesse said, rolling his eyes. "Okay, here goes. I've got the envelope, I've got the contents, both all locked up in a safe place. I sent the envelopes with the blank pages off in the mail, to divert attention from you. They'll arrive at the post office boxes in four different states right on time."

"You just send them off, and that's that?"

"Not really. I've already got people—very close-mouthed people I can trust—all set to watch the four post offices, to see who picks up each envelope, and learn where those envelopes go after that. By now the four recipients have been told that this is only a test of the delivery system, I'm sure of that, which is why my people will be watching those boxes for another week, after the first delivery, ready to intercept any other mailings. Flash a national security badge these days, and you can get in anywhere, trust me on that one."

"You're very…efficient."

"That's what it said on my last merit badge," Jesse said with a grin. "The fifth envelope, if we're lucky, will be chalked up to a problem with the mail. End of suspicion being cast your way. When and if the time comes, we'll find a way to keep your name out of everything."

"I'm not worried about me, but thank you anyway for the thought," Samantha said, then realized she'd begun shredding her paper napkin.

"Sure, you're worried, you're in a tough spot. Senator Phillips is your dad's good friend, and you've known him and his wife for all of your life. You've got to be worried that you've opened a huge can of worms better left closed, betrayed a confidence and ruined a good friendship."

"All right, yes, I am worried about that. Dad would be crushed to learn his confidence had been misplaced. But that really isn't the most important thing."

Jesse sat back and waited as Lulu put huge bowls of salad in front of them.

Samantha admired the mixture of greens and tomatoes, green pepper, radishes, scallions, even sliced black olives. She didn't have to lean forward to sniff the garlic smell that rose from the bowl along with that of oregano and other spices. "I could make a meal just with this salad."

Jesse picked up his fork, stabbing a cherry tomato. "Don't. You have to leave room for everything else. So," he said, taking the conversation back to the previous subject, "what is the important thing?"

Samantha, her fork poised over the bowl, sighed. "You know what's important. The process. The sanctity, if you will, of the election process. Our way of government, our way of life, to get a little schmaltzy about the thing. We can't allow a presidential election to be bought. We just can't."

"Oh, good. Now we're superheroes, out to save the world?"

"I'll be Wonder Woman," Samantha said, trying to keep the conversation from sounding too much like a sermon on good government. "She had great hair."

"Okay then, you'll be Wonder Woman and I'll stay the Boy Scout. But seriously, Samantha, do you really see this as you and me against the corruption of a presidential election? That's pretty heavy, sweetheart."

"I know. But what else would you call it? If Uncle—if Senator Phillips is soliciting money from corporations, a whole industry, by showing that he'd favor them taxwise if he's elected, then he's not only taking money to buy an election, he's also selling himself to those corporations. They'd own him for his entire term in office."

Jesse sat back, looked at her. "You've quite a way with words, don't you? And it all starts with lousy glue on one envelope and a woman trying to go cheap on postage by mailing it from the campaign office. You do know that's usually all it takes—one stupid mistake and an accidental discovery? And then the walls come tumbling down."

Samantha chewed and swallowed another mouthful of salad. "A piece of adhesive tape over the lock on a door, keeping it open, and a curious security guard—like that?"

"Just like that. The mistake, the cover-up, the inevitable investigation, and the next thing you know, an entire presidency comes tumbling down. And it all started with a piece of adhesive tape. That, and a stupid idea."

"This is a stupid idea, isn't it?" Samantha asked, already knowing the answer. "Oh, I mean it could work, but it's still a stupid idea. Stupid because Uncle Mark is already pretty much assured of getting the president's endorsement. Then the party will quietly endorse him, and he'll coast through the primaries, have all the money he needs for the general election. I mean, the presidency already is pretty much his to lose. Why would he do this? It doesn't make sense."

Lulu cleared away the salad plates and replaced them with even larger bowls of spaghetti crowned with a generous serving of meat sauce.

"Some people can't believe in a sure thing, I guess," Jesse said, shrugging. "Hey, you can twirl?"

"Of course I can," Samantha said, neatly selecting another few strands of spaghetti noodles with her fork, then using the round spoon to brace the fork tips against as she neatly twirled everything into a neat little package. "I'm Wonder Woman, remember?"

"And I'm impressed. First time I came in here? I started cutting up the spaghetti, the way I did at home in Oklahoma, and Lulu grabbed the knife out of my hand and taught me how to do it right."

"She is a commanding sort of woman," Samantha agreed, looking at Lulu as the waitress tucked a napkin into the collar of a rather corpulent gentleman sitting across the room. And the man was smiling.

"She could probably lead troops into battle," Jesse said with a grin. "Okay, back to the subject. You want to know what I'm going to do with the envelope and its contents."

"Part of me does. Another part of me wants you to put it all through a paper shredder and forget you ever saw it."

"I can't do that, sweetheart. The wheels are already turning."

"I know, I know," Samantha said, losing her appetite. "And you know what I have to do, don't you?"

He shook his head. "No. What do you have to do?"

"Talk to Uncle Mark." She closed her eyes for a moment, trying to picture that interview, and her stomach did a little flip. "I have to take that envelope to him tomorrow, no later, and show him what I found, and ask him if he knows anything about it."

"You can't do that," Jesse said, putting down his own fork and spoon. "Sorry."

"What do you mean, I can't do that? Jesse, I have to do that."

"Other than the fact that I'm doing my best to keep your name out of it, the envelope and its contents are evidence now, sweetheart. I can't let you have them back."

Samantha felt her eyes growing wide…and probably wild. "You never said that when you had me give it to you last night. If I'd known that, I never would have—"

"Exactly. Sorry, I don't always play fair."

Samantha got to her feet. "Neither do I," she said, just before she dumped the remainder of her spaghetti and meat sauce into his lap, then followed it with his own serving before she stomped out of the restaurant.

* * *

Jesse rang the bell, then waited for the door to open, fully prepared to sacrifice his foot to keep that door open when Samantha tried to slam it in his face.

But it was Rose who opened the door. "Ah, dead man ringing," she said, grinning. "I was told to say that Samantha's not at home if you showed up. So, you've screwed up, then shown up. Sorry, she's not home."

"The security system in this place was one I cut my teeth on, not to mention that I've memorized the code. Close that door, Rose, and I'm in there anyway in five minutes, and that's stretching it."

"You're being a bully," Rose said, wagging a finger at him. "Shame on you."

"Rose, she spilled two plates of spaghetti in my lap an hour ago. Bully does not even begin to describe what I can be. Now, are you going to let me in, or am I going to let myself in? I'm game either way."

"Spaghetti? Two plates? Meat or marinara sauce?"

"Meat."

"Oh, wow. I'll bet you had a fun ride home."

"First I had a fun twenty-minute walk to my car, then I had a fun ride home. And that was only after Lulu, the waitress, tried to wipe me down with a dishrag. Did you know that lap becomes crotch when you stand up?"

By this point, Rose was leaning against the door, choking with laughter. "You…you had a real Lulu of a time, didn't you? Oh, come on, come in. Please understand that I'll have to tell her you put a gun to my head."

"Tell her anything you want. Just make sure she's downstairs—unarmed—and ready to go to her office with me in five minutes."

"Masterful, aren't you? I like that. Excuse me while I drool."

"Would you just go get her, please?" Jesse said, but he laughed.

He stood in the small foyer, cooling his heels, and listened as he heard voices coming from upstairs. He couldn't understand the words, but he recognized the tone.

He damn sure recognized the slamming of a door.

"Okay, that tears it," he said out loud, heading for the stairs.

Rose was on her way down. She stopped on the fifth step from the top and spread her arms, blocking his progress. "No, wait, you can't go up there. I mean, sure, she said no, but you still can't go up there. She's—"

"Out of my way, Rose. Please."

"Gun to my head again?"

"If that works for you."

"We'll pretend it does. Go ahead. It's not my funeral, but you might want to tell me which tie you want the undertaker to put on you for the services. Excuse me now, I want to go find my camera."

"Your…oh, the hell with it."

Jesse took the remaining stairs of the narrow, steep flight two at a time, then hesitated for only a moment before turning to his left at the top of the landing, heading for the one closed door in the hallway.

It was locked. He'd expected it to be locked.

One credit card and thirty seconds later, he was inside Samantha's bedroom.

Nice room. All cherry furniture and white eyelet drapes and spread. Even a canopy over the four-poster bed. Dark green walls with big purple cabbage roses climbing all over them. A dressing table loaded with cut-crystal bottles; the uniquely flowery smell of Samantha's perfume dancing lightly in the air. Family photographs everywhere.

But no Samantha.

He opened a door to his right, closed it again when he saw clothing hanging inside on double racks.

That left one more door.

It wasn't locked.

"Samantha?" he said as he opened the door, walked into a large, old-fashioned bathroom with small black and white tiles on the floor, a freestanding white porcelain sink…and a huge, claw-footed bathtub.

Samantha was in the bathtub, sunk in bubbles up to her chin, her blond hair piled high on her head, her eyes about as wide as they could get.

"You!"

"Me," Jesse said quietly, putting a hand to his forehead, sort of shielding his eyes as he turned slightly away from her. "Rose didn't tell me you were—"

"Why should she? A civilized person would have taken a no for a no, and gone away. Humor me, Jesse, pretend you're civilized…and go away."

"I can't," he said, lowering his arm. He wondered, just for one mad second, if Rose had found her camera, not that he needed any reminders of this scene. It was already burned into his brain. "We have to go to the office."

"Are you crazy? I wouldn't cross the street with you…you…you double-crosser."

"Ah, there we are," Rose said a split second after a sudden flash lit the room. "Student pays tuition selling photo of senator's campaign manager and White House bigwig to tabloids. Headline? How about Bubbles Cosgrove and Her Wicked West Wing Lover?"

"Get…out!"

"You'd better do what she says, Rose," Jesse told the girl, who was busily snapping more photographs. "Remember, I can help her bury your body where no one will ever find it."

"Yeah, yeah, I'm so scared. Okay, just kidding. I don't have any film in this darn thing anyway. Shall I lay out fresh clothes for you, madam? I am, after all, your servant."

"Jesse, get her out of here, and go with her. These bubbles are beginning to disappear."

He fought the urge to push Rose out, then lock the door, with him still inside the bathroom. But he was a gentleman, and the women in his family would have helped Samantha string him up if he forgot their training, even for a moment.

"I'll be downstairs, Samantha," he said, one hand on the doorknob. "And no kidding, sweetheart. We have to go to your office tonight. Either that, or I do it alone, and I'd really rather not break in when you can let me in."

"Oh, please, go there yourself. Then I can alert the police and have you arrested and sent to some maximum-security prison."

"You wouldn't do that," he said, grinning at her. "Now, come on, get dressed. Oh, and Lulu says to tell you she doesn't want to see you in her restaurant for at least six months. When I left, she was on her hands and knees picking up spaghetti noodles. She was not a happy woman."

"I'll send her an apology tomorrow, and flowers," Samantha said, sinking lower as the cooler air coming in from the bedroom made those bubbles dwindle even more. "But if you're expecting an apology, you can just forget it. You're lucky I didn't pour the spaghetti over your head."

"There is that, I suppose, sweetheart," Jesse said, and left the room.

* * *

Samantha unlocked the office door, then stood back and glared at Jesse.

He turned the knob, pushed the door fully open, then motioned for her to precede him, whispering, "Lady conspirators first."

"Darn right I'm a lady," she said, then began to sweep past him, planning to turn on the lights. "And I'm loyal, and honest, and trustworthy, and—"

He pulled her back out of the office, and halfway down the hall. "Wait a minute. If you're going to be the Boy Scout now, the Superman, I refuse to be Wonder Woman. I think the outfit might pinch. On top of that, I don't want you to talk in there. Not until I've swept the place for bugs. You are to tiptoe, make no noise, okay? Now, if you have anything else to say, sweetheart, say it now."

"Just one thing. Go to hell," she said, brushing off his hand and heading for her own office—on tiptoe, damn him—to open that door as well. But that was it, that was all the help he was going to get from her. She'd already helped him into probably destroying her uncle Mark.

She watched as he made his way around the outer office, holding some sort of James Bond-type instrument and turning in circles, watching the needle on a small meter.

He repeated this action in the small lunch room, in the tiny alcove where the photocopier and three fax machines were kept.

Then he moved to her office.

She followed after him, wanting to see what the needle did when he pointed the gadget at the worktable. Sure enough, the needle jumped, and she looked at Jesse just as he turned to look at her.

"Live," he mouthed, then put a finger to his lips just in case she hadn't understood.

Samantha nodded, biting her lips together to keep from talking. She'd had no idea how difficult it was to keep silent when it was so important not to say anything.

Any more? she scribbled on a piece of notepaper, which she handed to him.

Jesse shrugged, and continued turning in slow circles, watching the needle.

And then he did something she most certainly had not expected.

He reached under the table, removed the bug and stepped on it.

"Okay, that's done," he said, smiling at her.

"That's it? You stepped on it? Why would you do something like that? I thought you'd want to feed false information into the thing now that we know someone is listening—was listening. You know, sort of set up a sting operation, or something like that?"

"Read a lot, do you, huh?" Jesse asked, picking up the squashed "bug" and slipping it into his pocket. "See a lot of movies?"

"You mean it's not like that?"

"It could be. Except that we don't have time for a lot of games. I've got a friend who owes me a favor, and he's going to be part of your staff, starting tomorrow morning. Geoff Waters. You hired him."

"I did?"

"Trust me, you did. Geoff will watch your office, make sure nobody comes to check on why the bug isn't working—and report to me if he sees anything and anyone suspicious. I've got someone else who should be outside right now, and he'll be here every night until this is over."

"Another friend who owes you a favor? Like the men watching the post offices in those four cities where the envelopes will be delivered? Tell me something, how many people owe you favors?"

"A couple." Jesse sat down on the edge of the desk and looked at her. "Okay, Samantha, the bug's gone. We could go home now, except that you're still mad at me, and I don't want you mad at me."

"I don't want to be mad at you," she admitted, sitting down beside him, her hands on either side of her, holding tight on the edge of the desk. "But you lied to me."

"By omission, yes."

"It's still a lie. It still goes in the angel's black book."

"Or, as my great-grandfather would say, 'It is difficult for the Raven to speak clearly with a forked tongue.'"

Samantha turned her head sharply to look at him. "You're kidding, right?"

"Nope. Not at all. My great-grandfather—George WhiteBear being his Americanized Comanche name—is one of those grand old men who likes to say obscure things and have us all believe they have some deep meaning."

"And Raven? What does that mean? Is that you?"

"Yeah, that's me. He's the one who originally gave me the name, and when I needed a code name, I chose Raven for that, too. I'd like to think my great-grandfather picked it because of my black hair, but I'm pretty sure he was thinking more of my nose resembling a beak."

"You have a wonderful nose," Samantha said before she could think, then quickly added, "I mean…there's nothing wrong with your nose."

"It's a throwback, just like my cheeks, and my hair, too, I guess. To my Comanche blood."

"I didn't know. Oh boy, if I tell Bettyann you're part Comanche, she'll go nuts. She's already waxing poetic about your cheekbones."

"Gee, I'm flattered," Jesse said, making a face.

"You said your family owns the Chekagovian embassy. Would that be the Comanche side of your family?"

"It would," Jesse said, shifting his weight on the desktop. "It's a long story."

"Yes, one you were going to tell me, remember? Now seems like a good time."

"I don't know where to begin."

"Try beginning with once upon a time. That's usually a good place."

"Okay," he said with a decisive nod of his head. "Once upon a time there was a lovely young woman named Gloria WhiteBear."

"Her Americanized name, right?"

"Right. I called her Grandmother. Anyway, Gloria and her family lived in Black Arrow, Oklahoma, where there weren't a lot of opportunities for a pretty young woman, especially one whose burning desire in life was to bring home money to help her struggling parents."

"When was this?"

"Just before the war. World War Two. Anyway, she left home, went West, and ended up working in a casino. A gambling palace, if you will. And she fell in love with one of the guests. He was young, like her, came from here in the District, and had plenty of money, not that Gloria cared about that. She was in love, or so she thought at the time. She'd never seen anyone like this man, never experienced the wiles of a sophisticated man bent on getting her into bed, to be frank about the thing."

"He only wanted to take her to bed?"

"That's my assumption, and my great-grandfather's, but nobody can be sure. Anyway, one thing led to another—and pretty damn quick, or so I'm told—and the two of them got married within two or three days of their first meeting. She woke up the next morning, and he was gone. From there, I'm pretty fuzzy, except that she somehow found out he had to get home here to Washington—to see his fiancée. He could do that now that he'd gotten what he wanted from Gloria, even if it had taken a marriage license to get it."

"Ouch," Samantha said, wincing. "She must have been heartbroken."

"You could say that. She ran back to Black Arrow, and that would have been the end of it, except that she soon discovered that she was pregnant."

"Oh, dear."

Jesse picked up the paperweight that depicted the Washington Monument and turned it in his hands. "Gloria knew where her husband—if you can call him that any way but legally—was, and went to see him. She felt he should know about his child. That's all, just know about the child. Except that her husband panicked. He was sure she was there to blackmail him."

"Blackmail? I don't understand."

"It's simple. The husband had married that fiancée, the daughter of very rich parents. He saw his cushy world ready to come crashing down on him because of what he considered nothing more than a one-night stand with some dumb, innocent Indian girl who should have had the good sense to go away now, leave him alone."

"You're angry about that. I can hear it in your voice. And I don't blame you."

"Yeah, I guess I am. He told her the marriage wasn't valid—although we all know differently now. When he told Gloria that his wife was also pregnant, he did it to make her understand that he couldn't be a husband to her, and then he realized that telling her only made things worse. Now she could really put the screws to him."

"I don't think I like this man," Samantha said. "You haven't given him a name."

"No, I haven't, have I? We'll get to that another time. For now, I just want to tell you Gloria's story. She was appalled that her husband had betrayed her, that he had impregnated another woman. All she wanted was to go home to Oklahoma, which she did. She had the marriage license, she knew her child would be legitimate, and she told everyone that her husband had died. My great-grandparents stood behind her one hundred percent. That should have been the end of it. But the man couldn't believe that was the end of it."

"He followed her?"

"No, not that. What he did was set up a trust for his unborn child, letting Gloria know that the trust would be abolished if she ever told anyone the truth."

"Let me guess. The Chekagovian embassy was part of the trust?"

"Give that lady a cigar," Jesse said, smiling wearily. "Most of the trust was cash, and the rest was the house—the mansion—which was rented out for the past sixty years, all of them to the Chekagovian embassy. And, for all of those sixty years, the trust was managed by very good lawyers who built it all into a damn nice fortune."

"I won't ask how much."

"You don't have to, because I'm going to tell you. It's over ten million dollars. We just found out, and let me tell you, we're still reeling."

"You never knew?"

"No, Gloria never told anyone, and never touched a dime of that money. She raised her boys—the baby turned out to be twins—strictly on the income from the family's feed and grain store, and never told anybody about the trust. I doubt she even believed it existed. She's gone now, so what we know now is all we'll ever know."

He took a deep breath, let it out slowly. "So, that's it. That's how my family came to own the Chekagovian embassy, which is soon to be vacated. I've been charged by the family with looking over the property, deciding what to do with it. I asked my great-grandfather what I should be looking for when I go inspect the property. He said that the mind will know what the heart tells it. I've got to tell you, that wasn't a lot of help."

"No, I suppose not. What else does your great-grandfather say? I'd really like to hear."

Jesse sighed. "Well, let's see. There's so much. Okay. Last time I was home? He's big into hearts and feelings right now. He took me aside just as I was leaving and said in that profound way he has, 'The raven who seeks will find the heart's truth.' How's that?"

Samantha was quiet for a few moments. "I don't know. The heart's truth? That can't be what you seek now. You're seeking now to uncover who is behind leaking information in that envelope you're keeping from me. Your heart has nothing to do with any of that."

"It doesn't?" Jesse asked, putting a finger beneath Samantha's chin, turning her face toward him. "That envelope led me to you, Samantha."

She lowered her eyelids, not wanting him to see what would be so obvious if he could see into her eyes. "That's…that's stretching things, don't you think?"

He leaned in closer. She could smell his aftershave, feel his heat. "I don't know, what do you think?"

She opened her eyes once more, and the intensity of his gaze sent a sharp stab of white-hot lightning straight through her. "This is…this isn't why I'm…I mean, we really should be…"

Thankfully, before she could completely tie her tongue into knots, he lowered his mouth to hers and kissed her.

His arms slid around her as he moved to stand up, take her along with him, and she went, willingly, her arms slipping up to his shoulders. She clasped her hands together behind his neck and held on for dear life.

His lips brushed against hers softly, slanting, withdrawing, touching her lightly once more. He teased her bottom lip with his teeth, slid his tongue over her softness, then finally crushed his mouth against hers, plunged inside her, took what she had no choice but to offer him, no wish but to offer everything to him.

Their bodies were pressed tightly together as she went up on tiptoe, needing to be closer, longing to be closer. She felt his strong fingers skim her sides, moaned low in her throat as his hands cupped her breasts.

Just when she was ready to give him anything, anything at all, everything and more, he put his hands on her arms and slowly moved her away from him.

"We probably should go now," he said, and she envied him his composure, even as she felt the first niggling rise in her temper at the way he could turn her on, then turn himself off with such seeming ease.

"That…that would probably be best," she said, stepping away from him, turning her back to him as she struggled to regulate her breathing.

"I don't want to," he said, and she shivered as he laid a hand on her shoulder, "but my friend outside is going to be stopping by any time now, to check the doorknobs, stuff like that. We left the front door unlocked, remember? I don't know about you, but I don't want to see Billy come crashing in here, his weapon drawn."

"Billy? Oh, another friend who owes you a favor. I forgot. All right," Samantha said, nodding her head, although she still kept her back to him. "We probably should leave."

"Do you want to go home?"

No, she didn't want to go home. Not unless she was going to his home, to be with him.

"I think that would be smart," she said, heading toward the main office. "I'm still angry with you for taking me out of the game. That is what you've done, isn't it? Taken me out of the game?"

"You call what just happened a game?"

"No, not this, although you sure can turn it off quickly, can't you," she said, turning to him, cupping a hand on his cheek. "I mean the business with the envelope. Isn't that what you call it—what they call it in books and movies? Being in or out of the game?"

"What's going on is no game, sweetheart, but yes, I've taken you out of it. From here on in, it's my game."

"The Raven's game," Samantha said, then she sighed. "I wish I'd never brought you in on this."

"If you hadn't, we'd never have met, so I can't wish that, Samantha. I really can't."

"Even if you know I'll never be able to forgive you, or myself, if Uncle Mark is destroyed because of what I've started, what you might do next?"

His expression turned dark, almost frightening in how handsome he looked, definitely frightening in how sincere he looked. "Even if you never speak to me again, never see me again, never let what might happen between us happen. My first duty, Samantha, always has been and always will be to my country. I can't turn away, can't let this go, even if I know it means losing you."

"You think the contents of that envelope are that damning? That dangerous?"

"Don't you?"

She bit her lip, nodded. "That's the hell of it, isn't it, Jesse? We both do. Maybe…maybe it would be better if we didn't see each other quite so often for a while. Just for a while? I mean, this has been pretty intense, hasn't it? I…I need time to sort out my feelings, learn what is and is not connected to that horrible envelope and its contents."

He took her hand in his, lifted it to his mouth, kissed her fingertips. "We'll give it the weekend," he agreed. "I still want you to see the house, and I get the key on Monday. It wasn't going to be available until next Friday, but my cousin left a message with Brenda today, to tell me the place is already vacant. In the meantime, I'll stay away."

"I'd…I'd like that," Samantha said, knowing she'd be crying like a baby in a moment, just with the prospect of not seeing Jesse for four days.

Which just proved how much she really needed not to see him for the next four days….