Kasey Michaels - The Raven's Assignment p.03

Chapter Six

Jesse sat at his desk in the West Wing, holding the house key in both hands, looking at it as if it was the missing piece to some puzzle he was having considerable difficulty putting together.

He'd been to Rand Colton's office earlier, and his newly discovered cousin had some additional information for him. Nothing much, just that Graham Colton, the former senator's brother, was still moaning and groaning and insisting that he meant no harm when he'd sicced some goon named Kenny Randolph on the Oklahoma Coltons.

Sure. Right. He meant no harm. Guys like Graham Colton never mean any harm. To themselves.

Now he was singing every tune he could, to get back in his brother's good graces, to get off with a fine and a suspended sentence in the "small matters" of arson, breaking and entering, aiding and abetting, conspiracy before the fact—just to name a few of the man's "small" indiscretions.

What a guy. And Jesse was related to him? Gee, that was comforting.

At the same time, he now knew he and his family were related to Joe Colton, that same former senator, and one hell of a good man.

Did it balance out? Jesse thought it had to. After all, was there any choice? Pick your friends, sure, but you can't pick your relatives.

Not that he'd had much time to think about the California branch of the Colton family, or their wealth and many enterprises. They'd all been invited to Prosperino, to the Colton family ranch, and they'd probably all go at some point.

For now, their only connection was one dead son of a bitch grandfather Jesse couldn't punch in the mouth for what he'd done to Gloria WhiteBear all those years ago, and the firm conviction that what they'd learned was private, and definitely not for public consumption.

His family could handle keeping things quiet at that end, in Black Arrow, especially if this Kenny guy could be found soon, handed a deal of his own if he'd plea to lesser charges and keep the Colton name out of everything. Rand seemed pretty confident he and their mutual cousin, Bram—sheriff of Black Arrow—could handle everything.

If they couldn't, then the Raven could pay Kenny a little visit in the Black Arrow jail. He knew he could be very…convincing.

"Except when it comes to Samantha," he said out loud, then sighed.

How did he convince her that he was only doing his duty? That she had only been doing hers? It sounded so…hackneyed, he guessed. "I was only doing my duty." Sure, that's what they all said. Just like the Graham Coltons of this world said, "I didn't mean any harm."

But this was different, damn it. This wasn't protecting a family from some old scandal. This was preventing a corrupt candidate from assuming the loftiest office in this land, becoming the corrupt leader of the free world for the next four years, maybe eight.

That was heavy…stuff.

Jesse put down the key and sat back in his chair. He wondered how Samantha had been over the weekend, and was human enough to hope she'd missed him even half as much as he'd missed her.

That was a real kick in the head, too. He'd never been serious about anyone before, and never really thought he was the romantic sort, the kind who could fall like a ton of bricks for a warm smile, a pretty face.

Although it was the spaghetti in the lap that had sealed it for him. God, the woman had spirit. Loyal, yet independent, a class act, and yet with a temper that was all her own. He was crazy about her.

Or maybe just crazy. There was always that.

He leaned forward, picked up the phone, punched in the numbers to Samantha's private line. He might as well get this over with, then go jump off the White House roof if she asked "Jesse who?"

"Samantha?" he said after her brief, rather distracted hello.

"Jesse," she said, actually recognizing his voice. That was good. Wasn't that good? He thought it was good. After all, it had been four days.

"I've got the key," he said, picking it up just as if she could see through the phone lines. "I thought…is one o'clock good for you?"

"I can meet you then, yes," Samantha said, then lowered her voice. "Anything new?"

"Just my blue slacks. Seems my former best pair somehow got tossed in the trash after a fatal meat-sauce accident."

"Oh. Sorry. One o'clock?"

"I'll bring lunch, and we can have a picnic in those gardens you told me about."

"Jesse, it's raining."

"Details, details. I'm still bringing lunch. Tuna fish okay?"

"Tuna fish is fine. Look, I've got to go. It's a madhouse around here this morning. What? Jesse, excuse me a sec."

Jesse pressed the receiver closer to his ear, but couldn't make out more than a few words, although he thought he heard his friend's name.

"Okay, I'm back. Sorry about that. Geoff was just telling me that he got the copier unjammed. He's wonderful. I may not give him back, you know."

"I don't think the campaign could afford his salary," Jesse said, smiling.

"Probably not. Uh-oh, here comes Bettyann, and she looks loaded for bear. She still thinks I brought Geoff in to replace her. Bye. Gotta go."

"Bye," Jesse said to the dial tone, then held the receiver a few moments longer, as if trying to maintain contact.

God, he was in trouble, and falling fast.

"You free?"

Jesse looked toward the door, put down the phone and quite automatically stood up as Bob Forrester walked into the office.

"Yes, sir. I was…I was going to stop by this morning, but I was called away."

"No big deal, my legs still work," Old Abe said. He closed the door, then walked over to the desk, lowering his long, lanky frame into a chair made for a smaller man. "God, these miserable government-issue chairs had to have been made for the average-size man in 1780. Bought my own, you know, when we moved in here. It was either that or work at my desk all day with my knees jammed up under my chin. Sit, sit. And then talk to me."

"I really have very little to report, sir," Jesse said. Which was true. The only thing he could report, for certain, was that one Samantha Cosgrove had come to him with incriminating evidence that, by rights, he should have shown to Forrester last week.

"Then let me help you, son," the chief of staff said, shifting in his chair. "Joan Phillips is a pain in our collective butts, right?"

"Excuse me, sir?" Jesse worked hard to keep his expression neutral.

"Oh, come on, hark the Raven, don't play dumb. Mark Phillips is such a straight arrow I'm surprised there aren't feathers sticking out of his—well, never mind. He's a good man. Not an inspired man, I'll grant you, not a walking-talking genius like our current fearless leader, but a good one. After eight years of our current commander in chief, he'll be four to eight years of status quo, which ain't a bad thing, because we'll be leaving quite a legacy. He won't rock the boat we built, understand?"

"Yes, sir, I do," Jesse said, waiting for the other shoe to drop. The other shoe being Joan Phillips.

"Now, his wife? There's a different kettle of mackerel. She's ambitious. Damn ambitious, and she doesn't want anyone else telling her husband how to run, how to win, how to govern. She sees strings attached to an endorsement from our president, and she's right, there would be. So she keeps pushing us all away, making her own plans. Oh, she's not above using us, she just doesn't want us to use her. President Joan, I think that's how she sees it."

"Interesting, sir. I didn't know any of that." Interesting, hell! Damning, was more the word, knowing what Jesse knew.

"I don't like the woman, that's no secret. I applaud ambition, be it in a man or a woman, so that's not it, I'm not some closet misogynist. It's her tactics I don't like. She's got a lot of bodies hidden, you know. People she stepped on to get her husband where he is today. And Phillips? I don't know. The man must wear blinders where his wife is concerned."

Jesse said nothing, but just kept his own counsel. At times like this, silence was always safest. Besides, the longer he remained silent, the more Old Abe would talk. He knew that from experience, working with anybody he was trying to get information from, bad guy or good guy.

Forrester sighed, then continued: "But hey, bottom line? Phillips is a good man. The man we want. We're all set to endorse him, show up at the fund-raiser, give him our blessing—and then you come waltzing in, tell me to back off a while. I had to ask myself—why? What does the Raven know that I don't know?"

"Probably not much," Jesse said, suppressing a smile. "You seem to already know most of it. You've had me followed, haven't you? I must be getting lazy, because I never thought of that, or picked up on the tail. Shame on both of us."

"Smart-ass. And, yes, I did have you followed. I've even got pictures. The girl? Lovely. You in spaghetti sauce? Not so lovely."

"Samantha Cosgrove," Jesse said, sighing. So much for keeping Samantha out of it.

"Yes, that's the name. Pretty name. She's in charge of the local office of the senator's election campaign. Not the top dog, not nationally, but a good worker, and loyal. And then there she is, one minute being cozy with you, so we think, okay, the Raven's got himself a girl, good for him. And then the next minute? Hey, the next minute she's dumping food in your lap. There's also after-hour visits to the office, and a report that you're cashing in favors and having the place watched day and night."

"Man. I'm either getting very sloppy, or you guys are very good."

"A little of both, I'd say. Anyway, I hear about all this, stack it up against you telling me to hold off on endorsing Phillips, and I've got to ask myself—why? What's going on here? Then I figured, no, I've got to ask Jesse. So Jesse—why? What's going on here? In fact the only thing I don't have to ask myself in any of this is who. Because it has to be Joan Phillips. She's been trouble for us before, and I'm betting she's being trouble for us now."

"I've kept this very close to the chest, sir, working with people I can trust, and totally off the record. No leaks. I can assure you of that."

"Good. And, considering this town usually leaks like an old iron pot shot with buckshot, very encouraging. You trust these men?"

"Men and women, sir, and yes, I do. Let me show you what I've got, what I've done so far, and then I can tell you the rest."

Jesse went over to his file cabinet, the one with the combination lock on it, and opened the bottom drawer. He lifted out the envelope, sealed in a plastic bag, although it was a little late to hope for fingerprints, and tossed it to the chief of staff.

"Samantha Cosgrove found this by accident in the outgoing mail last week. The envelope had come open. Because she brought in more envelopes just like it later, we're sure Joan Phillips left it in the office, to be mailed. We just didn't know if it came directly from her, or if she was mailing it for the senator. I think you just answered that question, sir."

Forrester looked at the plastic bag, then at Jesse. "It's all right to touch?"

Jesse nodded. "Not even any saliva for DNA on the address label. It's clean, and useless for any more forensics, as both Ms. Cosgrove and I handled everything pretty extensively, I'm afraid, before we knew what we had. Standard computer printout, almost untraceable unless we had the machine and could make one-on-one comparisons, and even that would be dicey to prove in court."

"Court?" Old Abe looked at him. "This goes nowhere near a court, son. It goes nowhere, period. We neutralize Phillips, and whatever is in here means nothing."

"Neutralize, sir?"

"Oh, sorry. In your previous line of work that means something different than it does in mine. Remove him from any power, that's what we're going to do. If we're not too late. If we are, then we can't stop it, can't sit on it, and it all hits the fan, big time. I don't want to even think about that scenario."

Jesse waited while Old Abe opened the bag, slipped out the contents. He pressed a button on the intercom and told Brenda to hold all calls, cancel the remainder of his morning meetings. And he waited, while the chief of staff looked at the ten-page memo, page by page.

"Do you know what this is?" Forrester asked at last, stabbing a finger at the pages.

"Yes, sir, I think I do."

Forrester let out a low string of down-home cuss-words that had even Jesse's ears burning.

"Where did she get this?" he asked at last, tossing the pages back onto the desk.

"Ms. Cosgrove, sir?"

"No, no, I can pretty much figure out where she got it. The question is, where did Joan Phillips get it? Answer? From Senator Phillips. Next question. Did he give it to her? My gut answer? No way in hell. She just plain took it."

Jesse leaned his elbows on the desktop. "So you're saying Senator Phillips has no idea this is going on? Has no idea what his wife has done?"

"I'm saying I'm hoping like hell that's what it is. But I have to go to the president with this, Jesse, without delay. So, what else have you got for me?"

Jesse filled in the chief of staff on what else he had done. The operatives watching the post offices for the other envelopes. The bug. The operative inside the campaign headquarters, the one who had the night shift outside those offices—although the chief of staff already knew about Geoff and Billy.

"Blank pages? Damn, the woman's crafty, isn't she? Good work, Jesse. I think you've covered Ms. Cosgrove fairly well, have kept her name out of this. I'd like to think we can do the same. With her, and with the senator as well. Even Joan, much as I'd like to feed that interfering woman to the wolves in the press."

"Yes, sir," Jesse said, relieved about Samantha, and damn glad he wasn't Joan Phillips.

"You know, my wife gardens, volunteers at the hospital, plays canasta and runs her own travel agency. She's glad when I succeed, stands behind me, but she'd never interfere, just as I'd never try to tell her how to run her company, or where to plant her roses, for that matter. Why couldn't Joan Phillips be more like her? No, Joan Phillips has to be a big fan of Machiavelli, damn it."

He stood up, slowly unfolding his body, and grinned at Jesse without mirth. "So, who do you like for the party's nominee for president next spring, now that Senator Phillips is out of the race?"

"He's out of the race, sir?" Jesse asked, also getting to his feet.

"What do you think, son?"

"Yes, sir," Jesse said, nodding his agreement. "I knew that."

"I'll just bet you did. But nobody else will, not yet. Stick around, and keep Ms. Cosgrove handy—and in the dark—until I can set up a meeting for all parties involved. That won't be until those other four envelopes have arrived at their destinations. I want all the ammunition I can get so that the senator's wife can't wiggle out of this one, and so that the senator understands exactly what happened."

"I'm on top of it, sir."

"Good. Now to keep the pretty spaghetti lady in line and in the dark, huh? That won't be a walk in the park, son, I'm sure of that. Good luck, and keep reporting to me. In person. No paper, all right?"

"Yes, sir," Jesse said, sitting down heavily when the chief of staff left the room.

* * *

Samantha stood outside the former Chekagovian embassy, glad the rain had stopped. She looked at the huge redbrick mansion with something definitely approaching awe.

So impressive, and yet welcoming. A home, not a house. A mansion, yes, but still a place where it would not be impossible to visualize children running across the lawn, or a baby carriage parked at the front door.

It was one of the few buildings in the area that had any real land around it, although that wasn't much, not by Connecticut standards, where her parents' home was located on five acres of rolling grass and heavy trees.

This was a city house, yet a country house. Three floors of rooms that had seen so much history.

She rubbed her arms because she'd begun to shiver.

Because it looked like…home.

"Hello."

Samantha turned around quickly, startled, to see a young woman approaching along the pavement. Blond, quite tall, she had huge blue eyes that dominated her face, and the walk of someone—although young—who knew who she was, and where she was going. Her smile was friendly, almost welcoming.

"Hello," Samantha said in return. "I…I'm waiting for someone."

"Yes, so am I. Jesse Colton?"

Samantha's polite smile faded. What had the man done—set up tours? It's Monday, so this must be Blondes On Tour? "Why, yes, that's right. Jesse Colton."

The other woman nodded. "Then I'm right, and you're Susannah Cosgrove?"

"Samantha, yes," Samantha said, relaxing a little, but not much.

"Oh, I'm sorry. Samantha, of course. I wrote down the name, but then left the note back at the embassy." She put out her right hand. "I'm Eva. Eva Ritka."

Samantha took her hand in hers, shook it. "The former ambassador's wife?"

"His daughter, actually. We moved out in such a rush that I've been discovering things missing as I unpack. Mr. Colton was nice enough to agree that I meet him here, take another look around to see if I can find anything. Although my father swears things are lost in every move, as if goblins carried them off, never to be seen again."

"I agree with your father," Samantha said, laughing. "I lost my entire treasured collection of colored hop-scotch chalk in our move to Connecticut, but didn't realize it until a few years later, when I decided to give it to my cousin's daughter. Oh, here comes Jesse now."

She watched as he parked his car—only one backup, which really annoyed her, because it had taken her three in this town built for a million people and two automobiles.

"Hi," he said a few moments later, walking toward them. "Samantha," he continued, nodding at her rather quickly before turning to Ms. Ritka. "You must be Ms. Ritka. I hope you can find what you're after."

"Oh, so do I," Eva said as the three of them walked to the front door. "There are a few things we can't find, but one is very important. It's a music box that's been in our family for generations. Hand-carved wood, with the Nativity depicted on it. Not exactly a priceless work of art, not in the usual sense, but it's definitely priceless to us. I can't understand how it got left behind."

"Well, then I doubly hope you find it," Jesse said, pushing open the door and punching in the security code, then standing back to let Samantha and Eva enter ahead of him.

"Oh my goodness," Samantha said, stopping just inside the foyer. Her voice echoed in the empty house. "It's just as I imagined—and yet so much more."

"Pretty, isn't it?" Eva said. "The chandeliers? These lovely floors. I slid down that banister, you know. Just once, and was punished by my nanny, but it was fun, and well worth the scolding. Excuse me now, please. I'll just run upstairs and begin checking through the closets and cupboards. There are a thousand of them in this place."

Samantha only nodded, already walking into the expansive living room, blinking back tears at the beauty that unfolded in front of her.

"So solid. So…eternal. This house was built to last, Jesse. Can you see it, can you sense it?"

She turned to look at him, only to see that he was looking at her.

"What?" she asked him, feeling uncomfortable.

"Nothing. You just look…I don't know. You just look right in here. I feel like an interloper, like I should be knocking at the back door while kicking the mud off my work boots."

"Oh, no, no," she said, taking his arm. "This house welcomes everyone. How can you say that?"

"Because you've never seen Black Arrow?" he suggested, grinning. "I think we could put half the town in here, and have room left over for the feed and grain store."

"You make it sound as if you came from the back of beyond, Jesse. Your family is in Oklahoma, that's home to them. Washington is different, I grant you, but a home is a home, no matter what it is or where it is. Because it's people who make a house a home."

"People with a whole big bunch of furniture. I think we could set up a bowling lane in that last room," Jesse said, looking around as they walked through the downstairs, their heels clicking on the hardwood floors. "How many rooms are on this floor?"

"About eight, so far," Samantha said, taking his hand. "And we've yet to find the kitchen. I can't wait to see the kitchen."

When they found it, there were two of them. A small, cozy family kitchen, and a much larger industrial one with acres of countertops, a huge eight-burner stove and two deep refrigerators.

"Excuse me while I try to catch my breath. I think I'm in love," Samantha said, opening cabinet doors to find specialized racks for cookie trays, tablecloths, pot lids—everything and anything that could be organized.

When she opened a set of large double doors and saw a huge walk-in pantry with rolling shelves, she said, "Scratch that. I know I'm in love."

"You'd cook in here?" Jesse asked her as she reluctantly left the pantry and rejoined him on the ceramic-tile floor of the kitchen.

"Oh, yes. The smaller kitchen, the family kitchen, is lovely but cramped, the way that sort of kitchen was constructed when this house was originally built. I'd make the whole thing into a much larger breakfast room—those windows facing the gardens are perfect—and use this as the real kitchen for the house. It just needs some…oh, I don't know. Some humanizing. You know. Pretty curtains, copper-bottom pots hanging over that wonderful stove, strings of garlic and onions and other vegetables hanging with them, a ceramic-pig cookie jar…"

"Pardon me?" Jesse said, laughing.

"What?" Samantha was lost in her dream.

"A ceramic-pig cookie jar? Tell me, where did that one come from?"

"I don't know," Samantha said, blinking in surprise. "I just said it. I don't have one. I don't think I've ever even seen one. But it would be perfect in here, trust me."

"Excuse me?"

Samantha and Jesse turned to see Eva Ritka standing in the doorway.

"Any luck?" Jesse asked her.

"Some," Eva said, sighing. "I've found a blouse I was missing, and a crystal candle holder on the top shelf of one of the closets. Some hangers, which I left, if you don't mind. And one of my father's dress shoes. Just one. I can only hope its mate made the trip with the movers."

"But no music box?" Samantha asked her.

"No, no music box," Eva said sadly. But then she brightened. "I probably overlooked it in one of the boxes we've stored in the basement of our new residence. It will probably take me weeks to find it."

"Well, if you don't," Jesse said, "please feel free to call me and we'll look again."

"Thank you so much, and I'll do that," Eva said, smiling. "I'll let myself out. Enjoy your tour, Samantha. But be careful. This is a wonderful house, and you might just fall in love with it."

"I already have," Samantha answered honestly, "and I haven't even seen all of it yet."

"That can be remedied, you know," Jesse said once Eva had gone. "If we can find our way back to the foyer and stairs, that is."

"We don't have to. I saw a second set, near the study, or at least what I'd call the study. There were enough bookshelves in there to open a branch library. We can go up that way. Come on, let's go exploring."

She took his hand and led him toward the servants' stairs, and within moments they were standing in the wide upstairs hallway.

If the downstairs had Samantha falling in love, the upstairs nearly brought her to tears.

Window seats, deep enough for cushions and books and cups of tea and long winter afternoons, were in every bedroom.

There were nooks and alcoves and curious little turns that led to one architectural marvel after another. Detailed woodwork, magnificent wallpapers from another age, high ceilings, huge windows, magnificent vistas outside those windows. She felt like a kid set loose in a candy store.

"Look," she said, leaning on one broad windowsill that overlooked the gardens. "Chrysanthemums. The garden is drenched in chrysanthemums for the fall. Aren't they gorgeous? Oh, look, and there's a gazebo. I'd forgotten about the gazebo."

"You're enjoying yourself, aren't you?" Jesse asked, coming up behind her, so that when she turned around they were standing so close together she could make just one small move and be in his arms.

"I'm sorry," she said, ready to back away to where it was safer for her heart. But she couldn't. Physically, she was up against the wall. Emotionally, she couldn't move if her life depended on it.

"I've missed you like hell," Jesse said, his voice low and faintly rough.

She lowered her head, unable to look in his eyes because they were so hungry they nearly scared her. "It…it has been a long few days, hasn't it?"

"Rome was built in less," he said, putting his hands on her shoulders. "You look good here, Samantha. Like you belong. I like that."

"Here? Don't be silly. This place is huge. I'd rattle around like a marble in a huge bucket."

"We could put down carpets," he said, his hands inching to the sides of her throat, his thumbs beginning to lightly massage the sensitive skin just behind her ears.

"What are you doing?" she asked, wetting her suddenly dry lips with the tip of her tongue. "I mean it, Jesse, what are you doing?"

"I don't have the faintest damn idea, sweetheart. Maybe I'm finally finding my heart's truth," he said, and then he kissed her.

* * *

"Rand? I hate to bother you again today. It's Jesse Colton."

"Jesse, hello. You're not bothering me, you're rescuing me. I've about burned my eyes out reading a brief that could keep Rip Van Winkle asleep for another twenty years. Did you go see the house?"

Jesse adjusted the cell phone at his ear as he headed toward the parking garage, stepping around two tourists taking pictures of the White House. "I did, earlier this afternoon. Great place."

"I didn't think it was a prefab knockoff of a Georgetown mansion," Rand said, and Jesse could hear the amusement in his cousin's voice.

"Yeah, well, what I want from you now, Rand, if you don't mind, is the name of a good appraiser if you've got one. Is that what they call them, appraisers? I've never bought a house, so I'm not sure."

"A real estate appraiser, yes. But you don't have to do that. I've got the latest appraisal here, thanks to the trust. We had a new appraisal done for you the moment we found out about the house. Hang on a second and I'll find it."

Jesse made it to his car while waiting for Rand, and had his hand on the door handle when Rand read him the figure, which otherwise might have been enough to knock him off his feet.

"Wow," he said, his hand frozen in place. "It's true what they say about Georgetown, isn't it? Pricey."

"Are you planning to recommend that the family sells it?" Rand asked as Jesse opened the car door, slipped into the driver's seat.

"Yes, that's exactly what I'm planning. I mean, we could continue to rent it out for the income, but I think the family wants the assets of the trust to be all in funds so it's easier to handle. This is the only real estate, and it kind of messes up the works, you know?"

"I can probably help you out, then. I mean, all you have to do is put out the word and you'll have buyers lining up. One of my associates can handle the title search—you need one, even if we know it's a clear title—and the closing when the deal is done."

"Thanks, I'll take you up on that," Jesse said, backing out of his space. "The title search and the closing, that is. I already have a buyer."

"You work fast, cousin," Rand said.

"I'm an easy sell," Jesse said, smiling at his own small joke.

"What? Do I understand this correctly? You're going to buy the house? But you already own the house."

"We own the house, cousin, my whole family owns that house. That's why I wanted the appraisal, to make sure I'd be offering the full market value less only my share, as my parents have already decided each of us kids gets one share, and one vote in what we do with the trust."

"Nice. I like your family, and I've yet to meet most of them."

"Thanks. As for the price? I got really lucky with a few little security gadgets I dreamed up over the years, so I can afford it, although I'll probably have to work until I'm eighty to pay off the mortgage. But that's all right. You see, I need a house. I need this house. I'm getting married."

"No kidding. That's terrific. Your fiancée must be over the moon if she's seen the house."

Jesse pulled to the exit of the parking garage and stepped on the brake, not wanting to pull out into traffic while still on the cell phone. "Definitely crazy about it. Now to get her to be crazy about me."

"Excuse me? What did you say? Are you saying you haven't asked the woman yet?"

"That would be it in a nutshell, cousin. Probably because she might hate me once I tell her everything I have to tell her. Still, it wouldn't be fair to ask her first and then tell her the bad news. Wish me luck?"

"Sure, even if I don't have the damnedest idea what you're talking about. Keep me informed, okay? Man, I've got to meet all the rest of my new Colton relatives, if you're a sample of them. I think you'll all fit in very well with our branch of the family. Believe me, we're all just a little off center when it comes to romance and marriage."

"We'll have to swap stories one day," Jesse said.

"I'll bring the wine and the crying towel. And good luck to you, cousin."

Jesse thanked him and cut the connection.

He was buying a house. His family would approve, he was sure of that.

Getting Samantha to agree, however, was going to be—as Old Abe might say it—a whole different kettle of mackerel.





Chapter Seven

"No, everything is fine, really. I would have called you otherwise, you know that."

Samantha listened with only half an ear, because Rose was always on the phone. Always, and with everyone. Adding another line just meant that she could talk to more people at the same time.

With call waiting, Samantha figured that Rose often spoke with four different people at the same time, on two different cordless telephones.

Other than Rose's extensive knowledge of Russian history and her ability to grow her nails long enough to stick small decorative decals on them, Samantha most envied Rose her mastery of keeping four different conversations going without breaking a sweat.

"…and then she told him if he didn't agree with her theme statement, he could just blow it out his ear. Can you imagine her saying that? To a professor? No wonder she's changed majors three times."

Samantha snuggled deeper into the comfortable couch and smiled as she turned a page in her book, Political Campaign: Strategies for the New Millennium.

"…so I told her, I said, Sarah, if you want to wear pink, wear pink, but then, for God's sake, get rid of the orange lipstick…"

"Rose," Samantha called out, leaning her head back on the arm of the couch so that her voice would carry into the dining room, "could you please do me a great big favor and go upstairs to—"

"Yes, I know she shouldn't have dumped the spaghetti in his lap, Mrs. C., but I think she's calmed down now. Come here? You want to come here? Well, I—"

Samantha, who had nearly done a flip as she jackknifed off the couch, grabbed one of the telephones from Rose's hand. "Mom? Samantha here. Mom, no. You don't have to come here. It was an accident, and he deserved it anyway. And it was only spaghetti. It wasn't as if I'd beaned him with a brick or something. So really, you don't—"

"Wrong phone," Rose said, handing her the other one, the one that had been stuck to her right ear. "You just told my friend Cynthia about the spaghetti caper, which you didn't have to do. She already knows. Trust me, everybody knows. Here—Mrs. C.'s on this one."

"Mom? It's me," Samantha said into the phone while glaring at Rose. "I…I didn't know you had called. Rose didn't tell me."

What followed was a solid twenty minutes of Samantha's mother talking, and Samantha saying the occasional "Uh-huh" or "I know, Mom, really I do," while glaring at Rose, who'd popped popcorn and sat there watching and listening—and grinning like the Cheshire cat.

By the time Samantha could convince her mother that, yes, the bridge tournament to benefit a local summer camp was more important than flying to Washington to explain, yet again, that ladies do not resort to physical violence, she was exhausted enough to actually thank Rose for putting a bowl of microwaved popcorn in front of her.

"I suppose this is your idea of a peace offering for betraying me to my mother, telling her all my secrets?" she asked her live-in Benedict Arnold. "Um…extra butter. Okay, I forgive you."

"Boy, you're easy. Anyway, you should forgive me," Rose said, curling up on one of the chairs, her own half-eaten bowl of popcorn in her lap. "I talked her out of it, even before you grabbed the phone."

"Oh, really? You're such an innocent do-gooder, Rose, always with my best interests at heart. So? Who do you suppose told her I dumped the spaghetti in Jesse's lap?"

"A little birdie?" Rose suggested, throwing a piece of popcorn in the air, then deftly catching it in her mouth. "So, you saw him again today, right? What's he wearing tonight? Beef Wellington? Moo-goo-guy-whatever? I'm keeping a journal, you understand, and since your life is loads more interesting than mine, I borrow stories once in a while, changing the names to make me look like I have a life at all."

"You're crazy. How you got past the interview with my mother without her figuring that out is still a major marvel to me—and thank God you did, because I really enjoy having you here."

"Beats talking to the walls, huh? Besides, if I can't get a good job with my Russian history major, I may try doing a little stand-up comedy. Hey, you never know. So, answer the question—how did it go today?"

Samantha leaned her head back and closed her eyes, melting inside with the memories of a perfect afternoon. "It went…well. Really, really well."

"Oh, kootchie-mama, I want details. Lots of details. Consider it charity work to a shut-in, since I haven't had a date in three weeks."

Samantha opened her eyes, sat forward and clasped her hands in her lap. She had to tell somebody or she was going to burst. "Okay, here's the thing. I think I'm falling in love with him."

"Hot damn! Talk slowly, I want to commit this all to memory, okay?"

"Nothing happened, Rose," Samantha said, hoping she wasn't blushing as she told that whopper. "I mean, okay, he kissed me. I kissed him back. We…kissed some more. And then I had to go back to the office for a meeting with a women's voters group from Indiana, and he had to go back to the West Wing to save the free world. Although, if we hadn't both had appointments…?" She let the sentence hang.

"What kind of kisser is he? I mean, there's all kinds, a lot of them pretty darn sloppy. Is he sloppy? He doesn't look like he'd be sloppy. So, what kind of kisser is he? Rate him for me."

Samantha rolled her eyes. "On a scale of one to ten, you mean?"

"Exactly. On a scale of one to ten."

"Okay." Samantha grinned. She couldn't help herself. "He's a fourteen."

"Oh, wow. Oh, wow oh wow oh wow! A ten. Even a twelve. But a fourteen?"

"Maybe a fifteen. Or a ninety-seven. In a league all his own, Rose. Definitely."

"Oh, stop, you're killing me here. Can I be you in my next life?"

Samantha laughed, but then her smile faded. "I don't know what's going to happen next, Rose. I mean, he seems serious. Heaven knows I'm serious. But…but this is all moving so quickly, except for the four days I didn't see him. Those were the longest, hardest, loneliest days in my life. How do you not know a person exists one day, and then not be able to imagine your life without him the next?"

Rose pulled her glasses off the top of her head, positioned them low on her nose and looked at Samantha through slitted eyelids. "Ze girl, ze iz smitten, da? No need iz there for ze crystal ball, ze tea leaves. I zee a wedding gown in ze future. Ze man, dark and handsome. Ze little childrens, all of them laughing, happy, da? Ze picket fence—"

"No picket fence," Samantha interrupted. "But there is a gazebo. A white one, with climbing roses on it. They're all done blooming for the year, unfortunately, but I'm pretty sure they'll be red. Red roses look so lovely against white. Although yellow is pretty, too."

Rose shoved her glasses higher on her nose. "You made up a gazebo? You have been giving this a lot of thought, haven't you, Samantha?"

"I didn't have to make up anything. I saw it. We met today at a house Jesse and his family own in Georgetown. It used to be the Chekagovian embassy."

"Get out! You're kidding me, right? The Chekagovian embassy? That's a mansion."

"It is large," Samantha conceded. "But it's still a home, really. You can just feel the welcome when you walk inside the door. It's vacant right now, and Jesse told me the family is going to sell it. Oh, and I met Eva Ritka today, too. She's the youngest daughter of the Chekagovian ambassador. She came by to look for something the movers missed when they packed up all the Ritka belongings."

"What was she like? I've never met an ambassador's daughter."

"She was very nice. Very pretty. I wish she could have found what she was looking for, but Jesse said she could come back anytime, to look again."

"I wish I could see this house. You seem to be fascinated by it."

"I'm more than fascinated." She was quiet for a moment, then shrugged. "Can I swear you to secrecy and really believe you won't go running to tell the world? Oh, and world translates to my mother. Understand?"

"Sure," Rose answered quickly. "I only tell unimportant stuff. You didn't swear me to secrecy about the spaghetti, so I'm guessing this is important?"

"Yes, it is. All right, here goes. Jesse's cousin, Rand Colton, is a lawyer here in town, and he knows all about it. Jesse's related to him, you understand. He told me a lot more about his family this afternoon. I…I phoned him when I got back to the office. Rand, that is."

Rose sat up straighter, tucking her legs under her. "Wait a minute. You talked to his cousin—about the house, right? Why?"

Samantha took a deep breath, let it out slowly. "I…I think I want to buy it…with my trust fund money, and give it to Jesse."

Rose's mouth dropped open for a few seconds, and she blinked rapidly before saying, in some awe, "So much for all your mama's teachings. You're going to buy it, give it to him as a gift? Tell me, Samantha, would this be before or after you propose to him?"

"I'm not going to propose to him. I wouldn't…couldn't do that. I mean, if it never goes that far, if I'm wrong, and he doesn't feel the way I do, then I'd just never tell him I bought it, and sell it again. But what if it got sold before he gets around to asking me to marry him? It's our house, Rose. I could feel it as we walked through the rooms."

"As you and Mr. Scores-Ninety-seven-on-the-Kisso-meter kissed your way through the rooms, you mean," Rose corrected with a grin, then wrinkled her nose in thought. "But wait a minute here. Won't he know if you buy it? Your name would be on the offer, right?"

"Mr. Colton—Rand—says that can be handled. In fact, he was really quite nice. He asked if I had just been to the house with Jesse, because Jesse had told him about the house, and about someone he'd taken there today."

Then she frowned. "He kept…laughing. I don't know why. He said the house couldn't possibly even come onto the market for another month. But he said he'd help me, keep me informed. We're having lunch next week because he wants to meet me."

"Sure, he'll meet you, feed you, then push you straight into a rubber room," Rose said, sighing. "Lord knows, this is going to sound strange coming from me—the original Miss Impulsive—but aren't you sort of rushing things?"

"Sure, I am. I know that. But did you ever know…I mean, just know that something was right? I mean, there are a few problems Jesse and I still have to sort out—something to do with work—but Jesse's special. What I feel for him is special. And I think he feels the same way about me."

"You think he feels the same way about you?"

"All right. I know he does. The heart…well, not to sound soppy, but the heart just knows. Please don't ask me to explain how, because I can't tell you. I don't understand it, I just know it."

"Someone should call your mother," Rose said, hunting in the nearly empty bowl for one of the few remaining popped kernels of corn. Then she lifted her head, grinned at Samantha. "But it's not going to be me."

* * *

A few days later, after two long, intimate dinners in two more of Jesse's and Samantha's favorite restaurants, after two lunches taken together on park benches…and quite a few kisses…Jesse walked into Samantha's office and sat down, his expression determined, and noncommittal.

He didn't even kiss her hello.

"Your dog just die?" Samantha asked, looking at him across the desktop.

He looked at her. How he loved her. How he hoped she felt the same way…and that their love would be enough to get them through the next couple of days. "That might be easier. We have to talk, Samantha."

She frowned. "You're going to refuse to wear a monkey suit to the fund-raiser Friday night?"

He cracked a small smile. "I'll have you know that I look very good in a monkey suit. Better than very good. Splendid, even. Women faint in my path when I walk past them in a monkey suit."

"Probably when they get a glimpse of the tail," Samantha retorted, balling up a piece of typing paper and tossing it at him.

"Maybe. Or maybe it's the little red hat that gets to them, or the tin cup?"

"Would you please stop," Samantha said, laughing. "Why do they call a tuxedo a monkey suit anyway?"

He knew she was stalling. She had sensed that he had bad news for her, and she was stalling…and he was more than willing to stall along with her.

"Is this going to be a philosophical discussion," he asked her in mock seriousness, "or do you really want to know? Because I can grab Bettyann's computer from her, go online, and probably have an answer for you in ten minutes."

"No, that's all right," Samantha said, leaning back in her chair. "Okay, I guess I've stalled enough to get my heart rate back down to normal. What's up, Jesse? You said we probably couldn't have lunch together today because you'd be too busy, remember? So why are you here, and why are you looking like a man bearing bad news?"

He reached into the inside pocket of his suit coat and pulled out a typed sheet of paper, folded in half lengthwise. "They've all been delivered."

He watched as Samantha wet her lips, then folded her hands in front of her on the desktop. "The four envelopes?"

"That would be them, yes. The always unfathomable United States Post Office being what it is, naturally we had to wait an extra day for the envelope going to Saint Louis to arrive, although the one for Sacramento, California, showed up yesterday. Go figure."

"And they were all picked up from their post office boxes? Already?"

"The Chicago guy was hanging around the post office waiting for the boxes to be loaded. Everyone knew the envelopes were expected."

Samantha picked up a large paper clip and began unbending it, her eyes on her task and avoiding his. "Your people were there? To photograph everything? To follow the people who picked up the envelopes?"

"Photos, following, the whole nine yards, Samantha. And do you know what we discovered?"

She put down the paper clip. Looked at him levelly.

And shocked the hell out of him.

"Yes, I think I do. Saint Louis? That would be PDE, Incorporated, an alternative energy company. Chicago? Paul Manners and Sons, a large, privately owned company, also energy. They design nuclear power plants, which is not exactly a booming business right now, but could be if the federal government did something about it. Sacramento has to be First Hit Mining, and Butte, Montana, is either Hasbrook Energy or Sullivan Mining and Engineering. So? How'd I do?"

Jesse shook his head slowly as he stared at her. "How? It was Sullivan, by the way, but—how? How did you know? We didn't know, not until we followed the pick-up guy back to each headquarters."

Samantha unlocked the bottom drawer of her desk and pulled out a green and white printout, then handed it to him.

"Bettyann made up a list for me of all contributors involved in mining and any other energy business, from alternative sources to coal, to gas, to nuclear power. The first pack are those that already contributed, and the second is our list of hopeful contacts for the future. Mrs. Phillips pretty much has the same lists. She asked for them."

Jesse paged through the printouts, shaking his head. "So, since you knew the cities involved from the address labels, you just went down these sheets picking companies? I thought I said you were out of this, sweetheart."

"Exactly, Jesse. You said I was out of this. I never said so. Oh, and you'll see from the printouts that there are four possibles for the address on the first envelope. That's as far down as I can get it. Sorry."

"That's okay, I think we can take it from here." He held up the printouts. "May I keep these?"

She shrugged. "I suppose so. I was pretty sure today would be the day you'd get back to me on the envelopes. I've already typed up my resignation, effective immediately, and will take it up to the Hill and hand deliver it to the senator later today in his Senate office. All I need to do now is to put today's date on and print out a fresh copy. Friday night will be my last day, right after the fund-raiser. I might as well go out with a bang. Besides, I bought a new dress for the dinner."

Jesse was surprised. He hadn't expected her to resign. He got up, walked around the desk and helped her to her feet. "Are you sure about this?"

"How can I stay, Jesse? I have to admit that, until you walked into the office a few minutes ago, I was still hoping this was all some grand mistake, even a bad dream. But it isn't. I can't stay here. I can't be a part of this, because it isn't honest, and because I've chosen up sides, and I'm on your side, not Uncle Mark's. That's confidential information I've given you, about corporations on our wish list of contributors at least, even though all actual contributors become public information at some point. So, yes, Jesse, after Friday night, I am out of the game."

He looked at her for several moments, watched her eyes cloud then clear again as her chin went up, her resolve, it would seem, hardened into granite. She was being so damn brave, as all her dreams of serving President Mark Phillips, of serving in the West Wing, went down the circular bowl. He wanted so badly to hold her, to comfort her.

"Let's get out of here, sweetheart," he said, grabbing her raincoat from the clothes tree and taking her hand, leading her to the door.

"My goodness, going out, Samantha? I'd hoped to go over a few things about the fund-raiser on Friday. And who is your young man?"

Jesse felt Samantha's hand tighten warningly in his. He knew that face, that beautiful, well-preserved, smiling face. Mrs. Mark Phillips's face appeared on the pages of his morning newspapers at least twice a week.

He squeezed Samantha's hand reassuringly in return, then let it go, and smiled broadly as he extended his hand to Joan Phillips.

"Ma'am," he said with an exaggerated drawl as she looked at his hand for a moment, then offered hers as well. "I'm Joe Carter. I was in college with Samantha, although three years ahead of her. Prettiest little thing in the freshman class. I just got into town from Alabama a coupla weeks ago and decided to take a chance, look her up. We've been sight seein' ever since. What a pretty little town, this Washington, ma'am. She's going to take me to see the Lincoln Memorial this afternoon. Aren't you, Samantha?"

"I…well, I—yes, I am. Unless you need me for something, Mrs. Phillips?"

Joan was intently looking at Jesse. "Joe Carter, you said? But—but I do believe Bettyann told me your name was Jesse. Jesse James." She rolled her mascaraed eyes. "I should have known. Bettyann is horrible with nicknames. Jesse James was that outlaw, wasn't he?"

"Yes, ma'am. Outlaw or folk hero, depending on who you ask," Jesse said, looking out toward the main office, to see Bettyann standing in the middle of the room watching them. Odd thing about Bettyann—she was always watching, wasn't she? "I'm supposin', ma'am, that you and Samantha have bunches of things to talk about, so I'll just go step outside and give you some privacy."

"Well, thank you, Mr. Carter, and I appreciate it. You're very nice. I won't keep her long, I promise."

"Joe, please," Jesse said, wishing Samantha had been able to suppress that small whimper. He leaned over, kissed her cheek. "I'll be waitin', sweetheart. No rush. Oh, and I'll tell Bettyann what you wanted her to do."

"What I wanted—oh. Oh, yes. Thank you."

Good girl, Jesse thought as he left the smaller office, closing the door behind him. Thankfully, he'd retrieved the page he'd brought to show Samantha, and had rolled up the printouts she'd given to him. The last thing any of them needed now was for Joan Phillips to see either item of evidence lying on Samantha's desktop.

Now to get rid of Bettyann. Samantha had picked up on that one fast enough, bless her. Jesse didn't want the woman and her loose lips anywhere near Joan Phillips, asking questions about "Joe Carter."

"Bettyann?" he said, then coughed, because her name came out in a sort of drawl. It was time to get back to his usual speech patterns. "Samantha asked me to tell you that she really needs you to go up to the Hill right away, up to the senator's office."

Bettyann looked toward the glass-topped door to Samantha's office. "Me? Why?"

"To pick up something that was supposed to have been sent here," Jesse told her, improvising easily. "Something for the fund-raiser dinner."

"Can't…can't I send someone else? Geoff could go. I mean, Mrs. Phillips was going to tell me about her dress for the fund-raiser. Some designer thing."

Jesse gave a little jerk with his head. "Gee, I don't know, Bettyann. Whatever this is, Samantha seems worried about it, and said she definitely wants you to go get it. Oh, and then you can go straight to lunch from there."

Bettyann brightened. "What am I complaining about? With any luck, I can stretch this into a two-hour project, and I do need new panty hose for Friday night. Okay, I'm gone."

"Thank you, Bettyann," Jesse said before he pulled out a desk chair and sat down, his back to Samantha's office and his eyes on the large exterior window that reflected the interior of that same office.

He could see Samantha sitting behind her desk, Mrs. Phillips sitting in the chair on the other side. They were talking. Nothing more, just talking. Samantha seemed composed, collected.

"Hello. May I get you a cup of coffee?"

Jesse looked up to see Geoff Waters smiling at him. "Sounds good," he said to his friend and former coworker at the National Security Agency, "but I can get it myself. If you'd show me where you keep the pot."

"In the staff lounge. I'll be happy to show you where that is," Geoff said, leading the way then closing the door behind them.

"What's up?"

"Well," Geoff said, leaning his rangy frame against the edge of an old table, "I've got four paper cuts, and I've learned how to put a new roll of black film in a fax machine. I've discovered a pretty good little café around the corner—great grilled-cheese sandwiches—I've talked to at least five hundred people who either want to give money to Phillips or have him burn in hell…and I've found a mole. That's probably the part you want to hear about, right?"

Jesse, who had been in the process of pouring himself a cup of coffee he didn't really want, turned his head to look at his friend and fellow agent. "Who?" he asked, holding out the full coffee cup, hoping he didn't already know the answer to his question.

Geoff took it, took a sip of the hot coffee. "Bettyann," he said then, wincing as the coffee hit his tongue. "She's Mrs. Phillips's eyes and ears in here. Nothing, and I do mean nothing, that goes on in here isn't reported to Joan Phillips. I sure hope you didn't do one of your infamous good ole Alabama boy Southern routines in there, bucko, because Bettyann has probably reported everything but your shoe size to Mrs. Phillips by now. So? Think she made you?"

"Damn it!" Jesse put down the cup he was going to fill for himself and sat down. "Great information, Geoff, but a little late. Oh, yeah, she made me. Which means she made Samantha. She knows now, for sure, who took that first envelope. Damn it! I've got to go get Samantha out of here."

"What about me?" Geoff asked, following him. "Do I stick here?"

Jesse paused, his hand on the doorknob. "Can you give me until Friday night?"

"It goes down then?"

"What goes down then, Geoff?" Jesse asked, looking at his friend.

"Oh, come on," Geoff said. "Mrs. Phillips has eyes and ears, and so do I. Besides, Billy and I talked about it at lunch. Mark Phillips is dirty in some way, isn't he? Him and the missus. And you're going to take them down."

"Go wash your face," Jesse said tightly. "You've got ink on your nose."

"Hey, I was just asking is all, bucko," Geoff said, holding up his hands. "Is she…is she in any danger? Your whistle-blower?"

"No. No danger. But you are, old friend, if you let anything slip."

"Consider me mute, bucko," Geoff said, then rubbed at his nose, just in case there was ink on it.

Jesse opened the door, immediately looking to his left, toward Samantha's office. Joan Phillips was just getting up from her seat, and Samantha rose as well, walking around the desk to give her "aunt" a kiss on the cheek.

How hard had that been for her? Probably pretty damn hard.

Moments later, Joan Phillips walked through the office, calling a cheerful goodbye to "Joe," and then she was gone.

"How'd it go?" Jesse asked Samantha once they, too, were outside the office, heading for the park.

"Fine, actually. She just wanted to know the final seating chart now that the president is definitely going to be there—the man changes his mind so often I wonder how he can run the country so well. And she questioned my choice of table linens. I told her it was too late to change the color and she said that was fine. And that's it."

Jesse only nodded. "You're excited about the president being there, aren't you?"

She goggled at him. "Are you kidding? I can't stand that he's going to be there to put his seal of approval on Uncle Mark. When he finds out what Aunt Joan has done? The president, the whole White House, the whole party, is going to be standing there with egg on its collective face. Can't we stop this?"

"That's up to Bob Forrester," Jesse said, taking her hand as they crossed at the corner, entered the small pocket park and headed for "their" bench.

"The chief of staff? It has actually gone that far?"

"I'm sorry, sweetheart, but yes, Old Abe knows. I had to tell him. And with the information we got today, the names of the companies…?"

Samantha pressed the heels of her hands against her eyes. "Do you know yet if Uncle Mark is involved, or just Aunt Joan? I don't want it to be either of them, but most especially not Uncle Mark. I…I've always looked up to him, you know. What happens Friday night, Jesse? Please. Tell me."

"I can't, sweetheart. I really can't. The only thing I can tell you is that you're out of it, you're safe, and nobody can involve you if this news breaks out, becomes fodder for the press."

"I don't care about that," she said, putting her hands in her lap, squeezing her fingers together. "Oh, I wish there were some…some graceful way out of this. Some way that wouldn't be a scandal."

Jesse put a finger beneath her chin, tipped her head up to his. "Do you trust me, Samantha?"

She blinked, then sighed. "Yes. I trust you, Jesse."

"And you'll do anything I say between now and Friday night, and most especially Friday night?"

"I'm not robbing a bank for you," she said, summoning a weak smile. "But, yes, I think so."

"And then, when this is all over, will you let me ask you a question, Samantha? A very important question?"

She took another shaky breath. "You…you could ask it now."

He pulled her into his arms, her head resting against his shoulder. "Sweetheart, I'm going to have to do my duty Friday night. It might work the way Old Abe and I planned it, and it might not. If we screw up, if something goes wrong, you'll always know that I'm the guy who brought Senator Phillips and his wife down, disillusioned your parents, and got your name dragged through the mud."

She sat up, looked at him strangely. "Wait a minute," she said, her voice steady, no longer hesitant or nervous. "Let me see if I've got this straight, okay? You're planning something big for the night of the fund-raiser. If it goes well, you'll ask me an important question—a very important question—afterward. But if it doesn't, if it all hits the fan—you're not going to ask the question?"

Jesse shifted his eyes right, then left, sort of mentally hunting through his words to figure out why they sounded so stupid when she repeated them to him. "That had been how I thought about it, yes. But—"

Samantha stood up, glared down at him. "You're such a jerk, Jesse Colton. What do you think I am? Some…some shallow person? Do you think I wouldn't be able to handle a little trouble?"

"Being a witness at televised congressional hearings, being subpoenaed by a Special Prosecutor, having your entire life put under a microscope by the tabloids, who would just love to make you their latest political pinup gal—that's not my definition of a little trouble, sweetheart."

"Oh. Wait. I get it now. You don't want your name linked with mine if that happens, right?"

Jesse stood up, feeling his own temper rise with him. "That's bull, Samantha, and you know it. I've got my backside hanging right out there with yours, you know. Okay, Old Abe knows now, but he didn't, not in the beginning. I set this thing up on my own, and I probably didn't have the authority to do that. If we hang, we hang together, and that's fine by me—where you stand, I stand beside you, period. But that doesn't mean that you'll like me, now, does it?"

"I don't like you right now," she said, turning her back on him.

Jesse put his arms around her waist, pulled her back against him. "Do you think either of us is making any sense here, sweetheart?" he asked, kissing her hair.

"No," she said quietly. But she didn't fight him, try to get free of his arms. She just leaned the back of her head against his shoulder and sighed.

"So, if I apologize for being an ass, will you understand that I'm on some shaky ground here, and have been ever since we met and I figured out that you were going to be the most important person in my life?"

"Really?" she asked, turning in his arms, sliding her own arms up and around his neck. "I felt the same way. You have a very powerful effect on people, Jesse."

He went forehead to forehead with her, looking deeply into her eyes. "It's all for show, where you're concerned. Inside, I'm sixteen years old, asking for a first date with the prom queen, and scared out of my socks that she'll turn me down. Maybe even laugh at me."

"I wouldn't do that, Jesse," Samantha said, her voice little more than a whisper. "But you're probably right, and you shouldn't ask me that important question until everything else is out of the way, and we can concentrate on both your question and my answer."

"Okay," he said, kissing her, then moving away from her, taking her hand as they walked back toward the street. "But I will tell you one thing now, if that's all right."

"About Friday night?"

"No. About the other afternoon, after I got the go-ahead from my family. I bought the house, Samantha."

When she stopped dead and stared at him, he smiled and repeated, "I bought the house. My cousin Rand called and told me there was another bidder—how anyone found out it was going to be put up for sale baffles me—so I had to move fast."

"Another…another bidder? Imagine that." Samantha started walking again. "And it was your cousin who told you about the other bidder—obviously an anonymous bidder, because you didn't give me a name."

"Yes, you're right. Why?"

"Oh, no reason," Samantha said, smiling at him. "So you bought the house. What are you going to do with it?"

They stopped at the corner, waiting for the traffic to clear so that they could cross the street. "I'll tell you…Friday night."





Chapter Eight

Jesse sat in his office in the West Wing, staring at the telephone.

Did he dare? And, if he did, would his sister be able to keep her mouth shut, not tell their parents until he told them himself?

Sure she could. Sky was a good egg.

His pretty little sister was also one first-rate jewelry designer.

"Okay, for better or worse, here goes," Jesse said out loud, reaching for the phone, punching in the number of his sister's shop in Oklahoma.

"Hi, sis, make any nose rings lately?" he asked when she answered on the third ring.

"Jesse! I didn't expect to hear from you until we all got together at Thanksgiving. What's up?"

"Pretty much, actually, but I don't want to get into that right now. What I need to know from you is—do you have any engagement rings in stock? I know you do mostly custom work, all that turquoise stuff, but I figured maybe you had a couple of regular engagement rings just sort of lying around there somewhere…"

He let the sentence dangle for a few moments, then said, "Sky? You still there? Help me out here, Sky."

"I'm here. I was just hunting up a stool so I could sit down before my knees gave out," his sister answered. "You want a ring, Jesse? I mean, I'm on the portable phone, and sometimes it goes a little wonky…but you really said you want an engagement ring?"

"I know, I know, it all sort of comes as a shock to me, too."

"You didn't say anything when you were in Black Arrow, Jesse. When did you meet her? Where? What's her name? Do you love her so much it hurts? Will I like her?"

"You'll be crazy about Samantha."

"Samantha. Nice name. What does she look like? How does she live? What does she wear? Talk to me, Jesse."

"Why do you need to know that?"

"Because I do have some lovely engagement rings here, but I'd have to know something about her to fit the ring to the woman. That's important, Jesse. Does she like modern stuff? Avant-garde? Or traditional? Maybe a simple solitaire? Maybe she's a knuckle-to-knuckle person—you know, wide band, maybe even three rings total?"

"Damn, Sky, I didn't know it would be this hard," Jesse said, sighing.

"Not hard, Jesse. But this is important. She's the one who has to wear it for fifty years, look at it for fifty years. She might not want one from me just because I'm your little sis, the jewelry designer. So tell me."

Jesse leaned back in his chair, closed his eyes. "She's…she's sleek, Sky. By that I mean she's one of those graceful blondes who looks like she should be on the cover of some magazine."

"I'm thinking not Popular Mechanics, right?" Sky asked with a laugh.

"No," Jesse agreed, shaking his head. "How do I explain Samantha? Sophisticated yet touchable. Beautiful in a classic sense, but she loves fun, isn't afraid to make faces, look silly. She wears lots of fuzzy sweaters and soft slacks at home, suits to work. Her suits always have skirts, and she has fantastic legs—not that you probably need to know that, but I enjoy them. Oh, and she always wears the same thick gold chain around her neck. Does that help?"

"It helps me know that she likes gold. Would you call her traditional, Jesse? Would that be the word? You know, big soft couches, cherry woods, stays away from the trendy, the latest fads?"

"Yes," Jesse said, sitting forward. "You've got it, Sky. That's Samantha. I bought the house for her, you know."

"What house?"

"The one Grandmother Gloria never told us about, along with everything else. I spoke with Great-Grandfather George and Bram, a few others, and they okayed the deal. I'm paying full market price, less what would be my share. She's crazy about the house, Sky. I figure it's my ace in the hole when I propose, then tell her about the house."

"Tell me about the house, Jesse. If she likes it, I'll be able to tell even more about her. As it is, I've already got my mind down to three possible rings I designed a while ago, in one of my sentimental June-bride phases. I'm such a romantic. Man, I can't believe this. Jesse, getting married. Am I the first to know?"

"Even before Samantha," Jesse told her. "Oh, and before we talk about the house, I need one more favor from you if I can. I have to have the ring by Friday afternoon. Can you ship it that fast?"

"If you're getting married, I can fly it there myself. Seriously, Jesse, this is great, just great. And I think it's wonderful that this is all happening so fast, really I do. I don't believe in wasting a day when you've found your happiness. What did Great-Grandfather George say about you the last time I called home? Oh, I remember now. Something about the raven seeking, and finding the heart's truth. Is this Samantha your heart's truth, Raven?"

"Yes, Sky, she is, which means that Great-Grandfather George is going to be spouting even more of his obscure wisdom now that I've proved him right."

"Oh, he already is, Jesse. He wants to call Billy overseas, as a matter of fact, to tell him something about how danger lurks in the big city, and that the night is always darkest before the dawn."

"That sounds like Great-Grandfather George, all right. Poor Billy, he's in for it now, isn't he?" Jesse said with a grin, then told her about the house. His and Samantha's house…

* * *

Samantha walked down the stairs, careful to hold the banister because the bottoms of her new shoes were still a bit slippery, then stopped at the bottom to inspect her reflection in the long mirror on the lower landing.

She'd chosen black, although this was far from a dress anyone would pick to wear to a funeral…even if she was going to the death of a candidacy.

Turning slightly to her left, Samantha admired the way the soft, swingy skirt resettled just at the middle of her knees, leaving her legs exposed in almost nude stockings. The scoop neckline, front and back, was almost like an off-the-shoulder cowl neckline, with a large fold-over of black silk that skimmed her breasts, her arms, and all the way across her back. And her waistline didn't look so shabby, either, encircled with a slim self-fabric belt with a small golden buckle.

"Oh, wow," Rose said, walking in from the dining room, licking at a double-decker mint chocolate chip ice cream cone. "Hot mama."

"Thank you," Samantha said, leaning forward slightly as she skimmed a hand over her hair that she'd pulled back in a classic French twist. "Now, tell me the truth, Rose. Do I look professional yet friendly, competent yet approachable, sincere yet—"

"You look fine, Samantha," Rose said, shaking her head. "And since when are you nervous about this stuff, anyway? You could pull off one of these dinners in your sleep."

Samantha took a deep breath, trying to believe Rose. But, then, Rose didn't know what she knew…which wasn't much. All she really knew was that tonight could be a success or a disaster. And that, either way, this was the last night of Mark Phillips's short run for president of the United States.

She went to the hall closet and pulled out her black raincoat, the one that went down nearly to her ankles, and slipped it on. It took her three tries to get her left arm into the sleeve. "Jesse should be here by now."

"I hope he brings a basket with him, because you're going to need one. I mean it, you're a real basket case, Samantha. Here—your purse. You'll need it."

Samantha took the purse from Rose. "Thanks. Oh, there's the bell. He's here. Gotta go."

"I'll keep the home fires burning," Rose called after her as Samantha ran toward the foyer. "Go get 'em, Samantha. Break a leg. 'Ray, team, and all of that! Bye!"

"What's she saying?" Jesse asked as Samantha opened the door, practically barreled into him.

"Who knows," she said, taking a deep breath.

He looked magnificent. Black tuxedo, obviously custom made. Snow-white shirt with small pleats running down the front. Simple yet elegant black onyx studs. A perfectly tied bow tie—no clip-on for the Raven. A soft white wool scarf draped around his neck.

"You look…good," she said, sighing.

"You look like you're wearing a raincoat," he said, kissing her cheek. "Are you going to flash the thousand-dollar-a-plate crowd, or is there a dress under there?"

"Very funny—not."

"Sorry, I was just trying to lighten the mood. Are you okay?"

"No, I'm not okay," she said as he helped her into the passenger seat of his car, then got in on the driver's side. "You've kept me totally in the dark for days, Jesse, when you know exactly what's going to happen. Did you really think I'd be okay?"

He pulled away from the curb, heading for the Watergate Hotel, the site of the fund-raiser. She'd tried to make a joke about the location at one point, but it had fallen flat, just like her mood every time she thought about what might happen this evening.

"Is the president still going to be there?" she asked. "Can you at least tell me that? I mean, I've got to do some big changes with the seating arrangement if he's not going to be there."

"He'll be there, with the first lady and the chief of staff. In fact, he's probably going to arrive in about twenty minutes."

"No, he can't do that, Jesse. We're only going to the hotel now because I have so much to do, to check on. The dinner doesn't start for another two hours. The president is scheduled to arrive just in time for a small meet-and-greet, then sit down to dinner."

"Well, you know what they say about the best-laid plans of mice and men," Jesse said, reaching over to squeeze her hand. It was only then that she realized that she'd been unclasping and clasping her purse like some madwoman.

"Okay, okay. You're having fun with your big secret plan. Just tell me this—are the president and first lady going to be staying for the dinner? Or are they just showing up to say something terrible to Uncle Mark and then leave again?"

"They'll be at the dinner. I understand the president even has a speech prepared. A few remarks."

"Oh, God," Samantha said, sinking low on the bucket seat. "Please tell me he's not going to take over the night. Our president doesn't know the meaning of a few remarks. He'll talk for an hour, while the desserts made up in perfect little American flags of blueberry, pineapple and strawberry sherbet melt all over the kitchen while the staff waits to serve them."

"Sherbet flags? Your idea?"

She shot him a level stare. "Do you really think that? No-o-o," she said with great emphasis on the word. "They were Aunt Joan's idea. She actually talked a chef into making up slice-and-serve American flags."

"I didn't think it was your style," Jesse said as they pulled up to the valet entrance of the hotel. "Well, we're here. Promise me something, Samantha. Whatever I say or do, just follow along, all right? No questions, no hesitation, just follow my lead."

"I'd like to say no to you on that," Samantha told him honestly. "I'd like to say that no, I'm not only going to be standing back and watching Uncle Mark's dreams be ground into dust, but I'm going to help with the grinding. But I can't. I trust you, Jesse. I trust you not to let him be hurt any more than he has to be hurt."

"If he's unaware of what his wife has done, that's a deal, Samantha. Everybody likes Senator Phillips. But if he's in on it? Then all bets are off, and I have nothing to say about any of it."

"I understand," Samantha said as one of the valets opened her door for her. "Okay, let's go get this over with before I chicken out and go lock myself in a closet somewhere."

* * *

Samantha had really outdone herself. The ballroom had a lot going for itself, just from an architectural standpoint, but Samantha had used the tables and other furnishings, the chandeliers and dais, to great advantage with some inspired decorating.

No red-white-and-blue crepe-paper bunting, no tacky blowup photographs of the candidate. Nothing that looked like election night in the local fire hall in Black Arrow.

This was class, all class. Silver sparkled, crystal caught the light. Fine china rested on dark navy linen tablecloths. Flowers were everywhere.

"Looks good," he said, not bothering to say more because he doubted Samantha even heard him. She was too busy checking on the flower arrangements, making sure the twenty-five musicians were fed before they took up their instruments, checking the individual table place cards against her master list and the seating chart.

"You know," she said during a break in the controlled mayhem that seemed to rage all around them, "this is a whole lot of work for nothing if this dinner doesn't come off. But you said the president is staying?"

"Five times," Jesse said, then saw the tall, thin form of Bob Forrester out of the corner of his eye. The chief of staff motioned to him, a prearranged signal. "Uh-oh, show time. POTUS is in the building."

"Where?" Samantha swung around, looking for the usual contingent of Secret Service agents, and for some sign of the commander in chief.

"I understand there's a sitting room down the hall. That's where we're going. The senator and his wife are probably already there, at Old Abe's request. Are you ready?"

"Yes. No. Wait, I need Bettyann. She needs to take over if I'm going to be out of the ballroom." She looked around the room once more. "I don't understand. She should have been here an hour ago."

"Bettyann won't be here, Samantha," Jesse said, knowing he'd just taken the first step toward everything else that would happen tonight. "She's decided to move back to Ohio."

"O-what? She can't—she wouldn't—she what?"

Jesse quickly put his hand at Samantha's elbow and began walking her toward one of the exits into the hallway. "Remember how calm and cool you were going to be, sweetheart? Now's the time."

Samantha smiled at one of the waiters, then asked him to make sure the staff knew they were not to serve the fruit cocktail until everyone was seated. "Nobody likes warm fruit cocktail," she told him, then kept walking. "There, how was that? Calm enough for you?"

"Very good. And you're right. Nobody likes warm fruit cocktail. Now, about our friend Bettyann. She worked for Joan Phillips."

"Well, of course she did. We all do. We—wait a minute. How did she work for Aunt Joan?"

"Didn't you ever wonder why she asked so many questions, sweetheart?"

Samantha shrugged her elegant bare shoulders. "I thought she was nosy."

"So did I, at first. But, according to Bettyann, she kept Mrs. Phillips informed about everything that was going on at the campaign office. All about you, all about everyone. And she also volunteered, after a few more questions, that she did some private mailings for the lady. Got lists together, printed up computer labels, everything. And then intercepted any mailings that came into the office that were addressed to her directly and had Personal written on the bottom left-hand side of the envelope. Oh, and she planted that bug in your office, Samantha, for her employer."

"Bettyann? I can't believe this. Did she know anything? I mean, did she know what she was doing was wrong?"

"We're pretending she didn't. She swears she didn't. Even as she was delivering those personal envelopes to Mrs. Phillips twice a week, unopened, and picking up her extra pay for services rendered. She was going to get teeth braces and a new car with her extra earnings."

"But, if Bettyann was doing the mailings, why was that envelope there for me to find?"

"The stupid mistake, Samantha. When we pressed her on it, Bettyann remembered that her ex-boyfriend Benny called her to say he wanted to come over, get the rest of his clothing out of her apartment, and she got upset, wanted to intercept him before he got there because he still had a key. She mailed the rest of the envelopes—yes, there were more we're still trying to track down—and left the one with the damaged envelope to deal with the next morning. She figured you saw it, as you were still at the office when she left, and put it in a new envelope, mailed it for her. Stupid mistakes, Samantha. They always happen, sooner or later. And then, as we've said, the walls come tumbling down. All right, here we are."

They stopped outside heavy wood double doors guarded by two agents in black suits and earpieces, and were asked to show identification.

"You're on the list, Mr. Colton," one of the agents said. "You, too, Ms. Cosgrove." He handed Samantha's purse back to her after inspecting its contents, then reached over and opened the door. He closed it after they passed inside the small room that held the leader of the free world.

"Samantha, hello there. Joan, look who's here, our wonderful campaign organizer. Excuse me a moment, Mr. President," Senator Mark Phillips said, putting down his wineglass as he stood up, held a hand out to his wife. Together, they walked over to kiss her cheek. "Ah, and this must be your young man? Joe, isn't it?"

"Jesse, Senator," Jesse said as they shook hands. Mark Phillips was a handsome man, with a genuine smile and a firm handshake. Not that any of that meant he couldn't also be, as Great-Grandfather George said, crooked as a dog's hind leg. "Jesse Colton. I work in the West Wing."

"Is that so, is that so," the senator said, still energetically pumping Jesse's hand. "Well, Joan, looks like you had that one wrong. Not Joe, Jesse."

Jesse looked at Mrs. Phillips, who had begun to go pale under her expertly applied makeup.

"You're not Joe Carter? Where's your Southern drawl? The West Wing? I don't understand. Were you deliberately making fun of me the other day, young man?"

"No, ma'am," Jesse said, motioning for everyone to go back across the room, retake their seats. "I think you'll understand everything shortly, ma'am, Senator."

"Hello there, Jesse," President Jackson Coates said from his seat beside his wife on a red-and-ivory-striped satin couch. "And you must be Samantha Cosgrove." The president got to his feet, extended his hand. "I expressly asked Jesse to include you in our little group tonight. It's a distinct pleasure to meet you, young lady."

"Thank you, Mr. President," Samantha said, then stepped back a pace and looked at Jesse.

"We'll sit over here," he told her, taking her hand and leading her to two chairs fitted into a corner of the room, on either side of a square wood and brass table.

Jesse sat down, then looked toward the center of the room, to see Joan Phillips looking at him over her shoulder. Glaring at him over her shoulder. Glaring at Samantha.

The woman knew. She had to know. It was over, all over.

"Mark," the president said, sitting down once more, "I'm afraid I have some bad news for you."

"Mr. President?" the Senator said, immediately looking at his wife. Not hard to tell who was the power behind the throne in that relationship.

Jackson Coates crossed one leg over the other and also looked at Joan Phillips. "Where to begin? Ah, Bob, thank you, yes, that's probably the best place," he said, taking the large manila envelope the chief of staff handed him. One of the envelopes. He slid out the contents, the internal memo that had started it all.

"What's that, Mr. President?" the senator asked, and the president handed over the pages. "Why…why this is…" He looked at the president. "I don't understand. This is internal information, even speculation. Committee work. But in the wrong hands—how did you get this, sir?"

The president raised one eloquent eyebrow. He might not be a tall man, but he was an impressive man, with a presence that made him seem larger than life. "We thought so. You don't know, Mark, do you?"

"Know what, sir? What's going on? Did someone break into my office?"

Jackson Coates cleared his throat, folded his hands in his lap and looked at Mark Phillips's wife. "Joan? Do I tell him, or do you?"

Twenty minutes later, it was over and everyone stood up, even shook hands.

Joan Phillips wiped at her eyes, for she had cried, just a little, before getting herself back under control.

She'd tried to explain away what she'd done, tried to call it nothing more than smart campaigning. She'd even gotten angry when the president told her that special interests would own her husband if he got into office.

"Don't be silly, Jackson," she'd said. "Once we were safely in office, they could all go hang. We just need them to get there."

The woman was a real piece of work, Jesse decided as he watched them all leave the room.

"So that's it?"

He turned to Samantha. "That's it. Dinner's in ten minutes, sweetheart. Are you hungry?"

"Not really, no. I still can't believe what happened, what I heard, what I saw."

"It's for the best, Samantha. Your uncle Mark is a good man, with a foolish, ambitious wife. But, luckily, bottom line, there's been very little actual harm done. With the senator leaving the race—for health reasons, an ever-popular reason—any money that's already come in can be returned once Mrs. Phillips tells us the details, and nobody has bought anybody's influence or vote."

"I can't believe Uncle Mark is going to resign from the Senate."

"It's the only honorable thing to do, Samantha. He and your aunt can go home, take it easy, and she can run for president of the local town council, or something."

"She could, you know," Samantha said, sighing. "Mom used to wonder why Aunt Joan didn't run for office instead of Uncle Mark. She seemed to enjoy it all more. The campaigning, the celebrity."

"Don't forget the wheeling and dealing, sweetheart. So it's all over. The senator announces he's dropping out of the race, the president gets to make a very nice speech about the senator's long years of service to his country, and the contributors get to donate their thousand-bucks-a-plate to the party if they want to—and I can't picture any of them asking for the money back, can you?"

"Not when they can say they were the first to hear that Senator Mark Phillips, the top contender, has dropped out of the race, no. I guess I don't have to give Uncle Mark my letter of resignation now, do I? After tonight, the whole office staff is out of a job."

As they walked back down the long hallway, Jesse heard the orchestra striking up "Hail to the Chief."

"We can't go in now, not until the president is done making his entrance, shaking hands with everybody from captains of industry to the waiters."

"That's all right. I don't really think I want to stay, if you don't mind. I'm certainly not hungry."

"I know where we could go," Jesse said, taking her hand and heading toward the cloakroom to get her raincoat and his scarf. "It is Friday night, and I do have that question I want to ask you."

She smiled at him, her eyes bright, although still faintly shadowed with pity for her uncle. She stepped closer to him as he put an arm around her shoulders. "I think I'd like to answer that question. No matter how the rest of tonight had gone."

* * *

Samantha held her hands clasped together in front of her as they walked into the Georgetown mansion, Jesse leading the way, turning on lights.

The chandelier in the foyer was magnificent at night, and Samantha's eyes began to sting with tears as she looked at the wide, winding staircase and saw, in her mind's eye, laughing children running down those stairs in nightgowns and pajamas, to see what Santa had left for them under the huge Christmas tree in the living room.

"All mine and the bank's," Jesse said, spreading his arms wide as he walked back to her, his broad smile almost sheepish. "Can you imagine what it takes to heat this place in the wintertime?"

"There are plenty of fireplaces," she said as he took her hand and led her through the house. "How good are you at chopping wood?"

"Better than you'd expect. I chopped a lot of wood in my days back in Black Arrow. Come on, I've got something to show you."

"I thought you were going to ask me a question," she said, but kept walking, because he was half pushing her forward.

"I decided you already know what it is, so I did something else."

She shook her head as he took her hands, pulled her into the large kitchen. "Would you stop? You're like a little boy."

"I don't feel like a little boy," he said, taking her in his arms and waltzing her around the large center island of the kitchen. "Little boys don't get to do this," he said, kissing her eyes, her cheeks. "Or this," he said, and stopped dancing, slanted his mouth against hers.

Just when she was melting quite nicely, he put his hands on her shoulders and put some space between them. "Okay. Enough of that for now. I've got a present for you. Look," he said, pointing toward the countertop.

She looked. She saw.

And she burst into tears.

"Jesse! Where…where did you find this?" she asked, stroking the fat ceramic-pig cookie jar. "I can't believe you found this."

"Neither can I. It took three hours on the Internet and a really quick trip to Maryland early this morning, but I've got it. Probably the last surviving ceramic-pig cookie jar in captivity. Do you like it?"

"I love it," Samantha said, wiping at her eyes with a tissue she'd found in the pocket of her raincoat. "I love you," she said, sniffling.

His smile was so sudden, so bright, that she had to press her fingers against her mouth to hold back a sob.

"I love you, Samantha Cosgrove," he told her. "Marry me?"

"Do…do I get to keep the pig if I say no?" she asked him, because if she didn't say something silly she was going to turn into one big watering pot of happy tears.

"Nope. We're a package deal. Oh, and you haven't looked inside. There's something inside."

"Cookies?" Samantha asked, lifting the lid. She bent over the jar, peeked inside. "No, no cookies. It's empty."

"Look harder," Jesse said, standing close beside her.

And there it was, sitting on the bottom of the jar, in a small ivory velvet case.

"Oh, Jesse," she said, taking out the box but not opening it.

"My sister, Sky, she made it. She designs jewelry back in Oklahoma. She says if you don't like it you can pick out anything else you like better, but she's pretty sure she picked the right one. Go ahead. Open it."

"No, you open it," Samantha said, handing him the box. "I'm afraid I'll drop it."

Jesse did as she asked, removing the ring that, through her tears, she saw only as a mass of rich gold and a sparkle that she could swear lit half the room.

And then he went down on one knee—right there in the kitchen, dressed in his tuxedo—and slipped the ring on her finger. Kissed her hand. "The pig is yours. And the ring. And the house. Will you marry us?"

"Yes. Oh, yes. I'll marry you. I'll marry all of you."

She held out her arms to him, longing for him to stand up, for him to hold her, but he stayed where he was. He raised a finger and said, "One more question."

She knelt down and slid her arms around his neck. "When? Anytime. Tonight. Tomorrow. Next week. I'll marry you every week if you want."

"No, that's not it," he said, pulling her close. "I have a special request. I want to know if we can serve spaghetti and meat sauce at the reception."

"Oh, Jesse, I love you," Samantha said, and pulled him to her for a kiss.





Special thanks and acknowledgment are given to Kasey Michaels for her contribution to THE COLTONS series.