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A Conflict of Interest
Barbara Dunlop


She tried to stay away from him….More than once, White House PR specialist Cara Cranshaw has considered that reporter Max Gray might want her only because he can't have her. Given their work, a relationship is dicey–and impossible now that the president has taken office.For Max, their relationship may be a lark, a fling–maybe she's just another woman in the long line that forms a part of his bachelor lifestyle. But for her, what they have is different. She's all but given him her heart. And now she is having his baby.










“I can’t date you, Max.”

“I can’t stop wanting you, Cara.”

She lifted her long lashes, her crystal-blue eyes looking directly into his. “Try, Max. Summon up some of your famous fortitude, and try.”

He couldn’t help but smile at that. “I’m not here for inside information. I was genuinely concerned about you.”

“As I said—”

“You’re fine. I get it.”

That was her story, and she was sticking to it.


Dear Reader,

Welcome to the Mills & Boon


Desire™ series DAUGHTERS OF POWER: THE CAPITAL. I was delighted to be invited to write the opening book. In A Conflict of Interest, Cara Cranshaw’s loyalties are tested. She is thrilled by the election of President Ted Morrow, but it means an end to her romantic relationship with network journalist Max Gray.

While Max searches for the scandal behind the president’s illegitimate daughter, Cara struggles to hide her unexpected pregnancy, since Max has made his opinion on fatherhood crystal clear.

It’s always great fun to watch a strong hero discover his softer side. I hope you enjoy A Conflict of Interest and all the books to follow in the DAUGHTERS OF POWER: THE CAPITAL series.

Happy reading!

Barbara




About the Author


BARBARA DUNLOP writes romantic stories while curled up in a log cabin in Canada’s far north, where bears outnumber people and it snows six months of the year. Fortunately she has a brawny husband and two teenage children to haul fire-wood and clear the driveway while she sips cocoa and muses about her upcoming chapters. Barbara loves to hear from readers. You can contact her through her website, www.barbaradunlop.com.




A Conflict

of Interest

Barbara Dunlop







www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)


For my husband




One


It was inauguration night in Washington, D.C., and Cara Cranshaw had to choose between her president and her lover. One strode triumphantly though the arches of the Worthington Hotel ballroom to the uplifting strains of “Hail to the Chief” and the cheers of eight hundred well-wishers. The other stared boldly at her from across the ballroom, a shock of unruly, dark hair curling across his forehead, his bow tie slightly askew and his eyes telegraphing the message that he wanted her naked.

For the moment, it was investigative reporter Max Gray who held her attention. Despite her resolve to turn the page on their relationship, she couldn’t tear her gaze from his, nor could she stop her hand from reflexively moving to her abdomen. But Max was off-limits now that Ted Morrow had been sworn in as president.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” cried the master of ceremonies above the music and enthusiastic clapping that was spreading like a wave across the hall. “The President of the United States.” His voice rang out from the microphone onstage at the opposite end of the massive, high-ceilinged room.

The cheers grew to a roar. The band’s volume increased. And the crowd shifted, separating to form a pathway in front of President Morrow. Cara automatically moved with them, but she still couldn’t tear her gaze from Max as he took a few steps backward on the other side of the divide.

She schooled her features, struggling to transmit her resolve. She couldn’t let him see the confusion and alarm she’d been feeling since her doctor’s visit that afternoon. Resolve, she ruthlessly reminded herself, not hesitation and definitely not fear.

“He’s running late.” Sandy Haniford’s shout sounded shrill in Cara’s ear.

Sandy was a junior staffer in the White House press office, where Cara worked as a public relations specialist. While Cara was moving from ball to ball tonight with the president’s entourage, Sandy was stationed here as liaison to the American News Service event.

“Only by a few minutes,” Cara shouted back, her eyes still on Max.

Resolve, she repeated to herself. The unexpected pregnancy might have tipped her world on its axis, but it didn’t change her job tonight. And it didn’t alter her responsibility to the president.

“I was hoping the president would get here a little early,” Sandy continued, her voice still raised. “We have a last-minute addition to the speaker lineup.”

Cara twisted her head; Sandy’s words had instantly broken Max’s psychological hold on her. “Come again?”

“Another speaker.”

“You can’t do that.”

“It’s done,” said Sandy.

“Well, undo it.”

The speakers, especially those at the events hosted by organizations less than friendly to the president, had been vetted weeks in advance. American News Service was no friend of President Morrow, but the cable network’s ball was a tradition, so he’d had no choice but to show up.

It was a tightly scripted appearance, with only thirty minutes in the Worthington ballroom. He would arrive at ten forty-five—well, ten fifty-two as it turned out—then he was to leave at eleven-fifteen. The Military Inaugural Ball was next on the schedule, and the president had made it clear he wanted to be on time to greet the troops.

“What do you want me to do?” asked Sandy. “Should I tackle the guy when he steps up to the microphone?” Sarcasm came through her raised voice.

“You should have solved the problem before it came to that.” Cara lifted her phone to contact her boss, White House Press Secretary Lynn Larson.

“Don’t you think I tried?”

“Obviously not hard enough. How could you give them permission to add a new speaker?”

“They didn’t ask,” Sandy pointed out with a frown. “Graham Boyle himself put Mitch Davis on the agenda for a toast. Two minutes, they say, tops.”

Mitch Davis was a star reporter for ANS. Graham Boyle might be the billionaire owner of the network, and the sponsor of this ball, but even he didn’t get to dictate to the president.

Cara couldn’t help an errant glance at Max. As the most popular investigative reporter at ANS’s rival, National Cable News, he was a mover and shaker himself. He might have some insight into what was up. But Cara couldn’t ask him about this or anything else to do with her job, not now and not ever again.

Cara pressed a speed-dial button for her boss.

It rang but then went to voice mail.

She hung up and tried again.

She could see that the president had arrived at the head table, in front of and below the stage. He was accepting the congratulations of the smartly dressed guests. The men wore Savile Row tuxedos, while the woman were draped in designer fabrics that shimmered under the refracted light of several dozen crystal chandeliers.

The MC, popular ANS talk show host David Batten, returned to the microphone. He offered a brief but hearty welcome and congratulations to the president before handing the microphone over to Graham Boyle. According to the schedule, Graham had three minutes to speak. Then the president would have one dance with the female chair of a local hospital charity and a second with Shelley Michaels, another popular ANS celebrity. That was to be followed by seven minutes at his table with ANS board members before taking his leave.

Cara gave up on her cell phone and started making her way toward the stage. There was a staircase at either end, nothing up the middle. So she knew she had a fifty-fifty chance of stopping Mitch Davis before he made it to the microphone. Too bad she wasn’t a little larger, a little brawnier, maybe a little more male.

Once again, her thoughts turned to Max. The man dodged bullets in war-torn cities, scaled mountains to reach rebel camps and fought his way through crocodiles and hippos for stories on the struggles of indigenous people. If Max Gray didn’t want a person up onstage, that person was not getting up onstage. Too bad she couldn’t enlist his help and would have to rely on her own wits.

She chose the stairs at stage right, wending her way through the packed crowd.

Graham Boyle was waxing poetic about ANS’s role in the presidential election. He’d taken a couple of jabs at President Morrow’s alma mater and its unfortunate choice of mascot given current relations with Brazil. But that was all fair game.

Cara wished she was taller. At five foot five, she couldn’t see the stairs to know if Mitch was waiting to go up on the right-hand side. She regretted having gone for the comfortable two-inch heels instead of the flashy four-inch spikes that her sister, Gillian, had given her for Christmas. She could have used the height.

“Where are you going?” It was Max’s voice in her ear.

“None of your business,” she retorted, attempting to speed up and put some distance between them.

“You have that determined look in your eyes.”

“Go away.”

He tucked in close beside her. “Maybe I can help.”

“Not now, Max.” She was working. Why did he have to do this to her?

“Your destination can’t possibly be a state secret.”

She relented. “I’m trying to get to the stage. Okay? Are you happy?”

“Follow me.” He stepped in front of her.

His six-foot-two-inch height and broad shoulders made him an imposing figure. She supposed it didn’t hurt any that he was famous, either. Last month, he’d been voted one of the ten hottest men in D.C. The upshot was he could move through a crowd far faster than she could. Resigned, she stuck to his coattails.

Even with Max clearing the way, they eventually got stuck behind a crowd of people.

“Why do you want to get to the stage?” He turned to ask her.

“For the record,” she responded, “I don’t know any state secrets. I don’t have that kind of job.”

“And since I’m not a foreign spy, we should be able to carry on a conversation without compromising national security.”

An unmistakable voice came over the sound system. “Good evening, Mr. President,” drawled Mitch Davis.

A murmur of surprise moved across the room, since Mitch was a known detractor of President Morrow. Cara rocked back on her heels. She’d failed to stop him.

“First, let me say, on behalf of American News Service, congratulations, sir, on your election as President of the United States.”

The applause came up on cue, though perhaps not as strong as usual.

“Your friends,” Mitch continued with a hearty game-show-host smile, “your supporters and your mother and father must all be very proud.”

Cara strained to catch the president’s expression, wondering if he would be angry or merely annoyed by the deviation from the program. But there was no way to see through the dense crowd.

“The president is smiling,” Max offered, obviously guessing her concern. “It looks a little strained though.”

“Davis is not on the program,” Cara ground out.

“No kidding,” Max returned, as if only an idiot would think otherwise.

She glared at him, then elbowed her way past, maneuvering through the crowd toward the president’s table below the stage. Lynn Larson was going to be furious. It wasn’t exactly Cara’s responsibility to ensure that this specific ball went smoothly, but she had been working closely with the staffers coordinating each one. She was partly to blame for this.

Thankfully, Max didn’t follow her.

“I expect nobody is prouder than your daughter,” said Mitch, just as Cara reached a place where she could see Mitch on stage.

There was a confused silence in the room, because the president was single and didn’t have any children. Confused herself, Cara rocked to a halt a few feet from Lynn at the president’s table. Lynn glanced toward the stairs at the end of the stage, as if she was gauging how long it would take her to get there.

Mitch waited a beat, microphone in one hand, glass of champagne in the other. “Your long-lost daughter, Ariella Winthrop, who is with us here tonight to celebrate.”

It took half a second for the crowd to react. Maybe they were trying to figure out if it was a sick joke. Cara certainly was.

But she quickly realized it was something far more sinister than a joke, and her gaze flew to the corner of the stage, where she’d glimpsed her friend Ariella, whose event-planning company had been hired to throw the ANS ball. When Cara focused on Ariella, her stomach sank like a stone. As soon as it was pointed out, the resemblance between Ariella and the president was quite striking. And Cara had known for years that Ariella was adopted. Ariella didn’t know her birth parents.

The crowd’s murmurs rose in volume, everyone asking each other what they knew, had heard, had thought or had speculated. Cara could only imagine at least a thousand text messages had gone out already.

She took a half step toward Ariella, but the woman turned on her heel, disappearing behind the stage. There were at least a dozen doorways back there, most cordoned off from the guests by security. Hopefully, Ariella would make a quick getaway.

Mitch raised his glass. “To the president.”

Everyone ignored him.

Cara moved toward Lynn as the crowd’s questions turned to shouts and the press descended on the table.

“If you would direct your questions to me,” Lynn called, standing up from her chair and drawing, at least for a moment, the attention of the reporters away from President Morrow.

The man looked shell-shocked.

“We obviously take any accusation of this nature very seriously,” Lynn began. She looked to Cara, subtly jerking her head toward the stage.

Cara reacted immediately, skirting around the impromptu press conference to get to the microphone onstage. Damage Control 101—get ahead of the story.

She quickly noted that the security detail had surrounded the president, moving him toward the nearest exit. She knew the drill. The limos would be waiting at the curb before the president even got out the door.

She had no idea if the accusation was true or if Mitch Davis had simply exploited the resemblance between Ariella and the president. But it didn’t matter. The texts, tweets and blogs had likely made it to California and Seattle, probably all the way across the Atlantic by now.

Cara scooted up the stairs and crossed the stage, staring Mitch Davis down as she went for the microphone.

He relinquished it. His work was obviously completed.

Mitch’s gaze darted to the crowd. His confident expression faltered, and she saw Max, his eyes thunderous as he moved along below the stage, keeping pace with Mitch as the man made his way to the stairs.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” Cara began, composing a speech inside her head on the fly. “The White House would like to thank you all for joining the president tonight to celebrate. The president appreciates your support and invites you all to enjoy yourselves for the rest of the party. For members of the press, we’ll provide a statement and follow-up on your questions at tomorrow’s regular briefing.”

Cara turned to applaud the band. “For now, the Sea Shoals have a lot of great songs left to play tonight.” She gave a signal to the bandleader, which he thankfully picked up on, and the energetic strains of a jazz tune filled the room.

Covered by the music, Cara quickly slipped from the stage.

Max was standing at the bottom of the stairs to meet her, but her warning glare kept him back—which was probably the first time that had ever happened. But then he mouthed the word “later,” and she knew they weren’t done.

There were times when being a recognizable television personality was frustrating and inconvenient. But for Max Gray, tonight wasn’t one of them. He’d only been to Cara’s Logan Circle apartment a handful of times, but the doorman remembered him from his national news show, After Dark, and let him straight into the elevator without calling upstairs for Cara’s permission.

That was very convenient for Max, because there was a better than even chance Cara would have refused to let him come up. And he needed to see her.

The ANS inaugural ball debacle had been a huge blow to the White House, particularly to the press office. Cara and Lynn had handled it professionally, but even Cara had to be rattled. And she had to be worried about what happened next. The scandal whipping its way through D.C. tonight had the potential to derail the White House agenda for months to come. Max needed to see for himself that Cara was all right.

He exited the aging elevator into a small, short hallway. Her apartment building had once been an urban school, but it now housed a dozen loft apartments, characterized by high ceilings, large windows and wide-open spaces. Cara’s had a small foyer hall off the public hallway. From there, a winding staircase led to a light-filled, loft-style grand room with bright walls and gleaming hardwood floors. The single room had a marble-countered kitchen area in one corner, with a sleeping area separated by freestanding latticework wood screens.

Max had loved it at first sight. It reminded him of Cara herself, unpretentious, breezy and fun. She was practical, yet unselfconsciously beautiful, from her short, wispy, sandy-brown hair to her intense blue eyes, from her full, kissable lips to her compact, healthy body. She never seemed to run out of energy, and life didn’t faze her in the least.

The short public hallway had four suite doors. The last time Max had been here was mid-December. Cara had kept him at arm’s length after Ted Morrow won the election in November. But he’d bought her a present while he was in Australia, pink diamond earrings from the Argyle Mine. He’d selected the raw stones himself, them had them cut and set in eighteen-karat gold, especially for her.

She’d let him in that night, and they’d made love for what was likely the last time—at least the last time during this administration. Cara had been adamant that they keep their distance, since he was a television news host, and she was on the president’s staff. Max shuddered at the thought. He really didn’t want to wait four years to hold her in his arms again.

He knocked on Cara’s door, then waited as her footsteps sounded on the spiral wrought-iron staircase.

He heard her stop in front of the door and knew she was looking through the peephole. There were a limited number of people who could get through the lobby without the doorman announcing them. So she probably expected it was Max. That she’d come down the stairs at all was a good sign.

“Go away,” she called through the door.

“That seems unlikely,” he responded, touching his fist to the door panel.

“I have nothing to say to you.”

He moved closer to the door to keep from having to raise his voice and alert her neighbors. “Are you okay, Cara?”

“Just peachy.”

“I need to talk to you.”

She didn’t respond.

“Do you really want me to talk from out here?” he challenged.

“I really want you to leave.”

“Not until I make sure you’re okay.”

“I’m over twenty-one, Max. I can take care of myself.”

“I know that.”

“So, why are you here?”

“Open up, and I’ll tell you.”

“Nice try.”

“Five minutes,” he pledged.

She didn’t answer.

“Ten if I have to do it from the hallway.”

A few seconds later he heard the locks slide open. The door yawned to reveal Cara wearing a baggy, gray T-shirt and a pair of black yoga pants. Her feet were bare, her hair was slightly mussed and her face was free of makeup, showing the few light freckles that made her that much cuter.

“Hey,” he said softly, resisting an urge to reach out and touch her.

“I’m really doing fine,” she told him, lips compressed, jaw tight, her knuckles straining where she held the door.

He nodded as he moved inside, easing the door from her hands to close it behind himself. He looked meaningfully at the spiral staircase.

“Five minutes,” she repeated.

“I can finish a soft drink in less than five minutes.”

She shook her head in disgust but headed up the stairs anyway. Max followed, resisting once again the urge to reach out and touch. There was a time, a very short time in the scheme of things, when he’d felt free to do that.

“Cola or beer?” she asked, coming to the top of the stairs and padding across the smooth floor to the kitchen area.

“Beer,” Max decided, shrugging out of his tux jacket and releasing his bow tie.

He moved to the furniture grouping of two low, hunter-green leather couches, a pair of matching armchairs and low tables with lamps, all tastefully accented by a rust, gold and brown patterned rug. Her view of the city was expansive. The night had turned clear, with a new blanket of snow freshening up the buildings and the trees, reflecting the lights in the park across the street.

Cara returned with a can of beer for him and a cola for her. She handed the can to Max and then curled into one of the armchairs, popping the top on her own drink.

“Four minutes,” she warned him.

He opened his beer and eased onto the corner of a couch. He pulled off his wristwatch and set it on the coffee table, faceup where he could see it.

He caught her slight, involuntary smile at the gesture.

“You okay?” he asked in a soft voice.

“I’m fine,” she assured him one more time.

“Did you know?” he couldn’t stop himself from asking.

“You know I can’t answer that.”

“Yeah,” he agreed. “I was counting on being able to read your expression when you told me to back off.”

She lifted her brows. “And did you?”

“You’re as inscrutable as ever.”

“Thank you. It helps in my business.” She took a sip.

He followed suit. Then he set the can down on a coaster. “You know I’ll have to go after the story.”

“I know you will.”

“I don’t want to hurt you. And I respect the hell out of this president. But a secret daughter?”

“We don’t know for sure she’s his daughter.”

Max stilled. He was surprised Cara had offered even that much insight. “We will soon enough.”

She nodded.

“Have you talked to Ariella?” He knew the two women were friends. Cara had casually introduced Max to Ariella at a fundraising event right before the election.

Cara set her cola down on a table beside her. “Do you honestly think that would be in anyone’s best interest?”

“That’s neither a yes nor a no.”

Cara’s expression remained completely neutral.

“You’re very good,” he allowed.

She sat forward. “I know you have to go after this, Max. But can you at least be fair about it? Can you please take into account all the facts before you help ramp up the public hysteria?”

Max leaned forward, bringing them close enough that he could feel her faint breath, inhale the coconut scent of her shampoo, close enough that it was hard to keep from kissing her.

“I always take all the facts into account.”

“You know what I mean.”

He reached for her hand.

But at his faintest touch, she snapped it away. “This is going to get ugly.”

He knew that was an understatement. The press, not to mention the opposition, smelled blood in the water, and they were already circling. “Are you going back to work tonight?”

“Lynn’s taking the night shift. I’ll go in early tomorrow morning.”

“It’s going to be a long haul,” Max noted, wishing there was something he could do to help her. But he had a very different job from Cara, a job that was certain to be at odds with hers.

“Yes, it is.” She sounded tired already.

“I’ll be fair, Cara.”

“Thank you.” There was a wistful note to her voice. For a moment, her blue eyes went soft and her expression became less guarded.

He reached for her hand again, this time squeezing before she had a chance to pull away.

She glanced at their joined hands. Her voice turned to a strained whisper. “You know all the reasons.”

“I disagree with them.”

“I can’t date you, Max.”

“I can’t stop wanting you, Cara.”

She lifted her long lashes, and her crystal-blue eyes looked directly into his. “Try, Max. Summon up some of your famous fortitude and try.”

He couldn’t help but smile at that. “I’m not here for inside information. I was genuinely concerned about you.”

“As I said—”

“You’re fine. I get it.”

That was her story, and she was sticking to it.

Her skin was creamy and smooth, her lips dark, soft and slightly parted. He imagined their feel, her taste, her scent, and instinct took over. He tipped his head, leaning in.

But she pulled abruptly away, turning and dipping her head before he could kiss her. “Your five minutes are up.”

He heaved a sigh, giving up, letting her small hand slip from between his fingers. “Yeah. I guess they are.”

Max had left his watch behind in Cara’s apartment. She had no way to know if he’d done it on purpose. It was a Rolex—platinum, with baguette-cut emeralds on the face. She couldn’t even imagine the price. Being a popular television personality definitely had its perks.

When she’d gone to bed, Cara had set the watch on the table beside her. She’d used its alarm as a backup, since she’d had to get up at three-thirty.

Then she’d put it in her purse before heading for her West Wing office at the White House. If Max called about it, she’d drop it off for him on her way home. She had no intention of letting him use it as an excuse to come back to her apartment again.

She flashed her ID tag through the scanner in the White House lobby, and passed through security in the predawn hours. A cleaner was vacuuming, while deliverymen made their way along the main hall. It was quiet out front, but closer to the press office, the activity level increased. Movers were lugging furniture and boxes into the newly appointed offices. She passed several people on her way to her small office.

“Morning, Cara.” Her boss, Lynn, fell into step with her.

Cara unbuttoned her coat and unwrapped her plaid scarf from around her neck as they walked. “Did you get a chance to talk to the president?”

Lynn shook her head, shifting a file folder to her opposite hand. “The Secret Service was with him for an hour. Then Barry went in for a while. And after that, he went back to the residence.”

“Is it true?”

One of the communications assistants appeared to take Cara’s scarf and purse. Cara shrugged out of her coat and added it to the pile in the woman’s arms.

“We don’t know,” said Lynn, pushing open her office door.

Cara followed her inside. “Barry didn’t ask him?”

Chief of Staff Barry Westmore knew the president better than anyone.

As press secretary, Lynn’s office was the largest in the communications section. It housed a wide oak desk, a long credenza, a cream-colored couch and three television screens mounted along one wall playing news shows from three different continents. In English, German and Russian, reporters were speculating on the president’s personal life.

Lynn plopped down in her high-backed leather chair, twisting her large, topaz ring around and around the finger of her right hand. Lights from the garden broke the darkness outside the window before her. “Even if it’s true, the president wasn’t aware that he had a daughter.”

“That’s good.” From a communications perspective, deniability was key in this situation.

Lynn didn’t look as relieved as Cara felt. “There’s more than one possible woman.”

Cara’s eyebrows shot up.

“Barry and I did the math,” said Lynn. “Accounting for possible variations in gestation period. Since the baby might have been premature, there are three possible mothers.”

“Three?” Despite the gravity of the situation, Cara found herself fighting a smile. “Go, Mr. President.”

Lynn frowned at her impertinence. “It was senior year in high school. The man was a football star.”

“Sorry,” Cara quickly put in, lowering herself into one of the guest chairs opposite the desk.

Her boss waved away the apology. “He’s refusing to give us the names.”

“He has to give us the names.”

“First, he wants to know if Ariella is his daughter. If and only if she is his daughter, then we can look at the ex-girlfriends.”

“The press will find them first,” Cara warned, her mind flitting to Max. The networks and newspapers would pull out all the stops to find Ariella’s mother. They wouldn’t wait on a DNA test. This was the story of the century.

“Yes, they will,” Lynn agreed. “But the president is unwilling to ruin innocent lives.”

In Cara’s opinion, the women’s lives were already ruined. Anyone who’d had the misfortune to sleep with President Morrow in high school would be fair game. It wouldn’t even matter whether the lovemaking squared up with Ariella’s birth date; they’d still be hunted down and hounded with questions.

Lynn twisted her ring again. “It’s always that thing that you don’t see coming. And it’s always sex. Next time, remind me to back a nerdy candidate. Maybe president of the chess club or something.”

“These days, nerds are hot,” Cara pointed out.

“That’s because we expect them to grow up rich.”

“That’s why I hang out at the local internet café looking for dates.”

Lynn grinned, putting a little life into her exhausted expression. “I should have married a nerd in high school.”

“Instead of a smoking-hot navy captain?”

Lynn gave a self-conscious shrug, but her eyes took on a secretive glow. “It was spring break. And he rocked those dress whites.”

“You didn’t even look twice at the nerds,” Cara accused.

“The hormones want what the hormones want.”

Cara’s brain conjured up a picture of Max, but she quickly shook it away. “Have you spoken to Ariella?”

“Nobody can find her.”

“Can’t blame her for that.” If it had been Cara, she’d have crossed the Canadian border by now.

“Think you can find her?” Lynn asked.

Cara would love nothing better than to find Ariella and make sure she was okay. But she wasn’t going to abandon Lynn to go on a wild-goose chase. “You need me here.”

“We can live without you.”

“Just what every woman wants to hear. You’re going to have to give a statement to the press today. And you need me to write it. You need to get some sleep.”

Cara wished she’d had more than three hours’ sleep herself. She knew she had to pay more attention to things like eating and sleeping now that she was pregnant. But time for sleep and time to prepare nutritious meals were pretty hard to come by while working for the president. Especially during this crisis.

“I will get some sleep,” Lynn agreed. “Barry’s working on a statement, and we’ll put the press off until the afternoon. Do you think you’d be able to find Ariella?”

Cara got to her feet. She had to believe her womb was a safe place for the first few weeks of gestation no matter what chaos was going on outside it. She reassured herself that many women wouldn’t even know they were pregnant this early.

“I can try,” she told her boss.

“Then go. Get out of here.”

Cara headed for her own office, quickly retrieving her coat and purse. If she could find Ariella, at the very least they could offer her Secret Service protection. She wrapped the scarf around her neck before heading out into the snow.

If the story was true, Ariella would need protection for the rest of her life, and that would only be the start of the chaos. Merely being a member of the White House staff had sent Cara’s personal life into a tailspin. She couldn’t imagine what Ariella was going through.




Two


After combing the city for countless hours, looking everywhere she could think to find Ariella, Cara gave up. It was nearly nine in the evening, and she’d left dozens of messages and asked everyone who might know anything. She was exhausted when she finally took the elevator back to her loft. Maybe Ariella really had fled to Canada.

Cara twisted her key in the dead bolt, then unlocked the knob below, pushing open the solid oak door.

As soon as she stepped inside, she knew something was wrong. A light was on upstairs and someone was playing music.

Her hand reflexively went to her purse, where she’d stashed Max’s watch. If he’d used it as an excuse to come back, if the superintendent had actually let him into her apartment, well, there was going to be hell to pay for both of them. Max might be a famous television personality, trusted and admired by most of D.C., but that didn’t give him the right to con the super, break into her apartment and make himself at home.

She tossed her coat and scarf on the corner bench in the entry hall and pulled off her boots, not even bothering to put them in the closet. She paced her way up the spiral staircase, working up her outrage, planning to hit him with both barrels before he had a chance to start the smooth talk.

Then she realized Beyoncé was playing. And it smelled like someone was baking. She made it to the top of the stairs and stopped dead.

Ariella stood in the middle of her kitchen, surrounded by flour-sprinkled chaos. She had one of Cara’s T-shirts pulled over her short dress and a pair of red calico oven mitts on her hands. Midstep between the oven and the island counter, she held a pan of chocolate cupcakes.

“I hope you don’t mind.” She blinked her big, blue eyes. “I didn’t know where else to go.”

“Of course I don’t mind.” Cara quickly made her way across the room. “I’ve been out looking for you.”

Ariella set down the cupcake pan. “They’ve staked out my house, the club, even Bombay Main’s. I didn’t dare go to a hotel, and I was afraid of the airport. The doorman always remembered me, and I pretended I misplaced your spare key.”

“You were right to come here.” Cara gave her a half hug, avoiding the worst of the flour.

Then she glanced at the trays of beautifully decorated cupcakes. Vanilla, chocolate and red velvet, they were covered in mounds of buttercream icing, and Ariella had turned marzipan into everything from flowers and berries to rainbows and butterflies.

“Hungry?” she jokingly asked Ariella.

“Nervous energy.”

“Maybe we can take them to the office or sell them for charity.” There had to be five dozen already. They couldn’t let them go to waste.

Ariella pulled off the oven mitts and turned off the music. “You got any wine?”

“Absolutely.” Cara’s wine rack was small, but she kept it well stocked.

She moved to the bay window alcove to check out the selection. “Merlot? Shiraz? Cab Sauv? I’ve got a nice Mondavi Private Selection.”

“We might not want to waste a good bottle tonight.”

Cara laughed and pulled it out anyway.

“I’m going for volume,” said Ariella.

“Understandable.” Cara returned to the kitchen, finding a small space among the mess to pull the cork. “Glasses are above the stove,” she told Ariella.

Ariella retrieved them, and the two women moved to the living room.

Ariella peeled off the T-shirt, revealing a simple, steel-gray cocktail dress. She plunked into an armchair and curled her feet beneath her. “Do we have to let it breathe?”

“In an emergency—” Cara began to pour “—not necessary.”

Ariella rocked forward and snagged the first glass.

Cara filled her own and sat back on the couch. Then she suddenly remembered the pregnancy and guiltily set the glass down beside her. What was she thinking?

“Mine can breathe for a few minutes,” she explained. Then focused on Ariella. “How are you holding up?”

“How would you guess I’m holding up?”

“I’d be flipping out.”

“I am flipping out.”

“Could it be true?” Cara asked. “Do you know anything at all about your biological parents?”

Ariella shook her head. “Not a single thing.” Then she laughed a little self-consciously. “They were Caucasian. I think they were American. One of them might have grown up to be president.”

“I always knew you had terrific genes.”

Ariella came to her feet, moving to a mirror that hung at the top of the stairs, gazing at her reflection. “Do you think I look anything like him?”

Cara did. “Little bit,” she said, rising to follow Ariella and stand behind her. “Okay, quite a bit.”

“Enough that …”

“Yes,” Cara whispered, squeezing Ariella’s shoulders.

Ariella closed her eyes for a long second. “I need to get away, somewhere where this isn’t such a big deal.”

“You should stay in D.C. We can protect you. The Secret Service—”

“No.” Ariella’s eyes popped wide.

“They’ll take good care of you. They know what they’re doing.”

“I’m sure they do. But I need to get out of D.C. for a while.”

“I understand.” Cara wanted to be both sympathetic and supportive. Ariella was first and foremost her friend. “This is a lot for you to take in.”

“You are the master of understatement.”

Their eyes met in the mirror.

“You need to take a DNA test,” said Cara.

But Ariella shook her brunette head.

“Not knowing is not an option,” Cara gently pointed out.

“Not yet,” said Ariella. “It’s one thing to suspect, but it’s another to know for sure. You know?”

Cara thought she understood. “Let us help you. Come to the office with me and talk to Lynn.”

“I need time, Cara.”

“You need help, Ari.”

Ariella turned. “I need a few days. A few days on my own before I face the media circus, okay?”

Cara hesitated. She didn’t know how she was going to go back to her boss and say she’d found Ariella and then lost her again. But her loyalty was also to her friend. “Okay,” she finally agreed.

“I’ll take the DNA test, but not yet. I don’t think I could wrap my mind around it if it was positive.”

“Where will you go?”

“I can’t tell you that. You have to keep a straight face when you tell them you don’t know.”

“I can lie.”

“No, you can’t. Not to the American press, you can’t. And not to your boss, and definitely not to your president.”

Cara knew she had a point. “How can I contact you?”

“I’ll contact you.”

“Ariella.”

“It has to be this way.”

“No, it doesn’t. We can help you, protect you, find out the truth for you.”

“It has to be this way for me, Cara. Just for now. Only for a while. I know it’s better for the president if I stay, better for you if I stay and face the music.” Her voice broke ever so softly. “But I just can’t.”

“None of this is your fault,” Cara felt compelled to point out, putting an arm around Ariella’s shoulders.

Ariella nodded her understanding.

“He’s a very good man.”

“I’m sure he is. But he’s the president. And that means …” Ariella’s voice trailed off.

“Yeah,” Cara agreed into the silence. That meant the circus would never end.

Her cell phone chimed a distinctive tone, telling Cara it was a text from Lynn. She moved away and pulled it from her pocket. The message told her to turn on ANS.

“What?” asked Ariella, watching Cara’s expression.

“It’s from Lynn. There’s something going on. It’s on the news.” Cara moved to the living area and pressed a button on the remote, changing the channel to ANS.

Ariella moved up beside her. “Oh, I have a bad feeling about this.”

Field reporter Angelica Pierce was speaking. She was speculating about Ariella and her relationship to the president, and was saying something about a woman named Eleanor Albert from the president’s hometown of Fields, Montana. Then old yearbook photos of the president and Eleanor Albert came up side by side on the screen. With a dramatic musical flourish, a picture of Ariella settled in between them.

Cara’s eyes went wide.

Ariella sucked in a breath, gripping the sofa for support. “No,” she rasped.

Cara wrapped her arm around her friend and held on tight. There was no mistaking the resemblance. Cara wasn’t even sure they needed a DNA test.

Max knew the excuse of having forgotten his watch in Cara’s apartment was lame. But it was the best he’d been able to come up with on short notice. She was home now. He could see the lights on in her apartment.

He’d just seen the pictures of the president, Ariella and Eleanor on a news site on his tablet. All hell was about to break loose at the White House, and it was doubtful he’d be able to see Cara again for weeks to come.

He exited from his Mustang GT, turning up his coat collar against the blowing snow. He was on his way home from dinner with the NCN network brass and wearing dress shoes, so he was forced to dodge puddles, taking a circuitous route on his way across the street.

He made it to the awning, brushed the flakes from his sleeves, then looked up, straight into the eyes of Ariella Winthrop. They both froze.

“Ariella?” He swiftly glanced both ways to see if anyone else was out on the dark street.

“Hi, Max.”

He moved close, taking her arm to guide her away from the streetlight. “What are you doing? You can’t be out on the street.” There didn’t appear to be any other reporters around, but it wasn’t safe for her. He’d met her only a few times, but he liked her a lot. She was Cara’s close friend, and Max seemed to have a protective streak when it came to Cara.

“The doorman called me a cab.”

“A cab? Have you seen the news? You’re plastered all over it.”

“I saw.”

“Let me take you home.” He immediately realized that was a ridiculous suggestion. “Let me take you to a hotel. I’ll take you anywhere you need to go. But you can’t stand out here alone waiting for a cab.”

He made a move toward his own car, but she stood her ground, tugging her arm from his.

“Max,” she commanded.

He reluctantly stopped and turned to her.

“You’re one of the guys I’m avoiding, remember?”

“I’m not a reporter right now.”

“You’re always a reporter.”

“You don’t have to talk. Don’t say a word.” He paused. “But can I ask you one question?”

She shot him an impatient look.

He asked anyway. “Was it you? Did you leak tonight’s information to ANS?”

“I’d never even heard of Eleanor Albert before tonight. And the pictures don’t prove a thing. I still don’t know for sure.”

He recognized that she was in denial. “The rest of the world knows for sure,” he told her gently. “Let me take you to the White House.”

“No!”

“You’ll be safe there.” And maybe it would earn him some goodwill with the administration, maybe even with Cara.

Wait a minute. Cara. Why was Cara letting Ariella leave her apartment all alone? Why hadn’t she called in reinforcements?

“Did you talk to Cara up there?” It occurred to him that maybe Cara wasn’t home.

“That’s two questions,” said Ariella.

“Is she upstairs? She let you leave?”

“I’m a grown woman, Max.”

“And you’re the president’s daughter.”

“Not until they prove it, I’m not.”

A new thought occurred to Max. And, if he was right, it wasn’t a half bad idea. “Are you going into hiding?”

Her silence confirmed his suspicions.

“I can help. I can take you somewhere safe.”

This time she rolled her eyes. “It won’t be hiding if an NCN reporter knows where I am. You’re already going to report this entire conversation.”

Max was used to walking fine ethical lines. He couldn’t lie to his network, but he could choose the facts he shared and the order in which he disclosed them. “It’s up to me to decide how to frame my story.”

Her expression was blatantly suspicious. “What does that mean?”

“What do you want me to report?”

She hesitated, then seemed to decide she had little to lose. “That I have no knowledge of my biological parents, and I’ve left the D.C. area.”

“Done.”

“You’d do that for me?”

“Yes,” he told her with sincerity.

But her guard was obviously still up. “Are you serious?”

“I am serious.”

After a moment, her expression softened. “Thank you, Max.”

“At least let me take you to Potomac Airfield. You’ll be able to grab a private charter and take it anywhere you want to go. If you need money—”

“I don’t need money.”

“If you need anything, Ariella.”

“How can you take me to Potomac and not report on it?”

He put on his best broadcaster voice. “Sources close to Ariella Winthrop disclose that she has left the D.C. area, likely on a private plane out of Potomac. Nothing is known about the destination, the aircraft or the pilot.”

He gave another glance around the dark street to make sure they were still alone. “You can put up your hair, Ariella. We’ll stop somewhere and buy you a pair of blue jeans, a baseball cap and dark glasses. Take a Learjet or something even better. Those guys don’t talk about their passengers.”

He could feel her hesitation. Her teeth came down on her lower lip.

“You got a better idea?” he asked.

“What’s in it for you?”

“Goodwill. Yours, eventually the White House’s and the president’s. Plus, I’m a nice guy.”

“You’re with the press.”

“I’m still a nice guy. And I’m a sucker for a maiden in distress.”

That brought a reluctant smile to her lips.

“My car’s across the street.” He nodded to the Mustang. “Every minute we stand out here, we risk someone recognizing you.”

Just then, a taxi pulled up and stopped at the curb, its light on.

Ariella glanced at it. But then she nodded to Max. “Take me to Potomac Airfield.”

“Two things,” Lynn said to Cara from behind her office desk.

It was ten the next morning, and Lynn had just finished addressing reporters in the press room for a second day in a row. So far, President Morrow had remained out of sight, his schedule restricted to small, private functions where the White House could control the guest list. But Cara knew that was about to change. He was scheduled to attend a performance tonight at the Kennedy Center.

“Eleanor Albert is an obvious priority.” Lynn counted her points off on her fingers. “Who is she? Where is she? Is she really Ariella’s mother? And what will she say publicly about the president? Two, there’s a whole town full of people out in Fields, Montana. We need to know what they know, what they remember and what they’re going to say publicly.”

Then she glanced up, her attention going to someone in the doorway behind Cara.

“There you are,” she said, waving her hand for the person to enter. “You might as well come on in.”

Cara turned, starting in astonishment as she came face-to-face with Max. He was dressed in blue jeans and square-toed boots, with an open-collar white shirt beneath his dark blazer. He was freshly shaved. His perpetually tousled hair, wide shoulders and rugged looks gave him a mantle of raw power, even though he was just a visitor to the West Wing.

He met her gaze, his expression neutral.

Even with Lynn in the room, Cara had a hard time controlling her annoyance. Max had gone on national television last night, disclosing what he knew about Ariella’s whereabouts. She didn’t know who his source had been, but he’d milked it for all it was worth, tossing both Ariella and the White House to the wolves in his quest for ratings.

“Have a seat.” Lynn pointed to the chair next to Cara’s. The two chairs were matching brown leather, low backed but rounded and comfortable, with carved mahogany arms.

Max moved guardedly, but he did as Lynn asked.

“Who’s your source?” Lynn shot out without preamble.

“Seriously?” asked Max with an arch of one brow, a carefully placed thread of amazement in his tone.

“How did you learn about Ariella?”

Cara was curious as well. Even she hadn’t known Ariella was headed for Potomac Airfield. She couldn’t imagine who had found out, or why they would tell Max of all people.

“You know perfectly well that I can’t disclose my sources,” Max said to Lynn, but he cast a glance Cara’s way, as well.

“You can when it’s a matter of security,” Lynn countered. “This might even be national security.”

Max sat back in his chair, “Really? Go on.”

“If she’s kidnapped,” said Lynn, twisting her ring. “If a foreign entity, or heaven help us all, a terrorist, gets their hands on the president’s daughter, it will absolutely be a situation of national security.”

“You don’t know that she’s his daughter.”

“Do you think the terrorists care? I was convinced by those pictures. And I’m pretty sure the rest of the nation was convinced by them, too. Do you think the president will take the chance that’s she’s not?”

Max’s body became alert. “So, you’re saying the president slept with Eleanor Albert.”

Lynn’s face paled a shade. “I’m saying nothing of the kind.”

But Max pounced on her small misstep. “If he hadn’t slept with her, this couldn’t possibly be a matter of national security.”

For a moment, Lynn was speechless.

Cara stepped in. “Who told you Ariella was going to Potomac Airfield?”

Max twisted his head to look at her. His eyes were cool, his expression a perfect, professional mask.

Cara pressed him. “Come on, Max. You don’t want Ariella hurt any more than we do. She’s innocent in all this. She needs Secret Service protection.”

“No kidding,” said Max. “And did you tell her that last night?”

Cara blinked, her insides clenching up.

He continued, “Did you tell her she needed the Secret Service?”

There was only one way for him to have known Ariella had come to Cara. “Of course I did. I begged her to let me help. I just finished explaining that to Lynn.”

Max turned back to Lynn. “You want to know my source? Ariella is my source. I know she went to Potomac Airfield because I drove her there. She’s gone, Lynn.”

Lynn sat up in her chair. “Why on earth didn’t you stop her?”

“Because the power of the press doesn’t extend to kidnapping and forcible confinement. She’s a grown woman. She’s an American citizen. And she’s free to come and go as she pleases.”

“Is she still in the country?” Cara asked.

“She told me she had her passport.”

“You didn’t report on any of that last night.”

He slowly turned back to Cara, his expression reproachful. “I didn’t, did I?”

“You want points for that?” Cara demanded.

“It would be nice. A little credit. A little consideration. Maybe a scoop or two. I ran into Ariella. I offered her assistance. And I put her safety and the good of my country ahead of my own interests. She was determined to leave D.C. without notice. I thought it was best to give her a fighting chance at successfully doing that.”

Cara found herself nodding in agreement with his words. She knew from personal experience that there’d been no talking Ariella out of her plans. She only hoped she came back soon. A DNA test was in everyone’s best interest.

Lynn’s demeanor changed. “The White House appreciates your efforts,” she told Max.

“I would imagine you do.” He came to his feet. “I’m not the bad guy here. But I do have a job to do.”

As he left the office, Lynn’s phone rang. Cara quickly took the opportunity to jump up and go after him.

“Max?” She hurried down the hall.

He stopped and turned back, and she canted her head toward her own office.

He followed her inside, and she closed the door. Sure, he’d done the right thing. But he wasn’t completely off the hook.

“Where did you run into Ariella?” she fired off.

“Logan Circle.”

“My apartment.”

“Yes.”

“You stalked her.”

He moved toward Cara, making her heart reflexively race and her breath go shallow. It didn’t seem to matter how hard she fought or how much logic she sent through her brain, over and over again. She was compulsively attracted to Max Gray. It seemed to be embedded in her DNA.

“Really?” he demanded. The distance between them was far too small. “That’s what you think? That I was staking out your apartment on the off chance that Ariella would come by?”

Cara admitted the mathematical odds had been low on that happening. She took a step back, bumping against the edge of her desk.

His eyes glittered meaningfully as he moved again, keeping the distance static. “You can’t think of any other reason? None at all?”

“I told you no, Max.”

“I was there for my watch.”

“We both know that was a ruse.”

“Yeah. We do. But you won’t let me play it straight, Cara. I have no other choice.”

“Your choice is to stay away.”

“That’s not working for me.”

There was a shout in the hallway and the sound of two sets of footsteps going swiftly past.

“We can’t do this here,” she told him.

“When and where?”

“Never and nowhere.”

“Wrong answer.”

“It’s the only answer you’re going to get. I have to go to work, Max. In case you missed it in the papers, we’re having a crisis.”

His tone went suddenly soft. “I’m sorry for that. I truly am.”

“But you have a job to do, too,” she finished for him.

“And I better get to it.”

He brushed the backs of his knuckles against hers, sending a spike of awareness ricocheting through her system, squeezing her heart and tightening her abdomen.

Before she could protest, he’d turned and was gone.

Cara made her way around her desk, dropping into her chair. She gave a reflexive glance at her computer screen, knowing that a million things needed her attention, but the email subject lines didn’t compute inside her brain.

Her hand dropped to her stomach and rested there. She was barely pregnant. If not for her ultraregular cycle and modern, supersensitive home pregnancy tests, she wouldn’t even know it yet.

But she did. And she was. And Max’s baby was complicating an already dicey situation. Max was one of the ten hottest men in D.C. She didn’t need a magazine to tell her that. He was also smart, funny, innovative and daring.

He wanted her. That much was clear. But what he didn’t want, what he’d never wanted and never would want, was home, hearth and family. He’d told her about his single mother, how his father walked out on them, how he was no genetic prize and had no plans to carry on his questionable family legacy.

He’d found his niche in broadcasting. He had an incredible instinct for a story, and he was absolutely fearless about going after it. It didn’t matter if it was in Africa or Afghanistan, flying high in the air or on the bottom of the ocean. He’d chase a story down, and once he caught it, he’d bring it home and broadcast it to the awe and attention of millions of Americans. Max had everything he’d ever wanted in life.

She’d tried to stay away from him from the very start. Given their careers, a relationship was risky during the campaign, foolish after the vote count and impossible now that the president had taken office.

On more than one occasion, it had occurred to Cara that Max might want her for the sole reason that he couldn’t have her. And sometimes, in the dead of night, Cara fantasized about giving in to him, spending as much time as she wanted in his company, in his bed. She wondered how many days or weeks it would take for him to tire of her. She also wondered how fast and far he’d run if he knew the extent of her feelings for him.

For Max, this was just another lark, another fling, another woman in the long line that formed a part of his adventurer, bachelor lifestyle. But for her, it was different. She’d all but given him her heart. And now she was having his baby.

If he’d run fast and hard from the knowledge of her true feelings, he’d rocket away from the possibility of fatherhood. He’d be on the next plane to Borneo or Outer Mongolia.

Cara gave a sad smile and coughed out a short laugh at her musings. In the dead of night, when she fantasized about Max, it was those initial few days and weeks that occupied her thoughts. She glossed over the part where he left and broke her heart. Some days, she actually thought it might be worth it.




Three


The things Max put up with for his job. He’d hacked his way through jungles, gone over waterfalls, battled snakes and scorpions, even wrestled a crocodile one time. But nothing had prepared him for this. He was slope side in the president’s hometown of Fields, Montana, among five hundred darting, shrieking schoolchildren let loose on skis and snowboards.

While the president was growing up, Fields had been a small town, mostly supported by the surrounding cattle ranches. But over the years, its scenic mountain location and pristine slopes had been discovered by skiers and snowboarders. Lifts had been built and high-end resort chains had moved in, fundamentally changing the face of the entire town.

Ranch access roads still lined the highway, but the old-guard cowboys now rubbed shoulders with the colorfully attired recreation crowd. It seemed to Max a cordial if cautious relationship. While the newer parts of town were pure tourism, the outskirts were a patchwork of the old and new. A funky techno bar had been built next to the feed store, while a tavern with sawdust and peanut shells covering the floor shared a parking lot with a high-end snowboard shop.

Max’s cameraman, Jake Dobson, sent up a rooster tail of snow as he angled his snowboard to a halt next to Max. The two men had first worked together at a small, local station in Maryland. When Max had been asked to join the team at NCN, he’d made it clear that Jake coming with him was a condition of the contract. Jake was the unsung hero in every single one of Max’s news stories.

“Another run?” asked Jake.

“I don’t think so,” Max scoffed, glancing at the multitude of children on the slope. “I was scared to death out there.”

Jake laughed at him. “They’re quite harmless.”

“I’m not worried about them hurting me. But it’s like dodging moving pylons. Pylons that bruise easily. I’m not about to have running over an eight-year-old girl on my conscience.”

“We could do a black diamond run.”

They had a couple of hours left before dark.

“Sure. Up there, I can take out a twelve-year-old. That’ll help me sleep better.” Max bent down to pop the clips on his own snowboard.

“It’s a statewide outdoors club jamboree,” Jake put in helpfully as he released his own bindings. “They’ll be here for a week.”

“We’ve got work to do anyway.” Max stood his board up in the snow, removing his helmet and goggles.

The two men had spent the morning in the older part of Fields, talking to the ranching crowd. So far, they’d met a number of people who’d known the president when he was a teenager. Unfortunately, none of them were willing to go on camera. And none would admit to knowing anything about Eleanor.

“I think the ranchers have all headed home by now,” Jake observed. “Early to bed and early to rise.”

“Maybe. But their kids and grandkids will be at clubs dancing with the tourists. Who knows what kind of stories have been passed down about the Morrows?”

“You’re going to play the tourist and mix and mingle?”

“Why not?” Max had been pleasantly surprised by how respectful the people of Fields seemed to be. It was obvious many of them recognized him from his television show, but they mostly smiled and nodded and kept their distance. Few even asked for autographs.

Back in D.C.—and in New York and L.A.—people were much more aggressive. It was impossible for him to walk into any restaurant, lounge or club in D.C. without being approached by a dozen people. Being in Fields was quite refreshing.

“Can we get a burger first?” Jake asked, brushing the snow off his board with the back of his glove. “I’m starving.”

“Works for me.” Max started to walk back to the lodge. “Are those pip-squeaks really going to be here all week?”

His and Jake’s rooms were uncomfortably close to the indoor pool complex. There’d been a steady stream of shrieking and stomping children up and down their hall both last night and this morning.

“Yes, they are,” Jake responded. “I talked to one of their leaders up top.”

“Lovely,” Max drawled.

He wasn’t a kid person. Some people seemed to see right past the noise, the mess, the smell and the irrationality to the cute, lovable little tykes beneath.

Max was in awe of those people. He preferred rationality. Or, at least, predicable irrationality. If there was one thing he’d learned about adults, it was they could always be counted on to act in their own best interests.

“I called down and asked the hotel manager to move us,” said Jake.

Max brightened. “You did?”

“I’ve got your back, buddy.” Jake smacked him on the shoulder. “We’re each in a one-bedroom villa up on the hillside. It’s adults only.”

“I love you, man.”

Jake chuckled. “It was the hot spring pools that made up my mind. Well, that and the fact that Jessica walked out on me last week. I don’t want to spend my first assignment as a bachelor surrounded by grade-schoolers.”

“Jessica walked out on you?”

Jake pulled off a glove with his teeth. “She’ll be back. But until then, I am under no obligation to be faithful to her.”

“She’s clear on that?”

They took the staircase leading to the equipment lockers.

“I’m single and she’s single. She can bang half of D.C. while I’m gone for all I care.”

“I take it she’s not ‘the one.’”

“It’s way too soon to tell.”

Max couldn’t help but grin at that as they entered the cavernous, warehouselike building. “Trust me, Jake. If she was the one, you’d kill any guy who looked sideways at her, never mind slept with her.”

“You’re an expert?” Jake scoffed.

“I know that much.”

Max wasn’t even Cara’s boyfriend and he had a hard time thinking about her with any other guy. Technically, the two of them were single. But that was only a technicality, based on current circumstances. It didn’t mean he’d look twice at another woman.

They stowed their boards and gear, changed out of the snowboard boots and headed for the Alpine Grill on the street out front. Max was still pondering his and Cara’s single status when the waitress brought them each a mug of red ale from a local microbrewery.

He and Jake had taken seats on the lounge side of the rustic, hewn-beam restaurant, which was adults only. But the shrieks and cries of children came through the doorway from the restaurant. Then a group of people burst into a rollicking rendition of “Happy Birthday.” Evidently, someone named Amy had reached a milestone.

“Shall I mention that it’s your birthday?” asked Jake.

“Now that would be a treat,” Max returned dryly.

He took a drink of the foamy beer. He’d turned thirty today. Some people thought of it as a milestone. Max didn’t see it that way. He’d been twenty-nine and three hundred and sixty-four days yesterday. Thirty was only twenty-four hours older. He really didn’t get the big deal.

Jake craned his neck. “Good grief, they gave those little kids sparklers.”

Max turned to look.

When he did, it wasn’t the potential fire hazard that caught his eye. It was Cara. She was standing in the restaurant foyer, looking adorable in a waist-length, puffy, turquoise jacket, a pair of snug blue jeans and set of ankle-high black books. Her cheeks were bright red, her lips were shiny and her blue eyes were as striking as ever.

Max’s chest went tight. He scraped back his chair and rose from the table.

“Nobody’s on fire,” Jake pointed out. “Yet.”

Max didn’t respond. His attention was locked on Cara as he instinctively wound his way through the other tables. The shrieks of the children, the smell of grilling beef, the rainbow of ski clothing disappeared from his perception.

“Hello, Cara.” He offered her a friendly smile.

In response, her eyes went round with obvious shock and her jaw dropped open a notch. “Max,” she managed. “You’re in Fields.”

“I’m in Fields,” he returned.

She gave her head a little shake, as if she was trying to wake herself from a dream. But Max wasn’t going anywhere.

The hostess appeared in front of them. “For two?” the young woman asked, glancing from Cara to Max.

“Just one,” said Cara.

“Join us,” said Max. “Jake is here,” he quickly finished, so she wouldn’t think it would look like a date.

Cara had met Jake a couple of times over the past few months. As far as Jake was concerned, Cara was an acquaintance of Max’s, no different than hundreds of other people on the periphery of his life as a news reporter.

Cara hesitated while the woman waited, her bright, welcoming smile flickering with confusion.

Cara glanced to Jake, then obviously concluded refusing his offer would garner more curiosity than accepting it would.

“Sure,” she said to Max. “Why not?”

Max thanked the hostess, then guided Cara to their table.

When they got there, Max introduced her. “You remember Cara Cranshaw.”

Jake got to his feet. His smile was warm and his eyes alight as he shook Cara’s hand. “It’s very nice to see you again.”

Max instantly realized his mistake. Jake and Cara were both single. Sure, Jake was in the news business like Max. But a cameraman was quite a few steps removed from the people who actually researched and crafted the stories. He’d be a much safer choice for Cara.

And Jake certainly seemed to appeal to women. He was tall, physically fit, square-chinned and gray-eyed, with a devil-may-care attitude that got him a steady string of offers from women all around the world.

“Cara doesn’t date newsmen,” Max announced.

Cara shot him an appalled expression.

But Jake laughed easily. “I’m sure she can make an exception in this case.”

This time she blanched, gripping the back of her chair. And Max realized she’d drawn the conclusion Jake knew about their relationship.

“Jake means for him,” Max pointed out.

“What do you say?” Jake asked her easily. “My girlfriend just dumped me. I’m wounded and terribly lonely.”

Cara seemed to recover from her shock very quickly. She smoothly took her seat and unfolded the burgundy cloth napkin in front of her.

Then she looked to Jake. “I’m afraid I don’t go on pity dates.”

Jake clutched at his chest as if he’d been stabbed.

“Better for you to stay away from the ones with brains, anyway,” Max said to Jake.

“Aren’t you cynical,” Cara chided Max.

“Because I don’t think Jake can get a date with a woman whose IQ is over one hundred?”

“Because you seem to think there’s a critical mass of low-intelligence women for him to choose from.”

“Ouch,” said Jake.

“I didn’t mean to offend your gender,” said Max.

“Which makes it that much worse,” she said tartly.

“Keep digging, buddy,” said Jake, making shoveling motions with his hands. To Cara, he said. “Can I get you a drink?”

Max cursed himself for being slow on the uptake.

“Thank you,” Cara responded with a sweet smile for Jake. “Ginger ale, please.”

Jake glanced around the crowded pub, obviously checking for their waitress. After a moment, he rose to walk over to the bar himself.

“He’s a gentleman,” said Cara, her tone a rebuke to Max as she smoothed the napkin out in her lap.

“He’s flirting with you.”

She rolled her eyes. “Really, Max. Thank you for clearing that up, since, like many women, I’m of low intelligence and wouldn’t have figured it out for myself.”

Max clamped his jaw, fighting the urge to defend himself. Instead, their gazes locked, and an instant rush of desire washed through him as the noise of the crowd ebbed and flowed.

Cara cracked first. “So, what are you doing in Fields?”

“Same thing as you.”

“I doubt that.”

“We’re both here after the story.”

She straightened in her chair. “No. You’re here after the story. I’m here looking for the truth.”

“Don’t get all self-righteous on me. It’s not an attractive quality.”

She leaned in and hissed, “You think I want to be attractive? To you?”

He lowered his voice, matching her posture. “There’s no way for you to help it, sweetheart.”

Jake’s arrival broke the moment. “Your ginger ale, ma’am.”

Cara turned to him and smiled. “Thank you, sir.”

“Pleasure to be of assistance.”

Max snagged his beer mug by the handle, struggling not to gag on the syrupy sweetness. “Give me a break.”

“Did you know it was Max’s birthday?” Jake asked Cara in a hearty, if slightly malicious, voice.

“I did not.” She gave Max an overly sweet smile. “Happy birthday.”




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