Private Indiscretions (3 page)

Lilith laid her hand on Dana's. “No, he's dealing with a powerhouse. And that makes you more vulnerable than ever. Truth or lies, it doesn't matter.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

T
uesday evening Dana rested her elbows on her desk, propped her chin on her fists and studied her calendar for the rest of the month. Congress was in recess, but she was busier than ever. August was supposed to be a time to reconnect with constituents. So far, all she'd done was reconnect with the media.

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I will if you will.”

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

“Do you need a plane reservation?”

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

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

“No. It's personal business.”

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

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

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

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

She called his cell phone before she lost her nerve.

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

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

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

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

“Dana Sterling.”

“You're working late, Senator.”

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

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

“You're speaking from personal experience?”

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

“Just part of the job.”

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

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

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

He'd watched her that closely? That carefully?

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

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

She lowered herself into her chair. “Except for the press and the three men waiting to take my place, I didn't know there was such interest. Where did you hear the gossip?”

“I took an unofficial poll at a couple of watering holes on Monday.”

“And the margin of error?”

“Plus or minus thirty points.”

After a moment she laughed. “I suppose it'll be old news by tomorrow.”

“For the general population maybe.”

“It's the voters that count.”

“Then I think you're safe,” he said. “Politicians, on the other hand…”

“You don't have to tell me, Sam. I've been part of the process since I was twenty.”

A beat passed. “Is that when you met your late husband?”

“Yes.” She didn't want to discuss Randall. There had to be some rule of etiquette that said you shouldn't talk about the man you loved with the man you lusted after. “So, about the medal.”

To his credit he didn't miss a beat at the change of subject. “I'll be in L.A. tomorrow, but I'm actually in San Francisco at the moment. I've got an eleven o'clock flight tonight. I could swing by your office.”

He was in San Francisco and he hadn't called before now.
Not interested.
The words might as well be flashing in neon. “The medal's at home,” she said coolly. “I'm
headed there now. You're welcome to stop by, or I can still mail it.”

“I'll stop by.”

Really? Another mixed message. “Okay. My address is—”

“I know where you live. See you in half an hour.”

Dana listened to the dial tone for a few seconds before cradling the phone. She liked his confidence, had always been attracted to confident men—

He knows where I live?

A quick knock on the door preceded Maria's entrance. “About tomorrow?”

“Don't cancel my appointments. I'll go to the L.A. office next week, as planned.” She took a final glance at her desk to see if she'd missed anything. “Now, go home.”

“I will if you will.”

“We'll walk each other to our cars.” Dana scooped up her briefcase and jacket then stepped into her shoes. Energy replaced exhaustion. Sam was coming.

 

Sam pressed the intercom button outside Dana's security gate, then pulled into her driveway when the iron gate swung open. He studied the Pacific Heights home, as he had the day before from outside the fence. She didn't live in a house but a mansion, magnificent in its grandeur but not ostentatious, the front-yard landscaping established and unfussy.

Architecture was Sam's passion. He'd looked up the history of this particular house: Mediterranean-style, built shortly after the 1906 earthquake, dominated by a red tile roof and terra-cotta colored textured stucco. The knoll-top parcel had a panoramic view from its lush rear garden of the Golden Gate Bridge, San Francisco Bay and the Presidio.

Randall Sterling had been born to money.

Sam had conducted his own research on the man when he'd first read about Dana marrying him. His rise in politics
began in high school as student-body president, continued at Stanford, then went into public arenas, on committees and boards. He was voted in as congressman when he was only twenty-eight, serving twelve years before being elected to the Senate. He'd finished one six-year term and two years of a second term before dying of a massive heart attack while jogging in Golden Gate Park almost two and a half years ago.

The charismatic, beloved and respected Randall Sterling was a true man of the people. He'd earned Sam's vote. And now his widow sat in his place. No scandal had ever touched her husband or her, the only gossip the twenty-year age difference, and the fact she worked for him.

Sam had thought about her a lot through the years, had even fantasized seeing her again, but had made no effort. He hadn't been in a position to.

Now he was.

And now he couldn't.

He glanced at his watch and calculated the time until his flight. He'd allowed himself five minutes with her.

Sam set his car alarm out of habit then walked up the flagstone path to the enormous front door. He rang the bell, heard the chimes from deep within the house. He wondered whether a servant would greet him, but Dana did, looking serene in blue silk pants and blouse, which was unbuttoned one button lower than conservative. A sliver of ice-blue lace bra teased him, its texture contrasting seductively with her skin. A jolt like lightning zapped him in the midsection and turned up the heat. Fifteen years of life experience had given her a mature sexuality that appealed to him as much as her innocence had years ago.

She backed up, inviting him inside. “You look very nice in your suit and tie. Kind of Secret Serviceish.”

“Secret Service men appeal to you?”

“Oh, well, actually I prefer a CIA man.”

“It's that furtive look, I imagine. Makes all the women swoon.”

Her eyes lit with humor as he walked past her and she shut the door. She smelled good—not flowery, but cool and tranquil. He'd bet her perfume came in a curvy blue bottle. But he missed the hot pink she always used to wear.

The tiled foyer boasted cathedral ceilings and vivid stained-glass windows, a dramatic curving staircase, textured walls painted a rich antique gold and a spectacular wrought-iron chandelier. Bold simplicity. He'd been in a lot of fancy homes in the past few years, but this one had the added element of old-world elegance, as if the furnishings had been there forever. He wondered if she'd had any hand in the decorating.

“Would you like a glass of wine, Sam? I've got a wonderful Chardonnay chilling in the living room.” She gestured toward open double doors off the foyer.

He saw a flicker of candlelight, heard the strains of a classical piece he couldn't have identified if his life depended on it. She'd set a scene.
For him.

Dammit.
Dammit.

“I'll pass on the wine, but thanks,” he said.

She looked mildly embarrassed. “Oh. You probably don't drink, do you?”

“Why wouldn't I?”

“Because of your—” She stopped, her embarrassment deepening.

He knew how the sentence ended. “Because of my father?” he asked.

“I'm sorry. I didn't mean to—”

He cut her off with a gesture. There was no faster way to change his mood than to bring up his father, but especially coming from Dana, who knew too many details of his childhood. “I drink socially. What that man did or didn't do has no bearing on who I am or how I live. I'm not drinking because I can't stay. I'm on my way to the airport.”

“Already? Your flight's at eleven.”

“And I have to park and go through security. You know how long that takes these days.”

“Of course,” she said crisply, matching his tone, making him aware of it. She walked toward the living room, giving him time to admire her backside, something he'd done too often as a teenager. When she returned she held out the medal to him.

“Thanks.” He stuffed it in his pocket and turned to leave, the hardest thing he'd done in recent memory. She was a temptation beyond his expectations.

“Why'd you even bother to come?” she asked.

He glanced back. He couldn't read her expression, something between curious and hurt.

“I might as well have mailed it, you know,” she said, not letting him off the hook.

I wanted to see where you live, how you live.
Not from the outside, but inside, where her life wasn't open for public viewing. How could he tell her that and still play fair with her? He wished now that he'd never given her his card. He couldn't have a relationship with her. Not now. Not ever. “I thought I'd save you the trouble.”

“Right. It would've been such a burden on me.”

Sarcasm now. “You were the one all fired up to give it to me.”

“Of course I was. You worked hard for that medal.”

“Dana. It was fifteen years ago. Who cares?”

“I do.” Her voice quavered; her cheeks flushed. “I liked battling with you all those years. Sure I wanted to win, to be the best, but, Sam, I was happy that if I didn't win, you did.”

He felt like the biggest jerk on earth. “Dana—”

“Go on or you'll miss your plane.”

He wanted to find a way to end this better. Instead he opened the door and stepped out into the night.

“Wait.” She hurried toward him and grabbed his arm long enough to stop him.

“I apologize,” she said. “Truly. All I can say in my
defense is that it's been a long three days. I'm exhausted, and not thinking clearly. I'm sorry I called you and made you go out of your way. I should've just mailed the medal and been done with it.”

He didn't know what to say, couldn't dare continue the conversation, not when he wanted to carry her up that sweeping staircase, find the nearest bed and bury himself in her.