Private Indiscretions

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.”