by Neesa Hart
“Lucky you.”
“If you say so.”
Macon tapped her fingers on the arms of the chair. “Just tell me one thing. I met him about three years ago at a press corps event. Has he still got sizzle?”
“Is that a technical term?”
Macon laughed. “No. In media land, we’d call it camera-friendly charisma. ‘Sizzle’ is girl-talk.”
“Okay,” Cammy relented. “Yes. He’s got it.”
“Really?” Macon’s eyes sparkled. “And exactly how long is this series of articles he’s doing on you?”
“The articles are on Wishing Star, not on me. Get that speculative look out of your eyes.”
“Too late. You’ve got my imagination dancing through all kinds of schemes.”
“I’m doomed.”
“Face up to it, kiddo. There’s nothing like a media mogul on the move. Besides, it’s not even an election year. I’m in my slow season.”
“Lucky me.”
“You have no idea. So are you bringing him to the dance recital tonight?”
“I hadn’t thought about it.”
“You should.”
“So you can ogle him?”
“So I can check out how the two of you look as a couple.”
“We are not a couple.”
“Sure, sure. I have a pretty good idea, but there’s nothing like the visual impact of the real thing. Besides, Jacob will be there, and he’s always good for a second opinion on things like this.”
“Terrific. I’ve always dreamed of having my love life be a topic of after–dinner conversation.”
“So it’s a love life now?”
“It’s a figure of speech. You know I’m not going to get involved with him.”
Macon’s expression turned suddenly serious. “Cammy—”
Cammy held up a hand. “It’s okay, Macon.” At Macon’s skeptical look, Cammy nodded. “It is. Really.”
“I just don’t think you’re being reasonable about this,” Macon frowned. “Your parents may have done some number on you about the fact that you can’t have children, but that doesn’t mean you have to let it govern your life.” She exhaled an exasperated breath. “I know this sounds easy for me to say—but there are worse fates than infertility. I’m not trying to be insensitive.”
“I know.”
“I just don’t think you should take your father’s opinion that this makes you less of a person as gospel truth. It’s just ridiculous. And archaic.” She frowned. “It was a lousy thing to do to tell you that, and if the bastard weren’t dead, I’d kill him myself.”
Cammy managed a smile. “If he weren’t dead, he’d probably be one of your clients.”
Macon snorted. “Don’t bet on it. I have a definite policy against taking clients who punch all my buttons. Look, you’re one of the smartest people I know, Cam. You don’t have to live by his rules anymore.”
“I’m not. I paid $165,000 for a psychology degree to learn how to make my own decisions. It’s my decision.”
Frustration flared in Macon’s gaze. “If I had time, I’d argue with you.”
“I’ve learned to count on that.”
“But I don’t, so I’ll save it for later.”
Cammy laughed. “Okay. We’ll have lunch one day soon.”
Macon stood and began to make her way across the room toward Trevor. “I’m not letting you off the hook.”
“I’d be disappointed if you did.”
“So are you bringing him or not?”
“You’re relentless, aren’t you?”
“Absolutely. Let’s not forget that I built a career on it.” She tapped Trevor on the shoulder. “Is the world safe for another day?” she signed to him.
He grinned at her as he explained the outcome of his video battle. “Can I play one more game?”
“May I,” Macon corrected.
Trevor frowned, but adjusted the question. Macon shook her head. “We’ve got to go.” She indicated Cammy with a wave of her hand. “Cammy’s got another appointment, and she has to call Mr. Puller to invite him to your recital.”
Trevor beamed at her. “Is he coming?”
Cammy gave Macon a wry look. “You knew I couldn’t resist that smile, didn’t you?”
“Slays them every time. Just like his father.”
Turning to Trevor, Cammy shook her head. “Your mother is completely crazy.”
“That’s why she likes my dad,” Trevor informed her gravely. “He’s crazy, too.”
Cammy laughed. “Do you think so?”
Trevor nodded. “Are you going to ask Mr. Puller?’’ he persisted, then executed an intricate series of tap steps. “He’ll like it.”
“Why do you think so?”
Trevor shrugged. “Because he likes me.”
Hard to argue with that line of reasoning, Cammy thought. “Yes, he does.”
“And he likes you.”
Macon gave her a smug look. “See?”
Cammy groaned. “Oh, Lord.”
“Just ask him,” Trevor insisted. “You’ll see.”
She sensed his presence before she saw him.
At seven that evening, in the lobby area of the rented auditorium, a large group of families and friends and the merely curious milled about in an effort to calm nervous jitters. The children had already made their way backstage for last-minute instructions and costume checks. A Broadway premier, Cammy knew, wouldn’t have created a greater sense of excitement.
Cammy was in the middle of explaining to Macon that she’d had the invitation to the recital couriered to Jackson’s office when she felt a tingling sensation at her nape. It might have been precipitated by the sudden stillness in the room. She might even have blamed it on the knowing look Macon gave her. She feared, however, that the electricity racing through her blood had little to do with crowd dynamics and far too much to do with the arrival of Jackson Puller.
She turned to find him standing by the door. He looked tired, she noted.
And disarmingly attractive.
And he was looking for her.
Somehow, the effect of that moment notched her temperature up a couple of degrees. In a crisp white shirt with wide blue suspenders and navy trousers, he managed to look simultaneously elegant and relaxed. One day, she thought, she must remember to ask him how he did that. For now, she was too interested in the effect he was having on the large group. When a member of the press, especially one of Jackson’s stature, arrived at events in Washington, D.C. like this, the crowd reaction was sometimes antagonistic, but, more often, merely blasé. She’d seen it happen countless times. Public officials who maintained a symbiotic relationship with the media generally preferred to ignore reporters who haunted their social lives.
But when Jackson entered the room, it felt like a bomb had exploded. He drew attention, Cammy noted, like red clover drew bees. Well-wishers, fans, and the ever-hopeful began to press in his direction. Macon sent a silent signal to her husband, who threaded his way through the circle of women rapidly closing in on Jackson. Cammy suspected that her sigh of relief was audible when she saw Jacob Blackfort’s hand reach through the throng like a rescue worker scooping a victim from a deadly current.
Jackson sent Cammy a wry look that felt oddly intimate across the breadth of the room. Macon’s hand looped around her elbow. “Let’s go meet your guest.”
Cammy continued to study Jackson’s dark head as he conversed with Jacob Blackfort. “I thought you said you already knew him.”
“You know what I mean.” Macon guided her neatly through several would-be obstacles of inquiring eyes and prying questions. In an effortless move that won Cammy’s unending admiration, Macon somehow managed to maneuver through the curious ring of women who surrounded Jackson and her husband and ease themselves into position by the two men.
Jackson smiled at her. “Cammy, hi.” He bent to kiss her cheek in greeting. It should have seemed the most natural thing in the world, but when his hand settled at her
waist, and his clear eyes met her gaze with something far too warm to be called casual, her heart missed a beat.
“I’m glad you made it,” she told him.
“I’m glad you invited me.” His expression told her he had more to say, but he merely watched her as she smoothed a hand over her loose green dress.
Macon delicately cleared her throat. Cammy pulled her gaze from Jackson’s face to make the necessary introductions. “Jackson, I believe you’ve met Macon Stratton-Blackfort.”
Jackson extended his hand. “It’s nice to see you again. I met your son, Trevor, the other day at Cammy’s office. Is he dancing tonight?”
Macon nodded. “A tap solo, a duet, and a couple of chorus numbers. He’s quite the showman.”
Beside her, Jacob Blackfort laughed. “He gets that from his mother.”
Macon planted an elbow in his ribs. “Liar. Trevor’s got your genes, and Natalie has mine.”
“Is that why she had a tantrum when we left her with the baby-sitter tonight?”
“You bet. You know us Stratton women. We like to get our way.” Macon turned back to Jackson. “So I understand you’re doing a story on Cammy.”
“It’s on Wishing Star,” Cammy insisted.
Jackson’s fingers tightened on her waist. “It’s a series on the work Cammy’s doing, and the success she’s having with the foundation.”
“How does it feel to be grounded back in Washington for a change?” Jacob asked.
From the corner of her eye, Cammy noted the slight tightening of Jackson’s lips. Just as quickly, it passed. “I didn’t think I’d like it, but I’m warming to the idea.”
If the heated imprint his hand was leaving on her skin was any indication, that had to be the understatement of the year. Cammy listened to the quiet rumble of Jackson’s voice while he told the couple the details of his current assignment. No one, she noticed, mentioned what had happened in Bosnia. Despite the overwhelming tide of publicity Jackson’s story and subsequent Pulitzer nomination had received, Leo’s death stayed firmly out of the ring of conversation. She noted this omission carefully, and would have suggested they move to find seats in the auditorium when a disturbance by the door arrested her attention.
Amy Patterson, looking perilously close to tears, and wringing her hands in the folds of a black-and-white pinafore, was frantically searching the crowd. Distress marred her usually bright face. The harried-looking woman behind her shook rain from an umbrella as she frowned her displeasure.
Cammy mumbled a slight apology to Jackson as she eased her way past him to the door. “Amy.” She tapped the child on the shoulders. “What’s wrong?”
Amy’s small face crumpled as she threw her arms around Cammy’s legs.
“We got caught in traffic,” the older woman reported. “No one told me I was supposed to drive her over here until thirty minutes ago. There was no one else to do it, or I never would have agreed to come out in this rain. I hate driving in the city at night, and the rain makes it worse.”
Cammy decided against losing her patience with the volunteer in favor of comforting Amy. She tipped the child away from her and signed, “It’s okay, sweetheart. You’re not too late. They haven’t started yet.”
“My costume’s all wet. We couldn’t find a place to park.”
Cammy straightened the dress with a few wipes of her hands. “It’ll dry before you have to dance. Your part is in the middle of the show.” She flipped open her program and pointed to Amy’s name. “See. You still have plenty of time.”
Some of the worry began to ease from the child’s face. “Is Miss Lynette mad at me?”
Cammy shook her head. “No. She knew you’d be here in time for your part.”
The volunteer grunted. “Barely. You should have seen the traffic on Pennsylvania Avenue.”
Cammy mustered a sympathetic look. “I’m sure it was terrible, but Amy’s here now. That’s what matters.”
The volunteer wouldn’t be deterred. “I’ve got to stay for this whole thing, I suppose. How else is she going to get home? Then we’ll have to drive back late at night, and us with nowhere to park. It’s not safe to be out in this city that late, you know?”
Jackson, who had skirted the edges of the room to where wet coats and umbrellas hung in a tangle on the temporary racks, appeared at her side once again. “Hi, Amy. I’m glad you made it.”
Cammy interpreted for him. Amy greeted him with a bright smile that chased away the lingering threat of tears in her eyes. Cammy was tempted to kiss him in gratitude. He squatted in front of the child so his face was on eye level with her. “I brought you something.” He presented her with a paper-wrapped bundle of roses he’d retrieved from the sleeve of his trench coat. “Break a leg.”
She cradled the roses close to her chest and looked at Jackson in adoration. Cammy couldn’t blame her. She was thinking he looked pretty darned adorable at that particular moment herself. He glanced at the still flustered volunteer. “Thanks for bringing her, Ms., ah—”
“George. Edith George.”
“Ms. George. Thanks for driving her over here. Would you like us to give her a ride home?”
The volunteer looked from Cammy to Jackson to Amy, then back at Cammy. “Oh, well, I don’t know. I’m not supposed—”
“Amy is one of my patients, Ms. George,” Cammy interjected. “I think you’ve brought her to my office before.”
Recognition dawned. “Oh. You’re the therapist.”
“Yes.”
“Well, then I suppose it would be all right. I’d really rather not wait and have to drive back in this rain.”
“I understand,” Jackson assured her. “Driving in the city at night is never pleasant. We’ll be glad to do it for you.”
Amy was looking at Cammy expectantly. Cammy quickly interpreted the gist of the conversation for her, then asked, “Would you like to ride home with us tonight?”
She nodded vigorously enough to reassure Edith George. The older woman began pulling on her plastic rain bonnet. “Well, then, I thank you. I’m going to head on back before the rain gets worse. I wish they’d told me about this yesterday so I could have gotten another driver. You’re sure you don’t mind bringing her home?”
Cammy watched in relief as the woman pushed open the door. “Not at all. We’re glad to do it.”
Beside her, Jackson and Amy were having a jumbled conversation of lip-reading and mixed signs and muffled laughter. By the time Cammy had Edith George firmly out the door, a slightly rushed Lynette had joined them. “Amy, we’ve been waiting for you. I’m glad you made it.”
Amy apologized for her wet costume. Lynette assured her it would dry in plenty of time. Jackson rose next to Cammy, who was feeling perilously close to throwing her arms around him when Lynette said, “What beautiful roses.”
Amy beamed at Jackson, then slid her hand into Lynette’s. The two hurried away to the backstage door. Macon and Jacob, Cammy noticed for the first time, had stood quietly watching the scene. Cammy glanced at Jackson, who was looking almost embarrassed. “How did you know?” she asked.
“About giving her a ride home?”
“No. About the flowers.” She heard her voice catch.
“My sisters had dance recitals. I remembered that there were always flowers.”
“But you bought those for Amy. How did you know she’d need them?”
He shrugged. “I had a hunch. I figured if I didn’t use them by the time the night was over, I’d give them to you.”
“It was a very nice thing to do.”
“Sometimes, I’m a very nice guy.”
Cammy laid her hand on his sleeve. “Leo was lucky to have had you for a friend.”
His expression darkened momentarily as he tilted his head to one side. “Do you make a habit of that?”
“What?”
“Saying exactly the right thing at exactly the right moment.”
“Words mean a lot to me.” She squeezed his arm. “I just thought you shou
ld know that I think Leo couldn’t have asked for more.”
“You know, if I’d known a couple of roses was all it would take, I’d have done it days ago.”
“What do you mean?”
“I’ve been wondering what I’d have to do to get you to look at me with that expression in your eyes.”
“What expression?”
“The one that says you think I’m maybe not such a bad guy after all.”
She suspected that her expression said a good deal more than that, but she didn’t say so. “Now you know my secret. I’m a sucker for men who rescue damsels in distress. Even if the damsels are only six years old.”
He reached for her hand. “So you’re weakening?”
She almost choked. He had no idea. “A little.”
“Enough that if I tell you I read your background file today you’re not going to start frowning at me?” He rubbed his thumb on the back of her hand.
Cammy stifled a laugh. “Did you learn anything juicy?”
“You’re not angry.” It wasn’t a question.
“It’s just a file, Jackson. Newspaper clippings and stuff, am I right?”
“Yes.” His grip tightened as he pulled her hand to his chest. With their linked fingers lying against his heart, she felt its steady thrum.
“It’s not like you called the CIA and asked them to put together a dossier.” She gave him a narrow look. “Is it?”
“Cammy—”
“I’m kidding.” She tried not to notice the way his hand shifted so he could caress her palm with his fingertips. There was something blatantly seductive in the action. “Of course I’m not angry. You needed the background material to do your story. Why should I be angry?”
“Your father was a real bastard.”
“He was a very powerful man. Some people even thought he was a hero.”
She saw the frustration on his face. “People have weird ideas about what makes a man a hero.”
“Do they?”
“Some people think all it takes is a public office and some positive press.”
“And some people think a man can make himself a hero with three roses and a ride home.” She squeezed his hand. “Heroes, in my experience, know exactly what to do with sensitive information. I’m safe with you.”