License to Love

by Barbara Boswell

  He was very aware of his pounding heart and churning stomach, physical symptoms of anxiety that he found extremely unpleasant. He wasn’t used to them; he’d never been the nervous type. Not even as an adolescent had he experienced the palm-sweating, throat-clogging anxiety of his peers.

  But he was suffering it now, with a vengeance.

  He knocked at the door. There was no response. He knocked again and then pressed the buzzer. Still no sounds from within. Steve glanced at his Rolex watch, one of his most treasured possessions, a status symbol that thrilled him every time he looked at it. He’d told Michelle shortly before six. Perhaps she hadn’t returned from her office yet. She certainly wouldn’t expect him to be early.

  Eventually he tired of waiting at her door and returned to his car, a sleek black Jaguar, another treasured possession, another status symbol that thrilled him every time he drove it. He’d illegally parked it directly in front of the building and he sat behind the wheel, watching and waiting for Michelle to arrive.

  She didn’t. At six-thirty, he marched back up to her apartment and pounded on the door. Nothing. Frustrated, muttering a curse, he leaned on the buzzer. It sounded, nonstop. He pounded on the door with his other hand. He knew he was making a terrible racket and didn’t care. He willed the door to open.

  It didn’t, but the door across the hall did, and a middle-aged woman appeared, looking annoyed. “There’s nobody home there,” the woman said. “She’s, gone for the long holiday weekend.”

  “Gone?” Steve was flabbergasted. “But we were supposed to have dinner!”

  The woman shrugged. “Looks like you’ve been stood up.” The door closed.

  Stood up! Steve was staggered. It was unthinkable, an alien concept. Michelle had stood him up.

  He was still in shock as he drove himself and his cousin Saran back to the Saraceni family home in the small working-class town of Merlton, New Jersey, for his parents’ annual Fourth of July barbecue.

  It was an event he would’ve preferred to skip, particularly now, but he had learned over the years that it was easier if he was present at family holiday affairs. His absence guaranteed worried and/or scolding phone calls from each and every family member, not to mention the possibility of any one of them turning up on his doorstep “just to make sure he was all right.”

  But it was not his loving family—whose possessive devotion he viewed as suffocating and smothering—that dominated his thoughts on that dismal drive to New Jersey. Images of Michelle kept tumbling through his mind, kaleidoscope fashion: Michelle loving him, and now, hating him.

  He thought back to the first time he had seen her, six months ago. He’d met her shortly afterward. How had it come to this? Steve wondered bleakly—

  In the suburban Washington, D.C. home of her stepsister Courtney Tremaine, Michelle was equally preoccupied with memories of Steve. While she went through the motions of talking and laughing with Courtney and her husband Connor, of oohing and ahhing over the cuteness of their three-month-old adopted daughter Sarah, her mind replayed every scene with Steve from the moment they’d met until their most recent encounter—that tense, unhappy confrontation in his office. Her heart was truly broken. She should have known it would come to this...

  One

  January, six months earlier

  “A chain letter!” Michelle scowled at the letter she’d just opened, then crumpled it up and tossed it into the trashcan alongside her desk.

  “You’re not going to, uh, pass it along to anybody?” asked Brendan O’Neal. He was a part-time law student who worked as an intern in Senator Dineen’s office and was unofficially Michelle’s assistant.

  “I wouldn’t waste the time. I wouldn’t foist one of those idiotic letters on anybody.” She grinned. “Not even on Joe McClusky and his staff.”

  Senator Joe McClusky was one of Senator Ed Dineen’s arch rivals in the Pennsylvania state senate. As Senator Dineen’s assistant administrative aide, Michelle was fiercely loyal to her boss and therefore inimical toward the McClusky forces.

  “It’s supposed to be bad luck not to pass along a chain letter.” Brendan retrieved the discarded paper from the trash, smoothed out the wrinkles and read it. “According to this, there are dire consequences for not sending this letter to somebody else. Listen to what happened to the ones who didn’t—one guy had a winning lottery ticket for a ten-million-dollar jackpot and then lost the ticket, another guy was killed in a plane crash, a woman lost her home and all her possessions in a mysterious flash fire.” He glanced at Michelle. “Are you sure you want to mess with this? You could send it to me and beat the curse. Then I’ll pass it on to McClusky.”

  Michelle laughed. “You and your Irish mysticism!” She i snatched the letter from him and threw it back into the trashcan. “I won’t be intimidated by those bogus threats. Chain letters like these are illegal anyway.”

  “Okay, okay. But may I suggest not buying a lottery ticket or an airplane ticket or lighting a match until the alleged curse wears off. Whenever that is.”

  She glared at him in mock severity. “Brendan, go to lunch.”

  He gave an equally mock salute. “Yes, ma’am.”

  Biendan had been gone less than ten minutes when the door to her office opened again. Michelle suppressed a sigh. This was at least the fifth or sixth interruption of the morning, not including the ubiquitous phone calls. She had a small mountain of reading material on her desk pertaining to the new federal demands concerning hazardous waste sites and exactly two days to get through it before the committee meeting. At this rate she would be reading well into the night to make the deadline.

  “I hope you’ll forgive me for barging in like this.”

  The voice was deep, smooth, and contained a perfect blend of apology and humor. Michelle glanced up at once. Standing in the doorway was a man whose looks exceeded the cliched tall, dark and handsome stereotype. She stared at him a moment too long, but she couldn’t help herself. He was that gorgeous.

  He was about six feet tall and his gray suit appeared cus-tom-tailored for his superb, muscular frame. But it was his face that riveted Michelle. He had been blessed with a marvelous combination of bone structure and coloring and the results were breathtaking. Literally. Michelle had to remind herself to exhale as she gazed at his impossibly sensual mouth, which was drawn into the most beguiling, appealing smile she had ever seen. His eyes were a dark velvety brown in color and glowed with an alert intelligence and inviting warmth that beckoned and compelled.

  Charisma. The word immediately came to mind. He’d been abundantly gifted with that elusive but unmistakable quality along with his stunning looks.

  He walked toward her, smiling that smile, exuding confidence, virile magnetism and an irresistible sexual allure. “I’m Steve Saraceni.” He held out his hand to her. “And I know you’re Michelle Carey, Senator Dineen’s assistant administrative aide and his acting liaison to the committee studying the hazardous waste elimination bill.” Automatically she gave him her hand. His fingers closed around hers in a firm shake. Michelle’s heart began to pound and she felt her skin flush. If his looks packed a potent wallop, the effects of his touch probably registered on the Richter scale. When she found herself checking his left hand for a wedding band—he wasn’t wearing one—she knew it was time to end this mind-bending handshake.

  Michelle took a bolstering step backward, embarrassed by her unexpected, uncharacteristic response to the man. She was a mature professional woman, not a giddy schoolgirl, she reminded herself sternly.

  It was time to regain control of the situation... and of herself! “Mr. Saraceni,” she began.

  “Call me Steve, everybody does.”

  Before she could reply, he whipped out his business card and pressed it into her hand. She glanced at it. Legislative Engineers Limited was printed in bold black print with the names Steven Saraceni, Patrick Lassiter and Gregory Arthur in smaller letters underneath.

  Michelle arched her brows. “Legislative Engi
neers?”

  “I know, I know. Sounds pretentious, doesn’t it? Greg, one of my partners, came up with it. He thought it had more panache than Lobbyists for Hire, which is what we actually are.”

  “You’re a lobbyist,” Michelle repeated. “Of course. I should have known.”

  “Uh-oh. I hope that doesn’t mean, ‘Of course, a slick, fast-talking, back-slapping arm-twister.’” Steve’s smile was wry, his tone self-deprecating. “I know that’s a common perception of lobbyists but I’ve tried to go against the ingrained stereotype. I don’t slap backs and I don’t twist arms, Michelle. I simply do the job I’ve been hired to do—that is, to present my clients’ views to the legislators.”

  He was serious, earnest and sincere. Michelle felt a pang of guilt for the lobbyist-bashing she and other staffers periodically indulged in. “I just meant that I should’ve known a legislative engineer is another term for lobbyist,” she said quickly. “I’ve heard it before, but not very often.” “Probably the same semantics genius who invented domestic engineer for housewife came up with legislative engineer for lobbyist.” Steve smiled ingenuously. “Anyway, I know how busy you must be and I won’t take up any more of your time. I just wanted to introduce myself to you and invite you and the rest of the committee studying the bill on hazardous waste elimination to lunch.”

  His smile broadened and there was humor in his warm dark eyes. “Hmm, that didn’t come out very well—mentioning lunch and hazardous waste in the same breath. Can I try it again? I’ll try to come up with something a shade more, er, appetizing.”

  His good humor was infectious. Michelle couldn’t help but smile back. But she did remember her position and his, and asked, “What is your interest in the bill?”

  “My client is Allied Medical Technologies, Incorporated. They build incinerators that bum medical waste from hospitals, doctors’ offices and labs. They would like to be awarded the contract to build incinerators on the sites selected by the state, so they’re very interested in this bill Senator Dineen is sponsoring. As AMT’s lobbyist, I’d like to meet the committee members and present pertinent information to them before the bill is voted out of committee and sent to the floor.”

  “I see,” said Michelle. And she did. If his efforts were successful to his client’s cause, he would earn a substantial bonus in addition to the annual retainer paid by the company. The bonus sum grew with each degree of success achieved, beginning with getting a bill introduced, escalating to getting it through a committee and finally paying off big if the bill passed the state House and Senate.

  Most of the lobbyists in Harrisburg were lawyers, trade association representatives or public relations consultants, full-time employees of corporations, labor unions or special interest groups. Steve and his partners were independent “hired guns” who represented dozens of different clients, firms that didn’t want a full-time lobbyist, only a representative on certain, specific issues.

  “I understand the committee will be meeting again next week,” Steve continued. “May I take all of you to lunch the day before? If that’s not okay for everyone, we’ll reschedule at your convenience, of course. I’m nothing if not accommodating.” His grin playfully mocked himself and the entire system.

  He was upfront about his intentions and the procedure to be followed. Michelle thought he was a refreshing change from the smarmy types who tried to pretend that lobbyist/ legislative socializing was something more than purely business. The difference between business associates and personal friends had always been quite clear to her.

  She reminded herself of that fact now, when she found herself smiling at Steve in a certain way—the way a woman would smile at a man she was attracted to, with her head demurely tilted, her eyelashes lowered, her lips slightly parted. Quickly, Michelle tried to rearrange her face into the kind of professional smile reserved for lobbyists like Don Exner, a fifty-one-year-old, five foot eight, two hundred pound, married father of four.

  Flushing, she thought she saw a knowing gleam in Steve’s eyes, as if he knew exactly the effect he was having upon her. He probably did, Michelle decided grimly. A man with his looks had to be accustomed to women swooning over him, even throwing themselves at him. Not that she’d done either! Nor would she.

  “I’ll relay your invitation to lunch to the committee and get back to you,” she said briskly. Yes, that was better. It was exactly the way she sounded when replying to Don Exner or any other lobbyist.

  “Thank you, Michelle. I’ll look forward to hearing from you.”

  It was a generic statement somehow made to sound promisingly intimate by his whiskey-smooth tones. His departing smile left her weak-kneed. Michelle ran her hand over her neatly French-braided blond hair and sought to regain her equilibrium from the sensual onslaught. It was as if Cupid had started shooting ballistic missiles instead of arrows.

  Shortly after his departure, Claire Collins and Leigh Wilson, two other Dineen staffers, rushed into Michelle’s office.

  “Who was that guy? I couldn’t believe my eyes!” exclaimed Leigh. “I looked up and there he was—a Greek god come to life!”

  “She was speechless, all right,” seconded Claire. “Leigh looked at him, opened her mouth and not a single word came out.” She did a comic imitation of Leigh, staring glassy-eyed and slack-jawed.

  “Don’t tell me you weren’t affected by him, Claire,” retorted Leigh. “You’re married, not dead. So what did he want, Michelle? Whatever it is, I volunteer.”

  “He’s a lobbyist,” said Michelle. “His name is Steve Saraceni and he represents Allied Medical Technologies. He wants to take the committee to lunch next week and talk about a hazardous waste incinerator.”

  Claire groaned. Leigh looked disappointed. “Hazardous waste? How gross! Still, he’s so gorgeous he might even be able to make that sound romantic.”

  Leigh’s rhapsodizing increased Michelle’s sense of disconcertment. After all, her reaction to Steve Saraceni hadn’t been much different. And now even Claire, a starry-eyed newlywed, was chiming in with appreciative remarks about Saraceni’s incredible sex appeal. His effect on women was dynamite indeed, and Michelle knew he couldn’t help but be aware of it. She shifted uncomfortably, longing for a change of subject.

  Leigh wasn’t. “He wasn’t wearing a wedding ring,” she noted. “If he were married, you can bet his wife would insist on one. That means he’s single, he’s available! And so am I!”

  “So is Michelle,” Claire added dampeningly. “And she’s the one on the committee he’s lobbying. She’s the one going to lunch with him.”

  Michelle felt her cheeks turn pink. “Have you two ever heard the term ‘conflict of interest’? We haven’t really needed to worry about it because Ed is a junior senator and doesn’t have enough influence or power for the lobbyists to come around much. But—”

  “Conflict of interest,” Claire interrupted, grinning. “It sounds exciting, forbidden, passionate. Go for it, Michelle.”

  Michelle smiled in spite of herself. In a moment, she was laughing along with the others. After all, Claire was deliberately being outrageous. Everyone in Senator Dineen’s office knew how hardworking, loyal and dedicated Michelle was to her job. If there was a single staffer in Harrisburg who wouldn’t ever need to worry about becoming embroiled in a conflict of interest, that person would be Michelle Carey.

  Steve returned to his office to find his cousin Saran painting her nails while simultaneously talking on the telephone. She had the receiver tucked into the curve between her neck and shoulder and from her giggles, Steve was absolutely certain that the call had nothing at all to do with business.

  He suppressed a groan. The family had foisted Saran upon him four months ago, after she’d completed a year of business school that had allegedly prepared her for office work. In what type of office, Steve had never been able to ascertain but he had dutifully created this job of receptionist for her, according to the family credo: Saracenis stick together. Bonded like glue, Steve often ad
ded, not always facetiously.

  He heaved a sigh. “Get off the phone, Saran.”

  Saran scowled, but quickly obeyed. “Heather and I were making plans to go see Boiled in Oil in Philly next weekend,” she told him eagerly. “And you’ll never guess what, Steve? Heather knows a girl who knows Boiled in Oil’s drummer. She’s going to get us introduced to the band!”

  “Meeting Boiled in Oil. Now there’s a dream come true,” Steve said dryly.

  “You’re too old to appreciate them. You baby boomers are stuck way back in time with, like, the Rolling Stones.”

  “I wouldn’t have appreciated a heavy metal punk catastrophe like Boiled in Oil at any age, Saran. I happen to have taste.”

  “Not in music—or in women,” Saran shot back. “I’ve met some of the babes you go out with. They actually make me look smart! No wonder you don’t want to get married. Those airheads you date are as far removed from wife material as—as—”

  “—as Boiled in Oil’s noise is from real music,” Steve finished triumphantly. He headed toward his office.

  “I told Heather that you’re boring and old but she still thinks you’re hot,” Saran called after him. “She wants to go out with you really bad. Want to come to Confetti’s with us tonight? That hot new team from WTXH radio are going to be the DJs.”

  Steve considered spending an evening with Saran and her friend Heather and decided that he would rather be—well, boiled in oil. “Thanks, but I’m busy tonight.”

  Sitting in his office, it struck him that for years he had been dating girls the age that Saran and Heather were now. In fact, Heather, with her blatantly sexy, flashy style, could even be categorized as just his type. For some inexplicable reason, the revelation horrified him. He was fourteen years older than Saran; he’d always thought of her as a little kid. So wouldn’t that make girls her age just kids, too?