“Why?”
“Because you want to talk to me. Do you have any idea how many people want to talk to me, Samantha Cosgrove, now that I’m in the West Wing?”
“Oh, aren’t we popular. I’m so impressed.”
“I’ll bet you are. I know I am,” he said, flashing her that whiter-than-white smile again.
She wanted to bang him over the head with her briefcase. Instead, she turned her back and began walking away.
“Hungry?” he asked, backing up the sedan so that he was beside her once more.
“Only if I could find a way to make your entrails appetizing,” she said, and kept walking.
He kept backing up. “Ah, don’t go away mad, Samantha. I was going to call you.”
“When? Christmas?”
“No, I go home to Oklahoma for Christmas. Tomorrow. I was going to call you tomorrow. First I had to check you out.”
“Did I pass?” she asked, interested, but she kept walking. The man set her teeth on edge.
“Well, let’s see what I’ve got. Daughter of megarich parents residing in Connecticut after living here for decades. One brother, younger, still in college. Freshman, I believe. One sister, older, a literary agent. Juliet, right? Mommy does charity work and belongs to all the right social groups. Daddy’s a lawyer, and personal friends with and a large contributor to the presidential primary campaign for Senator Mark Phillips, who is personally endorsed by my boss, the current president. Graduated with honors, double major, in both journalism and political science. Very nice, Samantha. Cum laude. Even nicer. Senior staffer on Phillips’s committee. Hardworking, clean-living, good cook, lousy dancer—”
“I am not a lousy dancer! I’m a very good dancer,” Samantha protested hotly, stopping so that she could turn, glare at him.
“And here I thought you weren’t listening. Okay, good dancer, although that wasn’t in my report. So, you want to go get something to eat, and then prove to me that you’re really a good dancer?”
“I wouldn’t dance with you for all the tea in—”
“You did say urgent,” he interrupted.
“Are you always this arrogant?”
“No, it comes with the White House credentials. Honest. You can look at the job description. It’s right there—once cleared to work in the West Wing and given a blue badge, arrogance is mandatory. Red badge? Orange badge? I spit on red and orange badges.”
“You’re insane,” Samantha said, but then she laughed. She couldn’t help herself. “Really. Insane.”
“But I’m buying. How about a New York strip, since you look ready to bite something. Baked potato dripping in sour cream. A good bottle of white zinfandel? You look like a white-zinfandel drinker to me.”
“I like merlot.”
“So much for my source. I’ll have to order her head chopped off in the morning. So, are you getting in, or are you just going to take the Metro home and eat those leftover filled peppers?”
“How did you—oh my God. It’s true. You people know everything. You had someone in my house? Going through my refrigerator?”
“Nothing that illegal. But Brenda—she’s my secretary—did happen to stop in at Senator Phillips’s election headquarters late this afternoon. She told me someone named Bettyann would have given out your shoe size if anyone asked. Brenda also told me that you’re blond and a looker. She was right. Now, come on. Get in.”
Samantha threw up her hands. “Why not. I deserve a free steak after you invaded my privacy that way. You are buying, you know.”
“I wouldn’t have it any other way,” he said once she was in the passenger seat, her briefcase on the floor.
“Neither would I,” she said, arranging her oversize raincoat across her legs. He didn’t deserve to see her legs. “And then we’ll talk?”
“And then we’ll talk. Promise,” he said, slipping the car into Drive and heading out of the parking deck. “But first we eat. I don’t know about you, but I’m starving.”
“I can relate,” Samantha said, hoping her stomach wouldn’t growl before she could feed it.
Finding an empty table in any half-decent restaurant close to the White House was darn near impossible, anytime day or night, but as they approached one of the best ones, Samantha told him to pull up out front at the valet service area.
“Much as I’d like to tell you I’m even smarter than my personnel file says I am, I didn’t know you were going to be lying in wait for me in the parking lot, or that you’d agree to come to dinner with me. That said, I don’t have reservations.”
“That’s all right. Just pull over.”
He did, and the valet opened the passenger-side door. Samantha accepted the hand she was offered, and said, “Good evening, Anthony. It’s good to see you again.”
“And it’s wonderful to see you again, Ms. Cosgrove,” Anthony the valet said, guiding her under the canopy and out of the rain.
“I guess I’m just supposed to schlep it on my own,” Jesse grumbled to himself as Anthony and his large black golf umbrella didn’t move from the canopy again.
He got out, tossed his keys to Anthony, and found himself following Samantha inside the dimly lit foyer of the restaurant known for its old boys’ club decor and aged steaks.
She was already standing in front of the podium, with an Anthony look-alike holding her raincoat over his arm, and speaking fluent Italian with the maître d’.
A few more Italian phrases, some sharp snapping of the fingers by the maître d’, and they were being escorted past the line of diners waiting to be seated and to a prime table. Jesse was pretty sure he recognized a representative from Pennsylvania in the line, as well as a second assistant undersecretary of state.
“How’d you do that?” he asked once they were seated.
“So much for your thorough research. I was raised in the District, remember, before Dad decided to relocate in Connecticut. I’ve known Anthony and his family for years, since my father and mother first began coming here,” she told him as she spread her napkin in her lap.
Then she leaned forward and said with an unholy grin on her lovely, patrician face, “You see, Mr. Colton? Badges? I don’t need no steenkin’ badges.”
If he were less a man of the world, Jesse would have believed he fell in love with Samantha Cosgrove the moment the words were out of her mouth.
Instead, he threw back his head and laughed, and banished any other thoughts as unprofessional. And definitely personally dangerous.
They were handed oversize menus, leather-clad, and Jesse watched as Samantha frowned over hers.
She was so blond. So sleek. So High Society.
And he was the part Comanche nobody from Black Arrow, Oklahoma.
Man. Who would have thunk it.
“I think I want two of everything,” she said at last, smiling at him overtop the menu. “Is that all right?”
“That depends. How good are you at washing dishes?”
“Ah, the woefully underpaid public servant,” Samantha said, closing the menu and placing it beside her cutlery so that she could fold her hands on the tabletop. “Do you like it?”
“Being a public servant, or being underpaid?” he asked, closing his own menu.
“No, seriously, do you like it? I mean, I get