“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 chills, just thinking about the West Wing. The Oval Office. All that power, all in one place.”
“And the doughnuts ain’t bad,” Jesse said, grinning.
She sat back. “All right, so I’m not immune to the idea that you work in the West Wing. It’s heady. How did you get there, anyway?”
“Hard work, determination, knowing the right people—all that good stuff.”
“Will you please be serious. I mean, I know you started in the Secret Service.”
“Not much of a secret, is it?” he commented, trying to look upset. “And then I moved on to the NSA—National Security Agency.”
“Yes, and from there to the West Wing. One of the president’s trusted advisers. I don’t remember reading that you stopped a bullet for him, or anything like that.”
“No, nothing that dramatic. Let’s just say I’m ambitious, and that, yes, I did know the right people, and that I was in the right place at the right time. When the president’s second term is over, and your guy’s in the Oval Office, I’ll head back to the NSA. I’m only on loan, you know. That was the deal.”
“You won’t want to be part of Phillips’s staff?”
“I won’t be asked. Same party, Samantha, but each man comes in with his own people. And, frankly, I think I’ll be glad. The NSA is where I really want to be. I’m not all that political. I’d rather think I’m serving my country, not just the current administration. Since the president agreed, and really wants more of an outsider’s opinion on national security, we’re fine. This was, hell, this was an ego thing as much as anything else. But enough about me. Why do you want to be part of Phillips’s staff?”
The waiter approached, and they both gave their orders, then were silent as the wine—compliments of the owner—was opened and poured.
“Nice touch, even if I am going to have to pay for it. We’re not allowed to accept gifts, you know. Still, I could get used to this,” Jesse said, sipping the wine. “So, Samantha, are you going to tell me? Why do you want to be part of Phillips’s staff?”
“Because he’s right for America,” Samantha said, and then she grimaced. “Okay, okay, the truth. Not that he isn’t right for America. He’s a wonderful man. But to get the chance to walk into the West Wing? Stand inside the Oval Office? Be even a small piece of the power behind the man in that office? You’ve admitted it, so I can say it. Who wouldn’t want that?”
“True, true. Fifteen-hour days, constant emergencies, news leaks, congressmen who need their hands held. It’s great.”
“You’re just saying that. I don’t think you’d ever be anywhere you didn’t want to be.”
Jesse didn’t answer her. He just lifted his glass in salute and took another sip of wine as the waiter placed large bowls of salad in front of them.
Oh, he liked this woman. He really, really liked her. And she was correct. He was right where he wanted to be. Across the table from a very interesting woman.
By the time they’d finished their steaks, Jesse was feeling pretty mellow.
Mellow enough to ask a question he probably shouldn’t have asked.
“Have you ever been to the Chekagovian embassy?” he asked, because it seemed as if she’d been everywhere else in the District, and most parts of Virginia. She knew everybody, probably through her parents or Senator Phillips, and had been invited to all the right parties.
Samantha sat back and rolled her eyes. “Oh, the Chekagovian embassy! Isn’t it beautiful?”
“I don’t know. I’ve never seen it.” That much was true. He’d only gotten the fax from the local law firm yesterday, and was still trying to grasp the idea that he and his relatives owned the pricey mansion…and the rest of it.
“You’ve never seen it? Oh, you have to see it. I mean, I’ve never been inside, but from the outside? The grounds are magnificent, just for starters. I was there for a photo op with the senator’s wife, but we didn’t get to go inside. Gorgeous gardens, with flowers all over—”
“I’ve heard that. Gardens, with flowers in them. Very unique.”
“Don’t be funny,” she said, then waited until their plates were cleared from the table. “And it’s not just the gardens. The mansion is truly extraordinary. Federal style. Wonderful old redbrick. A million windows. Exterior wood all painted creamy white, and definitely handcrafted by experts. It’s…it’s a slice of American history. Really.”
“And it serves as the Chekagovian embassy.”
She nodded. “That’s what happened to so many of the best old houses. It’s the price we pay for being the center of the political world. Of course, if we weren’t, who knows what would have happened to those lovely old mansions.”
“They’d never have been built.”
“Good point. I hadn’t thought of that. Anyway, I’d love to get inside that place, just for a look around. Why did you mention it?”
Jesse drew back, knowing he’d probably already said too much. “Oh, no real reason. I’d just heard it was a…a nice place.”
Her gorgeous blue eyes narrowed. “Liar.”
“I beg your pardon,” he said as the waiter poured coffee for them. “I never lie.”
“Oh, the new millennium’s George Washington. You cannot tell a lie. This city hasn’t seen another one like him, until you, of course. I’m so impressed. Really.”
“All right, all right,” Jesse said, holding out his hands. “But only because you dragged it out of me at fork-point.”
“I did not,” she told him. “That was next.”
Jesse laughed. He didn’t know if the good food had made him feel so comfortable, or the good wine…or the great company. What he did know was that if he didn’t soon tell someone what he’d learned in that fax, he was probably going to burst. Just like a little kid with good news.
“First I have to swear you to secrecy,” he told her.
“Certainly,” she said, then held up her right hand. “I, Samantha Cosgrove, do solemnly swear that I won’t breathe a word of what Jesse Colton is about to tell me, so help me spit. There. Is that good enough?”
“Pretty good. Although I’ll still have to kill you once you know everything.”
“That seems only fair. You were Secret Service. Does that mean you could kill me with a rubber band or pencil sharpener?”
“We don’t do those anymore. Now we use Post-it notes. I’m hell with a Post-it note.”
“I’ll bet you are. Now, come on, tell me. What do I want to know about the Chekagovian embassy?”
“That I own it?” he said, raising his eyebrows.
“That you…that you…oh, you fibber you. You own it? Well, that makes us even. I own the Washington Monument. Oh, and we rent out the Lincoln Memorial. Tax reasons, you know.”
He smiled, shook his head. “I know, it’s hard to believe, but I own it. Really. Well, I own some of it.”
“Some