Rebecca York (3 page)

And find out who or what was waiting for her at his house.

The premonition made her breath catch in her throat. But she wasn't going to run in the other direction—even when that was what she wanted to do.

CHAPTER THREE

AS LINDSAY TURNED onto Delaware Street, it flashed through her mind that she could still turn around and go home. Immediately she canceled the thought. She'd come this far, and it would be foolish to turn around now.

Lindsay found a parking space less than a block from the senator's redbrick colonial. In the front hallway she stood for a moment smoothing the black silk of her cocktail dress as she surveyed the well dressed guests and acclimated herself to the familiar buzz. The crowd was a cross section of the capital's power structure. Senators and congressmen. Ambassadors and administration officials.

Like a gazelle sniffing the grassland for danger, she scanned the faces in the crowd looking for someone.

Someone she knew? Or another man? And why was she sure it was a man?

Struggling to keep an anxious expression off her face, she looked around for her host and saw him deep in conversation with Congressman Loman. She'd wait to greet him until he was more available. After taking an offered glass of champagne from a waiter bearing a silver tray, she moved toward the hum of conversation.

"Hey, Lindsay."

She knew the voice instantly. "Sid."

Was he the man she had come here to meet? Maybe.

Sid Becker had been a Marine colonel. Even in a dark business suit, he had the ramrod-straight bearing and short haircut of a military man, although now he worked for the Institute for Military Studies downtown in D.C. He'd been a good source of information, and they'd gotten to be friends.

She knew he wanted to take that relationship to a more personal level, but she'd always resisted. She and Sid worked well together, and she didn't want to spoil things with the rush of disappointment that always came on the heels of sex. Deep down she sensed there should be something more, some profound connection between two people who had joined their bodies in the most intimate of acts. But that "something more" had always eluded her.

They hadn't seen each other in several weeks. Now, as she studied his chiseled face, she thought she detected signs of strain.

"What have you been up to?" she asked.

"Nothing special."

"You look like the rat race is getting to you," she said softly.

"Yeah, maybe I need a vacation." He wiggled his eyebrows suggestively. "Want to spend a long weekend with me in St. Michaels?"

Last year they'd both attended a conference at a posh resort in the town on the Eastern Shore of Maryland. He'd been trying to get her to go back there with him ever since.

She shook her head. "Senator Bridgewater keeps me too busy taking care of the public interest." There was no point in adding that she knew in her heart she was destined for spinsterhood.

At that moment a feeling of being watched made Lindsay look over Sid's left shoulder. Standing at the side of the room with his eyes fixed on her was a tall, broad-shouldered man. An overall impression registered first. Handsome. Confident. Alert. Then her eyes took in the separate details that made up the total picture. Thick black hair tamed by an expensive cut. Brows that would have been severe on a less forceful face. A square jaw. The suggestion of furrows between nose and mouth that spoke of maturity beyond his years. But there was a touch of humor—or was it cynicism—around the dark eyes and well-shaped lips.

The man projected a strong sense of self that often accompanied celebrity status. She'd seen him before.

Was it on the Hill?

Then it clicked. He was Jordan Walker. She'd read about him in the Post, then seen him on a local talk show when he'd done a series of articles for the Atlantic Monthly on behind-the-scenes maneuvering on the Supreme Court. Some of his allegations had cost Paula Grayson, a hardworking public servant, her job, and Lindsay had silently cursed him as a career-wrecker.

Walker caught the accusing look in her eyes, but his gaze didn't falter.

Then Sid said something that she didn't catch.

"Lindsay?"

Her attention had been focused on the author for less than a minute, but her concentration on the man had been so total that everything else had faded from existence. Now she realized she hadn't heard most of Sid's last few remarks.

She struggled to pull her attention back to him. "Yes?"

"There is something ..."

"What can I do for you?" she asked, catching the worry in his voice.

"I may want to ask a favor."

"From Senator Bridgewater?"

"Maybe. We'll talk later. This isn't the place for a business discussion—but I saw you, and I thought..."

"No problem. Give me a call."

'Thanks."

Feeling unsettled, she moved on. Though the room was moderately crowded, there was an open stretch between herself and the brash Mr. Walker, as if he'd parted the Red Sea to make a path for her to join him in the Promised Land. Obediently she took several steps in his direction.

Then, realizing what she was doing, she stopped in mid-stride.

She felt an uneasy shiver start at the base of her spine and travel upward. For a long moment she stood very still. Then, making a quick about-face, she headed for the buffet table.

* * *

JORDAN'S eyes narrowed as he watched the slender brunette head for the dining room. Although many of the ladies here were more beautiful, he'd rarely seen one who captured his attention so intensely. As an investigative reporter, he was constantly analyzing people. Now he tried to come up with a reason for his reaction. Her dark hair was piled in a sophisticated upsweep with a few provocative tendrils framing her oval face and emphasizing the graceful carriage of her head and neck. She seemed outwardly at home in this environment of politics and power, yet there was something that set her apart. Maybe it was her eyes. Beautiful, yet analytically assessing. Their color was light. He wanted to know the exact shade.

He had been watching her for several minutes. When she'd returned his scrutiny, he'd allowed himself to engage in a little mental game he sometimes played—seeing if he could influence another person's behavior through the force of his own will. Sometimes it seemed to work. When she'd taken a step in his direction, his chest had tightened with anticipation—leaving him feeling let down when she'd turned away. On the other hand, the evening was young. There was still time to connect with her.

He'd been glad to get the invitation to Sam Conroy's party because he thought that some of the men here would have had dealings with Leonard Hamilton.

Now he was more interested in hooking up with the lithe brunette, which was unusual for him. While he enjoyed sex, relationships had never been his strong suit. And in the past few years he'd mostly lived inside his fantasies—as Hamilton had so kindly pointed out.

His work had taught him the importance of patience. For the next forty-five minutes he bided his time.

He let Senator Appleton corner him and pump him for information about the publishing industry, then looked noncommittal when the senator let on that he was looking for a ghostwriter to do his autobiography.

Deftly Jordan excused himself to chat with a construction tycoon who'd been in a business deal with Hamilton. But all the time he was talking to the man, he knew where the mystery woman was and whom she was talking to.

His opportunity to meet her came when he saw her talking to Sam Conroy. Skillfully detaching himself from his own conversation, he moved in their direction. "Senator, you're a hard man to get a word with, even at your own party."

Conroy laughed. "At your service."

The woman started to turn away. Before she could flee, Jordan said, "I'd like an introduction."

Conroy grinned. "Lindsay Fleming—Jordan Walker. Probably doing undercover research for his next book."

"Now, Senator, even I'm off duty some of the time," Jordan insisted, although it wasn't true.

Their host kept the conversation going for a few more minutes before moving off to another group of guests, leaving him alone with Ms. Fleming.

"Conroy's a gentleman from the old school," Jordan observed. "I'm going to miss him. Do you work for him?"

"No."

Up close her eyes were green—and wary.

"Are you on someone else's staff?"

"Yes."

"Are we going to play twenty questions?"

A reluctant half smile flickered on her softly curved lips. He liked the effect.

"I'm with Senator Bridgewater. I started off as an intern with Sam Conroy. His encouragement meant a lot."

"Conroy doesn't hand out praise unless it's earned. You must have done a damn good job. You're a lawyer?"

"No. A sociologist."

"How did you end up on the Hill?"

"The way most people do. Idealism. The daily grind burns it off. But I'm sure none of this is very interesting to you."

"What have I done to get your back up?"

"Your writing is slanted to project a particular point of view."

"Oh, yeah?" he asked, wondering exactly what that crack meant.

She took a half step back, preparing to leave. Despite her put-down, he wasn't about to let her go so quickly. Acting on some primal instinct, he reached out and captured her wrist. She went very still, her eyes round and alarmed. He was aware of the pulse beating under her delicate skin, but that was simply one perception in a rush of sensations. During the moment his ringers encircled her flesh, he felt warm, dizzy, disoriented, and completely at a loss to explain the intensity of the reaction.

He saw her eyes mirror his surprise. They were dilated now, the pupils almost enveloping the green irises. For an instant all the normal barriers that separate individuals vanished. He was awash with profound emotions. Longing, desire, fear. Some supernatural force seemed to pull him toward her. It was coupled with a perception of danger that made his sharpened senses reel. For frantic heartbeats he was paralyzed, caught in his own trap, unable to draw a full breath into his lungs as he stood in the middle of the room with every nerve ending in his body screaming.

She was the one who wrenched her hand away, snapping the contact.

They both stood in the middle of the crowded room, breath coming in little gasps. His gaze swept the faces around them. Nobody was watching. Nobody was aware that something extraordinary had passed between them. In truth, it must have all taken place in a few brief seconds. The blink of an eye. Yet he felt as if his life had changed forever.

He heard Lindsay make a small sound, and his gaze locked instantly back to her. The color in her cheeks was high, as if she'd just finished a very satisfying session with her lover. He felt the same heat on his own skin.

Her chin tipped up defiantly. "That was certainly novel. How did you manage that cheap parlor trick?"

"Is that really what you think?" he asked, willing his breath to steadiness.

"You tell me."

When he didn't answer, she turned and walked away with her back straight and her head up, leaving him feeling more defensive and more isolated than he'd been in his whole lonely life.

CHAPTER FOUR

GRADUALLY, LIKE MORNING mist evaporating from rocky ground, the fog in Mark Greenwood's brain lifted.

His mind still felt like one of the Jell-0 salads his Aunt Jen used to make. But at least he knew who he was. Mark Greenwood. And he was pretty sure of his current place of residence. A private hospital. But he couldn't remember exactly what had happened to him.

Did it have to do with intruders at Maple Creek? Two guys who had invaded an impenetrable facility?

Or was that just a bad dream? And he'd wake up in his cozy bedroom back at Aunt Jen and Uncle Eddie's house Any moment now he'd catch the scent of her breakfast pancakes wafting up the steps.

No, wait—his adoptive parents were dead. And he was in the special forces. On a covert assignment in Iraq.

He squeezed his eyes shut. No. Not that, either.

"How are you feeling?" a man asked, his voice full of concern. But Mark sensed a hard edge below the solicitous tone.

He slitted his eyes and tried to look at the three people hovering above him. Their faces were partially covered by surgical masks. To protect against germs? "I feel bad. Are you a doctor?" he asked the man who had asked the question.

"Yes. I'm Dr. Colefax. I'm here to help you."

Somehow, Mark wasn't reassured.

"Can you rate the pain in your head on a scale of one to ten? With ten the worst."

"Now? Or when the guys burst into the control room?"

Tension gathered in the doctor's eyes. "Tell me about that."

Mark didn't like that look—a mixture of cunning and eagerness.

When he didn't reply, the doctor prompted him, "What happened to you? A spray? An injection?"

"Not sure."

"Tell me what you remember?"

"Need to sleep."

"Stay with me," the doctor urged.

"No." He wanted to escape into sleep, but a hand closed over his shoulder, the grip tightening, anchoring him to the hospital room.

"Tell me about the men who came into the control room. What did they do?"

"Don't know."

Was this some kind of psychological experiment? Was that it? He'd always believed there was a time and place for violence. This wasn't it, yet he was unable to control the surge of frustration and rage that knifed through him. Lunging off the bed, he went straight for the doctor.

The man jerked back—his hands slapping out like a girl's in self-defense.

"Hold him down, dammit."

He felt the prick of a needle in his arm. "Leave me alone..." he tried to shout. But the injection turned the pain in his head to raw fire. When he heard a scream, he wondered if it was him—or someone else.

* * *

AS soon as Jordan climbed into his Mercedes, he unknotted his tie, pulled it out of his collar, and tossed it on the passenger seat.

He was still stewing over the disturbing episode with Lindsay Fleming. His reaction tonight had been completely out of kilter. He'd never been the type to lose his head with a woman, and the experience had challenged his well-honed need for control.