A Conflict of Interest. Barbara Dunlop

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      The crowd’s murmurs rose in volume, everyone asking each other what they knew, had heard, had thought or had speculated. Cara could only imagine at least a thousand text messages had gone out already.

      She took a half step toward Ariella, but the woman turned on her heel, disappearing behind the stage. There were at least a dozen doorways back there, most cordoned off from the guests by security. Hopefully, Ariella would make a quick getaway.

      Mitch raised his glass. “To the president.”

      Everyone ignored him.

      Cara moved toward Lynn as the crowd’s questions turned to shouts and the press descended on the table.

      “If you would direct your questions to me,” Lynn called, standing up from her chair and drawing, at least for a moment, the attention of the reporters away from President Morrow.

      The man looked shell-shocked.

      “We obviously take any accusation of this nature very seriously,” Lynn began. She looked to Cara, subtly jerking her head toward the stage.

      Cara reacted immediately, skirting around the impromptu press conference to get to the microphone onstage. Damage Control 101—get ahead of the story.

      She quickly noted that the security detail had surrounded the president, moving him toward the nearest exit. She knew the drill. The limos would be waiting at the curb before the president even got out the door.

      She had no idea if the accusation was true or if Mitch Davis had simply exploited the resemblance between Ariella and the president. But it didn’t matter. The texts, tweets and blogs had likely made it to California and Seattle, probably all the way across the Atlantic by now.

      Cara scooted up the stairs and crossed the stage, staring Mitch Davis down as she went for the microphone.

      He relinquished it. His work was obviously completed.

      Mitch’s gaze darted to the crowd. His confident expression faltered, and she saw Max, his eyes thunderous as he moved along below the stage, keeping pace with Mitch as the man made his way to the stairs.

      “Ladies and gentlemen,” Cara began, composing a speech inside her head on the fly. “The White House would like to thank you all for joining the president tonight to celebrate. The president appreciates your support and invites you all to enjoy yourselves for the rest of the party. For members of the press, we’ll provide a statement and follow-up on your questions at tomorrow’s regular briefing.”

      Cara turned to applaud the band. “For now, the Sea Shoals have a lot of great songs left to play tonight.” She gave a signal to the bandleader, which he thankfully picked up on, and the energetic strains of a jazz tune filled the room.

      Covered by the music, Cara quickly slipped from the stage.

      Max was standing at the bottom of the stairs to meet her, but her warning glare kept him back—which was probably the first time that had ever happened. But then he mouthed the word “later,” and she knew they weren’t done.

      There were times when being a recognizable television personality was frustrating and inconvenient. But for Max Gray, tonight wasn’t one of them. He’d only been to Cara’s Logan Circle apartment a handful of times, but the doorman remembered him from his national news show, After Dark, and let him straight into the elevator without calling upstairs for Cara’s permission.

      That was very convenient for Max, because there was a better than even chance Cara would have refused to let him come up. And he needed to see her.

      The ANS inaugural ball debacle had been a huge blow to the White House, particularly to the press office. Cara and Lynn had handled it professionally, but even Cara had to be rattled. And she had to be worried about what happened next. The scandal whipping its way through D.C. tonight had the potential to derail the White House agenda for months to come. Max needed to see for himself that Cara was all right.

      He exited the aging elevator into a small, short hallway. Her apartment building had once been an urban school, but it now housed a dozen loft apartments, characterized by high ceilings, large windows and wide-open spaces. Cara’s had a small foyer hall off the public hallway. From there, a winding staircase led to a light-filled, loft-style grand room with bright walls and gleaming hardwood floors. The single room had a marble-countered kitchen area in one corner, with a sleeping area separated by freestanding latticework wood screens.

      Max had loved it at first sight. It reminded him of Cara herself, unpretentious, breezy and fun. She was practical, yet unselfconsciously beautiful, from her short, wispy, sandy-brown hair to her intense blue eyes, from her full, kissable lips to her compact, healthy body. She never seemed to run out of energy, and life didn’t faze her in the least.

      The short public hallway had four suite doors. The last time Max had been here was mid-December. Cara had kept him at arm’s length after Ted Morrow won the election in November. But he’d bought her a present while he was in Australia, pink diamond earrings from the Argyle Mine. He’d selected the raw stones himself, them had them cut and set in eighteen-karat gold, especially for her.

      She’d let him in that night, and they’d made love for what was likely the last time—at least the last time during this administration. Cara had been adamant that they keep their distance, since he was a television news host, and she was on the president’s staff. Max shuddered at the thought. He really didn’t want to wait four years to hold her in his arms again.

      He knocked on Cara’s door, then waited as her footsteps sounded on the spiral wrought-iron staircase.

      He heard her stop in front of the door and knew she was looking through the peephole. There were a limited number of people who could get through the lobby without the doorman announcing them. So she probably expected it was Max. That she’d come down the stairs at all was a good sign.

      “Go away,” she called through the door.

      “That seems unlikely,” he responded, touching his fist to the door panel.

      “I have nothing to say to you.”

      He moved closer to the door to keep from having to raise his voice and alert her neighbors. “Are you okay, Cara?”

      “Just peachy.”

      “I need to talk to you.”

      She didn’t respond.

      “Do you really want me to talk from out here?” he challenged.

      “I really want you to leave.”

      “Not until I make sure you’re okay.”

      “I’m over twenty-one, Max. I can take care of myself.”

      “I know that.”

      “So, why are you here?”

      “Open up, and I’ll tell you.”

      “Nice try.”

      “Five minutes,” he pledged.

      She didn’t answer.

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