Yet, for the first time in many months, loneliness was a tangible thing. Why, on this particular night, had it returned to haunt her? Had the thought of Washington, of Bill earlier in the day, stimulated her sensitivities? Had things been different, had Bill been a different type of person, had his ambition been private rather than geared toward the public sector, Washington might have been her home now. But it was not, and never would be, her home—not if she had any say in the matter!

  Bristling with determination, she changed into jeans and a T-shirt, then put a pre-baked quiche in the oven to heat. Gently torn lettuce lined a small wooden bowl, topped with several tomato wedges and handful of cucumber slices, by the time the quiche was warm. Yet the sight of the finished salad brought thoughts of that one she had eaten at lunch, and Daran was able only to pick and push with disinterest.

  Disconcerted, she quickly cleaned the kitchen, then retreated to her study to work. It was hopeless; concentration eluded her even here in her very private bastion. Pen in hand, she stared at the blank sheet of paper on the desk. Cap of pen in mouth, she let her eye roam the room aimlessly. Tip of pen tapping paper, her patience wore thin, until, finally, with a soft curse, she dropped the writing tool entirely and gave up.

  Similar fates met the television, then the radio in turn. Nothing seemed to please her. Restlessly she stalked from room to room, a caged animal awaiting its release. But from what? She was a free and independent woman, answering to no one. What, then, could explain the coil of tension that was wound up within her? Why, so suddenly, had it appeared?

  The black of night beckoned from room to room beyond each windowpane. It was out there—the emptiness—reflected in the image of herself upon the glass. She stared. Slowly she turned to pace to another spot. Nowhere could she find a remedy for the dull ache that gnawed at her.

  Returning to the living room, her eye fell on the large key ring that lay on the coffee table by her purse. He had known just which key to use, precisely how to spark her tired old VW to life, even which roads would take him to his destination with a minimum of traffic. He was obviously a man who believed in efficiency, a man—from his record—who got things done. Why, then, had he wasted a good hour and a half, all told, with her today? What was his motive? As sure as she had to acknowledge him as the best-looking man she had seen in a long time, she knew that he would have a very definite motive for every single thing he did.

  A frivolous moment’s digression brought recollection of his kiss, so short and sweet and strong. In memory, her lips burned anew at their contact with his. In memory, she recalled her near mindlessness at that instant. Then, in a far greater span of memory, the parade of men dodging in and out of her life during the past five years flashed before her. Many had tried; none had succeeded. After Bill she wanted no part of the male ego, the male libido. The male intellect was a different matter. That she could respect. Over the years some of her most rewarding intellectual relationships had been with men, with colleagues of hers at the college, the hospital, even in the Project.

  Today she had been impressed with his intellect. No doubt he was as bright as they said. And companionable. That had surprised her even as it puzzled her. But the other she did not need. That kiss had been a mistake from the word go. If only she had pulled back or turned her head or fended him off with her hands; hadn’t she become expert at doing just that? Then why hadn’t she this time? And why did the memory of him disquiet her so?

  In the idle mind, frustration mushroomed into anger. This was not just any man who had overturned her peace of mind. This was a United States senator, an active member of the political establishment. He was no different from the others, with his cocksureness and his arrogance. And she, supposedly more experienced and wise to the ways of such men, had fallen for his kiss as many another must have done. Oh, yes, he wanted something. Subservience was the name of his game. The senator issues the orders, as he had done in those last few minutes, and assumes that the world is eager to please his every whim. It was appalling. And she wanted no part of it. Senator Andrew Charles could just take his Rights of Minors Act and blow it—if bedroom antics were the prerequisite to compromise.

  The gentle chime of the doorbell contrasted sharply with her mood, mellowing it but faintly, as she rose from her seat. Was it Glen and Lois, checking up on her again, after their own big night out? Several times before, they had driven up, stopping in to say hello—to drag her from her books, no doubt—if the lights were on, passing on quietly home if all was dark. Stupidly she had left the lights burning brightly, a sure sign of invitation. And it was only ten o’clock; how could she feign exhaustion, even though the last thing she felt up to was a cheery visit?

  A sigh of resignation blended with the repeat of the door chimes as she grabbed the knob and pulled the door open. Daran had been grossly mistaken. Before her stood neither Glen nor Lois, nor any of the others who fell under the category of friends who might drop in at ten o’clock on Saturday night. Before her stood the one she least expected, the one whose presence had lingered, against her will, in her mind for much of the evening, the one who had touched off the very fit of temper that had seized her moments earlier. Before her, tie loosened, jacket slung over a finger draped on his shoulder, arm resting indolently against her door jamb, was Senator Andrew Charles.

  “I believe we have some unfinished business to attend to.” He spoke softly. “May I come in?”

  Never in the weeks to come would Daran understand what possessed her, at that moment, to do what she did. Questions raced rampant about her mind. Emotions seesawed precariously round and about them. Better judgment struggled for its hearing, but to no avail. For, above the silence of her intellect, some other force bid her stand back and let the fellow in. Which she did. Promptly. Quietly. Graciously. It was, indeed, her own hand that closed the door on the dark of night as the senator entered her home.

  CHAPTER 3

  “Very nice,” he murmured, his eye perusing the chic decor as he moved confidently to the center of the living room. Her own appraisal was no less sharp, encompassing the fine fabric of his formal tux, its satin-striped pant legs emphasizing his length, the starched white shirt, now opened at the neck to exaggerate his even tan, stressing the broad expanse of shoulder beneath. But neither the elegance of his dress nor the sureness of his step could hide the obvious.

  “You look tired.” Her quiet evaluation brought a wry smile to his lips.

  “Believe it or not, this is my fourth stop this evening. There was a cocktail party at the home of the chairman of the state committee—” his fingers were counting them off, one by one, “—then a reception at the aircraft executives’ club, then a dinner—a small one for forty people,” he mocked, “at the home of one of my supporters in West Hartford. You don’t happen to have a cup of coffee, do you?”

  Incredulity held Daran immobile. Eyes widened, she could only stare at this unexpected visitor. His own nonchalance, in contrast, was remarkable and perplexing. “How did you find your way up here?” She finally managed to get out a feeble question. “Do you carry your files around with you, or do you simply memorize the addresses of your constituents? Or—” she cocked her head with faint amusement “—is your man Hollings out in the car?”

  Silver eyes drilled her, just punishment for her sarcasm. “As I mentioned this afternoon, your address has a nice ring to it. It’s an easy one to remember, if one knows the area as I do.” Suppressing his own humor, he continued. “No, John is with his wife tonight. They had tickets to a concert at the Bushnell.”

  Unknowingly Daran arched an eyebrow in surprise. Though she had only met the man this morning and had seen him but in passing, she had quite naturally assumed John Hollings to be single. What was the role of a wife to be when her husband was sidekick to this inveterate bachelor? In the instant, a surge of sympathy for the woman engulfed her along with a germ of desire to talk one day with this poor soul. Perhaps she knew something that Daran did not!

  “That coffee?” The man had approached and now stood an arm’s length from her. Momentarily the faint scent of lingering after-shave mixed with the sweetness of brandy to tantalize her senses. Then that very nearness drove her away and toward the kitchen.

  Muffled by the thick pile of the carpet in the hallway, his footsteps would have been unnecessary proof of his presence. For the prickling heat on the back of her neck, well beneath the heavy fall of waves that tumbled to her shoulders, announced his arrival in the kitchen seconds after her own. Determinedly she proceeded to set the coffee on to perk. Dismayed by his silent observation, she grew more self-conscious by the minute.

  A surreptitious glance upward through the shade of her thick brown lashes revealed the rangy form leaning restfully against the counter. Unencumbered by the jacket, which lay draped across a chair in the living room, his hands had taken refuge in the pockets of his trousers, drawing the black material taut over his muscled form. Embarrassed, she quickly averted her eyes.

  Yet the fact remained that her T-shirt stretched over her breasts with more of a pull than she might have wished, that the fit of her faded denim jeans left room for nothing as heavy as wool tights, that her bare feet put nearly a foot of height between them. Here was a very tall man, even lounging as he was against the Formica of her kitchen counter.

  Suddenly the reminder that this was her home and her kitchen brought her up a little straighter. Marveling at the casualness with which this master of presumption walked in and took over both at noontime and now this evening, she steeled herself for a confrontation. This was, after all, her Saturday night!

  “It’s the strangest thing,” he began with velvet smoothness, as if anticipating her potential for resistance. His eye scanned her face, narrowing in thought.

  “What is?”

  “Your face. Your expressions. There must be some war going on in that head of yours. I noticed it this afternoon, and again now. You fluctuate from placidity to anger in an instant. Why?”

  Annoyed at his perception, she shrugged. “We all have moods. Mine are no different from anyone else’s. Perhaps I’m just not as good at camouflaging them. Or, perhaps—” she lifted her chin in defiance “—your position tends to intimidate people such that they pussyfoot around you.”

  Had she intended an insult, she failed miserably. The sadness in his smile gave credence to her accusation. “You may be right. Why aren’t you intimidated? You aren’t, you know. From the moment I met you today, you’ve been itching for a fight.”

  He was right—and that angered her even more. Yet, deep within one distant part of her, a fight was the last thing she wanted at the moment. Turning to lower the fire beneath the coffeepot, she busied herself gathering mugs, milk, and sugar, totally ignoring his contention. For the time being, her withdrawal was accepted. Silence reigned as she filled the mugs with coffee, then carried them to the kitchen table, a handsome piece of butcher block. It was surrounded by chrome-armed chairs. As she took a seat on one side, Drew eased himself down on the other, his gray eyes following her steadily, relentlessly.

  Steam from the fresh brew, rising then dissipating into the air, seemed to be the only sign of life in the room. Daran’s eyes held stubbornly to her fingers rimming her mug, studying them as though they were something strange and new to her. It was an awkward situation, to say the least. For, just when Daran gathered the courage to confront Drew as to his intentions, he deftly stole the wind from her sails with a word or two, spoken softly and often on an entirely different matter, thereby diverting her long enough for her fuse to spend itself harmlessly. A pro at handling people, he was a born diplomat.

  For those first minutes the silence seemed cacophonous. Slowly and with feigned calmness, she sipped her coffee. Slowly and with genuine composure, he did the same. Daran’s anger grew greater with every second that he failed to take the first step. Then, once again, as it had that afternoon in the car, the absurdity of the situation closed in on her. Laughing in spite of herself, she raised her eyes to those of the senator.

  “You aren’t at all what I expected,” she offered softly.

  “Is that good or bad?”

  A shrug shook her slim shoulders as a shaft of distress passed across the erstwhile smoothness of her forehead. “I’m not sure.”

  He smiled. “There it goes again—the war.” Then he executed another diversionary tactic. “This serenity is no less than a luxury. Do you come across it by design or by chance?”

  Daran was quick to pick up on his implication. “If you are asking whether I choose to be alone on Saturday night, the answer is yes. I was actually planning to do some work.”

  His sandy head bent toward his watch. “It’s pretty late. Did you get done what you wanted?”

  “No.”

  “Why not?”

  “I have no idea,” she blurted back coolly, though indeed she did. It was the presence of strange and unbidden thoughts in her mind that blocked her usual creative mood, and this man was in no small way responsible.

  “You mean,” he challenged, “you have not yet made those lists I asked you to compile?”

  It was only when she turned on him in dismay that the twinkle in his eye caught hers. He was goading her, baiting her. Should she fight? Even as she pondered the first blow, the voice that was her own came to her with unexpected evenness. “For a minute there, I thought you were serious.”

  “But I am. If you’re going to spend the summer as a member of my staff, you’ve got to be prepared to produce.”

  Suddenly her temper triumphed. “I have no intention of spending the summer on your staff. My Lord, do you ever make wild assumptions! I have other plans—”

  “Such as…?”

  “Such as lobbying for the Child Advocacy Project. Such as continuing to see my private patients at the hospital. Such as writing all of the journal articles that should have been done on any number of Saturday nights, but were thwarted for one reason or the other.” Furious now, her eyes were bright, her features animated. Here was one person whom Senator Charles did not have in his pocket! Yet her words to that effect died on her lips, halted abruptly by the inexplicably admiring glance which the man subsequently bestowed upon her.

  “That’s great!” He grinned, shaking his head in wonder. Intuitively Daran knew that he was not referring to her summer plans. His next words elaborated on that point. “You look terrific, all fired up like that! And I like your outfit, by the way. With your hair down, I mean.” He reminded her of the wayward curls that had fallen from their coil that afternoon. “Really down. You look barely twenty-one.” His grin, stretching with brilliant whiteness from ear to ear, jolted her far more than his words. Abruptly she stood and stormed from the kitchen toward the living room, clenching her fists in a bid for self-control. This was not going at all as she had expected, she mused, then caught herself up short. She had expected nothing! It had all been his doing. And exactly what did he expect—in addition to her traipsing down to Washington for the summer?

  As if conjured up by her question, his tall form moved across the reflective surface of the window she faced. Beneath her intent eye he lowered himself into a corner of the sofa, stretched his legs out before him, crossing them nonchalantly at the ankles. Then he laid his head back on the cushion. For a breath stopping moment she wondered if he was asleep. They had a knack, these politicians, for catching a few winks here and there, so she had read, so she had seen in Bill. His particular skill had been to doze off just when an argument between the two grew heated, as they most often had. It had been insufferable then. She would not stand for it now!

  Pivoting sharply, she stalked to the side of the sofa. “Oh no, you don’t! No sleeping in my house!”

  A lazy eye opened in amusement. “None? What do you do for rest?”

  With a sigh of exasperation at the manipulation of her words, she threw her hands up. “I give up. What is it you want? Why are you here?”

  The force of the gray orbs now held her. “We didn’t have enough time this afternoon.”

  “Please, Senator. It’s almost eleven. This is no time to discuss anything. I’m exhausted and you look half-asleep yourself.” Half-asleep and half-awake; it was the latter that suddenly alarmed her more than the former.

  Lithely he drew himself to a seated position. “You’re right. Let’s get to it. Come over here.”

  Standing no more than five feet from where he sat, Daran prayed that he could not hear the thunderous pounding of her heart. It shook even her with its sudden intensity. Drawing on what meager poise remained in the storehouse of her life’s experience, she pushed her hands into her pockets and stepped sideways into a more casual stance. Her eyes held his, not from desire, but from helplessness.

  “Come on,” he repeated softly, cocking his head to the side.

  “Wh-what?”

  This time he merely pointed a strong forefinger toward the cushion beside him. In other circumstances it might have been an innocent request. There was, in this instance, however, no innocence in the eyes that lured her, in the coiled readiness of his outwardly casual pose. Mutely she stood and stared at him, nonplussed as never before. At the risk of making an utter fool of herself, if his intent was an honorable one, she waited for his next move. It was a maddeningly small one, mammoth in its implication. Raising his hand again, he crooked the same tan forefinger, ordering her to come to his side. Slowly she shook her head. Both knew precisely what he wanted, but, Daran, for one, could not possibly acquiesce.

  It seemed an eternity that he pondered her reluctance. His eyes never left her face, nor did hers leave his. The trembling of her limbs was but a token show of the battle waging within the slender form. Aware of some inner torment, he was fully in ignorance of its cause. Her words did nothing to enlighten him.