“I think you’d better leave now,” she whispered softly.

  Where she had feared resistance to her suggestion, there was only a loud and exaggerated sigh. “Maybe I’d better,” he murmured; rising from the sofa and starting slowly for the door, scooping up his jacket as he passed the chair on which it lay. Dutifully she followed him, showing him out in perfect hostesslike form. That was her mistake. For, at the door, he turned swiftly and unexpectedly, startling her into silence as he seized her shoulders and held her close before him.

  A husky drawl sealed her fate. “That’s better now. This really was cut much too short this afternoon.” For the first time, she understood the full meaning of his banter about unfinished business. The gleam in his eye was unmistakable. He was no different—no different at all!

  As fear surged through her veins, she tried to pull from his grasp. The fingers on her shoulders merely tightened their hold, digging mercilessly into her skin. His gaze mirrored that same intensity of feeling, terrifying her all the more.

  “Please, Senator…” she begged in a whisper, imploring him with every bit of feeling her wide-open amber eyes could convey.

  Her plea went unheeded as his eyes moved in a slow caress of her features. As though touched by fire, her cheeks flamed, then her chin, the delicate line of her jaw and her ears, until finally the searing brand came to rest on her lips. Struggling to escape the invisible bond, she pulled back again, only to be hauled in closer this time on the rebound.

  Again she pleaded with him. “I don’t want this. Please, let me go. Just leave.” Her breath came in short bursts, her voice sounding weaker by the minute. The hands on her provided the support now that her own shaky legs could not. It was happening—it was happening all over again.

  Then something different occurred. Slowly and subtly the fine line between fear and excitement merged; the two became indistinguishable from one another. As his lips lowered to hers, she vacillated, needing to pull back, wanting to lean forward. Reflexively her hands moved to his arms, maintaining that distance between them, allowing no more.

  Pulse racing, she awaited his kiss. But as before, he teased her, moving to within a breath of her, then pausing, brushing his lips against the corner of her mouth, then pulling back. He had to know exactly what effect his toying had on her; his hands could feel the trembling that had little now to do with denial. Yet he continued, determined to evoke a response to his liking.

  Within Daran the war still raged on, the lines of battle now clearly drawn between the adversaries—mind and body. As noble as were the standards of the mind, they were doomed. As the sensually powerful onslaught went on, her body very slowly edged closer to his until, finally, her hands eased upward to eliminate the barrier between them.

  Only then did his lips capture hers in full domination, devouring them with a hunger indicative of the backfire effect of his own teasing. One hand slid along her spine, curving her body to the lines of his. The other wound through the thick mane of hair at the back of her head to hold it still beneath his kiss. The vortex of his passion was mind-boggling; drawn into its core, she surrendered to the flames that licked at her nerve endings and heated the blood within.

  When his lips gentled on hers, she responded, slowly at first, then with growing conviction as the sense of giving heightened her own momentary bliss. It was something she had never experienced before. Awestruck, she yearned for more. Her long fingers crept from the sinewed strength of his arms to his shoulders, then his neck, thrilling in the warmth that awaited them. But best of all was their arrival at the hard muscles of his back, for, in reaching that far side and holding tenaciously there, she found herself more snugly crushed against his chest, a delightfully safe and heady haven.

  Locked in fierce embrace, the two were mindless of the escalation of their kiss. No longer were lips the sole players; now tongues joined in, then teeth as well. It was a kiss that demanded full commitment, one that allowed no equivocation. When it ended, Daran was breathless. If there was any consolation to be had, it was in the ragged gasp of the man now towering above her.

  With this temporary release came a resurgence of the old inbred fear. What would he demand next? Lips, moist and passion-rouged, trembled as her eyes looked plaintively up at him. His kiss had robbed her of the strength to resist; would he use that edge to compromise her further?

  A frown creased his brow, drawing the lips that moments before had been full and warm and active into a thin hard line. His eyes searched hers in vain; the cause of her fear was a mystery to him, though the shadow that haunted her features was all too real. When, after agonizingly long moments of silence, a gentle smile curved his lips, the breath she had subconsciously held slipped slowly out. His hands fell to her shoulders, her arms, her hands, then dropped to his own sides by way of retreat. With a sideway sweep he retrieved his jacket, fallen victim to their kiss, then straightened a final time.

  “I’ll be in touch,” he murmured, velvet smooth, then turned and let himself out. For a mindless blend of seconds the blank expanse of the vacant doorway held Daran speechless. Then, slowly, clarity returned. In a wild flash of reality Daran sensed that she had just submitted, freely but unknowingly, a résumé of her qualifications to the handsome senator from Connecticut. All that remained was to await his next step. Infuriated with the thought, she was to be obsessed with it through the long and sleepless night ahead. If only she understood what it was he wanted. Her outspoken criticism of his proposed legislation had initially caught his attention; that much was certain. Yet it seemed the last topic he wished to discuss when he was with her. More disturbing even was the suspicion that discussion, in any form, had been far from his mind when he so boldly materialized on her doorstep this evening. If so, she vowed stubbornly, he was in for a disappointment. In truth, after long hours of brooding on the matter, she had to admit that there was a definite biological attraction between them. Or rather, she reluctantly admitted the undeniable fact of his utterly virile magnetism. From his point of view, she was one of many, by all imaginable estimates. The responsibility, if such was the case, fell on her shoulders to rechannel his energies toward those others by her own refusal to play the game. Recalling how mindlessly her own response to him had surged forth earlier that evening, she feared her task to be easier said than done.

  * * *

  The battle resumed early the next morning as the weight of exhaustion fought the bright yellow shards of sunlight that streamed into Daran’s room. Turning her head to the pillow, the events of the day before awakened her consciousness as the glaring daylight had not done. The soft coverings of her bed bore the brunt of her frustration, thrown back in a fit of annoyance as she stalked toward the bathroom.

  To arise with such agitation was foreign to her. Disgusted with herself for being so affected by her encounter with Drew Charles, she showered, breakfasted, then, dressed in a halter top and shorts, made her way to the garden to work off her distress in the cool clumps of moist earth to be overturned. The spring air held a lingering chill. Gradually, with the vehemence of her work, her goose-bumps disappeared as did the worst of her temper. In an instant of renewal she pushed all thought of the senator from her mind, forcing attention to the more urgent matters facing her on Monday. In this she was only partly successful. For, with the predictability of a pre-set alarm, the phone rang promptly at ten.

  A wan smile broke at the corners of her mouth. Every Sunday morning it came, as sure as the fist-thick wad of Hartford Courant atop her doorstep. In anticipation she had plugged in the patio extension. Now, soil-dusted bare feet covered the smooth flagstone to answer the shrill ring that contrasted so sharply with the sweet song of the red-winged blackbird whose serenade it had interrupted.

  “Hello?” She could have as easily begun with a simple “Yes, Mother,” for all the question there was as to the caller. When the deeply mature female voice filtered back across the miles to her, she smiled more broadly. Despite the many differences she had had with her mother over the years, her affection was undeniable.

  “Daran, sweetheart! How are you?” Mary Abbott missed her only child. And, seasoned as she was at disguising her emotions, the subtle lilt in her voice—though it rarely lasted past the initial interchange between the two—was a giveaway.

  “I’m fine, Mother. And you?”

  “Not bad, for an old lady,” she quipped in usual form. For a woman of just fifty, she was as young and energetic as they came.

  As always, and as was expected, Daran rebuked her. “Mother, you are certainly not an old lady.” Then, with the dutiful response having been offered, she went on. “How is Hugh?”

  “Busy, as always. But, Daran—” her mother broke quickly into what must have been uppermost in her mind, idle greeting having now been forsaken “—it sounds as though you are the one who is really busy. Muriel sent us the clippings from the Courant.” Thank you, Muriel Baker, Daran mused in silent sarcasm. “You are getting quite some attention there. I hadn’t realized you were as involved in the case of children’s rights.”

  Calmly and deliberately Daran answered her. “It’s my line of work, Mother. The Child Advocacy Project has begun to attract a following. We’ve just gotten two grants, one from the state, one from a private foundation. It’s only natural that the papers should pay us more heed.”

  “But, you. You are their spokeswoman, Daran,” the older woman persisted. “The articles portray you well. I knew you couldn’t stay out of the fray for long!” It was, on the surface, an innocent statement. Yet the pain of its implication dug into her daughter sharply.

  Denial quickly followed the sigh of exasperation on Daran’s lips. “Don’t be silly, Mother.” Her exaggeration of the appellation told of her impatience. Sinking with a tired slump into a nearby deck chair, she elaborated. “I’ve never been involved in anything like this before. It was never my name that reached the papers.”

  “But you were by his side, supporting him.” The soft excitement in her mother’s voice hardened Daran even more.

  Her grimace shaped her words. “You’ve got it all wrong.”

  “You know, dear—” the other voice lowered slightly “—Hugh is still hoping that you and Bill will get back together. It wasn’t all that bad, was it?”

  That her own mother remained indifferent to the full extent of the suffering her daughter had endured was a great irritant. “It was a hell I hope never to repeat, Mother. I’ll be very happy if I never see Bill again.” Wasn’t that a major reason for shunning Washington? “Listen,” she began, struggling for evenness, “I love Hugh. He has been a wonderful husband to you and was a good father to me—” perhaps a bit pushy and hard-nosed at times Daran thought “—during the years of my childhood, but I simply can’t lead the kind of life that he has chosen for the two of you. You may enjoy the endless dinners and fundraisers and rallies, but I did not.”

  “You certainly carried it off well,” her mother chided, “for someone who supposedly didn’t like it.”

  Had it not been for the happenings of the past twenty-four hours, Daran’s patience might have held. As it was, she was tired and edgy. Bitterness was thick on her tongue when she lashed out against her mother’s faint accusation. “But, of course! I was trained for years to fit into the political arena. Wasn’t that the purpose of dancing school and poise class and all those dinners I was dragged to, not to mention a boarding school of the caliber of Miss Dunham’s?”

  Stunned momentarily by the force behind her daughter’s thoughts, Mary Abbott lapsed into silence, but only momentarily. “Are you never going to marry again?” Wasn’t this another of those supposed ideals in life?

  “Six months of marriage to Bill Longley was enough to keep me for the next twenty years, Mother.” The bad taste in her mouth had nothing to do with the bits of dirt which had settled on her lip as Daran chewed unconsciously on a fingernail. As a child she had bitten her nails with a fury, resistant to all demands that the habit was both unclean and unladylike. Only in moments of stress, particularly ones involving the past, did the practice recur. Looking down now at the tiny chip on the tip of the longest of her well-shaped nails, Daran was furious. “I’m perfectly happy with my life, for a change.” She spoke purposefully, ignoring the half-truth that recent events had made of her words. “And I don’t see any need to get married,” Daran continued. “It can’t offer me anything I don’t already have.” Periodically her mother went off on this vein; as always, Daran overreacted. If she were to be truthful with herself, there was something her life lacked. Love. It was a quantity with which she dealt every day in her work, for the source of so much mental anguish, both in the children with whom she worked, or in adults with whom she did not, was love, its misuse, misinterpretation, even absence. It was this very factor that made her so astute a psychologist; she poured the love into her work which her personal life spared, devoting herself to patients and students with the strength of that undiluted quality. For the time being, at least, she was content with the arrangement. She was her own woman; that seemed to be all that mattered.

  Again her mother was oblivious to the depth of her feelings on the subject, choosing to attribute her feistiness to an instinct for self-defense. Boldly she persisted, reminding Daran of precisely why she had, herself, chosen to leave Cleveland so many years ago. “Do you hear from him at all?”

  “Bill?”

  “Yes, dear. Have you heard from him?”

  “No.” Unequivocably and mercifully, no.

  Blithely her mother babbled on. “He hasn’t remarried either, you know. We did see him several weeks ago at a party at the Hilton.” Wondering if this information was supposed to hold any significance for Daran, she gazed off at the maples skirting the yard, their buds mere hints of lime. Had her mother been before her, she might have yawned for effect. But the other proceeded on a tempting note, as though holding a Hershey bar before a chocolate addict. “He looked very handsome. And he asked for you. I hadn’t received these clippings then, but I did tell him a little about your work.”

  “Mother, you didn’t!” Dismay brought Daran up from her feigned lethargy. As a finger moved reflexively to her mouth, she thrust it angrily behind her back.

  “It’s no harm, dear. He was interested.”

  “I’ll bet.” It had been the supreme blow to Bill’s overinflated ego when Daran had left him, then, horror of horrors, filed for divorce. If for no other reason than that abysmal pride, he would take her back in a minute.

  Then her mother paused as a new thought crossed her mind with fleeting urgency. “He’s still sending you money, isn’t he?” Whether it was maternal concern or the hope that some small link still existed between the two that prompted Mary Abbott’s question, Daran couldn’t say. Not that it mattered; the question had a very simple answer.

  “I suppose he is. The lawyers handle that lovely matter.” For an instant, the months of bickering until, ironically, her stepfather, Hugh, had interceded to settle the matter of alimony, returned with all their unpleasantness. Bill had fought the divorce to the end—quietly, of course, and in the total confidence of the lawyer’s offices. It had only been Hugh’s final plea, framed in terms of Bill’s own political career, that had turned the tide. Everything had been hushed, as it was to this day.

  “What do you mean, you suppose he is. It’s your bank account, isn’t it?” There had been times when, as exemplified by this protectiveness now, Daran had suspected that, had it not been for her mother’s supreme devotion to her husband and the limelight they shared, she would have sided wholeheartedly with her daughter in this ugly matter. But those times had been too few and far between to give them full credence.

  “Mother,” she explained a final time, “I do not keep track of it. I am not interested. In the five years we’ve been apart, I have not touched one cent of that money. I told you I wouldn’t, and I meant it. Fortunately, thanks to the money that came to me from Father’s trust when I turned twenty-one, I have never needed anything. Now I can support myself.” Suddenly the conversation was more than Daran wanted to handle on this Sunday morning. “And speaking of which, I have a meeting in an hour or so.” She lied. “So I’d better go and get dressed. I’ll talk with you next week?” The pattern repeated itself all too often. When the give-and-take with her mother reached a dead end, Daran feigned an excuse to sever it. Inevitably she was swamped with guilt soon after.

  Miraculously Mary Abbott took the hint. “Of course, dear,” she murmured with an unusually genuine sigh. “Take care of yourself, now, and, Daran—” She hesitated, suddenly unsure of herself.

  “Yes, Mother?”

  “Do call me if you feel like talking. It gets very … lonesome … out here sometimes.”

  Taken totally off guard by the poignant plea, Daran could only muster a soft, “I will,” before she hung up the phone. Then, to her dismay, she burst into tears. It was the first truly spontaneous confession, indirect as it was, that her mother had ever made to her. Perhaps Daran was the selfish one. Perhaps her mother, despite all pretenses, did have some needs that were unfulfilled. Daran was her only child; they were so far from each other both physically and emotionally. Would things ever be different? Now that Daran was a mature woman in her own right, perhaps the two could find some common ground on which to unite. Sniffing, she stopped to ponder how she would handle her own children one day—then the true emptiness set in. Would there ever be any children upon whom Daran could shower that intuitive mother-love which was a part of her? Would there ever be a man for whom she could feel a very different, but equally as all-abiding love? It seemed an open-ended question, one which she could in no way come close to answering. Rather, with a vow to take the initiative and phone her mother herself, perhaps later in the week when her own emotions had steadied, she returned to the garden and its therapeutic demands.

  * * *

  “The same fellow has just called again, Dr. Patterson.” The soft voice of MaryAnne Steubings filtered through Daran’s preoccupation with a problem posed by one of the students in her morning seminar. Halting, then retracing several steps to the secretary’s desk, she looked down at the pink call slip which the young student had just written out.