A Conflict of Interest

He knew that was an understatement. The press, not to mention the opposition, smelled blood in the water, and they were already circling. “Are you going back to work tonight?”

“Lynn’s taking the night shift. I’ll go in early tomorrow morning.”

“It’s going to be a long haul,” Max noted, wishing there was something he could do to help her. But he had a very different job from Cara, a job that was certain to be at odds with hers.

“Yes, it is.” She sounded tired already.

“I’ll be fair, Cara.”

“Thank you.” There was a wistful note to her voice. For a moment, her blue eyes went soft and her expression became less guarded.

He reached for her hand again, this time squeezing before she had a chance to pull away.

She glanced at their joined hands. Her voice turned to a strained whisper. “You know all the reasons.”

“I disagree with them.”

“I can’t date you, Max.”

“I can’t stop wanting you, Cara.”

She lifted her long lashes, and her crystal-blue eyes looked directly into his. “Try, Max. Summon up some of your famous fortitude and try.”

He couldn’t help but smile at that. “I’m not here for inside information. I was genuinely concerned about you.”

“As I said—”

“You’re fine. I get it.”

That was her story, and she was sticking to it.

Her skin was creamy and smooth, her lips dark, soft and slightly parted. He imagined their feel, her taste, her scent, and instinct took over. He tipped his head, leaning in.

But she pulled abruptly away, turning and dipping her head before he could kiss her. “Your five minutes are up.”

He heaved a sigh, giving up, letting her small hand slip from between his fingers. “Yeah. I guess they are.”

Max had left his watch behind in Cara’s apartment. She had no way to know if he’d done it on purpose. It was a Rolex—platinum, with baguette-cut emeralds on the face. She couldn’t even imagine the price. Being a popular television personality definitely had its perks.

When she’d gone to bed, Cara had set the watch on the table beside her. She’d used its alarm as a backup, since she’d had to get up at three-thirty.

Then she’d put it in her purse before heading for her West Wing office at the White House. If Max called about it, she’d drop it off for him on her way home. She had no intention of letting him use it as an excuse to come back to her apartment again.

She flashed her ID tag through the scanner in the White House lobby, and passed through security in the predawn hours. A cleaner was vacuuming, while deliverymen made their way along the main hall. It was quiet out front, but closer to the press office, the activity level increased. Movers were lugging furniture and boxes into the newly appointed offices. She passed several people on her way to her small office.

“Morning, Cara.” Her boss, Lynn, fell into step with her.

Cara unbuttoned her coat and unwrapped her plaid scarf from around her neck as they walked. “Did you get a chance to talk to the president?”

Lynn shook her head, shifting a file folder to her opposite hand. “The Secret Service was with him for an hour. Then Barry went in for a while. And after that, he went back to the residence.”

“Is it true?”

One of the communications assistants appeared to take Cara’s scarf and purse. Cara shrugged out of her coat and added it to the pile in the woman’s arms.

“We don’t know,” said Lynn, pushing open her office door.

Cara followed her inside. “Barry didn’t ask him?”

Chief of Staff Barry Westmore knew the president better than anyone.

As press secretary, Lynn’s office was the largest in the communications section. It housed a wide oak desk, a long credenza, a cream-colored couch and three television screens mounted along one wall playing news shows from three different continents. In English, German and Russian, reporters were speculating on the president’s personal life.

Lynn plopped down in her high-backed leather chair, twisting her large, topaz ring around and around the finger of her right hand. Lights from the garden broke the darkness outside the window before her. “Even if it’s true, the president wasn’t aware that he had a daughter.”

“That’s good.” From a communications perspective, deniability was key in this situation.

Lynn didn’t look as relieved as Cara felt. “There’s more than one possible woman.”

Cara’s eyebrows shot up.

“Barry and I did the math,” said Lynn. “Accounting for possible variations in gestation period. Since the baby might have been premature, there are three possible mothers.”

“Three?” Despite the gravity of the situation, Cara found herself fighting a smile. “Go, Mr. President.”

Lynn frowned at her impertinence. “It was senior year in high school. The man was a football star.”

“Sorry,” Cara quickly put in, lowering herself into one of the guest chairs opposite the desk.

Her boss waved away the apology. “He’s refusing to give us the names.”

“He has to give us the names.”

“First, he wants to know if Ariella is his daughter. If and only if she is his daughter, then we can look at the ex-girlfriends.”

“The press will find them first,” Cara warned, her mind flitting to Max. The networks and newspapers would pull out all the stops to find Ariella’s mother. They wouldn’t wait on a DNA test. This was the story of the century.

“Yes, they will,” Lynn agreed. “But the president is unwilling to ruin innocent lives.”

In Cara’s opinion, the women’s lives were already ruined. Anyone who’d had the misfortune to sleep with President Morrow in high school would be fair game. It wouldn’t even matter whether the lovemaking squared up with Ariella’s birth date; they’d still be hunted down and hounded with questions.

Lynn twisted her ring again. “It’s always that thing that you don’t see coming. And it’s always sex. Next time, remind me to back a nerdy candidate. Maybe president of the chess club or something.”

“These days, nerds are hot,” Cara pointed out.

“That’s because we expect them to grow up rich.”

“That’s why I hang out at the local internet café looking for dates.”

Lynn grinned, putting a little life into her exhausted expression. “I should have married a nerd in high school.”

“Instead of a smoking-hot navy captain?”

Lynn gave a self-conscious shrug, but her eyes took on a secretive glow. “It was spring break. And he rocked those dress whites.”

“You didn’t even look twice at the nerds,” Cara accused.

“The hormones want what the hormones want.”

Cara’s brain conjured up a picture of Max, but she quickly shook it away. “Have you spoken to Ariella?”

“Nobody can find her.”

“Can’t blame her for that.” If it had been Cara, she’d have crossed the Canadian border by now.

“Think you can find her?” Lynn asked.

Cara would love nothing better than to find Ariella and make sure she was okay. But she wasn’t going to abandon Lynn to go on a wild-goose chase. “You need me here.”

“We can live without you.”

“Just what every woman wants to hear. You’re going to have to give a statement to the press today. And you need me to write it. You need to get some sleep.”

Cara wished she’d had more than three hours’ sleep herself. She knew she had to pay more attention to things like eating and sleeping now that she was pregnant. But time for sleep and time to prepare nutritious meals were pretty hard to come by while working for the president. Especially during this crisis.

“I will get some sleep,” Lynn agreed. “Barry’s working on a statement, and we’ll put the press off until the afternoon. Do you think you’d be able to find Ariella?”

Cara got to her feet. She had to believe her womb was a safe place for the first few weeks of gestation no matter what chaos was going on outside it. She reassured herself that many women wouldn’t even know they were pregnant this early.

“I can try,” she told her boss.

“Then go. Get out of here.”

Cara headed for her own office, quickly retrieving her coat and purse. If she could find Ariella, at the very least they could offer her Secret Service protection. She wrapped the scarf around her neck before heading out into the snow.

If the story was true, Ariella would need protection for the rest of her life, and that would only be the start of the chaos. Merely being a member of the White House staff had sent Cara’s personal life into a tailspin. She couldn’t imagine what Ariella was going through.

Two

After combing the city for countless hours, looking everywhere she could think to find Ariella, Cara gave up. It was nearly nine in the evening, and she’d left dozens of messages and asked everyone who might know anything. She was exhausted when she finally took the elevator back to her loft. Maybe Ariella really had fled to Canada.

Cara twisted her key in the dead bolt, then unlocked the knob below, pushing open the solid oak door.

As soon as she stepped inside, she knew something was wrong. A light was on upstairs and someone was playing music.

Her hand reflexively went to her purse, where she’d stashed Max’s watch. If he’d used it as an excuse to come back, if the superintendent had actually let him into her apartment, well, there was going to be hell to pay for both of them. Max might be a famous television personality, trusted and admired by most of D.C., but that didn’t give him the right to con the super, break into her apartment and make himself at home.

She tossed her coat and scarf on the corner bench in the entry hall and pulled off her boots, not even bothering to put them in the closet. She paced her way up the spiral staircase, working up her outrage, planning to hit him with both barrels before he had a chance to start the smooth talk.

Then she realized Beyoncé was playing. And it smelled like someone was baking. She made it to the top of the stairs and stopped dead.

Ariella stood in the middle of her kitchen, surrounded by flour-sprinkled chaos. She had one of Cara’s T-shirts pulled over her short dress and a pair of red calico oven mitts on her hands. Midstep between the oven and the island counter, she held a pan of chocolate cupcakes.

“I hope you don’t mind.” She blinked her big, blue eyes. “I didn’t know where else to go.”

“Of course I don’t mind.” Cara quickly made her way across the room. “I’ve been out looking for you.”

Ariella set down the cupcake pan. “They’ve staked out my house, the club, even Bombay Main’s. I didn’t dare go to a hotel, and I was afraid of the airport. The doorman always remembered me, and I pretended I misplaced your spare key.”

“You were right to come here.” Cara gave her a half hug, avoiding the worst of the flour.

Then she glanced at the trays of beautifully decorated cupcakes. Vanilla, chocolate and red velvet, they were covered in mounds of buttercream icing, and Ariella had turned marzipan into everything from flowers and berries to rainbows and butterflies.

“Hungry?” she jokingly asked Ariella.

“Nervous energy.”

“Maybe we can take them to the office or sell them for charity.” There had to be five dozen already. They couldn’t let them go to waste.

Ariella pulled off the oven mitts and turned off the music. “You got any wine?”

“Absolutely.” Cara’s wine rack was small, but she kept it well stocked.

She moved to the bay window alcove to check out the selection. “Merlot? Shiraz? Cab Sauv? I’ve got a nice Mondavi Private Selection.”

“We might not want to waste a good bottle tonight.”

Cara laughed and pulled it out anyway.

“I’m going for volume,” said Ariella.

“Understandable.” Cara returned to the kitchen, finding a small space among the mess to pull the cork. “Glasses are above the stove,” she told Ariella.

Ariella retrieved them, and the two women moved to the living room.

Ariella peeled off the T-shirt, revealing a simple, steel-gray cocktail dress. She plunked into an armchair and curled her feet beneath her. “Do we have to let it breathe?”

“In an emergency—” Cara began to pour “—not necessary.”

Ariella rocked forward and snagged the first glass.

Cara filled her own and sat back on the couch. Then she suddenly remembered the pregnancy and guiltily set the glass down beside her. What was she thinking?

“Mine can breathe for a few minutes,” she explained. Then focused on Ariella. “How are you holding up?”

“How would you guess I’m holding up?”

“I’d be flipping out.”

“I am flipping out.”

“Could it be true?” Cara asked. “Do you know anything at all about your biological parents?”

Ariella shook her head. “Not a single thing.” Then she laughed a little self-consciously. “They were Caucasian. I think they were American. One of them might have grown up to be president.”

“I always knew you had terrific genes.”

Ariella came to her feet, moving to a mirror that hung at the top of the stairs, gazing at her reflection. “Do you think I look anything like him?”

Cara did. “Little bit,” she said, rising to follow Ariella and stand behind her. “Okay, quite a bit.”

“Enough that …”

“Yes,” Cara whispered, squeezing Ariella’s shoulders.

Ariella closed her eyes for a long second. “I need to get away, somewhere where this isn’t such a big deal.”

“You should stay in D.C. We can protect you. The Secret Service—”

“No.” Ariella’s eyes popped wide.

“They’ll take good care of you. They know what they’re doing.”

“I’m sure they do. But I need to get out of D.C. for a while.”

“I understand.” Cara wanted to be both sympathetic and supportive. Ariella was first and foremost her friend. “This is a lot for you to take in.”

“You are the master of understatement.”

Their eyes met in the mirror.

“You need to take a DNA test,” said Cara.

But Ariella shook her brunette head.

“Not knowing is not an option,” Cara gently pointed out.

“Not yet,” said Ariella. “It’s one thing to suspect, but it’s another to know for sure. You know?”

Cara thought she understood. “Let us help you. Come to the office with me and talk to Lynn.”

“I need time, Cara.”

“You need help, Ari.”

Ariella turned. “I need a few days. A few days on my own before I face the media circus, okay?”

Cara hesitated. She didn’t know how she was going to go back to her boss and say she’d found Ariella and then lost her again. But her loyalty was also to her friend. “Okay,” she finally agreed.

“I’ll take the DNA test, but not yet. I don’t think I could wrap my mind around it if it was positive.”

“Where will you go?”

“I can’t tell you that. You have to keep a straight face when you tell them you don’t know.”

“I can lie.”

“No, you can’t. Not to the American press, you can’t. And not to your boss, and definitely not to your president.”

Cara knew she had a point. “How can I contact you?”

“I’ll contact you.”

“Ariella.”

“It has to be this way.”

“No, it doesn’t. We can help you, protect you, find out the truth for you.”

“It has to be this way for me, Cara. Just for now. Only for a while. I know it’s better for the president if I stay, better for you if I stay and face the music.” Her voice broke ever so softly. “But I just can’t.”

“None of this is your fault,” Cara felt compelled to point out, putting an arm around Ariella’s shoulders.

Ariella nodded her understanding.

“He’s a very good man.”

“I’m sure he is. But he’s the president. And that means …” Ariella’s voice trailed off.

“Yeah,” Cara agreed into the silence. That meant the circus would never end.

Her cell phone chimed a distinctive tone, telling Cara it was a text from Lynn. She moved away and pulled it from her pocket. The message told her to turn on ANS.

“What?” asked Ariella, watching Cara’s expression.

“It’s from Lynn. There’s something going on. It’s on the news.” Cara moved to the living area and pressed a button on the remote, changing the channel to ANS.

Ariella moved up beside her. “Oh, I have a bad feeling about this.”

Field reporter Angelica Pierce was speaking. She was speculating about Ariella and her relationship to the president, and was saying something about a woman named Eleanor Albert from the president’s hometown of Fields, Montana. Then old yearbook photos of the president and Eleanor Albert came up side by side on the screen. With a dramatic musical flourish, a picture of Ariella settled in between them.

Cara’s eyes went wide.

Ariella sucked in a breath, gripping the sofa for support. “No,” she rasped.

Cara wrapped her arm around her friend and held on tight. There was no mistaking the resemblance. Cara wasn’t even sure they needed a DNA test.

Max knew the excuse of having forgotten his watch in Cara’s apartment was lame. But it was the best he’d been able to come up with on short notice. She was home now. He could see the lights on in her apartment.

He’d just seen the pictures of the president, Ariella and Eleanor on a news site on his tablet. All hell was about to break loose at the White House, and it was doubtful he’d be able to see Cara again for weeks to come.

He exited from his Mustang GT, turning up his coat collar against the blowing snow. He was on his way home from dinner with the NCN network brass and wearing dress shoes, so he was forced to dodge puddles, taking a circuitous route on his way across the street.

He made it to the awning, brushed the flakes from his sleeves, then looked up, straight into the eyes of Ariella Winthrop. They both froze.

“Ariella?” He swiftly glanced both ways to see if anyone else was out on the dark street.

“Hi, Max.”

He moved close, taking her arm to guide her away from the streetlight. “What are you doing? You can’t be out on the street.” There didn’t appear to be any other reporters around, but it wasn’t safe for her. He’d met her only a few times, but he liked her a lot. She was Cara’s close friend, and Max seemed to have a protective streak when it came to Cara.

“The doorman called me a cab.”

“A cab? Have you seen the news? You’re plastered all over it.”

“I saw.”

“Let me take you home.” He immediately realized that was a ridiculous suggestion. “Let me take you to a hotel. I’ll take you anywhere you need to go. But you can’t stand out here alone waiting for a cab.”

He made a move toward his own car, but she stood her ground, tugging her arm from his.

“Max,” she commanded.

He reluctantly stopped and turned to her.

“You’re one of the guys I’m avoiding, remember?”

“I’m not a reporter right now.”

“You’re always a reporter.”

“You don’t have to talk. Don’t say a word.” He paused. “But can I ask you one question?”

She shot him an impatient look.

He asked anyway. “Was it you? Did you leak tonight’s information to ANS?”

“I’d never even heard of Eleanor Albert before tonight. And the pictures don’t prove a thing. I still don’t know for sure.”

He recognized that she was in denial. “The rest of the world knows for sure,” he told her gently. “Let me take you to the White House.”

“No!”

“You’ll be safe there.” And maybe it would earn him some goodwill with the administration, maybe even with Cara.

Wait a minute. Cara. Why was Cara letting Ariella leave her apartment all alone? Why hadn’t she called in reinforcements?

“Did you talk to Cara up there?” It occurred to him that maybe Cara wasn’t home.

“That’s two questions,” said Ariella.

“Is she upstairs? She let you leave?”

“I’m a grown woman, Max.”

“And you’re the president’s daughter.”

“Not until they prove it, I’m not.”

A new thought occurred to Max. And, if he was right, it wasn’t a half bad idea. “Are you going into hiding?”

Her silence confirmed his suspicions.

“I can help. I can take you somewhere safe.”

This time she rolled her eyes. “It won’t be hiding if an NCN reporter knows where I am. You’re already going to report this entire conversation.”

Max was used to walking fine ethical lines. He couldn’t lie to his network, but he could choose the facts he shared and the order in which he disclosed them. “It’s up to me to decide how to frame my story.”

Her expression was blatantly suspicious. “What does that mean?”

“What do you want me to report?”

She hesitated, then seemed to decide she had little to lose. “That I have no knowledge of my biological parents, and I’ve left the D.C. area.”

“Done.”

“You’d do that for me?”

“Yes,” he told her with sincerity.

But her guard was obviously still up. “Are you serious?”

“I am serious.”

After a moment, her expression softened. “Thank you, Max.”

“At least let me take you to Potomac Airfield. You’ll be able to grab a private charter and take it anywhere you want to go. If you need money—”

“I don’t need money.”

“If you need anything, Ariella.”

“How can you take me to Potomac and not report on it?”

He put on his best broadcaster voice. “Sources close to Ariella Winthrop disclose that she has left the D.C. area, likely on a private plane out of Potomac. Nothing is known about the destination, the aircraft or the pilot.”

He gave another glance around the dark street to make sure they were still alone. “You can put up your hair, Ariella. We’ll stop somewhere and buy you a pair of blue jeans, a baseball cap and dark glasses. Take a Learjet or something even better. Those guys don’t talk about their passengers.”

He could feel her hesitation. Her teeth came down on her lower lip.

“You got a better idea?” he asked.

“What’s in it for you?”

“Goodwill. Yours, eventually the White House’s and the president’s. Plus, I’m a nice guy.”

“You’re with the press.”

“I’m still a nice guy. And I’m a sucker for a maiden in distress.”

That brought a reluctant smile to her lips.

“My car’s across the street.” He nodded to the Mustang. “Every minute we stand out here, we risk someone recognizing you.”

Just then, a taxi pulled up and stopped at the curb, its light on.

Ariella glanced at it. But then she nodded to Max. “Take me to Potomac Airfield.”

“Two things,” Lynn said to Cara from behind her office desk.

It was ten the next morning, and Lynn had just finished addressing reporters in the press room for a second day in a row. So far, President Morrow had remained out of sight, his schedule restricted to small, private functions where the White House could control the guest list. But Cara knew that was about to change. He was scheduled to attend a performance tonight at the Kennedy Center.

“Eleanor Albert is an obvious priority.” Lynn counted her points off on her fingers. “Who is she? Where is she? Is she really Ariella’s mother? And what will she say publicly about the president? Two, there’s a whole town full of people out in Fields, Montana. We need to know what they know, what they remember and what they’re going to say publicly.”

Then she glanced up, her attention going to someone in the doorway behind Cara.

“There you are,” she said, waving her hand for the person to enter. “You might as well come on in.”

Cara turned, starting in astonishment as she came face-to-face with Max. He was dressed in blue jeans and square-toed boots, with an open-collar white shirt beneath his dark blazer. He was freshly shaved. His perpetually tousled hair, wide shoulders and rugged looks gave him a mantle of raw power, even though he was just a visitor to the West Wing.

He met her gaze, his expression neutral.

Even with Lynn in the room, Cara had a hard time controlling her annoyance. Max had gone on national television last night, disclosing what he knew about Ariella’s whereabouts. She didn’t know who his source had been, but he’d milked it for all it was worth, tossing both Ariella and the White House to the wolves in his quest for ratings.