KATE COULD HEAR the phone in the kitchen ringing as soon as she hit the bottom of the staircase leading from her garage to the main floor of her house. She’d purchased the tiny bungalow in Annandale years ago with the idea of fixing it up for resale, but she’d never had the time or energy to devote to the project. Her fixer-upper still needed a lot of fixing-upping.

Buster raced ahead up the stairs as if saying, “I’ll get it!” But all he succeeded in doing was to tangle his leash around Kate’s feet, preventing her from reaching the phone before the answering machine kicked in.

She heard a beep; then the only sound after that was the momentary buzz of a dial tone, which quickly cut off. Whoever had called, they hadn’t left a message. Glancing at the answering machine, she realized she had eighteen messages.

All from Emily, I bet.

Kate’s sense of duty warred with her sense of fatigue. If Emily —or anyone else for that matter —had a critical concern or timely message, they would have called Kate’s cell. So any messages left on the answering machine were more likely “Just checking to see if you’re home. Call me back when you get this” or “It’s time to see your dentist for your annual exam.”

Kate glared once more at the machine and then turned her back on it. She still had a decision to work through, and until she made up her mind, she didn’t want to talk to Emily.

Or her dentist, either.

Kate’s gaze shifted across the counter toward the digital clock in the stove. Two hours left before Nick arrived. She needed that time to spruce up the place. Vacuum, dust, hide the mountain of junk mail she hadn’t gone through in the past month. Do some of the things she’d let slide while running a presidential campaign.

“We should have gotten weekly maid service,” she said to Buster, who was lapping his bowl as if he hadn’t seen water in hours. He ignored her proclamation and zipped out the doggy door to her postage stamp–size backyard.

Two hours later, she’d still managed to ignore the awaiting phone messages and, instead, had spent her attention and time taming the piles of controlled mess in the public areas of her house, removing the remains of chaos from her living room and kitchen.

At seven sharp, her doorbell rang.

When she looked out the peephole, she was suddenly transported back to a time long ago when Nick would show up on their stoop in Georgetown to court Emily, a bottle of expensive wine in one hand and flowers in the other. After the perfunctory greetings, Kate, the proverbial third wheel, would manufacture an excuse to leave the two of them alone.

The courtship eventually turned into an engagement, which became a big society marriage, which dissolved into a hostile divorce. The flowers might have wilted, but the bottle of wine never left his hand for long during any phase of their relationship.

But now, he carried no bottle. He still juggled the requisite bouquet of flowers —albeit tastefully small —and two brown paper sacks.

Their greeting was awkward, but no less than the last time they had seen each other, a clandestine meeting at Dulles airport, where political revelations had exposed heretofore secret flaws and weaknesses of both presidential candidates.

“I couldn’t remember if you liked spicy food or not.” Nick hoisted one of the sacks filled to the brim with small, white take-out cartons. “So I got a little of everything: sweet and sour, Szechuan, Hunan . . .”

Kate led the way to the kitchen, where she put the flowers in a small vase. He had indeed brought enough food to feed a platoon and even remembered to get some chopsticks, so all she had to do was provide plates and napkins. Buster danced in anticipation of a handout, so Kate temporarily pacified him with a rawhide bone. He snatched it from her hand and then ran with his plunder to his bed in the den.

Once their pot of hot tea was ready, she and Nick settled at the kitchen table. After closing her eyes and saying a silent grace, she looked up, surprised to see Nick doing the same thing. It was reassuring to know they had more than just Emily in common. The politicos in Washington were usually more at ease with religion as a broad concept rather than as a personal display of faith.

Once they started eating, their conversation hopscotched from general niceties —weather, old acquaintances, and such —to finally landing on the real topic of concern.

Kate dug into the fried rice. “So tell me about this new job offer.”

“It’s as a lobbyist for the Better Energy Alliance. You heard of them?”

She shook her head. “No, but there are like thirty thousand lobbyists in the District.”

“If not more. Anyway, they’re a new firm being formed to work with Emily’s energy-exploration campaign platform.”

“They’re not wasting any time.”

“Nope. They want to be up and running by the time she gets into office. You know as well as I do that she’s going to push that program into place first.”

“True.” Kate thought about her next statement, debating on how to make it not sound like an accusation. “So they believe you’ll be an asset when it comes to dealing with her administration?”

He shrugged. “I know. Sounds like a long shot to me too. But here’s the funny thing.” He leaned forward and his voice lowered as if they could be overheard. “The person who asked for the interview said they got word ‘under the table’ that someone reportedly high up in the Benton camp had recommended me for the position.”

He took a moment to search her features, making her wonder if she was blushing and didn’t know it. Then he sat back in his chair, looking somewhat crestfallen. “And judging from the look of surprise on your face, it wasn’t you who recommended me.”

“No. I didn’t know anything about it.”

He shrugged and turned his attention to the next carton of food, opening it and using the chopsticks to guide a generous amount onto his plate. “Well, it sure couldn’t have been Emily. The only job she’d suggest me for would be as a tester for an electric chair.”

They ate in silence for another minute, but Kate could see that he was still mulling over the identity of whoever recommended him.

He pretended to be absorbed by the act of eating, but finally he dropped his chopsticks to his plate, unable to keep up the ruse. “So . . . you think maybe Dozier had a change of heart? He and I always got along fairly well. And he knows my background was in geology and petroleum law. We talked about it, more than once.”

“Possibly. But for Dozier to have a change of heart, he’d have to demonstrate he had a heart in the first place.”

Nick snorted.

At first glance, Dozier Marsh looked like an old man who believed in old-school politics. It hadn’t taken Kate long to see the truth once he became her campaign colleague. Over the years, he’d carefully cultivated a jovial, sometimes even harmless-looking, facade as a ploy to cover up his sharp political mind and his sharper tendency to go for the jugular vein of anyone who got in his way. And yet Kate realized his unwavering support for Emily wasn’t simply because she was her father’s daughter —even if Dozier had admired her father way back when and become one of the man’s close political cronies. Dozier’s type of old-school opinions usually went hand in hand with classic misogyny. But for all his politically incorrect behavior, Dozier backed Emily totally. Her gender didn’t complicate or weaken the strength of his convictions and willingness to be a senior member of her campaign staff and eventually a senior presidential adviser.

“Nah . . .” Nick cocked his head and corrected himself. “Probably not him. After the divorce, he wouldn’t give me the time of day. Not that I really blame him.” Nick wielded the chopsticks like a pro as he returned his attention to his meal, attacking the piles of chicken and vegetables on his plate. “Good ol’ Doze. The Speaker of the House you’d most enjoy sitting down with to share a pint. And then if he had to slit your throat immediately thereafter, he’d do it without hesitation.”

“That’s our Dozier. I get along well with him too. Maybe because he thinks I’m good for Emily. Maybe it’s his formal manners or maybe the fact that he just can’t quite figure out what my agenda is.”

Nick paused dramatically, the food suspended halfway from his plate to his mouth. “You have an agenda?” he asked with mock horror.

She smiled and took a sip of her tea.

He laughed. “Forget I asked that. So someone on your side of the coin thinks I could be an effective lobbyist.”

“They’re right.”

He looked up, surprise lightening his features. “Thanks. Good to hear.”

“Well, it’s true. There’s nothing wrong with using your knowledge of what makes Emily tick to help a good cause.”

“As opposed to a bad cause, like Talbot,” he added darkly.

She ignored his comment. “Besides your legal background, you come from oil people, don’t you?”

“Not really.” Nick shook his head. “Oil people are the ones who own the oil rights. My family just worked in the industry —in the oil fields and refineries. I have first, second, even third cousins who are toolpushers, motormen, floorhands. . . .”

At her confused look, he grinned. “Working stiffs. They all think I’m a lazy good-for-nuthin’ because I’m the first one in the family who doesn’t work with his hands.” His voice softened perceptibly. “And as my father used to say, I don’t work much with my head, either.”

Kate remembered meeting Mr. Beaudry, a salt-of-the-earth type with the same cocky grin as his son. She knew the man had passed away since the divorce. “You miss him? your dad?”

His grin faded slightly to something more sentimental. “Yeah, I do miss him. Every day. Mom too.” He busied himself with his meal, not making eye contact with Kate as he spoke, obviously from the heart. “I only hope they can see how I turned things around for myself. After Mom died of cancer, he wasn’t the same man. It was like someone had drilled a hole in him and his life was slowly leaking out. He was pretty much gone after the first stroke, but his body held out for longer than any of us boys thought possible. Most of the changes in me occurred because of what happened to him. So I feel a bit guilty that I didn’t have a chance to show him I straightened out and up.”

Kate reached over and patted his arm. “I’m sure he knows.”

It was a simple gesture, born out of what she could only classify as sympathy in light of their growing friendship —a kindness she would show to anyone else expressing such a sentiment. But why did it feel like something else? Why, when he looked up and her gaze met his, did he hold her attention a moment too long?

Why did she feel a connection with this man?

She withdrew her hand slowly, knowing that a quick movement might betray the confusion she was feeling. Maybe they could both just forget anything had happened.

Maybe . . .

She turned her attention to the containers of food that decorated the table. “You didn’t have to buy every single item on the menu.”

He seemed grateful for the distraction. “You know how it is when you stand at the counter, staring at that big menu on the wall and then look into the take-out kitchen, where the guys are tossing everything into big woks. Everything smells so good. You think —‘One chicken, one beef, one pork, one veggie, maybe something hot . . . oh and soup, too, and maybe some shrimp puffs and crab rangoons.’ It’s hard to stop.”

She grimaced. “Back to the topic. The job offer. So what’s the problem? If it’s a good offer in a field you know well and presumably like, then why not jump at the chance?”

He contemplated the remains of his meal. “I’m not sure. Something’s just not quite right about it. I was hoping to find out that you made the recommendation because then I’d know it came without any strings attached.”

“You’re expecting strings?”

He pushed his plate away. “This is Washington politics. I’m expecting ropes. Chains, even. After what I’ve been through, getting tied up with Talbot, I need to be more careful so I don’t make that kind of mistake again.”

Kate glanced at the small scar near his hairline. She gestured to his head. “Is that from . . . ?” She couldn’t find the right words.

He reached up and probed the spot gingerly. “A souvenir from the beating I got? Sure is. I’d still like to get my hands on the slimy ba —” His face flushed and he stopped midword. “I’m sorry, Kate. As you can tell, it’s still a sore point with me. And the funny thing is, I don’t think Charles Talbot ordered —for the lack of a better word —the hit. It’s not his way.”

“Then who do you think did?” She went through a mental lineup of Talbot’s senior campaign staff. “Ron Wooster?” Kate might not particularly like Talbot’s campaign manager, but she didn’t think he’d resort to such violence.

“Rooster? No.” Nick’s tight grin lacked any humor. “It’s not necessarily the people above you that you have to watch out for. It’s the ones who want to move up into your spot who can be the most dangerous. You know . . . ascension via assassination, character or otherwise. Sometimes they’re willing to get their hands dirty —or in this case, bloody —if it means a chance to curry the favor of a higher-up.”

“I know exactly what you mean.” Kate couldn’t help but be reminded of Maia Bari. The young woman had hoped to create a more permanent position for herself in the Benton administration by doing Emily’s dirty work. Even worse, Maia had mistakenly thought an admission of her guilt to Kate would end with a reward for such honesty. “I’ve run into a few . . . people like that, too.” She tried to ignore the little voice in the back of her head that said, You might be working with and for people like that.

Kate didn’t realize she’d stopped talking until she heard Buster bark outside in the yard, breaking a heavy silence.

“You look like something’s bothering you,” Nick said in a quiet voice. “Can I help?”

Could he?

Kate didn’t doubt his sincerity. When he broke allegiance to Talbot because of the candidate’s dirty politics, Nick took a big step toward proving he’d risen above any resentments and lingering animosities he had as Emily’s ex-husband. It was obvious his newfound faith had helped him make some very good choices.

If anyone could understand the difficulty she was having in picking a path that allowed her to walk in God’s will and be Emily’s friend and adviser at the same time, it might be Nick Beaudry.

It was worth a shot.

“Actually I would like to talk. It’s about Emily.” She glanced down at the remains of their meal, suddenly aghast at how much food she’d eaten. As delicious as it had been, it now sat in her stomach like a rock. “Would you like to sit in the living room?”

“Sure.” He stood, and before she could shift, he’d moved to her chair to hold it for her as she rose. Ever the Southern gentleman . . .

He followed her to the living room, where they sat in the wingback chairs that flanked the fireplace. He waited until she got settled before drawing a deep breath.

“Okay. What has she done now?”