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been a political animal. I came from a family where politics were always discussed—usually heatedly—over supper, and maybe breakfast and lunch too.
    “But I made my decision early in life—I was just a kid, seven years old when my parents took me on a visit to Washington. They wanted me to see the capital, ‘to feel the seat of power,’ my dad said, and I remember how dazzled I was by the wide avenues and stately columned buildings. I thought it must be as grand a city as Paris. I’ve never changed my mind. It still gives me a buzz to remember that kid from the Bronx touring the White House with his mom and dad, remembering the first stirrings of political ambition. I just knew I wanted to be part of it. I wanted to be there, in the White House where the decisions were made, I wanted to help—even on the lowest level. I would have been a mail boy—anything, to get through those doors. Me and a million others, I guess,” he added with a grin. “Only I did something about it and for me, politics still beats selling junk bonds or making movies as the most exciting business in the world.”
    “I envy your single-mindedness,” she said admiringly. “Everyone says you are destined for the top.”
    He shrugged. “Maybe. There’s a lot of game-playing in that town. I’m not too happy about it, but it seems to go along with the job.”
    “They say you’re one of that rare breed—an honest politician,” she said provocatively.
    “I hope so,” he replied seriously. “And now, what motivates
you
, Genie Reese?”
    She thought for a moment, then said, “I’m not sure. Maybe to prove myself to my mom, even though she’s dead. She had such a hard time, just never seemed to get it right…. I guess I want to make it for both of us.”
    He looked at her sympathetically, thinking it seemed a very sad reason for success. “Atonement for your mother’s sins?” he asked.
    She smiled ruefully. “Nothing as grand as that.” They looked at each other in silence until she said briskly, “And you? What
else
motivates your famous ambition?”
    “famous
ambition?”
    She laughed at his surprise, “Surely you know that you are ‘a man dedicated to his job—a true political animal, possible future presidential material’? Don’t you read your own press cuttings, Mr. Warrender?”
    She pushed a hand through her long hair and said with a laugh, “Tell me, where do you live? No, let me guess … Watergate.”
    “How did you know?”
    “Easy. A political bachelor needs a place with easy access to government offices and the White House,
and
somewhere where he is looked after. Watergate fits the bill—maid service, laundry service, restaurants on the premises for the odd meal alone, smart shops for a quick purchase of a new shirt or tie….”
    “And not too far from your place,” he countered, laughing. “Maybe you’ll ask me in for a home-cooked meal sometime. That’s one thing a Washington bachelor never gets—all the dinner parties are catered.”
    “I’ll bet you think I can’t cook,” she said indignantly. “I’ll have you know I learned at my grandmother’s knee.”
    “And was
she
a good cook?”
    “The best—though I must admit, not quite as good asthis.” She tasted the ethereally light chocolate praline mousse. “I never eat dessert, so it just goes to show what being stranded in a storm can do. It takes away all your control.”
    “You look as if you live on moonbeams and champagne,” he said, glancing at her admiringly.
    She laughed. “That’s exactly the way it’s meant to look.”
    “I’d say your charms are not lost on our Russian friend,” Cal said quietly. “He’s scarcely taken his eyes off you all night.”
    Blushing, Genie reached for her glass and knocked it over. As the waiter hurried to mop up the spilled champagne, Cal said, surprised, “I didn’t expect Valentin to have quite such a drastic effect on you.”
    “Sorry, sorry … I guess I’m just tired.” She