She imagined him at a lecture hall, his tone easy, his explanation simple. Even the wisps of straight black hair dropping on his forehead were under his control. Stroking Lulu, her fingers accidentally brushed against his. She withdrew her hand as though from a hot stove.

He continued to speak as though he had not been scorched by the same fire. “As China bides its time, it aids countries hostile to the U.S. but uses the U.S.’s willingness to share its top secrets to arm what is soon to become the strongest military power in the world. In my opinion, China and the U.S. are on a collision course in their struggle for world dominance. Yet U.S. corporations and their senators dismiss the warning to stay guarded. They’re willing to sacrifice global security and human rights—present and future—for greater profits.”

“I always thought that I wasn’t a political animal,” she said. “I believed that art could cut across all our differences. That it could bridge borders.”

“It often does. Your song ‘We All Share The Feeling of Love’ is an example. But I wish music were the answer to all conflicts.” He got up. “By the way, now that I’ve read some of your lyrics, I wouldn’t concur with your view of yourself as being apolitical. You do have definite views about the world.”

She felt heat rise up to her face.

He continued, “Please accept that my objection to your tour as part of the engagement strategy was not personal.”

She rose to her feet also. “Let’s get personal, then. Didn’t you take me to the Dying Rooms so that I, a celebrity, would take up your cause?”

The green in his eyes darkened. “Sharing the things I care about was not a premeditated agenda.”

“I surprised your camp when I took your cause further than you had expected.”

“Please don’t,” he said quietly. “Don’t do that.”

She examined her fingers. “I’m a pawn in a game played among more players than I can count.”

“I’m not one of them.”

She raised her eyes. “What am I to you, then?”

“An exceptional woman who’s coming into herself.”

A rush went through her. His words, and their subtext, turned up the flame.

He moved toward the door. “How about Chinese take-out?”

After he left, Nola stood looking at the closed door until Lulu tried to roll over in her sleep. Nola moved her down to the mat on the floor and walked to the kitchen while a theme for another song bubbled in her. Gifts aren’t promises, touches aren’t contracts. She should remember to jot it down. Daniel's attractiveness—and elusiveness—were generating a flood of new ideas. How much could his love bring out? Wade had been right about one thing—passion fed the creation of her music.