Well, it might not be that extreme, Hood thought. But he had served as mayor of Los Angeles. He had worked on Wall Street. And eight years ago he had returned to government. Hood was fascinated by the different management styles in the public and private sector. He enjoyed the give-and-take of a team, the challenge of reaching a consensus. The need for self-expression that drove someone like Daphne was foreign to him. It was also a little off-putting—not because he disapproved but because he felt intimidated. His former wife, Sharon, had been introspective and very satisfied to go with the family flow. Even the presidents and world leaders Hood had known found it necessary to be team players.

“Paul?” Daphne said over her ducksalad appetizer.

“Yes?”

“I’ve been to enough pitch meetings to know when someone’s brain is wandering,” she said.

“No, I’m here,” Hood replied with a smile.

She gave him a dubious look. It had playful corners around the eyes and mouth, but just barely.

“You were telling me about the pro bono work you do for the Native American Chumash in California, so that their sacred caves in the Santa Ynez range are protected.”

The woman relaxed slightly. “All right, you heard me. But that still doesn’t mean you were listening.”

“I assure you, I was,” he said. “That glazed, unfocused look you saw was the glazed, unfocused eyes of Paul Hood at the end of a long day of bureaucratic conflicts.”

“I see,” Daphne said. She smiled now. “I understand. Totally.”

Still, Hood knew that she was right. Years ago, an actor friend in Los Angeles had taught him a trick of the trade. It was called “floating” lines. It was done when performers did not have adequate rehearsal time. You let words into your short-term memory, where they could be accessed. That left the rest of the brain free to observe, muse, and—yes—wander. Hood used the technique to memorize speeches when he was mayor. Since coming to Washington, he had developed floating to an art by attending endless policy briefings that were anything but brief. He could listen, even take notes, while thinking about what he needed to do when he got back to Op-Center.

Daphne pushed her plate aside and leaned forward. “Paul, I have to confess something.”

“Why?”

She laughed. “Funny. Most people would have asked, ‘What?’ ”

He thought about that. She was right. He did not know why he said that.

“I haven’t been on a date in seven years,” Daphne said, “and I’m afraid I’ve turned this into something of a dog and pony show.”

“If it helps, I’m enjoying what you have to say.”

“You’re sweet, but I don’t like it,” Daphne said. “I’m acting like I’m at a client pitch. I’m trying too hard to sell myself.”

“No—”

“Yes,” she insisted. “You’ve been very patient for the last half hour.”