It was past midnight when Phil Sawyer stopped the car in front of Loren’s apartment building. He was what most women thought a handsome man, with a solid face and a neatly styled mass of prematurely gray hair.

Loren flashed a provocative expression at him. “Would you like to open my apartment door for me? The lock always seems to stick.”

He smiled. “How can I refuse?”

They got out of the car and strolled through the garden entrance in silence. The sidewalk was wet and reflected the glow from the streetlights. Loren nestled against his body as the cold drizzle attacked their hair and clothes. The doorman greeted them and held the elevator open. At her door she fished in her purse and handed Sawyer the key. He turned the lock and they entered.

“Fix yourself a drink,” she said, shaking out her damp hair. “I’ll be back in a minute.”

Loren slipped into the bedroom and Sawyer went over to a small portable bar and poured himself a cognac. He was on his second when Loren came back into the room. She was wearing pajamas with a silvery-gray wrap top and pants that were lace edged. As she came through the doorway, the light from the bedroom silhouetted her lithe figure through the vaporous nylon. The combination of the pajamas, her cinnamon hair, and her violet eyes suddenly made Sawyer feel like a confused adolescent.

“You look ravishing,” he managed to say.

“Thank you.” She poured a Galliano for herself and sat down next to him on the couch. “It was a lovely dinner, Phil.”

“My pleasure.”

She moved closer and lightly caressed his hand. “You seem different tonight. I’ve never known you to be so relaxed. Not once did you mention the President.”

“Six weeks and three days from now the new President-elect takes the oath and my eight-year battle with the gentlemen and ladies of the news

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media comes to an end. God, I never thought I would feel good about being part of a lame-duck administration.”

“What are your plans after the inauguration?”

“My boss has the right idea. As soon as he turns over the reins of office, he’s sailing a forty-foot ketch to the South Pacific, where he says he’s going to drink and screw himself to death.” Sawyer lowered his glass and stared into Loren’s eyes. “Now, me, I prefer the Caribbean, particularly for a honeymoon.”

An edge of anticipation began to form inside Loren. “Anyone special in mind?”

Sawyer set down their glasses and took Loren’s hands in his. “Congresswoman Smith,” he said with mock seriousness. “I respectfully implore you to cast your vote in favor of marriage to Phil Sawyer.”

Loren’s eyes grew somber and thoughtful. Though she’d been sure this moment would eventually come, she was still uncertain of her answer. Sawyer misread Loren’s hesitancy.