All The Possibilities

  and sat like an Indian. On the coffee table in front of her were a pair of orange-handled scissors, a copy of The Washington Post opened to the comic section, a single earring winking with sapphires, what must have been several days’ worth of unopened mail, and a well-thumbed copy of Macbeth.

  “I didn’t put it together last night,” he said as he moved to join her. “Robert Campbell was your father?”

  “Yes, did you know him?”

  “Of him. I was still in college when he was killed. I’ve met your mother, of course. She’s a lovely woman.”

  “Yes, she is.” Shelby sipped. The Scotch was dark and smooth. “I’ve often wondered why she never ran for office herself. She’s always loved the life.”

  He caught it—the very, very faint edge of resentment. That was something to explore later, Alan decided. Timing was often the ultimate reason for success or failure in any campaign. “You have a brother, don’t you?”

  “Grant?” For a moment, her gaze touched on the newspaper. “Yes, he steers clear of Washington for the most part.” A siren screamed outside the window, echoing then fading. “He prefers the relative peace of Maine.” A flicker of amusement crossed her face—a secret that intrigued Alan. Instinct told him he wouldn’t learn it yet. Then logic reminded him he had no real interest in her secrets. “In any case, neither of us seem to have inherited the public servant syndrome.”

  “Is that what you call it?” Alan shifted. The pillow against his back was cool and satin. He imagined her skin would feel like that against his.

  “Doesn’t it fit?” she countered. “A dedication to the masses, a fetish for paperwork. A taste for power.”

  It was there again, that light arrogance touched with disdain. “You haven’t a taste for power?”

  “Just over my own life. I don’t like to interfere with other people’s.”

  Alan toyed with the leather thong in her hair until he’d loosened it. Perhaps he had come to debate with her after all. She seemed to urge him to defend what he’d always believed in. “Do you think any of us go through the cycle without touching off ripples in other lives?”

  Shelby said nothing as her hair fell free. It tickled her neck, reminding her of the feel of his fingers on almost the same spot. She discovered it was as simple as she had thought it would be to sit beside him with those lean muscles naked and within easy reach.

  “It’s up to everyone to ward off or work with the ripples in their own way,” she said at length. “Well, that does in my philosophy for the day; I’ll see if your shirt’s dry.”

  Alan tightened his grip on her hair as she started to rise. Shelby turned her head to find those brooding, considering eyes on her face. “The ripples haven’t even started between us,” he said quietly. “Perhaps you’d better start working with them.”

  “Alan …” Shelby kept her voice mild and patient as excitement ripped through her. “I’ve already told you, nothing’s going to get started between us. Don’t take it personally,” she added with a half smile. “You’re very attractive. I’m just not interested.”

  “No?” With his free hand, he circled her wrist. “Your pulse is racing.”

  Her annoyance was quick, mirrored in the sudden flare in her eyes, the sudden jerk of her chin. “I’m always happy to boost an ego,” she said evenly. “Now, I’ll get your shirt.”

  “Boost it a little higher,” he suggested and drew her closer. One kiss, he thought, and he’d be satisfied. Flamboyant, overly aggressive women held no appeal for him. Shelby was certainly that. One kiss, he thought again, and he’d be satisfied on all counts.

  She hadn’t expected him to be stubborn, any more than she’d expected that fierce tug of longing when his breath fluttered over her lips. She let out a quick sigh of annoyance that she hoped would infuriate him. So, the Senator from Massachusetts wants to try his luck with a free-thinking artist, just for variety. Relaxing, she tilted up her chin. All right, then, she decided. She’d give him a kiss that would knock him flat—right before she bundled him up and hauled him out the door.

  But he didn’t touch his lips to hers yet, only looked at her. Why wasn’t she handling him? she wondered as his mouth slowly lowered. Why wasn’t she … ? Then his tongue traced a lazy line over her lips and she wasn’t capable of wondering. There was nothing more she could do other than close her eyes and experience.

  She’d never known anyone to take such care with a kiss—and his lips had yet to touch hers. The tip of his tongue outlined and tested the fullness of her mouth so softly, so slowly. All sensation, all arousal, was centered there. How could she have known a mouth could feel so much? How could she have known a kiss that wasn’t a kiss would make her incapable of moving?

  Then he captured her bottom lip between his teeth and her breath started to shudder. He nibbled, then drew it inside his mouth to suck until she felt the answering, unrelenting tug deep inside her. There was a rhythm, he was guiding her to it, and Shelby had forgotten to resist. His thumb was running up, then down over the vein in her wrist; his fingertips skimmed the base of her neck. The points of pleasure spread out until her whole body hummed with them. Still his lips hadn’t pressed onto hers.

  She moaned, a low, throaty sound that was as much of demand as surrender. Then they were mouth to mouth, spinning from arousal to passion at the instant of contact.

  He’d known her mouth would taste like this—hot and eager. He’d known her body would be like this against his—soft and strong. Had that been why he’d woken thinking of her? Had that been why he’d found himself standing outside her shop as afternoon was waning into evening? For the first time in his life, Alan found that the reasons didn’t matter. They were pressed close, and that was enough for him.

  Her hair carried that undefinable scent he remembered. He dove his hands into it as if he would have the fragrance seep into his pores. It drove him deeper. Her tongue met his, seeking, searching, until her taste was all the tastes he’d ever coveted. The pillows rustled with soft whispers as he pressed her between them and himself.

  She hadn’t expected this kind of raw, consuming passion from him. Style—she would have expected style and a seduction with all the traditional trimmings. Those she could have resisted or evaded. But there was no resisting a need that had so quickly found and tapped her own. There was no evading a passion that had already captured her. She ran her hands up his naked back and moaned as the feel of him lit new fires.

  This was something too firm to be molded, too hard to be changed. The man had styled himself as he had chosen. Shelby knew it instinctively and felt desire rise for this reason alone. But with desire came the knowledge that she was growing too soft, too pliant; came the fear that he might have already changed her shape with a kiss.

  “Alan.” She gathered her forces for resistance when every pore, every cell, was crying out for her to submit. “Enough,” she managed against his mouth.

  “Not nearly,” he corrected, trapping her close when she would have struggled away.

  He was taking her deep again, where she had no control over the moment, or the outcome of it.

  “Alan.” She drew back far enough to see his face. “I want you to stop.” Her breathing wasn’t steady, her eyes were dark as smoke, but the resistance in her body was very real. Alan felt a hot flash of anger, which he expertly controlled, and a sharp stab of desire, which he had more trouble with.

  “All right.” He loosened his hold. “Why?”

  It was rare for her to have to order herself to do something as natural as relax. Even after she had, there was a light band of tension at the base of her neck. “You kiss very well,” she said with forced casualness.

  “For a politician?”

  Shelby let out a little hiss of breath and rose. Damn him for knowing just what rib to punch—and for his skill in punching without raising a sweat. Pompous, Shelby told herself. Pompous, smug, and self-absorbed.

  The apartment was nearly dark. She flicked on a light, surprised that
so much time had passed when everything had seemed to happen so quickly. “Alan …” Shelby linked her hands together as she did when she’d decided to be patient.

  “You didn’t answer my question,” he pointed out and made himself relax against the pillows that brought back memories of her skin.

  “Perhaps I haven’t made myself clear enough.” She fought the urge to say something that would erase that mildly interested look in his eyes. Damn, he was clever, she thought grudgingly—with words, with expressions. She’d like to come up against him again when her heart wasn’t thudding. “I meant everything I said last night.”

  “So did I.” He tilted his head as if to study her from a new angle. “But maybe like your bird, you’re quite an expert on holding grudges too.”

  When she stiffened, the hands that were linked fell apart. “Don’t press.”

  “I generally don’t on old wounds.” The hurt was there; he saw it, and an anger that was well rooted. It was difficult for him to remember he’d known her for less than a day and had no right to pry, or to expect. “I’m sorry,” he added as he rose.

  Her rigidness vanished with the apology. He had a way of saying simple things with simple genuineness, Shelby thought, and found she liked him for it—if for nothing else. “It’s all right.” She crossed the room and came back moments later with his shirt. “Good as new,” she promised as she tossed it to him. “Well, it’s been nice; don’t let me keep you.”

  He had to grin. “Am I being helped out the door?”

  Not bothering to disguise a smile, she gave a mock sigh. “I’ve always been too obvious. Good night, Senator. Look both ways when you cross the street.” She went to open the side door that led to the outside stairs.

  Alan pulled the shirt over his head before he crossed to her. He’d always thought it had been his brother, Caine, who’d never been able to take a simple no with a polite bow. Perhaps he’d been wrong, Alan mused, and it was a basic MacGregor trait. “The Scotch can be stubborn,” he commented as he paused beside her.

  “You’ll remember I’m a Campbell. Who’d know better?” Shelby opened the door a bit wider.

  “Then, we both know where we stand.” He cupped her chin in his hand to hold her face still as he gave her a last hard kiss that seemed suspiciously like a threat. “Till next time.”

  Shelby closed the door behind him and stood leaning against it a moment. He was going to be trouble, she decided. Alan MacGregor was going to be very serious trouble.

  Chapter 3

  It turned out to be busy for a Monday morning. By eleven, Shelby had sold several pieces, including three that she had taken out of the kiln only the evening before. Between customers, she sat behind the counter wiring a lamp she had made in the shape of a Greek amphora. To have simply sat during the idle time would have been impossible for her. To have dusted or fiddled with the displays would have bored her to distraction. She left such things to Kyle, to their mutual satisfaction.

  Because it was warm, she kept the door of the shop open. It was, Shelby knew, more tempting to stroll through an open door than to open a closed one. Spring came in, along with the unique sound of cars riding over cobblestone. She had a steady stream of browsers who bought nothing. Shelby didn’t mind. They were company as much as potential buyers. The woman carrying the manicured poodle in a hand-knit sweater was an interesting diversion. The restless teenager who came in to poke around gave her a chance to touch on the problems of youth and unemployment. Shelby hired him to wash the windows. While she wired, the boy stood on the street side running a squeegee over the glass while a portable radio bounced out tunes at his feet. She enjoyed the sound as it mixed with the occasional snatches of conversations from passersby.

  Did you see the price of that dress?

  If he doesn’t call me tonight, I’m going to …

  … notes on her lecture on pre-Hitler Germany.

  Idly she finished the conversations in her head as she worked. Shelby was threading the wire up the inside of the lamp when Myra Ditmeyer sauntered in. She wore a breezy vermilion suit that matched the shade of her lipstick. The powerful punch of her scent filled the little shop.

  “Well, Shelby, always keeping those clever hands busy.”

  With a smile of pure pleasure, Shelby leaned over the counter to kiss Myra’s powdered cheek. If you want some acerbic gossip or just plain fun, there was no one, in Shelby’s opinion, better than Myra. “I thought you’d be home planning all the wonderful things you’re going to feed me tonight.”

  “Oh, my dear, that’s all seen to.” Myra set down her alligator bag. “The cook’s in a creative spin even as we speak.”

  “I’ve always loved eating at your house.” Shelby pulled the wire through the top of the lamp. “None of those stingy little meals or inedible sauces disguised as exotic.” Absently she tapped her foot to the beat of the radio. “You did say Mama was coming.”

  “Yes, with Ambassador Dilleneau.”

  “Oh, yeah—the Frenchman with the big ears.”

  “Is that any way to talk about a diplomat?”

  “She’s been seeing him quite a bit,” Shelby said casually. “I’ve wondered if I’m going to have a Gallic steppapa.”

  “You could do worse,” Myra pointed out.

  “Mmm. So, tell me, Myra …” Shelby attached the light fixture to the cord with a few deft turns. “Who’ve you set up for me tonight?”

  “Set up,” Myra repeated, wrinkling her nose. “What an unromantic phrase.”

  “Sorry. How about—who are you planning to loose Cupid’s arrows on?”

  “It’s still unromantic when you’re smirking.” Myra watched Shelby screw in a lightbulb. “In any case, I think you should be surprised. You’ve always been fond of surprises.”

  “I like giving better than getting.”

  “How well I know. How old were you? Eight, as I recall, when you and Grant … surprised a small, rather influential gathering in your mother’s parlor with uncomfortably accurate caricatures of the Cabinet.”

  “It was Grant’s idea,” Shelby said, with a lingering twinge of regret that she hadn’t thought of it first. “Papa laughed about it for days.”

  “He had a unique sense of humor.”

  “As I recall you offered Grant two thousand for the one of the Secretary of State.”

  “And the scoundrel wouldn’t sell it to me. Good God,” she mused. “What would it be worth now?”

  “It would depend what name he signed to it, wouldn’t it?”

  “How is Grant? I haven’t seen him since Christmas.”

  “The same—brilliant, grumpy.” A laugh stole through the words. “Guarding his lighthouse fortress and his anonymity. I think I might sneak up there and bother him for a couple of weeks this summer.”

  “Such a gorgeous young man,” Myra mused. “What a waste for him to seclude himself on that little bit of coast.”

  “It’s what he wants,” Shelby said simply. “For now.”

  “Excuse me?”

  Both women looked toward the door where a young man stood in a crisp messenger’s uniform. Shelby glanced at the basket over his arm. “Can I help you?”

  “Miss Shelby Campbell?”

  “Yes, I’m Shelby.”

  He shifted the basket he carried from his arm to his hand as he walked to her. “Delivery for you, Miss Campbell.”

  “Thanks.” Automatically, she reached into the cash drawer for a dollar. “Who’s it from?”

  “Card’s inside,” he told her, pocketing the bill. “Enjoy.”

  She played the game. Shelby had been known to study and poke at a package on Christmas morning for twenty minutes before ripping off the paper. There were such possibilities in the unknown. She tilted the package from side to side, peered at it, then cupped her chin on both hands and stared at it.

  “Oh, come on, Shelby!” Myra shifted her weight from foot to foot with impatience. “Lift off the cover. I’m dying to see.”

  “In a
minute,” Shelby murmured. “It might be—a picnic. Who’d send me a picnic? Or a puppy.” She bent her ear close and listened. “Too quiet for a puppy. And it smells like …” Closing her eyes she drew in a deep breath and held it. “That’s funny, who’d send me—” She opened the lid. “Strawberries.”

  The basket was rich with them—plump and moistly red. Their scent drifted up with memories of the sun-warmed field they’d been plucked from. Shelby lifted one and held it under her nose, savoring.

  “Wonderful,” she decided. “Really, really wonderful.”

  Myra plucked one out and bit it neatly in half. “Mmm.” She popped the rest into her mouth. “Aren’t you going to read the card?”

  Still holding the berry, Shelby lifted out the plain white envelope, balancing it in her palm as if testing the weight. She turned it over, held it up to the light, then turned it back to the front.

  “Shelby!”

  “Oh, all right.” She ripped open the seal and drew out the card.

  Shelby,

  They made me think of you.

  Alan

  Watching her carefully, Myra saw the surprise, the pleasure, and something that wasn’t regret or wariness but had aspects of both.

  “Anyone I know?” she said dryly when Shelby didn’t speak.

  “What?” She looked up blankly, then shook her head. “Yes, I suppose you do.” But she slipped the card back into the envelope without saying. “Myra.” The name was on a long drawn-out sigh. “I think I’m in trouble.”

  “Good.” She gave Shelby a smug smile and a nod. “It’s about time you were. Would you like me to drive my cook crazy and add another name to my list for dinner tonight?”

  Oh, it was tempting. Shelby nearly agreed before she stopped herself. “No. No, I don’t think it would be wise.”

  “Only the young think they know anything about wisdom,” Myra stated with a sniff. “Very well, then; I’ll see you at seven.” She chose another berry before she picked up her purse. “Oh, and Shelby, pack up that lamp and bring it along. Just put it on my account.”

  She’d have to call him, Shelby told herself when she was alone. Dammit, she’d have to call and thank him. She bit into a berry so that the juice and sweetness exploded inside her mouth—a sensual taste, part sun, part earth. And she remembered how Alan’s taste had exploded inside her mouth.

  Why hadn’t he sent her something ordinary like flowers? Flowers she could have passed off and forgotten. She looked down into the basket, filled with berries brilliantly red and begging to be tasted. How did you deal with a man who sent you a basket of strawberries on a spring morning?

  He’d known it, of course, she decided abruptly. A man like him would be a quick and clever judge of people. She felt simultaneous twinges of annoyance and admiration. She didn’t like to be read so easily but … she couldn’t help respecting someone who could.

  Leaving the lid open, Shelby reached for the phone.

  ***

  Alan calculated he had between fifteen and twenty minutes before the Senate was called back to the floor. He’d use the time to review the proposed budget cuts. A deficit that edged uncomfortably close to two-hundred billion had to be trimmed, but Alan viewed the proposed cuts in education as unacceptable. Congress had already partially rejected the sought-after domestic spending cuts, and he felt he had enough support to influence a modification on the education snipping.

  There was more on his mind than deficits and budgets, however. Though it was the spring following an election year, Alan had been approached by the Senate Majority Leader. He’d been carefully felt out by an expert at saying nothing while hardly pausing for breath. It didn’t take magic for Alan to conclude that he was being considered as the party’s hope for the next decade. But did he want the top rung?

  He’d thought about it—he wasn’t a fool or without ambition. Still, he had believed if he ever decided to take a grab at the presidential brass ring, it would be in another fifteen, perhaps twenty years. The possibility of making his move sooner, at his party’s urging, was something he would have to weigh carefully.

  Nevertheless, as far as Alan’s father was concerned, there had never been any question that his eldest son would run for president—and win. Daniel MacGregor liked to think he still held the strings guiding his offsprings’ lives. Sometimes they gave him the gift of his illusions. Alan could still remember his sister’s announcement of her pregnancy that past winter. Daniel’s attention was centered on that and the marriage of their brother, Caine, so that the pressure had lifted from Alan. For now, he thought wryly. It shouldn’t be long before he got one of his father’s famous phone calls. Your mother misses you. She worries about you. When are you going to take the time to come visit? Why aren’t you married yet? Your sister can’t carry on the line by herself, you know.

  That might be simplifying it, Alan thought with a grin. But that would be the essence of the call. Strange, he’d always been able to shrug off his father’s views on marriage and children. But now …

  Why was it a woman he’d met only a few days before made him think of marriage? People didn’t bind themselves willingly to someone they didn’t know. She wasn’t even the type of woman who’d appealed to him in the past. She wasn’t sleek and cool. She wouldn’t be undemanding, or make a comfortable hostess for elegant state dinners. She wouldn’t be gracious, and she’d be anything but