"This is Addison Fox. I need to speak with Garrison Tate."
"I'm sorry, but Mr. Tate is in a meeting this morning. Are you inquiring about his campaign or a political matter?"
She chose her words carefully. "He's been trying to reach me. I'm sure he'll want to speak with me personally."
"I can take a message."
''This is the third message I've left."
"I'm sorry, but he's a very busy man."
"My name is Addison Fox. Tell him I'm in town." She recited the number of the cell phone Clint had given them. "I'd like to schedule a meeting with him. If he doesn't return my call, tell him I'll contact the Wall Street Journal" She disconnected.
It was the third such call in as many days and still Tate hadn't bothered to call her back. Discouraged, she blew a sigh and frowned at Randall. "He's not going to take the bait."
Sitting across the table from her, he gazed back at her, his dark eyes conveying that he understood her frustration, but he didn't share it. "We'll find another way to nail him."
His answer only heightened her agitation. Too restless to sit, she rose and walked to the window, barely noticing the traffic or the rain-soaked pedestrians moving along K Street below. ''This is the last thing I expected to happen. He's been so aggressive until now."
"Maybe he's trying to wait us out." Coming up behind her, Randall wrapped his arms around her waist and rested his head against hers. "You're forgetting something."
The tension drained out of her body the moment his arms encircled her. It was a magic that was uniquely theirs, one she'd discovered quite by accident in the three days they'd been in Washington. Regardless of her frame of mind, whether she was angry or afraid or just feeling alone, whenever he touched her she knew that, somehow, everything would work out.
Beyond the window, the rain quickened its tempo. She closed her eyes, wishing the nightmare would end so she could concentrate on loving this man who held her like she'd never been held before.
"What am I forgetting?" she asked quietly.
"As we speak, there are two reporters from the Wall Street Journal up in Siloam Springs, U.S.A., harassing Sheriff Delbert McEvoy."
The image that came to mind made her smile, and she snuggled closer to him. "Interesting scenario."
"Downright amusing if you ask me." He nipped at her earlobe. "And Van-Dyne's investigating in Denver. Something will break soon."
She loved the feel of him against her. Solid. Reassuring. The need inside her stirred, its power never ceasing to take her breath. "Have you checked on Jack?"
"Earlier this morning," he murmured, nuzzling the tender flesh just below her left ear. "But I need to check in again." Groaning, he eased away from her. "We're going to run out of hotels if Tate doesn't make his move soon," she said.
"D.C. is a big city—”
The telephone jangled as he reached for it. Their eyes met, hers startled, his sober and decisive. "If it's Tate, go ahead and set up a meeting," he said.
Heart pounding, Addison picked up the phone. Randall leaned close enough to hear the conversation. "Hello?" she said.
"It's Clint."
"Hi, Clint."
"No luck yet, huh?"
"Not yet."
"It ain't gonna do you any good to be impatient. That old dog's playing it safe. But, believe me, honey, he's feeling the heat."
''This waiting is making me crazy."
"Looks like I'm calling at just about the right time then. You two have been cooped up for three days. I was wondering if I could drag you out for a drink and a bite to eat."
After three days of room service food, the idea appealed immensely to Addison. She cocked her head at Randall, knowing he would be more cautious. ''We're still waiting for the call," she said.
"That's the whole idea behind cell phones. You can take 'em with you."
''Where do you want to meet us?"
*
Randall commandeered the phone. “Leaving the hotel isn't a good idea," he said. "Tate knows we're in town."
Clint's slow drawl transcended over the static. "I'm not talking dinner, partner. That was for her benefit. I didn't want to scare her, but you and I need to talk. I got some news for you."
"What is it?"
"Not on the cell."
"Then meet me here," Randall said.
"Not at the hotel. There's an anonymous little Italian place on upper Wisconsin called Franco's. The food's decent. It's a quiet place. We can talk there."
Indecision hammered at him. Clint had information. From the sound of it, something important. But Randall hadn't wanted to leave the hotel.
As if sensing his reluctance, Clint added, "He's not going to make a move on you in his hometown."
Randall looked at Addison and cursed. "I don't know, Clint. I don't like the idea of being so visible." If it were just him, he wouldn't hesitate. He was armed and a decent marksman to boot. But he was responsible for Addison and didn't want to take any unnecessary chances with her safety.