Kara Smith mustered every ounce of will in her body and soul not to sob aloud. She knew the sound would upset her mother. Kara smoothed her mother’s damp curls, and whispered softly, “Mom?”

Her mother’s eyes opened, first filmed over with pain, and then overflowing with love for her daughter. The hospice nurse returned with the pain medicine. Kara’s mother sighed gratefully as the potent painkiller took effect.

The pastel colors in her mother’s bedroom dimmed to tones of gray in the darkened room. A faint sickish and antiseptic smell replaced the familiar warm, floral scent of Kara’s mother. The nurse took a seat in the easy chair across the room. Kara was grateful for her presence in
the wee morning hours. Kara had called the hospice panic-stricken when her mother gasped for air, her breathing erratic and weak. She tried to prepare herself for the inevitable, but in the face of the reality of her mother’s death, she wasn’t ready. She would never be ready.

It was her mother’s death watch, the last vigil. Kara’s body trembled. How could she bear it? Now, she would be truly alone.

“There is something I want you to know,” Her mother said suddenly, in tones stronger than she’d used for weeks.

Startled, Kara flinched. Her mother’s eyes were lucid and clear.
For a moment, hope coursed through Kara. Would it not be tonight? Immediately, she felt ashamed for her hope. She was selfish, cruel. A few days more in her beloved mother’s presence only meant a few days more prolonging her mother’s pain and suffering. Death was the release her mother prayed for daily.

“It’s about your father.”

My father! Kara thought. Her mother had always said he was dead. When Kara was younger she used to wonder why there were no pictures of him around the house, no mementos, never any reminder or hint that he once shared her mother’s life. Her mother became tight-lipped and silent when she’d asked about him as a child.

Kara stopped asking as she got older. Whatever her mother’s secrets were, they were in the past and best left alone, she decided. Her father was a ghost, buried in the past and long forgotten. Her mother squeezed her hand with unexpected strength.

“He’s a great man, your father,” she said.

Is a great man? Kara thought. Was she going to tell her he was alive? Fear curled within her and warred with her overwhelming grief.

“I want you to know of the blood running through your veins. I want you to know him.” Her mother’s eyes took on a strange intensity.

“Tell her to leave,” she whispered, nodding toward the nurse. Kara glanced at the nurse who had already stood up to go. When the sound of the door shutting reached her ears, Kara’s mother relaxed against the pillows and breathed in deep, gasping breaths.

“Mom, this is not necessary-” Kara started.
“Let me finish, there’s not much time,” her mother cut Kara’s words off. “I loved him more than life itself. I would have died for him. But what he needed me to do was easier than dying, Kara my love . . .” she said in a rush of exhaled breath.

Kara shook her head in protest, not wanting to hear more.

“He was right,” her mother continued. “I wasn’t good enough. I would have held him back. He had a plan and a mission, and he’s achieved all his dreams. I was so dark, so uneducated, poor, and pregnant. He never would have achieved his dreams with me. So, I gave him the greatest gift, I gave him what he wanted and needed. We got out of his life.”
Her mother paused, her brown, dry, withered fingers picking at the snowy white sheets. Pain filled her mother’s eyes, but it wasn’t the familiar physical pain.

Kara choked and gathered her mother’s frail, emaciated body in her arms.
“You’re good enough for anybody and everybody, Mom. You’ve always been there and gave and gave, and even when you had nothing left, you would find the strength to give some more. Whoever this man was, if he wasn’t there for you when you needed him, he wasn’t good enough
for you.” Kara’s voice was low and fierce. She hated this man, her father.

“But, Kara, you don’t understand. You are blessed to have his blood running through your veins. I want you to know him, Kara. Promise me you’ll at least learn about him after I’m gone. He’s Congressman. . . Sidney Eastman.”

Kara’s blood froze when she heard the name. Then it pumped in hot, fast furious gouts through her heart. Congressman Eastman, politico fat-cat, presently the favorite spokesboy of the conservative majority powers. Some people called him a sell-out, most people called him worse.

This was the man her mother had protected, mourned, and loved all these years? Kara was incredulous, then a fury greater than she had ever known shook her. She looked at her mother lying back exhausted among the pillows, gasping for breath with the effort she took to speak
those words to her daughter. Tears ran down the withered cheeks of her mother’s precious face.

Kara remembered the years of struggle her mother went through, alone, always alone. Mom provided for her, and wanted to give her more when there was never enough. Things had just gotten a little better, when her mother finally went to the doctor about the pain. It was cancer, and it was too late.

Kara murmured the words of reassurance and comfort her mother needed to hear, but the man would pay. Kara vowed it, with all the grief and resolve in heart welling up to a fierce surge of black hatred. She would know him all right, and one day, Congressman Sidney Eastman would
be sorry-so very sorry.

* * *

Brent Stevens took a swallow of his stiff scotch and surveyed the noisy cocktail party. He hated functions like this. He was here in a semi?official status as Congressman Eastman’s surrogate. One of the Congressman’s largest contributors was throwing the party.

A jar at his back shook him, and scotch flowed over his fingers, disappearing into his immaculate white shirt. Brent swung around to face two soft breasts that had been momentarily pressed against his back.

They belonged to a woman with a exotic, but softly beautiful face. Her black hair was pulled back in a sleek chignon, and her lips were full and moist. She had flawless deep brown skin, a shade somewhere between chocolate and cinnamon. It would feel like velvet, he thought. Coffee-
colored eyes sparkled up at him.

He couldn’t look away and dismiss her as he already had dismissed countless come-ons from women since the party started. Totally appealing and somehow familiar; she was delicious.
Interest stirred in groin.

“You spilled your drink,” she said, her voice low and cultured. “I’m so sorry.”

Brent nodded but she made no move to leave his presence.

“My name is Kara Smith,” she said, and sipped her champagne. She glanced around the room, then focused on him. “Are you planning to stay here much longer, Mr. Stevens?” she asked.

So, she knows me, he thought. He searched his memory for a moment, and couldn’t place her. Brent decided to join her at the game. She excited him. With a mental shrug, he said with a amused twist of his lips, “Not if I can find something more interesting to do.”

Her shell-pink tongue darted out and moistened her lips. It wasn’t a nervous gesture, but a slow, provocative, studied one. Matching wine-tinted fingertips traveled caressingly from her chin and ever-so-lightly brushed her right nipple. He saw the nipple harden visibly through the golden lame fabric of her clinging cocktail dress. Brent felt himself harden in response. She was hot. So hot. He started a slow burn. Her scent intoxicated. He moved imperceptibly closer.

Her figure was lush and rounded. It was voluptuously feminine, not like the tightly coiled, fashionably thin and athletic women he was used to. He was interested-definitely interested.
Brent put his hands in his pockets and waited for her to make the next move. She didn’t fail him.

“I know of some much more interesting amusements,” she cooed. “Expensive amusements,” she added.

Brent raised an eyebrow. So, that’s it, he thought, money is she’s after.

Then, her fingers circled her other nipple lightly and rubbed, hardening it to match the right one. Brent’s fingers curled in his pockets in response. He hadn’t reacted this strongly to in years to a woman’s brazen advances. She was obviously very special . . and experienced.

She moved her fingers from her breast and rested them lightly on his arm. “Let’s go,” she said.
He raised his eyebrow again at her abrupt invitation.

He hoped she wouldn’t cost him too much. He glanced down and gazed at her nipples. His taut
body vibrated with anticipated passion. What the hell, even if her cost was high, she was worth
it.

* * *

Brent reached for her the second the limousine door closed. She curled into his arms like a kitten. He rubbed his thumbs over her still stiff nipples, and groaned, pulling her closer to him. Her head tipped up to his, her full lips smiling an invitation. He bent his head, and covered her lips with his own. Sweet and ripe, her lips were surprisingly tender. Drugged, slow kisses deepened into deep, throbbing passion. Their tongues entwined, he heard her give an incoherent moan, and trailed kisses down her neck.
He pulled the deep neckline of her dress down exposing full, round, perfect breasts topped with large chocolate nipples. Lowering his lips to her breasts, his hand moved slowly up the silken pantyhose of her inner thigh. Her body stiffened, and he lifted his head to look questioningly at
her.

“We’re going a little fast, don’t you think?” she asked, her voice low and husky. “I’ve always enjoyed my treats better when I ate them slowly . . . and savored them.”

She gave his thigh a promising squeeze and withdrew slightly. Brent nodded in agreement. He drew a deep breath to steady himself. She was right, he needed to slow down. This night promised to be memorable.

He got a suite at the Crown Palace. The anticipation she skillfully built within him indicated she was worth it. A consummate pro, he thought. Brent appreciated prowess in whatever capacity he found it.

She hesitated at the threshold of the suite. Her hands tightened on her purse, and she touched her hair. Nervous, Brent thought. Taken aback by her sudden apparent loss of brazen confidence, he sat his briefcase by the elegant phone stand and picked up the phone, pressing the button for room service. “We’ll have champagne–your best, and fresh strawberries.”

“Are you hungry?” he asked the woman standing awkwardly in the middle of the room.

She shook her head. What was her name anyway, Carol, Karen? He loosened his tie and ordered a steak, and added some giant shrimp in case she changed her mind. The woman still hovered.

“The bathroom is that way, I believe,” he said. She gave him a look of relief and scurried off.

Brent shook his head as he dropped to the sofa and pulled off his shoes. He was tired. The situation made him uneasy. Casual sex had never been his preference, and he’d certainly never needed to pay for it before. He wondered what he’d gotten himself into. The woman’s sudden change of attitude made him wary, as delectable as she was. If she decided to leave, that was fine with him.

Hunger rumbled in his belly and he wished they would hurry up with the steak. The overly fancy hors’ d’oeuvres at the cocktail party didn’t appeal to him. Brent clicked on the TV in the living area to a 24 hour sports channel and leaned back. He heard bath water run. Damn, he couldn’t even remember her name. He thought he’d seen her somewhere, and that bothered him also. He shrugged away his uneasiness; if she was significant, certainly he would have remembered her. The sports channel soon hypnotized him.

A few minutes later, he was savoring the succulent steak when her quiet entrance startled him. He’d momentarily forgotten her presence. Brent stifled a sigh. She was beautiful, but right now he didn’t feel like dealing with her. Brent cut and chewed another bite of steak and watched her pour a glass of champagne to the brim.

She carefully picked a strawberry and sat in the love seat facing him. She sipped her champagne and silently watched him. She would occasionally dart nervous glances toward the phone. He wondered if she wanted to make a call.

At least she could tolerate silence. He gratefully speared a leaf of his Caesar salad. He had finished the salad when he looked at her again, and his breath caught when he saw her licking the strawberry. She gave him a tiny mischievous grin and her little pink tongue curled around the apex
of the strawberry.

She teased that strawberry. She nibbled at it with herperfect white teeth. She licked it with passionate hunger. That strawberry seemed to beg to be devoured.

Brent’s attention riveted to her lips, and his passion returned in a rush. When she finally bit into the strawberry, he caught his bottom lip between his teeth. He wanted her. The feeling was strong and insistent. Brent tightened his muscles and willed himself not to move toward her.

He watched and waited, his breath coming fast, while her confident, forward smile returned. She stood and the white hotel robe fell off her body. His mouth dried, and everything but her faded away. Everything but the beauty revealed before him was forgotten.

She guided him toward the bedroom, and feverishly rubbed her naked body against his. Brent groaned, his clothes suddenly stifling him. Pulling his shirt out of his slacks, he had an impulse to rip it off and let buttons fly.

Brent’s fingers grazed his wallet in his back pocket and he remembered. He extracted two crisp one hundred dollar bills and dropped them on the dresser. Brent had no idea of the going rate. He had never had the need or desire for anonymous sex before, but had he never felt this sort of
desire either, so wild and strong, sweeping reason away.

She stood by the bed in proud, utterly feminine nudity, staring at the money on the dresser. “Is it enough?” he asked, reaching for his wallet again.

She raised her arms to him. It was more than enough invitation. He gathered her in his arms and lifted her to the bed. Her velvety skin, her soft curves invited him to explore. A clean, soft scent clung to her and rose up from her secret recesses.

Brent explored her, delved inside her, tasted her, and soon her soft gasps and breathed sighs matched the rhythm of his skillfully stroking fingers and lips.

He raised his head from her womanhood as she shuddered her completion and watched her. She looked exquisite, delicate and innocent even in her ecstasy. He could wait no longer. Reaching out for the necessary protection, he applied it in one smooth movement. He guided himself to her velvety, furled doorway, and started to enter heaven with a single, smooth stroke.

A barrier stopped him. The woman stiffened and groaned, this time in pain. He couldn’t believe it. Bewilderment and fear were reflected in the woman’s eyes. Brent was aghast. It was incredible.
He didn’t know what to do, so he snorted, rolled off the bed, and stalked into the bathroom.

He turned the shower knob to as cold as he could stand it. The woman was unmistakably, beyond a shadow of a doubt, a virgin. Why? Brent thought. Why would she want to pass herself off as
a prostitute?

Her looks more than deceiving, the woman was obviously mentally unbalanced. Passion had cancelled out his usual cool reason. She wanted something from him other then sex. He saw it in her eyes. Brent frowned under the cold, stinging water, and felt a momentary dread. He shook
the feeling off and stepped out of the shower.

Brent took his time toweling himself off. He resolutely tied the belt around the hotel robe. He really didn’t want to deal with this. He knew in the back of his mind that once he saw her again–despite her virginity, despite his doubts, uneasiness and his usual clear headed logic-he would still want her. He wanted her now. When Brent returned to the hotel bedroom, he was almost relieved to find that she was gone.

Chapter two

The room spun around momentarily as Kara stepped out of the shower, and she leaned against the bathroom door frame, dizzy and dehydrated. The shower had been hot as she could stand it, but she still didn’t feel clean.

Trudging to the kitchen shedding droplets of water from her naked skin, Kara shivered. She left the kitchen lights off, and opened the refrigerator door. The chill, dank air from the refrigerator matched her mood. Goosebumps rose on her skin, as she lifted the gallon jug of icy spring water and gulped it until she gasped and sputtered.

Starting to put the jug back in the refrigerator, Kara reconsidered. Carrying it back into her bedroom, she curled up, still wet, into her clean, crisp cotton sheets. Shame replaced her initial numbness. She couldn’t believe what she had done. She’d tossed away her entire upbringing and the beliefs she once held so dear. She’s thrown herself at Brent Stevens and offered up what she once believed was her most precious possession, her virginity.

It simply hadn’t been necessary to go as far as she did. She would have gotten what she needed regardless. There was no reason to allow him to bury his face in her most secret . . . shamed heat and remembered passion burn over her body.

She’d denied her feelings for so long. She denied the part of herself that craved, wanted and needed the touch of a man. At the cocktail party, when she felt his desire–her own need became a roller-coaster sweeping her carefully laid plans before its mad run. She couldn’t stop. She was out of control. The golden boy Brent Stevens, wanted her–boring, unattractive, not-too-bright Kara Smith. And, God, how she wanted him. And someone within her emerged, someone new; someone brazen, beautiful and daring.

That person snatched Brent up as if he’d belonged to her. He belonged to that other Kara, if only for a moment, and it tore her up inside. He would never, ever be hers again. Soon, Brent Stevens would hate her. The thought hurt her already. But the plan was in motion and she would endure the pain. Enduring pain was something she was getting good at lately.

Memory carried her back to the evening she’d seen Congressman Sidney Eastman on a popular talk show. She watched him closely to see if any reflection of herself was echoed in his light, almost-white skin, his blue eyes and his distinguished gray hair. His answers to the moderator’s questions were glib and non-informative. He looked relaxed and confident, tossing off easy one-liners. All the buried bitterness within Kara’s heart welled up.

Congressman Eastman was her father, and it was all his fault. Her doubts and loneliness, even her mother’s death–became all wound up in Kara’s mind in a maelstrom of bitterness and blame, underlaid with a sort of longing. And for once, Kara hadn’t denied her feelings. A plan had come to her, unformed and unfinished. Get close to the Congressman and punish him for what he’d done to mother, punish him for what he’d done to her. Find out what he needed and wanted. Find out his desires and refuse them, deny him, destroy him. Let him find out how it feels to have desire denied. Let him feel what her mother felt. Let him feel the agony she felt now.

After her mother had died, she collected the substantial insurance benefit and put the house on the market. It sold quickly. She left the small town of Tyrone, GA, and the even smaller religious sect in which she had been raised, for Washington DC.

Kara applied for a job in the Congressman’s office. Not for a moment did she ever doubt she would be hired. The office manager offered a position as a file clerk.

Kara learned her job, did her work, and observed the Congressman’s dynamic office. Nobody noticed her, a quiet presence in her customary oversized navy suit and hair pulled back in a bun. She never saw the Congressman.

Brent Steven was Congressman Eastman’s AA. The administrative assistant, the Congressman’s right hand and the head, heart and soul of the office. Kara watched him, his competent way, his loose, easy, stride. His crooked grin and husky voice had been her undoing. Brent Stevens was attractive, charming and confident; he was everything she wasn’t. He was everything she wanted and everything she wanted to be.

Brent Stevens never really noticed her. Kara was just another pair of hands to file papers to him, a minute cog in the machinery that ensured the smooth running of his office. Always polite and courteous, his eyes ever focused on the next problem or goal.

Her problem was that she noticed him all too much. Kara noticed his smooth cafe au lait skin, the laugh lines around his mouth, and his unexpected grin. She noticed his light brown, almost amber eyes that changed with his moods, the shadow on his clean-shaven face that darkened faintly as the day wore on.

Kara frowned at the realization that after months of planning and preparation, she’d allowed her emotions, no–her hormones, to run away with her. Brent Stevens was nothing but a stepping stone. A stone to bring her closer to her father. A step closer to her father’s downfall.
Kara glanced at the papers scattered across her dresser. She had gotten what she wanted, and she wouldn’t give up. Was it worth it? Was she crazy? Shouldn’t she just get on with her life and let this obsession go? Kara shook away the cobwebs of doubts. It may cost her now, and would surely cost her more in the future. It was worth any and all cost. She would know her father and make him pay. Sleep claimed Kara, and her last thought was when she woke, she would finally confront Brent Stevens and make him give her what she wanted.