The Kill Shot Read Free

stupid thing to say. I knew it the second the words were out of my mouth. Barrett shook his head and got ready to tell me so. Before he could, I caught his face between my palms. I kissed him hard enough to give him something else to think about.
    When we weren’t vertical anymore, the intercom linked to my front door began to buzz like an angry bee.
    It kept on buzzing.
    “Maybe they’ll go away,” Barrett murmured against my throat.
    But the intercom complained again. It sounded in pattern. Bursts of sound in sets of six: short-short-long, short-short-long.
    “
They
aren’t going anywhere,” I grumbled. “
They
are my father.”
    Like a kid caught necking on the couch, Barrett sat bolt upright. If my father had been anybody else, I might have laughed. Instead, I struggled out of the couch cushions, twitched my dress’s silk taffeta into place, and sprinted downstairs.
    By the time I made it to the front door, the buzzer had complained three more times. I checked the closed-circuit monitor pointed at my doorstep, more to kill time than verify the identity of my visitor. I knew who it was, all right. I just wished Barrett’s kisses hadn’t left my mouth red and swollen. My father would notice in a heartbeat—and he wouldn’t hesitate to comment on it.
    I opened the door to my father, still stately in his tuxedo despite the late hour. Roger stood at his shoulder. Behind them both, my father’s long, black, chauffeur-driven Town Car gleamed at the stone curb.
    “Sir,” I said, “I didn’t expect—”
    My father swept past me and into my house.
    Normally when my father visits, he wouldn’t be caught dead beyond my first-floor office. Tonight, though, he didn’t even spare a glance for the brocade fireside chairs fronting my antique desk or the Sheraton sideboard loaded with crystal decanters of scotch and vodka. Without a word, the Senator turned to the sweeping staircase that led to the floors above.
    And he began to climb.
    Roger followed him. I bounded up the stairs behind them both, skidded to a halt on the top step. The half-empty bottle of champagne stood like a sentry on my coffee table. The forgotten box of chocolates remained beside it. Barrett’s tuxedo jacket lay crumpled in the deep leather chair where I’d tossed it half an hour ago.
    My father spotted all these things and more.
    Barrett himself flanked my cold fireplace, his broad back to us. His hands were clasped behind him as he perused the titles on my built-in bookcases. Not that he’d shown a burning passion for the classics earlier in the evening.
    “I see I’m interrupting,” my father said.
    At the sound of his voice, Barrett turned. His face was blank, a cop’s face. Ready for anything. Like an introduction to one of the most powerful men in Washington. Or to an opinionated father.
    I cleared my throat. “Sir, may I present Lieutenant Colonel Adam Barrett, United States Army?”
    My father didn’t shake the hand Barrett offered, but he did speak to him. “I’m afraid I’m putting an end to your evening, soldier. Unfortunately, it can’t be helped. Good night.”
    Barrett didn’t move. He didn’t even blink. He opened his mouth to reply to my father—but I couldn’t let him do it.
    “Thank you,” I interposed, “for the chocolates.”
    Barrett’s stony face turned my way.
    I made sure he saw dismissal on mine.
    “I’ll call you,” he promised and, right in front of my father, he touched a hand to my waist, pressed a kiss to my cheek.
    I didn’t realize I was holding my breath until he disappeared down the staircase.
    “How long,” my father said, “has
that
been going on?”
    I glanced at Roger, but got no help in coming up with an answer. He stood at the head of the stairs, squinting down the flight and ensuring Barrett indeed left my house.
    “Not long.” My voice sounded weak and childish to my own ears. I hated it.
    “Then it’s not serious,” my father decided.
    I didn’t reply. His opinion