A few days passed and I hadn't heard anything more from Drake Morgan. I had to admit I was a bit upset. I thought he'd at least make contact with me, text me, but nothing. Right about then I was starting to regret I'd turned down his request to come in, or go on a date.

Then, I mentally knocked myself in the head. What a silly woman I was… He was no good for me. I'd get into some kind of trouble if I let myself become involved with him. My father would hear about it somehow and I'd have one more big strike against me in his mind.

The following Thursday, I was sitting in my father's apartment, wearing a new cocktail dress he insisted buying for me because this was his first campaign fundraising dinner and he wanted me and Heath to be in attendance. I wore something his campaign stylist brought in for me, chosen from a selection of a dozen expensive dresses, shoes, and jewelry. We had to look perfect as a family. My father's new wife, Elaine, who was only a decade older than me, Heath's wife, Christie, and I made our choices. After the dresses were altered to fit us to perfection, I went to my father's apartment to be 'styled' by the makeup artist and hair stylist he hired to make sure we looked perfect. I wore a silky black dress with a plunging neckline and understated jewelry, my hair down.

She actually spray-painted makeup and eye shadow on my face. I couldn’t believe it. My father whistled when he saw me, making me blush.

The dinner was catered, of course, and there was a bustle in the apartment as the servers and chef busied themselves setting the table and preparing the food. There was even a bar set up in the large dining room, fresh flower arrangements everywhere and hot appetizers – even Russian caviar flown in from St. Petersburg and fresh Alaskan salmon. An ice sculpture…

Father spared no expense for the event.

Twenty of 'his people' as he called them would be in attendance to discuss his candidacy. They would all be expected to make big donations. They would retire to the study after dinner and talk strategy.

I was given the itinerary. I would stand around with him and Elaine, with Heath and Christie, and have a drink. We'd mix and mingle before dinner. We'd have our meal. Then, the serious business would happen and I'd be excused. My only consolation was that Nigel would be in attendance.

Thank God.

I grew up in this old apartment and it held a lot of memories.  It had been in my father's family for several generations – since the turn of the 20th century. One day, it would be Heath's. But tonight, it was the setting for my father's campaign event. All I really wanted to do was go home and work on my article on the IPCC's next round of climate talks, but this was family business.

Judge McDermott requested your attendance. You didn't turn Judge McDermott down.

The invitations went out two weeks earlier, and cocktails were set to start at 6:30 with dinner at 7:30. It was now 6:05 and I sat in the living room and checked my iPhone for messages from Dawn. I wanted to invite her but father said no, it was just family and his people tonight.

Someone arrived early and I wondered who it was? It was so not appropriate for guests to arrive before the allotted time. Must be a buffoon who was rich but not used to the usual protocol for these kinds of events.

The event planner answered the door and in walked Dr. Drake Morgan looking like a hundred-million-odd bucks.

What?

I froze. Was he invited? I saw the guest list and never saw his name. Maybe he was just popping in? He did know my father…

He looked… devastating. While the organizer took his coat, I saw he was wearing a very expensive black suit with a deep royal blue shirt and black tie. His hair was sexy, black and shiny and just a bit wild from the wind outside, falling just below his collar in the back, and there was a fashionably-stylish amount of whiskers on his face. He scanned the entryway and then he saw me sitting in the living area in front of the fireplace. A surge of adrenaline went through me when our eyes met. He slipped his hands into his pockets and smiled, that quirk of a half-smile, his eyes twinkling.

Crap…

I wanted to go to my old bedroom and hide the way I used to when I was a kid, but I was almost twenty-five. I had to stay there and entertain our guests.

Drake just stared at me, as if he was waiting for me to invite him in. I sighed, then I went to him, my hands held behind my back because I just knew that he'd want to kiss my hand the way he had before.

"Doctor Morgan," I said, my voice a bit shaky.

"Ms. Bennet," he said softly, low enough so that no one could overhear. "You look… breathtaking."

I made a face at that, hiding my smile behind a hand. The dress I wore was very feminine. Black velvet with a square neckline that happened to show off my cleavage a bit too much for my tastes but the stylist assured me it was all the fashion.

Of course, Drake extended his hand and it was just then that my father breezed into the entryway.

"Oh, Drake, there you are."

I had to shake Drake's hand. My father would expect it. I held out my hand and Drake took it and he kissed my knuckles briefly, his eyes never leaving mine. I knew that if my father hadn't been there, he wouldn’t have let go. I just knew. He was that kind of man – the kind who didn't let you forget that he was male and you were female.

Drake turned to my father. "Judge McDermott," he said, extending his hand. "Thanks once again for inviting me tonight."

My dad shook his hand, his other hand on Drake's shoulder. That meant my father really really liked Drake. He only did that with his closest friends or people he wanted to be.

"Drake, please, I insist you call me Ethan," he said in his gravelly voice that made him sound like George C. Scott in Patton. "I see you've already spoken to Katherine. Come in and make yourself comfortable." My father turned to me. "I invited Drake here a bit earlier than our other guests so you could give him the tour and show him your photographs from Africa." He turned to Drake. "They're really good and intimate, telling the story of her trip. You want to understand what makes my daughter tick? You see those photos. Very artistic. She has real talent. I have to take a call or I'd join you myself."

I was struck speechless. My father purposely invited Drake early so I could spend time with him – alone?

"Of course," I said, my voice barely above a whisper.

"Good, good. The others should start arriving in a while. Get Drake a drink, dear. Be a good hostess for me, will you? The bartender had to go get more wine and Elaine is still busy getting ready. Heath isn't here yet."

He left us, a huge smile on his face.

Drake stood there and grinned at me. His blue eyes were made even deeper blue by the shirt he wore. His hands were clasped behind his back.

"Would you like a drink?" I said, dutifully. I pointed to the bar in the dining room.

"Know how to make a vodka martini?" he said.

I went to the bar and found a martini glass and a shaker, some vodka and vermouth. I put in some ice, took out a bottle of Stolichnaya Vodka and poured a couple of ounces.  I added the merest splash of vermouth and shook. Then I strained the mix into the martini glass.

"Lime or olive?" I asked, pointing to the small tray of lime zest and olives.

"Lime would be nice."

I put a twist of lime zest into the glass.

"How's that?"

"Perfect." He took the glass and had a sip, all the while staring at me over the rim. He sighed with pleasure, smacking his lips, and then pointed to me. "Where'd you learn to mix a martini?"

"I was a cocktail waitress for a few years during my undergrad. I trained as a bartender."

"That's right," he said. "Dave said you're paying your own way using scholarships and working part-time." He shook his head. "Stubborn girl. You're not having anything?"

"No," I said. "I tend to get a bit argumentative when I drink. Soda and lime for me."

He chuckled softly at that. "I like argumentative."

"I thought you were a Dom."

"I am, but that doesn’t mean I like dumb women," he said. "So you get a bit loose-lipped when you drink? That tells me that you usually hold your true opinion close to the vest and only let out your honest thoughts and emotions when under the influence of some kind of mind-altering substance. Alcohol. Serotonin. Dopamine…" he said, his voice trailing off. "I'll keep that in mind in the future."

I frowned and pretended to ignore his comment, fixing myself a glass of soda with a squeeze of lime in it. Finally, I turned to him, avoiding his eyes, which I knew would be filled with amusement at my predicament.

"How come you're here? You weren't on my father's guest list."

"I'm one of your fathers biggest supporters. We met in the health club the other day and I offered my support for his candidacy for the House. He said he wanted to repay me after I looked after your injuries at the fundraiser. When I heard you were going to be in attendance tonight, I was only too happy to accept."

"If you think this changes things, you're wrong."

"Changes what, Ms. Bennet?"

I glanced at him. Of course, he was smirking.

"The whole business with the research agreement."

"That's entirely up to you. I'm still all yours, if you want me."

A thrill ran through me at that. What a master manipulator. He had to know how that affected me – offering himself to me as if he were mine to just take. I said nothing for a moment and we each took a big sip of our drinks.

"Kate, I'm so glad your father invited me. I've wanted to meet you ever since I met your father and he started talking about you, but he never brought you anywhere in public. I think I was a bit infatuated with you just from his description of you."

I frowned, not knowing what to say.

"You took photographs while you were in Africa?" he said, his voice soft, sexy. "I'd love to see them. See into that mind of yours and what makes you tick."

Everything he said took on a dual meaning. Was it me or was he really trying to be suggestive?

I took in a breath. It had been a while since I saw them myself and I didn't look forward to it. They were painful.

"I don't know what my father meant by that – what makes me tick. They're just photos." I started off down the hallway. "They're in the study."

My body was stiff, my cheeks already hot. I didn't want to have to engage him so I said nothing as I led him through the hallways to the study in the south corner of the suite. One entire wall in my father's study was devoted to my photos from Africa.

Drake closed the door behind us and took my arm, turning me around gently to face him. I stared at his hand on my arm and he finally let go.

"I'm sorry if you're unhappy that I'm here," he said and stepped closer to me. Too close. I took a step backwards, avoiding his eyes. "Your father wanted me to come early so that you and I could get to know each other. I'm glad he did."

"Why would he want us to get to know each other?"

"I guess because I said I thought you were a lovely young woman and wanted to get to know you better."

My cheeks heated at that. "I thought you weren't the kind of man someone like me should get involved with."

"You won't let me live that down, will you?"

"It's just that it would have been nice if I knew he invited you beforehand."

He stepped closer again, and this time, he pinned me against the huge mahogany desk. I half leaned half sat on the edge, keeping my glass of soda between us as if it was a shield, my eyes riveted to it.

"Would you have found some excuse not to attend?"

I said nothing, turning my face away from his too intense gaze. Of course I would have. I would have developed a nasty runny nose and cough and bowed out.

"I would have liked the choice," I said. "But of course, my father always has to have things his way."

"He's quite a dominant man himself."

I looked up at him, finally, but avoided his eyes. He smiled just a bit.

"I can't seem to escape them," I said, looking away.

"Maybe that's because you don't want to."

That made my back stiffen.

"I left home to get away from him. Listen," I said, pointing a finger at him, focusing on a button on his suit jacket instead of his eyes. "I can't have anything to do with you, do you understand? I'm writing my research paper about climate change so unless you know something about that, you and I have nothing to talk about."

He clucked his tongue. "You're trying too hard, Kate," he said, taking my finger in his hand and turning it away as if it was a weapon. Then, he took my hand and opened it, stroking my palm. "Me thinks the lady doth protest too much and that you do, in fact, want to have something to do with me."

I pulled my hand out of his and just stared at his chin so I could avoid his eyes, heat rising to my cheeks – yet again. How he made me blush! I was embarrassed by what he thought of me, knowing he was my father's friend.

"I don't like being around you," I said, my voice low.

"I think you do," he said, his voice firm, confident. "You like me. You don’t like the fact that you like me. You don't want to like me but you can't help it."

"I don’t believe you," I said, my jaw actually dropping that he had the audacity to say that. "You're," I said, fighting to control my emotions. "You're awfully certain of yourself."

I tried to sidle by him, but of course he took my arm once more.

"Yes," he said, his face just a few inches from mine, his expression intense. "I know what I want."

"Well, so do I. And it's not you."

What a liar…

I pulled my arm out of his hand and turned to the door, and just then, my father entered. He saw me and smiled.

"There you two are." He rubbed his hands together. "Has she shown you her photographs of Africa yet?"

Drake cleared his throat. "No, she hasn't."

"Come on, Kate. Show Drake your photos. I know he's interested. He's been there many times with Doctors Without Borders. You two have a lot in common." He took my hand and then he laid a hand on Drake's shoulder, pulling us both towards my wall of fame.

Ohhh. It's then I got it.

Crap.

My dad was matchmaking…

 

He pushed the two of us over in front of a wall filled with my pictures from Africa.

Then Peter entered the room. "Judge? There's a call for you."

My father raised his eyebrows. "Duty calls. I have to take that, but you two stay here. Kate, show him your photographs. I'll be back when my call is finished."

He left us alone. Drake turned to face me but I refused to look at him. I stood and gazed at the wall, my hands clasped around my glass in front of me.

"You're not really going to make me tell you about my trip to Africa are you?"

"I most certainly am," Drake said, his voice soft. "I'm truly interested. I've been to Africa many times. Besides, I want to see into you, Kate. Right inside. Please, tell me." He waved at the wall and watched me expectantly.

"Nothing's going to happen between us," I said. "The meeting was a mistake so you might as well forget it. There's no reason for you to see 'right inside' me. We're opposites. You vote Republican. I'm a Democrat."

"None of that matters, Kate, when we fuck. All that matters is that we both need what each other has to offer."

I inhaled sharply, shocked at how blunt he was being. "We're not going to… fuck," I said, forcing the words out.

"Whatever you say," he said, smiling. "I still want you to tell me about these photos. Your father is really proud."

I turned away and frowned. He had huge nerve. Of course, he was a Dominant. He was used to getting his way.  I didn't want to talk about the photographs.

"There are a lot of painful memories in them."

"Just the happy ones, then."

I took in a deep breath and pointed to a large picture of Nigel and me in the center. Drake leaned closer.

"That's us, the day we arrived in Niger. Our driver took it. Nigel had been there before but I had no idea what to expect and I was so excited."

Drake peered at the picture. Nigel was dressed in khakis, wearing an outback hat with tiny corks dangling from strings on the brim. He grinned at the camera. I stood beside him, my face beaming. I had a huge hat on with a floppy brim and dark sunglasses. We stood on a dirt road and the sun blazed in a heartless sky.

I told him about several others – bright-faced children smiling up at the camera. Aid workers in UN uniforms, stacking sacks of food, others pouring milk into cups or handing out packets of food and bottles of water. Tents and make-shift shacks made out of cardboard and corrugated metal, held together by rope.

I stopped talking when we came to a series of more graphic photos. Inside a medical tent were several babies being weighed. Some of them looked healthy, others were emaciated, their eyes huge in tiny faces. Women waved papers over their babies to keep the flies away. Tiny corpses wrapped up in dirty blankets.

A photo of the open desert, the hard dirt and the sky almost the same beige color, a few bits of scrub brush dotted across the landscape. In the distance, Chinua and Alika and their baby Maya alone against the stark emptiness. Just seeing it brought my emotions to the surface, my throat constricting.

"What's this one?" Drake asked, pointing to it.

I covered my mouth and didn't look at him.

"I can't." I shook my head.

He tried to turn my face towards his but I fought him, not wanting him to see the tears that stung the corners of my eyes. I turned my body away. He touched my arm softly, and then let his hand drop and just that small show of understanding warmed me to him a bit – against my better judgment.

Before we got a chance to speak more about the photos, in walked Nigel and our little bit of private time was over. Nigel strode right over to us and I smiled with relief. I glanced quickly at Drake and put my drink down for the hug that I knew was coming.

"Kate, my dear." Nigel bent down to me. "Your father let slip that Dr. Morgan was coming a bit early, and so I thought I'd be chivalrous and offer my services…"

We hugged and he kissed me on both cheeks. I was so glad to see him. He rescued me, and I clung to him as if he were a life preserver.

"Can I get you a drink?" I asked.

"Please." Nigel smiled at Drake but by his sour expression, it was clear he wasn't pleased Drake was here. "My usual."

I nodded and left the two men standing in front of the wall of photographs.

When I returned with a glass of red wine for Nigel, the two men were staring each other down as if in some disagreement. I smiled up at Nigel and then turned to Drake without meeting his eyes.

"How is your drink, Dr. Morgan?"

"Please, call me Drake." He bent down a bit, trying to catch my eye, smiling. "Considering. And it's still fine, thank you."

I caught Nigel giving Drake the stink eye over my head.

What the hell was that about?

 

Guests arrived over the next half hour and I watched Drake meet and shake hands with two-dozen people. All the while, I tried to stay close to Nigel, but Drake was determined to prevent Nigel from acting as my wingman, stepping beside me whenever I was alone. Then Nigel would come to the rescue and get between us, try to take me over. It was almost comical to watch.

A half-hour in, we stood in the living room when my father pulled Nigel and me back into the study, waving several of the people he'd been speaking with to follow, including Drake.

"Kate has some wonderful photographs from her trip to Africa. Come dear," he said to me, "and talk about your trip."

I frowned, not wanting the limelight he was forcing me into. Once inside the room, the three of us stood in front of the wall of photographs, each one mounted and arranged in several rows.

"Go ahead, dear," my father said to me, ushering me to his side. "Tell us about your trip. Start here, with this one."

I recounted arriving in Africa, of the airport and the questionable plane we took to Niger. I spoke about the UN High Commission for Refugees aid agency I worked for, my term lasting a month and how we distributed supplies and formula to mothers and babies in the camps. I described all the photos with the exception of the one that I couldn't talk about – the empty desert with the tiny figures in the distance.

"Tell them about Alika and Chinua," my father said, touching my back as if to encourage me. He turned to the guests gathered around. "A couple and their baby that Kate and Nigel rescued from the desert."

He turned back expectantly. I tried to force a smile but it pained me to even think of them. Finally, I took in a deep breath, but my voice betrayed my reluctance.

I told the small group about my first trip to the camp, when Nigel and I made our way out to Mangaize, taking the main road there. It was the height of the exodus from the war zone and there were thousands on the road, walking to the camps to escape the bloodshed. We were travelling in a truck, bringing in some supplies.

I shook my head as I told the story. "Each time a vehicle passed, they had to walk down and then walk back up the ditches and they were exhausted, having walked for hours or days."

I turned to Nigel, who nodded as if in encouragement. 

He took up the narrative. "Kate finally said, enough is enough. Let's be the one to go in the ditch, and so we did. We drove off the main road and took to the open desert, bypassing the road and the thousands of refugees. We were driving in the middle of nowhere and off in the distance, the driver saw some people and so we went to them, to see if they needed help. They were a young couple with a newborn. They'd been walking for days, and were quite lost, going in the wrong direction. If we hadn't found them…" Nigel turned to me.

I picked up the story, emotions already building. "Chinua, the husband, had given his wife all his food and was..." I stopped and covered my mouth with a hand, shaking my head. Even two years later, the emotions were so close to the surface.

Nigel touched my shoulder then turned to the others, taking over.

"They'd been walking for several days and had run out of food and water. He was so weak, he had to crawl."

I nodded. "He crawled like a crab because his knees were bloody," I said, my voice barely audible. "Alika was carrying her baby. They hadn't named him yet because they weren't even sure if he would live. I thought he was a newborn because he was so small, but he was three months old and starving. Her breasts," I said, my voice a whisper. "She had no milk left. They were like deflated balloons."

Then, I couldn't go on and covered my mouth, forcing a smile, unable to continue. Nigel finished the story for me.

"We put them in the back of the truck and took them to the camp. Once Chinua knew they were safe, and that they had food and water, he up and died despite everything they did for him." Nigel turned to me and squeezed my shoulder. "We were able to save Alika and her baby Maya, though. They got I.V.s and food and the last time we checked, both were doing well."

A murmur went through the people listening, and I smiled, but I felt anything but pleased to be telling the story. I saw the camps only briefly, staying for only a few weeks, but it was enough. At times, they were terrible places of death, especially when the famine was raging and dozens, if not hundreds, died each day.

I wrote objective, journalistic pieces that described in stark language the horror of the wars and human-induced famine. What my pieces didn't reveal was the human behind them, horrified by what I saw, so much so that I had a breakdown.

My father – former Marine – smiled like a proud parent, unaware that I was on the verge of tears. That was how he'd been all my life, blind to my true emotions like an idiot.

"Excuse me," I said and squeezed Nigel's arm. I had to leave the group, who were now speaking amongst themselves and examining photos. I went down the hall to my old bedroom and sat on the bed, trying to get a hold of myself.

Then, the door opened.

Drake.

I glanced away, my cheeks heating – partly in anger that he followed me, partly in embarrassment that he'd see my tears.

"I'd like to be alone," I said.

"Being alone is the last thing you need right now." He sat beside me on the bed, close enough that his thigh pressed against mine, his shoulder against mine. Resting his elbows on his knees, he turned to look at me. "I'm sorry. Your father doesn't seem to understand how upset Africa still makes you."

I frowned. Drake understood.

"He always sees everything, every event, every word, for its strategic purpose. How it can aggrandize him and our family – or hurt us. He doesn’t really pay attention to people. What he said about those photographs being key to what makes me tick? He thinks it means I'm some great humanitarian – some angel of mercy – but really, I was just a student looking for a topic for my honors thesis. I had no idea what I got myself into."

"You didn't like Africa?"

I said nothing for a moment, my arms wrapped around myself.

"I hated it – the corruption. It was so hard. Painful. As soon as I could, I changed my topic. I couldn't do it. I'm not strong enough, but he can't see that because it would mean his daughter isn't up to snuff."

"You saw the worst of the worst." He turned to me, trying to catch my eye. "Where the people have resources, they're full of hope. I see it in the hospitals. The young doctors and nurses – they've been trained in America and they want to raise their countries out of poverty."

He pressed his shoulder against mine. I didn't say anything but I didn't move away either. It was kind of sweet what he did, trying to comfort me.

"I admire you for going. You didn't have to so that does say something about you, what makes you 'tick'."

"You'd be wrong to think that." My voice was bitter. "My father has no idea what makes me 'tick'. He practically chose my thesis topic and arranged everything. I wanted to do something on the fine arts, but no. It had to be political."

Drake frowned. "Your father chose your honors thesis topic?"

"You're surprised?" I turned away. "You obviously don't know my father."

"What did you want to do?"

I didn't say anything for a moment. Finally, I sighed. "What did I want to do? I wanted to do a series on young artists in Manhattan, and how they're using social media and new technology in their art, but that was too 'airy-fairy' for him, as he put it. He only sees art for its value as an investment, not for its social or cultural value. I tried to explain but he just dismissed me." I frowned, my emotions so close to the surface. "I was too much of a chicken to fight him and do what I really wanted."

"I'm sorry." He sounded as if he actually meant it. "University should be a time when you explore who you are and what excites you. It shouldn't be a time to please your parents."

I turned and looked at him, and it was one of the few times our eyes met – really met. I actually looked into his eyes, like it was for the first time, and it surprised me how much it affected me. I noticed once more how beautiful his eyes were – how blue, his eyelashes long and dark. In that moment, something passed between us. Attraction. I felt it in my belly, in my groin. In a moment of irrationality, I wanted him to lean over and kiss me, but he just smiled. Just a brief smile.

Then he glanced away.

The door opened and my father popped his head in.

"Oh, here you are," he said and smiled. "I thought you two might have a lot in common. Sorry to interrupt, but my dear wife has announced that dinner is served."