“Morning, Cara.” Her boss, Lynn, fell into step with her.
Cara unbuttoned her coat and unwrapped her plaid scarf from around her neck as they walked. “Did you get a chance to talk to the president?”
Lynn shook her head, shifting a file folder to her opposite hand. “The Secret Service was with him for an hour. Then Barry went in for a while. And after that, he went back to the residence.”
“Is it true?”
One of the communications assistants appeared to take Cara’s scarf and purse. Cara shrugged out of her coat and added it to the pile in the woman’s arms.
“We don’t know,” said Lynn, pushing open her office door.
Cara followed her inside. “Barry didn’t ask him?”
Chief of Staff Barry Westmore knew the president better than anyone.
As press secretary, Lynn’s office was the largest in the communications section. It housed a wide oak desk, a long credenza, a cream-colored couch and three television screens mounted along one wall playing news shows from three different continents. In English, German and Russian, reporters were speculating on the president’s personal life.
Lynn plopped down in her high-backed leather chair, twisting her large, topaz ring around and around the finger of her right hand. Lights from the garden broke the darkness outside the window before her. “Even if it’s true, the president wasn’t aware that he had a daughter.”
“That’s good.” From a communications perspective, deniability was key in this situation.
Lynn didn’t look as relieved as Cara felt. “There’s more than one possible woman.”
Cara’s eyebrows shot up.
“Barry and I did the math,” said Lynn. “Accounting for possible variations in gestation period. Since the baby might have been premature, there are three possible mothers.”
“Three?” Despite the gravity of the situation, Cara found herself fighting a smile. “Go, Mr. President.”
Lynn frowned at her impertinence. “It was senior year in high school. The man was a football star.”
“Sorry,” Cara quickly put in, lowering herself into one of the guest chairs opposite the desk.
Her boss waved away the apology. “He’s refusing to give us the names.”
“He has to give us the names.”
“First, he wants to know if Ariella is his daughter. If and only if she is his daughter, then we can look at the ex-girlfriends.”
“The press will find them first,” Cara warned, her mind flitting to Max. The networks and newspapers would pull out all the stops to find Ariella’s mother. They wouldn’t wait on a DNA test. This was the story of the century.
“Yes, they will,” Lynn agreed. “But the president is unwilling to ruin innocent lives.”
In Cara’s opinion, the women’s lives were already ruined. Anyone who’d had the misfortune to sleep with President Morrow in high school would be fair game. It wouldn’t even matter whether the lovemaking squared up with Ariella’s birth date; they’d still be hunted down and hounded with questions.
Lynn twisted her ring again. “It’s always that thing that you don’t see coming. And it’s always sex. Next time, remind me to back a nerdy candidate. Maybe president of the chess club or something.”
“These days, nerds are hot,” Cara pointed out.
“That’s because we expect them to grow up rich.”
“That’s why I hang out at the local internet café looking for dates.”
Lynn grinned, putting a little life into her exhausted expression. “I should have married a nerd in high school.”
“Instead of a smoking-hot navy captain?”
Lynn gave a self-conscious shrug, but her eyes took on a secretive glow. “It was spring break. And he rocked those dress whites.”