Excerpt of A Conflict of Interest by Barbara Dunlop

Inauguration night in Washington DC, and Cara Cranshaw had to choose between her President and her lover. One strode triumphantly though the arches of the Worthington Hotel ballroom to the uplifting strains of Hail to the Chief and the cheers of eight–hundred well–wishers. The other stared boldly at her from across the ballroom, a shock of unruly, dark hair curling across his forehead, his bowtie slightly askew, and his eyes telegraphing the message that he wanted her naked.

For the moment, it was investigative reporter Max Gray who held her attention. Despite her resolve to turn the page on their relationship, she couldn't tear her gaze from his, nor could she stop her hand from reflexively moving to her abdomen. But Max was off limits now that Ted Morrow had been sworn in as President.

"Ladies and gentlemen," cried the Master of Ceremonies above the music and enthusiastic clapping that was spreading like a wave across the hall. "The President of the United States." His voice rang from the microphone on stage at the opposite end of the massive, high–ceilinged room.

The cheers grew to a roar. The band's volume increased. And the crowd shifted, obviously separating to form a pathway in front of President Morrow. Cara automatically moved with them, but she couldn't tear her gaze from Max. He took a few steps backward on the other side of the divide.

She schooled her features, struggling to transmit her resolve. She couldn't let him see the confusion and alarm she'd been feeling since her doctors visit this afternoon. Resolve, she ruthlessly reminded herself, not hesitation and definitely not fear.

"He's running late." Sandy Haniford's shout sounded shrill in Cara's ear.

Sandy was a junior staffer in the White House Press Office where Cara worked as a public relations specialist. While Cara was moving from ball to ball tonight with the President's entourage, Sandy was stationed here as liaison at the American News Service event.

"Only by a few minutes," Cara shouted back, her gaze still holding on Max.

Resolve, she repeated to herself. The unexpected pregnancy might have tipped her world on its axis, but it didn't change her job tonight. And it didn't alter her responsibility to the President.

"I was hoping the President would get here a little early," Sandy continued, her voice still raised. "We have a last minute addition to the speaker lineup."

Cara twisted her head, Sandy's words instantly breaking Max's psychological hold on her. "Say again?"

"Another speaker."

"You can't do that."

"It's done," said Sandy.

"Well, undo it."

The speakers, especially those at the events less than friendly to the President, had been vetted weeks in advance. American News Service was no friend of President Morrow, but their ball was a tradition, so he'd had no choice but to show up.

It was a tightly scripted appearance, with only thirty minutes in the Worthington Ballroom. He arrived at ten–forty–five, well ten–fifty–two as it turned out, then he left at eleven–fifteen. The Military Inaugural Ball was next on the schedule, and the President had made it clear he wanted to be on time to greet the troops.

"What do you want me to do?" asked Sandy. "Should I tackle the guy when he steps up to the microphone?" Sarcasm came through her raised voice.

"You should have solved it before it came to that." Cara lifted her phone to contact her boss, White House Press Secretary Lynn Larson.

"Don't you think I tried?"

"Obviously not hard enough. How could you give permission to a new speaker?"

"They didn't ask," Sandy pointed out with a frown. "Graham Boyle himself put Mitch Davis on the agenda for a toast. Two minutes, they say, tops."

Mitch Davis was a star reporter for ANS. Graham Boyle might be the billionaire owner of the network, and the sponsor of this ball, but even he didn't get to dictate to the President.

Cara couldn't help an errant glance at Max. As the most popular investigative reporter at rival National Cable News, her was a mover and shaker himself. He might have some insight into what was up. But Cara couldn't ask him about this or anything else to do with her job, not now and not ever again.

Cara pressed a speed dial button for her boss.

It rang but then went to voicemail.

She hung up and tried again.

She could see that the President had arrived at the head table, in front of and below the stage. He was accepting the congratulations of the smart–dressed guests. The men wore Savile Row tuxedos, while the woman were draped in designers fabrics that shimmered under the refracted light of several dozen, crystal chandeliers.

The MC, popular ANS talk show host David Batten returned to the microphone. He offered a brief but hearty welcome and congratulations to the President before handing the microphone over to Graham Boyle. According to the schedule, Graham had three minutes to speak. Then the President would have one dance with the female Chair of a local hospital charity and a second with Shelley Michaels, another popular ANS celebrity. That was to be followed by seven minutes at his table with ANS Board members, before taking his leave.

Cara gave up on her cell phone and starting making her way toward the stage. There was a staircase at either end, nothing up the middle. So she knew she had a fifty–fifty chance of stopping Mitch Davis before he made it to the microphone. Too bad she wasn't a little larger, a little brawnier, maybe a little more male.

Once again, her thoughts turned to Max. The man dodged bullets in war–torn cities, scaled mountains to reach rebel camps, and fought his way through crocodiles and hippos for stories on the struggles of indigenous people. If Max Gray didn't want a person up on stage, that person was not getting up on stage. Too bad Cara would have to rely on her wits.

Knowing it was a fifty–fifty chance, she chose the stairs at stage right, wending her way through the packed crowd.

Graham Boyle was waxing poetic about ANS's role in the Presidential election. He'd taken a couple of jabs at President Morrow's Alma Mater, and its unfortunate choice of mascot given current relations with Brazil. But that was all fair game.

Cara wished she was taller. At five feet five, she couldn't see stairs to know if Mitch was waiting to go up on the right–hand side. She regretted having gone for the comfortable two inch heels instead of her flashy four inch spikes that her sister Gillian had given her for Christmas. She could have used the height.

"Where are you going?" It was Max's voice in her ear.

"None of your business," she retorted, attempting to speed up and put some distance between them.

"You have that determined look in your eyes."

"Go away."

He tucked in close beside her. "Maybe I can help."

"Not now, Max." She was working. Why did he have to do this to her?

"Your destination can't possibly be a State secret."

She relented. "I'm trying to get to the stage. Okay? Are you happy?"

"Follow me." He stepped in front of her.

His six–feet–two–inch height and broad shoulders made him an imposing figure. She supposed it didn't hurt any that he was famous either. Last month, he'd been voted one of the ten hottest men in DC. The upshot was, he could move through a crowd far faster than she could. Resigned, she stuck to his coattails.

Even with Max clearing the way, they eventually got stuck behind a crowd of people.

"Why do you want to get to the stage?" he turned to ask her.

"For the record," she responded. "I don't know any State secrets. I don't have that kind of job."

"And since I'm not a foreign spy, we should be able to carry on a conversation without compromising national security."

An unmistakable voice came over the sound system. "Good evening, Mr. President," drawled Mitch Davis.