Nicola looked up at John Rothman, heard three of his aides speaking in the hospital corridor because he’d left the door ajar. His face was ruddy from a stiff Chicago wind and thirty-degree weather, his blue eyes bluer than a summer sky. She thought she’d first fallen in love with his eyes, eyes that could see into people’s souls, at least see deep enough that he always knew the right things to say when he was campaigning.

“I’m okay now, John, just a sore throat and my stomach feels hollowed out.”

“I’m here to take you home. I was thinking, Nicola, maybe you should just move in with me now. The wedding is in February, so why not speed some things up a bit?”

She hadn’t slept with him. The one night she’d decided she was ready, they were caught making out just outside one of John’s favorite clubs—The High Hat—his tongue in her mouth, his hands on her butt, and there’d been photos in the National Enquirer. Very embarrassing.

He’d only given her light pecks on the cheek after that incident.

She said, “If I move in with you, people will find out. Don’t forget what happened before.”

He shrugged. “All right, then. Let’s move up the wedding. How about the end of the month?”

She was silent.

“I want us to begin our life together, Nicola, as soon as possible. I want to make love with you.”

She was still silent.

“I saw you naked, you know. You’re really quite beautiful.”

She smiled up at him as he took her hand, squeezed it lightly. “When did you see me naked?”

“I came over to get you, a couple of weeks ago. I rang the buzzer but you didn’t answer. I had a key, and so I let myself in. I heard the shower, and I watched you step out and dry yourself. You didn’t know I was there. I don’t know why I’m telling you this now, except to say I’d like to see you that way again. I’d like to lick you all over, Nicola.”

Maybe it was because she still felt utterly empty inside, but she didn’t say what she probably would have said with a smile two weeks before—Licking goes both ways.

“I’m very tired, John. Really, too tired to even think straight. I want to go home, lie in my own bed, get myself back together. Then we can talk about it. Did the doctor say anything more to you? About the food poisoning?”

“After speaking to each of us extensively, we figured out that only you had the raspberry vinaigrette dressing.”

“Dressing can cause food poisoning?”

John shrugged. “Would you like me to come back and take you home?”

Before she could say anything, one of John’s aides appeared in the doorway. “Senator, excuse me, but there’s a call from the mayor. He’s looking to speak to you.”

“Go, John. I’ll be all right.”

He leaned down, kissed her cheek. “You’re so pale,” he said, and lightly touched his fingertips to her cheek. “Shall I get you a bit of lip gloss from your purse?”

She nodded.

She watched him walk to the small table on the opposite side of the hospital room, open her purse, and pick up the lip gloss. He looked at it, frowned. “It’s really light,” he said. “You need something to make you look healthier.”

“I’ll put on some colorful stuff when I get home. Will I see you later?”

“I’m sorry, but I’ve got a meeting with a very important lobbying group tonight. I put off my lunch with the mayor so I could grab a little time to come see you. Albia is coming by to take you home. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

She watched him walk out, tall, slender, so very elegant. Interestingly enough, he ranked nearly as high with male as with female voters. She heard the buzz of voices surrounding him, disappearing finally down the hall.

Albia arrived two hours later, sweeping into her room, two nurses behind her, not to chastise, but to bow and scrape and give her anything she asked for. Albia had that effect on people. She was a princess, well, perhaps now that she was in her fifties, she was a queen. She was regal. She was so self-confident, so self-assured, that sometimes even John would back down in the face of a single word from his sister’s mouth. She had been his hostess before he married Cleo, and then after she ran off with Tod Gambol. She was an excellent campaigner. It was rare that a reporter would ever ask her an impertinent question.

“Albia,” Nicola said.

Albia Rothman leaned down, kissed Nicola’s cheek. “Poor little girl,” she said. “This is so awful. I’m so very sorry.” She ran her finger over Nicola’s cheek.