Fatal Series 01 - Fatal Affair

showy.”
    “Is that a compliment, Samantha?”
    She shrugged.
    He reached for her hand as they headed out of the city. When she tried to resist, he held on tighter. “No one but us, babe.”
    “There’s no tablecloth to hide under.”
    He flashed that irresistible grin and laced his fingers through hers. “Give me just this much, will you?”
    Since he’d asked so nicely and it really wasn’t much, she didn’t argue with him even if the simple feel of his hand wrapped around hers set her heart to galloping and put her hormones on full alert. Guilt was mixed in there, too. She had no business spending this much time with him or wanting him so fiercely. But since it was dark and she was tired and no one was looking, rather than push him away, she tightened her grip on his hand.

Chapter 14
    Sam hadn’t expected to sleep. But the combined lull of the moving car, the heated seats, Nick’s hand wrapped companionably around hers…
    “Wake up, Sleeping Beauty. We’re here.”
    Coming to, Sam looked out at the vast darkness and was able to make out the shape of a cabin in front of the car. “Let’s get to it.”
    The rush of frigid air slapped at Sam’s face. She followed Nick up the gravel path to the door and stood back while he used his key in the lock.
    Inside, he flipped on lights. Sam blinked a comfortable living area into focus. Big, welcoming sofas, a flat-screen TV mounted on the wall, overflowing bookshelves on either side of the stone fireplace, framed family photos and a couple of trophies. Here, at last, was Senator John Thomas O’Connor.
    She shrugged off her coat, pushed up the sleeves of her sweater, tugged the clip from her hair and got to work. Two hours later, she had discovered that John loved Hemingway, Shakespeare, Patterson and Grisham. His musical taste ran the gamut from Melencamp to Springsteen, Vivaldi to Bach. She had sifted through photo albums, yearbooks and a file cabinet that seemed to have no rhyme or reason to anyone other than its owner.
    She perused a series of essays John wrote for his senior project at Harvard, detailing the roles of government and the governed. The essays were bound into a small navy blue volume with smart gold embossing.
    “He was proud of that,” Nick said from the doorway to the office.
    Startled, she glanced up at him. She had almost forgotten he was there.
    “His father had the book made and gave it to everyone who was anyone.” Nick stepped into the room and handed her a steaming mug.
    “ Oh , is that hot chocolate?” she asked, soaking in the mouthwatering aroma.
    “I figured it was too late for coffee.” He had removed his suit coat and released the top buttons on his dress shirt. Her eyes fixated on a dark tuft of chest hair.
    “You figured right. Fat free, calorie free, I hope.” Swirling her tongue over the dollop of whipped cream on top, she took a moment to appreciate the taste. Looking up at him again, she found his hazel eyes locked on her. “What?” she asked, her voice shakier than she intended it to be.
    “It’s just…you…and whipped cream. It’s giving me ideas.”
    She swallowed, hard.
    “I like your hair down like that,” he added.
    Choosing to ignore the comments and the flush of heat that went rippling through her body, she returned her attention to the book John had dedicated to his father. A photo slid out from between the pages and fell to the floor. Sam put her mug on the desk and leaned over to retrieve the picture of a strapping blond boy of about sixteen in a football uniform.
    “What’ve you got there?” Nick asked.
    “Looks like a photo of John when he was in high school.” She turned it over to find the initials “TJO” and a date from four years earlier. “Oh. It’s not him. Who’s TJO?”
    Nick took the photo from her, studied the likeness, and then turned it over. “I have no idea, but he could be John when I first met him.”
    “Did he have a son, Nick?” She thought of Patricia Donaldson and the three-thousand-dollar-a-month payments.
    “Of course not.”
    “You’re sure of that?”
    “I’m positive,” he said hotly. “I’ve known him since he was eighteen. If he had a son, I’d know it.”
    “Well, if that’s not his son, whoever he is, he bears a striking resemblance to John.” Sam tucked the photo into her bag with plans to ask the senator’s parents about it in the morning. “He had quite a thing for Spider-Man, huh?” She gestured to the shelves in the corner