Carey Benton adored Mondays.
She gladly left the still-gray summer morning to descend deep into the Eastern Market Metro station with other business-clad "Hill Rats." Lawyers, staffers, lobbyists and interns looked vaguely grumpy at the new workweek. Carey felt energized.
Hearing the echoing rush of an approaching train, she ran for the platform. After two long, quiet days, she would ride back into the heart of the free world and help make a difference.
And after two days, Carey would see Matt Tynan again.
Not that her day-to-day happiness balanced on one man. She was twenty-five, not thirteen! And she sure wouldn't stake her happiness on someone like Matt, even if he was the closest thing to male perfection she'd ever known. He was ten years her senior. He was far more worldly. He was a player.
Worse, he was her boss.
But those, rationalized Carey as the Blue Line train screeched to an impatient stop, were reasons not to pursue a romance with the president's top troubleshooter. She had no such delusions ... so why not enjoy the scenery?
Doors slid open and she merged into the crowd to board, excited, alive ... happy. Large Plexiglas windows reflected the train's crowded interior back at her. She faced a workday of at least ten hours, probably longer, the first in a whole week of them, and she was happy. How many women could say that?
She noticed her reflection - tall and slim in a modest linen suit, long brown hair pulled back in a ponytail. Flushing, Carey quickly tugged the pink scrunchy loose and pocketed it.
Ponytails were for Kansas City, not the White House.
* * *
5:45 a.m.
"WDCN traffic and weather every fifteen minutes," blared Matt's shower radio over the massage-strength spray. Matt, ducking to rinse shampoo out of his hair, groaned. Then he spit, because he was brushing his teeth while showering.
To keep the schedule he had, a man had to multitask.
Not that he had anything against traffic or weather. But it got in the way of the real news, and it meant he was running late. For him, anyway. He liked to get into the West Wing as early as possible, especially on Mondays ... especially lately.
He'd be more efficient if he brought dates back to his high-rise apartment instead of staying out all night, he mused, opening his mouth to catch the pulsing water, then spitting again. It would save a significant step in his morning commute.
He killed the water, dropped his toothbrush back into its cup, slid open the frosted-glass shower door and grabbed a towel. He had good reasons not to bring women home. Not that his bare apartment seemed particularly homey. He'd long ago determined to never mislead women that he was offering more than he ever had or ever would offer, which was honest fun.
Matt loved women. He loved sex. But he avoided commitment at all costs. As his father and grandfather proved, men in his family weren't any good at it. Why mess up someone else's life attempting to prove otherwise?
Without the shower, the radio screamed out its prediction for muggy weather. Matt toweled his hair, swiped on some antiperspirant, then grabbed his electric razor. As he strode into a bare bedroom, a second radio detailed the usual crises for the Beltway above the razor's whine.
God, Matt loved Mondays. They were like the whistle at the start of a game. His game.
The meteorologist finished. Matt perked up. Now came the real stuff.
Bond market - bad. Stock market - worse. April's World Bank heist hadn't ruined the economy but, despite White House cautions against fear, panic still might. Small banks had begun to fail and corporations were downsizing, all on President Stewart's watch. Matt listened intently while he shaved and, with his free hand, scooped socks and briefs out of the drawer of his bureau and tossed them onto the neatly made bed.
Janeen Sullivan, his current lady friend, had been great, but he should've come home last night.
National news - iffy. He finished shaving, yanked on his socks and underwear and stepped into the walk-in closet for the rest of his clothes. Nobody in his right mind could blame the president either for the floods in the southwest or the latest rumors about secret genetic research labs. But this was D.C. Matt's job as a troubleshooter, aka advisor, included worrying about people outside their right mind. He needed a plan to deal with them before he hit the office.
He dressed in a button-down shirt, charcoal slacks, jacket and tie.
International news - not great. The heist had hurt the European Coalition even worse than the States, making for cranky allies. The government of Rebelia still dominated the old Eastern bloc, its dictator too dangerous to be ignored. Combing his damp, dark hair as he walked, Matt stepped into his shoes en route to the bathroom and silenced the shower radio. His return trip took him past the bureau for his wallet and keys, but he hesitated inside the bedroom door until he heard the magical announcement, "A word from our sponsors." Then he switched that radio off, too.
He had four minutes to get down to his car before anything else important would be said. He caught his mobile phone out of its charger on his way into the kitchen, flipped it open and commanded, "Florist."
While the ringing started, he squinted woefully into the refrigerator's barren interior, then shrugged. Damn.
He shut the refrigerator as the florist's answering machine picked up. On his way out, he identified himself, asked that a dozen pink roses be sent to his date's hotel room with the usual note, then thumbed the end button as he locked the door behind him. Okay, so he didn't encourage commitment. That didn't mean he had to be an ass.
And asking his staff to do his romantic follow-ups for him would be way out of line. It wasn't as if Carey Benton couldn't; Matt had never had a more competent assistant. And it wasn't as if she wouldn't. In fact, Matt suspected that Carey would do more for him than any boss should rightly ask ... though that might be wishful thinking. It was sure dangerous thinking.
Still, some things a man shouldn't delegate. Just the temptation to delegate was probably a bad sign. He'd liked Janeen just fine ... but Matt still felt relieved to be heading back to the office and its staff.
On the elevator to the parking garage, he called ahead to the drive-thru bagel shop and placed his order. He even remembered Carey's favorite; pecan cream cheese. He reached his Mustang and turned on the radio just in time for the next announcement of "WDCN traffic and weather every fifteen minutes."
(Continues...)
Excerpted from The Player by Evelyn Vaughn Copyright © 2003 by Harlequin Enterprises Ltd.. Excerpted by permission.
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