The Real Deal - Softcover

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New York Times bestselling author Fern Michaels has a passion for romance, often with a dash of suspense and drama. It stems from her other joys in life—her family, animals, and historic home. She is usually found in South Carolina, where she is either tapping out stories on her computer, rescuing or supporting animal organizations, or dabbling in some kind of historical restoration.

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The Real Deal

1

Washington, DC
November 2007

The sun was barely over the horizon when Quinn Star exited her narrow four-story house in Georgetown. She locked the door, jiggling the knob to be certain it was locked before she pocketed the key in her baggy sweatpants. She ran in place, her mind whirling with what was on her agenda for the day. She took a moment to savor the cold, crisp November air, taking deep breaths and watching the little puffs of steam when she exhaled.

She loved this time of the day in the nation’s capital. The day was new and fresh, not yet tarnished with smog, corruption, and deal making in the most famous city in the world. Not that she was a part of the corruption and horse trading, but she did read the papers. There was corruption everywhere, even in the heartland, and the real deal making, as everyone in Washington knew, went on in the cloakrooms on the Hill and behind closed doors. Sometimes on the golf course or tennis court. She thanked God the way she did every morning at this time that she was no longer a part of the federal government.

On those rare times when she couldn’t fall asleep, she thought about Ezra Lapufsky and their time together, her face burning with her thoughts. Their relationship certainly hadn’t been perfect, neither had her job. In fact, both had been riddled with problems. Both she and Puff should have known better than to get involved with a coworker, but they’d gone ahead and forged a relationship anyway. For almost three long years. Puff had been everything she’d wanted in a man. He was kind, gentle, had a wicked sense of humor, and he’d said he loved her. The only problem was, he loved his job more. An eerie feeling settled between her shoulder blades as she looked over her shoulder, not once, but twice. She didn’t see anyone lurking about, but the feeling stayed with her as she started off at a slow trot. Her feet didn’t pick up speed until she hit O Street, where she ran at full throttle till she came to the crossroads of Wisconsin and M. She waved to other runners, people whose faces were familiar but whose names she didn’t know. There was Super Stud and his chocolate Lab. He waved. She waved back. Directly behind him was a woman she called Gypsy Rose Lee, in skimpy shorts and something that looked like a bustier. “I hope your tits freeze,” Quinn muttered to herself.

She turned to look behind her again because of the hard, clomping footfalls she heard. The donut man, puffing along at an uneven gait, so bundled up he could barely move. Quinn concentrated on the pavement in front of her. Time to turn around and head home. She was a block ahead of herself today. On M, she was just in time to see a figure dart behind a tall, bare sycamore tree. A chill raced up her spine as the donut man chugged past her.

Is someone watching me? Who? Why? Some lunatic with a penchant for a woman who looks like a bag lady at a quarter to six in the morning? If it’s a stalker, why isn’t he stalking the hot-looking chick in the bustier?

Quinn lengthened her strides and flew down the street. She careened around the corner ten minutes later and galloped up the steps to her tall, skinny Federal house. Safe inside, she turned the dead bolt. Her breathing was ragged as she leaned back against the door, her body trembling. She didn’t know why.

Federal Circuit Court Judge Alexander Duval, Quinn’s significant other and newly nominated by the president to be the next director of the FBI, came through the dining room, fully dressed, a cup of coffee in his outstretched hand. Quinn smiled at the handsome man as she accepted the cup of strong, dark coffee. Quinn eyed Alex over the rim of her coffee cup. He always looked so put together, with his custom suits that fit him to perfection. His dark hair was always in place, and she knew he shaved several times a day. He had a year-round tan thanks to a tanning bed in his own personal gym at home. His eyes were slate gray, and at times she thought them hard as glass. She tried not to compare those gray eyes to Puff’s melting brown ones.

“What’s wrong? Did something happen on your run?” he asked, his face and voice reflecting concern.

“Yes. No. Oh, I don’t know. It’s just a feeling I have that someone is following me, watching me. It’s not just when I run in the morning, Alex. I felt it yesterday when I went out to lunch, and the day before that when I got in my car to drive home. Don’t look at me like that. I’m always careful, and I keep my wits about me. Hmmm, good coffee. Breakfast would have been nice,” she said lightly.

Alex twinkled. “My thoughts exactly, but unfortunately, I can’t wait for you to make it. I’ll be late tonight, and I might not even make it at all. I’ll give you a call. Be sure to turn on the alarm when you leave and don’t forget to lock the door.”

“You sound like Birdie. Don’t worry about tonight. I think I’m having dinner with her unless someone died last night and she has to attend a wake. Call me.”

Alex kissed her good-bye, not one of those peck-on-the-cheek kisses either. This kiss almost made her toes curl and her blood sing. Almost. He favored her with a wide grin and a hard pinch to her bottom. “That’s so you don’t forget me today,” he said as he headed for the door. “I’m tired of being engaged. When are you going to marry me?” he called over his shoulder.

“One of these days,” Quinn retorted as she sashayed her way to the bathroom.

Alex’s parting shot before he walked out the door was, “Your biological clock is ticking.”

It’s true, Quinn thought as she gulped the coffee in her cup. She was fast approaching forty. Who was she kidding? In two months she would be forty. Birdie was on her back all the time about settling down and raising a family. A bride needed her parents in the church when she walked down the aisle. What kind of wedding would it be without her mother and father in attendance? Hell, she didn’t even know where the happy wanderers were these days. It wasn’t that she didn’t love Alex. She did, but sometimes she compared what she felt for him to what she’d felt for Ezra Lapufsky, and it always came up short. Lately, though, she’d started to wonder if it was the sex she loved or the man himself. She just wasn’t ready to make that final commitment. For all she knew she might never be ready.

Stark naked, Quinn padded over to the shower and turned it on. While she waited for the water to warm up, she looked out the window and immediately stepped back when she thought she recognized Ezra Lapufsky. Her heart pounded against her breastbone.

Quinn opened the shower door and stepped inside just as the doorbell rang. She debated a moment before she lathered up. She never had visitors this early in the morning. Alex had a key and would have let himself in. Birdie also had a key. Puff? Not in a million years. She grimaced as she shampooed her honey blond hair.

Puff?

Why now, eight long years after she’d broken up with him, was she thinking about Ezra Lapufsky? Because she felt like someone was stalking her, following her, spying on her. It was what Puff did for a living. It had to be her imagination. Or was it because Puff had been her first real love, and she’d never really gotten over him? Was that why she was dragging her feet about marrying Alex? Or…did it have something to do with Alex’s nomination?

“I hate you, Ezra Lapufsky,” she seethed as...