They rolled through Potomac, Maryland, in the racy black car, down wide streets where high six-digit incomes and suburban sprawl had spawned the tract mansion. Steve turned into a gated driveway and followed the smooth blacktop to a monster of a house riddled with columns and porticos and upgraded window trim. It rose phoenixlike, in redbrick splendor, from silver-dollar-sized wood chips and a great expanse of manicured lawn, its nether parts obscured by professionally tended azalea, holly, and rhododendron.

“An architectural masterpiece,” Steve said. “Neobeltway.”

Daisy gaped at it. “I’m glad I don’t have to deliver papers here.”

A white-coated attendant helped her from the car and ran around to the driver’s side.

“Is this Zena’s house?” Daisy asked Steve.

“No. Aunt Zena has a condo in Georgetown. This little honey belongs to George and Ethel Begley. They’re really very nice people. I don’t know why they chose to live at Tara here.”

They walked into the vaulted foyer and were greeted by Ethel. She gave Steve a cheek-kiss, rewarded Daisy with a dazzling smile, and propelled them forward into the cool interior of the house.

A sideboard held liver pâté, salmon mousse, and French bread crusts. The pâté and mousse looked fresh on their lettuce beds, and Steve took a crust and scooped up some mousse.

An older woman barreled through the French doors leading to the patio. Her hair was black and pulled into a tight knot at the nape of her neck. She wore dark red lipstick and plum eye shadow. Her gray silk suit firmly whispered designer original. Daisy knew it was Aunt Zena from the first moment. She was a big, handsome woman. Near seventy, Daisy guessed, and still going strong.

Zena hugged her nephew. “I’ve been waiting for you.”

Steve returned the hug, then slid his arm around Daisy’s shoulders. “Aunt Zena, I’d like you to meet my friend Daisy Adams.”

“Daisy Adams, that name sounds so familiar. Are you a Republican?” she asked Daisy.

“No,” Daisy said, “I’m a graduate student.”

“Daisy Adams, Daisy Adams,” Zena repeated. “Oh my Lord, you’re the Dog Lady!”

A small crowd was forming behind Zena. “Is it really the Dog Lady?” someone asked. “It’s the Roach killer,” someone else exclaimed.

“I didn’t actually kill him,” Daisy murmured.

Zena clasped Daisy to her ample bosom. “This is so exciting. We need to make an announcement. I want everyone to know my nephew is dating the city’s leading crime-stopper.”

Daisy grabbed Steve by the lapel and mouthed the word “help.”

“Maybe we don’t want to make a public announcement just yet,” Steve suggested.

A flash went off, a minicam appeared, more people pressed into the dining room. The junior senator came forward to shake Daisy’s hand. “This is a real honor,” he said. “This country needs more people like you-people with a commitment to ridding our streets of drug dealers.”

“Thank you, but I was just driving along…”

Steve muscled his way through the group, pulling Daisy after him. He didn’t want Daisy to receive any more publicity. He didn’t want her made into a hero. He didn’t want her to become hot news. Someone was threatening her, and splashing her face across a TV screen again would only make things worse. He got her onto the patio and used his body to shield her from the people filtering out behind them. It was an effective device. This wasn’t a pushy mob. These people were used to rubbing elbows with politicians and minor celebrities; they were masters at waiting for the right moment, seizing it, and backing away.

Daisy didn’t mind the attention from the press. She figured that was their job, just as reporting traffic was her job. For a while she was news. She didn’t fully understand it, but it was okay. She knew it would fade.

She held tight to Steve’s hand, not because she disliked the crush of people, but because she was thrilled that he wanted to protect her. She’d never considered herself to be fragile, had never asked to be cosseted, never before wanted it. And no man had ever assumed such a macho role on her behalf. She was surprised to find herself enjoying it now.

She accepted a glass of champagne from a waitress and looked around. It was a pretty yard with lots of flowers and shrubs and delicate white wrought-iron furniture. The people were pretty, too. And polite. They’d left her alone when Steve had dragged her off to the patio. “Is there anyone famous here?” she asked.

“You mean besides you?”

“I mean really famous.”

He took a fast survey. “There are lots of people here who are well-known. Senators, members of Congress, business moguls, but I don’t see anybody I’d classify as movie-star famous.” He took a sip of her champagne. “I suppose the most newsworthy person is that little guy over there in the dark suit. The guy with the thick mustache and swarthy complexion. That’s Abdul Rhaman…”

“Abdul Rhaman! I saw his picture in the Post. He’s in town negotiating a trade agreement.”

Steve’s smile was tight. “He’s in town drumming up money to equip an army,” he said quietly. “That’s probably why he’s at this party, and that’s probably the reason for the press contingent. You don’t usually find them at parties like this one.”

Daisy’s eyes grew wide. “I should interview him!”

“What?”

“I have the tape recorder in the car. I could get an interview from him, and we could send it over to the station.”

His protective instincts were screaming to take her home and lock her in a closet, but that wasn’t a viable alternative, he told himself. He looked at her face, flushed with excitement, and knew he couldn’t deny her the interview. Besides, he had to admit, it was a good idea. It didn’t relate to drugs or the Roach, so she wouldn’t be putting herself in any deeper jeopardy. And Abdul would be cooperative. He was trying to pry money out of these people, trying to look civilized. “Okay,” Steve said. “Go for it.”

Daisy belted back the remainder of her champagne, gave Steve a quick kiss on the lips, and whirled off toward the house. She hadn’t gotten her interview with the Roach, but she was going to get Abdul Rhaman-and she was going to do a good job.

She raced through the dining room and the foyer and then stood on the front steps, shielding her eyes from the sun while she searched for Steve’s car. She spotted it parked halfway down the circular drive.

A chauffeured Lincoln Town Car drove up and double-parked directly in front of her. The driver waved the attendant away while a man got out. He smiled and nodded hello to Daisy.

She acknowledged his smile and hello with one of her own and strode off to get her recorder, thinking Washington was a friendly place and the party not nearly as bad as Steve had predicted.

Minutes later she flew up the stairs with recorder in hand, mentally planning her interview. She swung through the front door, paying little attention to the people around her, trying to recall facts about Abdul that she’d read in the paper. She wanted a smooth, intelligent interview, she decided. She wasn’t going to shoot for depth, and she wasn’t going to try to nail old Abdul to the wall on the arms stuff. She didn’t want to get in over her head the first time out.

As she reached the patio, she was nervous enough for her heart to beat faster, nervous enough not to see Ethel Begley’s schnauzer dart in front of her. Both the dog and Daisy let out an ear-piercing yelp on contact. Daisy lost her balance and lurched forward, arms outstretched, slamming into the back of the man who had arrived in the Lincoln. They went down hard in a heap on the cement patio, and in the process a gun went skidding off into the grass. Daisy saw it skim her fingertips and recoiled in horror.

Six men instantly materialized from the crowd to scoop up the gun and pin the man to the ground.

Daisy raised her head to see Steve bending over her. He had his hand on her arm. “You okay?” he asked.

“What happened?”

“My guess is you knocked the gun out of the hand of some guy who’d crashed the party to snuff out Rhaman. Rhaman’s goons were all over him.”

“ ‘Goons’?”

“Undercover protection.” He pulled Daisy to her feet, straightened her skirt, and brushed the hair out of her eyes. “You seem to have this weird propensity for running down criminals.” He picked up the recorder.

“It was an accident. I tripped over the dog.”

“Uh-huh.” He saw the cameraman swing his minicam from the gunman to Daisy. “Showtime,” Steve said, taking her hand. “Pretend you’re Miss America and wave good-bye.”

“Good-bye.” Daisy waved, smiling at the camera.

Steve put an arm around her and nudged her through the wall of curious onlookers. “We have to leave now,” he said. “Miss Adams is needed elsewhere. Once a party is rendered safe, it’s our moral obligation to move on.”

“What about the interview?” Daisy asked at the door. “I never did the interview.”

Steve hustled her down the stairs and out onto the driveway, not waiting for an attendant to bring the car. “Rhaman’s gone. They got him out of there before that gun hit the ground.”

He opened the door for her and watched her slide into the passenger seat, wondering at her priorities. Job first, personal safety second. It was consistent with the rest of her life, he decided. She’d been goal-oriented for so long she knew nothing else. He walked around to the driver’s side and sat beside Daisy. “You ever have any fun?”

“Of course I have fun. I have fun all the time.”

He cranked the car over and pulled out of the parking space. “Doing what?”

She thought about it for a minute. “I suppose I have fun doing little things. I like to watch the sun come up when I’m delivering papers. I like the way it colors the sky in soft dreamy pinks and grays and yellows and for a short while the world seems safe and quiet. I like the way shirts smell steamy and fresh when you iron them. I like to listen to the wind rustling through a maple tree, bending the leaves back so you can see the pale green undersides.”