“He won’t give autographs. He won’t even sign our register. See?” Debbie showed a clipboard holding a lined sheet scrawled with names and membership numbers.

“Debbie, I’m his secretary,” Meg said dryly. “I can get him to sign anything.”

“I better not get into trouble over this.”

“You won’t,” Meg assured her, wondering if she’d ever strung so many lies together in her life. “If there’s a problem, I’ll explain the situation to your boss myself. After I see Mr. Tarkenton, that is. The sooner he gets this information, the better.”

Sighing, Debbie picked up the desk phone and punched a few numbers. “Hi, Ben. Uh, I need to check on Mr. Tarkenton’s whereabouts. Do you see him down there?” Pause. “By himself? Okay, thanks.” She hung up the phone. “He’s in one of our squash courts, practicing. If I let you go down there, you have to promise to come right back after you deliver your message.”

“You don’t have to worry about that. I have no intention of staying any longer than necessary.”

“He didn’t get somebody knocked up, did he?”

Even Meg wasn’t prepared for that bombshell of a question. Utterly speechless, she blinked in disbelief.

Debbie waved a placating hand. “I know you won’t tell me. I’ve always been curious, though. With all the women he has, you’d think he’d have a kid here or there, you know?”

Meg knew only too well, and fixed Debbie with a genuine glare. The young woman immediately apologized and wrote out a temporary membership card allowing free access to the club.

Shaken, Meg had to use both hands to pick the card up. The worst part was, she would have to get used to it. The man attracted this type of gossip and speculation wherever he went.

Meg glanced at the club doors, wishing there was someplace where the Tarkenton arm didn’t reach. There must be people in the world who hadn’t heard of Jack Tarkenton, people who didn’t know anything about him.

But people the world over knew of his father. In the thirty-plus years since his death, Senator John B. Tarkenton had attained martyr status. Revered for his ethics and character, he had rallied the nation with his youthful vigor and visionary leadership in a last-minute campaign for the presidency of the United States. The triumph of his election ended before he had a chance to take office, in the tragedy of his assassination.

Jack might be his father’s polar opposite in character, but the Tarkenton name still carried enormous weight. In a world hungry for leadership, too many people wanted to believe Jack possessed the same talents and integrity as his father.

Meg knew she couldn’t fight a belief, especially when it was cherished by people who most needed it to be true. People who wanted to live with hope in their lives, who wanted to believe in the future. Meg counted herself one of those people. She wanted Katie to be one of them, too.

Meg passed row after shiny row of exercise bikes, rowing machines, treadmills and stair climbers, torturous-looking contraptions all, and decided that ten thirty on a Monday morning was not the peak time to exercise. She imagined the place after work hours, though, jam-packed with bodies. Sweating bodies.

Jack was no exception. She spotted him in a glassed-in box of a court, dressed in sleek bike shorts and a gray T-shirt that was dark at the shoulders with sweat. Lithe as she remembered, he stroked a blur of a ball with a thin-necked racket, thwacking a regular rhythm against a scuffed backboard.

The nearer she came, the more she noticed the maleness of his body. Her steps slowed. His shirt hung loose, shaping the broad width of his shoulders. If anything, he’d gained muscle over the years. The bike shorts banded thighs honed by hard and steady exercise. Confirmed by calf muscles that flexed and flared as he moved from one side of the court to the other, he challenged himself on every shot, stretching to cover the entire court. The clear, see-through walls had to be made of super-durable acrylic. The velocity of the ball he hit would have cracked glass.

Above his left hand, the hand that held the racket, two sweatbands encircled his wrist. So that’s where it came from. Katie was left-handed, too.

Despite her promise to deliver her message promptly, Meg halted in her tracks and watched for long minutes, her throat too dry for words. She knew next to nothing about the game of squash. She understood pure physical aggression, however, and the advantage a supremely focused individual had over those who were mere mortals.

He never missed.