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work-roughened hand, he motioned for her to roll down the window.
    She hesitated. What if he wasn’t the man she was supposed to meet and just some rapist on his lunch hour? Even if it was the right person, how did she know she could trust him?
    There was nothing to do about it now.
    With one hand on her cell phone, she rolled down the window.
    He bent down, and she got just a glimpse of his face—reddish-blond moustache, blue eyes, shoulder-length blond hair under a baseball cap—before he shoved something roughly through the window.
    Whatever it was struck her chin, made her gasp. It fell into her lap—a heavy bundle of documents with her name on it.
    “What . . . ?”
    But when she looked up, the man was gone.

CHAPTER 3
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    R EECE STEPPED off the Sixteenth Street Mall and into Bravo Ristorante. He slipped off his sunglasses and looked about for the men he’d come to meet. They had contacted him prior to the legislative session in hopes he’d sponsor a bill for them in the Senate. He had agreed to have lunch with them to at least discuss the matter.
    The tuxedo-clad host greeted him and led him to a table near the back where three men in business suits sat mulling over menus. They sat apart from the other lunch customers—the better to avoid being overheard, he supposed. Although the good citizens of Colorado probably imagined new laws were born in the marbled halls of the Capitol, most of the real work was done clandestinely in restaurants and on golf courses, with deals cut over prime rib, cigars, and holes-in-one.
    Reece didn’t much like it and had entered office determined never to be used or bought. There was only one way to hold public office, and that was honestly, openly, and in the spirit of service. He paid for his own meals and drinks, turned down gifts, and refused to discuss important issues in secret. But to accomplish anything he had to at least appear to play the game.
    The men rose as he approached.
    “Senator Sheridan.” An older man with a head of thinning white hair extended his hand. “Carl Hillman. So good to finally meet with you.”

    Hillman was a lobbyist for a number of mining companies in the state and stood across the aisle from Reece on every environmental issue. Ordinarily, Reece wouldn’t have given him the time of day, but the bill Hillman had proposed had intrigued him.
    Reece shook each man’s hand in turn, returned their greetings, and recalled what he knew about them.
    “Mike Stanfield, Senator. Thanks for joining us.”
    Stanfield was the CEO of TexaMent, a Texas-based cement company with a processing plant somewhere in Adams County, north of Denver. With Stanfield at the helm, TexaMent had become the second-largest cement company in the world, with $10 billion in profits last year. His gold ring and diamond-studded platinum Rolex were evidence he took a fair amount of that $10 billion home with him.
    “Galen Prentice of Prentice, Burns and Prentice. Pleased to meet you, Senator.”
    Prentice was the lawyer representing TexaMent. He appeared to be in his mid-forties, with a bit of gray at his temples and a hairline that was in full retreat. From the look of his Armani suit, he’d made a killing off his corporate clients. His firm represented high-profile companies—pharmaceutical firms, oil and gas companies, insurance companies—in their dealings with the state bureaucracy.
    Reece sat and accepted a menu from the waiter. “Just water, please.”
    As the others placed their orders, he glanced over the menu and decided on the seared ahi tuna.
    Do women really taste like tuna?
    A pair of green-gold eyes flashed through his mind, and he fought back a grin.
    Kara McMillan.
    He’d spent far too many hours over the weekend thinking about her. He was certain she’d been mortified by her behavior once the tequila had worn off, and he was content to let her squirm for a while. She’d called his sister a bimbo, after all.

    Not that her words had truly offended him.