"Where were you?"
"When I was sixteen, they sent me to school in New York. That was the last time I saw them."
"So they were idealists, too."
"What do you mean, 'too'?"
She saw no reason to put it into words, this knowledge she'd gleaned over the years, cobbled together into an image of his life. "It doesn't matter. You were lucky to be raised by people who believed in something."
He stared at her, frowning.
"Is that why you became a war correspondent? To fight in your own way?"
He sighed and shook his head, then walked over to the sofa and sat down beside her. The way he looked at her, as if she were somehow watery or out of focus, made her heartbeat speed up. "How do you do that?"
"What?"
"Know me?"
She smiled, hoping it didn't look as brittle as it felt. "We've worked together a long time."
It was a long moment before he said, "Why are you really quitting, Mularkey?"
She leaned back a little. "Remember when you said it was awful to want something you can't have? I'm never going to be a kick-ass reporter or a first-rate producer. I don't live and breathe the news. I'm tired of not being good enough."
"I said, it was awful to want someoneyou couldn't have."
"Well . . . it's all the same."
"Is it?" He put his drink on the coffee table.
She shifted her weight to face him, pulled her legs up underneath her. "I know about wanting someone."
He looked skeptical. No doubt he was thinking about the times Tully teased her about never dating. "Who?"
She knew she should lie, gloss over the question, but just now, with him so close, she felt a wave of longing that nearly overwhelmed her. God help her, but that door seemed opened again. Though she knew it wasn't, knew it was an illusion, she walked through it anyway. "You."
He drew back; it was obvious that he'd never imagined this. "You never . . ."
"How could I? I know how you feel about Tully."
She waited for him to say something, but he just looked at her. In the silence, she could make up anything. He hadn't said no, hadn't laughed. Maybe that meant something.
For years, she'd expended effort to keep the faucet of her longing for him turned off, but now that he so close, there was no holding back. This was her last chance. "Kiss me, Johnny. Show me I'm wrong to want you."
"I wouldn't want to hurt you. You're a nice girl, and I'm not looking for—"
"What if not kissing you hurts me?"
"Katie . . ."
For once, she wasn't Mularkey. She leaned closer. "Now who's afraid? Kiss me, Johnny."
Just before her lips touched his, she thought she heard him say, "This is a bad idea," but before she could reassure him, he was kissing her back.
It wasn't the first time Kate had been kissed; it wasn't even the first time she'd been kissed by a man she cared about, and yet, absurdly, she started to cry.
He tried to pull away when he noticed her tears, but she wouldn't let him. One moment they were on the sofa, making out like teenagers; the next thing she knew, she was on the floor in front of the fire, naked.
