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Indian Affairs, of which he was chairman. He had his finger in plenty of political pies and some private ones. His most recent private one was private sector funding for his pet project, the newly created Anthropological and Archaeological Museum of the Native American where Cecily now worked.
    She spotted Matt Holden and her eyes began to twinkle. He was a handsome devil, even at his age. His wife had died the year before, and the husky black-eyed politician with his glimmering silver hair and elegant broad-shouldered physique was now on every widow’s list of eligibles. Even now, two lovely elderly society dames were attacking from both sides with expensive perfume and daring cleavage. At least one of them should have worn something high-necked, she mused, with her collarbone and skinny neck so prominent.
    Another pair of eyes followed her amused gaze. “Doesn’t it remind you of shark attacks?” a pleasant voice murmured in her ear.
    She jumped, and looked up at her companion for the evening. “Good grief, Colby, you scared me out of a year’s growth!” she burst out with a helpless laugh.
    Colby only smiled. “Here’s your coffee. It’s not bad, either.”
    He handed her the cup and sipped from his own. She wondered why he’d been out of the country at the same time as Tate, and why. Then she shut Tate out of her mind. She wasn’t going to think about him tonight.
    â€œYou never did say where you went,” she told the lithe congenial man at her side.
    He mentioned a war-torn country in Africa, then murmured, “And you didn’t hear that from me.”
    She sobered quickly. Everyone knew about the strife and the terrible aftermath of surreptitious bombings. It was all that people talked about. “Those poor people.”
    â€œAmen.”
    She glanced up at him. “I suppose you were involved somehow in the capture of the suspects?”
    He only smiled. He would never talk about assignments. Colby wasn’t a handsome man, especially with all the scars on his lean face. His thick, faintly wavy short black hair was his best asset. Still he did have a dangerous magnetism that Cecily knew didn’t go unnoticed by the ladies. Unfortunately he was too stuck in the past to even look at another woman twice. His wife of five years had left him two years back and found someone else; someone who was at home more, already had two children of his own and didn’t risk his life for his job. His benders since her departure were legendary. Cecily’s intervention with the Maryland psychologist had saved him from certain alcoholism, but he still teetered dangerously on the edge of ruin. A pity, she thought, to love someone so much and lose them and be unable to let go. Just like herself mooning over Tate, she thought with bitterness.
    â€œSeen Tate lately?” Colby asked carelessly.
    She stiffened. “No.”
    He looked down at her with a wry grin. “It was a boring banquet, anyway. You made all the news shows that night, and I hear one of the bigger late-night television hosts did a monologue about it!”
    â€œGo ahead,” she invited with a gesture. “Rub it in.”
    â€œI can’t help myself,” he said with an involuntary chuckle. “I believe it’s the first time in American political history that an ex-CIA agent was baptized with a tureen of crab bisque right in the middle of a televised political affair.” Colby had to work hard not to crack a smile. He sipped his coffee instead. Before he met Cecily, he couldn’t have imagined any woman doing that to tall, handsome, elegant Tate Winthrop. “Matt Holden seems to have forgiven you,” he added.
    She smiled wickedly. “He loved it,” she said. “Just between you and me, he thrives on publicity.”
    Colby’s dark eyes went to Holden. “You might also have been invited because he likes embarrassing Tate,” he mused.