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  Over the past three years, friends often said that she and Warren had been destined to meet from birth, even though they lived an ocean apart. And Destiny must certainly have been holding Warren by the hand, leading him on that night when he and two friends showed up at The Gilded Cage to hear a lavender-tressed nightingale sing.

  And, she thought contentedly, her song had yet to end . . .

  With a smile, Betsy opened her eyes and made a slow pirouette, hoping to catch a glimpse of Warren, wherever he might have gotten to in the spacious room. After the world premier of Doom’s Patrol at the cavernous Ziegfeld Theater in midtown Manhattan, the attendees had traveled uptown to a major celebration being held here at Tavern on the Green, a sumptuous restaurant on the western edge of Central Park. Despite her natural tendency to avoid large gatherings of people she didn’t know—and, therefore, people with whom she’d be completely uncomfortable—Betsy had put on her most supportive face and accompanied her beau to the festivities. Unfortunately, being one of the world’s foremost powerbrokers meant that anyone and everyone wanted to be Warren’s friend, so it was only moments after they arrived that Betsy suddenly found herself alone . . . and, thus, an easy target for Simon Williams and his inappropriate questions.

  “Is he gone?” said a voice off to one side. Betsy looked out of the comer of one eye to find Warren standing a step behind her, tilting his head back just enough that his face was hidden from view by her sky-scraping hairstyle.

  “And who would that be?” Betsy asked without turning around.

  “Man-Mountain Marko over there,” Warren replied, pointing past her shoulder. She followed the direction of his index finger; it led straight to Williams, who was involved in another pointless conversation with some other poor soul unlucky enough to have lacked the speed to avoid him. With a bemused smirk, Betsy recognized the actor’s new sounding board: Jean-Paul Beaubier, the famed Canadian skier. She’d noticed the lithe athlete casting furtive glances at Williams from across the room while she was trapped in her conversation with him.

  Poor dear, she thought. I’m sure “Wonder Man” doesn’t seem half as attractive now as he did before he opened his mouth. . . .

  “You’re referring, of course, to the annoying Mr. Williams,” Betsy remarked to Warren. With a start, she saw the actor glance in her direction, as though he had heard her from across the room. She waved to him and smiled, silently praying he didn’t think it was an invitation to return to talk off her remaining ear. Thankfully, he only waved back and continued toying with his victim.

  “Yeah,” Warren said, his voice slightly muffled by her hair. “That’s the guy.”

  Teeth still locked in a sardonic grin, Betsy turned to face her boyfriend. “Warren, dear, how long have you been standing there?”

  “Well, I’ve only been here a few seconds.” Warren gestured back over his shoulder, toward a gigantic ice sculpture of a swan, its long neck bent gracefully so that the bird’s beak could touch the surface of the large punch bowl beneath it. “But I was standing behind that swan, talking to Mary Jane Watson-Parker—she’s the actress who played Spider-Woman—and her husband for about five minutes. A really nice couple—no pretensions, unlike what you’d normally find in most Hollywood marriages.”

  “And were you aware of the hell you were putting me through while you gabbed the night away with your new friends?”

  “Oh, it couldn’t have been that bad, honey. Right?” Warren paused. “You know, you’re starting to freak me out with that death’s-head stare you’ve got going. Didn’t your mother ever warn you your face could freeze like that?”

  “That’s not the only thing that’s going to be cold tonight,” Betsy said in a warning tone.

  Warren cocked his head to one side. “Huh?” Then his eyes widened as the realization hit him. He winced. “Ouch. Am I in trouble.” He flashed a warm smile, and lowered his head until his chin touched his chest. “What if I said I was sorry, and it’ll never happen again?”

  The muscles in Betsy’s face slowly relaxed. “It’s a start.”

  Warren beamed brightly, and raised his head. “That’s what makes me such a great warrior in the arena we powerbrokers call ‘global finances,’ Betts.” He leaned forward to kiss her lightly on the forehead. “Like any smart businessman, I know when to let the other party establish the ground rules for negotiations.”

  Betsy smiled, and wrapped her arms around his waist. “You mean you’ll take what you can get.”

  Warren nodded. “Exactly.”

  “Glad to be out of there?”

  Staring off into space, Betsy started, then glanced around. She and Warren were walking hand-in-hand along Central Park West, the tree-lined, four-lane avenue that extended from Columbus Circle in the south to 110th Street in the north. To their left, the park—with its architectural symbiosis of nature’s rocks and trees combined with man’s winding footpaths and brass-plated lampposts—stretched out into the darkness; to their right, on the other side of the street, elegant, cream-colored, Art Deco-designed apartment buildings pierced the night sky, reaching up toward the heavens. For a Saturday night in late June, traffic—both vehicular and pedestrian—was surprisingly light in this part of Manhattan; occasionally, Betsy and Warren were passed on the sidewalk by another couple or the odd bicyclist.

  And echoing in the night, the sounds of merrymaking from the restaurant could still be heard, even though it was blocks behind them. “I asked if you were glad to get away from the party,” Warren said. “Umm . . . yes, actually.” Betsy bit her bottom lip. She hadn’t meant to be that brutally honest, but there it was, out in the open with just two words. She gazed at her beau, then cast her eyes downward. “I’m sorry, Warren. I know how important it was for you to make an appearance tonight, what with the movie and all—”

  “And I did,” Warren commented. “I showed up, shook some hands, let some wannabe movers-and-shakers suck up to me, made it clear how much I loved the movie . . .” He rolled his eyes toward the night sky. “I’ve done my part for the Empire tonight.” He gently took her chin between thumb and forefinger and lifted it so she could look directly into his cool, blue eyes. “And my reward for such dedication is to spend the rest of the evening with the most beautiful woman in this—or any other—world.”

  Betsy’s lips parted, but she suddenly found herself at a loss for words. It was one of those moments when Warren was so completely serious—so confident in expressing his feelings for her—that she wasn’t quite certain what to say in response.

  But really, though—there’s only one thing that needs to be said, isn’t there? she thought, reaching up to stroke his cheek.

  “I love you,” she whispered, her eyes sparkling in the moonlight. “And I, you, Betts.” Warren smiled and shook his head. “You know, a few years ago, I would’ve been surprised to hear me say that. But when I first saw you, that night in the bar...”

  The light in Betsy’s eyes suddenly dimmed, her brow furrowing. “What’s wrong?” Warren asked.

  Betsy looked away. “It’s—”

  “Don’t say it’s nothing,” Warren said. “You know it makes me crazy when you try to avoid discussing something that’s bothering you. So, out with it.”

  Betsy took a deep breath, held it for a moment, then slowly released it. There was no point in avoiding the issue, now that she’d allowed it to spring back into the front of her mind; Warren would just keep nagging her until she cracked. The best thing to do was to just say it, get it out of the way and move on.

  “It was a comment someone made at the party,” she said at last. “Who?” Warren asked. “Was it Stark? He tried to come on to you, didn’t he?” He paused, then snapped his fingers. “It was that Rasputin guy, right? Wanted to show you his ‘etchings.’ ” He nodded, as though agreeing with himself. “Yeah, I’ve heard about him. ”

  “It doesn’t matter, ” Betsy said, a tad too brusquely. “Besides, it’s the comment that bothered me, not the person who said it.”


  “And that comment would be . . . ?”

  Betsy stopped walking; Warren immediately halted.

  “About us,” Betsy said. “About me. About my place in your life. In life in general.”

  Warren exhaled. “Sounds pretty intense. What exactly did this anonymous person say that got you thinking about all this?”

  Betsy grimaced. “He mentioned the rumors..

  “Oh, for Pete’s sake!” Warren exclaimed, throwing his hands in the air. “Betts, we’ve been through all of that before! It didn’t bother me back then what people were thinking, and it sure as hell doesn’t bother me now. Remember all the things I had to deal with even before I met you, just because I was, you know, different from all the other kids?” He shook his head in resignation. “They’re always gonna talk about us, hon—it comes with the territory when you’re a public figure.” He placed his hands on her shoulders. “You’ve gotta put that kind of nonsense behind you, Betts,” he said gently, “before it destroys you.”

  “I have put it behind me,” Betsy countered. She paused. “At least, I thought I had.” She gnawed on her bottom lip for a few moments;

  Warren patiently waited for her to continue. “It’s just that. . . ever since we met, I stopped being Betsy Braddock; stopped being me. I had a career, a good bit of word of mouth going, a life that had its share of problems, but I was able to handle them.” She frowned. “Now, I’m just ‘Warren Worthington’s gal pal,’ jetting around the world, eating at the finest restaurants, doing five shows a week at the Starlight Room.” “And that’s a bad thing?” Warren said sarcastically.

  “You know what I mean,” Betsy replied. “It’s wonderful—I wouldn’t trade the time we’ve spent together for anything in the world. But.. .” Go ahead, get it all out. “But the public doesn’t take me seriously as an artist; the press, too. They treat me like I’m some bit of Page Three fluff you’d find posing for the tabloids back home—just a pretty face and a nice pair of. . . legs.” She sneered. “As far as they’re concerned, I’m nothing more than window dressing for your arm.” “That’s not how I see you,” Warren said.

  “I know that, and I appreciate it. I really do. You’ve always been there for me, always been respectful of my wishes, never interfering with my decisions, never using your station to force other people to do things for me.” Betsy looked up to meet Warren’s warm gaze. “But it all comes down to perceptions—how the public sees you. You know how important that can be.”

  “True,” Warren said.

  “And what people think of when they see you is a man who overcame adversity and prejudice, who rose to become the head of an international corporation.” Betsy’s head slowly dipped, until she was staring at her clasped hands; the knuckles were white from the pressure. “But when they see me. . . when they see me, they think of a hanger-on. An oriental. . . ‘golddigger,’ I think is the term. Anything but a singer.”

  “Betsy . . .” Warren began.

  She shook her head. “I’ve never made my mark, you see. My place in history. Never made people stand up and pay attention to me. I’ve always been relegated to the background—first with my brother, Brian, and his athletic awards. . . . That’s why I’ve never told too many people about my heritage—then I’d just be ‘Brian Braddock’s sister.’ ” She glanced at Warren. “And then it happened anyway . . . with you.” Betsy laughed curtly, a small, trembling note, as tears formed in the comers of her eyes. “Pretty silly, wouldn’t you say? The luckiest woman on two continents, with the most beautiful man in this—or any other— world, and she’s worried about having future generations remember her.” She sniffed loudly.

  Warren reached out to brush away her tears. “I don’t think it’s silly at all,” he said softly.

  Betsy reached into her small leather purse and took out a pair of Kleenex from a small portable dispenser. Wiping her nose, then dabbing at her eyes, she managed a small smile. “Oh, you’re just being kind,” she said in a phlegmy half-whisper.

  “No, I’m entirely serious,” Warren said. “So, what do you want to do about it?”

  “Do?”

  “About making your mark in history.”

  Betsy was confused. “I really hadn’t—” she began.

  “What’s the matter—you talk a good game, but you never took the time to figure out how to make it happen?” Warren playfully pressed the tip of her nose with his index finger. “Come on, Braddock—what’s it gonna take for you to smack around all those half-wits to get their attention and then rub their faces in it?”

  For the second time that evening, Betsy was at a loss for words.

  “I... I don’t know,” she said softly.

  Warren nodded. “Okay, okay . . . there must be something we can do about this . . He stared off into space, pinching his bottom lip between thumb and forefinger. Betsy silently watched as his face underwent a series of comical expressions, the smooth, blue-tinted skin contorting and stretching as he reviewed whatever options were running through his mind.

  “He puzzled and puzzled, until his puzzler was sore...” she thought, remembering a line from Dr. Seuss’s classic children’s book, How the Grinch Stole Christmas. She bit her tongue to keep from laughing.

  Warren’s face suddenly brightened. “I’ve got it! How would you like an opportunity to perform for von Doom himself?”

  “And how would I do that?”

  “Well, next week is the tenth anniversary of his rise to power. And the celebration’s going to be held in Washington, right?”

  Betsy slowly nodded in agreement. She had a feeling she knew where this was going, but decided to say nothing for the moment.

  “So, what if you were picked to be on the entertainment bill that night?” Warren continued. “The ceremony’s going to be televised around the world—that’s over three billion people watching. And with your talent, they’ll have no choice but to see how wrong they’ve been about you. You’ll never have a better showcase in your entire life. Would that qualify as making your mark?”

  Betsy frowned, then pursed her lips.

  “What?” Warren asked.

  “It’s a wonderful idea, Warren,” Betsy said hesitantly, “and I appreciate the offer, but it’s not the kind of thing that could happen to just any cabaret singer living in the West Village ..

  Warren smiled. “Oh, I get it. Not without her well-respected boyfriend pulling some strings, is that it?” He drew an X across his chest with the point of an index finger. “I swear—” he glanced up at the night sky “—as God is my witness, I will in no way influence anyone’s decision to give you a shot at the anniversary performance. The Minister of Entertainment is in town for a couple of days to check out potential acts for the gala. All I’ll do is invite him to the Starlight Room; then we’ll see what happens after he’s heard you sing.” His smile widened. “You know me, Betts—I only use these powers of mine for good, not evil.”

  Betsy raised a quizzical eyebrow. “Really?”

  Warren patted the pockets of his tuxedo. “Well, I don’t have my Bible with me,” he mumbled, “but I am telling you the truth.”

  Betsy stared at him for a moment, then walked over to a nearby park bench and sat down; the wood felt wonderfully cool against her legs. Hunched forward, elbows placed on her knees, she rested her chin in the palms of her hands to think.

  He was right—performing for the Emperor on a worldwide telecast would be a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity. She’d be an utter fool to pass it up, even if Warren went back on his promise . . . which she half expected him to do, anyway. It was just that, when one came right down to it, she had always been reluctant to accept help from anyone—family, friends, even lovers. It made her feel beholden to them, even if they expected nothing in return for their actions; made her feel as though she were incapable of achieving her goals on her own. And Warren was no exception.

  Still and all, it was the Emperor. And three billion TV viewers . . .

  “All right,” she said at la
st. “I’ll do it.”

  Warren clapped his hands. “Excellent!” He strode over and helped Betsy to her feet, then embraced her. “But it’s all going to be up to you, hon. I’m just gonna take a seat in the back and watch.”

  Suuuure, you will.. . Betsy thought, her chin happily resting on his shoulder. But she didn’t mind at all.

  “Warren?” she said softly.

  “Yes?” he asked.

  “Do you really consider me the most beautiful woman in the world?”

  Taking a step back, Betsy smiled wickedly as she stared at her lover. Her eyes narrowed, daring him to change his earlier comment.

  “Well... sure,” Warren slowly replied. “With the exception of Claudia Schiffer, of course.” He started to look away, then paused. “And Cindy Crawford.” A boyish grin slowly spread across his face. “And—” He tapped the side of his head with the knuckle of one finger, as though trying to shake loose a hidden memory. “What was the name of that cute little red-headed waitress in Glasgow . . . ?”

  The scarlet lips that playfully covered his mouth to silence him soon made him forget about any woman but the one in his arms.

  2

  MORNING IN America—and another work day for the citizens of Washington, D.C.

  _ At Union Station, the first trains were arriving, full of high

  school students—and their teachers—excited about leaving behind the familiar surroundings of their New York and Philadelphia and Boston neighborhoods for an opportunity to tour the district that had become home to the undisputed leader of the world. Government employees hurried to their jobs at L’Enfant Plaza and Federal Center and Judiciary Square, while tourists lined up to visit Ford’s Theatre and the Smithsonian Institute and the Jefferson Memorial. On The Mall—the expansive parkscape that stretches from the Capitol building in the east to the Lincoln Memorial in the west—Parks Department workers moved across carefully-tended fields of green in small hover-vehicles; from the bottom of the craft, whirring blades dipped down to trim the grass to a uniform height, while water and nutrients were pumped directly into the soil from large drums built behind the drivers’ seats.