In Search of a Hero

Washington, DC: Part Four

Brennan couldn't prevent the twinge of disappointment when she arrived at the Treasury Department the next morning and found Booth absent. Nor could she prevent - - though she tried - - the way her head turned toward the door of her office at the slightest sound from the hallway. As the minutes crept by, she looked that way so often that her neck began to ache.

Angela provided some distraction, albeit unwittingly, with questions about Brennan's wardrobe and ever more pointed hints about the need for a shopping trip.

"I don't need new clothes," Brennan told her again, after another such remark. "I have a plethora of suitable choices."

"We all need new clothes," Angela retorted. Sitting on the other side of Brennan's desk working through a list of final questions, she flung her pencil aside and propped her elbows on the stacks of paper. "I miss pretty clothes," she sighed, resting her chin in her hands. "Remember how pretty things were before the war? Bias-cut satin . . . chiffon . . . fur trim . . . And the twenties! I used to hide backstage when I was little and my dad had to take me with him when his band played at speakeasies. The flappers knew how to dress! Sequins and bugle beads and fringe! Now those were clothes." She sat back with a frown and plucked at the collar of her dress. "Now all we have is buttons. Everything is so . . . straight. And tailored, like we're all in uniform."

Brennan glanced down at her own dress; although different from Angela's in pattern and material, the similarities were there in the narrow skirt and the lace-trimmed seams that shaped the bodice. "I suppose we all have to make sacrifices. Style seems to be a fairly easy one for those of us at home."

"Yeah, well, when the war is over, I say we go back to hoop skirts," Angela grumbled.

Brennan laughed at the obvious exaggeration. "And corsets?"

Angela pretended to consider it, then grinned. "Maybe not corsets, although I guess we're stuck with girdles. And considering that you can't find new ones in the shops anymore, I'm happy to save those for special occasions, too."

"Reserving the nation's rubber supply for the war effort is definitely an action I think we can all approve," Brennan agreed.

"Mmm. So, back to your wardrobe. How about something strapless?"

Seeing that Angela was not to be deterred, Brennan laid down her own pencil. "I don't think strapless is appropriate, do you? It's just dinner, and we are in the middle of a war."

"All the more reason to add a little glamour, if you ask me. How about something almost strapless? One of those little numbers with dropped shoulders?" Angela tapped her own shoulders and shimmied playfully. "You do have a waistlette, right?"

"Of course." The one-piece foundation garment served as a strapless bra and also covered the torso and hips, with garter clips attached for stockings.

"Good, that gives us lots of options. Now, let's talk about your hair . . ."

It was almost a relief when the phone rang, calling Brennan to the fifth floor for more discussions about her 'penny bonds' idea. When she stepped out of the stairwell and back onto the third floor some 45 minutes later, she knew immediately that Booth was there. Whether it was a faint scent of sandalwood lingering beneath the haze of cigarette smoke that filled the hallway, or some other, indefinable connection that linked them together, Brennan felt her pulse quicken as she drew nearer to her office. Aware of the speculative glances tracking her progress, she resisted the impulse to smooth her hair and her skirts and kept her face carefully blank as she passed through the outer lobby of the War Finance Office.

Her eyes found him immediately. He was half-sitting, half-leaning against her desk chatting with Angela but his dark gaze was trained on the doorway, as if he'd recognized her approach by the click of her heels against the floor. Her skin tingled in response to the seductive lure of his presence. The tip of her tongue darted out to moisten suddenly dry lips.