“Use of power, son. Use of power is everything!” Rafe Bradford exhorted. But Craig’s thoughts were still on his wife.

A hand whipped around Sonia’s waist, dragging her close for a friendly peck. Her aquamarine eyes turned the identical shade of emerald of her dress. Sonia was made on affectionate lines, and affection offered freely was one thing; a stolen touch was another. She treated Ferrel Romnay to a stare that would have frozen Popsicles on a ninety-degree day, and to hell with Romnay’s banking influence.

Craig did his best to smother a grin, as well as to swallow the urge to turn the man’s nose inside out. Sonia could take care of herself. She’d told him so a thousand times.

Craig controlled an inner wince as John Smith and his wife crossed Sonia’s path. Perhaps they would discuss the weather? But no, Sonia had taken Ferona Smith’s March For Clean Air as a personal attack on Craig. Sonia had a low tolerance for professional do-gooders who took up causes without doing their homework on them first. As she warmed up to the subject, her skin took on the flush of coral, and her chin tilted just that little bit upward.

His wife, Craig thought idly, certainly wasn’t shy. She undoubtedly knew more of the people at the conference than he did-because of her bubbly friendliness in most instances. She had to be one of the most spectacularly beautiful women…

“Hamilton?”

Craig’s eyes pivoted directly back to the former senator’s. “I’m sorry. Sir?”

“You’ve been kind to listen,” the older man said gruffly, and motioned in Sonia’s direction with a sparkle of humor in his tired gray eyes. “Perhaps, though, you ought to go over there and rescue your better half?”