Cornelia was a long time answering. “I’ve never been anyone’s fantasy woman before.”
“Then, if you don’t mind my saying so, ma’am, every man you’ve met is an idiot.” He sighed. “Definitely including this one.”
“Sit down please, Mr. Feinman.”
After checking to see that she actually meant it, he settled slowly back into the chair.
“First, let us dispose of the question regarding the assistant speechwriter.”
That snapped his attention back to her, but he didn’t trust himself to speak. He’d just embarrassed himself in front of his team and now in front of her and she was pretending as if nothing happened.
“I suspect,” she still studied her tablet, “that the head speechwriter doesn’t approve of him much. I observe here that his speeches are relegated to the less critical staff and occasions.”
And I observe over there a handsome man who has just called me his fantasy woman.
No one had ever called her that. Her lack of allure was something she’d come to accept about herself. Her skills were in the workplace, not the bedroom. Her lovers never stuck. They arrived as often as she let them, but they consistently departed fast enough that there was no question who was the problem in the relationship—six-week average with a two-week first standard deviation. The outliers were a one-night mistake and a four-month data point that never should have occurred. She’d have cast out the latter except she hadn’t had that many relationships and without him her averages slid downward badly.
By staying focused on the White House speechwriters, she managed to control her reactions. Not only did the compliment move her, but also Damien’s instant and complete retraction. No, not retraction. He hadn’t unsaid his words, he’d merely apologized for them in a remarkably sincere way.
She really didn’t have time for “charming” at this moment in her life, but Damien Feinman absolutely was.
“Perhaps,” he tested her silence—which was a blessing as she had no idea what to say. “Perhaps you should find a better speechwriter.”
“Perhaps…” With the thought planted, it only took her a moment to recall a couple of speeches she had heard that indicated a great writer behind them. It only took her a few moments to think of who. When she did, it made her sigh.
“What’s wrong?”
“He’s a writer for the other party.”
“So? Does he want to be writing for the President of the United States? That’s the real question.”
“I’ll have to ask. Thank you, Damien.” It was a very good idea. And it was out of the box of too-easily accepted partisanship. She’d definitely have to remember that. Get out of the box.
“My pleasure, ma’am.” So, he was going to remain safe behind his formality. It wasn’t mere politeness. She could hear the Marine ingrained deep in him by both the Corps and his mother.
“Stepping back to the one-page concept,” she wasn’t yet ready to confront the main topic that still lay untouched upon her desk.
“Yes,” Damien cleared his throat and relaxed slightly. “The entire idea must be presentable in a single sheet. There can be and typically should be supporting documentation, but the core of it must be pared down to the essentials. Two pages at the very most, but push for one.”
“Perhaps I should require it to be double-spaced as well.”
Damien’s burst of laughter had her looking up from the tablet, which had long since blanked to save its battery.
She raised the Spock eyebrow at him again. Did Damien actually believe that she didn’t know about Spock? She’d had a crush on the half-Vulcan ever since her parents had introduced her to the classic Trek as a pre-teen. She’d felt like a traitor switching her allegiance from Nimoy to Quinto as an adult, but at least he was within a decade of her own age. Teasing a man was not in her standard repertoire, but Damien was so sure of himself that she was finding it difficult to resist.
“I like the evil way that you think,” Damien was slowly relaxing back into his chair. “I’d give them the single-spaced permission, but you’d best specify a minimum font size or you’ll go blind in short order.”
“Definitely,” she agreed. It was easy to share his smile on that. “As to the final point…”
Cornelia took a deep breath. She couldn’t think of the right way to confront it. The early December darkness had fallen even before they’d started and now it was well past time to leave. Janet had signaled from the door an hour ago that the President had returned to the Residence for the night and she was going home.
For her entire first week as the Chief of Staff she’d been avoiding Damien because…
Because she was attracted to him? He was a very attractive man, she’d have to be dead to not notice.
Perhaps she should go out of the box, the one she kept drawn so carefully about herself. She took a deep breath and decided to be brave.
“Damien. Do you have any plans for dinner?”
His face displayed a brief battle between surprise and delight.
When the latter won, she decided that perhaps she didn’t mind being someone’s fantasy woman. For as long as it lasted anyway.
Chapter Four
Damien had to struggle against being dazzled.
“Take me to your favorite place to eat.”
Had she said “restaurant” he’d have struggled to think of somewhere nice, but “to eat” had only one answer.
“It isn’t upscale or Californian or—”
“That’s fine.”
So, he’d taken her at her word. Ten minutes on the Metro and a couple minutes of chilly walking at either end didn’t seem to affect her in the slightest. Donning only a stylish but understated blue wool coat and thin black gloves, she appeared untouched by the freezing evening. Her scarf was a cheery knit in Christmas reds and greens; it gave her color and made her eyes and chill-reddened cheeks appear brighter.
He second-guessed himself all of the way to Molly Malone’s. The big oak tree out front had long since lost its leaves for the year, but it was so thickly strung with multi-colored Christmas lights that there seemed to be as many bulbs as there had been leaves. It lit the while stretch of sidewalk as if the tree were the shining Star of Bethlehem.
The moment Cornelia stepped through the door, she shouted out, “It’s perfect!”
“Glad you approve!” A gorgeous, urbanite, DC insider who thought a cozy pub was perfect place for dinner. What wasn’t to like.
Molly’s was the best Irish pub outside of Ireland. The brick walls dated back nearly as far as the Marine Barracks across the street—the oldest in the country. “Irish” decorated the walls—there was no other good word for it. Old cruise line posters, paintings of ships, photos of rambling greensward and rocky coasts, all capped by a massive picture of the mythical warrior-hero Finn MacCool. All of the trimwork was in rich woods that really did hearken back to the mother land—even for a third-generation Brooklynite like himself.
For the season, tiny live Christmas trees in pots had appeared on every available ledge and surface. Wreaths adorned the few open spaces on the brick walls, and painfully bright stars shaped from white neon lights only enhanced the normally gaudy atmosphere of the place.
However, he’d forgotten it was Friday night. The downstairs booths and bar were packed solid.
“You brought me to a Marine bar?” Cornelia leaned in close enough for him to hear her, smell her, practically feel the heat from her body despite her coat.
“I did.” He had. And once again he was second-guessing himself. The place was filled with them. “The Marine Barracks is directly across the street. Sorry, I wasn’t thinking.”
“You dare to bring a woman to a bar filled with Marines at their prime? You really are a brave man. Do you think I can find a handsome flute player to take me home?”
“I’ll snap his damned pipe if he tries,” Damien growled out, earning him a smile and a gloved hand tucked about his elbow. Of course she’d know that the Ma
rine Band was housed at the oldest Marine barracks in the country. The location selected by Thomas Jefferson himself when they were laying out the city. “Let’s try upstairs.”
And then he laughed aloud.
She looked at him quizzically but he just shook his head.
She had elicited exactly the response from him that she’d intended—a Marine-like snap and growl. The thing she probably didn’t understand, was that he meant it. Really meant it. He wasn’t merely feeling protective about Cornelia; he was feeling possessive. It wasn’t his place, but if another man tried to touch her, he’d have to be careful not to punch him. And wasn’t that the biggest joke of all. Damien Feinman, totally gone on a woman.
A table vacated just as they finished battling their way up the big staircase to the second floor. A quick dive and grab and they got it before anyone else.
He was just about to take her coat when a slap on his back knocked him into her. Only a quick hand against the brick wall and another around her waist kept them from both going to the floor.
“Look who crawled out from under his big white rock!” Mick was waving over a group of Marine Intelligence guys who must have arrived close behind them.
“What the hell are you doing here?” Damien tried to snarl it out but he was too busy focusing on letting go of Cornelia. His hand didn’t want to leave her waist. She might be impossibly lean, but he felt her strength as well. And so warm though her thin silk blouse. His hand had slipped inside both her coat and her unfastened designer jacket when he’d grabbed her.
“Training a bunch of plebes. Intel 101—Marine style—for Career Day. Here’s what we do. Come join us! Same old, same old. You know the drill.”
He did; it had worked well enough on him—eighteen and trying to figure out how to afford University of North Carolina at Chapel Hill’s stellar library program. Naval ROTC had paved the way. Doubling down on political science had been his golden ticket.
In moments his quiet dinner with Cornelia Day had turned into a free-for-all with the two of them trapped against the back wall as more and more people showed up. Soon there were seven of them at a table for four.
“Christ, Lady,” Brion looked at Cornelia. “What the hell is a looker like you doing with a loser like Damien? Please tell me you have more of a sense of humor than his usual pickups.”
Before Damien could leap to her defense, Cornelia planted an elbow on the table and her chin on her palm. He didn’t even know her spine unbent enough to be able to do that. It did leave him sitting just a little behind her and able to follow her shoulders’ lines. Very nice indeed.
“Maybe I should take the Fifth on that until I know more,” she faced them as smoothly as she did everything. “His usual lot?”
“Analysts,” Vaccaro joined in. “He’s got this wicked weak spot for analysts. Some are cute enough, but frankly boring as hell.”
“Tell us you’re not boring as hell.”
“Yeah. Or we’ll have to go find another table.”
Please! Damien thought loudly but was unable to get a word in edgewise around his friends. He checked on Cornelia, but she was giving no sign that any of this was bothering her.
“Naw, mate,” Caron leaned in. “Not an open table in the lot. ’Sides, you see any others as fine-looking as her to spend an evening with? No offense, ma’am. But you are a real pleasure to be sitting near.”
“You sure you’re with him?” Mick tipped his head toward Damien in disgust. “Any of us would be glad to show you what a real Marine is like.”
“A real Marine?”
She was answered by a chorus of, “Aye!” and “You betcha!”
“I don’t think so,” she sat up once again, ever so primly perfect. “I didn’t hear a single ‘ooh-rah’ in the bunch. So apparently, not a Marine in sight. What is a damsel to do?”
The guys all looked properly chagrined.
Damien burst out laughing and before he could stop himself, gave her a brief hug around the shoulders. She was amazing. And felt amazing.
“You’re incredible,” he whispered in the moment that she let herself tip into him.
“Didn’t get an ooh-rah from you either,” she whispered back.
“Librarian first. Marine second. But I’ll ooh-rah for you anytime you want.”
“So do it.”
“Ooh-rah!” He managed a good one before the laughter overtook him. It was echoed up and down the restaurant by any number of patrons. The call echoed from downstairs as well.
More importantly, she leaned into him a moment longer, before sitting upright once more. No woman, dressed or not, had ever felt so good in his arms.
“That sounds like my call!” A deep voice spoke from the head of the table.
Damien looked up then scrambled to his feet as did the other Marines. They all snapped sharp salutes even though none of them were in uniform. General Arnson returned it smartly.
“Crap! When a bunch of intel geeks salute me like it means something, makes me wonder if I’m getting old.”
Vaccaro found the general a chair and they all squeezed in tighter. It left Cornelia constantly bumping him from shoulder to hip. The turn of the corner on the other side kept her from nudging up against Brion.
“Ms. Day,” the general nodded. “Been hearing good things about you from my daughter.”
“Your daughter?”
“Sienna,” Damien prompted her.
She inspected the newcomer. If his daughter was National Security Advisor Sienna Arnson, that meant this distinguished gentleman was Brigadier General Edward Arnson. He headed up HMX-1, the helicopter squadron responsible for Marine One and the thirty other VIP transport and support rotorcraft. His reputation was beyond sterling.
“A pleasure to meet you, sir. I’ve traveled aboard your aircraft with the Vice President.”
She managed to keep her smile to herself as all of the others around the table looked at her in surprise.
“And you call yourselves Marine Intelligence,” the general sounded disgusted but his eyes gave away his amusement. “Not a one of you dolts thought to ask her name?”
“They didn’t,” she couldn’t resist rubbing it in. “Apparently I am merely ‘a looker’ who was picked up by a passing Marine because she couldn’t help herself around him.” She did her best to bat her eyelashes at Damien and had never felt so ridiculous.
He, however, looked very pleased with himself at the moment.
She rather liked that the others had sought him out and were willing to tease her. It said a great deal about Damien and the closeness he engendered in his friends. A skill she knew that she lacked but could definitely admire.
And teasing was not something she was used to. She’d taken the palm-on-chin pose from some movie, she couldn’t remember which one but it had been accepted. That she’d been able to give back as good as she got rather surprised her.
Damien slid an arm across the back of her chair as if staking his territory. Cornelia would have to see about him not getting too self-assured. She considered a gentle elbow in the ribs, but couldn’t think how to make it look normal rather than something from a self-defense class.
The general shook his head sadly at the state of affairs, doing only a moderate job of hiding his own smile.
“Day,” Brion twisted to her in surprise. “Cornelia Day? The new White House Chief of Staff?”
“A glimmer of light at last,” the general groaned.
“Holy hell, mate,” Caron smacked Damien hard on the arm. “Good on ya!”
“You see, Ms Day?” The general looked at her, a friendly smile lighting his face. “This is what they give me to work with. I wish you better luck with that one.” The gnarled finger that he pointed at Damien wasn’t threatening. Instead it was as if he was pointing out the best of poor choices.
She looked around the table and decided that if these were the “poor choices” then the Marine Corps was in awfully good shape.
“I need a beer,” the general gro
aned even more dramatically.
“Make it two and I’ll join you,” Cornelia replied with some bit of humor she hadn’t known she possessed.
“That’s a deal, Ms. Day. We’ll just leave the rest of this lot to fend for themselves.”
The meal had passed in a single breath.
Damien had breathed in a quick gasp anticipating total disaster when the others joined them, and breathed out several hours, a good meal, and a couple of pitchers later.
The general unwound enough, something Damien hadn’t seen in a decade of knowing him, to tell war stories. From being an eighteen-year-old hothead helo pilot in the last days of the Vietnam War, up to his nephew and niece-in-law flying for the Night Stalkers—the famed Henderson and Beale.
They’d discussed the latest non-classified intel over Guinness stew and Irish bangers. Russia being ever more rabid. The disasters of Southwest Asia overshadowing the disasters of the Middle East. As the meal progressed he could see more and more how his peers took to testing their ideas on Cornelia. She might not be a trained intel officer, but her insightful questions even had the general harrumphing a few times. Damien himself wasn’t surprised at all, yet more than once she forced his thinking down another layer with her questions.
Her questions.
“Do you have opinions of your own?” Damien wasn’t sure quite where that came from.
“Excuse me?” She sounded affronted. Some of the others looked askance at him as well.
“What I mean is, your questions are fantastic. You really make us think about our assumptions. But I’m not sure what Cornelia Day is thinking.”
“It’s not my place.”
“Not your place?” Caron nearly exploded. “Lady, if it’s not yours, then whose is it?”
“The President and the Vice President. Policy is not part of my job. My duties are to promote the success of the President’s agenda. No more. No less.”
Damien's Christmas Page 4
