by Julie Miller
DINNER HAD BEEN a creepy affair, with five-star food and stilted conversation. Afterward, Margery excused herself to go to bed. Ross made a promise to talk to Whitney as soon as the mysterious call he kept referring to came in. He and Warren went to Warren’s office to work on tomorrow’s speech. The guards left to eat in the kitchen, and Alysia began cleaning up.
Whitney said her good-nights and headed up the stairs. But she had no intention of hanging out in her room.
She still hadn’t put on her shoes, so she was able to move around the house without a sound. She saw Margery close her door, found Alysia on a cell phone in the kitchen talking to her family. The two guards were just starting their main course. And the senator and Warren were deep in conversation.
Whitney wasted no time returning to the study. She didn’t know how to pick a lock, but she did understand the rudimentary idea behind a crowbar. This time, when she picked up the letter opener, she jammed it between the drawer and the desktop and pried the damn thing open. The small chip of wood that splintered off wasn’t noticeable unless you looked at the drawer straight on, and somehow she didn’t think the senator spent as much time crawling around the desk on his hands and knees as she did.
She wasn’t sure what she’d expected to find inside, but maybe something more suspicious than a couple of file folders marked Correspondence and a box of computer disks. She was still new at this spy business, and since she didn’t know exactly what to look for, she skimmed through each folder.
The letters were copies of responses to lobbyist requests, and personal letters to business associates asking for campaign contributions. Nothing in particular jumped out at her so she moved on to the computer disks, all the while keeping an eye on the clock and the door. She’d allowed herself thirty minutes this time. There were scads of dishes to wash, lots of food to eat—and the senator liked to talk.
“Why can’t there just be a file marked Black Order?” Whitney asked herself. “Because Weston isn’t a stupid man,” she answered her own question. “But he does have an ego. Wouldn’t he want proof of his great work?” Though she kept her voice at a whisper, she deepened the pitch to mock Weston’s pompous tone. “How I saved America single-handedly.”
Montana.
Well, it wasn’t as obvious a title as Deal with the Devil, but it made more sense to her than any of the account disks she’d seen thus far.
She checked the closed door once more and turned to the computer. Just maybe…
The ding the computer made when she booted it up rang through the room like an alarm bell. Whitney jumped back in the chair, then lurched forward, hugging herself around the monitor. Her panicked response came too late to muffle the sound. When her pounding heart receded enough for her to hear her thoughts again, she shook her head at her foolish reaction. “Must be a trick to that, too.”
With the computer up and running, she slipped the disk in and scrolled through the menu. Names of towns, mostly—Helena, Butte, Livingston. A few she didn’t recognize—Wayne, Vogel. And then she saw a file that caught her eye Sons and Daughters of Montana.
Could that be anything other than the militia group the Black Order had supplied with weapons and explosives?
She’d filed a dozen reports on that mission herself. The potential for discovery hummed in her veins.
Whitney clicked on the file. A list of names. She recognized the group’s leader, Joshua Neely. She scrolled down and found Charlie Korbett. Wasn’t that Court’s brother-in-law?
When she clicked on the next page, the humming stopped. A cymbal-clanging brass band started up inside her as she focused on one tiny asterisk and the name beside it.
Court Brody.
Beside Court’s names were three capital letters. FBI.
And underneath, the words second installment—pd.
“Oh my God.” Her first words were little more than a thought. “Oh my God.”
Proof.
She slipped her fingers into the hair at her temple and raked it over the top of her head.
She’d found proof.
Ross Weston knew Court Brody had been with the FBI. Someone had tipped that bit of information to the militia and blown his cover.
“Oh my God.”
Now what? Did she look for more? Was this enough?
“Warren, if the kids want to come up to me afterward, let them come. We’ve scheduled two hours, and the speech is short.”
“Kids don’t vote, Senator.”
“Their parents do.”
The conversation in the hallway ended Whitney’s speculation. She was getting good at this scrambling-to-hide part. She shut off the computer and grabbed the disk, then straightened the contents of the drawer and closed it.
The doorknob turned. Damn. Didn’t anybody around here believe in privacy?
She searched for a pocket to hide the disk, but the clingy dress had none. Her shoes? Too far away. With the incriminating disk burning her hands, she hid it in the only place she could think of that wouldn’t show.
By then it was too late to run, too late to hide.
“Whitney? I thought you’d retired for the evening.” Senator Weston closed the door behind him and turned the lock with an ominous click. “What are you doing in here?”
Chapter Eleven
Standing with her back to the door bought her a few precious seconds to cross her arms and reach up to pinch some color back into her cheeks.
How did she explain why she was hanging out in his study? And more importantly, what excuse did she come up with for being at his desk?
Her knee butted up against his overstuffed leather swivel chair. Whitney clamped down on the inside of her lip. It wasn’t much of an idea, but it was the best one she had.
She plopped down into the chair and spun around, arms outstretched, head tipped back, legs snugged together in the most ladylike fashion. She was appropriately flushed and breathless when she stopped herself. “I can’t believe all this is yours.”
The double play of flirty innocence and admiration of his wealth fed into the man’s weak spot—his ego. The suspicious frown on his face softened into a self-effacing smile.
“Well, it’s nothing like your parents’ estate, but it gives me the roomy feel of Big Sky Country.”
“Don’t be so modest. I know this isn’t the only property you own. I’ve been to your home near Mount Vernon. Remember?”
He unbuttoned his suit jacket and stuffed one hand into the pocket of his slacks with the panache of a sixty-year-old GQ model. “Ah, yes. That was the environmental bill we were putting through that weekend, wasn’t it?”
She’d been editing the document and lining up key support from lobbyists and fellow senators. He’d been lounging by the pool and taking long lunches. Though she refused to put on a swimsuit and join him, he’d insisted she and another aide work outside with him. The sunshine had freckled her skin, and his laissez-faire attitude had riled her temper.
She’d earned a pair of Kennedy Center tickets with that project.
What a naive, idealistic fool she’d been.
No more.
Tonight she had to beat the senator at his own manipulative game.
She ran her fingers along the top of the desk, admiring the fine wood and working up the nerve to lie through her teeth. “I always enjoyed working for you.”
Whitney almost scooted away from the purposeful stride that carried him across the room. He spun the chair to face him and leaned over her, bracing his hands over hers on either arm of the chair. “There is something between us, isn’t there?”
She cringed beneath his searching eyes. She was covered in cashmere from neck to wrist and down to her knees, but those bright blue eyes made her feel exposed. The plastic disk wedged against her thigh suddenly felt like metal on fire.
“I’d better go.”
She tried to stand, but Ross refused to back away. If anything, his face moved closer to hers. Whitney pressed her back into the chair, buying herself as
much breathing room as she could.
“I’m so sorry you got caught in the scandal. I know it was hard for you.” Surely this wasn’t an apology. “But we weathered it just fine. Didn’t damage my ratings in the polls one bit. You know, it hurt me, too, to see you suffer. But maybe it was all for the best. You’re here with me now.”
In what way was humiliation in front of an entire nation for the best?
She had to get out of there before her gag reflex kicked in and she told him how she really felt. “Ross, it’s getting late. I really should be turning in.”
He took her hand and pulled her to her feet. “My power is about to skyrocket,” he promised as if it mattered to her. If she thought he was merely helping her up, she was mistaken. His fingers tightened around hers and he led her to one of the matching leather sofas. “I want you to be a part of that again.”
Whitney frowned in confusion. “You want me to come back to work for you?”
Ross pulled her down at his side. His left hand settled on her knee. Alarm bells went off in Whitney’s head. How friendly would the senatorial scumbag want to get before he let her go?
“I want you…” His significant pause was emphasized by sliding her skirt up her leg, leaving nothing but silk stocking between her knee and his hand. “…to be at my side.”
Whitney crossed her legs, escaping his hand and protecting the disk from any further forays. “Do I understand you correctly?”
He twisted then, laying his left arm across the couch behind her shoulders. “You could be first lady.” He kept moving closer and Whitney lifted her hand to his chest in an automatic gesture of self-defense. His right arm settled across her lap and he put his lips right up to her ear. “You’d like that, wouldn’t you?”
His hot, moist breath swirled around the cup of her ear. She squeezed her eyes shut against the sickening stroke of his tongue on her lobe. But when his hand moved to cup the outer curve of her thigh, her eyes shot open.
A sharp jab to his nose or Adam’s apple would get him off her.
It would also completely blow her cover.
That left her words. She flattened both hands against his chest in a mild protest. “Ross, we shouldn’t.”
“No. Not yet. Not right away. But in a few years’ time, no one will notice. I’ll put you where you belong. Right by my side.” His hand moved higher, hiking her skirt with it. His thumb slipped to the inside of her thigh. Another inch and he’d find a stab of hard plastic instead of soft woman.
Pushing hadn’t worked. Protests hadn’t worked.
Whitney swallowed her pride and turned her mouth to his. Surprised by the bold gesture, Ross smiled against her lips. It was a smug smile of triumph that made the kiss all about him as he took what she offered.
Distracted by her response, Ross allowed her to push his hand away from dangerous territory. Instead, he loomed over her, forcing her back into the cushions, grinding his mouth against hers. Her nostrils filled with the stench of his expensive cologne. She tasted brandy on his tongue as he forced his way inside.
A flare of out-and-out panic erupted in Whitney. She stiffened her arms and shoved at his chest. “Ross—”
He lifted his head as if he’d been struck. But his body still pinned hers against the sofa. Caught beneath a glare of predatory displeasure, Whitney hurried to soften her rejection.
“It’s a tempting offer, but—”
“But what? I’m offering you the world. In time.”
He made it sound as if he was doing her a favor. The arrogant, groping bastard!
A bit of the fire that had convinced her to go after Weston in the first place creeped in and replaced the icy chill in her veins.
“If you want me, you’ll have to earn my father’s approval.” Ross’s eyes narrowed at the mention of Gerald MacNair, Sr. “And he would never support a candidate who has been linked to terrorists. This afternoon, on your front porch, I saw you wrap up a deal with Dimitri Chilton. How do you explain that?”
“I made a deal to save your life.”
“Behind the government’s back?”
The hand that had trapped her from behind moved around her shoulders and settled at the base of her throat. For a moment, she thought he meant to strangle her. Whitney held her breath, afraid to look away from his eyes, afraid to move, afraid to stay.
But then, with something like an indulgent laugh, he pulled away entirely and stood. He straightened his vest and buttoned his jacket, donning his good ol’ boy persona. Whitney sat up and slid away from him. She picked up her shoes and started to put one on. Then the idea to clench it in her fist and brandish it as a weapon should he put the moves on her again seemed to make better sense.
The man she had feared moments ago vanished behind a polished white grin. “What if I told you that I’ve rid this country of the Black Order?”
“They’ve been killing people across the state for the past three months. How—?”
“Tomorrow night, at Livingston High School auditorium, I will be giving a speech that will guarantee me the White House.” He puffed up with arrogance and pride. “I’ll tell the country that I, Ross Weston, have saved America for Americans.
“I did what no government agency could do. I ended the Black Order’s reign of terror.”
“What do you mean?”
He flashed his white teeth in a smugly triumphant smile. “The Black Order has been in the country for months. An insidious little foray across the Canadian border at first. But their threat has grown. They brought hit men. Insurgents. They’ve tried to destroy our superior way of life.” He paced the room, taking stage even though she was his only audience. “These terrorists have tried to poison our water system. Blow up this state’s capitol. Influence our greatest scientific minds. They’ve murdered the men and women who make America the proud country she is.”
Whitney clutched her shoes tightly to her chest. The urge to put as much distance between herself and Weston was as strong as the desire to accuse him of being a greater threat to their country than the Black Order.
The proof of his collusion burned against her thigh and deep in her heart.
Though her stomach twisted into knots beneath the strain, she managed to keep her voice calm and even. “And what exactly will you tell the people at the rally?”
“That I saved them.” His blue-eyed gaze looked beyond her to some distant point in the past. “I saved you. I saved Governor Haskel. I saved my country.”
He shook his fist, and she could imagine his picture in the papers, on the TV screens, shaking that same fist, giving this well-rehearsed speech. The vision of this madman running the country was as unacceptable as the idea of surrendering democratic rights to the whims of a terrorist. Whitney stood and eased toward the door. His delusions of grandeur frightened her almost more than Chilton’s hands-on violence had.
Absorbed in his own glory, he didn’t seem to notice her eagerness to escape.
She didn’t get very far, though. There was a terse knock at the study door. Ross crossed the room to open it.
In the hallway stood Warren Burke. His perfect coiffure had a lock out of place. It fell across his forehead and pointed toward eyes that were bright with alarm. “There’s a call. You’d better take it.”
Was this the report he had mentioned earlier? The one that would explain his “arrangement” with Dimitri Chilton?
But apparently Whitney’s snooping was done for the day.
Ross grasped her shoulder and bent his head to press a kiss to her forehead. “Believe in me, Whitney.”
One of the security guards—Buck, she thought—materialized through a doorway and escorted her up to her room while Ross and Warren disappeared into Burke’s office.
WHITNEY TOSSED her shoes onto the bed, stripped her clothes en route to the shower and stood under the pounding spray until the water ran cold.
It seemed no amount of scrubbing and soaking could get the dirty feeling of Ross Weston’s hands off her skin.
She attacked her hair next. She picked up a big flat brush and ran it through her tresses. Every convenience had been provided for her—clothes, toiletries, makeup—almost as if she’d been expected.
“Oh no.” The brush clattered into the sink. “Oh no.” She clasped her hand over her mouth to stem the useless tears that burned sudden and hot behind her eyes.
He had been expecting her.
He hadn’t seized any opportunity by arranging for her release from Chilton. He’d arranged to have her kidnapped in the first place.
His own little prize. His own little trophy to ensure and celebrate his trip to the White House.
Anger welled up as quick and intense as her fear had. “You son of a bitch.”
She grasped the rim of the sink and leaned over it, her breath coming in short, stunted gasps. She concentrated on settling the retch in her stomach. She breathed in deeply through her nose, pursed her lips and exhaled a long-drawn breath of air. She needed to calm herself, she needed time to think.
That was when she became aware of the presence in her room. The skin-tingling sensation that she was being watched. And by something more wary, more intent than that glassy-eyed moose in Weston’s study.
Whitney sifted a fall of hair between her fingers and combed it back over her head as she straightened.
She saw him in the mirror first, a shadow among the shadows of her room. Big, brawny, dressed in black from head to toe.
With beautiful onyx eyes that glittered with a fierce emotion and reached across the distance to touch her very soul.
There were no words. He never used many to convey what he was feeling. He simply reached out to her.
