Flowerbed of State

by Dorothy St. James

  Thatch turned toward me and raised his brows. “What happened?”

  I shrugged.

  Sure, I could’ve spilled my guts about what I’d done. But doing so would only make me look rather stupid and make Turner more upset with me than he needed to be. If he wanted to keep quiet about what happened, who was I to question him?

  Thatch continued to press his deceptively innocent silvery gaze on me. I think he’d missed his calling. He would have made an excellent interrogator. Even though I’d turned my attention to an overgrown concord grape vine growing up one side of the greenhouse doorframe, my skin felt itchy. I wanted to say something. I needed to say something.

  “There may have been”—I started to say when I couldn’t stand Thatch’s wide-eyed scrutiny a moment longer—“a landscaping timber—”

  “I’m fine,” Turner insisted. And as if to prove his health, he paced. Even though his foot had to be hurting, he managed to bear weight on it without limping. But it wasn’t without a cost. With each step, his jaw muscles grew tauter and tauter. His fingers curled into fists he held so tight that, as my Aunt Willow would say, he scared all the color out of his knuckles.

  “Sit the hell down, Jack, and get off that foot.” Thatch turned to me again. “I passed an ambulance on the way out. Did my agent at least let them take a look at him?”

  “He did,” I said, which earned me a glare from Turner that, I swear, had enough heat to incinerate the hair right off the top my head. Thatch hadn’t missed the look, either.

  “I think I don’t really want to hear the rest.”

  “Probably not,” I agreed and returned my attention to the grape vine. It was in dire need of pruning.

  “From the looks of it, our killer targeted Ms. Calhoun. He cut the power and phone lines to the facility,” Turner said, still on his feet. But at least he’d stopped that idiotic pacing. He shifted his weight off his injured foot.

  “Apparently, you’ve not been doing a very good job of keeping our witness out of trouble, Turner. Do I need to assign someone else to handle her?”

  “Excuse me? You assigned him to handle me?”

  “I meant no offense, Ms. Calhoun,” Thatch said smoothly. He smiled like a snake. I’d met less than a handful of people who’d rubbed me the wrong way. Today, I added one more name to that short list. But he was Turner’s superior and had the power to make his life and my life at the White House miserable. So I pressed my lips together and swallowed the hundred or more choice words begging to be said. He thought I needed a minder? Ohhhh . . .

  “As I was saying, Jack, do I need to assign someone else to take care of this”—he glanced at me—“delicate task?”

  Turner’s Adam’s apple bobbed as he swallowed deeply. The muscles in his jaw tightened again. “No, sir. Of course not, sir.”

  Thatch’s silver brows rose again. The older man tilted his head slightly toward me. “See that I don’t.”

  TURNER STUCK BY MY SIDE AS SPECIAL AGENT Cooper and Detective Hernandez questioned me at length. Not wanting to get Lorenzo into trouble—he had returned with the van after all—I remained vague about why Lorenzo had left.

  “And as soon as Mr. Parisi had gone on his errand, the electricity was cut off?” Cooper asked as he ran through the details for the third time.

  “It all happened in less than a minute.” The sun, deep red and large, sat low on the horizon.

  Richard had said he’d pick me up from my apartment at eight. I needed at least an hour to shower and put on some makeup, not to mention pick out an outfit to wear. It was stressful enough going out on a date after a long, dry spell. Add to it that I was dating a man who had a long-standing habit of dating gorgeous supermodels and actresses who draped themselves in the most expensive designer clothes. Knowing that didn’t help my self-confidence.

  “I need to clean up for the night. Would it bother you if I worked and answered your questions at the same time?”

  “This won’t take much longer,” Cooper assured. “But go ahead and do what you need to do.”

  The three men followed me into the greenhouse, where I found the pots and plants exactly as Lorenzo and I had left them earlier. I stacked empty planters while the two detectives fired questions at me.

  Turner, I was glad to see, had found a chair and was able to get his weight off his injured foot.

  By the time I’d finished straightening up, Cooper and Hernandez seemed satisfied that I’d answered all of their questions. Naturally they reminded me that they might call for follow-up questions as the investigation proceeded.

  Hernandez rubbed his grizzled, salt-and-pepper mustache and shifted uneasily. He put a fatherly hand on my shoulder.

  “Be careful, Casey. This guy has you in his sights and you don’t even know what he looks like. He could walk right up to you, and you wouldn’t know your life was in danger.”

  I hadn’t thought of it that way, and that worried me.

  I’d have to take extra care in the future. Not just for my own protection, but for the safety of those around me. Lorenzo could have been killed.

  “I’ll see you tomorrow morning, then,” I told Turner, who limped silently behind me as I headed back to the van. “I’m beginning to look forward to our meetings at the White House gate.” I reached for the van’s door handle.

  Turner put his hand on mine. “One of the Secret Service agents will return the van to the White House. I’m driving you home.”

  He tightened his grip as if bracing for an argument.

  “I’d appreciate that,” I said, which must have shocked him.

  When he didn’t let go of my hand, I gave his shoulder a nudge. “If you don’t mind, I’m sort of in a hurry.”

  ABOUT HALF AN HOUR LATER TURNER LEANED back in a kitchen chair and took a sip of the herbal tea I’d brewed for him. He looked at home in my kitchen.

  “You sure have a lot of plants.”

  “Occupational hazard,” I said while I rooted around in the pantry. Next to a half-empty bag of potting soil and below a stack of two-gallon pots, I found the first-aid kit Aunt Alba had given me the day before I’d left for D.C. She believed all Northern cities were festering pits of depravity. So she’d bought me the deluxe first-aid kit from Charleston’s last corner five-and-dime store.

  When I emerged from the pantry with the kit in hand, I’d noticed Turner’s expression had soured. He wrinkled his nose. “They look so harmless on the shelf up there.”

  “What does?” I followed his line of sight. “Oh, the peppers?” I’d built the glass plant shelves myself. They ran the length of the south-facing window above the sink. On the top shelf were my habaneras. They were a little bit leggy from having to reach for the winter sun, but they were producing a nice crop of spicy fruit.

  “They’re not even red.”

  “Not yet. Those aren’t ripe.” A few had turned light orange, but I liked to pick them when they took on a bright reddish-orange hue and the surface of the skin had wrinkled just a bit. That’s when this variety of pepper, in my opinion, was at its peak of potency.

  “And what do you have growing on the shelf beneath them, deadly nightshade?”

  “Close. Tomato seedlings.”

  I placed the first-aid kit on the kitchen table and dug around in its contents, searching for something that would help ease the soreness in Turner’s ribs and foot.

  He’d already turned down pain relievers.

  “Do we wrap the ribs?” I asked when I found an Ace bandage.

  “No. I’ll just ice it down when I get home.” He started to get up. All the color in his face drained away. He groaned and landed back in the chair with a thump.

  I groaned in sympathy. “Your muscles must have tightened up. Let me help you.” I found an ice pack in the back of the freezer. “If you drove home now, you’d probably end up getting in an accident.”

  He nodded and gritted his teeth.

  Since the temperature in the house was warm, he’d shed his flak jacket as soon as
he’d checked the apartment for signs of intruders. Underneath, he was wearing a black T-shirt that hugged his impressive muscles. Now I could have handed him the ice pack and let him place it where he thought it would do the most work. But the devil led me to mischief.

  I was being helpful—right, helpful—when I said, “I think we need to get your T-shirt off so I can inspect your injury.” As if I’d know what a broken rib would look like.

  “No offense, but I already have enough injuries thanks to you,” Turner protested.

  “I’ll be careful,” I promised.

  “No. I’m good. Really.”

  “Please, it’s obvious that you’re hurting, and it’s my fault.”

  The corner of his mouth tilted up. “You’re right. This is your fault. You ambushed me with that freaking log.” He pushed his chair away from the kitchen table and slid it around so it faced me. He spread his arms in mock surrender. “I guess you do owe me.”

  “Glad to know you can be reasonable.” I set the ice pack on the kitchen table and, straddling his legs, helped him pull his black T-shirt off over his head. Our hands brushed.

  Turner’s gaze locked on mine.

  I licked my lips and swallowed.

  His shirt slipped from my fingers and fell in an untidy pile on the tile floor.

  We both seemed to be holding our breath.

  “Casey? Casey, where are you? I know just the dress you should wear!” Alyssa shouted as she breezed through the apartment. She halted with one foot in the kitchen and one in the living room. Her eyes widened and then, after sweeping her gaze over Turner’s delightfully broad chest, widened even more. “I—I didn’t realize you were . . .”

  “I’m not,” I said, but jumped away from Turner as if I was guilty of . . . something. Which I wasn’t.

  Alyssa yelped and grabbed my arm. Her grip tightened as she pulled me toward the living room. She paused just long enough to take another hard look at Turner. Her frown deepened.

  “Who is that? And what are you doing with him?” she demanded in a harsh whisper as soon as she’d dragged me over to the far side of the small living room. “Didn’t you tell me you had a date with Tempting Templeton in”—she glanced at the ornate French Rococo clock on the mantle—“less than an hour?”

  “Oh! Is it that late? I should start getting ready.”

  Alyssa grabbed my arm again when I tried to escape.

  “You—you have a half-naked man in the kitchen!” She jabbed her finger toward the cased opening. “You were nearly sitting on his lap in the kitchen!” I wondered if she’d have made such a fuss if I’d hidden Turner in my bedroom.

  I wasn’t hiding him, because we weren’t doing anything wrong.

  “It’s not what you think,” I explained. “I was helping him.”

  “That’s exactly what I’m thinking.”

  “No.” I glanced over my shoulder to make sure Turner was still in the kitchen and then lowered my voice. “Remember the Secret Service agent I . . . um . . . sort of attacked in Lafayette Square?”

  “Is that him?” She hurried across the room to the kitchen and leaned through the cased opening. After a moment she wiggled her fingers in a demure wave. “He’s cute, really cute,” she said when she returned. “But that’s still no excuse. We’re talking about Tempting Templeton. He’s a powerful man, and you’ve already stood him up once. I wouldn’t risk crossing him twice. Who knows what he might do.”

  “Like cancel my credit card?”

  “Exactly.”

  I swallowed hard. “You don’t think he actually canceled my credit card, do you?”

  “Damn, I’d forgotten about that.”

  “I haven’t. That cranky bank representative couldn’t explain why they’d canceled my account. Perhaps Richard made some phone calls when he was stewing about why I’d missed our date.”

  “It’s possible. But then again, if he was that upset, why ask you out for dinner?”

  “A change of heart?” I suggested.

  Alyssa shook her head. “I don’t think he had anything to do with your credit card. But you do need to be careful around powerful men. Don’t give him a reason to want to destroy your career or your reputation. If you make the most of this opportunity, maybe Tempting Templeton will pull some strings and get you a new credit card with a fabulous interest rate.”

  “You’re right. I hadn’t thought of that.”

  “What’s the use of dating a banker if not to take advantage of some of the perks?”

  “Personality? Compatibility?”

  “And the fact that he’s so sexy he can charm the panties right off a woman just by looking at her?”

  “Oh yeah, that, too.” I giggled.

  “Now what are you going to do about hunk number two?” Alyssa hooked her thumb toward the kitchen. “You’ve got to get yourself upstairs and cleaned up or else you’ll be looking more like a pumpkin than a princess by the time your Prince Charming arrives.”

  “Oh goodness, I don’t even know what I’m going to wear!”

  “Don’t worry. As I was saying when I came in, I have the perfect dress you can borrow.”

  “Thank you!” I hugged her and started to dart up the stairs.

  “Don’t forget about the hunk you have stashed in the kitchen.”

  “I didn’t stash him—”

  “If you ask me nicely, I suppose I could take him off your hands for you.” She swished her hips in a suggestive manner.

  “It’s not what you think.”

  “He sure has nice, tight abs.”

  “I was helping him.”

  “I don’t think I’ve ever gotten a man to take off his shirt so quickly.”

  I blew out a frustrated breath. Alyssa wasn’t going to stop until she got it all out of her system. “I need to get in the shower. Please, just help him with his ribs. And don’t do anything else. No touching. No seducing. And absolutely no kissing.”

  “You’re no fun.” Alyssa swished her hips again.

  “I mean it, Alyssa. You need to leave him alone. I have enough trouble on my hands right now. Please don’t do anything that would make things between Turner and me any more . . . um . . . awkward.”

  “Said the one who’d peeled off his shirt,” she sang over her shoulder before disappearing into the kitchen.

  Chapter Nineteen

  BEFORE getting into the shower, I called to get an update on Lorenzo’s condition. “He’s home,” Gordon told me.

  I sighed a breath of relief.

  “He’s growling at me to leave. So I guess that means he’s feeling better. I plan on staying with him this evening and watching some TV. I’ll see you in the morning.”

  “Tell him that I’m thinking about him?”

  “I will, Casey. And Casey?”

  “Yes?”

  “Be careful. I don’t think my heart can survive anything else happening.”

  “I will. Thank you, Gordon.”

  Next, I called my family. All the major news channels had arrived at the greenhouses before Turner and I had left. And since I’d never known my grandmother to miss the evening news, I could guarantee that the mood at Rosebrook would be tense while my aunts and grandmother fretted over my safety.

  Tears welled in my eyes as I explained to my grandmother what had happened, assuring her that I was okay. I could clearly hear my lively aunts shouting advice in the background. Lord, how I missed them. I could have talked with them all night, but I didn’t want to keep Richard waiting.

  I spoke briefly with Aunt Alba—she offered all sorts of creative advice on how to disable a man—before Aunt Willow wrestled the phone away from her. As soon as I told Aunt Willow that I needed to get ready for my date, she hung up.

  About an hour later I descended the stairs feeling a bit like Scarlet O’Hara or Cinderella or perhaps a strange mix of the two women, strong but extremely lucky and more than a bit in over my head with Richard. My feet were stuffed into a pair of sling-back heels so high I felt like I c
ould touch the ceiling. The slinky black dress Alyssa had left lying on my bed hugged every curve and dipped low in the cleavage. Tugging at the shoulder straps only raised my breasts. It didn’t cover me more.

  My mother’s diamond and emerald necklace graced my throat. Heavy makeup hid the bruises still visible on my neck and temple. My lips glittered with cherry roses and my eyes shimmered in honey hues. Thanks to Alyssa’s styling prowess, romantic blond curls framed my face. I barely recognized myself in the mirror.

  Both a fully dressed Turner and a beaming Alyssa waited for me at the bottom of the steps. Turner’s hazel green eyes widened as I came to a stop in front of him.

  “You look . . .” His gaze swept slowly from my head all the way down to my toes.

  “Yes?”

  He gave his head a hard shake. “I’ve got to go.”

  “You could stay and have dinner with me,” Alyssa suggested, batting her long, black eyelashes.

  “No.” Turner grabbed the door handle and gave it a vicious yank. “Thank you, but no.” He rushed out of the apartment as if escaping one of Dante’s circles of hell.

  “What did you do to him?” I demanded as Alyssa and I watched Turner limp-hop down the front steps.

  Alyssa, smiling coyly, shrugged.

  Turner had just reached the bottom of the slate steps when a shiny black town car pulled up to the curb in front of the brownstone. As soon as it stopped moving, Richard’s assistant emerged from the driver’s side. After carefully scanning the area, he jogged up the steps.

  “Ms. Calhoun?” His deep voice rumbled low in his chest. “I’m Wallace Clegg, Mr. Templeton’s personal assistant.”

  “Is that what they’re calling bodyguards nowadays?” Alyssa whispered in my ear.

  I batted Alyssa away. “Yes, I remember you, Mr. Clegg. We met at the White House gate yesterday. It’s good to see you again.”

  “Did we meet before?” He looked me over from head to toe. “You’ll have to forgive me. I never remember faces.”

  “Some people don’t,” I said. But the other day Clegg had mentioned he thought he’d recognized me. Perhaps he was distracted this evening. Otherwise, I’m sure he would have remembered talking with me.