by Radclyffe
“Yes?”
Cam took a deep breath, wishing she did not have to ask. “I’d like you to reconsider the race on Sunday. I’d like you not to go.”
Blair stiffened, the pencil finally stilling. “I have to go. I’m the keynote speaker.”
“Would you consider just arriving for the speech, but not racing?”
Blair put her sketchpad aside and turned on the bench until she was fully facing Cam. For the first time, she looked directly into her face, directly into her eyes.
“This event is more than political. This is personal.”
Understanding all too well, Cam nodded. Sunday was the annual Race for the Cure, a huge fundraiser for the treatment of breast cancer. Blair’s mother had died of the disease when Blair was nine years old. Cam understood what it was to lose a parent. “I’m asking you, recommending it strongly to you, that you do not run in the race.”
“Why are you asking me this?” Blair knew that Cam could not order her not to race.
Cam hesitated before answering. It was her job not only to guard Blair physically but also to give her some semblance of normality, as ironic as that appeared on the surface of things. She didn’t want to worry her unnecessarily. That’s what she was getting paid to do—the worrying.
She didn’t intend to tell her that the event was a security nightmare. That even coordinating with New York City police and the transit police, and putting agents physically with Blair along the race route, left Blair about as unsecured as she could be. Under any circumstances, the race would have been difficult. Now, with the threat that Loverboy posed, securing it was nearly impossible.
Perhaps I could go to the director of the Secret Service and request that he contact the president’s security director—try an end run around Blair and get someone higher up to order her not to run. But Cam knew damn well that if anyone ordered Blair not to participate in anything, let alone something as important to her as this, they could expect her to do exactly the opposite. And probably lose all hope of any cooperation whatsoever.
She hedged her answer and tried for a hint of levity. “I’m not sure I can run fifteen miles.”
“I need to do this,” Blair stated calmly. “Besides, I’ve seen you run, Commander. You can handle the distance quite well. I’ll be fine.” She couldn’t stop herself from adding, “And I’ll enjoy your company.”
Cam was silent a moment, considering the options. This was the reason that personal relationships were discouraged. She couldn’t think clearly because she cared about what her decisions might do to Blair. She was afraid that she might care more about Blair’s feelings than about her safety, and that kind of involvement undermined her position and her authority. Worst of all, it impaired her judgment. She cursed under her breath, then acquiesced. “I hope to hell that Stark can make it, too, because we both need to go with you.”
“Thank you,” Blair whispered, knowing that Cam had relented against her better judgment. She touched her hand briefly in appreciation. “It will be all right,” she said, wishing somehow that were true.
Chapter Eight
Cam knew that she should go. Blair had sought privacy and peace in a quiet corner of this tiny sanctuary, and Cam had brought danger and uncertainty into it. For the first time that she could recall, she resented her job.
“I’m sorry I had to bring that up,” she said, surprising them both. “I should leave you to your work.”
“You don’t have to be sorry. And you don’t need to leave.”
Before Cam could even think to say anything, her earphone crackled to life. She turned her head slightly away, listening. Her mood turned grim, but she kept her voice completely uninflected as she spoke briefly into the tiny microphone attached to her wrist.
“Send him in, then.” Turning again to Blair, she explained, “It seems we have company.”
Blair looked past Cam across the tiny park as a large man hurried toward them. “This would be the FBI, I presume,” she noted, a look of faint repugnance on her face.
In spite of the situation, Cam laughed. “Very observant, Ms. Powell. Perhaps you should consider a future career in intelligence.”
“Believe me, Commander, by this time I can recognize every branch of our esteemed intelligence agencies by the cut of an agent’s suit and the arrogance in their walk.” Blair smiled faintly, but there was no laughter in her eyes. “At least the Secret Service has always been polite.”
“Ms. Powell.” The burly man pointedly ignored Cam. “I’m Special Agent in Charge Patrick Doyle, Federal Bureau of Investigation. I wanted to meet you in person since I’ll be spearheading your security detail until such time as we have apprehended the UNSUB.”
Blair saw Cam go rigid beside her and said very coolly, “Mr. Doyle, my security is a matter for Commander Roberts. If you have something to relay to me in that regard, I suggest you do it through her. One daily briefing is all I can tolerate.”
She gathered her sketchpad and drawing pencils and stood abruptly, forcing Doyle back a step. She glanced at Cam, whose expression was most likely unreadable to Doyle, but she saw the hint of laughter in her eyes. She smiled gently at her and turned to go. “I’ll leave you two to sort out your territory.”
Patrick Doyle turned on his heel and watched the president’s daughter walk away. A muscle stood out in his jaw as he ground his teeth. When he faced Cam again, his fury was tinged with contempt and condescension. “She doesn’t know what’s good for her. I suppose you think you do?”
Cam stood, and when she did, she was nearly eye to eye with him. “I don’t pretend to know what’s good for Ms. Powell, but I can assure you of one thing. I know precisely what’s good for her security. I can also advise you that if you have any suggestions or recommendations regarding that matter, you bring them to me. That’s the chain of command, and I suggest you follow it.”
He moved forward a step, trying unsuccessfully to force her back. Their chests were almost touching.
“Listen here, Roberts,” he growled, his face livid. “You get in my way on this thing, and there just might be a little leak to the media about what you like to do in your off hours, and who you like to do it with.”
“We’ve been down this road before, Doyle,” Cam responded, her eyes never leaving his. “You’re wasting your time.”
“The directors in DC might not think so if your activities happen to involve the president’s daughter.”
“Doyle, you really are a fool if you think you can take on Blair Powell.” She smiled at him, a thin smile, cold and hard as granite. “She’ll have you for lunch.”
Ignoring his bluster, she stepped lightly around him and walked out of the park the way she had come.
She glanced across the street, thinking that Blair was probably already secure back in her apartment. It crossed her mind to go after her, and then she stopped abruptly when she recognized the reason. She missed her already.
Nine stories up, Blair leaned against the window frame, staring down at Cameron Roberts. Her security chief was standing just outside the gates of the park, her hands in her pockets, one shoulder braced against the stone pillar that marked the entrance to the square. Patrick Doyle stormed through the gate and passed her without a word.
She looks so tired. Blair could only imagine how difficult it must be for Cam to deal with the FBI presence. She’d been around politics all her life, and she knew that interagency power struggles were vicious, and self-interest paramount. Often, in their eagerness to advance their own positions, agents lost sight of their objective. She had no doubt that Patrick Doyle cared a great deal less for her personal safety than for his own desire to be the one to apprehend Loverboy. She wasn’t foolish enough to think that she really mattered to him, and she didn’t care.
She knew—more importantly, she felt—that to Cameron, she did matter. She'd felt that caring the first time Cam walked into the loft and made it clear that she would do her job, but that she’d try to make it tolerable for Blair. Most
importantly, she’d seen it manifest in horrific detail the day Cam had stepped in front of her and almost died from the bullet meant for her. She didn’t want Cam standing in front of her for any reason, but certainly not for a reason that could cost Cam her life.
God, I don’t want to see that again. Why couldn’t you just have told him no?
She’d wondered the same thing a hundred times, but she knew the answer. Cam hadn’t accepted this assignment just because the president of the United States had requested her. She’d taken the assignment because that was what she did. That was who she was. Some part of Blair could respect that. Some part of her could even understand it. But knowing it and understanding it did not change what she felt. She resented that she needed protection from anyone, but at least she had made some form of peace with that. She didn’t want or need it from Cameron Roberts.
What she did want from her was the one thing she had given up hoping for, or had simply stopped looking for, in another human being. Cam touched her in some deep place that others never imagined existed, and that’s what she so desperately needed. Cam didn’t try to tell her to accept her circumstances or be grateful for her privilege, as so many others before her had. She was equally oblivious to Blair’s status, a welcome respite from the solicitous attentions of so many. Most importantly, Cam understood her anger and forgave her fury.
Blair watched her walk around the corner toward her own apartment building, and after a moment, she turned back to her empty loft. Seeing Cam, being as close to her as they had been just moments before, had left her restless and edgy with the low throb of desire. It always seemed to happen when they were anywhere near each other. She didn’t want to feel it, and she didn’t want to think about it.
Her gaze fell on a large oil canvas, and she studied it critically from across the room. She didn’t consider the details at first, but rather the gestalt, the sense of it. She felt it, rather than saw it. Slowly, after a minute or two, she focused her attention on the elements of the painting—the colors, contrast, and movement of the eye over the images. By the time she’d advanced from the window to stand in front of her work, contemplating what she needed to do with it, her mind was clear, and briefly, her heart was free.
Cam was happy she had decided not to go after Blair. It was much safer to run—safer than seeing Blair again so soon. It had been the same since the first time she’d met with her, this rebellion of her body in the face of good sense. She was aware of it now, in the simmering tension that ran along the tendons and the muscles and the nerves in her legs, twisting through her like a starving beast. She knew what it was; she’d felt it for months before she had finally relented.
Being with Blair hadn’t blunted the urgency, touching her hadn’t lessened the wanting, making love with her had not muted the desire. She could feel Blair’s skin hot under her hands and the hard beat of her under her lips. She could taste her still.
There were other ways to deal with the body’s demands—safe, simple, unencumbered ways. Pleasant, mutually satisfying, emotionally secure ways. She was reminded of Claire’s note, left for her to find after their last night together.
If ever you need...anything, call me. C.
Cam tossed her jacket on the bed, shrugged out of her shoulder harness, and began unbuttoning her shirt. Yeah, right, she muttered, stripping down to her briefs and pulling shorts and T-shirt from a drawer. Simple.
She wasn’t certain any longer that Claire’s admittedly talented ministrations could assuage the hunger. Still, physical desire—that was something she could deal with, one way or the other. But it was more than just the wanting, and that was the problem. It was the aching in her heart that tormented her.
Blair didn’t just arouse her, she also awakened her. Every emotion so carefully stilled came roaring back to life when she thought of her. Blair’s ferocious will stirred her senses even as Blair’s tenderness, so invisible to others, comforted her. Blair made her nearly mad with frustration yet soothed her with the barest of touches. She devastates me with a smile. God, I miss her.
She exited her building and hit the pavement running, desperate to stop thinking. She just needed a few weeks to assess the seriousness of the threat to Blair. Once she had access to all the available intelligence, she could turn over more of the day-to-day security to Mac. Maybe then, she and Blair could talk; maybe then, they could...
What? We could what? Carry on an affair under Doyle’s nose? Risk Blair’s privacy and the president’s public image with a backroom love affair that the media would make into tabloid headlines? Perfect. Great idea, Roberts.
She pounded steadily along the East River, although the scenery barely registered. All she could think about was the look in Blair’s eyes when she’d told her that she was commanding the security detail again. I hurt her.
Knowing she’d hurt her, seeing it in her face, was harder than anything she’d ever had to bear. Even harder than when Janet had died, because then, and for months after, she’d just been numb.
Mercifully numb. Frozen with the senselessness, the stupidity, the guilt. She should have known about the raid that morning. It was her job to know those things; it was her responsibility to know those things.
But she had not been part of the plan. Despite the fact that she and her team had been investigating the same splinter faction of cocaine dealers as the other agencies, the DEA had orchestrated the entire scenario that morning. The ATF and the Secret Service had only been informed of the impending maneuver at the last minute. By some all too common breakdown in the local-federal law enforcement communication lines, no one had realized until too late that the DC Metropolitan police had an undercover narcotics agent inside the warehouse where the exchange of very authentic counterfeit money for a huge cache of drugs was to take place.
Janet had already been on site when the assault began. The sting operation had gone bad almost from the beginning. A lookout no one anticipated had seen the armored cars approaching and radioed the Colombians in the building where the buy was going down. The men inside had been heavily armed and prepared to defend themselves. Shots had been fired as soon as the battering rams cracked the wide double doors. Janet had been directly in the line of fire.
Cam had gone inside right behind the first wave of tactical officers. The air had been heavy with the smell of cordite and thick with the sounds of screaming—orders, curses, cries of agony. Janet had taken one of the first bullets and was down before Cam shouldered her way past the splintered remains of the reinforced doors. By the time she reached her, Janet was almost gone. She’d held her, called her name, begged her to hold on. She would never be certain how to interpret the look in Janet’s eyes those last few seconds as the spark slowly faded. She couldn’t help thinking that it had been an accusation.
If it was, I deserved it.
She ran into Central Park, sweat pouring from her face, oblivious to the cramps beginning in her thighs or the faint ache behind her eyes.
I should have known. I should have protected her.
Chapter Nine
At 0700 Sunday morning, Cam waited in the lobby of Blair’s apartment building along with Stark and Savard. She had sent Mac on ahead to coordinate the details in Prospect Park and to advise the commanders of the municipal security teams that she wanted to meet with them personally before the start of the race.
The New York City Transit Bureau would station squadrons of officers in the subway system, the New York Police Department would provide security along the race route, and the mayor’s detail would be on the speaker’s platform where he, Blair, and others would address the public at the completion of the race. It was standard operating procedure for the Secret Service to coordinate all the security forces whenever a high-level protectee was making a public appearance.
Cam was sifting through the details in her mind when the elevator door opened and Blair entered the lobby. She was dressed for the run almost identically to Cam—a light nylon windbreaker over a T-shirt, running sho
rts, and shoes. She had caught her hair back at the base of her neck as she usually did for public outings, substituting a length of dark ribbon for the customary gold clasp. Her light make-up was superfluous on a face made for the camera. Even her attitude was different—she walked quickly, purposefully, with barely a glance at her surroundings.
She, too, had a job to accomplish, one she had been performing in her mother’s absence for over fifteen years. She was the reigning queen of her father’s dynasty and often accompanied him to state affairs or represented him when the social circumstances required it. Today, she was appearing as the president’s daughter, and although the role was not always comfortable for her, it was one she knew well.
When she saw Cam, she hesitated briefly. They smiled at each other, forgetting for a moment that there was anyone else in the room. It was one of those automatic responses that neither of them could prevent, that brief surge of pleasurable recognition that was beyond volition or better judgment.
In an instant, their smiles disappeared, and they greeted one another formally.
“Good morning, Ms. Powell,” Cam said as she turned and walked beside her, Stark and Savard falling in on either side.
“Commander.” Blair nodded quickly and continued toward the front door without breaking stride again. Per routine, Stark held the door open, and Cam went through just slightly ahead and to the right of Blair. Cam hesitated fleetingly at the sidewalk as she looked up and down the street and then across the park, just as she had the day the shot was fired. It was so subtle that no one except another agent would have noticed. No one else except Blair.
She was always acutely aware of the way Cam positioned herself between her and any potential threat, even when they just walked down the sidewalk together. In this particular location, she would never lose that involuntary instant of stomach-churning fear.
