Where was Henderson now? Emily checked her watch. Twenty-four hours, almost to the minute, since he’d kissed her halfway around the world.
Ten a.m. there. Mark and her crew would be sleeping now. Sacked out for most of the day before rousting for dinner, flight briefing, and the night’s mission. While she sat here, parked on her butt, chilling it on Abe’s marbled front stoop.
Damn Henderson. She wanted his kiss; she just didn’t want him. Almost as much as she didn’t want to be here.
***
Okay, it was beyond stupid. Mark stared at a pile of breakfast he didn’t want in the officers’ mess aboard the carrier. Two hours from the base that reminded him constantly of her. Emily Beale had been gone a whole twenty-four hours, and Mark had already managed to estrange the best crew in the entire outfit other than his own.
Who knew what idiocy he’d think up next. Actually, he already knew what it was and couldn’t believe he’d fallen so far from any hint of common sense. But knowing he was about to fall past all redemption probably wasn’t going to stop him.
It was crew change for the carrier, and probably thirty guys were scattered at a dozen tables. He sat alone in the corner, staring at his tray of breakfast, contemplating his waffles and his pending stupidity.
Someone slapped him on top of the head.
He didn’t bother to turn. “Hey, Jim.”
The Mini Boss came around and dropped his own tray across the table from Mark.
“When did you get so dumb?”
“Born dumb.”
“You got that right, bro.” Jim began eating.
Mark played with his Belgian waffle, cutting it into individual squares with the side of his fork.
“You know, I had me this squirrel dog once.”
“You grew up in Chicago.”
“Shush! You don’t mess with a good story.”
Mark shrugged and began dissecting his eggs. He piled little bits of scrambled egg in each cut-off waffle square. How had she gotten so far under his skin? No one did that to him. Women were strictly catch and release. Pick ’em up, show ’em the best time he knew how so that they both enjoyed themselves, and then go their separate ways. It had always worked just fine.
What had Beale done to him? She wasn’t even his type. He liked them all soft and curvy and as easy-going as a summer day. Beale was all bright and slender and edge. She never backed off. Not once in her life. Lots of edge.
“Where was I?”
“Some damn squirrel dog.”
“Right. That dog couldn’t track a duck to save his life. I watched a rabbit scoot between his paws once, and all he did was try to jump aside like he was scared of his own shadow. But he loved them squirrels. He’d go sniffing after them round and round a tree or a bird feeder. Any place they went, he’d try to follow. More than once I saw him staring up into the branches trying to figure out how to climb up there.”
“Dumb dog. And your fake Southern accent sucks.”
Jim aimed a sausage-laden fork at him, “Never said he was smart and your fake human accent sucks too, so shut up. That dog was plumb crazy about squirrels. After a time they got to know him, you see. Got used to him sniffing around because he never did anything but follow them around. So, do you know what that squirrel dog of mine did?”
“I don’t care, but I’ll bet you’re gonna tell me.”
“I’ll tell you, Mark, and you will care because you are dumb like that squirrel dog. I was always the smart roommate. I got Christy, after all.”
“Because I introduced you.”
“But I got her.”
“She’s my cousin, fool. She’s smart and cute and funny, but it’s not like I was ever gonna get her.”
“But I got her,” Jim insisted once more.
Mark waved his fork in the air, “Yeah. Sure. Fine. Tell me about what the damn dog did.”
“See,” Jim flashed one of those grins of his that had done such a fine job of knocking Christy off her feet and into a decade of marriage and two seriously cute kids. “I told you you’d care. So, one day, I let this complete doofus of a mutt out the back door as usual. This time he walks up to one of the squirrels that’s nosing around under our bird feeder and picks him up.”
Mark eyed him.
“Now I’m not talking about little black squirrels. I’m talking about the big grays with the bushy tail and all.” He held up his hands like a fisherman telling a dogfish story instead of a squirrel story.
“Did he kill it?”
“First he turned to look at me, so proud of himself. The big gray gone all catatonic in his mouth. Then the squirrel freaks. Starts kicking and twisting, trying to get away. I swear to you on my love of your cousin, that dog’s eyes crossed as he tried to see what was going on in his own mouth. Drops the squirrel, bolts off around the house, we don’t see him for hours.”
Mark had to laugh. Jim always told a great story.
As his laugh eased off, Jim leaned in close, so Mark leaned in to hear.
“And the punch line? That squirrel ran about halfway back to the trees, looked around, and scooted right back to the bird feeder he’d been plundering to begin with. Damn dog never went out that door of the house again. We always had to use the front door, muddy paw prints in the hall all winter.”
Mark laughed again and ate some bacon. Jim always made him feel better.
“So what’s your point, buddy?”
Jim offered him another one of those beaming grins.
“The point of the story, buddy, is that Captain Rick Tully and Admiral James Parker just finished strolling through here behind your back without you ending your illustrious career by chomping down on them like a dumb squirrel dog about a classified mission involving a woman on your squad. As if they wouldn’t see through that in a heartbeat.”
Mark spun around, but the two men were nowhere to be seen.
He turned slowly back to contemplate his mangled breakfast. He hated to admit that Jim was right. When it came to women, he’d always been the dumb one.
Chapter 16
Emily checked the third-floor kitchen, she’d left a real mess. It was past midnight and she didn’t want to clean it up, but the kitchen was her domain now. Thirty-six hours straight and she was ready to crash.
She hit the lights and had to blink twice, once for the brightness and once because the room was spotless. The chopping block even looked freshly oiled. She could kiss the cleaning staff. Then she checked the fridge and noticed all the leftovers were gone as well. Ah. First Lady wouldn’t want leftovers anyway. She’d have to remember to always leave the crew something extra in thanks.
She headed down the main stairs. The back stairs were well past her apartment and required doubling back half a floor. No one would be up this late at night. She took the grand staircase.
Turning the corner on the wide landing, she passed the first blacksuit before her tired brain cataloged his presence. She nearly collided with the man behind the blacksuit before someone grabbed her arm and shoved her hard up against the wide banister.
She jammed down a foot on the attacker’s instep and threw an elbow hard into his sternum. He dropped to the floor with a gasp before her brain kicked in.
Two more blacksuits materialized between her and the man three stairs below. Their guns drawn. Inches from her face.
Freeze. Don’t move. Stupid. Stupid. Stupid.
Which of the instructions were spoken and which her own thoughts, she didn’t know, but her body got the message loud and clear. Statue. Unmoving. The black tunnel of two pistols inches from her face, as nasty a sight as she’d seen in a long while.
“Em?”
“Peter?” She only allowed her mouth to move. Damn, not “Peter,” you fool.
“Mr. President?” She let her gaze shift for an instant off the muzzles of the .357 SIGs hovering inches from her face. It was him. More tired than he looked on television.
“Stand down, Vic.”
The leading blacksuit gl
anced over his shoulder, back at her, then slowly returned his weapon to his holster allowing her to see clearly that the safety had been off.
They helped their downed comrade to his feet. Oh wonderful, she’d leveled Agent Frank Adams, the one who hadn’t wanted to let her onto the grounds to begin with. Now she had a real chum in the service.
Then the three of them did that blur thing blacksuits did so well. One moment they were an iron shield blocking any hope of survival, and the next moment, though they were only a few feet away, she might have been alone.
Alone with…
“Hey, Em.” Only Peter Matthews had ever been allowed to use that nickname. And he’d remembered it. Hopefully he didn’t remember the other one. She stood a little easier as the adrenaline slid down toward a couple of shakes. Not bad this time. No one firing RPGs at her. Hardly worth the adrenal surge and the inevitable hungover feeling.
“Good evening, Mr. President. Sorry to disturb you. I thought I was the only one up. I’ll only use the back stairs from now on. I’m sorry. I just—” won’t shut up. She clamped her jaw shut at his smile.
“You look good. Haven’t seen you since your father’s reception the night I was elected to the Senate.”
Her stomach churned at the memory. Nine years ago. One of her real high moments. Twenty years old and just graduated from West Point at the top of her class. So sick at seeing him married to an overblown, high-society, Ms. Perfect wife that she’d gotten stinking drunk on champagne.
Any truly spectacular scene had been preempted when she’d passed out on her father’s office couch. Where her dad and the freshman Senator had found her while seeking a place for a private word. A sodden mess in a champagne-stained dress, with puffy, red eyes. Real high times.
Her one childhood dream, the one true love of her youth, married to “that” woman. Forever after, she’d known with certainty, her marriage was to her career. Clear cut and simple. She didn’t know how to be Emily Beale on the ground in an evening gown. Captain Beale, that person she understood, knew how to be. And she’d never worn an evening gown again, nor, after the next morning’s spectacular hangover, touched champagne again.
“Been hiding since then.” And would return to hiding at the first opportunity.
Besting one of the President’s blacksuits wouldn’t be improving her relations with the Secret Service. They were already more than a little rough around the edges about having the FBI Director’s daughter hovering about. The two services rarely saw eye to eye. They’d be sure she was a spy, feeding information back to her father. Nothing could be farther from the truth. Her father had taught her the keeping of secrets, not the sharing of them.
A glance showed the three were back at their posts. Here they all stood, inside the most secure building in the country, and still there was one man half a flight up, another half a flight down, and Frank Adams at the far corner of the landing, scanning the room below as if assassins lurked in every shadow. And keeping more than half an eye on her.
“Well, you certainly look good.”
She knew he was just teasing. Her white pants and short-sleeved blouse looked fine under a chef’s jacket, but without the jacket, left her feeling foolish here in the grandeur of the main staircase. Like a teenager who didn’t know how to dress for a date. At least the hot flush that had replaced the night air’s chill had cleared away all of the goose bumps.
“You look great.” Stunning conversationalist, Emily. She’d just told the most powerful man in the world that he was hot. But damn, he was. As a teen, he’d been good-looking. Newly elected and married, Senator at twenty-six, he’d rated handsome and dashing. Now… his dark hair was tousled as if he’d just run a hand through it, covering his ears, teasing around his neck. The longest hair of any President in the past few centuries, probably since graying ponytails went out with Andrew Jackson.
Even longer than Mark’s. On Peter, it looked refined; on Mark, it looked dangerous, especially with those gray eyes. Peter’s eyes were dark brown. Funny, for a moment, she’d imagined his eyes were the color of Mark’s. She tore her gaze away.
“It’s good to see you, sir.” Heat rushed to her face. She put her head down, sidestepped the President, and bolted past the blacksuits, down the stairs for safety.
When she’d regained the confines of her room, she closed the door and leaned against it. More out of breath than after a ten-kilometer run. With a pack. A full one.
Washing her face in cold water did little to relieve the heat burning her cheeks. In the mirror they looked as bright as after a day in the desert without sunscreen.
***
Peter watched her trot down the stairs, breezing by Vic and Frank as if they weren’t there. A year in office, and he still wasn’t accustomed to their constant presence. She didn’t even notice. So used to high security in her chosen career that she was oblivious to something as minor as three Secret Service agents.
Emily Beale. The precocious little girl of his memory overlapped only uncomfortably with the reality of the amazing woman he’d just encountered. Her sleeveless blouse had revealed well-toned arms and shoulders, and she’d apparently stopped biting her nails. Her body definitely trim. Shapely in all the right spots. And tall. Almost eye to eye with him. She’d always been such a short little thing as a kid. When did she get so pretty and powerful?
Stunningly powerful when she’d dropped Frank, easily twice her size, right here at his feet on the landing. That had been something to see. Funny, he hadn’t noticed her until she was already planting the agent on his face, but he’d never felt fear, never felt threatened, though she looked fiercely formidable. A missile aimed and on course, to steal a metaphor from her world.
It was odd, rather sad too, that there was a side of her he didn’t know. He remembered the day her parents had brought home the squalling little bundle. He’d been a part of every major event in the first dozen years of her life.
But in the last sixty seconds she’d become two different people. Did this one recall their thousand discussions as children? Or was he part of a past she’d forgotten? She’d come when he needed her, so there had to be some connection still.
He turned and continued up the Grand Staircase toward the residence with his agents in tow.
He could remember the last time he’d heard her voice. After not hearing it for nine years, he had still recognized her voice instantly. The girl grown into the woman’s voice. It had happened on his third trip to the Situation Room as Commander-in-Chief, only his second week in office.
Peter turned right at the head of the Grand Staircase, careful not to look to his left as he headed for the master living room. Katherine had made it clear that the third floor and the eastern stairs were her domain. He didn’t want to admit the relief when she’d declared the second floor his exclusive domain during his second day in office.
He dropped off the guys in the hall as he went into the living room that he’d converted into his office in the residence. He hadn’t bothered to mess with it, upsetting the White House decorator no end. Jim Bruckner, or his wife, had done a fine job with it during his tenure. Peter saw no reason to change the soft leather and wood decor.
He shut the door and they left him blessedly alone. He considered a beer, but they’d be waking him in four hours. He tossed his briefcase full of unread memos on the armchair and pulled an apple juice out of the fridge. He lay down on the sofa, knowing the moment he did so that he’d be spending another night sleeping there.
After kicking off his shoes, he let his mind drift back to that time he’d heard Emily’s voice when he’d been expecting to hear from a combat pilot. An operation to extract a North Korean nuclear scientist had gone south. Badly. Including the backup plan. Barely seconds from losing a whole SEAL team during his third week in office, a pair of SOAR helicopters that had been training nearby swooped in out of the dark and rescued everyone under heavy gunfire. It was a pure fluke that they’d been flying in the Sea of Japan and had saved the
entire operation. No injuries except one SEAL shot in the leg. The scientist and his family were safe and very useful.
Then he heard her voice on the report in. No mistaking it; he knew none better. He’d staggered from the room in shock, finding it impossible that his simplest order had sent that little girl into harm’s way.
With memories of Emily Beale kicking around in his brain, he knew sleep would be elusive even at—he checked the mantel clock—1:15 in the morning. He got the best sleep aid he could find in his briefcase, a report on declining fishing off the Kamchatka Peninsula. If it didn’t put him to sleep, at least it would make him stop thinking about that little girl.
That little girl who had just flattened the most senior agent of his entire guard. Hard to believe.
He’d bet Agent Frank Adams had trouble believing it as well.
Chapter 17
Mark crossed the carrier’s flight deck to her helicopter. Even here he couldn’t help being reminded of Emily Beale. There sat her bird, perched ever so neatly. All fueled and armed and nowhere to go. It even had her name still stenciled beside the door. He’d told Bronson his command was only temporary so no need to put his name on her bird.
He checked his watch. Ten fifteen in the morning, just after 1:15 a.m. her time. If she was on the East Coast. Her orders had said “stateside,” so that was as good a guess as any. And they’d be parked here for another hour.
He guessed that she was on a Black Ops assignment and would be back as soon as it was done. He hoped he was right. It happened, but this time felt different. He’d always been in the loop before, at least at some level.
You learned to read between the lines of your people’s orders on the rare occasions when you weren’t inside the loop. “Assigned to Fort Campbell, Kentucky,” meant special equipment or tactical training. “Assigned to Fort Rucker, Alabama,” meant extreme flight, probably with specialized night-flight training for a specific mission. “Nellis, Nevada,” put you near remote and unobserved gunnery ranges for practicing high-explosives missions. The mission could then extend to anywhere in the world, but at least you knew the nature of what your people were up to.
Night Is Mine Page 9
