Night Is Mine

by M. L. Buchman

  “You hate Katherine Matthews.”

  She felt as if she’d been punched back into her chair. “But… How?”

  A soft smile touched his lips, one of those rare moments when only her father was present, without any “agent man” behind the eyes.

  “Trust that I know my daughter well enough to see what she was thinking even when she was twelve years old and standing on a curb.”

  “Was I so obvious?” This time she did glance at Mark, but clearly he was completely at sea at the moment. Please let him stay that way.

  “Only to a father who loves his little girl. Now accept that I know the bias and just say it.”

  She huffed out another breath, managed not to check Mark, and went for it.

  “I don’t hate her. I don’t like her, but even more, I don’t trust her. I have suspicions, but I can’t confirm them on my own.”

  “What are they?”

  This time she shook her head. “They haven’t jelled yet. All I can say is there’s a real itch I can’t scratch and I’m not seeing where it is. I’d like to find it before it kills me.”

  Both men sat back at that.

  Mark spoke first. “Well, we still can’t operate at the White House with any sort of mission. Even you shouldn’t be doing what you’re doing already. Do you even know what black-in-black means?”

  His tone cut at her. It hurt worse than any of her gunshot wounds had. He’d been light, funny, and his kiss had promised so much. Something had changed and now his bitterness drove at her heart.

  To hell with him. She’d survived seven black-in-blacks over the past four years and prayed that number eight would be luckier than those. They’d been unadulterated hell, each and every one, despite each achieving a successful conclusion. But a black-in-black never ran as planned and it never came easy.

  Placing Mark Henderson in the role of her boyfriend had sounded like a huge plus when she’d first thought of it. That was before he’d made it clear that their night in the hospital had only been about the sex.

  She thought hard and fast, but she had no other options. She had signed up to play what could be an incredibly dangerous game. If even a part of her guesses came true, this was going to be a tough one. Just ten minutes after adding Mark to the team, the operation was already heading down the toilet.

  Time to talk his language.

  She reached into her back pocket and pulled out Peter’s note. She hadn’t even read it yet.

  “Hate to chap your ass, sweetheart.”

  She handed it to her father, who read it twice before handing it to Mark. Mark read the front twice, checked the back, the inside of the envelope, and then read it again.

  “Is that genuine?”

  “Care to ask him yourself?”

  They both shook their heads.

  Mark whispered the sentence aloud.

  “‘Captain Emily Beale is hereby authorized to do what she deems is necessary to ensure the security and safety of the United States of America without oversight or judgment. President Peter Matthews.’” He looked at the blank back and rubbed a thumb over the raised presidential seal letterhead.

  Exactly what she’d feared Peter had done.

  It was the craziest of documents. It simultaneously represented the greatest level of trust between both parties and the greatest level of danger to both parties. She could theoretically nuke the Capitol Building with Congress in session, using the power granted to her by the President. It gave her the creeps to touch the letter. She folded it back into her pocket as quickly as possible, then buttoned the flap.

  “That’s insane.”

  She nodded. Empires had fallen due to abuse of such a document.

  “And, Dad, the first thing I need is help smuggling my boyfriend into the White House.”

  Chapter 38

  Mark had wanted to bring at least one weapon, but Emily had insisted not. Now, as he lounged once more against the counter in White House security’s single-wide, he was glad he’d listened. These guys had a level of inspection he’d never witnessed before. Agent-in-Charge Adams, first-name-not-supplied, made sure Mark was practically strip-searched even though “Ms. Beale” had vouched for him.

  He knew by heart the background check they were set up to find. And could answer a thousand questions about it without repeating himself, which was the first sign of a fraud. He’d been up most of the night studying.

  His fake profile said it all. Rich kid. Surfer, thrill seeker, college dropout with mediocre grades in psychology and a fair set of stats in college ball. No luck trying to hook up with the NFL pros. That made up the first-level cover story. The one they were meant to drill holes in. Right down into a fictitious murky past.

  Paramilitary, retired. Ex-mercenary.

  Even deeper in his file, there laid unconfirmed rumors that he’d knocked over a Colombian kingpin he’d been hired to protect and pocketed a huge wad of ready cash, on the scale of two suitcases full. The weakness of the first cover and the strength of the second would distract anyone from remembering the major sitting in Beale’s hospital room. Now he surfed the best beaches, played in the casinos, and… right, he was supposed to be relaxed and easy, not stressed so hard that if they decided to do an anal cavity search they wouldn’t be able to get a latex-gloved finger in.

  “Hey, Emma, honeybunch.” He did his best Texas drawl, remembering to use the nickname they’d selected. “Em” had been violently rejected. No big surprise; it was her lover Peter’s name for her.

  Emily smiled brightly at him on cue.

  “Did I mention that I just bought that offshore Super Boat I told you about? The one that won them two little races and that one big one down Australia way. A sweet little fifty-footer with twin 1,200-horse turbines.”

  He made a show of glancing at his wristwatch. Five thousand dollars of the finest watch ever built by man. He could tell that the main guy recognized it. A statement of wealth and a fixation with the military. It was marketed as designed by Special Forces, and he knew a few other guys who wore it. It was also exactly what a rich, ex-paramilitary guy would wear.

  “As of…” He waited for the second hand to arbitrarily reach fourteen. “Now, I own her.” He dropped his arm on the counter, leaving the watch in plain view.

  “I’m having her flown up for the Florida Keys race in a couple weeks. You should come down and be my throttle man. Wear that virtually nothing string-bikini I bought you.” He turned to face the agents. “Damn but she looks hot in it. She flashes that around, and ain’t no one else will even remember that his throttle isn’t in his shorts.”

  Not impressed. The only agent looking the slightest bit green with envy was a young kid who probably had less than a year since agent school. Mark wasn’t real happy with this tack, but he was still furious with Beale. He’d never touched another man’s woman. Ever.

  It didn’t take a rocket scientist to notice the extra Secret Service guards watching next door to Emily’s or to learn that the neighbors were the President’s parents. Now Stephen Beale’s comments made sense. Emily had loved the boy next door when she was twelve and was now enjoying the bonuses of being stateside and living in the White House. Maybe he could feel a little bad for Katherine Matthews getting the short end of this stick.

  And that Beale would sleep with a married man just made him sick to his stomach. Well, he’d ram this role right down Emily’s throat until she choked on it. He’d make himself her personal wake-up call. And the worst part was that he still wanted her so badly. She was all he thought about, and it was making him crazy.

  He flashed his grin at the kid and pulled his funky shades back down over his eyes. At least he looked the part with his desert tan and sun-burnished tips of his long, black hair serving him well.

  “He checks out, sir.”

  Agent Adams scowled at his assistant and then went to inspect the screen himself.

  Mark couldn’t believe that the FBI Director had done this so fast. They’d met less than ten
hours ago. Fooling a third-world garda only required a little fake paper and a couple of discreetly folded hundred-dollar bills. Fooling the Secret Service? His palms were sweating again and he didn’t dare wipe them off. These guys would notice, and then they really would strip search him.

  Then, if they washed his bicep really well, they would remove the tattoo of crossed machine guns, the headless torso, and the curlicue “Roland” to reveal the emblem of the sword-wielding winged horse. Even a Secret Service agent would know that was the SOAR emblem.

  He leaned over to the newbie and offered up in a loud whisper, “Damned if I knew she was the First Lady’s personal cook when I chatted her up in that bar in Monaco. Now I’m feelin’ right stupid for voting for the other guy. When I first saw her, I just thought she was hot. Look at her so prim and proper.” He sent a happy leer her way, which wasn’t as difficult as it should be.

  Emily wore high-end stone-washed jeans that had clearly been painted on in all the right places and a blue silk sleeveless top that picked up the color of her eyes.

  She returned his attention with a downward glance and then a bright reddening of her cheeks. How could anyone like her look that innocent? No one was that good an actress.

  He whispered loudly to the kid, “You get her alone and she’s wild, boy. Wild.”

  The kid did his best not to go wide-eyed.

  And Emily was doing an equally poor job of trying not to look pissed.

  Once they were satisfied with the X-rays of his aged, shitkicker, alligator-skin cowboy boots that he’d owned for under eighteen hours, they let him through.

  “I’m sorry, honey.” Emily wrapped her hand over his arm.

  He slid the arm free and clamped her around the waist. A quick smack on the lips. Nice, moist, unsmiling lips. No spark. No heat. From either of them, but good for show.

  “No worries, babe. Better safe than sorry.”

  They strolled out of the back of the security trailer and up the curving path toward the White House.

  “Honey.” Her voice was smooth as the salty sea.

  “Yes, sugar?”

  “If your hand moves one inch higher, you won’t be pulling back broken, mangled digits.”

  “No?” He hadn’t even noticed how easily his finger had slid upward to trace along the bottom edge of her bra through the sheer silk.

  “No. You’ll be pulling back goddamn stumps.”

  It was good advice. After all, he’d seen the remains of the last newbie who thought he could harass the only woman in the unit. Fastest damn trip to the medico tent he’d ever seen. She didn’t wait for others to defend her. Or even give them the chance.

  Compared to Captain Emily Beale, they were all too damn slow.

  Chapter 39

  Peter could usually multitask without a problem. His walking tours for foreign diplomats let him be visible throughout the White House. The tours also let him stretch his legs, check in with staffers at the far corners of the vast complex, and chat with said diplomats in a more casual and, therefore, less tense mode.

  But whatever excuse the new Indonesian ambassador was attempting to relay about deforestation and massive clear-cut fires in Sulawesi polluting Thailand and Singapore’s air, it was all lost on him. They’d been out on the South Portico admiring the cool afternoon.

  Em walked into the Jacqueline Kennedy Gardens between the residence and the East Wing arm in arm with a very handsome and powerful-looking man. She leaned in cozily to whisper and they both laughed. His long hair made him look disreputable. His angular sunglasses struck Peter as a sham.

  The ambassador repeated his question. A part of Peter’s mind identified the tone, the tone of a man not being listened to, who knows it. But he couldn’t find the words. Couldn’t find his brain.

  All he could find was a cold, hard, bitter knot in his belly.

  ***

  Mark felt the searing acid of anger smash into his chest and lodge there.

  “There’s your goddamn boyfriend.”

  “What?”

  Mark didn’t realize he’d spoken aloud. He turned her to follow the next little row of boxwood in the gardens. There wasn’t a leaf out of place in the frickin’ Kennedy Gardens.

  He cocked his head over his shoulder. “Eight o’clock.”

  Ever so casually, she leaned over to whisper in his ear. Her mouth moved so close, he had to close his eyes at the scent of her sweet breath. But she didn’t say anything. Instead, she was pretending a flirt so that she could look behind them.

  “President Matthews?” She stopped to lean down and brush those fine-fingered hands over some bush covered so heavily in purple blooms that it looked fake. Nothing could have that much color.

  “The Commander-in-Chief himself.” Mark kept his back toward the man standing two stories above and fifty feet behind.

  She rose to her feet. She reached for his hand. Rather than taking his, she grabbed his pinkie and ring finger and bent them backwards hard enough to make him catch his breath.

  “And what makes you say that, Marky?”

  “Ease off, Cap—”

  She wrenched them harder.

  “Ease off, Beale.”

  She did, but not much.

  “I saw you two. In the hospital. Remember? ‘Em’ this and ‘Sneaker Boy’ that. Playing with your toes, holding your hand through all your tests. He’s married, for Ch—” Mark realized his voice was rising, and he chopped it off. It was wrong. There were no two ways about it. Plain and simple wrong.

  She eased off on his hand. Not as if she wanted to stop hurting him, but as if she’d forgotten about them. She still held his hand as they moseyed to the next bush, something yellow this time. Once again she knelt to smell the blooms, but despite all of her elegant lines, the action looked stiff and mechanical.

  “You surmised…” She stood. Then moved ahead once more.

  He half suspected that if he stopped, she’d keep moving along, showing all the outer signs of enjoying herself and not even notice his absence.

  “Do he and I really look as if…”

  Suddenly she snapped back into her body and turned to face him, standing toe to toe. From a distance, they might look like lovers about to kiss. Being close enough to see her expression, to watch those sky-blue eyes gone suddenly cobalt, he wondered if he was about to end up in the hospital himself.

  “That’s why you’ve been treating me like shit? You thought Peter and I were lovers? You goddamn idiot!” She turned on her heel to stride away.

  He grabbed her arms to keep her in place.

  “Finish it.”

  She shook her head and hung her face down. Her hair slid around to hide her face.

  Mark lifted her chin.

  Emily tried to look away, but he didn’t let her. Tears swam along her eyelashes and threatened imminent release. As he kept her chin steady, her eyes shifted from hot with anger to awash with pain.

  He pulled her close and held her hard. There was no way he could deal with her tears. Especially not if he was the cause.

  “Don’t cry.” He knew he was begging.

  She nodded against his shoulder.

  “Oh God, please don’t cry.”

  She shook her head against his shoulder.

  But he could feel where already her tears were soaking through his T-shirt.

  Chapter 40

  The place was a labyrinth of halls and doors. Mark shoved his sunglasses on Emily to prevent any questions from passersby about why her eyes were so red.

  Finally, sometime after he was sure they were lost forever in the labyrinth of the White House’s lower levels and would never again see the light of day, she pulled out a key and handed it to him.

  They’d come to a stop in front of a door bearing a small placard with her name.

  He moved her inside and sat her on the bed. He found a tiny bath, wet a washcloth, and brought it to her. By the time he returned, she’d slid down to sit on the tile floor and leaned back against the bed.
r />   As she wiped her face, he tried to back away. Tried to find somewhere to go, but there wasn’t anywhere. There was the bed, a small desk, and a dresser that also served as nightstand. A small window covered with a soft curtain, solid enough to block vision without blocking the light brightening the room. No flowers, no pictures.

  She held out the washcloth. He took it the three steps back to the bathroom and hung it on the edge of the sink. Returning, he didn’t know what else to do, so he sat on the floor and leaned on the bed beside her. But didn’t touch her.

  “Please tell me you’re done crying.”

  “No promises.” Her voice was rough. “I’ve cried one other time since I was twenty, two if you count a few happy tears at being able to see, and you were there for all of them.”

  “Well, I don’t think I can go through that again.” He wasn’t sure, but he thought that earned a quirk of a smile.

  She took a deep breath and her hunched shoulders eased slightly. “The last time I wept before that, I’d lost the one love I never had.”

  “Em, sorry. Emily, damn. Emma. Gotta remember that. Emma.” There hadn’t been enough time to practice their roles properly. “‘The one love you never had.’ That sure doesn’t make a boatload of sense.”

  She laughed this time, bitterly, and shook her head.

  “No. It doesn’t. But it’s true anyway. President Matthews isn’t my boyfriend. He was the only friend I ever had before my copilot, Archie, at West Point. Peter and I grew up together. The proverbial boy next door.”

  Mark listened to her story of a six-year-old with a crush, a twelve-year-old in love with a college boy, of a broken-hearted girl at twenty, watching her dream boy and best friend marry someone else. And the more he listened, the stupider he felt. He’d assumed they were lovers, not friends. How damn stupid did that make him? Even Jim wouldn’t laugh about this one it was so bad.