Exclusive

by Sandra Brown

  “Damn fool,” Merritt muttered as he levered himself off the padded bench and reached for a hand towel. As he wiped his face and the back of his neck, someone knocked on the door. “Come in.”

  A Secret Service agent opened the door. Standing beside him was Gray Bondurant.

  “Mr. President,” said the smiling agent, “I have a surprise for you.”

  Merritt broke a wide grin, which felt to his face like a crack opening up in a slab of concrete. “Gray! God, man, this is a surprise.”

  Gray too was smiling, though, as usual, it contributed no warmth to his eyes. “I took a chance that you’d be free long enough to say hello.” He gave Merritt an approving once-over. “The nation should sleep well, Mr. President. You look fit enough to defeat singlehandedly all its enemies, domestic and abroad.”

  Shaking hands and slapping each other on the back, they played out the charade. There was no reason for the Secret Service agent to doubt their cordiality. Rumors of a rift between them had been vehemently denied. When Gray had left the White House, their friendship was supposedly as strong as ever, perhaps even stronger because of the spectacular success of Gray’s mission.

  It required all of Merritt’s acting skills to mask his rage. He’d been blindsided by a master. Hadn’t he just been thinking about what an expert strategist Gray was? This was a well-planned ambush made to appear innocent. Gray had come straight to the mountain, unannounced and disarming. White House staff knew him well and wouldn’t be suspicious. He’d come to see his pal the President, and how nice of him.

  What galled Merritt most was that he had to continue Gray’s game, at least until he figured out what he was up to. When they were alone, he moved to the juice bar. “What can I get you?”

  “Whatever you’re having.”

  Merritt poured two glasses of orange juice. “Goddamn, it’s good to see you,” he said, clinking their glasses in a toast.

  “Don’t let me interrupt your workout.”

  “I was about to quit. Can’t take as much as I once could,” he said with a self-effacing grimace.

  “I doubt that.”

  “Mind if I get in the whirlpool?”

  “Not at all.”

  Merritt slipped out of his shorts and stepped into the swirling, bubbling water from which a cloud of steam was rising. “Ahh, feels great. Want to join me?”

  “No, thanks.” Gray dragged a chair to the edge of the whirlpool and sat down.

  “Your hair’s gone grayer.”

  “Heredity,” Gray replied. “Didn’t I ever tell you that my dad was prematurely gray?”

  Basically, Gray Bondurant was unchanged. His body was still hard and taut, his expression still resolute. Envy was a rare emotion for the man who’d brought himself all the way from a trailer park to the White House; but envy was the foundation for his hatred of Gray.

  He was more handsome than Gray. Perhaps even more intelligent. Equally as strong, physically.

  But Gray had a steely core of self-confidence and morality that allowed him to look any other man in the eye without flinching. Even in the good ol’ days, when they were in the Corps together, long before their clash, Merritt had always been the first to look away from sustained eye contact with Gray. He resented how comfortably and well Gray wore honor and nobility and despised him for his principles, while secretly envying the additional strength they gave him.

  “Your belly’s still flat,” he observed. “I’m glad to see that Wyoming hasn’t turned you into a wuss.”

  “It’s tough country, but if I hadn’t earned my spurs in Washington, I couldn’t have handled it.”

  Merritt chuckled. “I’ve missed your sense of humor. It’s dry as dust, but you could always make me laugh.” He spread his arms along the tile rim of the whirlpool. Thinking he already knew the answer, he asked, “What brings you to Washington?”

  “A woman.”

  He hadn’t seen that one coming. Gray had thrown him another curve ball. He covered by laughing. “A skirt? A woman has finally toppled the mighty Bang ’em Bondurant? Hard to believe.”

  “Sad, but true.”

  “Please,” Merritt groaned. “Don’t ruin my image of you by telling me you’ve acquired some sensitivity. You haven’t turned into a ‘nineties kind of guy,’ I hope.”

  Gray offered his grim half-smile. “Never. That’s why this one perfectly suits my needs. She’s good to look at, has a voice straight out of a porno film, and, best of all, she’s not too bright.”

  “Does this girl wonder have a name?”

  “Barrie Travis.”

  Merritt winced. “You’ve got to be kidding. She’s a royal pain in the ass. Granted, the voice is sexy. Face and figure definitely earn high marks. But, Gray, buddy, she’s trouble. If she reads anything more than sex into the relationship, she’ll latch on to you and you’ll never be able to shake her. Are you sure you know what you’re getting into?”

  “Right now I’m getting into her.”

  The two shared a bawdy snicker. “That can’t be all bad,” Merritt conceded.

  “It’s good enough to get me off my ranch and back here.”

  “For how long?”

  Gray shrugged. “Until I get my fill of her and go back.”

  Merritt finished his juice and set the glass on the tile, then eased himself out of the whirlpool. He wrapped a towel around his middle and took a chair near Gray’s. Pursuing this conversation with his former friend might get him into hotter water than he’d just gotten out of, but he couldn’t resist. If Gray could continue this parody of a friendly reunion, so could he. When it came to acting, his skills were far superior to Gray’s. He’d had more practice.

  “Where’d you two meet? I want all the juicy details.”

  “She tracked me down. Just showed up one day last week out of the blue.”

  “What for?”

  “A story. Or rather a new angle on an old one. She wanted to do a follow-up piece about the hostage rescue mission.”

  “And you didn’t tell her to take a hike? You never liked reporters.”

  “It’s not her profession I’m fucking, David.”

  Merritt laughed. “See? There’s that dry wit again.” Then he drew his brows into a steep frown. “I just remembered. Her house burned to the ground last night.”

  “Yeah. It was the damnedest thing.”

  “I saw her on the news this morning, talking to reporters. She’s one spunky chick.”

  “That’s what makes her challenging.”

  “So, where are you two staying? Hotel?”

  “No, with a friend.”

  Barrie Travis’s friend was a retired newsman named Ted Welsh. Even in Spence’s absence, his intelligence network had provided Merritt with pictures of Welsh in a bathrobe, retrieving his morning paper from a weed-infested front lawn. The old geezer was reported to have emphysema and looked about as dangerous as a housefly.

  Quite a pair, Travis and Welsh, living in Welsh’s ramshackle house, as they plotted the destruction of his presidency. It was laughable. In one swoop, he could be rid of them both.

  Gray was the problem. With him as their ringleader, the trio reached a level of menace that wasn’t so laughable.

  “Speaking of friends,” Gray said, “I’m surprised you don’t already know the juicy details about Barrie and me. I thought Spence would have told you. He came to see me shortly after her visit to the ranch.”

  Merritt’s smile slipped a fraction. Even the most accomplished actor couldn’t have maintained one. “Spence is taking some vacation time. Practically had to force him to go, workaholic that he is. He said he might stop by your place, but I haven’t heard from him since he left. Did he say where he was headed after Wyoming?”

  “He didn’t mention any plans. But you know Spence. He’ll turn up when you least expect it. I certainly wasn’t looking for him when he showed up at my place.”

  Merritt had clung to a thread of hope that Spence was still alive. He now knew with certa
inty that he wasn’t. Spence was dead. Gray had killed him.

  Merritt couldn’t let himself get sentimental about it. He didn’t need Spence anyway. He didn’t need anybody. But then, Spence had been extremely handy to have around. Men with his talent and blind, unquestionable loyalty and obedience were rare. Even more rare were men with absolutely no conscience.

  Gray had robbed him of this valuable asset and was sitting here cracking jokes about it, a guileless expression on his face. Merritt wanted to smash it. But he carefully schooled his anger. To reveal it would be self-incriminating.

  Besides, he didn’t want to waste energy on a situation that couldn’t be reversed. Spence would be the first to agree that mourning was counterproductive and only the weak would indulge in it.

  “I was wondering, is the First Lady around?”

  Gray’s question served as a cattle prod on Merritt’s private musings. “Uh, no, she’s still away.”

  “At this ‘undisclosed location’?”

  “That’s right,” Merritt replied. “And I’m sworn to secrecy.”

  Gray leaned forward, propped his forearms on his thighs, and assumed a confidential posture that Merritt frequently used himself. “David, I’ve been worried about her. Is she okay? Level with me now. Don’t give me the bullshit that Neely feeds to the media. How is Vanessa, really?”

  “Are you trying to get a scoop for your new bedmate?”

  “When we’re in bed, she’s got better things to do than interview me.”

  “Hard to talk with her mouth full, huh?”

  Gray grunted the required laugh. Then his lined, lean face turned serious again. “Vanessa hasn’t seemed herself since the baby died. Is she ill?”

  Had Merritt had a choice at that moment, he would have gone for Gray’s throat. This man had made him a cuckold. The gossip about him and Vanessa had been quelled, but not soon enough.

  How many people had concluded that Gray, not he, was the father of Vanessa’s baby? How dare the son of a bitch mention the brat without so much as a glimmer of apology in his arctic blue eyes?

  By a force of will, the President of the United States reined in his fury. How could he have explained Gray’s drowning death in the whirlpool of the White House gym? Even Spence wouldn’t have been bold enough to try and sell that one to the attorney general and the American public.

  Suppressing his murderous impulse, he bowed his head and plowed his fingers through his hair. “I don’t mind telling you, Gray, it’s been rough. She blames herself—her illness—for not being a perfect mother and saving the baby from crib death.”

  “I was afraid it was something like that. I understand George Allan is working with her. Is he qualified to deal with this?”

  “Eminently. He’s been her attending physician for years. He knows exactly what she needs to keep her functioning as normally as possible. Once she’s over this crisis, she’ll be fine.”

  “I hope so.”

  Merritt made a point of glancing at the wall clock, then rose to his feet. “It’s been great seeing you, Gray. I hate to wind it up, but I’ve got a cabinet meeting in half an hour.”

  “I was lucky to get to see you for even this long.” Gray stood and the two shook hands. “Please tell Vanessa that I asked about her. Any chance I could visit her?”

  “Afraid not. She’s getting better every day, but she won’t even consent to see Clete. Convey my regrets to Barrie Travis about her townhouse.”

  “Yeah, I’ll do that.”

  Secret Service agents were standing outside the door of the gym, waiting to escort the President back to his quarters. To one of them, he said, “Please see Mr. Bondurant back to his car.”

  “That’s not necessary,” Gray said easily. “I used to work here, remember? I know my way around.”

  “All the same,” Merritt said, matching Gray’s nonchalant tone, “we like to give old friends the red-carpet treatment.”

  Chapter Nineteen

  To say that the President was upset was quite an understatement.

  By telephone, Merritt had just informed Dr. George Allan of his surprise visit from Gray Bondurant. He made it sound as though he’d been delighted to see his old friend, but George could read between the lines: David didn’t want Gray lurking around Washington, looking too closely into the death of Robert Rushton Merritt.

  George had convinced himself, as the nation had been convinced, that the infant had died of SIDS. When he’d rushed to the White House nursery that night after being summoned from home, he had accepted David’s word that he and Vanessa had discovered the child dead in his bassinet.

  Not wanting to know any different, George hadn’t asked many questions. He’d facilitated the baby’s burial, as instructed by the President. End of story.

  Only it wasn’t. Vanessa had gotten a nosy reporter involved, who, according to David, had approached Gray Bondurant. Obviously, David’s purposes were better served by putting a slightly different spin on what had actually transpired in the nursery. He surely didn’t want Gray Bondurant’s curiosity aroused. Because if anyone could unmask David Merritt, it was Gray.

  “What about the, uh, reporter?” George asked. “I heard on the news that her house was destroyed in an explosion.”

  “Yes, I heard that too. It’s unfortunate, of course, but at least her personal crisis has diverted her attention away from us.” After a moment’s pause, he added, “This is all Vanessa’s fault. She’s responsible for Barrie Travis’s tenacious interest. If she hadn’t contacted her in the first place, we wouldn’t have her pestering us now.” Then he asked, “How’s Vanessa today?”

  That was the President’s graceful transition into the real purpose of this call. George, keeping his panic in abeyance, gave him an update on his wife’s condition.

  Then David issued George his instructions.

  He didn’t spell them out, but he didn’t need to. The message was clear to anyone who was listening for it, and George was.

  Today was the day. The President was cashing in his marker.

  George replaced the telephone receiver and covered his clammy face with his hands. He was trembling from the inside out. There was a loud roaring in his ears. He felt faint and nauseated.

  He considered calling Amanda. Stalwart and serene, she was an island of calm in the chaos he’d made of his life. Sometimes just the sound of her voice gave him hope, even though the landscape of his future was a minefield leading to disaster. And that was reason enough not to call her. Why burden her with the consequences of his mistakes?

  Instead of telephoning his wife, he took a Valium.

  This was the kind of dirty work David usually assigned to Spence. Spence wouldn’t have the shakes. Spence wouldn’t need a Valium. George wondered what David was holding over Spence to command such blind obedience. Or was it the other way around? Was Spence the puppeteer and David the puppet? Or—and this was most probable—Spence didn’t need a reason for doing the things he did.

  He thrived on cruelty. He had never loved a woman or known a woman’s love. He’d never witnessed the birth of a child he’d created through love. He’d never held a squirming new life in his arms and looked down at it with tears in his eyes. He’d never experienced guilt or remorse, either.

  George might be a coward, but he was a better man than Spence Martin.

  But that point was moot. Spence, it seemed, had vanished. In carefully couched words, David had suggested that Gray was responsible for Spence’s unexplainable absence. George hoped that if Gray had killed him, he’d made the heartless bastard suffer first.

  Gray was smart for getting out when he had. George wished he had that kind of courage. Gray had said, “I’m outa here,” and that was that. But then, Gray hadn’t had a noose around his neck.

  George did, and it had just gotten tighter.

  He pinched the bridge of his nose until it hurt. Then he lowered his hand and looked across at the closed door of the small, paneled study. He could sit here another hour or
two staring at that door, but eventually, he would have to carry out the presidential directive. The longer he put it off, the more he would think about it, and the more he thought about it, the more contemptible it became.

  He came to his feet with all the alacrity of a ninety-year-old. His tread was leaden as he left the study and crossed the hall.

  The sickroom was stifling.

  Jayne Gaston was an attentive nurse. She conscientiously bathed her patient every morning and changed the linens on the bed. But a sickroom was a sickroom, and illness had an odor.

  Dr. George Allan approached the bed. “How’s she doing?”

  “She’s sleeping now.” The nurse gazed sympathetically at her patient.

  George gave Vanessa a cursory examination. He listened to her heartbeat, checked the chart for her blood pressure and temperature, all without looking at her face. Her eyes were closed, thank God. He couldn’t have looked into her eyes. After this, he wondered, how would he ever be able to look into Amanda’s, or his own.

  “She became agitated a while ago and began crying,” the nurse reported. “She begged me to let her get up. Dr. Allan, if she feels strong enough, I don’t see—”

  “Thank you, Mrs. Gaston.”

  “Doctor, I’m sure you know best, but—”

  “I’m sure I do, too.” He gave her a stern look. “I will no longer tolerate this second-guessing, Mrs. Gaston.”

  “I’m only considering what’s best for the patient.”

  “You don’t think I am?”

  “Of course you are, Doctor. I wasn’t implying that at all.” She drew herself up straighter. “But I’m a well-trained nurse with years of experience.”

  “Which is why you were retained for this position. But you’re overstepping your bounds.”

  “Mrs. Merritt is overly sedated. If you ask me—”

  “I didn’t!” George shouted.

  “Furthermore, I think her lithium dosage is dangerously high.”

  “You see the lab reports. Her lithium blood level is exactly where it should be.”

  “Then I don’t trust the lab, and I don’t believe the reports.”

  George’s heart was pounding against his ribs. His knees had turned to jelly, his pulse throbbed behind his eyes, and he knew his face was red.