The 14th... And Forever

by Merline Lovelace

  With that call, the tightrope Jack had been walking for the past several months had stretched nearly to the breaking point. Apparently, the wily legislator had recognized that fact and sent his car and driver to make sure his reluctant witness made it to his “friendly little” prehearing appointments.

  As if confirming his guess, the driver glanced pointedly at her watch. “I’m sorry about the mix-up, but it’s a good thing the senator sent me to pick you up. With the delay in your flight, you wouldn’t have had time to check out the rental car your office had reserved and still make your appointment with him. We’ll barely make it as it is.” She gestured gracefully toward the open rear door. “The senator doesn’t like to be kept waiting.”

  Jack tamped down his irritation. It wasn’t this woman’s fault that her boss was a world-class manipulator. Tossing his gear onto the back seat, he slammed the door.

  “I’ll sit up front.”

  She shrugged. “Suit yourself. Let me just throw my stuff in the back.”

  “I’ve got it.”

  Her stuff, Jack discovered, included a black leather shoulder bag that weighed more than his carryall, an equally heavy textbook on United States political history, and a crumpled paper bag that gave off a mouth-watering aroma.

  Pastries, he guessed. Freshly baked ones at that.

  The scent of vanilla and yeasty dough set off a faint rumbling in his stomach. He hadn’t had time to eat or call his office this morning, and it was now well past noon. Setting the bag beside the textbook in the back, he folded his tall frame into the passenger seat.

  With the long, bumpy flight and this mix-up over transportation, his trip had gotten off to an uneven start. After his meeting with Senator Claiborne, Jack suspected matters would go from uneven to downright uncomfortable all around. He might as well relax and enjoy the short drive into the city with the senator’s intriguing driver.

  Angela walked around the rear of the dark blue Chrysler, shaking her head at her own carelessness. She’d almost missed him! After waiting for more than an hour for the senator’s latest quarry to appear, she’d been standing there like an idiot, with her eyes closed and her face lifted to the sun. Of course, he’d chosen that particular moment to walk out of the terminal.

  Thank goodness he’d paused on the walkway and she’d opened her eyes to find him staring at her. Her first response had been instinctive—a tiny dart of pleasure any woman might feel at the unmistakable interest of an attractive man. Her pleasure had evaporated the moment she recognized him, though. She knew too much about Jack Merritt and his kind to feel flattered by his obvious interest.

  Slipping into the driver’s seat, she inserted the key into the ignition. With one ear tuned to the muted growl of the engine, Angela pulled on her seat belt, then waited while her passenger adjusted his to fit.

  It took some adjusting. He was a big man. The grainy black-and-white picture one of the staffers had clipped from some obscure medical journal hadn’t captured his size...or the intelligence in those gunmetal-gray eyes.

  He didn’t look like a medical bean counter, Angela decided with a quick, assessing glance. Not like the representatives of that particular subspecies that she’d dealt with in recent years, anyway. None of them had sported a thatch of jet-black hair with just a hint of a curl in its conservative cut, a square, uncompromising chin and shoulders a yard wide.

  He had the uniform down pat, though, right down to the discreet, conservative stripe in his charcoal-gray suit. And the icy expression.

  After that quick grin when she opened her eyes and caught him staring at her, he’d gone all cold and distant. Become downright unfriendly, in fact. Angela had shrugged off enough hostile looks from accountants and bill collectors in the past few years to have become immune to them. For some reason, though, this man’s had bothered her. So much so that she’d lost her professional cool for a moment and snapped back at him.

  Oh, well, it wasn’t the first time she’d tossed out a smart rejoinder, and it probably wouldn’t be the last. As Senator Claiborne was so fond of saying, he surely to goodness hadn’t hired her for her diplomatic skills.

  Pulling her gaze from her passenger, Angela punched a speed-dial button on the phone mounted within easy reach on the dash. One of the high school interns spending an eye-popping week in the hallowed halls of power answered on the first ring.

  “Senator Claiborne’s office.”

  “This is Angela. I’ve got Dr. Merritt, and we’re on our way.”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  Smiling at the teen’s reedy voice, Angela pressed the end button.

  “All set?” she inquired of her passenger.

  “All set.”

  Wrapping her hands around the wheel, she checked the side and rearview mirrors, then peeled away from the curb. As always, the responsiveness of the specially modified engine sent a tiny thrill through her veins. With the precision of a surgeon, she cut across two lanes and sliced a place for the Chrysler in the bumper-to-bumper traffic.

  A jerk of the wool-covered knee next to hers drew her attention. Amused, she saw two rather large feet shod in black Córdoba leather had planted themselves against the plush floor mats. Hard.

  Hiding a smile, Angela settled into the short, familiar run along Memorial Parkway. Winter-bare Virginia countryside rolled by on the left. Sunlight sparkled on the silvery-gray waters of the Potomac on the right. She’d made this run too many times to count, and she always enjoyed the uncluttered beauty of this brief stretch of parkway. This time, she barely noticed it. The man beside her absorbed her full attention.

  Although her initial attempt at polite conversation had met with something less than notable success, professional courtesy demanded that she give it another shot.

  “Is this your first visit to Washington, Dr. Merritt?”

  “The first in a long time,” he replied, with the faint drawl that was a mere echo of the one her boss could lay on when he wanted to. “And it’s Jack.”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “Call me Jack. We do things more informally where I come from—and more slowly!”

  His arm shot out to brace against the dash as a van cut in scant yards ahead of them. With smooth skill, Angela swung the heavy Chrysler around the other vehicle.

  “Don’t worry, Dr. Merritt...Jack. I haven’t lost a passenger yet.”

  His arm dropped. “That’s good to hear.”

  “Of course,” she mused, “there’s a first time for everything.”

  He didn’t reply to that deliberately provocative remark, but his dark brows winged upward when a speed-limit sign whizzed by a few seconds later. Angela caught his pained expression, and the irrepressible Paretti grin that was never far from the surface pulled at her mouth.

  “All right. I admit it. I like to run with the lead pack.”

  “So I noticed.”

  His drawl was more noticeable this time, almost as down-home as the senator’s, but...sexier. She shrugged off its rippling effect on her nerves. So the man had a voice like melted carmel. If she hadn’t learned anything else in the past three years, she’d certainly learned that a pleasing appearance and a pleasant manner counted for little when money was on the line. Even barracudas could exude a certain charm while they ripped the flesh from your bones.

  “Have you always had this predilection for speed?” he asked, keeping a cautious eye on the road. “Or is it an acquired taste?”

  “It’s in my blood. My brother Tony swears I’m even worse than he is when it comes to standing on the gas.”

  “Tony?”

  She could tell the moment he made the connection. His head angled, and recognition flared in his eyes.

  “Your brother is Tony Paretti, the race-car driver?”

  “The former race-car driver.” She kept her tone even. “He hasn’t raced in a few years.”

  Three years and seven months, to be exact.

  “I remember reading about his crash,” her passenger said quiet
ly.

  Angela’s nails dug into the leather-wrapped steering wheel. Even now, after all this time, the memory of that hot, horrifying July day when her brother’s car had thrown a wheel and smoked into a wall could close her throat. Not even the long, agonizing weeks while he hovered between life and death and the Paretti family’s world came crashing down around them had approached those few seconds of undiluted terror.

  “I saw him on TV recently.” Merritt’s deep voice pulled her from the black, billowing smoke. “He was doing a commercial... No, a public-service spot in support of stricter enforcement of drunk-driving sanctions.”

  Angela forced a smile. “Sponsors would have him hawking everything from soapsuds to racing souvenirs if he’d let them, but Tony’s careful what he lends his name to.”

  “Smart man.”

  “He is. Very smart.”

  She stared out the windshield, her eyes on the ribbon of gray asphalt ahead, but her mind filled with the image of her laughing, teasing brother. Six years older, he’d been her idol since she was old enough to toddle after him. Tony had chuckled at her constant demands for his attention, and spoiled her rotten. Even in the close-knit, clannish community in Baltimore where they grew up, the Parettis had shared a special bond.

  “He’s still something of a hero on the NASCAR Winston Cup circuit.” Pride, undiminished by time or circumstance, colored her words. “He was the first rookie in thirty years to win one of Daytona’s twin qualifying races, you know.”

  “No, I didn’t know.”

  She shot him a quick look. No, of course, he wouldn’t know that bit of racing trivia. Jack Merritt wouldn’t have more than a passing knowledge—if that!—of the fast, exhilarating, dangerous world she’d grown up in.

  He was a product of another world, Angela reminded herself. A world that had almost ground her family into the dirt. He was a number cruncher, for heaven’s sake. She’d had enough unpleasant experiences with his type to last her a lifetime.

  Flipping on the directional signal, Angela cut into the exit lane. Moments later, the Chrysler made a smooth, pavement-hugging curve up the ramp to the Fourteenth Street Bridge.

  “Have you been driving for Senator Claiborne long?” Merritt asked, breaking the small silence.

  “Almost three years.”

  “I didn’t realize members of Congress were assigned personal cars and drivers.”

  Her mouth curled in a small, sardonic smile. She should have known it wouldn’t take long for the auditor to come out.

  “They’re not. Most drive themselves, or use the congressional motor pool.”

  “But not the senior senator from South Carolina?”

  Angela could have told him that her boss’s diminished vision made him something of a hazard on the road. That his staff secretly referred to him as E.T. because of all his close encounters. She could have admitted that Senator Clairborne had given her the job she so desperately needed as much for the safety of the general population as for his own convenience. But her loyalty to the senator went too deep for her to discuss him with anyone. Instead, she tossed Merritt’s question back at him.

  “Worried about your tax dollars?”

  “Should I be?”

  “Not in this instance. This car belongs to Senator Claiborne, not the U.S. government, and he pays my salary from his personal—”

  “Watch out!”

  She didn’t need either his terse warning or the quick, reflexive stomp of his foot against the floor mat. She’d already seen the stalled traffic ahead and begun pumping the antilock brakes.

  She wasn’t the only driver hitting the brakes. All around them, the air filled with squeals of protest from steel-belted tires as six lanes of vehicles screeched and slowed. Scant seconds later, the Chrysler jerked to a stop, inches from the fender of the car ahead.

  Merritt raked his black hair into place with one hand. “Nice stop.”

  Angela nodded absently, her eyes on the snarl of vehicles ahead. All six northbound lanes into the district had come to a complete standstill. As far as she could see, nothing was moving. Even by Washington standards, this kind of logjam was unusual.

  “Great,” she muttered, drumming her fingers on the wheel.

  “Looks like the senator might have to wait a little longer.”

  The hint of satisfaction in Merritt’s voice rubbed Angela the wrong way. Like UPS, she prided herself on delivering her boss and his visitors to their destinations on time, every time. Switching off the ignition, she yanked on the door handle.

  “Sit tight. I’ll go see what the problem is.”

  “I need to stretch my legs,” he said, reaching into the back seat for his trench coat. “I’ll go with you.”

  With a thin black sweater layered under her wool tunic, Angela didn’t need to retrieve the coat she kept in the Chrysler’s trunk. Still, the sun reflecting off the Potomac felt welcome as she moved to the front of the vehicle and stepped up on the bumper. She teetered for a moment, then stiffened when two large hands closed around her waist and steadied her. Startled at the steely strength of Merritt’s hold, she forced herself not to jerk away.

  Whatever had caused the tie-up must have occurred beyond the point where the traffic exited the bridge. All Angela could see ahead was long lines of stalled traffic. Twisting, she looked back the way they’d come. To her disgust, vehicles had already begun stacking up on the Virginia side of the river.

  Wonderful! They couldn’t go forward, and there certainly wasn’t any going back.

  As if to mock the stranded motorists, traffic still whizzed by, unimpeded, in the southbound lanes. Observing the free flow on the opposite bridge span, Angela muttered a short, pithy exclamation under her breath. She’d learned the phrase from Tony’s pit crew as a youngster, but she hadn’t said it aloud since the day her brother caught her using it to entertain her third grade classmates.

  “We’re going to be here a while,” she told Merritt, stepping off the bumper. “A long while.”

  His hands fell away from her waist. To Angela’s consternation, she noticed their absence almost as much as she had their presence.

  “I’ve been stuck in worse places,” he replied. “We might as well relax and enjoy the fresh air. Relatively fresh air,” he amended, taking in a whiff of the fumes rising from the vehicles idling their engines in the futile expectation of moving anytime soon.

  “You enjoy the fresh air. I’ll go call the office.”

  She left him leaning against the front fender, surveying the columned beauty of the Jefferson Memorial, which loomed at the north end of the bridge. After explaining the situation to the intern, who promised to make sure the senator got the word, Angela debated what to do next.

  She could leave Merritt outside by himself, gawking at the view like a tourist, she supposed. She wasn’t under any obligation to entertain him during what looked to be a long, frustrating delay. More to the point, she didn’t have any desire to entertain him. He represented a system she’d come to despise.

  She waited for the spurt of contempt that generally accompanied any reminder of a bureaucratic process that put money ahead of people. It arrived, but with something less than its usual force.

  Was Tony right? she wondered, her brow furrowing. Was it time to put the accident and its aftermath behind her? Maybe she shouldn’t have become so deeply involved in the senator’s determined efforts to reform the health care system. Shouldn’t have looked forward so eagerly to this witness’s public grilling.

  Well, it was too late now for doubts and second thoughts. Like a sacrificial goat, Jack Merritt would be offered up on the altar of medical reform in less than forty-eight hours.

  Her fingers beating a jerky tattoo, Angela studied the man through the windshield. Despite her determination to view him only as a necessary means to an end, she found that she wanted to know more about him than what she’d learned in the sketchy bio the staff had put together. Wanted to take the measure of the man the senator intended to put o
n the rack.

  Even sacrificial goats deserved a last meal, she decided abruptly. Reaching behind her, she retrieved the white paper bag from the back seat. Then she grabbed a wad of tissues from her purse and joined Merritt at the side of the car.

  “Are you hungry?”

  His gaze flicked over her face, then caught on the paper sack. Something very much like amusement flared his eyes for a moment.

  “As a matter of fact, I am. I’ve been sneaking whiffs of whatever’s in that bag since I got in the car.”

  “What’s in this bag,” she announced, “is pure artistry, courtesy of my aunt Helen. She sends a care package with my cousin Leonard whenever he drives into the city.”

  Perching on the fender, she rolled down the neck of the sack and held it out for Merritt’s inspection.

  “You have a choice. The best homemade cannoli this side of the Atlantic, or heart-shaped tortoni cookies, in honor of the occasion.”

  “What occasion?”

  “You’re kidding, right?”

  When she saw that he wasn’t, she lifted a leg and waggled her foot. The sequined hearts on her sneakers sparkled in the sun like miniature stoplights.

  “Today is Valentine’s Day. Why else would I be wearing these?”

  “I wondered,” he murmured.

  This time, the amusement was clear, and altogether too potent for Angela’s peace of mind. Disconcerted, she rattled the paper bag.

  “Which do you want?”

  “I’ll try a cannoli.”

  Using a tissue, she handed a flaky deep-fat-fried pastry stuffed with ricotta and sinfully rich whipped cream to Merritt.

  She’d just claimed another for- herself when the first shot rang out.

  Chapter 2

  Angela knew instantly that the whiplike crack wasn’t the sound of a car backfiring. She could identify an engine in every one of its voices, and that wasn’t one of them. Street-smart and Trained by experts for every contingency a professional driver might face, she suspected what had caused the sharp report even before she threw a quick, instinctive look over her shoulder.