“I went ahead and ordered some lemonade and tea sandwiches for us. They’ve already been served but if you’d like, I can call the staff back and have them pour for us,” she said, smiling and giving him a saucy wink. It was probably inappropriate for the president to wink at an ambassador, but Jessica was feeling like breaking out today, rebelling, living a little for once.
The ambassador dropped his head, giving her a contrite look from under his lashes.
“I overstepped my bounds, Madam President. I apologize. If you’ll forgive me, I will pour your lemonade with my own hands in penance.”
She could see the spark of laughter in his eyes, even as he tried to look chagrined.
“I think that would do fine, Mr. Ambassador,” she replied, finally laughing. He watched her, and she could have sworn she saw something hot and ready there in his eyes, but he extinguished it quickly and moved to pour them each a glass of ice-cold lemonade.
“You need to call me Kamal, Madam President.”
“I will, if you’ll call me Jessica when we’re in private. I sort of forget who Jessica is sometimes, so few people use her name.”
He nodded seriously as if he understood exactly what she meant.
She pulled a sheaf of papers closer and set her lemonade down on the glass-topped table. “Now, Kamal, what are we going to do about this provision to put tariffs on manufacturing exports after 2019?”
Kamal watched Jessica Hampton as she made her way through several of the provisions of the proposed accord. He knew she was a few years older than him, but she easily looked his age or younger. Her skin was smooth, her blue eyes bright and clear, and her copper hair without a touch of gray. And while it was entirely inappropriate to notice, he couldn’t help but catalog in his male brain that below the neck, the woman was as gifted as she was above it. Yes, the president of the United States was a babe, and he was having a hard time focusing on the complicated negotiations he was supposed to be working through.
“I’m sorry, can you repeat that last provision?” he asked, giving himself a small shake to restart the other parts of his mind.
She gave him a gentle smile that caused his dick to twitch in his expensive dress pants. Fuck.
“Why don’t we take a small break,” she said before looking at her cell phone that lay on the table in front of her. “We have another hour before my next appointment. Would you like to take a walk around the rose garden for a quick change of pace? Sometimes moving around helps me think.”
“An excellent idea,” he said as he stood and held out his hand to her. She took it hesitantly, but when she stood, he did what he wanted and not what he was supposed to and tucked her hand into the crook of his arm as he led her to the nearby famous White House Rose Garden.
“So you’ve been in the US a long time from what I understand?” she asked as they entered the rows of rose bushes.
“I first came for college when I was eighteen,” he said. “I was in boarding school in England for ten years before that.”
“Oh my,” she exclaimed. “So you haven’t actually lived in Egypt since you were a little boy?”
“That’s correct. I visit frequently, of course, but my education has been entirely Western.”
Her brow furrowed, and he bit back the urge to smooth his finger over the tiny line that appeared between her eyes.
“Well, that explains the British accent,” she said with a smile.
“I would have had it regardless of boarding school. You’ll recall that Egypt was a British colony for quite some time. Most of my countrymen have learned British pronunciation when they speak English.”
She nodded, and for a moment, they walked in silence, her hand still folded in his arm. He could smell the roses and also something like almonds that came from her hair. The sun shone down on them, and he closed his eyes for just a moment, pretending that this was his life, a beautiful place, a beautiful woman by his side, and no other duties.
“Is it difficult?” she asked, breaking the silence around them. “Representing a nation you’ve never really lived in? I admit that I sometimes find it difficult representing a country that I’ve been immersed in my entire life. I have a hard time imagining doing it for a place that in some ways must be foreign to you.”
He took a breath, searching for the right words to explain to an American his concept of family, country, and culture. It was something many of his Middle Eastern brethren would understand, but most Americans would not.
“My father is very prominent in Egypt, and I have a large extended family. My cousins and my brother attended boarding school with me, I have nieces and nephews working for me at the embassy, my father visited England to check on my schooling nearly once a month, and I spent all my vacations at our home outside of Cairo.”
She nodded, her expression encouraging.
“For me, to be Egyptian isn’t only a matter of location, it is an entire set of beliefs, worldviews, family connections, cultural expectations. My Egypt-ness isn’t tied to the land but to the people, and there are Egyptians throughout the world. I represent all of them, and they are part of me no matter where we are at any given point in time.”
She finally removed her hand from his arm, and he nearly snatched it back to replace it, the spot where it had been suddenly cold and alone.
“That’s really very beautiful,” she said, facing him. “Maybe because we don’t travel the world as extensively as those in some other countries, but Americans seem to be more attached to the particular land. Although I think expats probably become more acutely aware of those things that aren’t place linked about being American. I know when I spent junior year abroad, I was fascinated with the things that clung to me and made me feel American even when I was deep in the Moroccan culture.”
He smiled as they rotated by unspoken agreement and began to saunter back to the entrance of the gardens. He once again ignored propriety and placed her hand around his arm.
“And what were some of these things?” he asked, finding himself pinned to every word she spoke, her voice like warm honey on his tongue, her lips moving like a siren’s call to his lower regions.
“Clothing is always an obvious one, and of course I had to adapt the way I dressed while I was in Morocco, and it made me ache for the freedom to wear what I wanted like I could at home. I’d never had restrictions like that placed on me. I was twenty-one and so unaware of how much freedom I’d had in my life.”
“Yes. Americans talk about their freedoms like voting and speech, but what I’ve always thought were the most incredible freedoms in this country weren’t the obvious ones. Things like dressing how you want, taking the jobs that you want, living where you want—those are the things that you cannot do in Egyptian culture, and once you’ve experienced them here, it’s difficult to return to the more restrictive norms.”
He immediately felt the guilt twist in his gut. He tried not to think such things, even to himself, much less say them out loud to the leader of a foreign nation.
“I’m sorry,” he said immediately, clearing his throat. “That was inappropriate. Our countries are different, both valuable in their own right.”
She touched him lightly on the arm as they reached the entryway to the gardens. “Kamal? It’s okay. You obviously love your country deeply. I didn’t hear anything that said otherwise.”
“Thank you.” He dipped his head toward her.
She hadn’t moved her hand, and he found himself wishing that she never would. He looked down at her, close enough to see every one of her inky lashes as they fluttered over her bright blue eyes, like shutters opening and closing over her soul.
“I think,” she said softly, holding his gaze, “that as long as we are Kamal and Jessica, our discussions are between them as well. The ambassador and the president can have the appropriate conversations, but we can leave them in the anteroom of the Oval Office, can’t we?”
She looked almost hopeful. Some lonely part of him reached out to that hope in h
er eyes, and they latched on to one another so hard, he knew resistance was futile. He took her small, soft hand from his arm, and her eyes snapped to their linked hands as if she’d forgotten she was touching him. Slowly, he lifted her hand to his lips and pressed a long kiss to her fingertips. She gasped softly but didn’t pull away.
“I think that is an excellent arrangement, Jessica.” His voice was low and rough, and she blinked at him in a daze as his own insides curled with heat and want.
But Jessica Hampton didn’t become the first woman president by giving in to her desires, so she quickly shook off the magic that circled them, and gave him a bright smile. “Well then, we have forty minutes left. Shall we go over the tariff section again?”
“Yes, Madam President. By all means.” He winked at her, and she blushed before they returned to the table and the important accord that Kamal was very grateful for now.
Chapter 4
“Madame President?” Vanessa knocked as she put her head in the door of the Oval Office early the next morning.
“Yes? Come on in.” Jessica had to admit that requiring staff to announce themselves and others before entering her office had made her days more tolerable. She couldn’t imagine why it took a foreign diplomat to point out the obvious to her—she was the damn president of the United States, she didn’t have to admit every staff member and visitor on a whim.
“I have some bad news.”
Jessica sat up straight, ready to go into crisis mode even though it was only seven fifteen in the morning.
“WNN is reporting that Senator Melville was caught with a prostitute yesterday.”
“What?” Jessica snapped. “He just announced his candidacy for president!”
Vanessa sighed and nodded. “I know, ma’am, but there is no way you can give him your endorsement now.”
“Hell. He was going to be the party’s man. He was going to be my goddamn replacement.” She hissed under her breath, adrenaline pushing through her veins at the same time a hot flush washed over her.
“Get me Derek Ambrose on the phone,” she barked out.
“Yes, ma’am. I imagine he’s swamped, but I’ll put him through just as soon as we can reach him.”
“Thank you. And can you have someone order me more coffee and a doughnut if they can track one down?”
Vanessa smiled at her, knowing her boss’s penchant for sugar in times of stress.
“Yes, Madam President. I heard that they have a fresh batch of the crullers you like so much.”
“Thank God. Tell them I said thank you.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
Vanessa slipped out of the room, and Jessica sagged into her seat. Ten years ago, she’d been the wife of a new, young US senator, and absolutely nowhere in her future plans were the words president of the United States except as it related to him. Jessica Hampton had married the heir to a beloved American political dynasty, and she knew that with those wedding vows came a lifetime of political campaigns, living in the public eye, and keeping the home front running while John traversed the rocky geography of a political career. But they were young, idealistic, and deeply in love, and when he’d won the Senate race, they’d celebrated by renting a charming town house in Georgetown and talking about when they wanted to start their family.
She’d spent the first year of his Senate term getting them settled into the DC life. There were countless fundraisers, diplomatic events, and wives’ functions to attend. A house to decorate and decisions to make about her own career. Before the move, Jessica had practiced corporate litigation at a medium-sized firm in New York, but with a husband in the Senate, corporate law was too sticky a conflict of interest, so Jessica spent some time figuring out which direction she wanted to take her career.
The answer had presented itself one night when she was at a cocktail party chatting with the president of Georgetown University. He’d mentioned the need for a new university counsel, and Jessica’s heart had given an extra skip. She loved education, universities, the campuses, the students, the atmosphere of discourse and free thought. Within a week, she’d secured a position as the university’s counsel, with a part-time appointment in the law school teaching Intro to Contract Law. She and John had been ecstatic. The position offered the option for her to go to teaching full-time when they had a baby and presented no conflicts with his Senate position.
The phone chimed, interrupting her trip down memory lane, and her secretary’s voice came through the intercom. “Madam President? I have Mr. Ambrose on the line.”
“Put him through, please,” Jessica replied. The line clicked, and Jessica hit the speaker button. “Derek?”
“Yes, Madam President. Good morning.”
“I’m hearing it’s not been the best morning for you and Senator Melville.”
Derek gave a bitter chuckle. “No, ma’am. It’s actually been a hot mess. Have you seen the reports?”
“No, but Vanessa gave me the highlights.”
“Well, ma’am, we’ll be holding a press conference this afternoon introducing the public to the woman in question, who is actually my girlfriend and was at the hotel to visit me, not the senator.”
Jessica sat silently for a moment, disbelief rolling around in her head. “Derek…”
“It’ll be fine, Madam President. I know how important this candidacy is to you and the party. I have it under control, and a week from now, no one will remember that this even happened.”
She sighed. “I really hope you’re right, Derek. I have a great deal of faith in you, but until we’re sure, I won’t be able to endorse Senator Melville.”
He did a nice job of covering up his disappointment, but she knew he felt it all the same. “Of course, I understand. We will work to get this situation resolved and the campaign underway, and then we can revisit the possibility in a few weeks.”
“Sounds like a good plan. Please keep me updated if there are any new developments with this thing.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
After disconnecting, Jessica sat back and closed her eyes. Damn it. She was a first-term incumbent with a high approval rating, and the party had assumed she would run for reelection. But Jessica had never wanted to be president, and she certainly didn’t want to serve another four years. Jason Melville was the answer—a young, appealing party loyalist who could have Jessica’s stamp of approval and follow her footsteps right into the White House.
Now that plan was in danger, and Jessica knew without a doubt the party would pressure her to reconsider a reelection campaign.
“Dammit, John,” she swore under her breath as a headache began to bloom behind her eyes. No, Jessica Hampton had never once thought six years ago that her handsome, charming thirty-two-year-old husband would be dead before he was thirty-four, and she would be hustled into his Senate seat, then expected to fulfill his political legacy—the presidency.
Jessica’s personal cell phone rang, and she looked at the screen to see her mother-in-law’s name. It was as if the woman could sense when Jessica was thinking about her son.
“Hi, Marjorie,” she answered.
“Darling,” Marjorie drawled in her thick Southern accent. “Do you have a moment?”
“Yes, no meetings for another thirty minutes.”
“Good. How are you?”
“I’ve had better mornings, but generally I’m fine.”
“You’ve seen the news, then? Melville really screwed the pooch on this one.” Marjorie was a Southern belle but also a political veteran of forty-some odd years, and tough as nails. Jessica’s father-in-law had served in the Senate seat from South Carolina for over two decades.
Jessica’s head throbbed harder. “Yes, I’ve been on the phone with Derek Ambrose, and there was apparently a misunderstanding. The woman is actually Derek’s new girlfriend, so they’ll be explaining that later this afternoon.”
Marjorie snorted in derision. “New girlfriend, my ass,” she muttered. “Jessica, you know how John senior feels about this.”<
br />
“Yes, I do.”
“Darlin’, why will you not even consider the possibility of serving another term? The nation is prospering. You’ve made fabulous strides with your negotiations in the Middle East. People are happy with you. That happens very infrequently in the presidency.”
Jessica had been over this with her in-laws so many times, she felt like she might as well record her answer and just hit Play when they called. Sometimes she thought that it might be worth telling them the whole truth, but then she’d remember the looks on their faces at John’s funeral and know that she couldn’t.
“I appreciate how fortunate my term in office has been, Marjorie, and that’s one reason why I want to go out on a high note. The longer I stay in, the greater the chance of things going rogue and destroying John’s legacy. I’ve managed to protect the Hampton reputation, and I think I’ve done John and John senior proud, but I can’t promise what would happen in a reelection campaign and another four years in office. You know as well as I do that mud gets slung, crises pop up, economies collapse. I want to leave office with the Hampton name representing the best in American politics.”
“You’re so good, Jessica. You know that we love you no matter what, don’t you?”
She heard her mother-in-law’s voice crack as she responded, and Jessica was immediately drawn back to that day in April when she’d had to make the call to tell them that John was dead.
She nodded even though no one could see her. “Yes, and I love you. But I have to get back to work now. I’ve discovered that the damn country won’t run itself.”
“Of course.” Marjorie rallied, her voice snapping back to its normal steel tones. “We’re still planning to come to the State dinner in November, so we’ll be seeing you soon.”
They said their good-byes, and Jessica sat, mind numb for a few moments. Then, without even thinking about it, she pulled on the second drawer of her desk, her hand shaking as she rolled the thick wood open. She looked down at the only item in the big drawer. The frame was thick, silver with elaborate scroll designs carved in the surface. The photo in the center of the elaborate dressing was simple, however, a black-and-white taken when the subjects hadn’t even known they were being photographed.
POTUS: A Powerplay Novel Page 4
