Lady Liberty

by Vicki Hinze

  “Damn it.” Sybil swallowed her exasperation. “If Cap had to do this, then why didn’t he act as an intermediary?”

  “Frankly, the commander doesn’t know or care. He wants to establish direct contact.”

  “With Sayelle?” Sybil couldn’t believe it. “Why?” Could this get any more complex? Austin, Cap Marlowe, Sayelle, Barber, and, she’d bet her eye teeth, David’s press secretary, Winston, were all in bed together politically— and all against her.

  “We’re officially dead. Conlee can’t transmit direct to us anymore. He needs a go-between to keep us updated.”

  “So he recruits a member of the press?”

  “He’s done it before and been successful. He just codes the messages and has the press relay them to agents in the field.”

  “But that was Marcus Gilbert, and Conlee trusted him. He’s retired now and this is Sam Sayelle we’re talking about, Westford. He isn’t a patch on Marcus’s ass—and he hates me.” Agitated, she smoothed her dripping wet hair back, tilted her face into a gusty breeze. “David will never authorize this. Never.”

  “He already has.” Jonathan sent her a level look. “Con-lee’s judgment has always been sound. Give him the benefit of the doubt.”

  “With my life at stake?”

  “And mine.”

  She buried her face in her hands. Calmed herself down. “Fine,” she said. “But he had damn well better be right, because if he’s not, we’re dead.”

  Tense and weary, Sybil slumped against the rock. An as-yet unidentified traitor loose inside a top-secret site, a plane exploded, seven people killed, a deadline looming that threatened mass destruction, and Conlee recruits Sam Sayelle.

  David must be half out of his mind. And with everything else, he had all the condolence calls to make, including to Austin—which probably would make Sybil a pauper—and to Ken Dean’s wife, Linda—which definitely would make David wish he were a pauper or anything other than the man making that call.

  Sybil suffered a stab of guilt. Linda had made no secret of her opposition to Ken being Sybil’s pilot, or of blaming her for dragging Ken to every hot spot and hellhole on the face of the planet, putting him in unnecessary danger. More than once Linda had reminded Sybil that he had a family who needed him. And more than once Sybil had called Ken into the office and offered him a lateral transfer to a less dangerous job. He had routinely refused, for which Linda also blamed Sybil. She supposed it was easier for Linda to blame her than to blame her own husband, but … now this.

  Linda Dean had awakened from a dead sleep every single night since Ken had left for Geneva, certain she had been roused by some ominous sound. Now she was cooking dinner and she had that same wake-you-from-a-dead-sleep and raise-the-hair-on-your-neck feeling. She couldn’t logically explain any of it—the sensations seemed totally unprovoked. Nothing unusual had happened in the old Victorian that had housed her family through three generations, and there had been no warnings from the security guards who patrolled the subdivision that had built up around it. Still, she glanced over to the back door and checked the alarm system. The red light was glowing; the alarm was on and being monitored.

  An alarm is necessary, Linda. There are a lot of crazies out there.

  We will not raise our children in an atmosphere of fear, and that’s final, Ken.

  So had begun their domestic war.

  She had won that battle but had lost the war six months ago, when her husband announced at breakfast an alarm system would be installed that day and then promptly closed the matter to discussion. In their twelve-year marriage, that had been the first and only time anything that affected their family had been dictated and closed to discussion. Linda hadn’t cared for the feeling and had no desire to repeat it, but there was something about Ken then, and ever since, that had her instincts warning her he had his reasons and she would be wise to heed them. With him working for Sybil, who knew what could happen?

  Few politicians had as many natural enemies as Sybil Stone, and by making Ken her pilot, she had made Linda one of them. Sybil had no right to ask him to take on higher risks of being hurt or killed. But would Ken listen? No. Sybil Stone could do no wrong to Ken. Linda hated her for that most of all.

  She pulled the cutting board out of the cabinet and placed it on the counter. They had gotten the alarm, but Ken hadn’t returned to his old self. He was… different now. Distant and closed. More often than a confident woman would like to admit, Linda had wondered if he was having an affair. Maybe with Sybil Stone.

  You’re being unfair, Linda. Ken has never given you a reason to doubt him.

  Guilt swept through her. She rinsed her hands at the sink and then dried them on a fresh dishcloth decorated with blue irises. The kids were upstairs doing homework, and since the walls weren’t vibrating from their dueling stereo systems, they obviously hadn’t yet finished. In fact, nothing was moving. The only sounds in the house were those of her in the kitchen, preparing dinner.

  How odd. She stilled the knife midair above the cutting board and listened.

  Nothing.

  Not the kids. Not the habitual whistle of wind through the shutters. Not the attic window that had rattled her entire life.

  Something thudded down the hall.

  She nearly jumped out of her skin. Damn it, Linda! Stop spooking yourself over nothing.

  Something strange snagged her gaze. Ken’s brown-leather journal stood spine out with her cookbooks on the shelf. Why had he put his journal there?

  She’d take a look at it as soon as she checked on the kids. The only time they were this quiet was when they were doing something they shouldn’t be and knew it.

  She put down the knife then walked to the foot of the stairs. Staring up the stairwell, she remembered Ken’s warning when he’d kissed her good-bye: Be on your toes, honey There are people who want us to fail, and they could stir up trouble. We’ve had threats…

  Butterflies filled her stomach. Ken had been flying dignitaries for fifteen years and never before had he so bluntly reminded her of the elevated dangers that came with his job. She’d attended the seminars. She knew the stories of politically motivated attacks against families as well as any other spouse. And she knew that some fruitcakes actually believed they could get to someone like Ken by attacking his family. It never worked, of course. But in recent years, the attacks had become more prevalent. Of course, Sybil Stone didn’t have to worry about that. Now that she had divorced her husband, she had no family to attack.

  Nothing moved upstairs, and, for a fleeting moment, Linda wished she hadn’t vetoed the kids’ vote for a Doberman, though the Udalls’ dog next door, Fang, hadn’t barked. He considered the entire neighborhood his territory and barked like crazy if so much as a strange car rolled down the street. A little calmer, she expelled a rushed breath. Her heartbeat slowed to a canter and her dry mouth eased a little. “Katie? Kenneth?” she called up to them.

  Neither answered.

  “This isn’t funny” She braced a hand on her hip and stared up the carpeted stairs. “You guys answer me, okay?”

  Still no response.

  Pure fear unleashed inside her. She grabbed the banister, took the first six steps. The hardwood floor behind her creaked, and she paused to look back. Something hard crashed into her neck. Her knees buckled and she fell to the steps, tumbled down them to the floor at the foot of the staircase.

  Pain streaked through her chest, her right ankle, her hip. She couldn’t draw breath. Spots formed before her eyes; everything blurred, dimmed. Good God, was she dying?

  The kids. She had to get to the kids. Steeling herself for another avalanche of pain, she rolled over, trying to get up on her knees, and strained to focus, praying she could stay conscious. Fuzzy, fluid images swam before her eyes. Three men standing over her dressed all in black, their faces hidden behind stocking-cap masks, their hands gloved. She tried to move but couldn’t. Tried to scream but made no sound. She couldn’t do anything to defend herself or to prote
ct her children. Who were these people? What were they going to do to them?

  A man grabbed her, pinned her arms to her sides, shoved a pungent cloth over her nose and mouth. Chemicals. She smelled chemicals. Don’t breathe. Don’t breathe. Don’t breathe.

  One of the men went upstairs. Linda’s head throbbed, her dread doubled.

  “Noooooooo, stop! Leave me alone!”

  Katie’s screams pierced the mental fog and stabbed straight through Linda’s heart. “Please,” she whispered into the cloth, staring straight into a man’s brown eyes. “Don’t hurt my babies. Please!”

  Yet another man appeared at the top of the stairs and two of them headed down, carrying something lumped in Katie and Kenneth’s bedspreads. “Got 'em. Let’s go, go, go!”

  Limp and unable to move, Linda felt herself being lifted.

  “She’s not out.”

  Someone shoved the pungent cloth back over her nose and mouth, pushed down hard. Terror slithered through her veins. By their accents, these men were all foreigners. This had to be about those Geneva peace talks. Ken’s warning again replayed in her mind. Oh, God, his journal. Why hadn’t she immediately noticed the journal? He’d put it with her cookbooks to make sure she found it quickly, and, being out of place, she would know to read it. He had expected this!

  “Mom!” Katie cried. “Mommieeeee!”

  Linda struggled against the man holding her, fought to free herself to help Katie.

  The man dodged her feeble blows. “Screw drugs.” He spat from between his clenched teeth, raised a beefy fist, and slammed it against her jaw.

  Pain exploded in Linda’s face. Certain she and her children were about to die, she slid into the dark abyss of unconsciousness.

  “Sybil, you okay?”

  “I’m fine, Westford.” Leaning back against the rock, she lifted her gaze to the canopy of wet, dripping leaves. Her voice sounded foggy and thick and as weary as she felt. “Just fine.”

  He reached over and stroked her shoulder. “You don’t have to be strong all the time.”

  “Oh?” She shot him a challenging look. “When do you recommend I be weak? When negotiating with Peris and Abdan? When a decision I make kills seven people? You jumped out of a plane without a parachute, for God’s sake. You could have died, Westford.” Pain exploded in her chest and tears welled in her eyes. She blinked hard and fast to keep them from falling, crushed a fistful of leaves, then tossed them to the ground. “Oh, God. You could have died.”

  “Every rose needs its thorn.”

  Confused, she snapped. “What?”

  “You can let go right now,” he said, his voice gruff and raw. “It’s not being weak, Sybil. It’s being human.” He opened his arms.

  Everything inside Sybil wanted to go to him, to feel the solid warmth of his chest against her face, his arms close around her. But it had been so long since she’d dared to allow herself the luxury of being comforted by a man. What if she accepted that comfort and let go, and then she couldn’t stop letting go? What if she found solace in it, needed it, and she couldn’t go back to burying her feelings? “I—I can’t.”

  “It’s okay. I can.” Westford let her see the sadness in his eyes. “I lost two of my men. I’ve been a guest in Ken Dean’s home. I know his wife and kids—and Cramer’s wife, who is just a kid. And Julie’s dad. Jesus, Sybil. He lived through three wars. Three of them. And now because of some damn terrorist, he’s lived just long enough to see his only daughter murdered.” Westford slid across the wet ground and wrapped his arms around her. “Damn it, I can.” He swallowed hard. “I hurt from the bone out.”

  Pain flooded through her so strong and intense she couldn’t tell where it began or ended, only that no part of her escaped its agony. Tears spilled down her face and burned hot against her cold skin. “Me, too, Jonathan.” She lifted her arms, cradled his head in the crook of her neck, and whispered, “Me, too.”

  He looked up at her. The grief ravaging his face split and surprise filled the crevices. “You know my first name.”

  “Yes.” Her voice trembled. “But I have to wish I didn’t.”

  “Why?”

  Because I like you. Because with your rose petals and thorns, you make me think and feel things I don’t want to think or feel. Because you make me want to forget I have lousy judgment and I shouldn’t trust men. Damn you, you get to me, and I don’t want anyone to get to me ever again.

  “Sybil?” He tightened his hold on her and what had begun as a search for comfort shifted to a sensory assault. Unable not to, she explored it, discovered a pure and simple joy and gratitude that she was alive, felt the assault deepen and then shift again, conjuring tender feelings of closeness, intimacy, and an intense awareness stronger than anything she’d ever experienced.

  “Why, Sybil?”

  Awed and humbled and amazed by the onslaught of emotions yawning inside her, she couldn’t for the life of her remember anything, much less why she shouldn’t want to be familiar enough to know his first name. “Because.”

  “Because,” he said against her shoulder, his lips brushing against her skin.

  Oh, God, how was she supposed to remember when she couldn’t think? “It—it’s important.”

  “Not to me.” His breath fanned against her neck, warm and inviting. He lowered his hands to her waist, lifted her onto his lap, then held her against him and caressed her back.

  Too intense! Her heart skipped a beat then thudded against her ribs, and every instinct in her body conspired, urged her to gravitate toward him, to seek out his touch. “Am I important to you?”

  “Would I risk my life for you if you weren’t important to me?”

  Cryptic. She really didn’t know what she needed to hear from him, but she knew anything cryptic wasn’t it. “You risk your life for a lot of people.”

  He hesitated and something in his eyes changed, hardened. “You’re pushing, Sybil. But are you sure you want me to respond to that?”

  She wasn’t sure of anything right now. To her, these shifts between them seemed so evident and personal and intimate, but maybe to him they weren’t. Maybe he was holding her seeking comfort from grief and nothing more. Maybe he was holding a wounded veep, not a wounded woman, and she’d crossed the proverbial line alone. “I— I’m sorry, Westford.” She reverted to his last name to create distance between them and tried to scoot off his lap.

  He held her firmly in place. “Jonathan, Sybil.” He cupped her chin in his hands and kissed her lightly on the lips. “Jonathan,” he whispered against her mouth, then kissed her again. Sweetly… softly… gently… opening a door in her heart she had feared and believed would forever remain closed. His lips parted, he cruised over her face, pressed touches of kisses to her temple, her forehead, the line of her jaw, and then brushed the tips of their noses. “You’re important.”

  She dragged in a sharp breath, and he kissed her again, this time letting her feel his hunger and heat. She reveled in the knowing, in the slumbering sensations awakened: the eager meshing of mouths and lips and tongues, exploring, straining to deepen their union; the clutching of hands, trembling with urgency, needing to be everywhere at once, to carry the heady blend of pleasure and longing to places hiding far beneath the skin touched; the clinging of wet clothes to skin that was suddenly sensitive and aware; the heat of pressed bodies seeping through rough fabric, warming them, welcoming them. Tempting them.

  You’re important.

  In her mind, Sybil heard him again, and for the first time in a very long time, she felt important to a man. Maybe they would regret this. Maybe she was important, but to the agent and not to the man. Maybe he was attracted to the vice president, the position, and not to the woman. But whatever the truth proved to be, she would deal with it… later. Now she just wanted to feel again. To hold and be held. To be more than her job, if only for a little while. She wanted to feel her body melt into liquid heat, to get lost in the dizzying sensual haze so long absent from her life. She wanted to know
a man ached to touch her, to feel her touch. She wanted, just once, to be loved by a man knowing he didn’t care what job she did, or how much power or money she had, or how big a shadow she cast. A man to whom none of that mattered. A man to whom only she mattered.

  And, like it or not, she wanted to know if Jonathan was that man.

  He broke their kiss, rested his chin on her shoulder, and circled his arms around her shoulders. “I probably shouldn’t have done that. But I won’t apologize, Sybil.”

  Thank God. “Me, either.” Nose to his chest, she inhaled his tangy scent. Not bitter, but definitely dangerous. “I’m not sorry”

  “You will be,” he predicted, regret tainting his tone.

  Surprised, she reared back. “Are you planning something nasty, Westford?”

  “Jonathan, Sybil.”

  “Whatever. Are you?”

  “Would I do that to you?”

  “I didn’t think you would, but you’re giving me second thoughts.”

  “You’ll be doing the damage,” he predicted. “I’ll be a passive victim.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “I told you. I know how your mind works.”

  He thought she would beat herself up over this. She opened her mouth to deny it but stopped, innately knowing he was right and she would. That truth totally soured her mood. “Your timing for sharing these insights really sucks, Jonathan.”

  “Yet another flaw. I’d say I’d work on it, but I won’t.” He released her, leaned back against the tree, and stared her right in the eye. “You’re going to look at whatever happens between us and consciously decide what it means to you. You’re going to consciously choose what you want. No excuses. No delusions. And no distractions.” He stared up through the trees. “Personally, I’d opt for making love with you, but I know what that’ll cost. Eventually you’ll cool down and start thinking, though I’m guessing that could take a while.” The look in his eyes warmed. “I’ve never seen you dazed before. I like it.”