The Switch

by Sandra Brown

  "I was planning on returning to Houston fairly early."

  "We're early risers. You name the time and place."

  Actually, there was nothing else to discuss. Chief had known what his answer would be even before this meeting. He'd agreed to it merely as a courtesy. Listening to their pitch hadn't changed his mind. Longtree looked prosperous, not like an Indian who was barely scraping out a living on the reservation, not like someone who'd be going to bat for the underdog and trying to right all the wrongs heaped on the Indian nations. But the cagey bastard wasn't giving him a graceful way out of a breakfast meeting.

  "Oh nine hundred?" Chief asked with military briskness. "Over breakfast here in The Promenade?"

  "We'll see you then," the Apache replied. Abbott quickly shook Chief's hand, then trotted after Longtree as he strode from the bar.

  Other happy hour patrons had turned to stare. Dexter Longtree cut a distinctive figure, but he didn't exactly blend into the well-heeled crowd of The Mansion's elegant lounge, especially with the beaded and fringed breechcloth he'd worn over his trousers.

  "Is he an actor or something?"

  Chief turned to the cocktail waitress who had sidled up to him and posed the question. "No, he's the genuine article."

  "Really? Wow." Once Abbott and Longtree were out of sight, she smiled up at Chief. "Is there anything else I can get you, Mr. Hart?"

  "Not right now, thanks."

  "Then I hope you'll drop in again before you leave us." "Maybe I'll come in for a nightcap."

  "I'll look forward to it."

  He was accustomed to flirtations. He had received shameless propositions through the mail, sometimes with X-rated photos enclosed. He'd had room numbers scrawled on cock tail napkins in hotel bars across the country. And once, during a formal dinner at the White House, a woman had pressed a pair of panties into his palm as they shook hands.

  He more or less took female attention for granted. But this young woman was very attractive. She had mastered the dazzling, Dallas-girl smile, that irresistible combination of coy southern belle and brazen cowgirl. Chief felt himself responding to it.

  But damn, she was young! Or maybe he was getting old. In his younger, wilder days, he would have taken her smile for the open invitation it was and accepted it.

  But he was no longer young, and some of his wildness had been tamed. In any case, he tipped her generously, then wasted no time returning to his room and getting into the shower. As promised by the hotel staff, his tuxedo had been pressed and was hanging in the closet. The black cowboy boots he wore with it had been shined to a high gloss.

  He allowed himself a short bourbon while he dressed, then mercilessly brushed his teeth and gargled mouthwash. It wouldn't do for an Indian to show up at a press conference with firewater on his breath, now, would it?

  Chiding himself for the chip on his shoulder, he pulled on the pleated shirt and poked the onyx studs into the buttonholes. Most of the time he kept that chip on his shoulder under wraps. His conversation with Abbott and Longtree was responsible for its present upsurge.

  What did he have to prove? Why did he still feel the need to prove himself or to justify himself? He had nothing to apologize for. He had excelled at everything he'd ever tried. Collegiate sports. Air Force flight training. Fighter jets. War. The space program.

  He would have accomplished it all despite his heritage. He'd grown up on a reservation. So what? He'd been granted no special favors. He hadn't been catered to because of it. Even so, he realized what a public relations gem he was to the space program. Rationally he knew that NASA wouldn't have entrusted three shuttle missions and their crews to an individual who wasn't qualified to command them.

  But another part of him, the Indian part, would always wonder if the skids of the system had been greased for him in order to make his university, the Air Force, and NASA look good. Let's make allowances for the Indian kid. It'll make for great PR.

  Probably no one within his experience had ever said that or even thought it. But he hated to think that someone might have. Just as he'd told Longtree and Abbott, he had never used his heritage either as a crutch or as a leg up.

  If somebody took that as a denial of his origin, then that was their problem and just too damn bad.

  He slapped a light cologne onto his face and ran his fingers through his unrelentingly straight black hair. His Native American genes had certainly been the dominate ones. He had Comanche hair, Comanche cheekbones. His mother had been fifteen-sixteenths Comanche. If it weren't for Great-Great-Grandfather, he might look even more Native American than he did.

  As it was, a lanky wrangler on a ranch in the Oklahoma panhandle had taken a fancy to Great-Great-Grandmother shortly after the Indian Territory became a state. From him Christopher Hart had inherited a tall, rangy physique and eyes that his first lover had deemed "Paul Newman blue."

  His eyes had been one of his old man's excuses for leaving. Unfortunately, he had some of his father's blood, too.

  Impatient with the track of his thoughts, he strapped on his wristwatch, shot his cuffs, and he was ready. Before leaving the room, he glanced at the itinerary that had been faxed to his Houston office. He checked the name of his contact and committed it to memory.

  Actually, he would have preferred to drive himself from the exclusive Turtle Creek area where The Mansion nestled, largely unseen, on an ultra-private lane. With no more than an address and his reliable sense of direction, he could have located the Hotel Adolphus easily.

  But the group bestowing the award had insisted that he have an escort. "She's more than a chauffeur. She's media-savvy and knows all the local reporters," he was told. "You'll appreciate having Melina Lloyd to run interference for you. Otherwise you'd be mobbed."

  As he stepped through the doors of the hotel, a woman approached him. "Colonel Hart?"

  She was wearing a simple but elegantly cut and very expensive-looking black cocktail dress. Sunlight painted iridescent stripes of color onto her hair, which was almost as dark as his. It was worn straight from a side part. No bangs. She had on sunglasses.

  "You must be Ms. Lloyd."

  She extended her hand. "Melina."

  "Call me Chief."

  They smiled at each other as they shook hands. She asked, "How is your room? Satisfactory, I hope?"

  "Complete with a basket of fruit and a bottle of champagne. The staff has treated me royally."

  "That's what they're famous for."

  She nodded toward a late-model Lexus waiting at the end of the canopy-covered walkway. A doorman had the passenger door already open for him. Melina Lloyd tipped the young man handsomely. "Drive safely, Ms. Lloyd," he said to her as he waved them off.

  "You must be a regular here," Chief remarked.

  She laughed. "Not me. A few of my clients stay here—the really famous ones," she added, giving him a sidelong glance. "When I want to splurge, I love to come here for lunch. It's good people-watching, and they make scrumptious tortilla soup."

  "I'll tuck that away for future reference."

  "Adjust the air-conditioning to your liking."

  The curtain of dark hair swished across her shoulders as she turned her head to check for oncoming traffic before pulling out. He caught a whiff of fragrance.'

  "I'm comfortable, thanks."

  "What time did you arrive in Dallas?"

  "About two this afternoon."

  "That's good. You've had some time to decompress." "I went out to the pool."

  "It wasn't too cool?"

  "Not for me. I swam some laps. Worked on my tan."

  She cruised to a stop at a red traffic light and turned her head. "Your tan? That's an Indian-insider's joke, right?"

  He laughed, pleased that she got it and even more pleased that it didn't make her uneasy to comment on it. "Right." She smiled back, and he wished she would remove her sunglasses so he could see if her eyes lived up to the rest of her face. Particularly her mouth. Her mouth made him believe in sin.

&
nbsp; When she lifted her foot from the brake pedal and applied it to the accelerator, the hem of her dress rode up an inch or so above her knee. The fabric made a sexy rasping sound against her ultra-sheer hosiery. Nice sound. Even nicer knee.

  "What would you like?"

  His eyes shot from her thigh to her face. "Pardon?"

  "I have bottled water and soft drinks in the cooler on the floorboard behind me."

  "Oh. Uh, nothing, thanks."

  "I was told to prepare you for a large turnout tonight. You know about the press conference beforehand?"

  "Second-level lobby."

  She nodded. "It's limited to those holding a special pass. Keep in mind that the dinner officially begins at seven-thirty, but the press conference doesn't have to last until then. You're to give me a high sign whenever you're ready to stop, whether it's after five questions or fifty. At your signal I'll make your excuses and hustle you toward the ballroom for the banquet. That way, I'm the bad guy."

  "I don't think anyone would believe that."

  "That I'm the bad guy?"

  "That you're any kind of guy."

  She wasn't a fool; she knew flirting when she heard it. She gave him another glance out the side of her sunglasses. "Thank you."

  "Gillian?"

  "Hi, Jem."

  "Darling, I just checked my messages, and I'm delighted. You actually did it."

  "Just before lunch."

  "And?"

  "I'll know the result in a week."

  "When did you decide for sure?"

  "Yesterday. I had several bouts of cold feet and stomach butterflies, but I went through with it."

  "Why didn't you call me? I'd have gone with you. I would have liked being there."

  "I'm sorry, Jem. I really wanted it to be private. I didn't call sooner because I met my sister for lunch. It went too long. I almost didn't make my afternoon appointment, and only had time to talk to your home-number voice mail."

  "Did you tell Melina?" Before she could respond, he said, "Of course you told Melina. What does she think about it?" "She's excited that I'm excited."

  "I'm excited, too."

  "I'm glad. I appreciate you for backing my decision."

  "I have something for you. A surprise. I've had it for a while, waiting for you to make up your mind. I'd like to bring it over."

  She could hear the smile in his voice and knew he was eager to share his surprise. But she didn't want company. Trying to let him down gently, she said, "Jem, I know we made plans to see each other tonight, but would you take a rain check?"

  "Is something wrong? Don't you feel well?"

  "I feel fine. Just very tired. It was... an extremely emotional experience. More so than I counted on. I didn't realize until afterward how emotionally involving it was going to be."

  "In what way? Did you get upset? Cry?"

  "Nothing that demonstrative. It's hard to explain."

  "You had me convinced that it was a sterile, clinical procedure."

  "It was."

  "Then I don't understand how it could be so emotionally... What was the word? Involving?"

  Jem was wont to overanalyze everything. Tonight especially she didn't welcome his analysis. Trying to keep the irritation out of her voice, she said, "I just need some time alone. To think about it. Things. Can't we just leave it at that?"

  "Sure, we can leave it at that." By his tone she could tell that he was hurt. "I would think you'd want some loving support on a night as momentous as this. Obviously I was wrong." Immediately she regretted shutting him out. Why hadn't she taken the more expedient route and agreed to his coming over and delivering his gift? It would have cost her far less stress.

  But before she could extend another invitation, he said brusquely, "I'll call you later, Gillian," and hung up.

  CHAPTER 3

  Ms. Lloyd, I left your car right over there so you wouldn't have to wait in line."

  As soon as Chief and Melina exited the hotel following the banquet, the valet materialized and indicated the Lexus parked nearby. The motor was already running, and Chief was grateful that the air conditioner had been turned on. Officially it was autumn, but the calendar was out of sync with his body's thermostat. He was sweltering inside his tuxedo jacket.

  It had been a long banquet. Every scheduled speaker had taken more than his allocated time at the microphone. By the time it was Chief's turn to make his acceptance speech, even he was bored. He was glad to be escaping and grateful to the valet for enabling him and Melina to avoid further contact with the crowd that was pouring through the exit doors.

  As they walked toward her car, the starstruck valet asked, "What's it like in space, Colonel Hart?"

  He gave the young man his standard, glib reply: "Out of this world."

  "Must've been something."

  "It was."

  Chief added a five-dollar bill to the one Melina had given him. "Thanks, sir. Y'all take care."

  As they buckled their seat belts, Melina complimented him on his speech. "You were excellent. Once you leave the space program, you could have another career in public speaking."

  "Lots of former astronauts do."

  "Any aspirations in that direction?"

  "I'm weighing several options."

  "Such as?"

  He unfastened the button on his jacket. "Can we talk about something else?"

  Looking mortified, she exclaimed, "I'm so sorry. I didn't mean to pry."

  "It's not that, it's just—"

  "We don't have to talk at all. Feel free to lay your head back, close your eyes, and rest. I should have realized you'd be talked out by now. Probably the last thing you want is conversation."

  "Melina." Chief reached across the seat and touched her arm to stop the flow of apologies. "I'm not talked out. In fact, I would enjoy a conversation. Just not about me, okay? I'm tired of talking about me. Can we switch subjects?"

  "Of course. To what?"

  "Sex?"

  "Okay," she replied unflappably. "You want my opinion on the topic?"

  "Please."

  "Well, for starters, I think everybody should have one." He grinned. "You're quick."

  "So I'm told. Sometimes to my detriment."

  "Do you mind if I take off my jacket?"

  "Not at all."

  He shrugged off the tuxedo coat and tossed it into the back seat, then undid his bow tie and unbuttoned the collar of his shirt. "Ah! Much better."

  "Would you like something to drink?" she offered.

  "A stiff bourbon?"

  "I was thinking more along the lines of a Diet Coke or springwater."

  "I wouldn't mind a splash of either."

  "In the bourbon," they said in unison. Then they laughed together.

  When the laughter waned, he looked at her with a direct and serious gaze.

  "Is there someone waiting at home for you?"

  She didn't immediately acknowledge the question. Not until she came to a stop sign did she turn her head. He locked gazes with a pair of gray eyes that turned out to be her best feature of all—and they were all damn near spectacular.

  "Why?"

  "Because I'd like to invite you to join me for a drink. Any reason I shouldn't?"

  She shook her head, then returned her eyes to the road and put the car in motion again.

  "Okay, then, would you care to join me for a drink?" "Chief, you do understand the difference between a media escort and the other, more prurient type, don't you?"

  He would have feared that he'd overstepped his bounds and offended her, except that her question was accompanied by a teasing smile. He laid his hand on his heart.

  "I didn't mean to imply that you are anything other than a professional."

  Wincing, he said, "Oh, jeez, that didn't come out right, either, did it?"

  "No, it didn't," she said, laughing.

  Relaxing, he said, "Explain your job to me."

  She gave him the condensed version, then expanded. "Most of the time is spent in t
he car traversing the metropolitan sprawl, seeing to it that the client gets to all his appointments and media engagements on time, relaxed, and in a positive frame of mind. I try and protect the client from any inherent chaos that might arise at any point along the way."

  "Like what?"

  "Stalled traffic. Last-minute cancellations. Last-minute additions to the schedule. Illness. Just about anything your imagination can conjure up. Sometimes the schedule is tight and I'm barely allowed travel time. That's why I carry all this stuff with me," she said, tipping her head back to indicate the supplies in the floorboard of the back seat. "I even have a first-aid kit, a sewing box, and Handi Wipes."

  "Handi Wipes?"

  "I once escorted a TV diva who had a phobia about shaking hands with the general public. She washed after every contact."

  "Who?"

  She cocked her head and looked at him askance. "Do you want me to divulge your secrets to my other clients?"

  "I don't have any secrets." But the mischievous grin he gave her belied the claim.

  "Right," she drawled. "Anyway, the Handi Wipes are also good for wiping TV makeup off dark fabrics."

  "No kidding? Huh. You learn something every day."

  "I've learned by improvising. It's also my job to see that my clients are given their due just for being who they are, and that they receive—whether they deserve it or not—the red carpet treatment everywhere they go."

  "I can attest to that."

  She smiled at him. "Then I get a gold star for tonight. You were supposed to feel free of all responsibility except for making your speech."

  Because he was enjoying listening to her, he continued asking questions. He learned that her job didn't always end with chauffeuring and orchestrating a news conference.

  "Say a client wants some company—I provide it. I've become a very good listener. I take them anyplace they want to go. Restaurant, amusement park, concert, movie theater. One repeat client, an author who goes on a book tour every spring, loves to play pool. It's his way of unwinding and clearing out the cobwebs. We play each time he's in town."

  "And I suppose you always let him win."