Night Is Mine (22 page)

“I would not suggest trying to skip this one.”

She closed her eyes for a moment and, not liking the image, opened them again. “Marky” would just have to deal with her mother. It served him right for showing up unannounced and uninvited.

“Should I go change?” The
puttanesca
sauce had left several long, blood-red tomato spatters down the white sleeve of her men’s dress shirt. The pork roast had peppered her tan slacks with several greasy bullets while searing.

“We aren’t as formal under this President as, ah…”

“But go change. Got it. I’ll meet you in three minutes where I dropped you like a brick.” Some part of her simply couldn’t resist poking the beast.

He favored her with a nearly feral smile. “You are welcome in the Secret Service gym any time you want.” If smiles could kill.

They laughed together. Briefly. Tentatively. Chopped off in unison. She’d just made an enemy into a friend. A dangerous one, but a friend.

Guy-speak. She was amazed every time it worked. Maybe she should teach classes. If she ever worked with anyone other than guys.

She headed out of the kitchen at a fast clip.

***

The brief glance Emily spared the mirror in her room accused her of not working out often enough.

“I knew that without your help.” She was as obsessed with fitness as any SOAR pilot. Not as much as the Special Forces operators, but daily ten-kilometer runs were common practice for her squad. Diagnosis? Presently grounded, eating far too well, and feeling it even in the first week.

West Wing meeting? About what?

Perhaps with the Secret Service. That made sense. They had an office in the ground floor of the West Wing. Maybe they’d finally uncovered her dual role here as chef and guardian, and wanted to do a little cooperative planning. And she had a bridge to sell real cheap.

Much more likely, a little uncooperative planning and a power-play game. Two could play that game.

She pulled on clean slacks, fine, straight-leg, white denim, and a satin blue blouse her mother had insisted she buy because it showed a little more curve. She’d bought it because it showed a little less skin. Sandals with a frustrating little ankle strap. A quick brush of her hair and she was on the landing at two minutes and fifty-three seconds.

Agent Frank made no initial remark on her arrival. He simply stood there and looked her head to toe.

“You got a problem that I’m seven seconds early?”

“No.” He looked her head to toe again, not in a leering way at least. “Just never knew a woman who could look so good so fast. You clean up nice, Captain.”

“Aw, shucks, Agent Adams. Y’all say the sweetest durn thangs to a gal. Y’all trying to trip me, Agent Man?”

“Only if I want my wife to bash my brains in.”

No ring. But that could be an occupational hazard. Some fliers wore them; some didn’t because they might snag something at the wrong moment.

“So, you’re a tame one.”

“Outside the sparring ring.”

She laughed one short, sharp “Ha!” before she could stop it. Then she sighed. For better or worse, she’d just made an appointment.

He accepted the challenge with something between a smile and a grimace, then turned to lead the way.

Guy-speak had its drawbacks. There was no way out once a challenge had been laid down and accepted.

She’d worry about that later. For now…

***

Emily halted at the closed door.

“Go on in.”

She looked at the door and back at Frank Adams.

“Nuh-uh. You said I was going to a meeting in the West Wing.”

“I never said with whom.” His smile now wicked.

“That’s not nice.”

“Sue me.”

“This wall is curved.” The hallway had been trucking along just as straight as could be. Where it turned a nice clean ninety to the right, the outside corner wasn’t square. It wasn’t the least bit cornerish. It was roundish. Curved even.

“You lying, deceitful, obnoxious…”

“Don’t say it. The President isn’t a big fan of the
F
word in his White House.”

“He wasn’t a fan of it at eighteen either, but that doesn’t mean he didn’t find a use for it.” On the day she’d sent him swimming in the Reflecting Pool wearing brand-new sneakers, had been particularly memorable. Though not as spectacular as the night of his junior prom when he’d discovered his dress shoes filled to the brim with grape jam. Or…

“Are you going in, or are you just going to admire the damn thing?”

Even the door was curved. Bulging outward. Pushing her away.

“You’re loving this, aren’t you?”

“Can’t say I’m being real disappointed at this moment. Now show some balls and get in there.”

“Duh, Adams. I’m female. I don’t have any.” But she stepped forward to show that she did.

“Ah, there you are.”

Emily heard the door snick shut behind her. For that alone, Frank Adams would not escape the gym unscathed.

The Oval Office spread out before her. She’d entered near the apex. A fireplace to her left sported a portrait of George Washington above the mantel. Her buddy Abe stared down on her from the right, not looking nearly as friendly as his statue. A circle of chairs and couches filled the center of the space.

Commanding the far end of the room squatted the impossible mass of the Resolute desk. It was a psychic blow declaring, “Here is power!” There were no chairs facing it or beside it. Nowhere to sit when facing the man behind the desk. Nowhere to hide. If this President wanted you to sit in his presence, he gave up the hammer-blow force of his desk and sat with you in the central area.

If there were a corner, she’d have gravitated to it. But there weren’t any to hide in. The room was oval and filled with a richness that not even money could provide. A richness of history anchored the room like an aircraft carrier anchored a strike group. This room was the seat of power, and its force radiated out into the world beyond the massive, bulletproof windows. And woe be unto those who stood in its path; this room would run them right over, whether they stood beside the President or squatted in a South American jungle.

A face resolved itself before her.

“Hi, Em. Want a soda?”

The President carried an open beer, domestic, in the bottle and offered her a 7-Up still cold in the can.

“Did you shake it first?” She kept her voice low. The room’s mass made more than a whisper feel sacrilegious.

“No, you’re safe this time, Em.” It had been his one joke, and he’d never tired of playing it on her.

Sometimes she’d let a can explode in her hand just to get him to laugh, as if she didn’t know when he’d set it up. Frequently the cans positively bulged he’d shaken them so hard. She wasn’t up for that at the moment.

“Don’t want to stain the rug.”

“What the hell am I doing here, sir?”

His smile was that of a little boy, not the President.

“What? Didn’t Frank tell you to bring dessert? I miss your desserts. Next time bring a pie. No, just kidding. Let’s see…”

His phone rang and he moseyed over to his desk, comfortably at home in a place she’d only seen on TV shows. No sign of anyone to act as a buffer. Not Ray Stevens nor Daniel’s counterpart, Josiah Wildhawk, the silent Cherokee who served as the President’s personal body man and right hand.

Emily could really use a corner right about now. She tried to look casual by strolling along the perimeter of the room. When she passed the fireplace, she popped the can there, just in case Peter had shaken it. It opened with a little pfitz sound and settled into its traditional overly perky, bubbling sounds.

In only a few steps she’d circled most of the room, nearly walking square into an enormous grandfather clock, polished as thoroughly as the cherry wood furniture and the Resolute desk, which now loomed far too near.

The President hung up the phone.

“This room isn’t as big as it looks.” She’d reached him without intending to in less than a dozen steps.

“I know. I’ve always liked that. You’d think a fair-sized yacht could slip in here unnoticed when you first come in. Yet it’s only thirty-five feet from bow to stern. Of course, having eighteen-foot ceilings makes it a little airier than you might expect. Still, not much room for a decent mast.”

Emily dutifully looked up at the distant ceiling, the eagle clutching olive branches and arrows carved into the ceiling in deep relief. A monochromatic reflection of the design stitched into the rug that dominated the room almost as thoroughly as the desk.

He waved her to a seat. She chose an armchair that probably went back to Abraham. This place was really freaking her out.

He sat in the next chair over.

It felt cozy.

Just the two of them. Right where she didn’t want to be.

His home court.

Well, she’d certainly faced down worse. Combat mode. Let it all flow through you and over you. If you started along the path to emotion, to anger or revenge or pride or fear, you were toast. “I am a leaf…” she recited the old
Serenity
movie line to herself, “…watch me soar.” It had become an unofficial motto of the SOAR Black Adders. The fact that it was the last line the hero pilot spoke before a twenty-foot spear skewered his heart was beside the point. Or perhaps was the point. He was a pilot first and foremost and last of all.

She’d let whatever was to come wash over her. A pilot first and foremost and last of all, whatever might happen.

“I’m so glad you could join me, Em.”

“Sure.”

“Not very respectful there, Captain Beale.” His smile was back.

“Sue me, Mr. President Matthews.”

She glanced at her watch. Mark Henderson was knocking on her parents’ door right about now.

As his watch ticked over to nineteen-hundred hours sharp, Mark rapped smartly on the vast door of the colonnaded Georgian home of the FBI Director. The two agents who’d frisked him at the entry had barely let him through, despite Emily calling authorization ahead. That she hadn’t arrived yet was unusual for a SOAR pilot. He’d expected to see her landing at the doorstep within seconds of his own arrival. D.C. ground traffic could do that to even the best flier.

The door swept open, and he was confronted by an elegant woman almost as tall as Emily. Not with Emily’s amazing blue eyes, but a testament to female beauty extending into mature years.

The brown eyes that assessed him reflected a chilling assessment. Mark almost glanced down at himself to see why before he remembered. Jet-setting bum. Right. Marky. He tried to pull his other self on like a dirty cloak.

With Emily’s name as a calling card, he was whisked into the parlor where her mother’s other half waited. Emily’s blue eyes looked at him out of a handsome male face, blond hair gone gray. Strong shoulders filling out the director’s light dress shirt, a glass of scotch in his hand.

For the count of five, they all stood assessing each other while Mark let his mouth run.

“Emmy said it would be okay if I dropped in. She should be here. Have you heard from her? I can’t get enough of that girl. You’ve raised a beautiful daughter. And White House chef? Hoo-whee! Who knew? Damn, but man is life full of cool surprises.”

Mom Beale wore a cloak of ice as she sized him up.

At the end of the five count, Dad Beale nodded to himself. A half smile cracked his face for a moment as he glanced sideways at his wife, then clicked off.

He stepped forward to shake Mark’s hand. “Can I offer you a whiskey? Emily said she’d be home by now. She must have been held up.” The hand Mark shook wasn’t the weak grip of some desk jockey. It was hard and strong. And it didn’t play games. No test of strength, but the statement was there. Clearly, his disguise hadn’t fooled the Director of the FBI for a moment. Not a big surprise. Father Beale might not know who Mark was, but he’d clearly connected that his daughter hadn’t sent a scruffy playboy to their home unescorted for no reason.

Mark almost asked for a soda, as Major Henderson would, but changed that to a beer, Marky’s drink of choice.

Now Mom Beale was looking back and forth between them. She hadn’t missed her husband’s shift, but clearly didn’t understand it.

She fetched him a Heineken in a chilled bottle and waved him to a chair.

“So, Marky, is it? Please tell us about yourself. It is so rare that our Emily”—strong emphasis on our—“brings home a man. And she’s told us so little about you.”

Not a word, he’d bet. Now to see how well his act held up.

“Have you been avoiding me, Em?”

“Wow, Peter! Nothing like cutting to the chase.” Of course, Peter Matthews never followed the rules as a boy, so why should he be any different as the President?