Night Is Mine (29 page)

***

Emily had survived breakfast. She didn’t know how, but she had. Her mom was still on the rampage. Did Mark have a PhD or a master’s? Not even a bachelor’s? Did he have any special skills, something he really enjoyed? As if she were going to sponsor him to a Mercedes dealership if he’d been into cars. He liked going fast? Had he ever thought about forming a NASCAR racing team?

Emily had to give Mother points, she struggled so hard for flexibility on her daughter’s behalf, though it was clearly eating her up inside to imagine this bum with her only child. And Mark scored serious points for the act; her mother’s legendary tenacity never even scratched down to the secondary paramilitary profile. But that wasn’t why they’d come.

Her dad had taken one look at her and known. He too had settled in for the duration, biding his time.

The breakfast ended abruptly when her mother’s secretary came to remind her of a charity meeting and she rushed out. The first round had been more of a tie. This round she’d give the score to Mark for sheer survival, but Helen Beale was by no means satisfied or happy with the lack of potential in this long-haired bum her daughter had dragged through the door.

The moment her mother was safely out of the house, her dad turned for the stairs and led them back into the conference room in the cellar.

“Well, that was fun.” Her father settled into his chair. “So, another apparent attempt?”

“Apparent?” Mark snapped, clearly not as casual about his near poisoning as he’d like her to believe. His raised voice rang in the small room.

“It keeps the thinking flexible,” she and her father spoke in near-perfect unison.

“Screw flexibility.” Mark’s voice was little more than a low growl. “If Emma wasn’t one of the ten percent of people who can smell potassium cyanide, she’d be dead right now.”

He sounded more upset on her behalf than his own. He’d held her while she slept. And she’d felt safe there. So safe she’d never wanted to leave. After waking up, she’d had to crash down her shields. At the moment, life was far too dangerous to believe anywhere was safe, no matter how it felt. No matter how his sleep-warm and gown-clad body had molded against hers.

Her father looked over for her response.

“What? He’s right. We both almost ended up dead. We were lucky.”

His gaze remained on hers, finally he gave that little head shake, as if she didn’t have the lesson right yet but he was going to leave it for her to puzzle out. What had always ticked her off as a girl now felt insufferable to the woman. She opened her mouth but he raised his hand to stop her.

“I have some information. I did a little digging on my own, hoping to spot a flaw.” He reached over to the computer desk and picked up a slim blue folder she hadn’t noticed before.

“Neither of you are authorized to read this, and yes, before you protest, I do know your clearance ratings. Better than you do and they’re top rate. I’m proud of you, honey. But…” he waved the folder. “This is still above your clearance level.”

He drummed his fingers on it, while studying space over her left shoulder. Clearly he wanted her to read it but didn’t like to break his own rules.

“Remember President Matthews’s note?”

Her father startled when she spoke.

“I forgot about that.”

He studied her in silence for an interminable moment longer, then handed the file to her.

She wanted to hand it back. It was like picking up a doll in the desert. Was it a lost toy, or a land mine designed to remove a curious child’s hands and create another burden on the opponent’s society?

“It probably doesn’t matter. It was classified by an idiot who couldn’t properly code his own sneakers. This was the only inner-team member I couldn’t trace back at least a half decade in his or her association with the First Family.”

No name on it, just a number and a security rating that she indeed did not have. Mark moved closer to look over her shoulder. She could smell him, feel him hovering just inches away.

Reluctantly, she opened the folder and stared down at the picture.

Daniel Drake Darlington the Third.

There was a sharp headshot and a dozen other odd photos, going back to when he was maybe seven and driving a tractor from his father’s lap. She’d been right. He did look good in just coveralls.

“It was a false lead. Your Daniel is what he claims, Tennessee farmer.”

My Daniel. For no longer than a quick flirt or two.

“I could have told you that, Dad. I’d trust him absolutely.” Emily flipped the photos aside, including the cute one of him dressed up as a Halloween pirate circa age ten and the most daunting one, damn he looked good in a tux, with a drop-dead gorgeous brunette labeled, “Senior Prom.”

Mark offered a low whistle of appreciation. She considered offering a sharp elbow to his ticklish spot.

“On what do you base that, Emily?”

She thought for a moment. Be objective. Analyze.

“He was in the helicopter with me.”

“Maybe he’s part of a suicide attack.”

“He’s the only reason we made it to the ground alive. Sorry, Dad. Doesn’t play out. He’s clean.”

Her father grunted his acquiescence.

“You’re probably right. His file is just so clean it squeaks, which always makes me suspicious. He’s also Yale, summa cum laude, environmental science, and Georgetown political science major. He’s a very bright boy.”

“Knew that. Hard to miss once you’ve talked to him.” She turned the next sheet. Apparently a list of every girl he’d ever dated. Emily felt dirty but couldn’t help scanning it. Natasha Williams for the senior prom, dated eight months, brief career as a fashion model, and now a homemaker married to an insurance salesman with four kids. Mary Harris, sophomore year at Harvard, now on her third husband, criminal defense lawyer in Austin, Texas, eleven months.

Each one traced to the present day. She knew background checks were thorough, but did they really need to know that his longest relationship was eighteen months and he’d never lived with a woman? Or that he was still friends with a woman as beautiful as Natasha?

She did her best to turn the page as if it were of no interest.

“He’s also very motivated.”

A list of research papers written while clerking for Senator Jamison, the head of oversight on the Department of Agriculture. Some published, a couple in
Nature
, and a number of them classified. The titles were fairly meaningless to her.

Daniel came to the First Lady’s attention when she was sleeping with Senator Jamison’s son. She almost turned for the next page, but Mark stopped her with a touch on the arm.

Emily doubled back and checked the date.

Two years ago.

Katherine had been married to Peter for ten years.

“Thought that might get your attention. That’s why it received the high secrecy classification tag.”

She read on quickly, nothing bad. Absolutely nothing. He was no more than he seemed.

The last page had a number of notes on it. Apparently he and six other farmers were starting a Slow Food Southeast Chapter, local crops served locally and all that. In two weeks, the First Lady was supposed to fly down and inaugurate the chapter. Emily thought about her flight schedule. It was there. But it was simply labeled, “visit Daniel’s farm.”

One of the marginal notes stated, “Reason D. Darlington in D.C.” He spent three years of his life, much of that putting up with Katherine Matthews, for his farm and his friends’ farms. Honorable man of the land.

She flipped back to the “Liaisons” page. Someone had probably been paid to think up that title for a scandalous sex sheet. She hoped her father had never seen hers, but she assumed she had one somewhere. You don’t get to be either the FBI Director’s daughter or a SOAR pilot without your life being a pretty open book. It wasn’t any longer than Daniel’s, but her “liaisons” were even briefer.

“Not there,” Mark confirmed.

The name wasn’t on the list. It wasn’t all that long a list.

“You won’t find her there. Katherine Matthews has apparently never slept with Daniel Darlington, at least not to the best of our knowledge.”

Emily hid a smile by rubbing her hand thoughtfully across her mouth. She’d always figured that Daniel had played Katherine’s sex slave at one time or another without really connecting that it would be an adulterous affair to do so. She liked him better for not having succumbed.

***

With no great insights, they gave up on it for now.

As they were leaving the darkroom, her father pulled Emily aside. Mark discreetly continued up the stairs.

Stephen Beale looked at her, really studied her face for a long moment. Then he laughed softly and wrapped his arms around her tightly.

She held on. He hugged her so rarely that she’d learned to cherish each time. She had to lean down for her head to rest on his shoulder. At whatever height, her father’s shoulder had always ranked as the safest place in the world.

At least until she met Mark. Now there was an odd comparison.

After another squeeze, her father pushed her back until they were facing one another again. His smile was all soft and fatherly, an expression even rarer than his hugs.

“Care to let me in on the joke?” she asked.

“Nope.” He shook his head. “But you’ll get there, honey.” He pulled her head down to kiss her on the forehead and then led her up the stairs to where Mark waited.

Mark lounged against the kitchen counter. He hated waiting. It was the worst part of any assignment. Get into position and wait for the blockheads in the Pentagon or the White House to get off their damn butts and give a “go” clearance. Nine operations out of ten were never authorized when that last second finally reared its ugly head.

He looked over his shoulder toward the West Wing. This was where those “blockheads” lived. Never really thought about that before. Never been in the building. Only a few hundred feet and about eighteen layers of security over that way, men were planning which missions he flew and which he didn’t. Were planning the fate of his squad; their missions, their lives…

And here Beale was, just tap-dancing around the kitchen working up pastrami sandwiches.

He’d die if something didn’t happen soon.

And he’d die if he didn’t get one of those sandwiches soon. They looked awesome.

Two days sitting around being Beale’s pretty boy, and not a damn thing had happened. In or out of the bedroom. She’d made love to him. Once. There was no other word for it. Made him feel depths he didn’t know he possessed. He could spend the rest of his days trying to give back even a tenth of what she’d given him, knowing he’d never succeed.

But she was having none of it. Not a grope, touch, or kiss. Not a shoulder rub. Not a hand held except in public. His barriers had come down, layer upon layer that he’d built over the years without knowing. And hers had raised. Innumerable tiers of impenetrable defense surrounded Captain Emily Beale. She’d been warmer toward him when he was just her commanding officer chewing her out for being merely incredible on some mission.

And no sign of the First Lady, his assigned target to investigate, watch, protect. The captain’s—Emily’s—Ms. Emma Beale’s instructions had been less than clear, despite the time they’d spent hashing out the operation with her father.

Mark had thought that was a new step in their relationship. Going home to meet the parents. Of course, the whole parents thing had been a fiasco because he couldn’t be himself. He had to be Marky Herman, playboy. Her dad had been a square, real stand-up guy who clearly loved his daughter immensely. At least he’d known, had seen through the disguise so fast that Mark could only marvel. Beale must have been one hell of a field agent. But Emily’s mother hated his guts, and that didn’t sit well at all.

Something was wrong in the East Wing but they didn’t know what. Was Katherine’s life in danger? Daniel’s? Beale’s or the President’s?

Or the unvoiced suspicion? Clearly Beale had an idea, but she claimed that she didn’t trust her own judgment. Her theory was too impossible. She waited for independent confirmation from him. So he watched everything twice as hard and had no idea what she was thinking. The other problem was that he hadn’t met anyone except Daniel as the guy breezed through the kitchen like a blond lightning bolt.

And now this! Whatever madman had attacked four times, apparently didn’t care who got caught in the crossfire. Some schmuck had tried to shoot down his Emily, then poison her. Mark wanted to meet that man. Real soon.

The waiting was crazy-making. Watch everything. Trust nothing. And be ready to die in the middle of walking down a flight of stairs.

The only thing that made him crazier was Beale. Did she know how sexy she was, puttering around the kitchen trying to kill time? In public they held hands, kissed, sparked off each other like small-arms fire off tanks. In private, nada. Zilch.
Niente
.

She dropped a sandwich in front of him.

Okay, there were a few bonuses to being a fake lover to a beautiful woman who could cook.