Authors: Dorothy McFalls
I could feel it in my bones. He was coming back to make sure I stayed planted in the mud.
Why would anyone want to kill me? I’m a gardener. An assistant gardener, at that! Never mind, he’d already hit me once. With his silver briefcase, I think. I tightened my grip on my bottle of homegrown pepper spray, which suddenly felt inadequate. It was in a travel hairspray bottle that didn’t have much of a range.
I should have bought a better bottle. I should have called for help right away. I dug around in my backpack for my cell phone. I found my garden shears, a small spade, the novel I’d been reading. Where was my phone? I should have stayed put. I should have kept my head down in the mud until I understood exactly what was happening. And now it was too late . . .
SLOSH
.
SLOSH
.
He was directly behind me. His presence loomed like a heavy hand pressing down on me. I turned just as he grabbed my arm.
What transpired next happened so fast perhaps I should skip over it. It’s not really that interesting. And, well, I didn’t exactly live up to Miss Marple’s standards.
I screamed like a girl. Who wouldn’t? Adrenaline surged through me. Throwing my arms out, I leapt to my feet and pressed the plunger on my pepper spray bottle. Who could blame me? I kept squirting the man with my fiery concoction until he grabbed my wrist and twisted it with such force my hand went numb and the bottle dropped to the ground.
He was dressed from head to toe in villainous black. Black military boots, black combat pants, black flak jacket, even his hair was the color of the midnight sky. Not only that, a large assault rifle was slung over his shoulder and a menacing pistol jutted out from a black leather leg holster.
I tried to twist away from him to break his crushing hold on my wrist. I’d learned in a self-defense course I’d taken in college that the purpose of pepper spray is to blind your assailant long enough to escape him. I’d even perfected my quick dodge technique during the class’s mock attacks. I should have been able to sprint several blocks away by now. But I couldn’t go anywhere because this gun-toting bully stubbornly refused to play by the rules and let go of me.
Why wouldn’t he let go? In a blind panic, I let loose a Xena Warrior Princess battle yell and landed a bruising kick to his shin.
“Ow!” he shouted, but his grip held firm. I kicked him again.
With a disgusted grunt, he twirled me around until my backside was pressed against his muscular legs and chest. He cinched his arm around my waist, pinning me so close to him I had no hope of using any kind of leverage against his brute strength.
“Let go,” I wheezed.
“Not until you stop attacking me.” He swore under his breath while I twisted and turned and wore myself out. “This is what I get for playing the Good Samaritan, a hellcat with claws. If you don’t stop scratching me, I swear I will—”
“Wait a minute.” He thought
I
was attacking
him
? I’m the good guy here. What would make him think I would willingly attack anyone? “Wait a minute.”
As soon as I stopped kicking and punching and, yes, scratching him, he released his crushing hold. I stumbled forward a few steps before regaining my balance. Breathing hard, I grabbed my knees and tried to sort out what had just happened. Was it possible I’d overreacted? He hadn’t actually attacked me. He’d only touched my arm. I was the one who’d—
“Let—let me get this straight,” I huffed, still unable to fully catch my breath. “You’re not trying to kill me?”
He didn’t seem to be listening. With his shoulders hunched forward, he clamped his straight white teeth tightly together. Hopping on one foot, he cursed his existence and mine. I winced. His bloodshot, unfocused eyes were watering like a faucet because of me. He was blinking wildly, clearly suffering because I’d reacted too quickly and had thoroughly doused him with the potent, red-hot pepper oil.
Despite his arsenal, he didn’t look that much like a killer, not really. His muscular yet trim physique was much more reminiscent of a heroic Roman warrior. His square jaw spoke of strength. His brows, though creased with intense pain, suggested a man of compassion and, I hoped, forgiveness. Because he wasn’t a killer. His distinctive black uniform identified him as a member of the Counter Assault Team, which was no ordinary branch of the Secret Service, but its most elite military arm.
“You—you’re Secret Service?” I asked, suddenly hoping I was hallucinating. Assaulting a Secret Service agent was most likely a felony.
“Yes,” he hissed through gritted teeth.
Even if it wasn’t a felony, I was sure blinding a Secret Service agent wasn’t something Gordon or Ambrose Jones, the White House’s chief usher, would likely forgive. I rushed to my backpack and quickly found my environmentally friendly, BPA-free water bottle. Moving as fast as possible, I unscrewed the lid and tossed the water into his face.
He gave a startled yelp when the icy water hit him.
“Give me that.” He grabbed the water bottle and dumped the remaining water on his mottled forehead and brow. The cold water caused him to shiver like the leaves on the saucer magnolia trees above us. Then he scrubbed his eyes with his coat sleeve. He still looked miserable. The skin around his eyes was puffy and turning an angry shade of red, but he didn’t seem to be blinking as furiously anymore.
“Thanks.” He dropped the water bottle and grabbed my shoulders. He squinted at me, his eyes unfocused. “Are you okay?” he demanded, his voice unnaturally calm considering the situation.
I nodded.
“Answer me. Are you okay?” he repeated. Apparently, he couldn’t yet see well enough to make out my gesture. “Do I need to call EMS?”
“No,” I croaked and quickly cleared my throat, which burned as if I’d been shouting at the top of my lungs for hours.
“Good.” He released me and started to pace. Limp, step, limp, step. Turn. Limp, step, limp, step. He stomped with that awkward gait through the middle of my flowerbed. The helpless tulips and fragrant grape hyacinths were no match for his heavy boots.
I winced both for my plants and for him. He wouldn’t be limping if I hadn’t kicked him. He wouldn’t be growling with every step if I hadn’t blinded him with my pepper spray. He stumbled a couple of times, proving his eyesight wasn’t even close to being back to normal. But I had enough experience with men’s egos to know to keep my mouth shut. An apology right now would not be appreciated.
He stopped at the edge of the flowerbed. “Before I radio for backup . . .” he began before turning his gaze heavenward. Muttering a curse to the heavy clouds above, he dredged his fingers through his wavy black hair. “There’s no way around it. I’m going to have to file a report about this . . . this . . .” he grumbled more to himself than to me.
In my three short months at the White House, I’d seen the Counter Assault Team, or CAT, as they liked to call themselves, only a few times. They were one of the least visible segments of the Secret Service. They traveled everywhere with the President like the Secret Service agents who dressed in neatly pressed suits. But unlike their suited counterparts, CAT agents didn’t make regular security sweeps of the President’s Park.
“And look at this.” He held up a loose wire that had been attached to his earpiece. “You’ve broken my radio.”
I’d always found the regular Secret Service agents easy to work with. They always had a smile and a polite manner. Not one of them had ever growled at me.
CAT agents, on the other hand, only ventured outside their tight protection circle when they were taking part in a training exercise or responding to a specific threat against the First Family. They were a very serious group.
I doubted I would fare well in his report. While mentally drafting my résumé, I started to move away from him to gather my backpack and gardening tools. He snagged hold of my arm. “Let’s start with you giving me some basic information, like your name.”
“Casey—Casey Calhoun.” My heart was really pounding now. I wished he’d just shoot me and put me out of my misery. His grip tightened on my arm. “I’m Gordon Sims’s new assistant.” Everyone knew Gordon. He was a fixture, a one-man institution. But the agent’s pained expression remained unchanged, which only made me more nervous. Was it possible? Did he not know Gordon? “I—I’m a gardener.”
My slightly eccentric but altogether lovable aunts, Willow and Alba, and Grandmother Faye back in Charleston, South Carolina, had instilled in me a love of gardening as well as an absurd fondness for ice cream desserts. But I suspected he didn’t care to hear about any of that.
I decided to take the initiative. “I’m kind of in a hurry. So if it’s okay with you, I’d like to clear up this misunderstanding as quickly as possible. I have a meeting scheduled with the First Lady this morning to present my plans on how to transform the White House gardens into the White House
organic
gardens.”
“We’ll see about that.” His red-rimmed gaze traveled up and down my mud-caked legs. I had a sinking feeling he was plotting to make my life at the White House a living hell. I bit the inside of my cheek. He couldn’t really get me fired, could he?
He narrowed his bloodshot eyes and leaned toward me. “Now tell me, Ms. Calhoun, why did you attack me?”
Available in paperback and e-book:
FLOWERBED OF STATE
BIRDS IN PARADISE
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In this
SHORT STORY
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(Sensual Paranormal Regency Romance Novella)
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(Contemporary Short Paranormal Romance) Protectors #1
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Neptune’s Lair
(Contemporary Paranormal Romance) Protectors #2
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Mystical Seduction
(Contemporary Paranormal Romance) Protectors #3
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The Huntress
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Birds in Paradise
(Short light-hearted mystery) Writing as: Dorothy St. James
In this novella-length story, young prostitutes are disappearing from the streets of Honolulu. When street-savvy P.I., Kyra Grainger, is hired to find the latest missing girl, she straps on a pair of high heels, pulls on a skirt no wider than a headband, and delves into the back streets and shadowy world hidden behind the glitz of Hawaii. What she finds is a web of lies and deceptions that threatens to destroy the paradise she's grown to love.
For Regency and mystery author,
Dorothy McFalls
happily-ever-after is more than just a fictional ending, having enjoyed every day of marriage to her sexy sculptor husband. Formerly an environmental urban planner, she now writes full time. For information about Dorothy's upcoming books, visit her website at
http://www.dorothymcfalls.com/
Dorothy also writes cozy mysteries as
Dorothy St. James
, including the White House Gardener Mystery series, which critics have called “spunky” and “fast-paced.” Learn more about her mystery releases at
http://www.dorothystjames.com/