Authors: M. L. Buchman
No second kiss there, that was for sure. She considered again. But what if there were a chance?
But there wasn’t. Couldn’t be. And now that she identified that, she could feel all the weariness and rage of the day overwhelm her. Her commanding officer had kissed her. Taken advantage of her first moment of weakness since she’d turned twenty. The first time in nine years. She’d been weak, hurt, confused, and her commanding officer had kissed her.
It was a court-martial offense. Not that she wanted to press charges. But she couldn’t go back. Not if that was all Mark Henderson thought of her, a pretty bit on the side. What next, private training missions? She’d heard that stupid offer too many times when she still flew regular Army. Groping on the flight line. Pinched—
Emily wanted to scream. It had all been so good. So happy. She’d saved Michael’s life and been thanked for it. Had been told she was a good pilot by the toughest commander she’d ever been honored to fly with. A man she could truly admire and look up to, who treated her no differently than any other pilot.
And then he’d ruined it by kissing her. Well to hell with Major Henderson. When she was done with whatever nonsense her mother had landed her in, she’d put in for a transfer, for her entire crew. They’d proved themselves as the toughest team in the toughest company. Anyone would take her. And if Henderson protested, she’d threaten to go to the Military Conduct Board and then see what he said.
She’d only ever dreamed of one man’s kiss. And, joke was on her, it was a man she’d never kissed. There was no question that she’d let a dozen or more relationships die before they started, all because they never measured up to that one imagined kiss. How was that for stupid? Pining after a married man who never had been and never could be hers.
She tried not to look. She tried to turn back to check on her buddy Abraham for a distraction. But she turned the wrong way and spotted the White House. She’d been pining for Peter Matthews since she was six. Twenty-three years. How was that for the definition of lost causes?
And now she worked for his wife, in the same building. The scale for masochistic had just been redefined.
But even in her daydreams, Peter’s kiss had never sparked inside her. Had never ignited a flame she hadn’t known lurked inside. Hadn’t known a body could contain.
Where was Henderson now? Emily checked her watch. Twenty-four hours, almost to the minute, since he’d kissed her halfway around the world.
Ten a.m. there. Mark and her crew would be sleeping now. Sacked out for most of the day before rousting for dinner, flight briefing, and the night’s mission. While she sat here, parked on her butt, chilling it on Abe’s marbled front stoop.
Damn Henderson. She wanted his kiss; she just didn’t want him. Almost as much as she didn’t want to be here.
***
Okay, it was beyond stupid. Mark stared at a pile of breakfast he didn’t want in the officers’ mess aboard the carrier. Two hours from the base that reminded him constantly of her. Emily Beale had been gone a whole twenty-four hours, and Mark had already managed to estrange the best crew in the entire outfit other than his own.
Who knew what idiocy he’d think up next. Actually, he already knew what it was and couldn’t believe he’d fallen so far from any hint of common sense. But knowing he was about to fall past all redemption probably wasn’t going to stop him.
It was crew change for the carrier, and probably thirty guys were scattered at a dozen tables. He sat alone in the corner, staring at his tray of breakfast, contemplating his waffles and his pending stupidity.
Someone slapped him on top of the head.
He didn’t bother to turn. “Hey, Jim.”
The Mini Boss came around and dropped his own tray across the table from Mark.
“When did you get so dumb?”
“Born dumb.”
“You got that right, bro.” Jim began eating.
Mark played with his Belgian waffle, cutting it into individual squares with the side of his fork.
“You know, I had me this squirrel dog once.”
“You grew up in Chicago.”
“Shush! You don’t mess with a good story.”
Mark shrugged and began dissecting his eggs. He piled little bits of scrambled egg in each cut-off waffle square. How had she gotten so far under his skin? No one did that to him. Women were strictly catch and release. Pick ’em up, show ’em the best time he knew how so that they both enjoyed themselves, and then go their separate ways. It had always worked just fine.
What had Beale done to him? She wasn’t even his type. He liked them all soft and curvy and as easy-going as a summer day. Beale was all bright and slender and edge. She never backed off. Not once in her life. Lots of edge.
“Where was I?”
“Some damn squirrel dog.”
“Right. That dog couldn’t track a duck to save his life. I watched a rabbit scoot between his paws once, and all he did was try to jump aside like he was scared of his own shadow. But he loved them squirrels. He’d go sniffing after them round and round a tree or a bird feeder. Any place they went, he’d try to follow. More than once I saw him staring up into the branches trying to figure out how to climb up there.”
“Dumb dog. And your fake Southern accent sucks.”
Jim aimed a sausage-laden fork at him, “Never said he was smart and your fake human accent sucks too, so shut up. That dog was plumb crazy about squirrels. After a time they got to know him, you see. Got used to him sniffing around because he never did anything but follow them around. So, do you know what that squirrel dog of mine did?”
“I don’t care, but I’ll bet you’re gonna tell me.”
“I’ll tell you, Mark, and you will care because you are dumb like that squirrel dog. I was always the smart roommate. I got Christy, after all.”
“Because I introduced you.”
“But I got her.”
“She’s my cousin, fool. She’s smart and cute and funny, but it’s not like I was ever gonna get her.”
“But I got her,” Jim insisted once more.
Mark waved his fork in the air, “Yeah. Sure. Fine. Tell me about what the damn dog did.”
“See,” Jim flashed one of those grins of his that had done such a fine job of knocking Christy off her feet and into a decade of marriage and two seriously cute kids. “I told you you’d care. So, one day, I let this complete doofus of a mutt out the back door as usual. This time he walks up to one of the squirrels that’s nosing around under our bird feeder and picks him up.”
Mark eyed him.
“Now I’m not talking about little black squirrels. I’m talking about the big grays with the bushy tail and all.” He held up his hands like a fisherman telling a dogfish story instead of a squirrel story.
“Did he kill it?”
“First he turned to look at me, so proud of himself. The big gray gone all catatonic in his mouth. Then the squirrel freaks. Starts kicking and twisting, trying to get away. I swear to you on my love of your cousin, that dog’s eyes crossed as he tried to see what was going on in his own mouth. Drops the squirrel, bolts off around the house, we don’t see him for hours.”
Mark had to laugh. Jim always told a great story.
As his laugh eased off, Jim leaned in close, so Mark leaned in to hear.
“And the punch line? That squirrel ran about halfway back to the trees, looked around, and scooted right back to the bird feeder he’d been plundering to begin with. Damn dog never went out that door of the house again. We always had to use the front door, muddy paw prints in the hall all winter.”
Mark laughed again and ate some bacon. Jim always made him feel better.
“So what’s your point, buddy?”
Jim offered him another one of those beaming grins.
“The point of the story, buddy, is that Captain Rick Tully and Admiral James Parker just finished strolling through here behind your back without you ending your illustrious career by chomping down on them like a dumb squirrel dog about a classified mission involving a woman on your squad. As if they wouldn’t see through that in a heartbeat.”
Mark spun around, but the two men were nowhere to be seen.
He turned slowly back to contemplate his mangled breakfast. He hated to admit that Jim was right. When it came to women, he’d always been the dumb one.
Emily checked the third-floor kitchen, she’d left a real mess. It was past midnight and she didn’t want to clean it up, but the kitchen was her domain now. Thirty-six hours straight and she was ready to crash.
She hit the lights and had to blink twice, once for the brightness and once because the room was spotless. The chopping block even looked freshly oiled. She could kiss the cleaning staff. Then she checked the fridge and noticed all the leftovers were gone as well. Ah. First Lady wouldn’t want leftovers anyway. She’d have to remember to always leave the crew something extra in thanks.
She headed down the main stairs. The back stairs were well past her apartment and required doubling back half a floor. No one would be up this late at night. She took the grand staircase.
Turning the corner on the wide landing, she passed the first blacksuit before her tired brain cataloged his presence. She nearly collided with the man behind the blacksuit before someone grabbed her arm and shoved her hard up against the wide banister.
She jammed down a foot on the attacker’s instep and threw an elbow hard into his sternum. He dropped to the floor with a gasp before her brain kicked in.
Two more blacksuits materialized between her and the man three stairs below. Their guns drawn. Inches from her face.
Freeze. Don’t move. Stupid. Stupid. Stupid.
Which of the instructions were spoken and which her own thoughts, she didn’t know, but her body got the message loud and clear. Statue. Unmoving. The black tunnel of two pistols inches from her face, as nasty a sight as she’d seen in a long while.
“Em?”
“Peter?” She only allowed her mouth to move.
Damn, not “Peter,” you fool.
“Mr. President?” She let her gaze shift for an instant off the muzzles of the .357 SIGs hovering inches from her face. It was him. More tired than he looked on television.
“Stand down, Vic.”
The leading blacksuit glanced over his shoulder, back at her, then slowly returned his weapon to his holster allowing her to see clearly that the safety had been off.
They helped their downed comrade to his feet. Oh wonderful, she’d leveled Agent Frank Adams, the one who hadn’t wanted to let her onto the grounds to begin with. Now she had a real chum in the service.
Then the three of them did that blur thing blacksuits did so well. One moment they were an iron shield blocking any hope of survival, and the next moment, though they were only a few feet away, she might have been alone.
Alone with…
“Hey, Em.” Only Peter Matthews had ever been allowed to use that nickname. And he’d remembered it. Hopefully he didn’t remember the other one. She stood a little easier as the adrenaline slid down toward a couple of shakes. Not bad this time. No one firing RPGs at her. Hardly worth the adrenal surge and the inevitable hungover feeling.
“Good evening, Mr. President. Sorry to disturb you. I thought I was the only one up. I’ll only use the back stairs from now on. I’m sorry. I just—” won’t shut up. She clamped her jaw shut at his smile.
“You look good. Haven’t seen you since your father’s reception the night I was elected to the Senate.”
Her stomach churned at the memory. Nine years ago. One of her real high moments. Twenty years old and just graduated from West Point at the top of her class. So sick at seeing him married to an overblown, high-society, Ms. Perfect wife that she’d gotten stinking drunk on champagne.
Any truly spectacular scene had been preempted when she’d passed out on her father’s office couch. Where her dad and the freshman Senator had found her while seeking a place for a private word. A sodden mess in a champagne-stained dress, with puffy, red eyes. Real high times.
Her one childhood dream, the one true love of her youth, married to “that” woman. Forever after, she’d known with certainty, her marriage was to her career. Clear cut and simple. She didn’t know how to be Emily Beale on the ground in an evening gown. Captain Beale, that person she understood, knew how to be. And she’d never worn an evening gown again, nor, after the next morning’s spectacular hangover, touched champagne again.
“Been hiding since then.” And would return to hiding at the first opportunity.
Besting one of the President’s blacksuits wouldn’t be improving her relations with the Secret Service. They were already more than a little rough around the edges about having the FBI Director’s daughter hovering about. The two services rarely saw eye to eye. They’d be sure she was a spy, feeding information back to her father. Nothing could be farther from the truth. Her father had taught her the keeping of secrets, not the sharing of them.
A glance showed the three were back at their posts. Here they all stood, inside the most secure building in the country, and still there was one man half a flight up, another half a flight down, and Frank Adams at the far corner of the landing, scanning the room below as if assassins lurked in every shadow. And keeping more than half an eye on her.