Take Over at Midnight (The Night Stalkers) (18 page)

They made it down to dinner by seven, perhaps with a little less time to spare than Tim would have preferred, but they made it.

He’d lost some time, and his brain had lost any access to his blood supply, when Lola stepped out of the bathroom. With her hair brushed back into a flowing mane, that lopsided smile solidly in place, and a clingy, mostly backless red dress custom-made for Lola’s sleek shape that spoke of elegance and roared of sex, she took his breath away.

He’d told her to dress nice even though they’d be back in the kitchen. He knew the others would as well.

They were the first downstairs, but the Secret Service detail was well ahead of them. They’d discreetly staked out the kitchen.

When Tim and Lola entered, his mama came over clutching a big soup ladle that she’d been about to use. She gave the much taller woman a big hug. Lola looked startled but quickly leaned down and returned the gesture. A bemused smile on her face.

“You look beautiful, my dear girl. Far better than my lump-head of a son deserves.” She now wielded the soup ladle close enough to his nose that he backed away into one of the Secret Service agents who had the indecency to prop him up and then nudge him forward, back into the fray.

“‘Oh, some friends they coming for dinner, Mama.’ You, boy, if the lady you’re so trying to impress were not here, you would get such a smack. I should have known better. All these years, I think I should know your games.”

Tim ducked inside the arc of the swinging ladle and scooped her into his arms. “You
should
know me that well. I love you too, Mama,” he whispered into her ear and was rewarded with a tight and hard hug.

When he let her go, she looked flushed with pleasure, though doing her best to hide it with a frown.

“Go, sit. Stay out of my way or I hit you but good.” She wielded her ladle again and then nearly danced her way back to the soup tureen.

Tim turned for the table and wished he’d found a way to tell her just how much he loved her. She’d not set the table as if just for his friends. She’d made it beautiful, but not like the front of house. Rather than each place setting being laid with the perfection of a three-star restaurant, it was perfectly casual. Perfectly.

The centerpiece included flowers and some vegetables scattered as if the table was still being used for food prep and sorting. The tableware was the family’s stoneware, not the fine-colored glass that was served out front. Napkins were varicolored accents tossed beside the plate as if hurriedly dropped, but he’d been trained by his parents and knew how much work it took to create that casual appeal.

Lola was eyeing the several agents in black suits intently.

When Tim came up beside her, she reached out and hooked her fingers under the edge of his pectoral muscle near his underarm. It took a moment to figure out what was happening, but he was too late to react by the time he did.

Lola dug her fingertips into the brachial plexus nerve cluster and clenched her hand into a fist, vising it against the edge of his pecs with a shockingly strong grip. Pain rocketed across his chest, so sharp he didn’t dare move, actually stopped breathing because even the slightest motion hurt like hell.

Lola leaned in until their noses were less than an inch apart, and for the first time Tim didn’t feel the least bit romantic about their proximity. By the look on her face, what he could see of it through his pain-squinted eyes, his death might be imminent and he was powerless to stop her.

“Who the hell is coming to dinner?” A feral growl from the queen of the pride, the alpha lioness about to rip out his jugular with her clenched teeth.

He’d have answered if he could, truly. He was feeling a bit light-headed, suffering from the anoxia of holding his breath too long, as if they’d flown above 15,000 feet without oxygen masks.

He heard the kitchen door swing open behind him and Major Beale call out, “You’ll never guess who we found lurking in your alley, Mrs. Maloney. You really need a better level of security.”

Lola turned enough to glance over Tim’s shoulder.

He didn’t dare turn and his vision was tunneling slightly. He’d have to breathe soon or pass out, but he wasn’t looking forward to the agony the motion would cause.

Her expression eased briefly, but then her fist clenched impossibly harder.

He squeaked. He heard the sound escape his own throat. He could do nothing about it.

She looked at him, bewildered for a moment, and then released her hold as if shocked that she’d done such a thing.

Blood roared back into the nerve cluster Lola had grabbed, the pain spiked, and his knees folded until he sat abruptly on the hard floor.

***

Emily looked at Lola, then cast a quick, surprised glance at Tim on the parquet floor. Lola could do nothing about it, she was too busy gawking at the man hugging Tim’s mother.

Her body snapped to attention. Even as her mind registered how stupid she must look doing so in a red cocktail dress.

President Peter Matthews wandered over and clapped a hand on Tim’s shoulder where he still sat on the floor.

“What are you doing down there, Tim?”

“Breathing, sir.” He clutched his chest with one hand. Maybe she had been a bit rough.

Lola was trying to hold strict attention, but she could feel her eyes turning to watch the President’s progress. He was a good-looking man on television and in the magazines. But in real life, while he looked about the same, his magnetism radiated outward. He had a narrow face with a good strong chin. Hair that famously flowed free to his collar. Then he aimed his thousand-watt smile at her.

“By how you’re standing, you must be one of Emily’s crew.”

“Sir! Yes, sir!” was all she managed.

Emily came up and hooked a hand through Lola’s goosefleshed arm. “At ease, Chief Warrant.”

At the command, Lola’s body automatically stepped her left foot out to shoulder-wide, keeping her right foot in place, hands clasped tightly behind her back, her spine no less stiff. At least Major Beale was also wearing a nice dress, a knee-length of darkest blue, so Lola didn’t feel too exposed by wearing a skimpy cocktail dress.

“Peter, this is Lola LaRue. A damned fine copilot and a nice lady besides”—Emily shook her by the arm as if trying to shake the cyclic loose from her iron grasp— “once she learns to relax a bit. Clearly I don’t need to make introductions in the other direction.”

With Emily’s assistance, Lola managed to drag a hand forward and have it warmly shaken.

A wicked twinkle entered the President’s brown eyes as he glanced down at Tim still on the floor. “Didn’t warn you I was invited?”

“No, sir, Mr. President.”

“Bet he won’t be making that mistake again.”

She couldn’t stop returning the smile. “I’d bet not, sir.”

A beautiful man talking on a cell phone came up behind the President. The White House Chief of Staff Daniel Drake Darlington III was almost as popular with the newsies and even more photogenic than his boss. Mr. Darlington was the sort of man to adorn the poster-covered walls of teenage girls.

Lola had read about him. He looked like a studly California surfer but was actually an intellectual Kentucky farmer. He’d rocketed upward to become the most powerful non-elected person in government. Yet even the most vitriolic D.C. gossip mills seemed to agree that he was doing a magnificent job.

Introductions complete, she managed to unlock her knees, and they all drifted to the table. Tim recovered his feet with some assistance from Mark and ended up to her right. She turned to discover the President landing to her left and her heart rate at least doubled, leaving her light-headed and a bit giddy.

Appetizers, soup, and salad all passed before Lola’s nerves quieted enough for her to taste anything. Her mouth told her that she’d missed richness, sweet flavors, and had apparently eaten some food too hot even for a Creole to eat unnoticed as her lips still burned though she had no memory from what.

All she’d been able to do was listen and keep her right knee hard against Tim’s left under the table. He anchored her in place, helped her find her center with his presence alone. He reached for her hand under the table a few times, but she jammed her heel down on his toes. There was no way that she’d be holding hands in front of the Commander-in-Chief.

The conversation rolled around her, teasing and sharp ripostes shimmering back and forth between Emily and the President. Daniel tossing in a few of his own lobs that Emily or Mark or Tim caught and shot back without hesitation.

During the swordfish course, Lola finally unwound enough to get Tim’s attention by brushing his abused pec in apology, under the guise of dusting away some crumbs.

“‘Emily’s friend, Peter. That’s the only way we refer to him in public’?” His phrase from earlier in the day finally made sense.

Tim shrugged. “It is. Makes it easier to talk about him. Less security risk.”

It made sense. It didn’t make her happy, but it made sense.

“Enough with the goddamn surprises. In the future, just tell me.”

Tim’s shrug was easy. “Sure.” He pressed his hand briefly against his chest, right where she’d just brushed, to show she was forgiven for abusing him.

Then he smiled wickedly. “It only works for so long anyway. I had the unit going nuts trying to figure out who the practical joker was until I was shot in the arm. Just a meat shot, but I was a month in R and R for recovery. They were all waiting for me in a line when I came back. Had to kind of expand my target range outward after that.”

Lola poked her spoon into a crème brûlée that crackled easily beneath the light pressure of her spoon, the warmed vanilla wafting upward through the broken crust and promising delight for her taste buds.

That’s when it sunk in, as the custard melted in her mouth, delivering on its promise. She’d just negotiated a relationship rule for the first time in her life. Always before, the only two rules that existed had remained unspoken, known by both parties going in: for the fun of it and no commitments.

Now with Tim she was making relationship decisions, ones that she knew he would honor until the day they died. It was the kind of man he was, a good man that you’d only have to tell once.

Until the day they died.

How in the world could she even have a thought like that? Give it another week or two, and it would all blow up and they’d go their separate ways with no bad feelings. But that wasn’t right. This time she’d signed up for it, this time there would be hurt feelings.

And not just Tim’s.

She might feel safe around him, rubbing knees once again under the table, but she was also flying fully exposed, no armor left. It scared the crap out of her.

“Ms. LaRue.”

She jumped a little in her seat before turning to face the President.

“Heads up! Incoming!” Emily called out and they all ducked and spun to look around. At least everyone at the table except Daniel and the President. Even the Secret Service agents had a hand in their jackets and were scanning rapidly.

“Sorry.” Emily turned to the agents on one side. To one in particular she said, “Sorry, Frank. Wasn’t thinking.”

He grumbled an acknowledgment. Some signal passed to the others in the room, and they settled back into invisibility.

Emily raised her glass of ice tea in a toast to Lola as if wishing her luck. “Here comes his favorite question.”

The President grimaced at her like a teenage boy would at a girl who’d just stolen his thunder. All she did in turn was wave her glass for him to continue with his question.

He huffed out a breath and turned to face Lola.

“Why?”

“Why what, Mr. President?” She’d missed the preceding topic.

“Call me Peter.”

“Sorry, sir.” She swallowed hard, the smooth crème brûlée suddenly sticking in her throat. “I can’t do that, Mr. President.”

He harrumphed, but Emily was hiding a smile in her ice tea, so Lola would assume she was doing okay so far.

“Let us then for the moment pretend that we’re on a first-name basis.”

“If you wish, Mr. President.”

That got a bit of a laugh as he accepted some decaf coffee from Mark who’d ended up sitting on his far side.

“You know that I never served in the military.”

“Don’t say I didn’t warn you,” Emily chimed in, but the President ignored her.

“Why do you?”

“His other favorite question is, ‘Who wants to play poker?’” Emily offered up.

“You play poker, sir?” Lola shot for the subject change but could see it wasn’t going to stick.

Mark leaned in to offer a loud whisper in the President’s ear. “Don’t even think about it, sir. She cleaned Connie’s and my clocks on the flight over. I’m not even sure I want a rematch, though I am a sucker for punishment, which is why I married Emily.”

He winked at Lola as his wife punched him on the other arm.

“Seriously, Ms. LaRue. Why?”

“Why do you, Mr. President? What made you want the all-consuming job that you have? One that pretty much guarantees that you’ll never be employable again.” Lola could think of few harder jobs on the planet and none that could interest her less.

That actually stopped him. The President leaned back in his chair and inspected the distance. She’d wager he wasn’t watching the ordered chaos in the kitchen that was only now winding down with the tail end of the dinner rush.

“You’d think that question would have an easy answer.”

The table had gone silent. Emily rested her elbows on the table. Lola could feel Tim lean forward to be able to see the President clearly.

“Maybe—” Daniel stopped when Peter Matthews raised his hand.

“My deceased wife is the one who made it happen.”

No need to ask, the events of her death had been international news. The pilots miraculously survived the helicopter crash and the resulting fireball that had scorched the face of the White House for the first time since the British invasion during the War of 1812, but the First Lady had not survived. Everyone knew Emily Beale had been one of the surviving pilots. Something clicked in a shared glance with her husband, and Lola realized that Mark Henderson had been the other pilot.