Dangerous Secrets (61 page)

The other man sat on that floor, nervously
waiting for the man to speak. He was below his employer, reduced to feeling
inferior by their positions. The man in his chair, him on the smooth stone
floor. At least he wasn′t sitting on loose stones. He didn′t know
which room he preferred more. Then he thought he′d rather be outside than
in any of the rooms in this house. They were too. . .too much. If they were
bright, they were too bright. If they were dark, they were too dark. Too small.
Too crowded or too sparse. Nothing was done in moderation, only extremes.

‶
All of them?″ the other
man asked, but he already knew the answer.

‶
Those that are still alive are
in the hands of the FBI.″

‶
I suppose I don′t have to
say how disappointed I am.″ The statement was spoken with a calmness he
was known for. He could sit peacefully or he could flare into a raging dragon.
In either mood his eyes were piercing. This time he looked a little different,
however. This time it was personal. He was involved in this one more than any
of the others. How, was the question. Nevertheless there was no question that
all the facts weren′t known. No one would put so much effort into finding
one woman and the man with her.

‶
What do you plan to do to
rectify this situation?″

Facing the older man, he swallowed hard. All he
had was bad news.
‶
At the moment we don′t know where
they′ve taken Ms. Kirkwood. She was at the FBI headquarters in West
Virginia, but she′s been moved. My guess is to a safe house. She could be
anywhere.″

The other man shot up from his chair so fast it
slid across the room and hit the wall behind him.
‶
Find
them,′′ he shouted. ″I will have no further delays or
excuses. I want her and I want him. I want them dead and those papers in my
hands.″

He spread his hands, palms out, so the contrast
of light and dark could clearly be seen. Compared with his own hands, the other
man′s were small, stubby, his fingernails short. He was proud of telling
people how long his life lines were. He would have a long life and live well.
He proved he could live well by his surroundings.

Looks, however, were deceiving. The room was
appointed with expensive pieces, dynasty items that had been transported all
the way around the world to get here. Even people who had no idea of the worth
of Oriental furniture could tell from the weight and high gloss of the room
that it was populated with many American dollars. Regardless of the
international exchange rates, nothing diminished the flash of the green. Yet
all the money in the world couldn′t wash the dirt off this man′s
hands.

‶
Come back again without
completing this job″—he leaned forward, his fingers bearing his weight as
he leaned on the desk—″and we′ll use your blood to paint the rest
of the stones on this floor.″

The other man got up and turned to leave. As he
reached for the door panel, it opened. Three men stepped inside. One in front
and two flanking the leader.

‶
FBI,″ he said.

***

‶
How do I look?″ Morgan
checked her image in the mirror for the tenth time in the last half hour.
She′d changed clothes four times. She had on a black strapless gown with
a white sash around the waist.
‶
Cleavage,″ she said. She put her hands up.
‶
Too
much cleavage.″ She couldn′t wear this. It was way too sexy.

She grabbed the zipper and pulled it down.

‶
Morgan, what are you
doing?″ Jack asked.

‶
I can′t wear this. It
shows too much. . .″ She spread her hands. The dress slipped to the
floor.

‶
Not as much as you′re
showing now.″ Jack raised and lowered his eyebrows in a lecherous
gesture.

Morgan looked at herself. She wore a one-piece
bustier, thigh-high stockings and three-inch heels. Everything she had on was
fire engine red. She didn′t know whose idea it was to buy this underwear.
She hadn′t ordered any of it, but she had had some like this before she
blew her house up in St. Charles.

Jack picked up one of the other dresses. He
held it by the rhinestone straps. Red. It had a fitted bodice and a skirt that
billowed out at the bottom. It felt like liquid against her legs.

‶
Hart Lewiston is outwitting the
press and his campaign people to make this little dinner. He′ll be here
in ten minutes. If you don′t get dressed we are going to be conspicuously
absent from dinner.″

Jack had fire in his eyes when she looked at
him. She felt the sting of desire in her belly. He approached her and for a
moment they stared into each other′s eyes. He had on a black tuxedo. He
looked devastating. For a moment Morgan considered staying in the room. She would
much rather make love with Jack than go through the ordeal of making small talk
with a famous stranger.

Jack went down on one knee. He held the dress
for her. Morgan stepped into it. He started raising it, dragging the fabric up
her legs. Before he got to the tops of her thighs, the place where the
stockings ended and she began, he leaned forward and kissed her skin. Morgan
shuddered, grabbing his shoulders as sensation rocketed through her,
threatening to buckle her knees. Jack pulled back and continued to cover her
skin with the fabric growing from the floor until he was standing upright and
she was threading her arms through the jeweled straps.

‶
I′m scared,″ she
whispered.
‶
Why had she agreed to this? Jacob and Jack had convinced her to meet Hart. It
wouldn′t kill her, they had said.

‶
He wants to meet you,″
Jack said.
‶
And
you want to meet him too. He′s the family you always wanted.″

Morgan was too afraid. It was going to be a
disaster. There was no reason for her to meet Hart Lewiston. Why wasn′t
he out campaigning? He needed to regain the points he′d lost in the
polls, not fly in here to meet a thirty-one-year-old daughter he′d never
actually seen.

‶
You look fine,″ Jack said
as he zipped her in and turned her to face him. He was calm while her heart was
racing to the beat of a drum.

‶
You look beautiful, with your
hair up like that.″ He touched hair she′d curled and styled and
pulled up into a mane on the top of her head. One micro-braid hung down the
side of her face to her chin.
‶
You looked like this when you came into your house,
wearing that black dress and high heels.′′

Morgan thought that had been a century ago,
when it was only three weeks.

‶
Jack, I don′t want to do
this.″

He folded her in his arms.
‶
Sure
you do,″ he whispered.
‶
If you don′t, you′ll wonder for the rest
of your life what he was like. You′ll kick yourself for a missed
opportunity.″

‶
I know what he′s
like.″

Jack was shaking his head as she spoke.
‶
You
know his television image, his political views, his public service. You
don′t know the man.″

Morgan leaned back.
‶
He could be a
terrible person in private.″

‶
You′ll want to know that
too,″ he reassured her.

Morgan kissed him on the cheek. She put her
arms around his neck and held on for a while. Jack knew what to say. That was
one of the things Morgan loved about him.

‶
Ready?″ he asked, pushing
her back.

‶
Give me a minute.″ She
went to the dresser.
‶
Someone bought this jewelry. The least I can do is
wear it.″ She put a pair of red teardrop earrings through her pierced
ears, and their length danced along her jaw. Jack took the matching necklace,
made of a gold chain with a red teardrop stone at the end. Morgan and fastened
it about her neck.

She picked up a tissue and turned to him,
wiping her lipstick from his cheek.

‶
Ready,″ she said.
Together they left the room. The corridor was wide and Morgan slipped her arm
through his as they reached the top of the stairs. She looked down. What was
this evening going to be like? she wondered.

She and Jack started down. Jack stopped halfway
to the bottom.
‶
There′s
something I want you to remember for the rest of the evening. Whenever
you′re afraid or at a loss for something to say.″

Morgan tightened her grip on his arm. She
looked up at him.
‶
What is it?″ she asked.

He leaned toward her.
‶
Red is your
color,″ he whispered close to her lips.
‶
And I′ll be thinking
about getting my hands on the tops of those stockings every time I look at
you.″

***

There was more security here than he′d
seen in any place on the campaign trail. Hart had no doubt that everyone from
the chopper pilot to the maid that opened the door for them had the highest
security clearance. He was used to security. Campaigning these days meant
taking your life in your hands. There were plenty of crazies out there looking
to be the next James Earl Ray or Sirhan Sirhan.

The helicopter ride had been short, no more
than thirty minutes, although his watch had been removed before he boarded the
craft and he and Carla had been blindfolded. He didn′t know where they
actually were. It was disorienting not being able to see. For a moment, it had
taken him back to his ordeal in Korea where part of his torture was to be
blindfolded and beaten. He probably would have had a more troublesome time of
it, except that Carla had complained the entire way about the absurdity of such
a device. He′d never seen her so agitated. She′d insisted on
accompanying him, although he′d told her he could do this alone. Still
she persisted. Hart admired his wife. He knew she felt uncertain, confused, out
of control. He felt the same, but he couldn′t let that stop him. When
those papers arrived a week ago, he was stunned. It brought his love for Rose
Kirkwood back to him.

Hart had been surprised by the fire of it. He
thought he was over her. He loved Carla. She was his wife of twenty-three
years, but he never forgot Rose, and they′d made a daughter.

How could he not want to see her, talk to her,
make her part of his life? But Carla′s life was connected to his, and if
he brought Morgan into it, he would have to have his wife′s consent.

Carla had sat rigidly during the short ride
here, but now she appeared to relax. Her face wasn′t as pale as it had
been. Hart knew she didn′t like to fly. They arrived in a helicopter, a
flight quite different from an airplane. Maybe now that she was back on the ground
she would have more command of herself.

They went into a large drawing room. The walls
were a muted blue. The furniture was dark and heavy and the chandelier that lit
the room was huge and bright. Hart was reminded of the White House. A uniformed
waiter, complete with white gloves and a silver tray, brought him a drink he
hadn′t ordered. Hart tasted the orange juice and ginger ale concoction.
He didn′t drink often and liked the virgin Mimosa more than its alcoholic
replacement. It was exactly as he liked it. He had no doubt Carla′s was
also to her liking.

‶
Ms. Kirkwood will be in
shortly,″ the waiter said and left them alone. Hart took a sip of his
drink and looked at the huge painting of the Jefferson Memorial over the dark
fireplace.

‶
Any idea where—″ Carla
began, but stopped when the door clicked. They both turned at the sound. Morgan
Kirkwood stepped inside. She walked directly toward them. Hart didn′t
know who he expected to see. He had the image of a nineteen-year-old, wearing a
leotard and poised on a narrow beam. The woman who crossed the carpet with a
tight smile wasn′t nineteen and she wasn′t wearing a leotard. His
knees went weak and he set the glass down on the mantel where he stood.

After so many years he thought it was
impossible. He never expected to see her again, but Rose Kirkwood, the image of
Rose Kirkwood, floated in front of him and then stopped. He swallowed, knowing
if he tried to speak at that moment his voice would crack. He stared at her.
She was as tall as Carla. Her skin was clear and smooth and he noticed her
cheeks were tinged with an undercoat of blush that wasn′t makeup, but
some heightened sense of nerves. He felt it too.

‶
You look like your
mother,″ he said.

***

Morgan didn′t know what to say. So she
said nothing. She stood looking at her father. He thought she looked like her
mother, but seeing him was like seeing herself. She wondered why other women
looked in the mirror as they grew older and saw the reflection of their
parents, either more of their mother than they wanted or more of their father
than they ever thought possible. Morgan saw her mother′s eyes and her
smile in that mirror. People told her that when she was a child. She did have
her mother′s eyes and her mouth. Looking at the man across the room from
her, she knew everything else about her appearance came from him.

Yet when he looked at her, he saw her mother.
Did he want to see her mother in her? She understood why her skin tone was so
pale. She was brown, but the undercoat of yellow was directly derived from him.

She smiled at his statement, not contradicting
him.

‶
Hello,″ she said,
offering her hand to Carla.
‶
I′m Morgan Kirkwood. You′re Carla
Lewiston.″

Carla accepted her hand. Her fingers were cold
as they closed around Morgan′s.
‶
I thought we might want to talk
for a few minutes alone.″

Carla looked stately. Her clothes said she was
ready to carry out the duties of the First Lady with as much pomp and
circumstance as any of the past First Ladies. Her sequined gown was royal blue
with hidden slit pockets. One of Carla′s hands disappeared in that
pocket. The other hand held a matching purse. She played nervously with the
short strap.