Night Is Mine (21 page)

All he could see was that slender waist, those perfect breasts—how in the world had he ever imagined that he’d preferred heavily endowed women?—and those strong but lean shoulders that only a soldier could truly appreciate, could truly understand the thousands of hours of back-breaking work they represented.

He fell on her. There was no other word for it. He’d taken. Ravished. Drunken deep to the point of madness. Okay, there were other words for it.

And she had responded with moans, twists, lifting herself to him in fluid arches of muscle and flesh. And he had taken. Taken all she could give. And then taken more. Whenever he feared he’d been too rough, gone too far, she’d goaded him on.

And when she exploded, each time she unraveled in a flash of energy more powerful than any rocket flare, he could only watch and wonder at what he had achieved.

At long last, she’d curled back against him. Curled in his lap and gone to sleep like a little girl with one hand tucked under her chin. And he’d run his hand up and down the smooth, naked curve of her back. Brushed her hair from across her face so it slipped behind her ear.

She’d barely murmured when he’d dressed her back in the gown and tucked her beneath the blanket to sleep with the sunrise. A kiss to her forehead and a hand brushed over her silken, sun-gold hair had elicited the softest sigh.

No question he should be shot.

She’d woken like a satisfied cat in full morning light. Yet another revelation. An unwinding, unfolding, smug motion he’d love to watch a thousand times more.

He’d wanted to greet her. Wanted to apologize for all the lines he’d crossed last night. But he’d been riveted in his seat by the languorous way she ran her hand down the body he had so enjoyed pushing past its limits.

He’d prepared again to cross to her, but the troops arrived. Nurses, doctors, and Secret Service who had acknowledged him again with the barest of nods but the intense scrutiny of military professionals assessing everyone and everything as a potential threat.

And then the President strode in, exuding confidence. That explained the hard time the Secret Service had given him about sitting in this room.

The man wasn’t a trained observer; Mark would wager he was invisible to the Commander-in-Chief. He’d chosen a chair in a corner, partly masked by a plant, with the window, now bright with daylight, just to the side so that any observer’s eye would be attracted there rather than to the man made invisible by his uniform, sitting still and out of the way.

The President. Coming to see the First Lady’s savior. It made sense, he’d supposed. But it was more than that. He and Beale had an ease together. An ease that was hard to discount. The President teased her, had a pet nickname, played with her toes, sat on her bed, held her hand through the tests. Was she sleeping with the President of the United States? Had been for a while by the looks of it. Was that why she’d transferred to the White House?

Then what had last night meant? Mark could feel the heat of rabid jealousy rise to his face all over again as he sat on the plane over the mid-Atlantic. Then he laughed quietly, thankful the sound became lost in the jet-engine roar. She’d used him exactly as a man would, for a quick bout of sexual relief. Done. Moving on.

She’d never said a word, not his name, nothing. Not as she lifted her hips hard against his greedy mouth, not as the aftershocks shuddered the length of her body, not as she’d curled back in his lap to sleep, the fingers of one hand hooked into the waistband of his dress slacks.

Did she even know who had so ravaged her flesh? Did she care?

Mark considered that he’d been used. That he could live with. Considered that he would probably never cross her thoughts again. That was the problem.

Clearly she was in tight with the President and all safe with him behind that notorious Secret Service wall of no news in or out. Only Clinton had been so blatant about it that they couldn’t protect him.

If only he could shear her away from her boyfriend. The Commander-in-Chief was a great guy and all, but he didn’t deserve Beale. Okay, there were a few more problems than that. Making glorious… he shied from the word “love.” Having amazing sex? Didn’t begin to cover it. Glorying in each other’s bodies? Well, he’d certainly gloried in hers and she clearly hadn’t minded.

How they could be together? That was still a major problem, one he hadn’t solved in four days of thinking of little else.

What if he tried thinking like a pilot?

He had a clear target, never clearer, but it was way behind the lines in foreign territory.

Any number of obstacles impeded his path. Her attachment to the President would blow most people out of the game before they even reached the front lines. But Mark had plenty to worry about before that.

First, Army Command Policy Regulation 600-20, especially Section 4-14, of which he’d enjoyed breaking almost every single subsection in the night.

Second, whether or not she’d want him.

And now third, the second problem was under serious jeopardy from the commander-in-chief himself.

That simply wouldn’t do. It aborted any plan of attack to solve the first two problems.

He needed to come up with something Jim would really appreciate.

First, it had to be way, way, way below the radar.

Second, it was bound to be really stupid.

“My what?” Emily held the kitchen phone to her ear.

“There is a…” A pause while Agent Frank Adams cleared his throat and snarled out his contempt for whoever he was facing. “A ‘Marky Herman’ here claiming to be your boyfriend. He won’t hand over his ID, claims he left it back at the hotel.” Frank Adams was clearly pissed. “Do you want me to shoot him?”

“Hold off on that. I’ll be right down.” She set the pasta water to simmer and turned off the heat under the lobster
puttanesca
sauce. She could spare ten minutes but not fifteen, or she’d have to start the sauce over.

Boyfriend? Marky Herman? She almost head-over-heeled down the stairs when the next thought hit. Mark Henderson? If it was, should she be thrilled? She shifted up to jog as she crossed the grounds toward the northwest gate. Or should she have Adams shoot Henderson before he turned her life into even more of a nightmare? Whatever he was doing here, nothing good could come of it. That she knew for certain.

Emily strode into the trailer, short on breath, and stopped dead in her tracks. She could feel her jaw wagging and could do nothing about it.

“Hey, babe. I knew y’all lived fancy ’round hereabouts, but this place is the limit. They wouldn’t even let me borrow a phone to call my best gal.”

Major Mark Henderson stood across the counter from a scowling Frank Adams.

Except it wasn’t him. His hair, normally loose or tucked into a black beret, now scraggled out of a sweat-stained, Grateful Dead bandanna. A two-day beard shadowed his chin. He wore a Dallas Cowboys souvenir shirt so new that it pegged him as having just attended a game. Tattered jeans and shitkicker, alligator-skin cowboy boots that she’d never seen before and looked as if he’d worn nothing else for a dozen years.

His mirrored Ray-Ban aviator sunglasses had been replaced by the angular dark glasses Keanu Reeves had worn in
The
Matrix
. He looked like a pop-culture mercenary gone bad. A wealthy one, he’d kept his Kobold watch, completing the outfit. Not just a Cowboys game, probably in a box seat.

She shook her head, trying to clear the vision. She actually had to tilt her head a little to see her ramrod-straight commander in the man who slouched against one elbow on the counter.

“Good surprise? Bad surprise? At least you could give me a kiss.”

Whatever he was playing at, he was doing it undercover. No one would recognize the SOAR major who didn’t know him intimately. She’d best play along until she found out what was going on. A skill they’d practiced endlessly in SERE training, where the first E stood for evasion.

She moved to him. “Honey! Good surprise. Really good!” The kiss threatened to grow hot. She could feel his heat pouring in and igniting her own way too fast. Before Mark could take it any further, she turned casually and ground her heel on the top of his foot.

“It’s okay, Frank. I’ll get him out of your hair. Thanks.” She led him out of the public side of the trailer and walked back toward Pennsylvania Avenue until they were well clear of ears, though she couldn’t be sure of electronic ears. So, keep it in code.

“You can’t just drop in on me here, honey.” She ground out the last word. “I told you that.”

“I wanted to surprise you, honeybunch, but forgot my damned ID back at the hotel. So they wouldn’t let me in.”

Sure. His ID would say U.S. Army all over it and clearly that wasn’t the role he was playing.

“Well, I’m busy. You’re about to make me ruin the sauce for tonight’s dinner. And you can’t come inside. What were you thinking?” He held her hand. When had that happened? The warm afternoon air swirled about them and filled her brain with the rich scent of his warm skin.

“Only thinking about you, honey.”

And for the first time since he’d arrived, he actually sounded sincere. She couldn’t deal with this. Not now. Not until she’d had some time to think.

“Look. Uh. I’ll catch up with you later. Why don’t we meet at my parents, sevenish?” Had she lost her mind? The last place she wanted him, other than the White House, was with her parents. But in her father’s care was the only safe place she could think of on a moment’s notice. Why the hell wasn’t he back in Southwest Asia like he was supposed to be? She couldn’t imagine Admiral Parker assigning him to follow her.

“Seven o’clock. Perfect!” He scooped her against him, held her tight until his heart couldn’t beat without her feeling it along the entire length of her body. His kiss wasn’t the tender power-packed moment of the carrier or the searing heat in the hospital. It was slow, thoughtful, teasing, like a connoisseur trying to savor and memorize a new flavor. It made her groan for want of more.

Before she could snap out of it, before her brain could focus on the fact that this was her commanding officer, even in disguise, he eased back half a breath.

“Damn, Beale. Kissing you is the best thing that could happen to a man.”

And he was gone.

She knew exactly how he felt.

“A summons?” Emily refolded the damp towel she’d been using to wipe the counter. She had thirty minutes to be in front of her parents’ house to cut Mark off. She should never have warned the agents guarding her father to expect him, but she didn’t feel right withdrawing that invitation either. And he’d left no number for her to call him off.

“A request, ma’am. I’m to escort you to a meeting.” Mr. Frank Adams, blacksuit extraordinaire, stood at parade rest just inside the swinging door leading from her kitchen to the third-floor residence dining room.

It was nice being called “ma’am.” In the military, she was either “sir” or “hey, Beale!” But in the confines of her kitchen, “ma’am” sounded nice.

Emily decided to let Mr. Frank Adams wait while she hung the towel and shut down the lights. It afforded her a moment with her back to him.

Adams was scowling at her when she turned, getting tired of waiting for her answer. An invitation from a blacksuit; that gave her pause. They were always so damn polite. So damn serious. And so damn hard to read.

And Adams had to be the most inscrutable of them all. He’d barely let her in through the front gate. Now she sized him up as an opponent. A barrel of a man with rock-solid muscle. The only way she’d dropped him last week on the grand staircase had been her embodiment of the unexpected. A mistake she’d bet a month’s pay he’d not make again. He could snap her like a twig if he set his mind to it.

Another possibility came to mind. Was this for real, or was Frank Adams not above a little revenge?

“No hard feelings? I’m not about to walk into a game of pummel-the-newbie?”

“No, ma’am. No hard feelings. We’ve actually added that scenario to our training. It’s easy to forget that even someone we know as well as the FBI Director’s daughter could be turned.” The vitriol dripping off that title could stain the hardwood floor. She’d wager that somewhere in the vast depths of Adams’s calm gaze lurked a desire for serious retribution. She’d hate to be the agent playing the role of the trusted traitor in the next round of practices.

“No hard feelings, my ass.”

He actually grinned. Mr. Blacksuit Frank Adams the Inscrutable actually grinned. A nice smile, too. Lit up those dark eyes a little.

“Let’s just say, if you ever want to train in our sparring gym, I’d pay dearly to be the first in line.”

“Careful. I might take you up on that. I’m sorry, but I don’t have time tonight.” She pictured her mother left alone with a chance to sink her claws into Marky Herman. Helen Beale would shred such an unworthy candidate.

“I’ve been asked to escort you to the West Wing for a meeting.”

“The West Wing?” She hadn’t been there in her six days at the White House. Actually, two days here, two days in the hospital, and two days of home rest.