The Night Is Mine

Chapter 13

13

First Lady Katherine Matthews’ private kitchen on the third floor of the White House combined a chef’s dream with a thorough undercoating of disaster. Emily couldn’t stop turning around to see everything.

The decorator’s motif shone in lush cherry wood and mirror-polished brass. A ring of the finest nonstick pans, cast-iron pots, and copper sauciers dangled from iron hooks above a dark cherry-and-maple striped cutting block big enough to seat a party of eight comfortably. A pro-level gas range to die for, plus a griddle, an indoor grill, and a pair of wok burners. The top-quality kitchen machines lined a long slab of marble for baking. A windowed door led out to a sunny porch on the back side of the third floor of the Residence.

Emily swung the door open, far heavier than she expected. It took a moment to figure out why. Inch-thick glass, a rude reminder that bullets, or bomb-laden model airplanes, might come traveling this way. There was a nice place for an arrangement of herb planters. She’d get a few starts, though she had no intention of being here long enough to harvest. Better to buy plants already in full leaf.

In the cabinets, she unearthed gorgeous china in a frilly, feminine pattern of fragile delicacy, but with the bold colors suitable to a person of power. Cool and smooth to the touch, a perfect glaze over the tracery.

The pattern clearly stated part the First Lady and part President Peter Matthews. But there was no chance she’d start thinking about him.

Further exploration revealed sufficient place settings to provide quiet service for two or an unannounced crowd of two dozen. That told her one thing about her duties: be flexible, Emily. Very flexible. She froze with her hand still on the burnished-brass cabinet handle. Too flexible.

She stood in the White House.

In a kitchen.

To cook!

This world was so far from the Black Hawk cockpit she’d exited under nine hours earlier that she had to lean against the counter as a vertigo-like wave threatened to take her out at the knees.

Deep breaths.

Slow deep breaths.

Which weren’t happening.

Just this morning, Mark had tossed her half-naked out of bed and dumped her in a helicopter. Dragged her to the carrier, kissed her, and not watched her go. She’d flown eight hours across nine time zones, landing in DC an hour earlier than she’d left the Arabian Sea. Mark had held her, kissed her nine hours ago. The change was too much. Too fast. She couldn’t get her bearings. Total sleep since waking for the cave mission twenty-four hours ago; about two hours. No wonder her head was spinning. Well, she’d learned how to work through far worse during the month-long Green Platoon and the half-year Airborne training. Far worse.

Deep breaths and focus on the battle at hand. Focus on the first step. She was alive and not bleeding out. Second step. Assess. Right. Assess the kitchen. She straightened up, ignoring the spin that had felt like vertigo but she now knew to be merely lack of sleep.

Assess. Check supplies cupboard by cupboard. The stainless-steel fridge and freezer combo was huge. They were fully stocked, and not a single item of the produce looked over two days old. Five chefs could work this kitchen, if needed, but its design reflected a more intimate setting: late-night meals shared by the First Couple while perched on stools together at one end of the carrier-sized chopping-block island.

It wasn’t hard to picture dashing Peter Matthews and his dynamic CoverGirl model-worthy wife sharing this kitchen wearing nothing but… Sooo not a good image. Peter Matthews in blue boxers made her body feel things it certainly shouldn’t be feeling about her Commander in Chief. About her married Commander in Chief. Feelings she hadn’t had for him since she’d graduated high school.

She’d successfully avoided him for the last nine years, since her graduation from West Point and his induction into the Senate, and yet she could remember him like it was yesterday. Tall and slender. A black mop of hair that was always slipping over his right eye. The merry twinkle in those whiskey-dark eyes. He’d made her swoon since she’d turned six and he’d been twice her age.

For a while, she’d been able to leave him behind. That was before he became the President of the United States and her Commander in Chief. Now she couldn’t turn around without finding him talking earnestly about world hunger on CNN or his photo on a commanding officer’s wall.

The kitchen, Emily. The kitchen.

On the disaster side, not a single decent sauté pan. The knives were run of the mill. The spice rack lacked any personality whatsoever. Iceberg lettuce and Big Boy tomatoes in the vegetable crisper. Not a single sauce or condiment, other than a lonely bottle of bottom-shelf ketchup and a squeeze-bottle of yellow mustard. The kitchen had all the trappings, but clearly whoever kept it stocked had never cooked in their natural-born lives.

If she was going to be marooned here, she’d be damned if she’d serve crap.

She closed her eyes for a moment and recited the Night Stalkers’ motto under her breath, “NSDQ. NSDQ. Night Stalkers Don’t Quit. Night Stalkers Don’t Quit.”

It had gotten Durant through ten days captivity in Mogadishu. Before SOAR, it had gotten her out of the Thai jungle.

The Thai jungle? Holy s**t! She’d never actually seen the rescue pilot who’d extracted her that night after her flight had been gunned down and her crew killed. But he’d introduced himself over the intercom, and he was the reason she’d joined the Night Stalkers. Five years ago Captain Mark Henderson had changed the course of her life.

Not that he’d ever know. She’d been past speaking and hadn’t introduced herself over the intercom as the extraction team had laid the body bags of her crew beside her.

Well, he’d now lost the chance to ever change her path again.

If she’d survived being hunted by those opium runners, she would survive this as well. She forced her eyes open, stood at attention, and took a deep breath. With a salute directed at the earth-brown, enameled sink, for lack of a better audience, she searched out a pad and pen.

Emily was deep into her list of decent ingredients when one of the three doors slammed open and she leapt straight up off the barstool. She landed in a crouched, fighting stance with her ten-inch Henckels chef’s knife, the first thing to hand, c****d back and ready to throw. Her other hand part way to the boot knife she’d insisted on recovering, much to Agent Adams’ displeasure.

The two agents in dark suits and narrow ties had their hands inside their jacket lapels before she froze. No question where these guys kept their weapons.

First Lady Katherine Matthews breezed into the kitchen as if everyone sat primly together drinking tea and discussing when the Washington football team would finally get prettier uniforms.

Emily and the two agents relaxed in stages. The First Lady paid no attention, but neither did she reach to shake Emily’s hand until the knife rested once again in the pocket of her partially unrolled leather knife case.

“I’m so glad that you decided to accept my little invitation.”

The little invitation that had flipped Emily’s life into inverted flight, an unhappy position in a rotorcraft.

“I know I placed unfair pressure upon you, but having another woman by me, especially one so clearly proficient with her hands.” She nodded to the agents who finally relaxed into a watchful mode closely related to parade rest, except their hands were folded in front within easy reach of their weapons. The I-look-powerful-but-relaxed stance designed to intimidate any and all who came near was definitely working on her.

And, like Agent Adams, these were big guys. Special Operations Forces operators and their pilots were supposed to blend in. Being five-foot-six might keep you out of the New York state police, but it made you a perfect fit for Spec Ops. That was provided you spoke a couple languages, could run a half marathon with a full pack, and could learn explosives, medicine, or bridge building. Better yet, all three. Major Mark Henderson—the toughest and one of the biggest guys in the SOAR Company, other than Big John—was just six feet. She’d yet to meet a Secret Service agent under that height.

“It gives one a feeling of safety. Thank you so much for coming.”

It was hard not to feel warmed by the greeting. The First Lady, other than being more statuesque and redheaded than Emily recalled, had a very pleasant smile. The forest-green silk blouse was open far lower than Emily would wear it, but she didn’t have such a startling cleavage to show off. All the teenage wishing in the world hadn’t helped on that issue.

Emily had always found Katherine to be a touch creepy; too perky to be real. Or too slick to be trusted. Or… bottom line, Emily had never liked her. But how much of that was because she didn’t want to like the woman married to Peter Matthews? The wife of her childhood friend deserved the benefit of the doubt. She shouldn’t despise a woman she’d only met briefly at a few formal occasions. Well, not despise her too much.

“My pleasure, ma’am.” Her gut instinct included a salute, but she stood in civilian country now. Besides, the First Lady still held her hand. Odd, it didn’t feel awkward. In SOAR, the main contact between people other than hand-to-hand combat practice consisted of a friendly slap on the back for a job well done or someone holding the wound in your leg closed so that you didn’t bleed out before landing the helo.

“We’ll have such fun together. Anything you need, anything at all, give it to Daniel.” She waved a negligent flick of fingers over her shoulder without turning to look. On cue, a man about Emily’s age walked through the door.

“He’s my body man,” Katherine said with a throaty, flirtatious voice. “Feel free to borrow him. He can be your body man, too. I’m not possessive.”

Emily gave him the once-over. And then looked again. He was worth it. The man wasn’t handsome; he was gorgeous. Not the strength and power of Major Henderson, but he was particularly nice to look at. A surfer-built blond. Broad-shouldered and slim-hipped. He wore a short-sleeved dress shirt in jewel-tone blue and a Yale tie. No ring on his finger. Nice fingers. Slender, but not effete. Where she’d expected lily-white office hands, he had the muscles of someone who worked hard, or at least worked out hard. Not Army level of course, not in the same ballpark with Mark Henderson, but not Washington-lawyer level either.

And for all the fitness that Daniel embodied, his bright blue eyes showed no fool and his expression a long-lived patience with the First Lady’s introduction. Daniel must have more than a few marbles in place to be personal assistant to one of the most powerful women in the world.

Emily nodded curtly to show that she’d not taken him for granted as a blond boy toy. Hesitation as he considered, then he nodded his thanks. Guy-speak. Essential military training. She barely needed words once she’d learned it.

Katherine clearly never had, as she was continuing to fill the room with words. Emily figured she’d best start paying attention.

“The President and I rarely eat together. He has such a hectic schedule, you know. And I need someone who can take care of my needs. They won’t be burdensome. Just myself and a few trusted advisers.”

Daniel’s quick roll of his eyes spoke volumes. “On call twenty-four seven for the merest whim.” He didn’t need to say it aloud.

As Katherine moved about the kitchen, it was clear she’d entered a foreign world. She pinged a manicured fingernail lightly against bright copper pans and brushed fingers across the cutting block that dominated the room. It was as if she’d never been here before.

Had never needed to make her own hot cocoa. Everything always done by magic elves about which she knew nothing and cared less. For her, an omelet and a lobster thermidor required equal amounts of effort and planning; she asked and they appeared.

“Daniel will give you warning about any major events on my schedule, though I reserve the right to call you on a moment’s notice for a quick snack. Especially if I’m feeling terribly decadent.” Could the woman dish her own ice cream?

By the time Katherine was done speaking, both Secret Service agents were fully back at parade rest, Daniel had his tie straightened, and Emily had been graciously guided back to her barstool. Katherine stood closer than new acquaintances would. Close as best friends might choose—not something she had much experience with.

This was a skill Emily didn’t have, though her mother had tried so hard to give it to her. DC’s First Hostess made it look so easy that she must have learned it in the womb.

“And you fly too, don’t you?”

“Helicopters, ma’am. Not airplanes. At least not often. I’m certified on fixed-wing F/A-18 and Harrier, transport only, but I fly helicopters.” And babble like an i***t. “Black Hawks mostly. I’ve about a thousand hours in the Apaches and Cobras as well.” Like that meant something to the First Lady.

“Isn’t that marvelous?”

Yup. Didn’t mean a damn thing to Mrs. Matthews. Someone please shoot her now and put her out of her misery.

“Well, as President Matthews and I are often traveling separately, it’s such a relief that I can rely on you for both food and transportation. I feel so much better. No cooking today. Get that list you’re making to Daniel as soon as possible. Tomorrow, Daniel,” the First Lady addressed him for the first time, “I want her to be able to make me a shrimp quiche, egg whites only, tomato juice, and an English muffin sporting a skim of fresh blackberry jam without having to leave this room or call the main kitchen.”

“You…” Katherine turned and aimed a finger at Emily suddenly enough for her to step back and sit abruptly on the stool close behind her. “Don’t worry. You’ll be perfect.”

Before Emily could exhale, the First Lady was gone, the agents somehow a step ahead of her, whispering into their sleeve microphones, “Dragon is moving.”

Dragon? No kidding.

Daniel lingered behind. “A bit breathtaking?”

“She does manage to suck most of the air out of the room.” Emily clamped down on her tongue, but Daniel laughed. Nice rumbly laugh.

“Not much slows her down either. Be ready for that same perfect bluster to be running as strongly at midnight as at six a.m. Which is when she expects breakfast, by the way. My office is through that door,” he indicated the one the agent hadn’t used, “third on the right. I’ll be back in an hour for the list and to show you your apartment. You’ll be on-call at all times. You’re one of the select few staffers with quarters in the Residence. I don’t rate that. They told you? ”

She nodded, though they hadn’t. What else hadn’t Agent Adams bothered to tell her? Did Adams or Daniel know of her dual role as cook and bodyguard? No, not with an admiral personally hand-delivering the First Family’s request.

She made a mental note to call Dad’s driver to bring back her duffel bag.

At least Daniel didn’t sound miffed about her surprise benefit. She’d assumed she’d be back in her old room at home, too often idle and easily available to her socialite, matchmaking mother. Not that her mother didn’t have a fine eye for a good-looking man, but they were all far too eligible to be interested in a female helicopter pilot. And that discussion would drive her and her mother both crazy from the moment Emily walked in the door. She knew that tonight, her first night back from overseas, there’d be a couple lurking about for her first dinner home.

“On-call” had defined most of her military career, so no problem there. She didn’t care if the command came from the First Lady or Major Mark Henderson trying to find a new way to put her ass in a sling. He must be so glad she’d been shipped out.

Though he’d been more pissed than pleased when he read her orders. And he’d certainly fumed all the way to the carrier. Had the hard landing been on her behalf? That rated as too bizarre. She discarded the idea.

Well, she’d bet the barracks here were a step up from a mosquito-net-shrouded army cot in a sweaty desert tent that froze out around 2 a.m. The mosquito net wasn’t for the bugs—too dry for them to survive there. It was for the stray scorpions and snakes seeking someone warm to snuggle up with for the night. Another reason to be glad she usually flew at night and slept during the day.

“Is there someplace I could get a few pots to start herbs?” She waved a hand toward the patio entrance.

“Put it on the list.” Daniel tapped the paper smartly without having to look down and see where it was. Man who doesn’t miss much is what the gesture said.

Daniel started moving out the door, in motion the moment before the First Lady’s call drifted back down the hallway.

“Then get some rest. You’ll need it.” He headed off. “And watch your back.” Then he was gone as smoothly as he’d arrived.

Now what did that mean?