The Night Is Mine

Chapter 14

14

Daniel’s advice to rest while she could came far too late.

After finishing the list and receiving Daniel’s tour, she’d stowed her belongings in her tiny apartment. Then she’d hit the White House cafeteria for lunch.

While she’d been out, a magical fairy-godmother of a buyer had transformed the all-American, iceberg-lettuce kind of kitchen into an Italian and French paradise of curly pastas and strings of garlic. Her full shopping list had been filled in mere hours, magnificently. The best dishes always came from having the best ingredients.

As a nice bonus, her notes to herself at the bottom of the list to buy pots and herb starts had been handled. She couldn’t help sticking her nose close to the container herb-garden suddenly sprouting on her patio. The tang of lemon sage, the mouthwatering sweetness of French basil, and both Turkish and Mexican oregano grew in lush abundance. A small bay tree offered fresh leaves for building a stew’s heart into soul.

Somewhere around two in the afternoon, “No cooking tonight” had turned into a noisy dinner for six around the chopping block featuring antipasto, chicken flambé in brandied cherry sauce, sautéed new potatoes with garlic and fennel, and baby asparagus in truffle-infused clarified butter, with a torta della nonna for dessert.

And all of it with a news crew jostling her elbow.

Luckily for them, not the same crew who’d filmed her in Pakistan, which kept her out of jail on a mayhem charge. Though they’d clearly had an agenda as they scooted most of the diners aside for one shot or posed them for another.

As she dropped exhausted onto a barstool with her own slice of almond-crusted cheese tart, Daniel breezed in.

“Well, that was fun.”

His dry tone saved her having to ask what. It had been five hours of hell for both of them. Katherine, of course, looked fresh as a daisy and was presently having dessert and coffee on the veranda with the guests of her impromptu party.

Without asking, Daniel snagged a slice of the torta and dropped down across the chopping block from her. He jammed a forkful into his mouth and started to chew as he reached for the milk bottle she’d left on the table. Then he froze.

“Oh.”

“What?”

“Oh my.” He chewed once more.

“What? Is it okay? I didn’t have time to taste it.” She rose to her sore feet, but he held out a hand, palm facing her, and she settled back.

He kept chewing. Then swallowed hard. Then turned those pretty blue eyes on her.

“Marry me!”

“What?” Emily actually glanced over her shoulder, but they were the only ones in the kitchen.

“You must! I simply must marry the woman who baked this dessert.” He jabbed another forkful, stuffed it in his mouth, and closed his eyes as he chewed. “I’ll have to call Mother right away and tell her that I have finally met the girl of her dreams.”

He opened one eye to glare at her. “You aren’t married, are you?”

“No.” Not that it was any of his business.

“Good.” He closed his eye again and licked his lips as if a crumb might have escaped. “That’s settled. April or May. Beautiful time in Tennessee. Outdoor wedding on the farm beneath the shade of the old white oak. May, I think, but early on before the heat comes up too much. Instead of cake, we’ll have tier upon tier of this.”

She jabbed her fork into her own dessert and tasted it. The vanilla, combined with the lightest hint of citrus from the orange zest, did make the cheese tart taste like spring.

“I’ve never been a woman for long engagements. And it’s September now.”

“Nope. Sorry. May on the farm. Calving season. New lambs. The sweet corn but knee high. Perfect.”

“Never pegged you for a farmer. Surfer boy, maybe. Bet you look damned cute in coveralls.” Coveralls and nothing else.

“Farmer and Yale political-science grad. I hope that doesn’t destroy the wedding plans.”

He took the last bite from his plate then stood while he was still chewing.

As he headed for the door, the First Lady’s call sounded from the main room.

“What? No kiss for your bride?” Emily called after him, surprising herself. She wasn’t given to flirting. Ever. It was her worst skill, but this once it came out naturally.

“Later, angel of my heart. Herself calls.” And he was gone.

Handsome, charming, and funny. Certainly smart as well, have to be that and more to do his job. And she liked him, much to her surprise. A real shocker in this crazy place.

While she was wrapping the leftovers, a pair of blacksuits glided into the kitchen the way aircraft carriers glide into war zones, all fast and dangerous. Apparently they were riding much tighter herd on the First Lady than normal since the two attempts on her life. They checked the room quickly. Satisfied that no assassins lurked in side-by-side fridge, they blended into the background.

In moments, the First Lady swept in with an air of traveling by whim and not armed escort.

“Dearest Emily. That was splendid. Mariel Anderson was quite pushy about acquiring your dessert recipe.”

“I, um, don’t have one, ma’am. No easy way to carry cookbooks to the front, so I mostly make it up as I go. I could try to work it out…”

Daniel, who’d arrived once more in the First Lady’s wake, was laughing at her. Not aloud, but with his eyes all crinkled up around the edges. He’d pay for that.

“No, dear, that’s perfect. I refused, saying that you were very private with your secrets, which you are. We’ll have to have a girl chat one of these days. I don’t think that you’ve put seven words together since you joined our happy little family.”

A whole twelve hours earlier.

The First Lady continued rambling on as if her “girl chat” plans were forgotten as soon as they were spoken. Yet Emily would bet her next shore leave that they weren’t. A glance at Daniel, who responded with the slightest tipping of his head, confirmed it. Katherine Matthews was no one’s fool. She was a triple threat of beauty, pleasing personality, and a sharp brain.

“That Mariel didn’t give more than a few hundred thousand during the last campaign. I happen to know what her husband is worth, and I also know about her favorite Congressional aide.” An avaricious look crossed the First Lady’s face. “But I won’t bring that up for something as trivial as money.”

Emily noted that the First Lady didn’t say what she would trade that tidbit for. She thanked her lucky stars she wasn’t part of Washington politics.

“That you cook intuitively is perfect. No evidence of recipe cards to condemn the guilty.” That dazzling smile flashed into place and Emily returned it, despite now knowing how carefully the woman controlled it. “Well done.”

Emily suddenly felt ten feet tall and able to leap small buildings at the slightest provocation. She knew she was smiling foolishly, though alarms were sounding in a various parts of her brain. Then she recalled Daniel’s enjoinder to “watch her back” and felt less like smiling. The woman controlled what she showed to the world with impeccable care. What lay beneath didn’t appear to be nearly as pretty.

“And tomorrow, I think we’ll take a small journey. Do you miss flying?”

“Desperately.” The word flew out of her mouth before the question fully registered. Less than…she had to think…not yet one full day since her last flight to the carrier. It felt like a year.

“Good. At seven tomorrow you’re to meet with Eddie at the Marine One hangar, wherever that is. He’ll check you up or out, or whatever it is they do. Once you have his stamp of approval—awkward but necessary, I apologize in advance for putting you through this, he insisted—fetch Henry and me on the South Lawn at eleven. I told Eddie not to keep you any longer than that.”

She breezed out with Daniel and the blacksuits in her wake. Only two empty dessert plates remained as evidence. Emily didn’t recall finishing her own. Had Daniel gotten hers when she wasn’t watching?

Who was Henry? And where were they going?

She didn’t care, as long as she got to fly.

She jumped up and fist-pumped the air.

It was the first good news she’d had since being dumped out of her cot by Henderson.

Mark knew it was stupid as he did it.

There’d been no mission, so he’d spent the night and the morning proving that there was nothing on this planet more unsuited for sleeping than an army cot when you were in a tossing-and-turning mood. He’d spent an hour pumping iron, taken two showers, and didn’t remember the name of either movie he’d watched.

He heard a helo start winding up out on the field and checked his watch, 7:55 a.m. Twenty-two hours and seven minutes since he’d kissed her. He’d spun the outer bezel of his watch so that the arrow marked the minute. How was that for sad? He reached to spin it clear, but didn’t.

The turbine settled into a warm-up whine. That would be the carrier run. He jammed on his flight suit, kicked into his boots, grabbed his helmet, and arrived at the bird by 7:58. Archie Stevenson had her humming as Bronson and the two gunners secured the last of the outbound bags.

Unbelievable that they’d gotten the bird put back together so fast. Beale ran a seriously hot crew. He should get them back on the line, and with someone other than Bronson, but today they’d served his purpose.

He tapped Bronson on the shoulder, “Take a breather. I’ve got this one.”

Bronson tried to ask a question, but Mark ignored him and climbed into the right-side pilot seat.

First Lieutenant Archibald Stevenson III looked over at him. There was not a lot of warmth in his eyes. Mark could feel Big John and Crazy Tim glaring at his back. He wanted to protest that he hadn’t been the one who’d shipped her wherever she was gone to. That he was innocent.

But he wasn’t. He’d sent one of his finest crews to carrier duty after they’d done one of the bravest things he’d ever seen. And he’d kissed their captain. Good thing they didn’t know that, or he might just happen to fall out of the helo somewhere over the Arabian Sea.

“Let’s do it.”

Stevenson watched him a moment longer, then jerked the bird upward hard enough to feel like a slap.