The Night Is Mine

Chapter 16

16

Emily checked the third-floor kitchen, she’d left a real mess. It was past midnight and she didn’t want to clean it up, but the kitchen was her domain now. Thirty-six hours straight and she was ready to crash.

She hit the lights and had to blink twice, once for the brightness and once because the room was spotless. The chopping block looked freshly oiled. She could kiss the cleaning staff. Then she checked the fridge and noticed all the leftovers were gone as well. Ah. The First Lady wouldn’t want leftovers anyway. She’d have to remember to always leave the crew something extra in thanks.

She headed down the main stairs. The back stairs were well past her apartment and required doubling back half a floor. No one would be up this late at night, so she took the grand staircase.

Turning the corner on the wide landing, she passed the first blacksuit before her tired brain cataloged his presence. She nearly collided with the man behind the blacksuit before someone grabbed her arm and shoved her hard up against the wide banister.

She jammed down a foot on the attacker’s instep and threw an elbow hard into his sternum. He dropped to the floor with a gasp before her brain kicked in.

Two more blacksuits materialized between her and the man three stairs below. Their guns drawn. Inches from her face.

Freeze.

Don’t move.

Stupid. Stupid. Stupid.

Which of the instructions were spoken and which her own thoughts, she didn’t know, but her body got the message loud and clear. Statue. Unmoving. The black tunnel of two pistols inches from her face was as nasty a sight as she’d seen in a long while.

“Em?”

“Peter?” She only allowed her mouth to move.

Damn, not “Peter,” you fool.

“Mr. President?” She let her gaze shift for an instant off the muzzles of the .357 SIGs hovering inches from her face. It was him. More tired than he looked on television.

“Stand down, Vic.”

The leading blacksuit glanced over his shoulder, back at her, then slowly returned his weapon to his holster allowing her to see clearly that the safety had been off.

They helped their downed comrade to his feet. Oh wonderful, she’d leveled Agent Frank Adams, the one who hadn’t wanted to let her onto the grounds to begin with. Now she had a real chum in the service.

Then the three of them did that blur thing blacksuits did so well. One moment they were an iron shield blocking any hope of survival, and the next moment, though they were only a few feet away, she might have been alone.

Alone with…

“Hey, Em.” Only Peter Matthews had ever been allowed to use that nickname. And he’d remembered it. Hopefully he didn’t remember the other one. She stood a little easier as the adrenaline slid down toward a couple of shakes. Not bad this time. No one firing RPGs at her. Hardly worth the adrenal surge and the inevitable hungover feeling.

“Good evening, Mr. President. Sorry to disturb you. I thought I was the only one up. I’ll only use the back stairs from now on. I’m sorry. I just—” won’t shut up. She clamped her jaw shut at his smile.

“You look good. Haven’t seen you since your father’s reception the night I was elected to the Senate.”

Her stomach churned at the memory. Nine years ago. One of her real high moments. Twenty years old and newly graduated from West Point at the top of her class. So sick at seeing Peter married to an overblown, high-society, Ms. Perfect wife that she’d gotten stinking drunk on champagne.

Any truly spectacular scene had been preempted when she’d passed out on her father’s office couch. Where her dad and the freshman Senator had found her while seeking a place for a private word. A sodden mess in a champagne-stained dress, with puffy, red eyes. Real high times.

Her one childhood dream, the one true love of her youth, married to “that” woman. Forever after, she’d known with certainty, her marriage was to her career. Clear cut and simple.

Emily had no idea how to be a girl in an evening gown. Captain Beale, that person she understood and knew how to be. To rectify the situation, she’d never worn an evening gown again nor, after the next morning’s spectacular hangover, touched champagne again.

“Been hiding since then.” And would return to hiding at the first opportunity.

Besting one of the President’s blacksuits wouldn’t be improving her relations with the Secret Service. They were already more than rough around the edges about having the FBI Director’s daughter hovering about. The two services rarely saw eye to eye. They’d be sure she was a spy, feeding information back to her father. Nothing could be farther from the truth but telling them that wouldn’t alter the perception. Her father had taught her the keeping of secrets, not the sharing of them.

A glance showed the three agents were back at their posts. Here they all stood, inside the most secure building in the country, and still there was one man half a flight up, another half a flight down, and Frank Adams at the far corner of the landing, scanning the room below as if assassins lurked in every shadow. And keeping more than half an eye on her.

“Well, you certainly look good.”

She knew he was teasing. Her white pants and short-sleeved blouse looked fine under a chef’s jacket, but without the jacket, left her feeling foolish here in the grandeur of the main staircase. Like a teenager who didn’t know how to dress for a date. At least the hot flush that had replaced the night air’s chill had cleared away all of the goose bumps.

“You look great,” she managed to mumble out. Stunning conversationalist, Emily. She’d now told the most powerful man in the world that he was hot. But damn, he was. As a teen, he’d been good-looking. The newly elected and married Senator at twenty-six had rated handsome and dashing. Now… his dark hair was tousled as if he’d only just now run a hand through it. He’d let it grow long, covering his ears, teasing around his neck. The longest hair of any President in the past few centuries, probably since graying ponytails went out with Andrew Jackson.

Longer than Mark’s. On Peter, it looked refined; on Mark, it looked dangerous, especially with those gray eyes. Peter’s eyes were whiskey-brown. Funny, for a moment, she’d imagined his eyes were the color of Mark’s. She tore her gaze away.

“It’s good to see you, sir.” Heat rushed to her face once more. She put her head down, sidestepped the President, and bolted past the blacksuits, down the stairs for safety.

When she’d regained the confines of her room, she closed the door and leaned against it. More out of breath than after a 10K run. With a pack. A full one.

Washing her face in cold water did nothing to relieve the heat burning her cheeks. In the mirror they looked as bright as after a day in the desert without sunscreen.

Peter watched Emily trot down the stairs, breezing by Vic and Frank as if they weren’t there. A year in office, and he still wasn’t accustomed to their constant presence. She didn’t notice, of course. Perhaps she was so used to high security in her chosen career that she was oblivious to something as minor as three Secret Service agents.

Emily Beale. The precocious little girl of his memory overlapped only uncomfortably with the reality of the amazing woman he’d encountered. Her sleeveless blouse had revealed well-toned arms and shoulders, and she’d apparently stopped biting her nails. Her body definitely trim. Shapely in all the right spots. And tall. Practically eye to eye with him. She’d always been such a short thing as a kid. When did she get so pretty and powerful?

Stunningly powerful when she’d dropped Frank, easily twice her size, right here at his feet on the landing. That had been something to see. Funny, he hadn’t noticed her until she was already planting the agent on his face, but he’d never felt fear, never felt threatened, though she looked fiercely formidable. A missile aimed and on course, to steal a metaphor from her world.

It was odd, rather sad too, that there was a side of her he didn’t know. He remembered the day her parents had brought home the squalling bundle. He’d been a part of every major event in the first twelve years of her life.

But in the last sixty seconds she’d become two different people. Did this one recall their thousand discussions as children? Or was he part of a past she’d forgotten? She’d come when he needed her so there had to be a connection still.

He turned and continued up the Grand Staircase toward the Residence with his agents in tow.

He could remember the last time he’d heard her voice. After not hearing it for nine years, he had still recognized her voice instantly. The girl grown into the woman’s voice. It had happened on his third trip to the Situation Room as Commander in Chief, only his second week in office.

Peter turned right at the head of the Grand Staircase, careful not to look to his left as he headed for the master living room. Katherine had made it clear that the third floor and the eastern stairs were her domain. He didn’t want to admit the relief when she’d declared the second floor his exclusive domain during his second day in office.

He dropped off the guys in the hall as he went into the living room that he’d converted into his office in the Residence. He hadn’t bothered to mess with it, upsetting the White House decorator no end. His predecessor Jim Bruckner, or his wife, had done a fine job with it during his tenure. Peter saw no reason to change the soft leather and wood décor.

He shut the door on the world. He considered a beer, but they’d be waking him in four hours. He tossed his briefcase full of unread memos on the armchair and pulled an apple juice out of the fridge. He lay down on the sofa, knowing the moment he did so that he’d be spending another night sleeping there.

After kicking off his shoes, he let his mind drift back to that time he’d heard Emily’s voice when he’d been expecting to hear from a combat pilot. An operation to extract a North Korean nuclear scientist had gone south. Badly. Including the backup plan. Barely seconds from losing a whole SEAL team during his third week in office, a pair of SOAR helicopters that had been training nearby swooped in out of the dark and rescued everyone under heavy gunfire. It was a pure fluke that they’d been flying in the Sea of Japan and had saved the entire operation. No injuries except one SEAL shot in the leg. The scientist and his family were safe and very useful.

Then he heard her voice on the report in. No mistaking it; he knew none better. He’d staggered from the room in shock, finding it impossible that his simplest order had sent that girl into harm’s way.

With memories of Emily Beale kicking around in his brain, he knew sleep would be elusive even at—he checked the mantel clock—1:15 in the morning. He got the best sleep aid he could find in his briefcase, a report on declining fishing off the Kamchatka Peninsula. If it didn’t put him to sleep, at least it would make him stop thinking about that little girl.

That little girl who had flattened the head of his Personal Protection Detail—the top agent of his entire guard. Hard to believe.

He’d bet Agent Frank Adams had trouble believing it as well.