by Elle Kennedy
“Man, I can’t remember the last time I wore this.”
With a rueful grin, Nick unzipped the bag and stared at the tailored tuxedo jacket, black trousers and crisp white dress shirt it contained. He was suddenly grateful that he’d decided to shave the scruff he’d been sporting since Mala. Rebecca had persuaded him to do it, pointing out that he was attending the gala as good-guy Nick Barrett and not the badass Nick Prescott she’d been traveling with all week.
Don’t think about her.
Crap. He’d promised himself he wouldn’t let thoughts of Rebecca distract him tonight. Although he knew ending it had been for the best, the troubling emotions swirling in his gut made it impossible to feel good about the decision.
But he couldn’t dwell on that now, which meant forcibly shoving Rebecca from his mind.
His father, however, hadn’t gotten the memo. “So is our sassy Ms. Parker still unhappy about being left behind?”
“A little, but she’ll get over it.” Nick avoided his father’s eyes before the older man could do that mind-reading trick he excelled at.
He shucked his camo pants and stuck his legs into the tuxedo trousers, yanking them to his hips and zipping up. As he put on the shirt and started buttoning it, he felt his dad’s shrewd gaze boring into him.
“What?” he said defensively.
The secretary’s eyes flickered with what resembled disappointment. “What are you doing, Nicky?”
“What are you talking about?”
“With Rebecca Parker.”
“Nothing.” He hesitated, fought another burst of pain. “In fact, we ended the affair earlier this afternoon.”
Kirk looked surprised. “Why on earth would you do that?”
“I already told you why last night.”
Feeling more than a little uncomfortable—he and his father didn’t normally discuss Nick’s love life—Nick reached for the small box inside the garment bag and flipped it open. The velvet bed contained a pair of monogrammed cuff links his dad must have grabbed from their home safe.
“We’re not right for each other,” Nick added when his father didn’t say a word.
More silence.
Sighing, he snapped on the cuff links and fixed his sleeves, then shrugged into his tuxedo jacket. His fingers were unusually ungainly as he tackled his bow tie. He was acutely aware that his father was still watching him, and that silent stare-down left him feeling frazzled.
“Oh, spit it out, Dad. What’s on your mind?”
“I think you’re a fool.”
The frank words made him raise his eyebrows. “Wow, don’t hold back any punches.”
“You asked what was on my mind—well, that was it.” The secretary shook his head. “For the love of God, son, that woman is so right for you I want to grab you by the shoulders and give you a firm shake for being so damn blind.”
A tornado of shock spiraled through him. “What?”
“You heard me. She’s the one. And you’re letting her go? I know it’s been a year since we’ve seen each other, but when did you become such a dumb-ass, Nicholas?”
Nick was having an impossible time making sense of this conversation. “She’s not the one,” he sputtered. “She can’t be. All she ever does is challenge me and argue and drive me absolutely nuts with her complete disregard for her own safety. Half the time I want to strangle her for being so damn stubborn, and the other half, I want to throw her over my shoulder and carry her to bed—”
He quit talking when he realized his father was laughing at him. Loudly. And for a very long time.
“Care to fill me in on the joke?” Nick said with an edge to his voice.
“You don’t see how lucky you are, do you, son?” Kirk continued to chuckle. “What you’re describing? It’s passion. Lord, what I would have given to have had just a fraction of that in my own marriage.”
Nick sucked in a stunned breath. “What?”
“Don’t get me wrong. I loved your mother. I loved her with every fiber of my being, but let’s not kid each other here—Jeannie was a yes-woman. She agreed with every word that came out of my mouth, approved of every decision I made, took every suggestion I gave her.” A flicker of shame crept into Kirk’s eyes. “Honestly? Sometimes I’d make the most outrageous demand in hopes that your mom would argue with me about it—and more than half the time, she wouldn’t! She’d go along with whatever stupid thing that came out of my mouth, because that was the kind of woman she was.”
Nick shook his head a few times to clear out the cobwebs of shock. He’d never heard his father say a negative word about his mom, so this was a startling first.
“Are you saying you weren’t happy with her?” he heard himself ask.
“Of course not. All I’m saying is, our marriage was not as perfect as it seemed. And your mom, as much as I loved her, wasn’t perfect either. She was too damn passive. Usually I loved it, you know, because I tend to be dominating—”
Nick snickered. “No kidding.”
“But like I said, sometimes I wished she stood up to me more. Challenged me, excited me.” The secretary shrugged. “You lucked out, son. I know you don’t see it that way, but honestly, marriage can be boring. You want that passion, Nicky. I see the way you look at Rebecca, and I see the way she looks at you, so trust me when I say that letting her go will be the biggest mistake you could ever make.”
* * *
The Veterans Gala was being held in the White House’s East Ballroom, a stunning room with magnificent crystal chandeliers, a sleek terrazzo floor and gold-colored silk draperies gracing the walls. There was a mixed crowd in attendance—decorated soldiers, their wives and girlfriends, White House staff, politicians and movers and shakers. The guests chatted and mingled, sipped on champagne and munched on appetizers and stole glances across the room to where Troy Ferguson was holding court with two senators, an army general and a supreme court judge.
Nick stuck close to his father’s side, wishing the secretary hadn’t initiated that disturbing heart-to-heart right before they were due to confront the vice president of the United States. Nick’s head was all over the place now, and he had to make a serious effort to concentrate on the task at hand.
He accepted a champagne flute from a passing server and studied Ferguson, whose trim body and youthful features never failed to surprise him. Only the threads of silver in Ferguson’s thick dark hair hinted that the man was older than he looked. He’d served in the military, too, a decorated soldier in his own right, and several of the uniform-clad veterans were ushered by White House staff to chat with the VP.
“He seems to be in good spirits,” Nick murmured.
“Indeed,” his father murmured back.
The two of them started to walk, but they hadn’t made it two steps when they were intercepted by a congressman who wanted to talk to the secretary of defense. When they finally managed to pry themselves away, they ended up being intercepted again, this time by a female senator whose eyes widened at the sight of Nick.
“And is this your son?” she asked. “Where have you been hiding him, Kirk?”
“I just got in from a yearlong sailing trip last night,” Nick lied.
“Yes, I can tell you must have been out on the boat. You look very tanned.”
He did? Uh, okay, if she said so.
“And what are your plans now?” she asked in a conversational tone.
“Not sure yet,” he said, keeping his response vague.
His father touched his arm. “Nicholas, there’s someone else I’d like you to meet. Excuse us, Susan.”
They moved away from the curious woman, only to be stopped by someone else. Needless to say, it took twenty minutes for them to make their way across the ballroom.
At their approach, Vice President Ferguson sharply turned his head. He looked startled to see them, and his dark gray eyes lingered on Nick for so long that his shoulders tensed.
Was Ferguson surprised to see him here because he was the one trying to
kill him and he’d been hoping Nick would already be dead? Or was the VP just genuinely surprised that the secretary had arrived with his traveling nomad of a son?
“Kirk,” Ferguson said warmly as he shook the secretary’s hand.
Two stone-faced agents stood a few feet away, keeping a vigilant eye on the ballroom and everyone in it. In fact, the whole room was swarming with agents, all boasting that same alert posture and hawklike gaze.
“Mr. Vice President, you remember my son, Nicholas,” Secretary Barrett said, gesturing to Nick.
“Of course. Pleasure to see you again, son.”
Nick reached out to shake the vice president’s hand.
Hmm. Firm shake, steady hand, dry palm. If Ferguson was nervous, he wasn’t showing any outward signs of it.
“I thought your father had mentioned you were out of the country,” the VP said with mild interest.
Yeah, because that was the lie you fed him.
Nick restrained the biting response, quickly reminding himself that Ferguson might not be guilty.
And yet something about the man was triggering his internal alarms. Ferguson was too poised, his expression too contemplative as he gazed at Nick.
“I was. I only got in last night,” Nick explained.
“I see. And did you enjoy your travels?”
Nick thought about this past year—the safe houses, the frustration, the rage...
He met Ferguson’s silver-gray eyes. “More or less.”
Next to him, his father took a small step forward and lowered his voice to a grave pitch. “Mr. Vice President, we were hoping to get a moment alone with you.”
The other man made a clucking noise with his tongue. “I’m afraid that might be difficult. I’m due to give a speech in less than an hour, and there are several people I have yet to speak to.”
“It won’t take long,” the secretary insisted.
Ferguson’s eyes narrowed with suspicion. “What’s this about, Kirk?”
“It’s a matter that would be best discussed in private, sir. My son has come to me with some very troubling news.”
Nick didn’t miss the spark of alarm that lit the VP’s eyes. Question was, was it genuine or false?
And if that was real alarm, what was Ferguson worried about? National security...or that he might be exposed?
“I wouldn’t ask this if it wasn’t of the utmost importance,” Nick’s father said in a coaxing tone.
Finally, the vice president nodded. “Yes, of course. I suppose I can spare a few minutes.”
He glanced at his Secret Service agents, gave a curt nod, and a moment later, their little group was heading for the door.
Two agents took the lead, stepping out of the ballroom first. The three men trailed after them while three more agents took up the rear. The entourage walked the quiet halls until they reached the office the VP used when he was at the White House; his day-to-day office space was located on the Naval Observatory grounds, which Nick remembered getting a tour of when his father first became the secretary of defense.
The Secret Service agents entered the office to make sure it was secure before allowing the vice president to enter.
“You and your men can wait in the hall, Alfred,” Ferguson barked at the lead agent.
The tall, silent man nodded and left the room, closing the door behind him.
Ferguson didn’t make a move for the desk or the couch. He stood in the center of the room instead, fixing both Barretts with an impatient look.
“Well? What is it?”
“I’m afraid something very troubling, and slightly unbelievable, has come to my attention,” Secretary Barrett began. “Regarding the Meridian virus.”
Ferguson didn’t even blink. “I’m going to need you to be a little more specific, Kirk.”
“How’s this for specific? Deputy Secretary McAvoy has admitted to being involved with the development of the virus—and he names you as the individual in charge of the project.”
Nick watched the vice president’s expression for any change, any indication of guilt, but the man had a phenomenal poker face. Nick couldn’t tell if Ferguson was surprised or angry or who knew what, at least until that carefully composed mask broke away and unexpected resignation filled those gray eyes.
With a heavy breath, Ferguson rounded the commanding mahogany desk and sank into the plush chair. He clasped his hands on the desktop and said, “I was afraid something like this might happen.”
Chapter 18
When the cell phone on the bed started to buzz, Rebecca lunged for it with the speed of a professional athlete. She’d been alone in the motel room for the past hour, impatiently waiting for word from Nick, and now it had finally come.
“What happened?” she demanded rather than saying hello. “Did he confess?”
“Not quite.”
The sound of Nick’s deep voice caused her heart to splinter in yet another place, but Rebecca forced away the pain and focused on the aggravation she detected in his tone.
“What does that mean?”
“It means that the vice president is denying all involvement.”
“Shocking.” She didn’t bother controlling her sarcasm. “Where are you now?”
“The West Wing. I’m out in the hall. My dad’s still talking to Ferguson, but the VP isn’t changing his story.”
“Which is?”
“That Fred McAvoy is the brainchild of this entire operation. Ferguson claims that the deputy secretary approached him about two years ago with the idea of engineering a biological agent that would be easier to handle in terms of contagion, and easier to release into a large population. Apparently McAvoy insisted that his contacts at D&M were confident that a successful waterborne virus could be engineered—typically, weaponized bioagents tend to be airborne, but McAvoy wanted to try something new.”
She raised her eyebrows, even though nobody could see her. “This sounds sketchy.”
“Tell me about it. Anyway, Ferguson says that he unequivocally vetoed the idea on the spot and told McAvoy in no uncertain terms to drop it. Ostensibly, McAvoy went ahead with the project without authority.”
Rebecca pursed her lips, a rush of irritation rising inside her. “And of course we can’t challenge that story, because there’s no proof of the VP’s involvement aside from McAvoy’s word.”
“Yep.”
“What do you think? Is Ferguson guilty?”
“Yes,” Nick said without delay.
“You sound sure of that.”
“I am.” She could hear the frustration in his voice. “I can’t put my finger on it, but something about him rubs me the wrong way. It isn’t anything specific. His body language and facial expressions and even his words—they all seem sincere. But my instincts are humming, Red. Humming big-time.”
Red. Her heart throbbed painfully at his easy use of that nickname. Lord, at least he hadn’t called her darling—she was liable to burst into tears if he did that.
And wasn’t that just pathetic? She was Rebecca Parker, for Pete’s sake. She’d never cried over a man in her entire life.
“I’ll go talk to McAvoy,” she said. “Maybe he can be persuaded to give us some more details about Ferguson if he knows that the VP is letting him take the fall for this.”
“Keep me posted. Dad and I are still here for the time being.”
They hung up, and Rebecca left the room and knocked on the neighboring door.
A lock clicked, and then Barrett’s bodyguard, a beefy man in his late thirties, appeared in the doorway.
“I need to talk to McAvoy,” she told him, entering the room without waiting for an invitation.
McAvoy was on the bed, and he glared daggers at Rebecca when she walked in. He was no longer bound and gagged, but one hand was handcuffed to the wooden headboard of the bed.
“You can’t keep me here like a prisoner!” he spat out. “This is a violation of my rights!”
Rebecca glanced over at Connor. “Do you mind giv
ing us a few minutes alone?”
The bodyguard nodded. “I’ll be right outside the door.”
Once he was gone, she turned back to McAvoy and shrugged. “Fred, if I were you at the moment, I’d stop worrying about my rights and start thinking about saving my butt.”
Those sunken blue eyes narrowed. “What does that mean?”
“It means that Vice President Ferguson has apparently decided to make you his scapegoat.”
“Bull.”
“It’s true.” She waved her cell phone around. “I just got off the phone with Nick. Ferguson claims that you approached him with the idea of experimenting with biological weapons. He’s pointing the finger right at you.” Genuine regret fluttered in her belly. “You’ll go away for a long time for this. If it even goes to trial.”
Fear flickered in his gaze. She knew what he was thinking, because she was thinking it, too. Cover-ups that ran this deep didn’t end in highly publicized court cases. They were swept under the rug—usually in the form of a dead body or two, and a clever frame job.
“He sold you out,” she said softly. “I think he’s going to order Secretary Barrett to turn you over to Homeland Security.”
McAvoy’s expression conveyed a flood of panic, but along with it came a flash of rage. “That bastard can’t put the blame on me. This was his doing.”
“It’s your word against his, Fred. Barring any actual proof of Ferguson’s involvement, I’m pretty sure President Howard will side with the veep over the dep sec def.”
“Good thing I have proof, then,” McAvoy replied in a smug voice.
She arched a brow. “Interesting, because you never mentioned this proof before.”
“I was saving it for my lawyer,” he muttered. “For leverage.”
“Smart,” she had to concede, “but that evidence would’ve made things a heck of a lot easier for Secretary Barrett when he went to confront Ferguson tonight. Now it might be too late.”
Again, he shot out, “Bull. You’re Rebecca friggin’ Parker! You can help me.”
“How?”