Saving Liberty (Kissing #6)

by Helena Newbury

  Then they picked me up, wrapping their arms under my back and knees, and carried me across the room. I could feel a breeze blowing through the drapes: somehow, they’d got the glass doors that led onto the deck open. Why weren’t the alarms going off? Where was the Secret Service? Where was Kian?!

  I squirmed and thrashed, trying to see where they were taking me, but the moon had gone behind the clouds again and all I could catch were glimpses of grass and trees. Then I was dumped into the trunk of a car and the lid closed, plunging me into total darkness. Seconds later, I was speeding away from Camp David, heading God-knows where, and no one even knew I was missing!

  Very faintly, over the road noise, I could hear the men talking. They were discussing how I deserved everything that was about to happen to me: because of what my dad had done. Because of what America had done. Because I was rich. Because I was a woman. I’m not those things, I wanted to scream. I’m just me!

  As the car slowed to a stop, I could hear more men outside, gathering around. Discussing every horrifying thing they were going to do to me. I started to scream, wanting to drown them out, but their voices just rose in excitement, louder and louder until—

  “Emily!”

  Spread her and tie her and cut her and—

  “Emily!”

  My eyes opened and I saw the same bedroom as before... but this time the lamp by my bed was on and the man leaning over me was blessedly, wonderfully familiar. Kian had one hand on my shoulder—he must have been shaking me awake—and he was staring down at me, my fear reflected in his eyes.

  I realized my wrists weren’t bound. I flung my arms around him, pulling him close and just clinging. I had to keep opening my eyes and looking over his shoulder at the room to reassure myself that the intruders weren’t there.

  “It’s okay,” he whispered. “It’s okay.”

  I pressed my cheek to his, feeling his warmth. It was late enough in the night that his stubble had started to grow back and the scratch of it was gloriously real and reassuring, pushing the last of the nightmare away. I felt my breathing start to slow down.

  It sank in that I was pressing my whole upper body against him, from my cheek all the way down to my waist, and that I wasn’t wearing a bra under my nightshirt. Every time I took a breath, my breasts pressed a little more firmly against his chest. Every time he took a breath, those hard pecs crushed against me.

  I loosened my arms and fell back onto the bed. The sheets were damp with sweat and the covers were half off the bed where I’d been thrashing around. We gazed at each other as I calmed myself. It had been so vivid, I actually had to rub my wrists to get rid of the feeling of the bindings around them. “You... heard me?” I whispered.

  He nodded. He hadn’t moved since I let go of him, so he was still hunkered over the bed, our faces only a foot apart. “You screamed,” he whispered. There was a jagged edge to the word, as if the thought of anyone making me scream, even in a dream, made him want to kill them.

  I winced and glanced at the half-open door to the hallway. “Did I wake anyone else?”

  He shook his head. “I don’t think so.” He half-stood, backed up a little and gently pushed the door closed with his foot, then knelt beside my bed and put his face close to mine again. “I was right outside.”

  I looked at the door again. “You were sleeping right outside my door?” I whispered.

  “Standing right outside your door,” he whispered.

  My eyes widened. He’d already been on duty all day. It should have been some other agent on the night shift. But….

  But he didn’t trust anyone else to watch me, away from the White House. My heart swelled.

  “Just in case, ma’am,” he whispered. This time, he sounded a little sheepish. I wanted to hug him so bad.

  “I’m okay,” I whispered. I think I was trying to reassure myself as much as him. “Just a nightmare. I’m used to them.”

  He blinked, then looked aghast. “It’s like that every”—he realized his voice had risen and had to force it back to a whisper—”every night?”

  I nodded. “But I’m okay in the day—I mean, I’m not okay, but I’m getting better.”

  “That’s because I’m there in the day,” he whispered.

  He was right. The nightmares had subtly changed, since he’d started to guard me. Before that, I’d been alone, but now it was specific: the nightmares always opened with him not being there—I lost the source of my safety. “But they’re only nightmares,” I whispered angrily. “They can’t hurt me.” I felt stupid. I was a grown woman. I shouldn’t be scared by nightmares.

  Then I saw the look he was giving me: a very firm stop being silly look. He moved a little closer to the bed and I felt myself gulp: it didn’t matter that I was lying there in a complete mess, with my hair stuck to my forehead with sweat and the sheets twisted around me—just having him so close felt amazing. God, I am so ridiculously smitten with this guy.

  “I’ve known guys twice your size wake up screaming, crying, from nightmares,” he told me. “Don’t pretend it’s okay. Not with me.”

  “You mean soldiers? When you were in the Marines?” I asked.

  He nodded.

  “That’s different,” I said. “They got shot.”

  “You got shot.”

  “They were in a Warzone.” It felt ridiculous to be arguing in whispers, but I didn’t dare raise my voice in case we woke someone.

  “They were trained for it. You weren’t. And that attack in the park came out of the blue.” He hunkered closer. “You thought the world was safe and suddenly, it wasn’t. Right?”

  There was something about the way he said it. It wasn’t just that he was right... it was that he spoke from experience. I nodded.

  “That’s the most damaging thing. You don’t feel you can ever relax again. You don’t feel you can let your guard down, or it’ll happen again.”

  I drew in my breath. That was it exactly. I hadn’t been able to put it into words, but he’d nailed it. “Yes.”

  We stared at each other. And now I was sure of it: he knew what it was like because he’d been there, too. He’d been scarred like this as well and—I felt a sudden rush of emotion as things slotted into place—this was it, this was the cause of that pain that made him keep pulling away from me. “What do you do about it?” I croaked.

  He reached down and brushed a few strands of hair off my face. “You talk about it,” he said, and I could hear the Irish in his voice more than ever. “With someone you trust. You figure it out... before things set in too deep.” He settled himself more comfortably beside the bed. “Tell me,” he whispered.

  And, slowly, I began. I told him about what happened in the nightmares and how it made me feel. I told him about the men and being taken, about being at the mercy of people who detested me. The light from the lamp wrapped us in a tight little cocoon of warmth, the rest of the room falling off into shadow. It felt like we were the only two people in the world and having to whisper made it more private still: I could say things I didn’t dare to speak.

  It helped. I don’t know why, but it did. Just describing my fears took some of their power away, as if they were strongest when they could shift and change and remain formless. It’s like the monster in a horror movie: it’s always scarier when you can only glimpse it in the shadows.

  “But—” I had a sudden realization and it made me start to choke up. “We can talk about it, but it doesn’t go away, does it? It’s not just the attack, it’s not just PTSD. I’m living this life. I’m the President’s daughter. This is real. There really are people who want to take me, or kill me.”

  He put his hand on my cheek, the same way he’d done in the park when he first saved me. I pushed my face against him and his warmth helped to hold back the tears. “Yes,” he said at last. “There are people like that. It is real.”

  I hated him for saying it—part of me wanted him to lie to me. But most of me loved him for giving it to me straight.

&
nbsp; “So we should do something that maybe you’ve never done: we should plan. We should think about what would happen if someone does take you,” he said.

  I drew in a shuddering breath and shook my head. I could feel the dark waters of panic swirling around me, threatening to rise. “I don’t want to think about that.”

  “It’s okay. I’m here.” He leaned on the bed a little, his muscled forearm close to my leg, and the bed creaked under his weight. Somehow, that creak was reassuring. “What would you do?” he whispered, his voice gentle. “What would you do, if they did take you, and put you in a car?”

  I shook my head. “I don’t know. Panic. Scream.” My stomach lurched at the thought of it and I turned away from him.

  He cupped my chin in that big, warm hand and gently turned me back to face him. “Here’s what I want you to do: keep calm. Listen. Listen to where they’re taking you.” He looked right into my eyes. “And know that I will always find you. No matter what.”

  The way he said it made me really believe it. I nodded.

  He took something out of his pocket and held it up: a tiny cell phone, from that era when they were getting smaller and smaller, before they swelled into smartphones with huge screens. “I want you to have this,” he said.

  “I already have a cell phone.”

  “Have this one too. Just in case. But keep it on you, not in your purse.”

  He put it in my hand. It was the size of a box of matches. I nodded and closed my hand around it.

  He cupped my chin a second longer and then slowly drew his hand away. He didn’t have to say anything: his eyes said it all. Better?

  I nodded. I did feel better. Talking about it had helped. And it made me wonder: could I help him, too? Could I free him of whatever pain he was carrying around?

  He caught my questioning look and stared back at me for several seconds. Then he gently shook his head. I remembered what he said about doing it before things set in too deep. Did he think it was too late for him?

  I felt the idea harden into a promise. I wasn’t giving up that easily. He’d helped me; I’d help him.

  Kian stood and took a step away from me. I was fine until he put a hand on the door handle, but then a sudden stab of panic shot through me. The idea of closing my eyes in that room, alone, filled me with sick dread. “Kian?” I whispered.

  “Ma’am?”

  I swallowed. “Can you stay with me? Just until I’m asleep?”

  He hesitated for a second, maybe thinking about the consequences if someone realized he was in my room in the dead of night. Then he slowly sat down with his back resting against the door. “Of course, ma’am.”

  I lay down. And with Kian watching over me, I had the best night’s sleep I’d had since the attack.

  ***

  Those few days were idyllic. I could have happily stayed at Camp David for months but, the next evening, we had to get back into the motorcade and head home to DC. I looked back through the rear window of the limo, trying to catch the last glimpses of greenery before the gray city swallowed us up. When I turned around, Kian gave me a reassuring smile: I’ll be there. It’ll be okay. But I could only manage a weak grin in response and the closer we got to DC, the more the feeling of dread increased.

  DC was home; the White House was home.

  So why did I feel like we were driving right back into danger?

  Kian

  The day after we returned to DC, Emily had to attend a drinks reception: basically a meet-and-greet hosted by the First Lady where she could thank all the senators and other bigwigs who’d donated to her favorite charity this year.

  In theory, it should have been an easy evening: without the President there, everything was a little more scaled down and there were no crowds to worry about. It was peaceful, with a string quartet playing in one corner and flowers everywhere. The doors onto the garden were open and the warm breeze blowing through the room stopped it feeling claustrophobic, even though the guests were almost shoulder-to-shoulder. Emily was nervous in the limo, but once we got inside, she seemed to be okay as long as I kept a gentle hand on her back. She looked fantastic: shining hair cascading down over her shoulders, red cocktail dress slit just high enough to show off her gorgeous long legs.

  But as I watched Emily’s mom work the room, kissing cheeks and telling everyone how wonderful they looked, my stomach started to churn. This would be Emily’s future, if her mom had her way. She’d already lined Emily up with a job at one of her charitable foundations: a nice, safe career that wouldn’t rock the boat. Emily would do it to keep everyone happy... and I could imagine the fire in her eyes dying out forever as her life became nothing but fundraisers and photo opportunities. She’d be married off to some senator or CEO, playing second fiddle to them....

  My hands tightened into fists. Emily shouldn’t be playing second fiddle to anyone.

  I could see she knew it, too. She’d managed to plaster a big, happy smile on her face as she was introduced to everyone but the smile didn’t reach her eyes. Guys lined up to shake her hand or lean in to kiss her cheek and I didn’t miss the lust in their eyes or the way they tried to look down her dress, even though many of them were twice her age. I wanted to kill every one of them.

  I could see the weight of it all pressing down on Emily: everyone thought she was the luckiest woman in the world: after all, she had everything... except the choice to do what she wanted and marry who she chose.

  “Emily,” called her mom. “Senator Giggs is here.”

  I caught Emily rolling her eyes. I managed not to laugh, but a warm little bomb went off in my chest. She doesn’t like that asshole after all.

  “Come on,” she muttered to me. “Let’s get it over with.”

  She started through the crowd towards the main doors. I could see Senator Giggs standing there, watching us approach. We had to come to him, of course. Arrogant jerk.

  I was ahead of Emily, shouldering my way through the guests to clear a path for her and not caring whose Martini I spilled. Then I felt it: cool, slender fingers grasping mine, and I automatically closed my hand around hers and squeezed.

  She squeezed back, our hands hidden by the guests around us. And when she looked up at me and smiled a nervous smile, dammit if my heart didn’t skip about a dozen beats.

  Don’t. Don’t do this. Camp David had been dangerous enough, getting closer and closer and then staying in her room—I’d sat there for hours, long after I needed to, just watching her sleep. And all the while, the First Lady had been one step away from splitting us up forever.

  I had to get it into my head that she wasn’t mine, could never be mine. But, damn, holding her hand felt good.

  I faced forward just in time to walk right into a big, tuxedo-clad chest. Shit! Edward Kerrigan, the Vice President. I dropped Emily’s hand instantly, but the look he gave me told me he knew exactly what was going on.

  “Sorry, Mr. Vice-President,” I said, looking at my feet. “My fault.”

  He gave me the most openly patronizing look I’d ever seen in my life. It didn’t matter that I was a few inches taller, he talked to me like I was a kid he’d caught running in the halls. “Oh, that’s all right, Mr. O’Harra. I think we can cut you some slack, given how you’ve helped Emily.” He gave her a wide grin. “So good to see you out and about.”

  “We were actually just on our way to see someone,” said Emily sweetly.

  Kerrigan tilted his head to one side, then spoke to me as if Emily wasn’t even there. “I’m afraid Emily doesn’t share some of my views on law and order. What about you, though? I hear you were a Marine. You must understand the need to stop the bad guys before they act.”

  He sounded so reasonable. He made it sound like you’d have to be an asshole to disagree with him.

  “At that point, sir,” I asked, “aren’t they still innocent?”

  He blinked at me but just about managed to keep his smile together. “I’m surprised at you. We’re at war, Mr. O’Harra, even if it�
��s a different kind of war. Terrorists, cyber-terrorists, criminal gangs... they’re all a threat to us. And sometimes, the laws that were meant to protect us just get in the way. We have to make a few sacrifices to win the fight. You’ve been to war. You must have made sacrifices.”

  The anger started to circle and rise in my chest, uncoiling like a snake. I could smell blood and smoke and feel the sand on my face. If there was one thing I hated, it was politicians turning real deaths into fucking metaphors. “Plenty, sir.” I fixed the tuxedo-wearing prick with a cold stare. “But freedom wasn’t one of them.”

  Kerrigan’s smile finally collapsed and I stepped around him, leading Emily on. She didn’t say anything but, as soon as our hands were hidden by the press of bodies again, she grabbed my hand and squeezed it again.

  “Emily!” Senator Giggs did us the courtesy of walking the last few feet to meet us. He grabbed her waist with both hands and pulled her close, then kissed her on both cheeks. Emily gave me a warning look over his shoulder: stay! It was a good thing she did, because my instinct was to pull him off of her and hurl him across the room.

  Giggs lowered his voice, but I have good hearing. “I’ve been thinking about you,” he murmured, and my stomach twisted into a tight knot. What if she was into him? She kept indicating she wasn’t, she kept sending me the clear signal she was into me, even if we couldn’t do a damn thing about it. But what if she was being realistic, like her mom wanted? What if I was just her fantasy, some guy to flirt with, but she knew she needed to find a guy like this asshole to settle down with?

  “Do you want to take a walk?” Giggs asked. “The gardens are meant to be really nice.”

  That knot in my stomach tightened. He was a good-looking SOB and he had money and said all the right things. Why didn’t I take her on a romantic walk in the gardens? Because I’m meant to be just her bodyguard!

  I’d never in my life been jealous of any other guy. I’ve sure as hell never wanted to be some swanky guy in a suit. I hated this whole political scene. But right then, I was jealous of Giggs because he fitted. He could slot right into Emily’s life instead of battering clumsily up against it.