by Mary McBride
It was only while she lived in relative quietude with Bobby that Angela had made a concerted effort to become a good cook. In the beginning, it had been simply to please and impress him, but after Billy died, she had cooked to make Bobby happy. It hadn't worked. Nothing had.
The grin he'd worn earlier this morning had vanished. At the moment, he looked positively glum. Even a bit apprehensive.
“What do you think of Bootsie?” he whispered.
Angela tried not to laugh. Once the bizarre little woman had led them into the kitchen, Bootsie had continued to ogle and drool over Bobby, even reaching up to measure his biceps through his jacket with both of her gnarled little hands. She'd probably pinched his butt, too, while Angela wasn't looking. If the woman had been about fifty years younger, Angela might have been tempted to smack her.
“What do I think of Bootsie?” She couldn't help but grin. “I think you better watch your back, Agent Holland.”
“Yeah.” He shuddered.
“I told you that you were looking good these days,” she said, regretting the comment as soon as it passed her lips. Good? He looked great.
His light brown hair was a tad longer than she was used to seeing it, but still neatly clipped. You could take the man out of West Point, but you couldn't take the Point out of the man. His black wing tips, as always, glistened like patent leather. She guessed his weight was about the same—a solid one-ninety-five on his six-foot frame—thanks in part to his daily six-mile loops around the White House, which also accounted for the burnished bronze of his face. Bobby did those runs with an almost monastic devotion, rain or shine, in sickness and in health, before their marriage and during it, so she had no reason to believe he'd changed his routine in her absence.
The color of his eyes was a dark jade at the moment, given the indirect lighting in Daisy Riordan's kitchen. Angela thought the creases at the corners of those eyes might have deepened in the past year, but she couldn't be certain.
He wasn't handsome. Not in the Hollywood way that Rod was handsome. But he was a damned good-looking man, one who easily turned a woman's head and turned her thoughts to …
… to things she had no business thinking about under the circumstances, Angela warned herself. She was here for one reason, and one reason alone. To do a job. To protect the mother of the president of the United States while posing as a stupid maid. She'd noticed an assortment of cups and saucers and cocktail glasses by the sink, so she made herself useful, rinsing them and putting them in the dishwasher.
“I want you to know that I'm not establishing any precedent here,” she said over her shoulder.
“What do you mean?” Bobby asked.
“I mean I don't want to get stuck in the kitchen all the time we're here, Bobby. I could do the shrubbery out front. I'm pretty good with pruning shears, you know.”
He gave an obnoxious little snort. “Are you referring to that Scotch pine you crucified our first Christmas, by any chance?”
“I did not.”
“You did, too. You kept saying it wasn't quite balanced, and by the time you were done ‘balancing,’ that poor tree didn't have enough branches left to hang any ornaments on.”
Angela slammed the dishwasher closed. “We didn't have any ornaments. You sat on the box. Remember?”
“Who left it on my chair?”
“I most certainly—”
“Well, now.” A voice wafted from the doorway. “I've always thought that bickering was a very healthy thing for a marriage. Like a tea kettle, letting off steam a little at a time rather than simply exploding.”
The president's mother strode into the kitchen, clutching a worn blue canvas binder. In spite of having seen photos of the woman, Angela was somehow expecting Crazy Daisy to be a somewhat younger version of her friend and bridge partner, Bootsie. She couldn't have been more wrong. Mrs. Riordan was attractive, obviously young for her age, and quite elegant in a gray skirt and pale gray silk blouse with a soft bow at the neck and a subtle string of pearls. Gray hair framed her lovely, nearly unlined face.
“Mrs. Riordan.” Bobby stood up. “I'm Bobby Holland, and this is my wife, Angela. We're—”
“How do you do?” she responded briskly. “I'm not particularly interested in your references, young man. The fact that my son recommended you is good enough. Quite frankly, I'm surprised William managed to get you here so quickly. Or at all, for that matter.” She put the binder on the table with a thump, pulled out a chair, and sat before Bobby could assist her.
Bobby and Angela traded glances. So much for their bogus advertising credentials. They seemed to share an inaudible sigh of relief.
“I nap at two,” Mrs. Riordan said, “so if you'll both sit, I believe we can get through the essentials fairly quickly and painlessly.”
“Yes, ma'am.” Bobby pulled out a chair for Angela, then settled beside her, folding his hands on the table, perfectly servile and attentive. For such a tough guy, he was pretty good at this.
The president's mother opened her binder, all neatly organized with colored tabs. “Meals ought to be relatively simple,” she said. “I have my breakfast on a tray upstairs at eight. Fruit juice, one bran muffin, and black coffee.” Her gaze lofted to Angela. “Strong coffee, and none of those silly perfumed varieties.”
“Yes, ma'am.”
“I have lunch upstairs, as well.” She flipped to the next section of the book. “You'll see sample menus here and may use them as a guide. I don't mind a small surprise now and then.” The flimsiest of smiles touched her lips, then disappeared as she turned another page.
“My evening meal is also upstairs, on a tray,” she continued, her finger drifting along the edge of the binder.
“Not much exercise,” Bobby murmured.
Her pale blue eyes snapped up. “I beg your pardon?”
With his hands still respectfully folded, Bobby brushed his thumbs back and forth. Angela found herself staring rather stupidly at the gold band on his left hand while she waited to hear how he was planning to extract his foot from his mouth. He was going to need that foot to walk back to the car when Mrs. Riordan booted them out.
For somebody who found it so difficult to express himself, he'd certainly chosen the wrong time and place to start voicing opinions. Crazy Daisy was regarding him as if he were a worm who'd suddenly appeared in her kitchen. Bobby seemed unfazed.
“I said, that's not much exercise, ma'am. Plenty for us taking trays upstairs and bringing them back down again all day, but not nearly enough for you.”
Her blue eyes were icy, her gaze frozen on his face. “Really,” she said, her voice like audible frost.
“Yes, ma'am.”
Oh, Bobby. God, you are such a jerk. Angela slid down a few inches in her chair, hoping to avoid the coming fireworks.
“How old are you, Mr. Holland? What was your first name?” The woman's lips. were so rigid she could barely speak.
“Bobby,” he said.
“I don't like diminutives,” she snapped. “How old are you, Robert?”
“I'm thirty-six, ma'am.”
Angela slid lower. Goddammit. She'd forgotten his birthday last month. How could she have forgotten? Not that she would've done anything about it, but she should have remembered it, at least. Then she could've done nothing on purpose.
“Well, I'm seventy-six,” Mrs. Riordan said, “and I'd very much appreciate it if you kept your opinions to yourself.”
“Yes, ma'am.”
She shifted her shoulders but didn't soften her glare. “If I wanted a trainer, I'd have hired a trainer. Is that clear?”
“Yes, ma'am.”
“Fine.” Crazy Daisy nearly ripped the next page out of her book. “Shall we continue?”
“Yes, ma'am.”
When she had concluded her monologue about meals and food preferences and schedules, casting the occasional black look across the table at “Robert,” Mrs. Riordan pointed toward what appeared to be a small mud room just off the kitchen. “You
r room is through there. The Itos find it quite comfortable, and I trust you will, as well. Any questions?”
Angela shook her head and was enormously relieved when Bobby did the same.
“Very well. I'll let you get settled in, then. Please have my dinner tray upstairs by six. My room is the last one on the left.”
“Yes, ma'am.”
They all stood. Crazy Daisy glared one final dagger at Bobby before she left the room.
The minute Mrs. Riordan stomped out of the kitchen—probably the most exercise she'd had all day—Angela lit into Bobby like a string of firecrackers.
“What do you think you're doing, Bobby?” She did a two-handed hair wrench, sliding the fingers of both hands into her hair and hooking it behind both ears. “Dammit to hell. You almost got us fired before we even started. It's none of our business whether the woman gets any exercise or not. We're just here to see that nobody hurts her.”
He shrugged. “Lemme have your cell phone, will you, Ange? I need to check in with Doug.”
“Use your own,” she snarled, thumping shut the thick binder that Mrs. Riordan had left on the table.
“Fine.” He walked toward the small room adjacent to the kitchen and began gathering up the luggage they'd stashed by the back door. His. And hers. He got a good grip on the handle just in case Angela tried to wrestle the bag away from him. “Let's go take a look at our room.”
She brushed past him without even a glance at her suitcase. Following her, Bobby enjoyed the angry twitch of her backside even as he made a mental note of the broken pane in the back door and reminded himself to keep his eye on the ball rather than his wife's incredible behind.
Angela opened another door, stepped inside, and immediately moaned, “Oh, my God.”
It didn't take a brain surgeon or a Philadelphia lawyer to figure out why. The room was big enough, but the bed—the only bed—wasn't much bigger than a postage stamp. Well, now. Well, well, well.
“Where are you going to sleep?” she asked tartly, poking her head into what was probably a bathroom.
“Where do you think?” He dropped the luggage on the floor, then knelt to hunt for his cell phone.
By the time he'd found it and located the number of the surveillance trailer, Angela had completed her inspection of the facilities.
“I'm not sleeping with you,” she said, glaring at the bed. Bobby wasn't exactly a mattress maven, but this one seemed about half the width of their queen-size bed in Washington. There was barely room for the two pillows that were tucked beneath the flowery bedspread.
“I'm not sleeping with you, Bobby.” She lifted her hands and wiggled her fingers in quotation marks to make sure he got it. She wasn't quote sleeping with him unquote. “Bobby? Did you hear me?”
He pressed his finger to his lips as Doug picked up the call in the trailer. “We're in,” Bobby said.
Special Agent in Charge Doug Coulter let go of a resounding “Yee-ha” before he asked, “Any problems?”
“Nothing serious.” Bobby had to fight a grin. “Agent Holland, female, would like to register a complaint about the bed, sir.”
“What's wrong with it?” Doug asked at the same moment Angela growled, “Give me that phone.”
He deflected her grabby hands. “Uh. It's small, sir.”
“Well, you tell Agent Holland, female, to sleep on the friggin’ floor, then. Have you had a chance to map the interior yet?”
“Negative,” he said into the phone, then to Angela whispered, “Doug says you can sleep with him if you want.”
“Give me that,” she snapped.
“Bobby,” Doug said, “I don't want to hear another word about any goddamned bed, you hear me? Now go make me that map.” He hung up.
Bobby closed the phone. “He hung up.”
“Well, I'll just damn well call him back.”
She grabbed for the phone again, but Bobby held it well out of her reach, then, with his free hand, caught her wrist and, with one quick flip of his own wrist, brought her down onto the mattress. She landed on her back with a pronounced oof. He tossed away the phone as he twisted up and over, straddling her even as she was trying to buck him off.
His body reacted instantly to the contact, even though it was closer to a rodeo than foreplay. “Don't stop, baby,” he teased her. “That feels great.”
Naturally, she lay still as a corpse then, glowering up at him. “Get. Off. Me.”
Bobby's heart flickered, and an odd feeling of warmth surged in his chest It was all he could do not to say, “I love you,” over and over again. The words churned up inside him, threatening to boil over, about to explode, before he regained a measure of control. Necessary control. The crucial lid on his emotions.
“Is this the part where I tell you you're beautiful when you're mad?” he asked.
“No.” She bucked again. “Dammit. This is the part where you let me go and then I ram my knee between your legs. Now get off.”
He didn't doubt for a second that she meant it, or that she might just be able to do it if she caught him off guard. “Angela,” he said softly. It wasn't to mollify her. His emotions bubbled up again. He just wanted to touch her somehow, even if it was only with his voice. He ached for her, ached for her to want him half as much as he wanted her. But because he had a job to do, he forced those feelings down, tamped them into temporary oblivion.
Still clamping her wrists with his hands, Bobby pinned her with his gaze. “Listen to me, Ange. This is serious. We are liable to blow this if we can't come to some kind of truce. Doug's already pretty disgusted.”
She blinked. “I know. I'll try not to take everything so personally.”
“Me, too. Hey, I'll even sleep on the floor, if you want. Or pitch a tent outside. Whatever.”
She nodded. “Okay. We'll see.”
Bobby couldn't quite let the moment go. Or her. “It would be nice, just being next to you in bed.”
“We'll see,” she repeated.
“All right.” He started to ease his grip on her, then stopped. “When I let you go, you're not going to wait till I'm not looking and then give me a shot, are you?”
“No.”
“You sure?”
“I'm sure.” Her scowl smoothed out, and she almost laughed. “I'm going to wait until this is all over, and then I'm going to put a bullet right between your eyes.”
“That's fair,” he said. “God knows I'll probably even deserve it by then.”
He shifted his weight, and Angela immediately scrambled out from beneath him. True to her word, she didn't retaliate, but started unpacking instead. Bobby picked up his garment bag and opened the closet door, only to be greeted by a rackful of clothes and a floor covered with shoes, men's and women's.
He shook his head. “Who worked here before?” He pushed back enough clothes to make room for his bag.
“A Japanese couple, I think,” Angela said. “They're taking an unexpected holiday at government expense.”
“A well-deserved one, I'm sure,” he said without a trace of irony as he stashed his briefcase behind the dresser.
“Mrs. Riordan's a tough cookie, isn't she?” Angela paused on her way across the room, her arms full of pastel silky things. “I liked her, though, didn't you?”
“Yeah. She's okay.” The woman was going to be a handful, just as he'd expected. Between Crazy Daisy and Angela, he was going to need a vacation when this was all over. He sat down on the bed, leaning slightly to his left to peer into his wife's open suitcase, not looking for anything exactly, just looking. He wondered if she was still on the pill.
“I'll probably be just as finicky when I'm seventy-six,” Angela said.
“You're already that finicky.”
“I am not.” She whirled around, her eyes flashing and soft, lovely silks dripping from her arms.
“Fine.” Bobby stood up, resisting the temptation to pull her back down on the little bed. “You're not finicky. That must've been one of my other wives. I get confused.”<
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“I'm sure.” She turned, opened one drawer after another until she found one to her liking, then laid the gowns and undergarments in with exquisite care, all the while muttering that she was no more finicky than the next person. He could have stood there all day just watching her. Yeah, well … He had work to do.
“I'm going to case the joint, sweetheart,” he said. “Catch up with me, okay?”
“All right. I'll be done with this in a minute.”
Casting one last glance at the bed, Bobby walked out, pretty sure it would be closer to half an hour before he saw her again.
Angela was passing through the kitchen on her way to join Bobby when it suddenly occurred to her that she was going to have to come up with dinner for three in a couple of hours. It was nearly two o'clock now, and Mrs. Riordan wanted her tray at six. This wasn't quite what she'd had in mind when she joined the Secret Service.
Actually, she'd wanted to be a CPA. Working with numbers in neat columns suited her. Even as a kid, she far preferred sitting in a quiet corner doing crossword puzzles to roughhousing with her exuberant siblings. But with a cop for a father, three brothers on the force, and a sister with the FBI, she felt a certain obligation to uphold the family tradition. In truth, after she got her degree in business, she'd hoped to fail the Secret Service exam when she took it, but she'd passed with flying colors. After that, to her amazement, she'd been outstanding in the physical training, so instead of being assigned to a quiet little desk somewhere, she'd found herself moving up the ranks with the agents on protective detail.
She had no regrets, though. She was very good at her job, and she enjoyed the feeling of competence that came after a decade of experience.
Of course, those ten years had culminated in her present assignment as a short-order cook. Angela sighed mightily, opening the refrigerator to check the contents, hoping she could cobble together something in the way of a decent meal.
Eggs. Milk. Orange juice. A tub of light margarine. Mustard and ketchup. The ubiquitous Tabasco. All the usual suspects. Below, the bins were well stocked with standard veggies, broccoli, carrots, and cauliflower—not the exotic flora she always discovered in Rod's refrigerator, fennel and bok choy and Swiss chard. There were a couple of pork chops in the meat keeper. All right. Things were looking up. Then a quick tour of cupboards and cabinets disclosed potatoes, onions, garlic, and a cautious variety of pastas. Piece of cake.