More Than Gold (Capitol Chronicles Book 3)

by Shirley Hailstock

  "It's only apparent to people who can see," she said. "I doubt he even knows you're in love with him."

  It was on the tip of her tongue to deny she was in love with Jack, but at the last second she bit the comment and held it inside. Morgan moved from the balcony railing and took the chair opposite one of the only two friends she had in the world. Jack was no longer in sight below her.

  "We knew all about you going to watch him swim when we were in Korea." Morgan's eyes widened in surprise. Allie went on. "I wanted to taunt you with it, but Jan wouldn't let me."

  "Jan knew, too."

  "Of course we knew. We lived with you, knew when something piqued your interest, and each time someone mentioned Jack Temple's name you would tense up, or try not to. We were girls back then, still in high school most of us. Our entire world, excluding the gym, revolved around boys. But somehow you were older. Jan and I wanted to be just Like you."

  "You're kidding." Morgan never thought anyone would want to be like her. She had nothing. They had everything.

  "You were so poised and so serious and knew what you wanted, and God you were good. I'm sure it wasn't only us. We didn't know how much Jack meant to you."

  "Allie, it's so complicated and I can't explain it. Until a few days ago, I hadn't seen Jack in twelve years. And in another few days, a week at the most, I'll never see him again."

  ***

  Hart Lewiston switched the green-shaded banker's light on his desk off and leaned back in the chair. Moonlight streamed in the windows, casting shadows over the richly appointed furnishings. Tears rolled down his face. The folder in front of him could no longer be seen, but he didn't need to see it to know its contents. Every word, every photograph had been printed on his memory as if some microscopic-sized Michelangelo was inside his head chiseling them in place.

  Disaster had struck. It waited thirty-one years to flare up and shoot him down. He'd been a prisoner in a foreign jail. He'd been tortured, starved, drugged, beaten to within inches of his life, yet nothing could be more devastating than the unsolicited information that lay before him in an innocuous manila folder. He had a child. A daughter. A fully grown woman he didn't know existed until thirty minutes ago.

  Tears rolled to the comers of his mouth. Hart tasted the salt as he wiped them away with the back of his hand. He and Carla had never had children. They'd been married for twenty-three years. Since his child, his daughter, was eight years old. Images of family holidays, picnics, school functions when he was eight years old floated through his mind. He saw himself dressed as a dinosaur for Halloween and opening brightly colored Christmas presents. Where had she been when she was eight?

  Hart wanted to think of what he could do to rectify the situation. Someone undoubtedly knew of the child's existence or this folder wouldn't have been sent to him by special messenger. And to his home when he was sure to be here. Campaigning took him on the road ninety-eight percent of the time. Yet this folder had come tonight, after Carla had retired and he'd planned to follow her. Whoever sent it knew his schedule.

  He tried to think clearly, but it was made difficult by the image of the nineteen-year-old girl with a bouquet of roses crushed to her breast. Hart recognized her at once, and then when he saw the photo of her mother, he knew without the shadow of a doubt that his past had returned to bite him. He should call someone.

  But who?

  Elliott Irons would have a coronary when he found out. What about his father, a Supreme Court justice, or Carla, sleeping soundly in their bed only a floor away from the turmoil boiling inside him. She was not the one to call, although he wished she was. He should be thinking of his campaign, his bid to be the next president, what this knowledge if given to the press would do to his ratings in the polls. Would America stand behind him when they became aware of his daughter and her life?

  Morgan Kirkwood, born to Rose Kirkwood and Hart Lewiston - Frauenklinik vom Roten Kreuz in Munich Germany. Hart repeated the words he'd read on paper in his mind. A copy of her birth certificate was enclosed, along with adoption papers and her new birth certificate created when Sharon Peters adopted her. An account of her life on the streets and her exploits at the Olympics in Korea, even her part in saving his life, were all there. In five neatly printed pages, the entire focus of his being had altered.

  Did she know? He wondered. Had she known he was her father all these years and hated him with every bit of her being? Did she dislike and distrust him so much she wouldn't even appeal to him when she was living on the streets and he was comfortably ensconced in the lap of luxury? He felt like an unfit father. Even in these surroundings, where Carla had worked with decorators for months to find just the right fabric for curtains and just the right furniture for the rooms, he felt like a failure. He should have known. He should have found Rose. The furniture in this office alone could probably have paid for his daughter's entire career of gymnastics lessons.

  Hart reached for the phone and punched in numbers he didn't need light to distinguish. He checked the clock but couldn't see it in the darkness. Switching the light back on, the dial read 3:39 a.m. He had to find her. He needed advice on what to do and what was about to happen. Whoever sent him this material didn't do it to keep him informed. They wanted something. Hart needed to think clearly and act.

  He was going to have to tell Elliott. His campaign manager deserved to hear about this before it made front-page news. And Carla. Little did she know that her night would be disturbed with news that would blindside her.

  An alert voice answered the phone. Hart knew the man on the other end had been asleep, but he was used to being aroused in the middle of the night. Disaster seemed to happen after dark and the director of the FBI was a man who dealt with disaster.

  "Clarence, this is Hart. We need to meet."

  CHAPTER 11

  Jack stood rock still in the darkness. He blended with the trees, becoming part of the landscape, unseen and unnoticed. Yet he could hear and smell everything around him, the crickets, cicadas, mosquitoes, the pine trees, forsythia bushes, the scented soap Morgan wore. She was behind him, quiet, trying to do what he did, but she was an amateur. Her perfumed body announced her presence long before she actually got to the place where she stood.

  He waited for her to make a move, for her to make it known she was behind him. Minutes went by without a sound. She was good at patience and good at keeping quiet. If it weren't for the fragrance, he wasn't sure he could tell she was standing there. He estimated she was about ten feet from him, behind a bush to his left. The wind, a gentle breeze, filled the night with smells; the trees, moist earth, clear air also brought hers to him.

  Then a hand touched his right shoulder. Right not left, his mind whirled. Morgan was on the right. Instinct made him go for protection. He grabbed the hand, twisting the arm and turning at the same time. He found his gun in his hand without conscious thought. Brushing the feet from his assailant, they both went down, his assailant on the ground, Jack's knee in his back. He brought the gun up to the assailant's head and then the knowledge that the body he landed on wasn't hard and unyielding, but soft and female, penetrated his consciousness.

  "Damn it, Morgan, don't ever do that again." He shouted at her. "What are you doing here?"

  She was paralyzed with fear. Her body was taut and her breath came in gasps. Jack removed the gun from her head and rolled away from her. He sat up, re-holstered his gun and stood. Morgan still lay on the ground away from him. She'd turned her back to him. Jack could see her shoulders moving as she tried to compose her fear into something manageable. He let her do it alone. He knew she wouldn't want his help just yet. He faced the trees so when she finally turned, she wouldn't know he'd seen her.

  Jack heard her get up. He turned back.

  "I'm sorry," he apologized. "I knew you were behind me, but I didn't know you were that close. When you touched me I thought it was someone else."

  "It's all right," she said. It wasn't all right. He'd scared her adding one more time a g
un had been thrust at her.

  Jack took a step forward. Morgan raised her hand, palm outward. He stopped.

  "I-I need a moment," she said. She turned toward the house.

  "Morgan," Jack called. She turned back.

  "Is this what you do, Jack? Is this how you live? Thinking everyone is out to do you harm, and you're ready to kill."

  She left him, walking fast and determined. He was here to protect her. Why didn't she see that? Jack felt his gun under his arm. It was part of his body and had been there since he'd started working this job. But it scared Morgan. More than that he'd pointed it at her, although that was enough for the normal person. He'd begun to think of Morgan as more than normal. Guns had been pointed at her before. She hadn't told him, but he knew it. He knew how she reacted when she saw it the first time and how she'd reacted a moment ago. He just didn't know why.

  Jack tried to go back to his observation of the perimeter of the camp, but Morgan intruded on his thoughts. Looking over his shoulder for the fifth time, he saw no light coming from her room, but the downstairs lights blazed brightly through the windows. She could be in one of the downstairs rooms talking to either Allie or Jan. They were a close group and hadn't seen each other in years. Jack knew where he should be. He should be with her. But she said she needed time.

  Abandoning his post, he went toward the house. Convention dropped from his shoulders on his way. He didn't know who he would pass if he went through the house, so he decided not to do it. He stood under the balcony and bending his knees jumped up and caught the bottom of the supported platform. Pulling himself up by the strength of his arms, he raised his head up above the floor. He saw the carved slats of the railing support. Gritting his teeth, he grabbed the post with one hand, snaking it through the opening and getting a grip that withstood his hanging weight. Repeating the action with the other hand, he pulled himself up and then over the protection rail.

  The glass doors leading to her bedroom were closed to the night air. Jack wanted to barge directly through them, but he stopped, remembering he'd already frightened her once tonight. Barging in like Rambo would gain him nothing. He stopped and peered through the sheer curtains. She lay face down on the bed, fully clothed. Jack opened the door quietly and went inside. He smelled the soap scent.

  He removed his gun and laid it on the dresser near the door. He went to the bed and knelt beside her. "Morgan," he whispered.

  She jerked toward him. He thought he'd find tears in her eyes, but they were dry. Her hair fell past her shoulders and obscured part of her face. She looked alone, vulnerable. For a second they stared at each other, then she swung around and threw herself into his arms. Jack gathered her to him, helpless to do anything but hold her close. He leaned against the headboard, wrapping his arms around her soft body and feeling the weakness that invaded his being whenever he held her. He concealed his face in hair that hinted of fresh lemons and thanked God she'd forgiven him.

  Jack had never thought much about needing forgiveness, but he really wanted to be in her good graces. He sat, keeping her in his arms. He didn't want to move. He'd be content to hold her this way for eternity.

  But they didn't have eternity. If they lived through the next seventy-two hours, it would be a miracle.

  ***

  The air in the room was thick enough to cut with a knife, although no one was saying anything. What Hart had said had silenced them. Elliott Irons stood at the window overlooking Pennsylvania Avenue, raking his fingers through his hair. If the guy lived to be fifty, it would be only by the grace of God. Carla sulked in a corner, tears running like Niagara Falls since he woke her more than an hour ago. Clarence Christopher, sitting behind his desk, was the only other person who appeared to keep his wits. He was also the only one not personally involved with Hart, the only one with nothing to lose when this news broke.

  PRESIDENTIAL CANDIDATE HIDES OUT-OF-WEDLOCK DAUGHTER for thirty years. He could see the headline now, seventy-point type, like they used to announce the end of World War II. Vietnam and Desert Storm didn't get nearly the coverage as WWII, but none of them would hold a candle to this coup. The opposition would make sure of it.

  "Is this everything?" Clarence looked over his reading glasses.

  "It's all that came," Hart said, dropping into one of the chairs in front of the desk. "Clarence, I didn't know."

  "Are you saying this is all true?"

  He nodded. "I remember Rose Kirkwood. I met her before Carla." He glanced at his wife. She gave him a withering look through her tearstained face. "We were young. She worked for the State Department, the Office of Protocol. Our projects threw us together a lot. We started to rely on each other, back each other up, even do research to help the other." He paused a moment. "I don't remember when our relationship changed. . . I suppose that trip to Paris played a big part."

  Hart didn't elaborate on what had happened in Paris. It started with water. His shower didn't work and they had to appear at a state function, a command performance. It was Bastille Day, a big event in France. Hart was too young and too nervous to appear late by waiting for the hotel to repair his shower. He went across the hall to Rose's room and asked to use hers. It was so innocent, the beginning. Then again it wasn't. He'd felt differently about Rose for months. He'd made himself close to her, positioning himself at her side whenever he could, attending the same meetings, same parties, dancing with her so he was able to hold her in his arms.

  Then Paris happened.

  He'd gone into the bathroom. It was like walking into a room intense with her presence. He drank it in as if he was some mythical god and the airborne elixir would restore his strength. He could still remember the smell -- apricot.

  He would have survived the room, his secret intact, but the door behind him opened. He turned. She held a huge towel in her hands, outstretching it like an offering. "You'll need a clean towel," she said. Hart couldn't speak. Her eyes told him everything he needed to know. He couldn't stop himself from going to her, kissing her, making love to her, forgetting everything he'd told himself about a relationship between them.

  And they were late for the dinner.

  "She changed after that trip." Hart began again. "I thought she'd found someone else, that she regretted what had happened between us, that our races made a difference. I didn't see much of her after we returned, never alone, only able to talk to her during a meeting. Then one day she didn't come to work. A week went by and when I asked I was told she'd resigned without notice." Hart remembered the hurt that sliced through him when he overheard the news. No one told him directly. He'd come in to get coffee and someone else had remarked that she'd resigned. "I went to her apartment, but she was gone. She'd moved and no one knew where she went."

  He leaned forward, picking up the photo of Rose as he remembered her, darkly beautiful, her hair up in an array of curls, except for the bangs that reached arched eyebrows over hugely expressive eyes and a smile that crushed his heart. The accompanying photo of his daughter had those same eyes.

  "Clarence, I need to find her. Call it a favor. This is a town built on favors. I need to know where she is."

  "No!" Carla Lewiston's voice cracked in the room. "Hart, we can't let this get out. Whoever they are, pay them, do whatever they want. This could ruin us."

  Hart stood and turned toward his wife. Elliott also faced her. "We can't keep this a secret."

  "It's been kept a secret for more than thirty years. She's dead, Hart. Dead! Why do we need to bring her back to life?"

  Anger fissured through him. Hart stopped himself from moving toward her. He knew if he got close enough Carla would see a side of him he wasn't sure he even knew was there.

  "Hart, she's making sense," Elliott agreed. "We need to deny everything if this comes out."

  "I've denied her her entire life."

  "Hart, you don't even know that she's alive," Carla argued. "That explosion was total. She could have been blown into so many parts no one could identify her. And if she did s
urvive, she's an adult. She's not a child who needs your guidance. Walking into her life now could ruin her too."

  Hart weighed her comments. He stared at the woman he thought he loved. They had never wanted children, never thought of having them or discussed the possibility. They simply never needed to. Now he knew he had a child. She was grown, had been for some time, living, making decisions. She was old enough to have children of her own. She could have made him a grandfather and he'd never know. Suddenly it was important.

  "I don't know if I can explain this to you." He swung his glance between his wife and his campaign manager. "This is important to me. She is important to me. I can't explain why. I didn't know about her, never knew what happened to Rose until earlier tonight. But we produced a child and regardless of that child's age, she exists and she deserves to know who she is. I deserve the right to meet her and explain, answer questions and ask some of my own. She could hate me, resent me for upsetting her world and even her life." He glanced at his wife, acknowledging that she could be right. "But whatever the consequences, I need to know."

  "This could cost you the election, Hart," Elliott spoke with authority. "The black vote would disappear, southern whites evaporate like water dropped on a hot stove." He ticked each group off on his fingers. "The opposition would crucify you. We'll be lucky to have more than our own votes come election day."

  "Elliott, I think you're wrong. We're going to lose votes, there's no doubt about that, but we have to do something and we've only got a few hours to make a decision on what that will be."

  Hart took a deep breath. His heart was pounding and he didn't especially like what would happen to his career. He'd worked hard to get where he was and it probably looked like he was throwing his chances away, but he wouldn't back down.