"You must be a father." She looked up at him.
He took a position at the fence like hers and smiled and looked into space for a moment. "My daughter is three."
"She's very lucky."
"I'm the lucky one. I can't imagine life without her."
Morgan saw where he was going. "It's different with you," she began. "You've been with your daughter all her life. You two have a history together. It might only be three years old, but for her it's her whole life. Hart and I. . ." She faced him, spreading her hands. "We have nothing."
"You have something, Morgan." He stared into her eyes, giving her the chance to remember.
"I saved his life," she said.
"You could have died getting him out of there," Jacob reminded her. "He knows that."
"He wasn't even aware of the escape in Korea. He's never seen me, only the television image of a scared teenager."
***
The metropolitan area around Washington, D.C., which included this secluded Virginia landscape, was usually bathed in humidity at this time of the year. Fortunately they were enjoying a brief period where the air was warm and breathable. Yet the doors to the house were closed and the air conditioning was running. Jacob stood with his back to the room.
The library of the safe house faced the paddock fences where he had left Morgan. She no longer stood there. She'd stayed for a while watching the horses as she had been doing when he found her. Then she walked toward the stables. He waited for her to come back into his line of vision. He assumed she'd changed her mind about riding.
She was safe here. Everyone on this property had been hand-picked. Even the stable hands had security clearance.
"Is this what you brought me down here for?" Jacob heard as Forrest Washington's voice. He turned as two men came into the room. Jack was the second.
"Jacob, I'm glad you're here," Jack said.
Washington was carrying a single sheet of paper. Jacob glanced through the window. Morgan came out of the stables. He recognized the agent holding the reins of two horses. One was a gentle mare. The hand helped her into the saddle and climbed on his own animal. Together they left in a slow walk.
Washington handed him the paper. Jacob read it and handed it back.
"You're not surprised?" Washington asked.
"I knew," Jack said.
"It's why I came home," Jack said.
Washington turned and stared at him. "You came home to resign?"
Jack nodded.
"Well what stopped you?" Forrest Washington was not prone to frequent anger, but Jacob recognized it now.
"I met Jacob for lunch. Then. . ." He stopped. "I got sidetracked," he ended weakly.
"I think you need a vacation. Take some time to yourself," Washington began. "The past few months have been a nightmare. Then to come home and got caught up in this mess. You need time to decompress, regroup."
"I don't need a vacation," Jack shouted. For a moment the room was quiet. No one said anything. Jack turned away then back. "I want out, Forrest. I'm going into witness protection with Morgan."
***
The man sat back in the chair, his hands steepled in front of him. He stared through the small triangle the hands created. The appearance was calm, but his slanted eyes told different story. It had been minutes since he said anything. He appeared to concentrate on the walls. They were covered with silk prints of flaming dragons and ugly dogs. The stones in the flooring were colored, tan and brown with a few red appearing here and there haphazardly.
The other man sat on that floor, nervously waiting for the man to speak. He was below his employer, reduced to feeling inferior by their positions. The man in his chair, him on the smooth stone floor. At least he wasn't sitting on loose stones. He didn't know which room he preferred more. Then he thought he'd rather be outside than in any of the rooms in this house. They were too. . .too much. If they were bright, they were too bright. If they were dark, they were too dark. Too small. Too crowded or too sparse. Nothing was done in moderation, only extremes.
"All of them?" the other man asked, but he already knew the answer.
"Those that are still alive are in the hands of the FBI."
"I suppose I don't have to say how disappointed I am." The statement was spoken with a calmness he was known for. He could sit peacefully or he could flare into a raging dragon. In either mood his eyes were piercing. This time he looked a little different, however. This time it was personal. He was involved in this one more than any of the others. How, was the question. Nevertheless there was no question that all the facts weren't known. No one would put so much effort into finding one woman and the man with her.
"What do you plan to do to rectify this situation?"
Facing the older man, he swallowed hard. All he had was bad news. "At the moment we don't know where they've taken Ms. Kirkwood. She was at the FBI headquarters in West Virginia, but she's been moved. My guess is to a safe house. She could be anywhere."
The other man shot up from his chair so fast it slid across the room and hit the wall behind him. "Find them,'' he shouted. "I will have no further delays or excuses. I want her and I want him. I want them dead and those papers in my hands."
He spread his hands, palms out, so the contrast of light and dark could clearly be seen. Compared with his own hands, the other man's were small, stubby, his fingernails short. He was proud of telling people how long his life lines were. He would have a long life and live well. He proved he could live well by his surroundings.
Looks, however, were deceiving. The room was appointed with expensive pieces, dynasty items that had been transported all the way around the world to get here. Even people who had no idea of the worth of Oriental furniture could tell from the weight and high gloss of the room that it was populated with many American dollars. Regardless of the international exchange rates, nothing diminished the flash of the green. Yet all the money in the world couldn't wash the dirt off this man's hands.
"Come back again without completing this job"—he leaned forward, his fingers bearing his weight as he leaned on the desk—"and we'll use your blood to paint the rest of the stones on this floor."
The other man got up and turned to leave. As he reached for the door panel, it opened. Three men stepped inside. One in front and two flanking the leader.
"FBI," he said.
***
"How do I look?" Morgan checked her image in the mirror for the tenth time in the last half hour. She'd changed clothes four times. She had on a black strapless gown with a white sash around the waist. "Cleavage," she said. She put her hands up. "Too much cleavage." She couldn't wear this. It was way too sexy.
She grabbed the zipper and pulled it down.
"Morgan, what are you doing?" Jack asked.
"I can't wear this. It shows too much. . ." She spread her hands. The dress slipped to the floor.
"Not as much as you're showing now." Jack raised and lowered his eyebrows in a lecherous gesture.
Morgan looked at herself. She wore a one-piece bustier, thigh-high stockings and three-inch heels. Everything she had on was fire engine red. She didn't know whose idea it was to buy this underwear. She hadn't ordered any of it, but she had had some like this before she blew her house up in St. Charles.
Jack picked up one of the other dresses. He held it by the rhinestone straps. Red. It had a fitted bodice and a skirt that billowed out at the bottom. It felt like liquid against her legs.
"Hart Lewiston is outwitting the press and his campaign people to make this little dinner. He'll be here in ten minutes. If you don't get dressed we are going to be conspicuously absent from dinner."
Jack had fire in his eyes when she looked at him. She felt the sting of desire in her belly. He approached her and for a moment they stared into each other's eyes. He had on a black tuxedo. He looked devastating. For a moment Morgan considered staying in the room. She would much rather make love with Jack than go through the ordeal of making small talk with a famous stranger.<
br />
Jack went down on one knee. He held the dress for her. Morgan stepped into it. He started raising it, dragging the fabric up her legs. Before he got to the tops of her thighs, the place where the stockings ended and she began, he leaned forward and kissed her skin. Morgan shuddered, grabbing his shoulders as sensation rocketed through her, threatening to buckle her knees. Jack pulled back and continued to cover her skin with the fabric growing from the floor until he was standing upright and she was threading her arms through the jeweled straps.
"I'm scared," she whispered. " Why had she agreed to this? Jacob and Jack had convinced her to meet Hart. It wouldn't kill her, they had said.
"He wants to meet you," Jack said. "And you want to meet him too. He's the family you always wanted."
Morgan was too afraid. It was going to be a disaster. There was no reason for her to meet Hart Lewiston. Why wasn't he out campaigning? He needed to regain the points he'd lost in the polls, not fly in here to meet a thirty-one-year-old daughter he'd never actually seen.
"You look fine," Jack said as he zipped her in and turned her to face him. He was calm while her heart was racing to the beat of a drum.
"You look beautiful, with your hair up like that." He touched hair she'd curled and styled and pulled up into a mane on the top of her head. One micro-braid hung down the side of her face to her chin. "You looked like this when you came into your house, wearing that black dress and high heels.''
Morgan thought that had been a century ago, when it was only three weeks.
"Jack, I don't want to do this."
He folded her in his arms. "Sure you do," he whispered. "If you don't, you'll wonder for the rest of your life what he was like. You'll kick yourself for a missed opportunity."
"I know what he's like."
Jack was shaking his head as she spoke. "You know his television image, his political views, his public service. You don't know the man."
Morgan leaned back. "He could be a terrible person in private."
"You'll want to know that too," he reassured her.
Morgan kissed him on the cheek. She put her arms around his neck and held on for a while. Jack knew what to say. That was one of the things Morgan loved about him.
"Ready?" he asked, pushing her back.
"Give me a minute." She went to the dresser. "Someone bought this jewelry. The least I can do is wear it." She put a pair of red teardrop earrings through her pierced ears, and their length danced along her jaw. Jack took the matching necklace, made of a gold chain with a red teardrop stone at the end. Morgan and fastened it about her neck.
She picked up a tissue and turned to him, wiping her lipstick from his cheek.
"Ready," she said. Together they left the room. The corridor was wide and Morgan slipped her arm through his as they reached the top of the stairs. She looked down. What was this evening going to be like? she wondered.
She and Jack started down. Jack stopped halfway to the bottom. "There's something I want you to remember for the rest of the evening. Whenever you're afraid or at a loss for something to say."
Morgan tightened her grip on his arm. She looked up at him. "What is it?" she asked.
He leaned toward her. "Red is your color," he whispered close to her lips. "And I'll be thinking about getting my hands on the tops of those stockings every time I look at you."
***
There was more security here than he'd seen in any place on the campaign trail. Hart had no doubt that everyone from the chopper pilot to the maid that opened the door for them had the highest security clearance. He was used to security. Campaigning these days meant taking your life in your hands. There were plenty of crazies out there looking to be the next James Earl Ray or Sirhan Sirhan.
The helicopter ride had been short, no more than thirty minutes, although his watch had been removed before he boarded the craft and he and Carla had been blindfolded. He didn't know where they actually were. It was disorienting not being able to see. For a moment, it had taken him back to his ordeal in Korea where part of his torture was to be blindfolded and beaten. He probably would have had a more troublesome time of it, except that Carla had complained the entire way about the absurdity of such a device. He'd never seen her so agitated. She'd insisted on accompanying him, although he'd told her he could do this alone. Still she persisted. Hart admired his wife. He knew she felt uncertain, confused, out of control. He felt the same, but he couldn't let that stop him. When those papers arrived a week ago, he was stunned. It brought his love for Rose Kirkwood back to him.
Hart had been surprised by the fire of it. He thought he was over her. He loved Carla. She was his wife of twenty-three years, but he never forgot Rose, and they'd made a daughter.
How could he not want to see her, talk to her, make her part of his life? But Carla's life was connected to his, and if he brought Morgan into it, he would have to have his wife's consent.
Carla had sat rigidly during the short ride here, but now she appeared to relax. Her face wasn't as pale as it had been. Hart knew she didn't like to fly. They arrived in a helicopter, a flight quite different from an airplane. Maybe now that she was back on the ground she would have more command of herself.
They went into a large drawing room. The walls were a muted blue. The furniture was dark and heavy and the chandelier that lit the room was huge and bright. Hart was reminded of the White House. A uniformed waiter, complete with white gloves and a silver tray, brought him a drink he hadn't ordered. Hart tasted the orange juice and ginger ale concoction. He didn't drink often and liked the virgin Mimosa more than its alcoholic replacement. It was exactly as he liked it. He had no doubt Carla's was also to her liking.
"Ms. Kirkwood will be in shortly," the waiter said and left them alone. Hart took a sip of his drink and looked at the huge painting of the Jefferson Memorial over the dark fireplace.
"Any idea where—" Carla began, but stopped when the door clicked. They both turned at the sound. Morgan Kirkwood stepped inside. She walked directly toward them. Hart didn't know who he expected to see. He had the image of a nineteen-year-old, wearing a leotard and poised on a narrow beam. The woman who crossed the carpet with a tight smile wasn't nineteen and she wasn't wearing a leotard. His knees went weak and he set the glass down on the mantel where he stood.
After so many years he thought it was impossible. He never expected to see her again, but Rose Kirkwood, the image of Rose Kirkwood, floated in front of him and then stopped. He swallowed, knowing if he tried to speak at that moment his voice would crack . He stared at her. She was as tall as Carla. Her skin was clear and smooth and he noticed her cheeks were tinged with an undercoat of blush that wasn't makeup, but some heightened sense of nerves. He felt it too.
"You look like your mother," he said.
***
Morgan didn't know what to say. So she said nothing. She stood looking at her father. He thought she looked like her mother, but seeing him was like seeing herself. She wondered why other women looked in the mirror as they grew older and saw the reflection of their parents, either more of their mother than they wanted or more of their father than they ever thought possible. Morgan saw her mother's eyes and her smile in that mirror. People told her that when she was a child. She did have her mother's eyes and her mouth. Looking at the man across the room from her, she knew everything else about her appearance came from him.
Yet when he looked at her, he saw her mother. Did he want to see her mother in her? She understood why her skin tone was so pale. She was brown, but the undercoat of yellow was directly derived from him.
She smiled at his statement, not contradicting him.
"Hello," she said, offering her hand to Carla. "I'm Morgan Kirkwood. You're Carla Lewiston."
Carla accepted her hand. Her fingers were cold as they closed around Morgan's. "I thought we might want to talk for a few minutes alone."
Carla looked stately. Her clothes said she was ready to carry out the duties of the First Lady with as much pomp and circumstan
ce as any of the past First Ladies. Her sequined gown was royal blue with hidden slit pockets. One of Carla's hands disappeared in that pocket. The other hand held a matching purse. She played nervously with the short strap.
Morgan sat down on one of the sofas in front of the fireplace. Hart and Carla faced her on the other. She noticed Carla take his hand as if she needed the solid protection of his presence. Morgan couldn't believe how calm she appeared. Inside her stomach was boiling. Jack had offered to stand with her, but she refused him meeting her parents was something she needed to do alone.
Neither of them spoke and the silence stretched. "I'm a little nervous," she finally said. "I never expected to find my father alive or that it could be you. I thought. . ." she hesitated. "I thought you might want to have everything confirmed."
"Confirmed?" Carla spoke for the first time.
"Blood tests," Morgan suggested. "DNA?"
"We don't have to talk about that now," Hart said. "Tell me about you."
Morgan didn't want to talk about herself. Her story wasn't especially pretty. She hadn't grown up taking dance classes or being one of the cheerleaders in school. It was natural that he'd want to know about her, but it wasn't a story she wanted to tell. She was surprised he didn't already know everything there was to know.
She gave him the abridged version of her life, leaving out all the bad, only telling him that her mother died and she was adopted and went on to join the gymnastics team. The way she told the story, you'd never know she lived on the streets, scavenging food and watched her best friend bleed to death. She wore an expensive dress, her hair was curled and her makeup flawless. She looked like someone living the American Dream, but Morgan lived the American Nightmare and it hadn't ended yet.
"I'm sure you've heard more from Mr. Christopher," Morgan ended. "I now live in St. Charles, Missouri, or at least I did." She thought about the loss of her house. "What about you? I know nothing about you and my mother." Morgan looked at Carla for any clue of her feelings. She saw none.
More Than Gold (Capitol Chronicles Book 3) Page 31