Madame President

by Tara Sue Me

  It doesn’t help that I feel as if I’m trying to sleep in a museum. The Hotel de Pontalba is lovely, but a warm and cozy place to stay, it is not. I get that I can’t book a room at the local hotel chain, but do I have to stay in a place where I feel like I’m going to break a twelfth century antique something or other if I sneeze too hard?

  Apparently, yes.

  Also, did I mention that the US Ambassador to France is a beautiful young woman who is single? Because she is. Her name is JeAnne and you pronounce it almost like “John,” but with a pretentious, special snowflake voice drawing it out so it sounds more like “Joooohn.”

  And she’s known Navin for years, because GBNC always sends him right over when something happens in France.

  I know this because she made it a point to tell him, in front of everyone, that his regular room was clean and waiting. I simply rolled my eyes and told her I didn’t care to know the bedroom logistics, but that I did have dinner with the President and First Lady of France scheduled soon and had some calls to make beforehand.

  Actually, I just wanted to have a few minutes alone so I could look up reasons I could have her removed from her position.

  Okay, not really. But I did think about it.

  Now that it’s dark, I can’t help but wonder where his regular room is, and how close it is to hers. I try to tell myself I don’t really care, but I know better. What really upsets me is that I care even knowing I shouldn’t. I’m the President. I can’t date. Even if I want to, what man would want me enough to put up with the restrictions I have? Even though it’s hard to admit, Hayden was right. No man in his right mind would ever want to be called the First Gentleman.

  With that delightful realization, I stop thinking about Navin and allow myself to fall into an uneasy sleep. Not that sleep is any better because then I dream about him.

  The late night, broken sleep, and insomnia have all taken their toll on me this morning, and I am cranky, irritable. Also, I have bags under my eyes and I’m not happy about them because this is France and every woman here looks like she’s a goddess and a model.

  I allow myself two minutes of a woe-is-me pity party. Then I make myself straighten up and put on my big girl panties. The situation is what it is, and I have to deal with it. I’m President of United States and I have too much to get done today to waste my time on petty things like bags under my eyes and broken sleep.

  It works well until the Secret Security agent announces JeAnne and Navin. JeAnne sashays herself into the room with Navin following behind her.

  “Look who I found waiting in the hall,” she says with a wave toward Navin. Even though she’s an American citizen, she’s been in France so long, she has a faint accent. Either that or she’s faking, which wouldn’t surprise me.

  “You did?” I ask like it’s the most amazing thing I’ve ever heard.

  “Actually,” he says. “I wanted to talk with you, Madame President.”

  “Oh?” I realize this is probably the stupidest thing to say, but my brain wasn’t working all that well before Navin spoke, and what he just admitted isn’t helping.

  “Yes, but privately.” He glances at JeAnne. “It’s still about fifteen minutes until the two of you are scheduled to meet, do you mind if I talk with President Fitzpatrick alone for a few?”

  “Of course not,” JeAnne says, though I can tell it kills her. She gives me a smile too big to be real, turns gracefully and heads back to the door she not so recently entered through. “I’m off to get more coffee. I’ll be back in ten.”

  If she shows back up any later than eight, I’ll sing La Marseillaise a cappella.

  Navin rolls his eyes once she leaves, but if he’s wanting me to say something snarky about her, he’s out of luck. I may be crazy, tired, and out of sorts, but I’m not stupid, and there’s no way I’ll ever badmouth anyone, especially in front of a reporter.

  He takes my nonresponse in stride and sits down beside me. “You don’t mind, do you?”

  “Not at all,” I say, even though I am acutely aware of how close he’s sitting. It seems as if my body doesn’t care that JeAnne wants me to believe her and Navin have a history together. All it knows is that right now it can feel his warmth, and that he smells like a combination of cedar and leather.

  Likewise, it also notices how unaffected he appears.

  “So, Madame President,” he says with a little too much enthusiasm. “Our interview appears to be a hit.”

  “That’s the rumor going around.”

  “It’s more than a rumor,” he says. “According to what I’ve been told, it’s GBNC’s highest watched segment of the year.”

  “Is that really impressive, relatively speaking? I mean, it is only March.”

  “Impressive enough I’ve been asked to get your thoughts on doing more.”

  His answer isn’t what I expected, and the half snort, half cough I hear in reply to whatever face I make tells me I should never play poker with this man.

  More, he said. Not another, but more. The implication being numerous interviews.

  “How many more?” I ask.

  “I wasn’t given an exact number.” He runs his hand through his hair. “The proposal explained to me was for an ongoing series of interviews. More of a weekly series than a one-time deal. Think along the lines of Tuesday Nights With President Fitzgerald.”

  “That won’t be the title, will it? Because that is truly terrible.”

  “No, just something I thought of off the cuff. The network will come up with something snazzier.”

  “Good, because based on that, you should never be allowed to come up with a title for anything.”

  The Secret Service agent opens the door to announce JeAnne.

  “Oh, dear,” JeAnne says, walking in with a cup of coffee. “Did I not give you enough time?”

  Navin rises to his feet. “I was just leaving. I’ll follow back up with you later, Madame President.”

  I nod and glance at my watch. Seven minutes. And just like that, the world is saved from hearing my singing voice.

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Him

  White House Library

  Washington DC

  We walk to and inspect four rooms of the White House I never knew existed before Anna finally comes to a stop in the library, and declares it the perfect interview location for Chats with the Chief, GBNC’s new interview miniseries. She doesn’t care for the title, but agrees to live with it when I tell her Gabe’s suggestion is Babbles and Talk from the Top Babe. I doubt that one’s even on the network’s radar, but just hearing the potential of something so hideous is enough to make Chats sound perfect. I’m fairly sure this impromptu tour of the White House is her sort of payback.

  She lifts the pointer finger of her right hand to her mouth as if thinking about something. “But you know, we could go to the East Wing. That’s where the First Lady’s Rooms are and unless I can come up with a use for them, they probably won’t be used at all during my administration. And I hate that because they’re so pretty.”

  A glance at her eyes tells me I’m right about her inability to cover them with a mask; she’s definitely teasing me.

  “I think this room has an elegant and intelligent feel to it, Madame President,” I say. “But if you don’t think it’s the right room for whatever reason, I’m more than happy to look at any other ones you’d like to.”

  She’s pulling this I-don’t-know-what-room-I-want-to-film-in ploy because it’s only the two of us plus the Secret Service agents here today. If the GBNC production crew were on this tour, she wouldn’t be dragging everyone all over the White House in an attempt to discover the perfect location. In fact, knowing her the way I do, she’s already picked out which room we’re going to use, and probably did so last week.

  In fact, this whole parade of rooms is totally out of character for Anna. She’s never been anything other than upfront and straight to the point before. At least as far as I know, anyway. But I’d be lying to say it
doesn’t give me something of a thrill to know I can push her buttons so easily and get her to act out of character.

  “Speaking of those rooms,” I say. “If you were married, would those First Lady rooms be your husband’s to use and decorate? Could he change all the floral to plaid or should he leave it as is? Who entertains foreign dignitary wives while you’re meeting with their husbands, anyway? Would he be expected to?”

  I’m not sure what it was in those few sentences, but something I said is wrong. It’s as if I flipped a switch. All at once, any trace of teasing disappears from her eyes.

  “I don’t know what he would do,” she says. “I suppose it’s probably a good thing I don’t have a husband, isn’t it?” Her tone is sharp and unexpected. “We’ll use the library for the interviews. If you’ll excuse me, I have a meeting. One of the agents will escort you back to the press offices.”

  She turns around to leave. Shit.

  “Madame President,” I rush to catch up with her, desperate for her not to leave, but having no clue how to make her stay. “I apologize if I said something to offend or hurt you in any way. That was not my intent.”

  She stops and when she looks at me, the fire in her eyes stops me in my tracks. “Don’t make it worse by lying.”

  I hold up my hands, unsure what she means. “Lying? About what?”

  “All that talk about if I had a husband. You knew exactly what you were doing. I know I don’t have a husband. Hell, I haven’t even had a date since I declared my intention to run. I don’t need you to remind me.”

  I watch in shock as she speaks, trying to figure out how she came to such a ridiculous conclusion. Not only that, but I’m appalled she thinks I’d use her singleness against her. There’s something else besides anger lurking in the depths of her eyes, and it takes me a few seconds, but eventually I see. Hurt. She hides it well, but it’s there.

  I can’t imagine who could have hurt her so deeply, and it’s probably a good thing I have no idea who she dated in the past, because I have a sudden urge to kick his ass.

  “I swear, Madame President,” I say. “I meant nothing malicious with my words.”

  She’s still for a long minute, looking at me as if trying to determine if I’m being truthful. Her jaw clenches, and she exhales. “If I took your words the wrong way, I apologize. I assumed you, being who you are, knew better than most the impossibilities.”

  I tilt my head and take a step closer. “What impossibilities, and what about me?”

  “You’re a successful, good looking man, you of all people should understand why those rooms in the East Wing will remain unused.”

  Any other time I’d have considered it a victory to have Anna confirm she found me attractive, but the resolute sound of her voice wouldn’t let me.

  “I’m crushed you find me merely good looking,” I say, attempting to get a smile out of her, and failing. “Even so, I’m not quite sure I understand why that means I would know anything about the East Wing.”

  “Because,” she says. “No man wants everyone to know his wife holds more power than he does. No man wants to be the First Gentleman.”

  Ah. That explains it. Anna typically dates assholes from the sound of things.

  “Who fed you that line of bullshit?” I ask.

  “It’s not bullshit. It’s the truth,” she says. “Do you know how many times I’ve been asked out since I announced I was running for president? None. Not once. And you can’t consider Captain Phillips a date.”

  None. And when she’d asked me out, I’d turned her down. Damn. Never before have I wanted a chance for a do-over so badly. But unfortunately, she’d offered herself to me on a silver platter once and would no doubt never do the same again.

  “You are aware that many people find you to be a bit intimidating, right?” I ask her. “I mean, even outside of you being President.”

  “I’m just a person,” she says, as if anything could be that easy.

  I shake my head. “You will never be just a person. And I hate to break it to you, but you weren’t able to pull off the just a person routine even before you became President.”

  Her eyes widen in surprise. Is it possible she has no clue how people view her? Does she not see how enamored people are when she’s around them? It blows my mind she might think the interaction she has with others is normal.

  Or maybe, I think. Maybe she doesn’t think anything of it because people have always treated her differently. Like they could tell when she was eleven that she was someone special.

  “You don’t seem to have a problem telling me exactly what you think either about me or anything else,” she says, and I can’t argue with her there.

  “True,” I say. “But I did go to law school with you.”

  “Only for a year and a half,” she says, catching my gaze and then looking away. “It’s not like we were all that close.”

  She’s the President of the United States and I’m a reporter. I bring nothing to the table she either needs or wants. I have nothing to give her. Nothing. But with her statement that we weren’t close, I realize I have something to give after all.

  The truth.

  “I don’t have many regrets,” I tell her. “But most of the ones I do have involve you, and only one pertains to leaving the way I did. The others….” Odds are she may prefer that I don’t tell her, but I want her to know. Suddenly, it seems massively important that she knows. “I regret waiting so long to introduce myself to you because I was fascinated by you the first time you spoke in Torts. For not telling you I only volunteered as a translator because I watched you do it, and I thought it would give us something in common once I worked up enough courage to talk to you.”

  “What?” She spins around so quickly, she teeters unsteadily on her heels. I reach for her instinctively, my arms going around her in an effort to keep her upright. She straightens up, but I don’t let her go. I like the feel of her in my arms. It’s like I’m holding a stick of dynamite, and I know I’m going to get burned, but I don’t care because I want to keep it in my grasp just a little longer.

  “Every woman I meet, I compare to you,” I whisper, my voice made rough by the feel of her warm body pressed against mine. “And every one comes up lacking.”

  Her lips part slightly, and I shouldn’t. I know it. She knows it. But I can’t stop, and I lower my mouth to hers. The first brush of our lips is light and soft. I tell myself that’s enough, and it’s time for me to pull away and let her go. But Anna makes this noise in the back of her throat, something between a purr and a moan, and it’s the sexiest sound I’ve ever heard. I have to hear it again.

  I don’t let her go. I pull her even closer, and the second time our lips touch is neither light nor soft.

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Her

  White House Library

  Washington DC

  My mind can’t comprehend how something I know I shouldn’t be doing can feel so good. A craving I’ve experienced only once before gnaws within me. It’s a hunger. For him. Except it’s worse now than it was in my twenties because now I know what it’s like to be with him. I have more self discipline than this, I try to tell myself, but I’m not listening. No, all I can concentrate on is how Navin’s lips feel on mine, and questioning myself on how it’s been possible for me to live without his touch.

  His kiss is a mixture of strength and desire, mixed liberally with a touch of danger. Worse, it makes me want to forget everything and everyone. I want to stay in his arms and never leave them. Ever.

  That thought is enough of a smack in the face that I do pull back.

  “I can’t,” I say, unable to look him in the eye. I can’t for so many reasons.

  “I know,” he says. “And I’m sorry.”

  I look around to make sure no one’s watching or listening. It’d be just my luck for someone to be walking down the hall, and to pop their head into the library to see why the door was open, and to see me all over Navin. That would be such a ni
ghtmare, it makes my head hurt. Fortunately, it doesn’t seem as if anyone is any the wiser about whatever just happened between me and Navin.

  I glance to the Secret Service agent just inside the door. He’s staring at the wall opposite where he’s standing, but I’m not naïve enough to think he doesn’t know exactly what just happened. The only solace I have is the knowledge he won’t breathe a word of it to anyone.

  I want to tell Navin that there’s no reason for him to apologize for the kiss. It wasn’t as if there weren’t two of us doing it, and both of us were active participants. But all I do is nod.

  “It can’t happen again,” I say, though it’s probably more to myself than to him.

  He nods anyway. “I understand.”

  I should be thankful he understands the need for discretion. It should delight me he has no plan to announce to the world, or God help us, his news buddies, about how he made out with the president in the White House Library. And the larger part of me is glad for those things, but there’s a little piece of the awkward teenage girl still inside me that wants him to brag about how he kissed the hot chick.

  I run my hands over my hair, certain it’s a hopeless mess and all it’ll take is one look for someone to know exactly what I’ve been doing for the last few minutes. Damn it all, I know it’ll take only a glance from David and he’ll know. Plus, he knows who I’ve been with for the last hour. And what if Navin isn’t as quiet about the kiss as I think he’ll be? What if he tells the entire Press Pool about it? My cheeks heat at the thought.

  “Madame President?” Navin asks, and I kind of hate how calm and unruffled he looks. Can’t he be a little flustered?

  “Yes.”

  “Your hair is perfect. I promise.” His mouth curls up on one side and the only thought in my head is the memory of how his lips taste, the feel of them against my own, and how badly I want to kiss him again. He chuckles. “Your expression, however? You may need to work on that.”