by Radclyffe
I love you, Blair.
Cam smiled dryly. They’d made an agreement not that long ago that neither of them would leave if they were angry. Blair had adhered to the letter of the law. Even though she’d left, she’d told Cam where she was going.
I love you too, Cam thought. She left the note on the counter and went to the bathroom, stripped, and showered. After she pulled on jeans and a workout T-shirt, she called Renee Savard.
“Good morning, Commander,” Renee said, sounding as if she’d been awake for hours.
“I’m going to be a little late this morning. I need you to handle the briefing and find out where they transferred the detainees from Matheson’s compound. I want to question them.”
“We’ve got some of their statements in the FBI reports, such as they are.”
“You mean we have what someone else thinks we should know,” Cam corrected. “Time to gather our own Intel.”
“Yes ma’am. Shall I make flight arrangements?”
“Yes.” Cam paused. “For both of us. Today.”
“Yes ma’am,” Renee said, her excitement apparent even over the phone.
“Thanks.” Cam disconnected and contemplated her next call. It wasn’t difficult to find Blair. Her whereabouts were known to at least half a dozen people at any given moment. All she needed to do was call the shift leader in the command center and ask. She dialed a number and waited.
“Hello?”
“Diane, it’s Cam. Is Blair there?”
“Good morning, Cam. No, I’m afraid you’ve missed her. She left a while ago.”
Cam’s stomach tightened. Why hadn’t she come home? Did Stark’s team have her or had she slipped out on them? For an instant she came close to disconnecting the call to roust Stark and demand a status check. Instead she closed her eyes and remembered the note. I love you. “Did she say where she was going?”
“Forgive me,” Diane replied with a note of disbelief in her voice, “but don’t you have ways of finding out where she is?”
“I do. But she wouldn’t like it.”
Diane laughed, the sound of bells pealing on an impossibly clear, bracingly brisk spring morning. “Oh, you are very good.”
“Apparently not.”
“Well, I shall have to play my part as well. As her best friend, of course, my only concern is her best interests. So I’m not inclined to help you.”
“I know,” Cam said completely seriously.
“Are you appropriately sorry for upsetting her?”
“Completely.”
“Do you have any idea what you’re apologizing for?” Diane asked gently.
“Not entirely, but it doesn’t matter. She’s upset, that’s all I care about.”
“She said she was going to the gym.”
“Thank you,” Cam said. “You could’ve drawn that out quite a bit longer, you know.”
“I know, but there’s no pleasure in it when I know that she needs you to find her as much as you do.”
“I don’t think I’ve mentioned it,” Cam said, “but I appreciate everything you’re doing for the wedding.”
“I’m doing it because I love Blair, and you make her happy. And I’m really quite fond of you too.” Diane drew a breath that sounded shaky. “And you saved Valerie’s life.”
“No thanks are needed for that.”
“But I thank you nevertheless,” Diane whispered. “Now go see to Blair.”
“I will.” Cam disconnected, collected her keys and wallet and gym bag from the closet, and headed out the door.
The first thing Cam saw when she turned down the narrow alley off Houston was the Suburban in the middle of the block, parked halfway up on the sidewalk to allow delivery trucks and the occasional cab to get past. She was certain the agents in the vehicle took note of her, but there was no outward indication that they saw her. She didn’t acknowledge them either as she pushed through the unmarked windowless door sandwiched between a shoe repair shop that had been closed for two decades—a few unclaimed shoes coated with a thick layer of dust lay on the counter behind the smeared front window—and a bodega with iron grates drawn down to the sidewalk. The instant she stepped into the dimly lit hallway and began climbing the steep narrow stairs, she smelled mold, sweat, and testosterone. The third floor reverberated with the rumble of male voices and bodies falling, and heavy equipment thudding onto the floor. The warehouse-sized space was lit at intervals with fluorescent lights dangling unevenly on chains and whatever light filtered through the grimy windows set high in the wall along the roof line. Two roped-off boxing rings with stained canvas mats stood center stage, surrounded by a haphazard array of weightlifting equipment, speed bags, and hanging heavy bags. As was often the case, Blair was the only woman in a sea of bulked-up men covered with tattoos and scars. One of the new members of Blair’s team, Cliff Vaughn, a muscular African American looking out of place in his tailored slacks and double-breasted blazer, stood with his arms folded over his chest on the far side of the boxing ring where Blair was sparring with a young white guy with a shaved head and prison tats on his neck. Patrice Hara, flanking the ring on the side closest to Cam, nodded a greeting without taking her eyes off Blair as Cam slipped up beside her.
“Morning, Commander,” Hara said.
“Hara. How’s she doing?”
“She’s playing with him.”
“Ah.” That was not good news. When Blair was spoiling for a real fight, she never instigated it. Being smaller and more agile than all of her opponents, she frustrated them by refusing to engage—slipping or blocking their punches and then sneaking in for a quick jab. Men who weren’t used to her very quickly forgot that they weren’t supposed to hit a woman, and after each impotent blow they threw, they came back harder. Blair couldn’t avoid every punch indefinitely, and ultimately, one landed hard enough to knock her down. Then she came out swinging, and they swung back. She usually managed to fight off her pent-up fury, but unfortunately, she ended up taking a beating too. This morning, Cam just wasn’t in the mood to see Blair get hammered by this young guy’s hard right hand.
Quickly, she skirted around the ring to the tiny women’s changing room. A single bench stood before three rickety steel lockers without locks. She pulled open a locker, stripped down to her sports bra, and tossed in her clothes. Then she yanked on long, loose blood-red Thai fighting shorts and kicked into her loafers for the walk back to the ring. A few heads turned but she stared straight ahead, wrapping her hands with fight tape on her way. When she reached the ring she slid an arm under the lower rope and slapped the mat hard to get the fighters’ attention. As soon as both Blair and her opponent turned in her direction, Cam vaulted the ropes into the ring, barefoot.
“Thanks for warming her up,” Cam said in a friendly tone as she tapped her fist lightly against the young guy’s shoulder. “You mind if I get in a few rounds?” Her tone of voice indicated it wasn’t a request.
The guy shrugged. “Sure. She’s slippery.”
“I noticed.”
“Don’t you have a briefing?” Blair said as she danced from foot to foot. She’d tied her hair back with a rolled black bandanna and she wore her usual sparring outfit—a cut off T-shirt that left her midriff bare and gray cotton gym shorts. A strip of tape covered her navel ring to prevent it from being torn out inadvertently.
“Savard’s handling it.” Cam bowed slightly. “Freestyle?”
Blair grinned and tilted her head. “Sounds good.”
Cam’s fighting style was a mixture of Thai kickboxing and the hand-to-hand combat techniques employed by federal agents. Blair had adapted her formal martial arts training to street fighting. They were equally matched. Cam raised her hands to face level, her fists loosely clenched, and circled. Blair, pumped from having been sparring a while, didn’t hesitate. She feinted a punch and swept Cam’s legs out from under her. Cam hit the canvas and rolled backward, rising to her feet just in time to block the follow-up jab she knew was coming. They traded kicks a
nd blows for ten minutes until they were both drenched in sweat, then Cam sidestepped a snap kick aimed at her chin that could have broken her jaw if it had landed. She swung around behind Blair, clamped her forearm across Blair’s throat, and planted her knee in the center of Blair’s back. Then she lifted in a move designed to snap an opponent’s neck or break their spine. She modulated the force of both the choke and the backbend so she wouldn’t injure Blair, but it was a painful hold nonetheless. Blair resisted for a few seconds, then rapidly slapped Cam’s arm twice to signal submission.
Immediately, Cam released her and stepped back.
“You okay?” Cam asked, panting lightly.
Blair nodded, also breathing quickly. “Nice move. I always forget that when you fight, you fight to kill.”
“These guys at Ernie’s aren’t the right partners for you. We should set you up with Stark or Hara so you can learn to fight the way you need to on the street.”
“Why not Wozinski?” Blair grinned.
“You might hurt him.”
“I didn’t hurt you.” Blair gripped the ropes, swung over onto the floor in one fluid motion, and headed off.
Cam quickly followed her to the locker room.
“So,” Blair said as she pulled off her T-shirt and dropped it on the bench. She peeled her shorts off and faced Cam nude, the width of the narrow bench all that separated them. “You think I need to learn to fight to kill?”
Cam skimmed her finger down the center of Blair’s chest, gathering a drop of sweat on her fingertip. Holding Blair’s gaze, she touched the tip of her tongue to the tiny droplet. “I do.”
Blair’s eyes darkened and her skin flushed. “We managed to fuck in here once with no one noticing. Care to try for twice?”
“I want,” Cam said with a grin. “But I think not.”
“We’re getting old.”
“We have a comfortable bed twenty minutes away.”
Blair leaned over the bench and braced both hands on Cam’s shoulders. Then she kissed her, a long, probing kiss designed to make them both needy. It worked. She pulled away, breathing hard. “I missed sleeping with you last night.”
Cam stripped, aware of Blair’s eyes raking over her body. “I missed you too.”
“Are you mad?”
Cam stepped over the bench and pulled Blair into her arms. She coursed her hands up and down Blair’s back, caressing the hard pumped muscles beneath her satin skin. Blair parted her thighs in a movement as innate as drawing breath, and just as naturally, Cam slid her leg between them. Cam kissed Blair’s mouth, her neck, the base of her throat. She whispered against her skin, “I’m sorry.”
Blair drove her fingers into Cam’s thick dark hair and pulled her head back to cover her mouth with another bruising kiss. Their bodies, slick with sweat from the workout and the heat of rising passion, fused. Blair traced her lips over the rim of Cam’s ear. “I love you so much it hurts.”
“I never want to hurt you,” Cam murmured, her eyes black with need. She brought her hand between them and cupped Blair’s breast.
“Enough,” Blair groaned, covering Cam’s hand with hers. “I’ll bet you any amount of money Cliff is right outside that curtain.”
“I wouldn’t care except I don’t share.” Cam forced herself to step back. “Thanks for letting me know you went to Diane’s last night.”
“I just needed to vent,” Blair said, reaching for a clean T-shirt with shaking hands. She laughed unsteadily. “God, I’m a mess.” She glanced at Cam, her mouth curling into a half-smile. “What I really need is for you to fuck me.”
“I’ll make a note of it.” Cam pulled on briefs and then her jeans, never taking her eyes from Blair. “It’s mutual, by the way.”
Blair raised an eyebrow. “Which part?”
“All of it. I need you inside me right now. I want to marry you. I want our wedding to be as special as what we share.”
“Damn you, Cameron,” Blair whispered, tears brimming on her lashes. “I’m not done being pissed off yet.”
Cam brushed her thumb beneath Blair’s eye, catching her tears. “Okay.”
“Finish dressing. I don’t trust myself.” Blair grabbed Cam’s wrist and gently bit her thumb. “And your note? Mark down I want it more than once.”
Cam laughed. “Got it.”
A few minutes later, they were ready to leave. Cam gripped her gym bag and wrapped an arm around Blair’s waist, stopping her just before they left the locker room. “I may be flying out later today.”
“Until when?”
“Hopefully just tonight. Possibly until tomorrow.”
Blair searched Cam’s face. “Is it anything I need to be worried about?”
“Absolutely not. Just some routine information gathering.”
“That requires the deputy director to do it personally,” Blair said sarcastically.
“There are some things I need to do myself,” Cam replied.
“I’m being an ass.” Blair gave Cam a quick kiss. “I know you should be at a briefing right now instead of chasing down here after me—”
“I’m exactly where I want to be.” Cam took Blair’s hand. “I needed to kick a little butt to get my day off to a good start.”
Blair snorted. “Dream on.”
Cam flashed her grin. “I’ll be too busy making those notes.”
Chapter Seven
“Let me out on the far side of the park,” Dana instructed the cabbie as she extracted money from her wallet.
The taciturn driver swerved to the curb and she handed him a handful of bills. “Got a receipt?”
Wordlessly, he tore off a blank square from a coffee-stained pad and handed it through the divide between the front and rear seats. She pocketed it, grabbed her duffel, and stepped out into a cold misty rain a little before eight a.m. Hunching her shoulders in her too light nylon windbreaker, she hiked to the corner, dodging early morning pedestrians, and stopped on the corner to study Blair Powell’s apartment building across the way. She’d spent most of the previous evening scouring online sources for information on her new subject. She never undertook any assignment without doing the background work herself. A lot of reporters used assistants to prepare profiles and gather data, or didn’t bother at all, but she did the legwork. She never knew what little nugget of information might spark a story, and she trusted her instincts more than anyone else’s. If she was going to spend the next ten days with the first daughter of the United States, she wasn’t going to be writing about Blair Powell’s fashion sense. She was going to write about what she had discovered was surprisingly absent in the media. An in-depth look at the woman behind the glamorous façade. Thumbnail sketches abounded—wealthy only child, glamorous and sophisticated first daughter, notorious bad girl. All too easy and all supported only by superficial glimpses, as fleeting as a reflection in the surface of a fast-running stream.
Who was Blair Powell? That’s what Dana planned to find out.
The apartment building was a typical New York City building— plain-faced stone façade, short green awning above double glass doors with the shadow of a doorman just inside. The exact location of the first daughter’s apartment was not public knowledge, but a quick search of the reverse directories indicated that most of the units in the building were held as corporate rentals, and she was willing to bet they were empty or used intermittently for vetted government officials and visiting dignitaries needing temporary housing in the city. She was also willing to lay money that she would never find out. She crossed to the wrought iron fence that enclosed Gramercy Park and peered through the gray drizzle into the impeccably maintained postage-stamp park. Not surprisingly, it was empty. With a practiced eye, she swept the streets looking for anything suspicious. She might be back on American soil, but the habits she’d developed in combat zones around the world were permanently ingrained. Never take anything for granted and always question the unusual.
Dana didn’t see anything she hadn’t expected to see. A news van
was parked diagonally across the street from the entrance to Blair Powell’s apartment building and another down the block. Security cameras swiveled lazily above the front door and high up on the corners of the building. A black Suburban with dark tinted windows and a short, subtle satellite antenna bookended the van on the opposite side of the entrance. Two opposing forces—the media and those devoted to secrecy.
“It’s going to be a fun week or so,” Dana muttered as she slung the strap of her duffel over her shoulder, jammed her hands in the pockets of her black chinos, and headed off to start her new assignment.
Dana hadn’t quite reached Blair Powell’s front door when it swung open. She couldn’t make out the features of the person just inside, but she got the impression of big. When she stepped into the lobby, she saw that she was right. Tank would have been a good nickname for the clean-shaven, square-jawed man with the inscrutable dark eyes. The flesh-toned curlicue wire leading from his right ear down his neck and disappearing under the collar of his nice white dress shirt spelled Fed.
“Good morning, Ms. Barnett,” he said in a pleasant baritone. “I’m Agent Ramsey. If you’d step over to the desk for a moment, please.”
A bank of elevators made up the wall to her left, and the last one was keyed. To her right a freestanding waist-high counter stood out from the wall. Dana hefted her duffel on top and walked to the end of the desk. She preferred not to be frisked in full view of the front door. Agent Ramsey joined her, his expression still pleasant, and quickly and efficiently patted her down. He wanded her and the duffel. “Would you open the bag, please.”
“Sure.” Dana unzipped and opened the duffel to reveal her clothes neatly rolled and stacked inside.
Ramsey methodically sorted through the contents, then stepped away. “Thank you.”