Damien's Christmas

by M. L. Buchman

  “Okay,” he shrugged and offered one of his charming smiles as if that was going to work. “Come back to bed long enough to not have an awkward morning-after and I’ll go in and be your assistant for the day.”

  “It isn’t awkward. I simply have to get to work.”

  “But how do I know that you sincerely shared your stunning body and incredible sexual prowess with me if I don’t have confirmation in the morning that it wasn’t just an illusion.”

  “Because I actually did,” like she’d never had with another. Damien had unlocked some strange key inside her that she hadn’t known existed. She had wanted things, done things, like she never had before. And Damien had responded like a good Marine, taking the least little instruction and following it to the very limit.

  Resisting his light tug on the other end of her blanket would have been easier without his smile. Sliding back into bed once she was awake was a sinful act.

  But it was nothing compared to what happened for the next half hour.

  Damien was in a daze that allowed Cornelia to slip away and head to the shower. He lay still, unable to move. Unwilling to leave the sheets that carried her subtle scent. The woman made his head spin, but her body…

  “I need to find a saint to pray to,” because he needed this to be real.

  “An odd choice for a Jewish man,” Cornelia had taken the fastest shower in the world. He’d thought to join her there, but had obviously missed his few seconds of opportunity.

  He turned from burying his face in her pillow to looking at her standing at the bathroom threshold and drying herself off. Her leanness wasn’t model-worthy: ribs protruding and some fear that she’d fall over in a strong breeze. Instead, she was gloriously slender. Her curves weren’t blatant, they wouldn’t fit her so well if they were. She was a subtle woman in both thought and form. Of course what she did between the sheets, or out on the living room rug, was anything but subtle.

  He smiled as she buffed one long leg and then the other with a thick towel. He had very clear memories of how she had wrapped those long limbs about him. And even clearer memories of how she’d looked as the pleasure took her. It would have been humbling that he could please her so if not for his own memories. He’d never had a woman like Cornelia Day. Her transformation from elegant urbanite to passionate lover made the experience only that much more incredible.

  Again, between one eyeblink and the next, she had powdered, dressed, and was standing close by, looking down at him. Perhaps in celebration of the weekend, she wore designer jeans and a simple turtleneck rather than one of her incredible silk-and-wool outfits. She even wore fur-trimmed, buckle boots that he’d bet were just the latest style—and he had to admit that they looked very cute on her. He slipped a hand out from under the warm covers to slide it up the back of her leg and over her exquisitely stair-steppered behind.

  For a moment she merely looked down at him.

  Had he been wrong? Had last night—

  Then, without a sound, her eyes slid closed for a moment and he could see the sigh that was too soft to hear.

  “God, Cornelia. You—”

  And with that the White House Chief of Staff was suddenly back in the room. “Stay as long as you like. Don’t bother coming in. It’s your day off.”

  “It’s yours too,” he called as she stepped from his caress and strode off toward the bedroom door.

  She waved a hand over her head and was gone. A moment later the front door snicked shut. Then it opened, he heard a rattle in the front closet as she grabbed a coat, and then she really was gone.

  He managed not to laugh aloud until she was gone again. Her being flustered enough to forget her coat was infinitely reassuring to his male ego.

  Damien rolled out of bed, then made it with military corners and wondered if that would be up to her standards. She’d left him a fresh towel, a new razor about the size of his pinkie, and no coffee. When he checked the fridge after his Navy-fast shower, he saw that no breakfast—or much of anything else—was ever served from this kitchen. He made a mental note to cook for her sometime.

  The doorman was a younger man than the night before. He had the discretion to make no comment as he watched Damien leave, but his look said plenty.

  The morning air had a sharp bite to it. An inch of snow slickened the sidewalks and turned the city of marble even whiter than it usually was.

  He could take Cornelia at her word and enjoy his weekend. Thankfully, he wasn’t that much of an idiot.

  Spying out the bootprints in the bright morning sunlight that must have been hers—a snow often turned DC into a city of shut-ins—he traced her path to a coffee shop. With a large drip in one hand and a breakfast burrito in the other, he strode out to make up some time as he followed her the rest of the way to the White House. Wherever she wanted to lead, he was more than willing to follow.

  Cornelia didn’t know why she’d felt such a need to get out of the apartment and away from Damien. Whatever it was didn’t nudge, it shoved. She wasn’t running from a morning confrontation—she wouldn’t mind more waking confrontations like that one. Her body felt glorious beyond any merely physical workout.

  And, she took a deep breath as she passed through White House security at the Southwest Gate, she didn’t mind if those future events were with Marine Corps Captain Damien Feinman. No one had ever made her feel even half as special as he had with the simplest gesture.

  He didn’t treat her like a woman—he treated her like a miracle.

  Fantasy woman. Was that her problem? That he had her up on a pedestal for some incomprehensible reason? No more than she him. Intelligent, funny, handsome, and the things that he could do with his hands had made her want to scream with the intensity. She was—

  A complete and utter basket case.

  Entrance security cleared her into the empty West Wing Foyer. To her right would be the weekend watch officers in the Sit Room. The irony of that was only starting to grow on her. It was actually three large conference rooms, two smaller ones, and a massive central area which was occupied by the tiered desk of the watch. The ever-so-famous President’s Situation Room was just one small briefing room off to the side. It was far more Damien’s domain than the President’s. Yet so much happened there.

  She worked her way upstairs. The West Wing cleaning staff was long gone and only a few hardcores like herself were in this early on a snowy Saturday. Most of the light came from the understated Christmas décor that was typical for the West Wing. The Residence might get all dandified for the public tours, but here there was only the occasional wreath or the icicle lights dangling above the stairwell. For a change, it was peaceful.

  So much had happened here in the last week. In the Sit Room on Monday she’d become White House Chief of Staff and met Damien. Now, six days later she was overwhelmed by the former, and the latter…was overwhelming her as well. She just needed one quiet day to get her head wrapped around what was going on, maybe two. To catch up for one single moment so that she could—

  “Oh good, you’re here,” President-elect Zachary came up behind her with Daniel in tow just as she stepped into Janet’s office. Her own desk phone was ringing.

  Yes, a perfect, quiet day. Not a chance.

  She waved for them to follow her through Janet’s office and into her own as she rushed to catch the call.

  With it being the weekend and Janet not in, someone had to really sell it to get past the White House switchboard.

  She hit the speaker button then moved to hang up her coat and turn on some lights. The sun was still low to the east, leaving her office in a twilit shadow.

  “We have a Mr. Pejman on the line for you. He says that you met him during the disaster in Italy. He has been calling every hour on the hour since five a.m.”

  She didn’t recall a Mr. Pejman, but she certainly recalled the Italy disaster. A man-made avalanche had killed a number of global senior-level leaders at a climate conference. It was also where Zachary Thomas had clinched the
election even before he started his campaign by how many people he had fought to save over the next two days. She had been at his side for all of it, but she recalled no Mr. Pejman.

  She glanced at the President-elect, but he shrugged his shoulders as well. Cornelia was his memory for things like names. Even though, how many people had they been in contact with during that rescue.

  “Send his call through.”

  “Ms. Day?”

  “Mr. Pejman, how can I help you?”

  “Are we private, Ms. Day?”

  She glanced at Daniel and Zachary, just in time to see Damien walk in. He opened his mouth but she put a finger over her lips to silence him. Calling every hour on the hour early on a Saturday didn’t sound like a social call. She’d been Chief of Staff for less than a week and she wasn’t going to tackle this one alone.

  “We are private, Mr. Pejman.”

  Pejman? Damien mouthed to her.

  She nodded.

  He ducked out of the room and she could see him bending over to use Janet’s computer.

  “I should very much like to meet with you in person, Ms. Day.”

  “May I ask what this is about?”

  “I am afraid that it is not a matter to be discussed in such a way.” She almost had his accent. Middle-eastern? Arabic? No, Farsi. Regrettably, Persian wasn’t one of her languages—she was more of a college-French- or Italian-tourist-style linguist.

  “Then I fear that I can’t help you with—”

  Damien rushed back into the room and handed her a slip of paper.

  Pejman: Asst. to U.N. ambassador Iran.

  “It is very important that I speak with you in person, Ms. Day.”

  “Where are you, Mr. Pejman?”

  “Katz’s Deli at one o’clock.”

  “Katz’s?”

  “I will see you then, Ms. Day.” And the line went dead.

  “Where’s Katz’s?” she asked the others.

  Zachary and Daniel just shook their heads.

  “Oh my god!” Damien burst out. “I work with a bunch of heathens. It’s the best deli there is.”

  “I’ve been in DC for eight years and I haven’t heard of it.”

  “It’s in New York. Lower East Side. Absolutely awesome!”

  “New York?” Cornelia shook her head. “I am not going to New York.”

  “What,” Zachary pointed, “is that slip that Damien gave you?”

  She handed it over.

  Zachary and Daniel studied it for a long moment, exchanged one of their mindreading glances, then turned back to her in unison. That habit was going to get very irritating as this administration progressed.

  Then she read their looks. “No. I’m not going to New York today.”

  They waited.

  “I’m not a field operative. I’m barely a Chief of Staff. How can I be Chief of Staffing if I’m not even here?”

  “Where are you going?” The President stepped into the room. Even on a Saturday he was well dressed, though just a blazer and no tie. More formal than his early administration. It was as if he was practicing for the role of elder statesman.

  “Katz’s Deli,” Damien replied for her, clearly enjoying the game at her expense. Probably payback for her Mr. Spock tease.

  “Oh,” President Matthews smiled. “Get the pastrami. Though the corned beef is awfully good too. I tell you what, order both and bring me back whichever you don’t want. Why are you going there?”

  Zachary handed him the slip of paper. “He wants to meet with Cornelia at one p.m. today. Wouldn’t say what was up over the phone. He seemed rather cagey about it.”

  The President’s bonhomie evaporated. “Pejman?”

  Cornelia glanced at the desk clock that she’d unearthed from beneath Daniel’s stack of five consecutive monthly reports on the ice melt along the Arctic Northwest Passage—all of which had said the same thing.

  “If I have to get to New York by one, the train will take too long. I need to see if there’s a shuttle flying with room on it. Even if there is I’ll be late,” She cursed herself for luxuriating in bed with Damien. If she’d gotten up at her normal time, she’d have been here several call attempts earlier.

  “She doesn’t understand how this works,” the President smiled at her. “Damien, do you have the number?”

  Damien walked up to her phone and offered a saucy wink as he dialed. Then he handed the handset to the President.

  “Hello, this is the President for Eddie.”

  Cornelia wondered who in the world Eddie might be.

  “Eddie? Peter Matthews here. My Chief of Staff is headed to New York. She’ll be to your location in fifteen minutes. Great. Thanks,” he handed her the phone and she hung it up.

  Damien picked up one of the other lines at the conference table and made a quick call.

  “I take it that I’m going to New York.” She didn’t make it a question and no one corrected her.

  “Take him with you,” President Matthews pointed at Damien. “If ever there was a man who won’t shut up about New York pastrami, he’s it. Or maybe you should leave him behind as a form of torture.”

  Cornelia wanted to leave him behind so that she wouldn’t be torturing herself. She needed distance, not closeness, to understand what was going on between them. Taking him to her bed had been a huge mistake…except it hadn’t been and she didn’t regret a second of it. But lacking time to even think about it was an increasing problem.

  The President headed toward the door waving for Zachary and Daniel to join him.

  They moved, leaving just her and Damien.

  At the threshold, the President paused and turned to her. Any sense of humor was gone. “Remember, specifically, to ask Pejman to communicate with his father-in-law and say ‘What can be done to help with this gulf between us?’ Word-for-word.”

  Cornelia nodded indicating that she had it.

  The President nodded. “That should be of some assistance. Now get moving,” and he was gone.

  Damien held her coat for her. “There will be a car waiting by the time we get to the West Wing entrance.”

  Even a car wasn’t going to get them there in time.

  “You’re Eddie?”

  Damien loved it when Cornelia became flustered. It was very hard to do, so he decided to enjoy the occasion.

  “Only two people call me that, not even my wife.” General Arnson sounded grouchy about it, but then he sounded grouchy about everything as a matter of principle. “First was my nephew’s wife. Then her best friend felt all put out that he was the Commander-in-Chief but Emily was the one who got to call me Eddie. The two are so competitive about everything.”

  But he smiled at Cornelia. The general almost never smiled.

  “My apologies, General Arnson.”

  “No need, Ms. Day. No need. Finding myself partial to you. Need to log a little airtime myself and we have a Bell 505 Jet Ranger X that they gave us for testing.” He waved at a very sleek helicopter, the only one not painted Marine Corps green. It was done in a bright, racy orange. “Time to put it through its paces. We’ll have a car waiting for you at the other end.”

  “Actually, I think a taxi makes for a lower profile.”

  He saw the general register the level of trust she had just given him. Not who she was meeting, but that it wasn’t some whim that was taking her to New York either. There was a nicety to her communication.

  “No car. Got it. You can sit up front with me. Leave this young whippersnapper who keeps sighing after you in the rear.”

  “Hey!”

  “Or we can just leave him behind altogether if you’d like.”

  Why was everyone threatening to do that to him today? Wasn’t it enough how fast Cornelia was leaving him behind? Not that she was running away, but she did always seem to be three steps ahead, leaving him to catch up. “Rangers lead the way!” and “Marines first to fight!”—neither branch had a clue. Because way out in front of them all was Chief of Staff Cornelia Day.


  He did get the general aside for a moment.

  “Sir, do you have a sidearm I could borrow?”

  “Where’s your piece?”

  “In the safe at the Situation Room.”

  “Not doing you any damn good there, is it, Captain?”

  “No sir.”

  “She going in alone?”

  “Except for me.”

  “God help us,” the general brushed aside the lapel of Damien’s jacket and grunted his dissatisfaction at not even finding a holster there.

  Damien followed him to a gun safe in the private office. The general punched in a code and pulled out two-and-a-half pounds of a monster M1911, shoulder holster, and two spare magazines.

  “You let her down one little inch, Mr. Librarian, and I’ll have your Marine ass on the next ship to the Arabian Sea. Clear?”

  “Yes, sir.” Damien knew he meant it as well. It didn’t matter that Damien was on the National Security Council and in an entirely different chain of command.

  “Mount up,” then the general nodded toward the big .45 in Damien’s hands. “But hit the can first and strap on. Don’t want her seeing that you’re going in heavy. And I don’t want some analyst pissing the back of my new helicopter.”

  “No, sir.” By the time he saluted he was facing the general’s back.

  “Yeah, yeah,” he replied as he walked away sounding like nothing so much as a Jewish grandfather.

  For the whole flight up, Damien sat in the back and listened over the intercom while the kick-ass general chatted with Cornelia about her service with Zachary Thomas and even gave her a lesson in flying a helicopter. He spent the entire flight staring at the cartoonish Santa Claus some wag had taped to the back of Cornelia’s seat.

  Chapter Six