Under the Sheets (Capitol Chronicles Book 1)

by Shirley Hailstock

  "Wait until after the first dance," a remarkably quiet Thomas whispered.

  The wait was long. Robyn ate the meal but couldn’t remember tasting anything except Grant’s wrath against her back. Finally, the meal ended. David and Susan rose to lead the first dance. Other couples joined them, several stopping with words of congratulations. After the dance, Susan and David were immediately sur­rounded by people. Robyn waited, aware that Grant still sat on the dais. He talked quietly to the woman on his right.

  Robyn could stand it no more. She took Kari’s hand and made her way to Susan and David. "It was a lovely wedding," she said forcing tears out of her voice. "I hate to have to leave so early, but Kari and I have a flight to catch."

  "But—" Susan began.

  "I do hope I’ll get to see you again." Robyn cut her off. She hugged Susan and David in turn and found Thomas waiting for them by the door. The car was waiting. She and Kari were whisked away before anyone had a chance to stop them.

  With the efficiency of a military maneuver, Thomas had her back in Buffalo and in her home before dinner began at Yesterdays. Kari was tired, and Robyn put her to bed early. Thomas excused himself and disappeared, leaving only the feeling that a ghost had been present.

  Robyn was restless. Her thoughts scattered and un­focused. Why had Grant hugged her? What did he think, and why hadn’t he called after she left? Even at the restaurant, there were no messages waiting when she called. She moved about the house like an automa­ton. Finally, she took a shower and dressed for bed. She tried reading a book, but after fifteen minutes she couldn’t remember a single word. Turning the light out, she tossed and turned for hours. At midnight, she got up. Maybe a hot drink would help. She’d make herself a cup of tea. It was soothing, and then maybe she’d be able to sleep. Leaving her bedroom, she opened Kari’s door and checked on her. The child slept soundly. Pulling the door closed, Robyn crept down the stairs.

  The doorbell rang just as she poured the boiling water into the tea pot. Robyn went to it. Through the sheer curtains covering the small panes that flanked both sides of the door, she saw Grant. She pulled the door in.

  "What are you doing here?" she asked, backing away from the expression she saw on his face. He still wore the black tuxedo, but the bow tie was gone, and his ruffled shirt was open at the neck.

  "I want to know why?" He came inside, slam­ming it behind him. Robyn stepped backward. His ex­pression was angry.

  "What are you talking about?"

  He reached for her. She sidestepped him. "I’m talking about three weeks ago. I’m talking about everything since I’ve met you. I’m talking about why you keep asking me to go away, and I’m talking about what happened when you hugged me this af­ternoon."

  "Nothing happened." She turned away, putting the distance of the room between them.

  "You’re an awful liar," he sneered.

  “Why are you here now? It’s been two weeks.”

  “I tried it your way. I tried to stay away. It’s not working.”

  "Grant—," she began, turning back to him. His raised hand stopped her.

  "You don’t have to answer everything," he shook his head as if in resignation. "Just tell me what happened to you? I came back, and you were gone. Everything about you was gone. Even the hairbrush showed no sign of your hair. If I hadn’t been with you, I’d swear you’d never been there."

  The picture of Thomas Hammil cleaning her kitchen suddenly loomed. "I had to go, Grant. I told you there was no future for us. I asked you to go away and leave me alone."

  "Why? After the night we spent together. I love you, and you love me."

  Their entwined bodies on his silk sheets crowded into her memory. "I don’t love you," she said over the lump in her throat.

  "You do."

  "Grant, go away."

  "Say you love me." He came toward her. There was no place for her to go.

  "No." Robyn took refuge behind a chair.

  He stalked her. She backed away, moving around the room. "Say it," he demanded.

  "It won’t make any difference," she pleaded. "There’s no place in my life for you."

  "Say it!" he shouted.

  "Grant you’ll wake Kari."

  "Say it!" He reached for her as her back came up against the piano. Strong hands drove into her hair, taking fistfuls and twisting it until she was forced to move into the heated area that surrounded his body.

  "I don’t love you. I don’t love you," she chanted, closing her eyes against stinging tears.

  Grant pulled her closer. Her eyes flew open. She could see his mouth descending. She knew he was going to kiss her, and she knew she would tell him anything if he did. But she couldn’t stop him. All she could do was wait while his mouth hovered over hers.

  "Darling, can’t you find the champagne? I put it in the. . .” a deep male voice came from the dark stairwell.

  Robyn and Grant separated as if they’d been pulled apart by giant magnets. Their two heads swiveled around toward the stairs.

  “Jacob!”

  Chapter 14

  Robyn’s gasp went unheard by Grant whose eyes were riveted to the partially dressed man at the top of the stairs. Jacob stood there, wearing a black kimono and nothing else. Her eyes were fastened to him. He stood in the light flooding from her bedroom. The front door slammed behind her. Looking around, she found Grant had gone. For a split second, she started after him.

  "Brooke!" Jacob’s voice halted her attempt.

  She turned on him, her face dark with anger. "What the hell are you doing here?"

  Jacob closed the robe and went back through the door. Robyn raced up the stairs and followed him into her bedroom.

  "He was a loose end."

  "And you had to tie it? You couldn’t trust me to do it?" She whispered, keeping her voice low for Kari’s sake.

  "I gave you the chance." Jacob picked up a pair of blue bikini briefs and stepped into them. "I heard what was going on downstairs. You couldn’t control the situ­ation."

  "Jacob, it was none of your business. There was no situation.”

  He stopped, grasping her arm. She was sure he’d leave a bruise. "You are my business. You became my business five years ago when you stepped into a wit­ness box."

  He let her go. Robyn took two steps backward. Jacob continued to dress, putting on his pants and shirt as if he were alone.

  "Don’t I get a reprieve, Jacob? Is every facet of my life to be controlled by you or some unseen agent as long as I live? Did I give up the freedom of choice, of independent decision, when you walked into my life?"

  "Damn you, woman." He turned, taking her upper arms and shaking her. "You’re the worst nightmare I’ve ever had to contend with."

  "Then drop me, Jacob. Leave me out there hanging alone. You’ve done your job. For five years, you’ve protected me. I’m the one who’s changing the rules now. I’m the one putting myself in danger. Let me choose how I’d like to live the rest of my life. Because this shell of an existence is too much. I’ve coped with it too long. I’ve got cracks, Jacob. And each day they get wider. I want to stop. Let me?"

  "I can’t." This time he turned from her. His hands pushed deep into his pockets. "I can’t do that, Brooke." He sighed. "If only I could."

  "Why not, Jacob?" She went to him, taking his arm. The muscles tensing under her fingers surprised her. Jacob covered her hand with his own. His eyes were soft in the half-light. "The taxpayers can’t be expected to take care of me forever." Her voice softened. She could take him angry, but his tenderness destroyed her.

  He was silent, too silent. It was like the times after she’d testified. Signals would pass between him and someone else just before a bomb would drop. She could feel it. It passed through her. Robyn pushed her­self back far enough to see his face.

  "It’s not over, is it, Jacob?" She was amazed at how calm she could be. Jacob shook his head—no placat­ing comments about her not needing to know. Sud­denly, she began to tremble. When she was telli
ng him to leave, she’d be responsible for her own mortality, they’d been false words. The reality hit her. There was someone out there, tracking her, trying to kill her. Still, after all these years, someone wanted her dead.

  Jacob grasped her trembling body and lowered her to a seat on the bed. "When the Network was uncov­ered, we knew at least one man or woman escaped our net. That’s why we put you through the program."

  "Who?" She looked into his eyes. His arms were still holding her as he knelt on the rug.

  "We don’t know. But in the past five years, discreet inquiries have been made about you."

  "What kind of inquires?" Her heart beat with a fear she hadn’t ever known.

  "Computer files mostly, cross-referencing your name with people from your past." He couldn’t tell her about Kari’s accident. He could feel the terror ris­ing in her.

  "Grant—" she stopped. "What about Grant?"

  "He’s not as easy to track. He flies in and out of the country regularly. It’s very difficult to protect him."

  "But you’ve been trying." Her eyes were wide and glassy.

  Jacob nodded. "We think something is going to happen soon. That’s why I did what I did tonight. You’ve got to be careful. One word in the wrong place could get you all killed."

  "Oh, Jacob, I’m so sorry. I tried to send him away."

  "I know you did." He could hear the agony in her voice. "I know how much you love him." He ran a finger down her cheek. He understood how it was to love someone and not to be able to tell them, not to be able to make any plans together. He knew the gnawing feeling it left in your stomach when the situ­ation was out of your control and totally manipulated by someone else. "Now get some sleep," he told her.

  "I can’t go to sleep," she protested.

  "Try," Jacob said.

  "Jacob, you can’t really expect me to sleep now?" She was too agitated, wired. How could he expect her to sleep when her life was in danger?

  "I’ll get your tea." He was gone before she could accept or refuse. In minutes, he was back with a steaming cup of the apple spiced tea that she had gone to make. It now seemed hours ago. She accepted the hot liquid and sipped it cautiously. "Get in," he said, when she’d drained the small cup.

  Robyn got into bed, and Jacob pulled the covers up. He sat facing her. "You look like the scared little girl who was trying to appear brave, the first day I met you." He reached over and turned off the lamp. "Go to sleep. I’ll be here for a while." He moved to the head of the bed and leaned her forward, making room for himself to sit down. Pulling her back, his fingers mas saged her skin, relieving some of the tension bunching her neck muscles together. She was forced to relax.

  "What was her name, Jacob?" The darkness seemed to disembody her voice.

  "Whose name?"

  "The woman you were in love with? The one you tried to pattern me after."

  His fingers stopped momentarily, then continued their confident rhythm. "Cynthia." He sounded far away.

  "Where is she now?"

  "She died."

  Robyn closed her eyes, forcing her breath to remain even. "How?" she asked.

  "I was protecting her. She didn’t follow orders." His answers were short but not cryptic.

  "Why do I remind you of her. Do we look alike? I mean before."

  "No, physically you’re very different. But you are alike."

  "You mean I won’t follow orders either?" She dropped her head letting the magic in his fingers take some of the stress from her tired muscles.

  "I mean you’re a very strong woman. You won’t let life beat you down. You fight for what you want. I didn’t pattern you after her."

  "I’m sorry, Jacob," she yawned. "How long ago did she die?"

  "Nine years."

  "I won’t be like her, Jacob," she yawned again and turned in his arms, pillowing her head in his lap. "I’ll follow orders."

  Robyn slept.

  Jacob sat holding her in the darkness much longer than he needed to. He continued stroking her hair, lov­ing the feel of the lustrous silk. It was her hair that was like Cynthia’s. Although, hers was dark and rich, and Cynthia’s had been the color of sunshine. Cyn­thia’s face had a scar angled across her chin. Robyn’s face was flawlessly clear. Yet, the two women had one thing in common, a vital spirit, and Jacob loved that in them.

  He shifted Robyn to the pillow and moved to the chair across the room. He watched her until the dark of night reached its zenith. Then, taking the black ki­mono, he left the house as silently and unseen as he had entered it.

  It wouldn’t be long now. They had the blood bank computers, and soon, they would be able to backtrace the program that manipulated the records. Hammil was covering the explosive since he was an expert himself. Each day, the circle closed a little tighter.

  ***

  Thank God, Grant thought, as he shut down the en­gines of the cargo plane. If it hadn’t been for the sudden spurt of government contracts, he didn’t know if he could have gotten through the past three weeks.

  He’d stormed out of Brooke’s house with murder on his mind. When that guy came from her bedroom, wearing next to nothing, something snapped in him. There could be an explanation, but if there was, she would have called. In twenty-one days he’d heard noth­ing. He’d also seen the man leaving her house in the early morning hours.

  "Damn," he cursed, remembering the scene as if it were unfolding before him now. He was still an­gry. If problems hadn’t developed with the plane, and he’d been able to sleep, he wouldn’t have been up to see the figure quietly steal out of Brooke’s kitchen door.

  But when he got to the airfield, he found he had a problem with the fuel pump. When that was fixed, something went wrong with the hydraulics supporting the landing gear. On a ladder, he had gone at the problem. He dropped the wrench he was using and had to climb down to pick it up.

  Going back up the ladder, he had tried again to unhinge one of the joints. It wouldn’t bulge. Hours had passed. He felt as if all his fingers were thumbs, and he was no closer to solving the problem. His mind hadn’t been working on the plane. It was dwelling on a six-foot figure with dark hair and a black kimono.

  Frustration egged him on. When the second wrench slipped from his grip, he finally had jumped down from it and kicked the ladder. Pain tore through his leg, but not enough to deaden his awareness. Then he took on the metal hull with his bare hands. With clenched fists, he had beaten the ghostly image of the man in the black kimono, pummeling the painted hulk.

  Several mechanics wrestle him to the ground to prevent him from damaging the plane or himself. He had fought them, lost, not aware where he was. Finally, one of them calling his name, had gotten through. He calmed down, and they had released him.

  It was then that he had called Will McAdams and had gone there for the night, leaving the repair to the mechanics. Why hadn’t he slept in the plane? Why hadn’t he gone to a hotel? Anywhere away from her. But the taxi had dropped his oil-stained frame only thirty paces from Brooke’s door.

  Will looked at his swollen knuckles and, with­out question, got the first-aid kit. Grant was calmer after the fight with the airplane. But his hands hurt like hell. Dried blood and lac­erated skin so swollen that he couldn’t close either hand, had been cleaned, medicated, and draped in gauze bandages. He had winced when Will applied the iodine. Nothing, however, compared to the pain created by the vise grip squeezing his heart.

  "Maybe I could get the story straight if you’d sit down and stop trying to wear away the carpet," Will had said, when Grant had finally showered and worn one of his old robes.

  Grant sat down. Then just as quickly rose. Will pressed a highball glass in his hands. He rolled around then drained it.

  "I wish I knew, Will. I came to work things out. But she’s so damn mysterious. And then there was a man."

  "A man? Who?"

  "I don’t know. I didn’t get a good look at him. He came out of her bedroom, and the light was behind him. All I saw was a blac
k kimono." Damn, Grant had thought, he still wanted to hit something. It had been as if some invisible force was conspiring against him, when all he wanted was to get as far away from Brooke Johnson as he could.

  But there he had been, thirty feet from the woman who’d turned him into a raving lunatic. He hadn’t made a lot of sense to Will. He hadn’t known who the man was.

  "She doesn’t entertain a lot at home," Will had said. "Occasionally, Marianne comes by or one of Kari’s friend’s parents, but for the most part it’s Brooke and Kari. I wonder who he could have been?"

  "I have no idea," Grant had said. "She called him Jacob."

  "Jacob." Will repeated the name.

  "Do you know him?" Grant asked.

  Will shook his head. "Friday afternoon, when she left for the wedding, there was a strange car in the driveway. She said she had a ride to the airport. I thought one of the waiters was taking her. The same car returned earlier tonight but left after a short time."

  Grant poured himself another drink and im­mediately had swallowed it. He snapped the glass onto the bar with an angry thud. As the night wore on, Will returned to bed. Grant drank until he passed out. He couldn’t remember what he’d said to Will or what Will had said to him when something had woken him. He had been in a chair in Will’s den. His mouth had felt like cotton, and his head had been about to explode. A clock ticked on the wall. It was four o’clock. He had known sleep would not come again. Even the vast amount of alcohol he consumed wouldn’t dull his senses enough for him to sleep.

  He went to the kitchen for coffee. That was when he had seen the man leaving Brooke’s house. He was tall, at least six feet, with dark hair. His face was averted, and Grant couldn’t have seen it, but he moved with an assurance that made Grant sneer. Anger rifled through him, and he wanted to burst through the door and beat him to a pulp.

  But he had remembered, Brooke had never said she loved him. He told her he was in love with her, but she’d never returned the sentiment. She was a beautiful woman. Why would he assume she spent her nights alone? There were probably many men in her life. Yet, Will said she rarely entertained at home. It didn’t mean she didn’t entertain elsewhere. Maybe this man was the exception.