She'd expected him to grab the stones and hide them again, but he'd hardly glanced at them. He was listening to something, but to what she had no idea. She could hear nothing more than the singing of the wind outside. His thoughts were miles away. She wondered how far and to what extent.
"Don't you feel like a prisoner here?" Wyatt asked as he turned to face her. She wondered if he'd heard her question.
"Not often," she told him. She'd never felt that way at the cabin before, but she did now. Since she'd been a child she felt confined to a restricted space. Before cameras, in campaign offices, someone was always watching. Here in the cabin she had felt free until he arrived.
Her thoughts darted to him whenever he wasn't actually in her presence. It's just been too long, she told herself. She'd been too wrapped up in class schedules, teaching, and working on her degree to think much about men. After John died she thought her life was over, but being pinned under Wyatt had added a new dimension to her perspective.
He looked down at the steak and potatoes she'd prepared as if only now remembering them. He attacked the food as if he hadn't had anything to eat in years.
"You shouldn't eat so fast," she told him. "After not eating for three days it's bad for your digestion." Sandra had hesitated about serving him the food. She'd thought of having only chicken broth and Jell-O, but remembering his shoulders and muscular legs, she decided against it. Still, she made him a light soup, added small portions to his plate, and ended with the gelatin dessert. "How long has it been since you had a decent meal?"
"I don't remember; two or three days maybe . . . before I got here. I do know it's been even longer since I've had a home-cooked meal."
He smiled then and Sandra's heart turned over.
"How did you do this so fast?" He indicated the food on the table.
"Microwave."
"Even the rolls?" He picked up a piece of warm bread and lathered it with melting butter. "Mine always come out soggy or as rubbery as elastic bands. Then they harden into golf balls."
"There's a toaster oven." She told him. "With school, some nights I barely get anything to eat unless I stop at The Ledge." Seeing him frown, Sandra explained. "That's the student center. The food is almost all grease or sugar-filled."
"You're a student?"
She nodded. "I'm a teacher at Rutgers University in New Brunswick. Right now I'm off, preparing to defend my dissertation."
"You're a Ph.D. candidate? What's your specialty?"
"Mathematics."
"Isn't that like saying I study law?"
Sandra smiled and nodded. Like law, mathematics was a huge umbrella with many substructures under it. She thought for a moment, trying to put what she did in terms a layman could understand. "My specific area comes under the algebraic number theory. It's called elliptic curves and involves curves on a plane that have special properties."
"What kind of properties?"
Without an in-depth knowledge of mathematics she knew he wouldn't understand her. "The kind that can be defined by an equation you wouldn't understand. Do you really want to know?"
He frowned. "I was horrible at math." He took a drink of his iced tea.
Sandra understood. His was a common reaction by people outside her profession. "You were probably good at something else," she said softly, at once realizing the sexual innuendo of her words.
The tea glass, on its way to his mouth, stopped midway and their eyes locked. Heat flashed through her. Sandra couldn't drag her gaze away.
Wyatt broke contact first. He turned his head and emptied his glass of tea.
"Can I get you some more?" she offered, confused and needing to escape his presence until she could get her emotions back under control.
"No." He shook his head, not at all uncomfortable with the moment. "Who in your family is from the South?"
"My mother grew up in Tennessee. I suppose iced tea in the middle of January is a dead giveaway."
He nodded with a smile. Sandra noticed his even, white teeth. She'd thought his mouth was sensual while he slept; now she could hardly keep from leaning toward him and placing her lips on his.
"I grew up in Philadelphia," he explained. "Both my parents and grandparents were also born and raised there. Iced tea before Memorial Day or after Labor Day is near sacrilege."
Sandra laughed. She liked laughing with him. She could go on making small talk, but it was time. She needed some answers.
She stared at the window. It was dark outside. Brian had called for his second check-in while Wyatt slept on the sofa. For the second time she concealed Wyatt's presence. According to Brian, there were no new developments concerning Senator Randolph's disappearance. He'd ruled out any rumor that the senator could be in the area. Brian also gave her the latest weather report. The snow had stopped, but by the looks of things no one could get up the mountain. There had been a couple of inquiries from people who wanted to ski the new snow.
"Amateurs," Brian had called them. An experienced skier would know this kind of powder was too soft to ski on. The weight of their bodies would cause them to sink up to their waists.
"You look lost in thought," Wyatt said, providing her with the perfect opening.
"I was thinking about you," she told him. She expected him to smile, but he didn't. Instead, a frown crossed his face. "Why are you here?" she asked.
He didn't answer immediately. She wondered what he was thinking. Was he trying to formulate a lie to tell her? She'd had students who used the same technique when asked questions. If they had no ready answer, they hesitated trying to make one up.
"I didn't expect to find you," he finally said. "I wanted to speak to your father."
"Why?"
"It's personal."
"Who stabbed you?"
The abrupt subject change got a reaction. His head whipped around and he stared at her. After a long moment, he answered. "I don't know."
Sandra dropped her eyes to her near-empty plate. Shards of lettuce merged with Russian dressing formed a pink-and-green sea. She pushed it away. "You don't believe me?"
"No," she answered quietly. "You get yourself stabbed deep enough to bleed to death, but instead of getting medical assistance, you trek up a mountain in the middle of a snowstorm looking for my father. If you'd asked for my mother it would make more sense. At least she’s a doctor."
He suddenly placed her. Senator Rutledge's wife was a famous heart surgeon. Dr. Melissa Rutledge. He remembered seeing her name under a photograph in a Washington paper. She'd been with her two daughters, one a New York model and the other . . . Wyatt stared at Sandra. She was the other daughter.
He got up and went to the window, his hand on his left side. Leaning against the wall, he pulled the curtain aside. Outside, the snow lay like a glittering blanket under the full moon. He'd seen postcards that looked like this scene. In the past he'd thought a photographer had set it, placed lights at strategic places and filmed the scene. Yet, here there were no photographers' lamps. Only natural beauty had created the shining moon and thick flakes of snow. It was beautiful.
At this distance he could easily forget the world at the bottom of the mountain: It was a perfect place to escape. Forget life in the city and stay here, he thought, where there was only a beautiful woman and peace; where his heart only pounded because of his attraction to her.
He sighed heavily and sat down in the chair next to the window. Sandra remained at the table. She hadn't said a word since he'd gone to the window. He couldn't help but think how much he liked looking at her. Why did she have to be Senator Rutledge's daughter? Why couldn't she have been anyone else but the daughter of a traitor?
She wanted answers. What would she say when he told her the man who had tried to kill him had been sent by her father? he wondered.
"Project Eagle," he finally said.
She stared at him without comment. He could tell it meant nothing to her.
"Ever heard of it?"
She shook
her head. Leaving the table, Wyatt watched her long-legged stride as she came and stood in front of him. Then she dropped down and sat Indian-style on the floor. With the Aztec pattern on her sweater and the sheen of burnished curls hanging over her shoulders, she could have been an Indian princess. Too bad she wasn't, he thought. He wasn't looking forward to telling her why he'd come here.
"What is Project Eagle?" she asked.
Wyatt didn't speak immediately. He'd run for more than a week. He'd been caught, stabbed, and nearly bled to death. He could have died. Sandra Rutledge had saved his life, but she was Senator Rutledge's daughter. He wanted to trust her. She deserved an explanation for what she'd inadvertently become involved in. She was part of it now, even if she didn't know it.
"Two weeks ago I'd never heard of it," he began. "Then one morning I open the mail and find what I think are millions of dollars worth of diamonds."
They both glanced at the loose stones lying on the table. Since she'd given them to him, he hadn't touched them. They reminded him of Chip and he didn't want to have anything to do with them, but he knew Chip wanted him to uncover the truth or he'd never have sent the stones.
"Who sent them to you?" she asked.
"A friend." He stopped as emotion clenched his heart. He and Chip had been friends since childhood. Nothing had ever shaken their friendship. Not even Daisy Hamilton during their second year in college. She’d dated them both, deliberately trying to drive a wedge between them. It hadn’t worked. Chip was closer than a brother. Wyatt thought they'd be old men together, but he'd been denied that, and he wouldn't allow the people who'd taken Chip’s life to go unpunished. "We grew up together in Philadelphia."
A hundred childhood memories of Chip and him flowed through his brain like a movie reel; riding the El on summer nights to go downtown and hang out; running up the steps of the Philadelphia Museum of Art and acting out the final moment of the movie Rocky, or hiding out in the gardens of the Rodin Museum and taking pictures next to the green statues. He was thankful for those times together. They'd spent college semesters, summer vacations, and Christmas holidays in and out of each others' houses. When they left college he'd gone to law school and Chip had taken a job in a government computer lab. Never seeing him again was something he didn't think he'd have to deal with until they were very old men.
"Who is he?" Sandra's voice brought him out of his daydream.
"He was my best friend. We'd known each other since we were children. Two weeks ago he was. . .he died."
Sandra leaned forward, placing her hand on his knee. "I'm sorry." She felt the tremor run through him when her hand touched him. She wanted to remove it, but that would call attention to the gesture. She let it be.
Wyatt leaned forward and took her hand. It was soft and slender, with long, unpolished fingernails. He needed the contact. When he told her about Chip he needed an anchor, and she was the closest he could get. "His name was Edward Jackson, Jr., but everyone who knew him called him Chip. His family had always called him that, although most people thought it was because he was a computer wizard. I don't mean just good." He felt the need to explain. "I mean a real wizard. He'd always been that way. He excelled in math, and no problem eluded him for long."
Wyatt remembered Chip's perseverance when he was involved in a problem. He'd keep at it, relentlessly, until he'd picked every concept apart and mastered it. Wyatt often envied his friend this ability. It wasn't until he'd been given his first indigent client that Wyatt knew the feelings Chip derived from solving some abstract problem.
"Chip worked for the Defense Department. He was working on something top secret. The only thing I know about it is the name Project Eagle, and those stones have something to do with it."
"How did Chip die?"
Wyatt swallowed and closed his eyes. He let go of her hand and sat back in the chair. The horror of what he'd seen when he got to Chip's house was more than he wanted to remember.
He'd been tortured. Wyatt hardly recognized the body when he identified it. "He died of stab wounds," he said supplying the minimum of truth.
"By the same man who stabbed you?"
Wyatt stared directly at her. She sat bathed in light, apparently not realizing they were discussing something as final as his mortality.
"I believe so."
"What do those stones have to do with this Project Eagle?"
"I don't know. They arrived in an envelope with only the words written on the outside. When I began asking about them, people tried to kill me."
"You said Chip worked for the Defense Department. My father is chairman of the congressional defense subcommittee. Do you think he knows what Project Eagle is?"
Wyatt gritted his teeth. "Yes." He spoke the single word, watching her with a steady gaze for any sign of change. He got none. Whatever Bradford Campbell Rutledge had done, his daughter was unaware of it.
"Why did you think he was here?"
"He wasn't in his office. The only information I could get from his secretary was that he wasn't in the city. At his house, the maid said he was away and she didn't know when he'd return. I knew about this place and how secluded it was reported to be. I thought it was the next logical step. Finding you was a surprise."
Her head came up at that. She had the most expressive eyes, very light brown, much like the cat-eye marbles he'd had as a child. He couldn't help staring into them.
"A lucky surprise," he went on. "I would have died on the road."
She opened her mouth, then closed it quickly as if she wanted to say something, but thought better of it.
"Wyatt?" she asked a moment later. "What connected Project Eagle to my father?"
He knew she'd put two and two together soon. He dreaded having to tell her. The lights in her eyes would dim, and forever she'd look at him as the enemy.
When he got the envelope he'd called the senator. Wyatt didn't know much about defense, but Chip had worked there and Senator Rutledge was chairman of the subcommittee. He'd called and left a message. He mentioned Project Eagle. That had been a mistake. That same day he'd been involved in a car accident. He narrowly escaped, but the other car and its sole occupant had died. After that he'd been followed. He had managed to lose the man following him and had hidden for a week, all the while trying to reach the senator. He'd finally decided to try to find the Rutledge's cabin when he'd been attacked.
"Wyatt, please answer me," Sandra said.
"I think you'd better have a really good look at those stones."
Sandra glanced over her shoulder and back at him. His gaze was steady. Unfamiliar fear slid up her spine, and she got to her feet. Hesitantly, she went to the table. The remnants of their meal sat before her in pools of leftover food. Before Wyatt's plate lay the loose diamonds. They were large, several carats each, some larger than others. She picked up one of them and stared at it. Then she lifted it to the light and squinted to see what was inside. She could make out something more than a natural flaw, but she couldn't see what it was.
Remembering her mother's medical surgery, she grabbed the stones and headed for it.
"Hey!" Wyatt called from behind her.
Sandra didn't stop. She went through to the room her mother had insisted be part of the construction. It was originally a den, but had been converted into a country doctor's office. It had all the equipment Melissa Rutledge would need for light emergencies which happened more often than expected in these hills.
By the time Wyatt's aching side brought him to the door, she had one stone under the powerful magnification of the microscope. Sandra leaned back in the chair. It rolled several inches before she put her foot on the metal rail and stopped the motion.
"They're fake," she said.
"Fake!" Wyatt pushed her aside and stared into the microscope. "Someone is trying to kill me for fake stones?"
"I thought you knew they were fake."
"I knew they were flawed, but I thought they were real. I wondered why Chip would send me d
iamonds with such obvious flaws. And why someone would kill over them?" He looked up at her, then back into the microscope. "What's in there? It doesn't make any sense."
"From what I can tell, they're microchips," Sandra explained. "And by the size of them, you can't buy these at your local computer store." She looked at him for an explanation.
"Where could you buy them?" He straightened, staring at her.
Sandra hesitated for a moment. Then she looked directly at him. "If I had to guess, I'd say these are not for sale."
"Why is that?"
"Most computer chips are just over an inch in length. Even the simms that go inside today's machines are about as long as your fingernail." Both of them stared at his short, manicured nails. "These are less than half that size. They're strictly government issue—and a secret issue at that." She waited for the information to sink in.
"How do you know that?" Wyatt asked.
Sandra exchanged seats with Wyatt and stared into the microscope again. "When I was in college my father got me a summer job working in the government printing office. I found out the government catalogs everything. There's a part number for everything from the smallest component to an entire system. The numbering system is unique to the government. And one of them is on this chip."
Wyatt looked into the microscope. The number was small and barely discernible, but could be seen.
"Why would anyone put microchips inside diamonds?"
Sandra knew he spoke more to himself than to her. She wondered the same thing.
"Why did your friend send these to you? Why not someone else, someone in the military?"
"I don't know." Wyatt pulled himself up on the Gurney where he'd lain a few days earlier. He looked tired. Sandra realized it was his first day out of bed and that he really should be back there now. Yet, she wanted to know what he thought about her father.
"Do you know what Chip was working on?"
Wyatt shook his head. "His projects were frequently secret. Many times he'd be sequestered on some mountain or other. I never knew where or how long he'd be out of the public eye. Over the years I'd learned not to ask about his work. Whenever I called him I'd leave messages, and when he was in town he'd return them."
Under the Sheets (Capitol Chronicles Book 1) Page 37