Only her right shoulder and part of her left leg could be seen. Against the white satin her darkness was near black. Jordon opened the aperture wide and increased the shutter speed. Everything around her would be blurred. Only her perfect form at the center of the shot would appear sharply defined when he developed the film. He pressed the shutter button with a reverence that surprised himself.
The shutter sound made her lift her head. The sheet slipped down her back as she turned, exposing one full, ripe breast. The film automatically moved through the camera and Jordon took another shot. He took several as she moved. He wasn't doing this for the contract or any contract he would ever get. The shots would be worthy, probably would pay more money than he'd ever received from a contract before, but they were for his private collection.
"Jordon, stop," Suzanne said. "You know I don't do nude photos."
He set the camera down and went to her. Taking her in his arms, he said, "You should." Then he kissed her. "For my eyes only." Ignition as hot as plastic explosives shot through him as his mouth found and covered hers. They made love fast. The tempo catching and pushing them into a feverish frenzy. Like high school kids who couldn't keep their hands off each other, Jordon lost even a fraction of control whenever she touched him. He wondered if he'd ever get used to her enough to make love to her slowly, to savor the emotions she kindled in him like nitro exploding.
When then* hearts had returned to a normal beat, Jordon gathered her to him and held her. Her smooth legs matched the length of his under the white cover.
"What do you plan to do when this is over?" he asked her.
"What is over? I have at least five new contracts waiting for me. And you well know it."
"I'm not talking about contracts. I'm talking about your sister and Randolph." Suzanne tried to move away, but Jordon held her tighter. "Don't do it, Annie. Each time I bring up your sister, you retreat into another world. I want to know about her."
"There's nothing to know."
She stared up at him. Her eyes were bright, flaring with hurt and anger. Jordon kissed her. He didn't want to make her hurt, but he knew she couldn't spend the rest of her life holding the anger she felt toward her family. He wanted to help her. He wanted her to trust him, to tell him everything about herself. He wanted to be the man she turned to in the night with her body and in the day with her triumphs and her problems. He also wanted to go to her when he had those same needs.
For better, for worse, in sickness and in health, till death do us part. The words seemed to flow into his mind like images forming on nitrate-treated paper. He wanted to marry Annie, make her happy. He knew she could make him happier than any other woman in the world. He wanted that chance.
Jordon didn't ask again. He looked at her without comment. Her eyes clouded and she suddenly hugged him.
"Jordon, hold me."
He put his arms around her and pulled her to his side. Tears fell on his chest, hot and scalding. He swallowed the lump in his throat and waited.
"He's my father," she began. "My real father."
Jordon didn't push her. He wanted to ask who she meant, but he didn't. He waited, holding her and stroking her hair.
"They say he adopted me, found me in a backwater town and gave me a better life, but he didn't find me. He knew I was there. He's my real father."
"Senator Rutledge?"
"Yes," she sneered. "The great, powerful, and popular Senator Rutledge has a bastard daughter."
Jordon lifted her chin and looked her straight in the face. She was serious. "Annie, are you sure?"
"Of course I'm sure."
"You know politicians these days. In order to run for office they have to be squeaky clean. Something like an. . .illegitimate child would give the media, not to mention the senator's political opponents, enough fuel to kill any election bid he'd care to make. How is it they never found out?"
"You don't believe me," she accused, turning away and wrapping her arms around her knees. Jordon stared at her bare back and naked buttocks. Taking the sheet, he covered her and pulled her against him.
"How long have you known?"
"Four years. I found out just before Sandra got married."
Jordon expressed surprise at Annie's comment. Annie explained the circumstances, then took a deep breath and went on. "Sandra had to get all the legal papers ready to get a marriage license. She was in such a frenzy and I was helping her. Sandra was still living here then. I went to get the papers for her and that's when I found my own birth certificate. My real one. Not the one that was produced when I was adopted. That one has Melissa and Bradford Rutledge as my mother and father. The one my biological mother received when I was born had her name on it, Catherine Boatwright, and under Father was typed in clear legible English, Bradford Campbell Rutledge."
"He knew you were his real daughter and he never said anything?"
"He left her, used her, and when I was born he never even came to see me. He left us in that swamp to live or die. He didn't care. He was a senator. His career was taking off, soaring. He couldn't afford a bastard daughter from some backwater town pulling him down." She stopped and took a breath. "I confronted him with what I'd found. We had a really bad argument I left and I've never seen him since."
"Yet, he called here. He knew you were here."
"He knew she was here," Suzanne sneered. "Sandra, the precious one, the legitimate one, the one with all the best things in life. He didn't call me. He wanted to know why his precious little princess was making the front page of The Washington Post. He wanted to protect her, not ask if I was sick or dying."
She climbed off the bed, pulling on a robe. Grabbing the sashes, she tied a tight knot around her waist.
"He wouldn't care if naked pictures of me appeared on the morning news, but let Sandra's name be linked with anything that could malign her puritan reputation and in comes her father, like a white knight, ready to do battle."
"Then why did you help her?"
"I didn't."
Jordon stood up. He didn't pull any clothes on. His body was lean and hard, though nothing he'd choose to photograph if he needed a strong male, but he liked the way Annie looked at him when he was undressed. Even if he didn't consider himself in a class with muscle-bound hunks, she made him feel like he was.
"I know you helped her," he said quietly. "You got her the money."
"It was her money."
"But you used those banking skills of yours to cover any possible trail. When she came here you took them in and got them food and clothes. You even gave her the pearl necklace." He stopped, raising his hands to prevent her from speaking. "You gave it to her in case she ran out of money and needed to get more. The truth is, if anything happens to her, you'll feel guilty. She's not guilty of anything your father did and you know it."
Suzanne moved to turn away, but Jordon took her arms and stopped her.
"Look at me," he commanded. "She was a little girl. It wasn't her fault that her father treated you badly. You know it and you had to help her. No matter what you think about your father, Sandra didn't do anything to you. She loves you and you love her."
Suzanne looked at him for a long time before dropping her eyes and putting her arms around him. Why couldn't she deny his words? Why did he, of all the people she knew, have to be the one person who could see through her motives? Why did Sandra's plight have to become hers? When she'd seen the first newspaper account of her sister, the instinct to help, to protect, to set the record straight was too strong to deny. When Sandra showed up at the photo shoot that day, she wanted to hug her, to tell her everything would be all right, to ask her if there was anything she could do. But she wouldn't let herself.
Tears ran down her face. Jordon's arms tightened around her, pulling her into contact with him, making her feel secure and wanted. She loved him.
When had that happened?
***
Jordon listened to the water in the shower. He cracked the door open
and heard Annie singing gently under the spray of the water. He closed the door and went into the living room. Picking up the phone, he glanced back toward the bedroom door.
He dialed the private number and waited for it to be answered.
"Christopher." The voice came over the line, clear and strong.
"Clarence, good morning."
"Jordon? What are you doing calling this line? Is this another one of your pranks?"
Jordon laughed. He liked the director of the FBI. When he wasn't under the pressures of his job, he had a wonderful sense of humor. Jordon had met him several years earlier when he'd been called to photograph the new director.
Portraits of executives were an unusual assignment. He'd thought the request clearly unusual, but he'd gone out of curiosity.
"No prank, Clarence. I have some information that I'd like checked out."
"What do you think this is, your personal data bank?"
Jordon chuckled. "You must be having a really bad day," he teased. Jordon checked his watch. "It's not even noon yet.”
"I am having a bad day. It’s been bad for weeks now, and I'm extremely busy. So could you please clear this line. I have an appointment with the President in twenty minutes."
"Senator Randolph is the subject, I take it."
"I don't think our business is any of yours."
"It might just be. I've seen the senator."
Silence greeted him as if Clarence was letting what he heard sink into his brain. "Jordon, I want to know everything you know. Be in my office at two o'clock."
"I'll be there, but I want something from you."
"This is not a negotiation."
"I want you to check out Suzanne Wright. You know her as Anne Rutledge."
"Bradford Rutledge's daughter? Why? It's the other daughter we're trying to find."
"I need the information."
"For what? Does this have to do with department business or are you using me agency for your personal research?"
"A little of both," he admitted. "Her real name is Annie Boatwright. Senator Rutledge adopted her when she was ten years old. She's from a rural Georgia town."
"What are you expecting us to find?"
"She says Rutledge is her real father, her biological father." Christopher's silence told him more than he wanted to hear.
"Clarence, I know what you're thinking and that's not why I called. Promise me you won't do anything with what you find until I've had a chance to review it."
"I don't work for you, Jordon." Christopher's voice was authoritative, but Jordon knew him as a man of honor. He would first give him what he asked. "Remember, be here at two."
Chapter 18
Wyatt put his hand to his head and closed his eyes. He'd left Sandra at the jeweler's and walked around the corner while the stones were being set. He didn't want to leave, but he'd been too restless to sit there silently while the man worked. This running had gone on long enough. He was tired. He and Sandra had what everyone wanted. He could end the stealing around, depending on friends for support, help, and even clothes and shoes. He looked at the pants he was wearing. They belonged to Marjorie’s husband, a man he'd only seen once in his life. The shoes were his. He'd had the dress shoes since the night they'd gone to the Casey Horton's party and ended up digging stones along the highway in Virginia. Red dirt clung to the sides and inside the stitches. He wanted to go home, sleep in his own bed, get up in the morning and go to a job, ride the metro, take vacations, do the things ordinary citizens did. But he couldn't. He couldn't because of what he had, what he knew.
Lafayette Park sat across from the White House. Ladybird Johnson had beautified it when her husband Lyndon Johnson was President. None of the fountains were on, and the flowers lay dormant under the snow waiting for spring. Wyatt sat on the cold bench, a solitary figure, in the darkness of early evening. Across the park and the deserted street was the most famous house in America, a place where the President of the United States lived.
He'd told the President he'd call him the moment he had something to report. News that they actually had possession of the stones should make his day. Yet, Wyatt was reluctant to place the call.
He stared at the White House. Lights blinked in many of the windows. He wondered which room Everett Horton was in and what would go through his mind if Wyatt walked through the gates and turned the stones over to him.
What would Sandra think if he did that? He'd become used to discussing everything with her. She was as involved in this as he. He couldn't make any decisions without her approval and he knew she wouldn't give them over without conditions. Conditions they were sure would be met. He needed to talk to her. She was practical, logical, and passionate. He loved her passion, not only in bed, although he loved that, too, but her passion for what was right and wrong. An idea was forming in his mind and he wanted to talk to her about it. He thought he had a solution that could get them out this, but it was dangerous.
He stood up to leave, then stopped abruptly when he noticed Sandra standing several feet from him. She stared at the house across me street. She seemed mesmerized by me lighted structure that symbolized the country's authority figure.
Wyatt liked Everett Horton. He'd even voted for him, and in the next election he'd probably vote for him again.
Sandra stood still, unconcerned about the coldness of the air. Wyatt wondered what she was thinking. He wondered if she was as tired as he was and only wanted to be rid of Project Eagle and all its implications.
He went toward her. She made no move, no indication that she was aware of his presence, until she spoke.
"We aren't going to the White House, are we?" She'd been quiet for most of the drive back to Washington. At the jewelry store she'd said little, other than giving instructions for the setting of the stones. Now, with her vision trained on the White House, she spoke quietly, but Wyatt knew she was as alert as a spy stalking his prey.
"Not yet," he answered. He turned, following her gaze. Across the street he could see the guards at the Pennsylvania Avenue gate. The gate was closed. No cars, not even authorized visitors, could check in at that point. Yet, the guards maintained their posts. Wyatt wondered if anyone ever walked through those gates. "I know what President Horton said sounds right," he began. "But I have a nagging feeling in the pit of my stomach that turning these stones over will mean I'll be the one dropping the next atomic bomb, and I don't want that recorded as my history."
Sandra turned to him and smiled. Wyatt joined her, lifting his hand to run his knuckles down her cheek. She caught and held it close to her face. Her eyes were sad as if she'd been struggling with a problem and was unable to find a viable solution. Wyatt pulled her close and let his arms circle her.
"What do you plan to do?" she asked against his chest.
"We're going to do exactly what Horton suggested doing. We're going to activate Project Eagle and let the eagle fly."
***
Sandra turned her head, watching the light dance off the earrings that glittered in her ears. She fingered the chain around her neck which held the large stones, including the fifteenth stone. It had been Brooke's idea that the best way to keep the stones in order was to set them. She'd even recommended the jeweler. Sandra couldn't have asked for a better looking fake.
Of course, the idea of wearing a bomb around her neck took some of the glitter away from the stones, but she loved the feel of them as they brushed her skin. Wyatt had explained his plan on the walk back to the jeweler's. She admitted it was dangerous, but with a little luck they just might pull it off.
"They're beautiful pieces," me jeweler said. His name was Greg, and Brooke had told her he and Grant had known each other for years. "Few people would even be able to tell the stones weren't real diamonds."
Sandra nodded. She remembered when she'd first seen them, tumbling about on the floor of her mother's examining room. They were covered in Wyatt’s blood and had none of the brilliance they now possessed.
Suddenly, she had an idea. Turning away from the minor, she asked, "Do you think you could make a duplicate of these?"
"I could duplicate the stones, but certainly not the cargo," he said.
Brooke had sworn he was trustworthy. "I'd like a matching set, and I need it flawed. To the naked eye I want people to think there's something inside."
"Why?" he asked. "Most women want perfect fakes."
She reached up, removed the earrings and unhooked the precious stone hanging around her neck. Staring at them, she said, "I need them for a very specific purpose."
He hunched his shoulders as if he realized she wouldn't tell him the real reason. "They'll be ready by this time tomorrow."
"I appreciate your help."
Sandra and Wyatt left the jewelry store and went to Sandra's sister's hotel. She knew Annie wasn't going to take kindly to finding her on her doorstep again, but in order for Wyatt’s plan to work, they needed to find out who had the most to gam from getting the stones.
Using the same cautionary moves they'd employed before, they avoided the men watching the place and got inside. Taking a deep breath, Sandra knocked on the door. Annie opened it a moment later. She was dressed in a Japanese kimono. Her face had been completely made over with pasty white makeup that completely covered her dark skin. Black eyebrow pencil defined her eyebrows and her lips were unnaturally red. Her wig was jet black and on her head was an ancient Japanese headdress.
Sandra knew she hated the white makeup. One Halloween when they were planning to be clowns Annie had suddenly bolted when it was time to smear her face with the white color.
Sandra was surprised to find her still in costume. At six feet tall her height should have made her look silly in the outfit, but Annie's carriage was too good, too professional to make her look anything but wonderful.
Under the Sheets (Capitol Chronicles Book 1) Page 60