The Scotland Yard Exchange Series

by Stephanie Queen

  “Why not?”

  “Why not what?”

  “Sleep with me. I figure the vote will follow.” She didn’t laugh. He turned away, and then looked back again. “How long are you going to make me pay for one mistake? It really hurts that you think so little of me. What can I do to change your mind, to make up for the past?”

  “Concede the race to me.” She said it deadpan.

  “What, are you crazy?” He said it lightly. The tension was gone. She breathed a sigh of relief.

  “You don’t think I’m better than you?” She couldn’t help teasing him even as she thought it was dangerous to go back to that, to the way they were.

  “It doesn’t matter what I think. Only what the voters think matters.”

  She laughed, truly amused. He swore under his breath.

  “That was true political form. Too bad it was all wrong for the moment, since we were supposed to be having a real honest and personal discussion. But at least it illustrates perfectly the answer to your question,” Madeline said.

  “What?”

  “It wasn’t about your so called ‘mistake.’ It’s much more fundamental than that. It’s your approach to life. You think that honesty has to be used selectively and sparingly, like a political tactic. You had no problem throwing out the rulebook when it was a good career move. Don’t tell me—I know. It was expedient. The ends justified the means, no harm done, etc., etc.” She didn’t mean to get serious again.

  He shook his head at her. Then he patted her arm as if she were a difficult child who needed to be calmed after a tantrum. “If you were being honest with yourself, you’d admit I was right. The man was a murderer and his so-called alibi was a liar. He ended up in jail the way he should have. Not for long, of course. You saw to that. But someday you’ll learn how the system works. Of course, I wanted to be the one to teach you.”

  He grinned and added, “But you might do okay. Who knows? Your honesty and non-negative campaign emphasis really hit home. It turned out to be an excellent strategy, especially the way you handled it. At some points, I thought you could almost win. At those moments, do you want to know what I thought? Deep down—underneath the panic—do you know what I felt?” She shook her head, caught up in his rhetoric in spite of herself. “Euphoria. That’s what I felt. I was thrilled at the thought. I’d catch myself thinking how greatly astounding it would be if you won.” Peter’s blue eyes were bright with intensity, trained on her like lasers.

  “You almost have me believing you’re disappointed I lost the nomination.”

  “No. I knew you would lose. The delegates don’t care how good you are. They were too stupid to vote for you.” He stared at her with those bold blue eyes. She stared back, trying not to be flattered or excited by his words. But he’d said too much. He was too cynical. She reminded herself not to read anything between the lines.

  “Why didn’t you say that in a speech? ‘Vote for Madeline or you’re stupid.’” He smiled at that, so she continued. “As it was, too many of them listened to your rhetoric about how naïve and inexperienced I am and I had to laugh. To listen to you, one would think I had the gumption of a marshmallow. Now don’t tell me you really believed that bull?” This was a question she wanted him to answer.

  “I know you’re tough enough to take it. I’ve seen it. But I hated that. Don’t you understand? I don’t want to see you take any hits. I don’t want you to get eaten alive even though you may come out the winner. You’d end up a cynic. There are already enough of us in the world, especially in politics. I know I joke about it, but I really don’t want to see you turn into one. I don’t want to take that chance.”

  “I see. Protecting me from myself again. It’s not your chance to take. You really have a problem if you think I’ll forgive you because your intentions are noble. You are wrong. I don’t think it’s noble to lie or try to protect me or to prevent me from striving for my goals. My life is mine. And I will win—eventually. That seems to me to be something about me that you forgot. I’m determined.”

  “Oh yes. But I didn’t forget. And no, I knew you wouldn’t think of me as noble. I don’t think I’m noble. It’s pure selfishness. I’m protecting my own interests. Because if you got hurt, it would hurt me.”

  “Stop it. You’re getting silly—no, stupid. Besides, it’s not like we’re in a war. I can handle rhetoric. It bounces off me. You know, sticks and stones.”

  “But what about disappointment?”

  “It’s you that has trouble handling disappointment, not me.”

  “What about disillusionment? What if your people turned out to be as stupid as I say they are instead of as decent as you think? What if you become cynical?”

  “Like you?”

  “I couldn’t stand to see that happen.”

  “Don’t worry. If I lived to be a hundred I couldn’t see enough for that to happen.”

  He shook his head as if considering her words and took a breath. “How about if you join me instead?” he asked.

  She looked for the telltale signs to make sure he wasn’t patronizing or placating, to make sure he sincerely wanted her to say yes.

  Then she said, “No.”

  The unadorned bluntness of the statement was all she needed to convince him. After all, he knew her well. He always thought he could cover his disappointment from her. But there were those telltale signs again. That subtle twitch of one corner of his mouth. That was the renegade body part, the one he couldn’t control, the one that was always first to show his true feelings.

  He reined himself in. He had to be careful. Her PhD in Psych was well deserved. She knew people’s minds, especially his. He watched her eyes pool to understanding as if she really could read his soul. He’d forgotten her power of perception. She had a ridiculously uncanny ability to read people. It was something he’d been startled by and impressed with since the first day they met six years before. He let himself smile, remembering the day. It was a universe ago, in Boston Superior Court…

  “Peter John Douglas. I know your father well.” The judge said.

  “I hope you don’t hold that against me, Judge Lake.” It was his stock answer, but it had served him well so far in his brief career as assistant DA in Middlesex County. After his stint in military special ops, he didn’t know if he could last too much longer at this. The grind of the endless stream of look-alike petty criminals and their invariable rap sheets bogged down with the same uninspired list of charges was getting to be more tedious than a long-term surveillance assignment—though he still insisted to himself that he was not the action junky his father had accused him of being. To prove it, he went along with his father’s notion that this assistant district attorney appointment was a suitable stepping-stone for any notable career path. He knew his father was right.

  Peter grinned wide in spite of the judge’s familiar refrain. He was probably the only one who held it against himself that the honorable, esteemed—not to mention politically connected and wealthy—John Robert Douglas was his father. No, maybe his mother held it against him, too, on occasion.

  Judge Lake laughed.

  Peter John tried not to grit his teeth. Then he glanced at the young woman who’d been dragged in as an expert witness by the public defender. Some expert. She looked like an undergrad. He stopped himself from rolling his eyes and determined to be polite. It was one of the sage bits of advice that his father had drilled into him that he actually practiced—and it had worked unfailingly in his favor. Politeness and professionalism went a long way in a business where it was increasingly tough to distinguish the lawyers from their criminal clients by the manners and language they used. Among other things, his father had raised a gentleman.

  The public defender whispered to her expert with a sidelong glance at Peter John. The expert’s eyes were on him when they widened in disbelief then frankly stared at him with an assessing gaze.

  “Will the defense proceed?” The judge finished his conference with the clerk. “But we don�
��t have a lot of time. So make it brief.”

  “I brought my expert with me, Your Honor, may it please the court—to let her speak to the psychological state of my client and his credibility?”

  “Shoot—any objections, Peter?”

  “No, Your Honor.” He turned to look at the expert, once again struck by her youthful, somewhat innocent demeanor.

  “I presume her credentials are in order?” the judge asked.

  “I have her CV. This is Madeline Grace, PhD in Psychology from Harvard, where she’s a notable research scientist and professor. Pulitzer Prize-winning author of the book The Justice Gene on socio-psychological evolution as it relates to justice and humanity, with many articles published in the areas of truth, justice and survival.” The defense counsel finished. Peter couldn’t help but raise his eyebrows. That book was well spoken of—not quite a pop-culture title, but a runaway hit nevertheless. Like Stephen Hawking’s book on the universe, it had made the woman famous, even more so than her research. He looked her over once again. Very interesting. He kept his smile to himself—for the moment.

  “Okay. Get on with it.” The judge hurried her, clearly familiar with the title and impressed with the credentials, but he seemed to be speculating about the woman who appeared before him, Peter thought.

  The public defender nodded to her expert.

  “I’ve been brought in to review the transcripts and tapes, interview the defendant in question and give my expert opinion and affidavit on the mental state of the defendant and the lie detector test to support a reconsideration of the decision on bail. In my opinion, the defendant only conceded the possibility of guilt as a way to plea bargain. The lie detector test should be disregarded as invalid since even the test questions gave unreliable results.”

  “Is this true, Peter John?” the judge questioned with surprised interest.

  “Yes, Your Honor. The needle jumped all over the place. Won’t be much use in court. As for the plea bargain, well, it’s true there were discussions, but that broke down halfway through and now—well, here we are poised for trial.”

  “What do you have to say for yourself?” The judge looked at the public defender.

  Peter John interrupted. “Your Honor, I would question whether or not these facts, although true enough, should enter into the decision about setting bail at all. I would submit that these are very good points to make at trial”—he smiled at the public defender—“but of little use for the purpose of reconsidering bail.” He smiled politely, almost apologetically, this time.

  “Exactly so,” the judge said.

  The expert laughed.

  They all turned to her. The public defender turned beet red, hastily grabbed up her papers and rushed off.

  “So, Madeline Grace is it? What was that all about?” Peter asked as he followed her out.

  “I told her the same thing you did.” Madeline shook her head in the direction of the retreating woman. “She’ll be okay. I’ll come through for her at the trial—when it counts.” Madeline stopped and looked up at him.

  She smiled with brilliant teeth and a dimple and, if he wasn’t mistaken, a flashing wink. She turned and pushed the door of the court open to the bright sunshine. It gleamed off her golden hair.

  “Wait a sec…” Peter looked after her and then turned back to the court, muttering. His manners dictated that he stay for a chat with the judge. But the judge had disappeared—as suddenly as Peter’s vaunted politeness had apparently disappeared, he thought wryly. Instead of going to the judge’s chambers, he spun back around and, tapping down the steps in a staccato beat, he followed after her.

  “Excuse me, may I call you Madeline? Could I buy you a cup of coffee?” He thought she did a fairly poor job of hiding her surprise, but her recovery was instantaneous. He was not surprised at that.

  “Most people call me Mad. Sure, I’ll join you for coffee.” She flashed him another smile, this one knowing. She didn’t seem so young anymore.

  That was the beginning for them.

  The beginning for Peter—“the Rock” as his mother was fond of calling him. His father would correct her and say more like a pillar because Peter was much more auspicious than a mere rock. His father was proud, also a little disdainful. But he had a heavy dose of irreverence in his nature or he would never have considered marrying his wife, and that, Peter figured, was also why his father adored Madeline.

  Now with some considerable pain, Peter stood looking into her eyes that seemed too smart. Nothing could remain hidden from her if she wanted to see it. She knew people as individuals, but she was far too optimistic about human nature. He supposed he felt protective of her for that reason.

  When they’d broken off their engagement, his pain had been physical. When he told his father, his father had been livid, and had felt the loss more than Peter expected. Peter had told him then, “If you are so goddamn in love with her then you marry her!” It had been a deliberate shot aimed at both his parents. He’d never been so deliberately mean and hurtful in all his life—including his adolescence—especially to his parents. And he never was again since then. But they knew he was deeply wounded. That was how he’d felt anyway: like he’d been gutted.

  Standing in the hotel room with her now, he closed his eyes. He had to. She saw his pain and knew its origin. And if there was one thing he did not want from her, it was sympathy. Not that she’d give him much. But she’d understand, and that somehow was worse. He didn’t fully understand everything about how he felt about her—about where he stood with her—and he was deeply reluctant to delve into that bit of introspection, especially now. Maybe he should. He didn’t like the mystery. But his fear of what he might find out about himself was greater.

  “Peter.”

  He opened his eyes. She smiled gently. He let out his breath. It wasn’t so bad after all, having her understand, having someone understand better than him.

  “You know you’re the best man I ever met…”

  “But,” he interrupted her, “but you have bigger and better things to do than to play second fiddle to me. I know I disappointed you once.”

  She sighed. He knew she didn’t want to talk about it. He sighed too.

  She stopped and really looked at the wry, somewhat sad smile on his face. The smile would have been harmless—if it hadn’t been for his eyes.

  Those crystal clear blue bedroom eyes. Sometimes they were merely intense with passion, and other times they were like mirrors reflecting endlessly, but they were always compelling—and they were always sexy.

  And he knew it. Oh no. She felt a split second of panic.

  He stepped forward, cupped the back of her head with one hand, grabbing a handful of her hair, caressed her jaw with the other hand and covered her mouth with his in a hungry no-holds-barred kiss. They’d always had the best kisses. She didn’t know if it was a match of anatomy or chemistry or just the linking of two souls. Whatever it was, the undeniable connection was there—still. He moved his lips from hers and moved his arms to hold her body to his. When he spoke she held her breath, fearing what he might say.

  “I think part of why I miss you is that you challenge me. It’s like in the movies when the good guy and bad guy meet each other and they hate everything each other stands for and yet they admire the way they stand—the strength and competence. They respect the ability; they need the challenge of an able foe. That’s sometimes how I think of you,” he said, somehow without melodrama and at least partly serious.

  She let out her breath and laughed. She didn’t know what she had expected, but not that.

  “Well, it’s a good thing this isn’t the movies. Otherwise I’d have to kill you, of course with great regret,” she said. He laughed, a mellow, relaxed laugh. Maybe this was what she feared: the breaking down of all their barriers. Too late to worry.

  “It’s not that we’re enemies,” he assured her.

  “No. Foils for each other, maybe competitors?”

  “A lot of partners are li
ke that, even husbands and wives…” He smiled broadly, mocking his own wistfulness.

  This time she laughed with a spike of trepidation. So she shifted the subject. “It’s amazing that the media never picked up on this…on our past.” It worked. He looked like she’d shoved ice down his pants.

  “We’ve hardly begun. Wait.” He folded his arms and continued to look at her, back to his unreadable self.

  “You’re forgetting…I’m not officially in the race anymore. I lost, remember?” He frowned at the reminder and she smiled softly. “Besides, your family has done a remarkable job of pretending it never happened. And we always knew what an accomplished actor you could be.”

  “Is that bitterness I hear? Again? Do you harbor resentment? Have you forgotten that you’re the one who ended it?” His eyes glittered. Maybe he really was angry.

  “You’re right. But not without damn good reason, or maybe you’ve forgotten.” The spike of tension reminded her that she still felt too much. Her heart pounded. “Look, I know I’ve been just as reticent about the past as you have. After all, the relationship was short-lived. So few people knew.” Now she sounded wistful herself. Time for some distance.

  “No one knew how intense it really was.” He stared at her now and moved closer. “Except us.” When he would have kissed her again she backed away, not because she didn’t want him to kiss her, but because she did.

  “You have your answer. I won’t change my mind, at least not over a few kisses.” She withheld her smile to impress her point. His expression didn’t change. But he flexed his hands.

  “There could be more,” he said. She figured he was only half joking. Then he turned away from her. “I suppose this is the response I expected so at least I’m not disappointed. I guess I wanted to connect again. I didn’t want to pretend we…never mind.” He finished with a shrug and turned back to face her.

  “It’s okay. I know what you mean. I still love you too.” She hadn’t planned to make that admission. That kind of vulnerability was dangerous. Either it was a measure of how strong she was feeling—or more likely she was being foolishly reckless. Enough of that. She smiled wistfully, touched his face fleetingly, then turned and walked to the window.