Off the Leash

by M. L. Buchman

  “Apparently this part,” he looked up at Linda just in time to receive a cold, wet dog nose in one eye. “Yow! Cut that out you,” he wrapped his hands around Thor and lifted him aloft so that he could at least sit up.

  “What are you doing out here?”

  “I saw someone who didn’t fit.”

  “What?” Linda squatted down and took Thor from him, dropping the dog back on all fours on the concrete. Thor instantly bounded up to place his forepaws on Clive’s chest. He’d have gone down again if not for Linda’s support.

  “I was like you.”

  “I like you, too, but this is a damned weird time to be telling me.”

  “No, I— Wait! You do?”

  Linda huffed out a breath, which at least smelled of cheap coffee and a sugar donut rather than doggie biscuit. It was an improvement over Thor’s, but not by much. He was definitely going to have to fix that for her. This was a woman who deserved delicate pastry and good hot cocoa.

  “That isn’t what I meant. I mean that I was trying to be like you. And I saw a man in the crowd who doesn’t fit.”

  Linda didn’t even look around. Instead she closed her eyes for a moment. Then she cursed vilely and looked back at him.

  “Gray suit coat? Standing roughly past my right shoulder?”

  “That’s the one.” How did she do things like that?

  “Thanks, Clive. I should have seen that. I want you to leave now.”

  He swallowed hard. Was that all the thanks he was going to get? If he’d seen something important, it should mean more than—

  “Go back the way you came. Quietly pick up a uniform cop and get behind Mr. Gray Suit, outside the crowd. I’ll give you a ninety-second head start before I flush him.”

  Clive briefly pictured a flushing toilet and tried to imagine what that had to do with anything. Then he focused on Linda. She might not be a plumber, but she was definitely a hunter—a hunter of men. She was going to flush her quarry, as in make it run.

  She rose, grabbing his hand and proving her surprising strength as she tugged him to his feet.

  For just an instant they were chest to chest so that he had to look almost straight down to see her.

  “And yes, I do like you. Now get out of here,” she pushed him away, raising her voice for the last.

  Ninety seconds later—as he rushed to be in position with two uniformed officers—Linda and Thor circled along the front of the crowd. His height allowed him to follow the progress by momentary glimpses of her beautiful hair. She was almost upon the man in the gray suit before he noticed. He faded back into the crowd quickly—straight into the officers’ arms.

  Clive could get to enjoy this.

  Chapter Five

  “Good work this morning.”

  If one more person told her that, Linda was going to…she didn’t know what but she was definitely going to do it. If she ever had the energy to get out of this chair again.

  She’d made the mistake of dropping into a chair in the Secret Service Ready Room on the West Wing’s Ground Floor and now couldn’t find the motivation to get back out of it. There were only six agents in the room at the moment, and all of them had said the same thing already, so she was safe for the moment.

  She and Thor had spent the entire day, except for a far too short pee break for both her and the dog—in the room at the opposite end of the floor.

  The Situation Room—a place she’d never thought she’d ever see, even with her captain’s instruction to learn the entire building—had been both more and less than she’d expected. The President’s Briefing Room was but one small part of the Situation Room complex. There were secure phone booths just waiting for Clark Kent to turn into Superman, and meeting rooms for smaller groups, right down to two people. The biggest room by far was given over to the operations staff who sat at a two-tiered curved desk—three in front and three behind—each station with multiple monitors. These six watch officers were the heartbeat of the Situation Room, completely visible but never shown in the movies.

  She and Thor had spent the entire day in the Briefing Room, deconstructing every moment of a situation that had lasted less than thirty minutes. The main events had lasted less than ten.

  There had been a round robin of individuals. Captain Baxter. Harvey Lieber, freshly returned with the First Family, of course. A tall, slender, and somewhat terrifying woman—the White House Chief of Staff Cornelia Day—had also stepped in several times.

  Secretary of State Mallinson had been of frustratingly little help. Every idea by anyone earned a ten-minute lecture on the geopolitical implications of the shifting relations among various international trade organizations.

  The second man, Gray Suit, also had a Japanese diplomatic pass, but he appeared to be far less pleased about being apprehended. He was a career diplomat, stationed in DC for nearly two decades.

  The bomb squad had learned nothing from the X-ray except for the block of explosive inside the briefcase. Oddly, there was no apparent trigger mechanism. There were some other materials in there—which might have been papers or might have been the outline of a diplomatic pouch.

  This had earned them a thirty-minute lesson from Mallinson on the implications of violating the 1961 Vienna Convention as well as a byline history of various known times that a diplomatic pouch had been misused for the smuggling of weapons or hundreds of millions in American currency—the global bribery currency of choice.

  Unable to gain sufficient resolution, the bomb squad had the robot deliver it into the bomb containment chamber that the explosives team had brought with them. The weight of the briefcase was only four kilos and the chamber was rated to a ten-kilogram explosion, so they locked it in and drove away out of her life. They’d take it to Quantico and blow it up out on the demolitions range.

  A Secret Service tail confirmed that neither of the diplomatically immune terrorists—for so they were—had subsequently met with the Japanese Prime Minister at Blair House. The minister had, predictably, denied any knowledge of the two men. Nor had they headed up Embassy Row to the Japanese Embassy. Both men had turned instead for Dulles airport where they boarded a flight…to Beijing.

  That had really sent Secretary of State Mallinson off the deep end.

  Were they working for China? Attempting to disrupt the upcoming meeting about China’s incursions into the South China Sea?

  Was it merely misdirection and the two agents would board a connecting flight to Japan? Or some other country?

  While Mallinson railed, the CIA Director had contacted his Chinese counterpart. China had agreed to watch them closely to see what they did, but it was outside of US jurisdiction and no longer her problem.

  Linda’s best guess was that, whoever the two men worked for, their next action wouldn’t vary. They would step off the plane in Beijing with different identities than they had boarded and would blend into the disembarking crowd. The US had been unable to get an agent on the plane as the flight was full.

  That had brought up another puzzle. To board a full flight, they already had to have tickets. So their mission had only been delivery of the explosives. If it had been more, they would have missed their flight. It had all been pre-calculated with an impressive nicety of timing.

  Linda rubbed her eyes. The only light of the entire day had been when Clive had been brought in to discuss his part of the action.

  Mallinson had been called away to obstruct someone else’s effort at having a coherent thought, so at least he was spared that.

  Clive had been practically shaking with nerves as he’d looked about the Situation Room wide-eyed. Rather than going with the impulse to hold his hand to comfort him—especially because she had no idea where that came from, completely aside from it being wholly inappropriate—she’d scooped up Thor and dropped the dog in his lap.

  For a moment she’d been afraid Clive would hurt Thor with how hard he hugged the dog to his broad chest, but Thor merely snuggled in and then settled on his lap while Clive w
as interviewed. She wasn’t sure how she felt about the attachment between him and her dog. No, she wasn’t in the least bit sure about that.

  Thankfully, he’d left out any comments about his saying he liked Linda, changing the reason that he’d initially gone to her. “I was just being nice, wanting to check in that she was liking her new job. I hadn’t seen her in three days.”

  Had it really been that long? She felt oddly guilty about that.

  She did her best to suppress her envy that he’d been freed after only an hour. She’d spent eleven hours being grilled—or lectured.

  “You look done in,” a deep male voice addressed her.

  “A military mission debrief is ten times easier. And thanks. Exactly what a woman always wants to hear.” She rubbed her eyes one last time before forcing them open.

  Clive.

  “Decided to brave the West Wing a second time?” She asked him.

  He shrugged. “Might not have if I knew I needed an agent escort just to see you here.”

  “I’ve got him, thanks,” she waved off the agent who had accompanied him into the part of the building that his pass wouldn’t admit him. A funny contrast. As a senior chef, he had one of the highest clearances available—Presidential Proximity without an agent escort. However, as a chef, he had no clearance to the political areas of the White House’s operations.

  “What are you doing here, Clive?”

  “Checking up on you.”

  “I’m fine.” Nothing a dozen hours of sleep wouldn’t fix. Except for having the lesson driven home that terrorists weren’t only on foreign soil. Nothing was going to fix that.

  “You are fine,” his smile said that he was talking about more than her general well-being. “But you don’t look it.”

  “Again with the sweet talk.”

  “Should I whisper in your ear about chocolate ganache or hot cocoa?”

  She gave a dutiful chuckle. “Might work on me at this point, who knows.”

  Ignoring the fact that they weren’t alone, he leaned toward her until she half thought he was going to kiss her. Another image she didn’t seem to mind. Instead, he placed his mouth close beside her ear and whispered with that luscious voice of his, “Shining chocolate ganache. Steaming hot cocoa. Dark cherry truffle. Butterscotch praline.”

  Linda’s laugh was bright—doubly so because it was so unexpected. Clive hadn’t even been sure she could laugh. It filled the room and drew the attention of the other agents.

  That was the moment that Clive realized what he had just done, flirted with a Secret Service agent while she was surrounded by other Secret Service agents. The heat rushed to his face, but he couldn’t do anything about it. His cheeks seemed to burn.

  “I—” There was no excuse for embarrassing her in her new workplace. “I’ll just go now.” He resisted the urge to sprint from the room but did make a point of using his long legs to advantage. Except he had no idea where he was in the rabbit warren that was the West Wing Ground Floor.

  People were streaming up and down the corridors. Some pulling on coats in the hopes of escaping at the end of the day before some new crisis trapped them. Others hurried by—clearly still caught up in the frenetic business of the government. No matter what he did, he felt he was getting in deeper rather than finding his way out. His quiet, safe chocolate shop seemed to get farther away with each step.

  He turned a corner and recognized the Navy Mess as much by scent as anything else. In another direction he spotted the two Marines guarding the Situation Room. He’d almost fainted in there today, would have if not for Linda’s kindness. Not a chance he was going anywhere near that.

  He swung the other way and plowed squarely in Linda, bowling her over. Thor stood directly behind her, taking her out at the knees, and she tumbled backward through a door and then was gone as it swung closed.

  Thor looked up at him in surprise at being suddenly separated from his mistress.

  Clive looked at the sign on the door and knew that his day had, impossibly, taken a turn for the worse. It read: Men’s Lavatory.

  Chapter Six

  Linda wasn’t quite sure how it had happened.

  Clive had refused to stop apologizing until she’d agreed that he could take her out to dinner. It was one of the trigger phrases she’d learned long ago. In a guy’s mind, “dinner out” meant “hopefully with meaningless sex for dessert.” Her standard answer of “thanks but no way in hell” didn’t appear with Clive.

  Instead, she’d happily followed him to the kitchen beneath the Residence, which was apparently his idea of a dinner out.

  It was late enough that the kitchen itself was quiet. A sour-faced man, introduced to her as Chef Klaus, offered her a scowl and Thor another before returning to his tiny office. An on-call chef puttered away in the pastry kitchen. The massive White House kitchen was theirs alone.

  A stove with a dozen gas burners, two big grills, mixers almost as tall as she was with bowls that Thor could have slept inside. Multiple ovens with more controls than she’d ever seen before, an espresso machine that would be the envy of even a Starbucks barista, dozens of pots and pans hanging from overhead hooks, a meat slicer, knife racks… It never seemed to end—everywhere she looked there was more kitchen equipment.

  But there were none of the homey touches of Clive’s chocolate shop. No pictures on the walls, no sketches taped onto refrigerator doors. It felt cold despite the warmth of the room. Without thinking about it much, she’d scooted her stool closer to where Clive was cooking.

  Partly to watch him. His big fingers were surprisingly nimble as he selected, sliced, and seasoned. His hands looked as if they belonged to a stone mason or a US Ranger. But after years of hard use in the field, a Ranger’s hands would be hard-pressed to do any fine work—except strip and clean a weapon, of course. Clive’s massive hands appeared to fly as he sprinkled a pinch of salt into a heating pot of pasta water and then began building a sauce.

  She also scooted closer because it felt warmer near him. Not just the burners roaring with bright blue flames. There was something about Clive that drew her in. His willingness to walk into an explosives danger zone to warn her of something he’d seen that she should have. What man did that? Clive Andrews. And what had he said when he arrived? That he was trying to be like her…intentionally! Why anyone would do that was beyond her, but Clive had. As to his saying that he liked her—in the middle of her first-ever diplomatic crisis—well, it was beyond strange.

  While the fettuccini boiled, Clive thin-sliced and sautéed chicken. At the last moment he tossed in lemon juice, shallots, and slivers of lemon complete with the peel. Thor was just going to have to wait for dinner until they got home, but it was hard to care because it smelled so heavenly.

  Then Clive pulled out some hamburger. “I’m not sure what to put in this, I’m not used to cooking for a dog.”

  “A lump of that, raw. That’s grounds to win love forever. Uh, his love.” If Clive noticed her stumble, he didn’t comment on it.

  Instead he laughed aloud.

  “Ground beef as grounds for love. Good one.”

  Which she hadn’t actually thought of as a pun.

  “That is precisely what every man needs, the love of a good dog. Doesn’t he?” Clive asked Thor as he set to work. He placed a fist-sized ball of burger in a small bowl—thankfully her fist and not his, which would be nearly the size of Thor’s head—and quickly beat in an egg. Then he set it upon a white plate. Somehow, with those big hands of his, he quickly shaped it into an elegant form as if it was a tiny meat Bundt cake complete with spiral flutes up the sides and a hole in the middle.

  Why was she feeling a fit of pique that he was doting on her dog and not on… She needed her head fixed.

  “Does he like greens?”

  “I…don’t know. Most dogs do.” She’d given him kibble and canned dog food so far. She’d only had him five days, nowhere near enough time to learn his preferences. Not even enough time to learn her own. The s
cramble of these last days had relegated her meals to pizza by the slice from the corner shop near her apartment. She’d often buy an extra couple slices to have cold leftovers for breakfast.

  Clive held out a small piece of spinach. Thor roused himself enough in her lap to happily chomp it down. Clive diced up enough to fill the hole he’d shaped inside the raw hamburger patty. He crumbled bacon over the top, throwing more into the sauce for their own dinner.

  “That looks good enough for me to eat, forget about the dog.”

  “For a good tartare, I would fresh chop a much finer grade of meat and add some more spice. I make a good one, I’ll do that some other time.” Clive just smiled as he scooped out the finished fettuccini, let it drain for a moment, then dumped it into the sauce pan.

  As if he hadn’t ever so casually dropped his plans that this wouldn’t be a one-time event. His confidence was amazing, which she liked, but with none of the arrogance that typically went with it.

  He stirred it a few times. Then, in quick, neat motions, he mounded the fettuccini in elegant twists on a pair of white plates. Finally he grated Parmesan cheese on the top.

  “I thought you were a chocolatier.”

  “I am.”

  “But you can cook as well.”

  “Of course.”

  “There’s no ‘of course’ about it.”

  “Why? What’s the last meal you cooked?”

  Linda puzzled at that. The last time she’d cooked, something fancier than frozen pizza or a can of soup…

  Clive stopped halfway through mincing some parsley. “You do cook, don’t you?”

  “Well, the Army sort of took care of that for the last decade. Or Mom’s maid the few times I was dumb enough to go home on leave.”

  “Please tell me that you are joking,” Clive sounded deeply offended.

  “I can cook…” Linda gave up. “Though, honestly, nothing fancier than scrambled eggs and burnt toast.”

  He squinted closely at her.

  “What?”