The body language of both men said this woman is mine.
Jax’s eyes narrowed a bit more. Emmie was (a) female and (b) Pickett’s friend. Alpha male to the core, that made her Jax’s to protect from any male’s encroachment.
Do-Lord met Jax’s eye in direct challenge. Emmie would be offended to her liberated core if she had any idea Jax thought he had the right to give her to someone. She’d be even more upset if she knew he was offering Jax a fight, if he wanted it, because he intended to claim her for himself.
One eyebrow lifted, he grinned a grin that said, What’s it gonna be? until with a tiny smile Jax ceded Emmie to him.
From now on, the lines of territoriality would be drawn with a subtle difference. Jax would still defend Emmie, but he would be defending Do-Lord’s territory rather than his own.
“Whose idea was it to switch the cakes?” Jax asked now, a slow smile taking over his face.
“Emmie’s. I just carried out orders.”
“Huh!” Emmie objected. “He did a complete save, that’s all. And Grace will never find out.”
Jax stood a table knife on its end, ran his fingers down it, flipped it. Did it again. “Oh, Grace will know.”
At the sudden grimness in his tone, Pickett squeezed his hand. “Jax. Let it go. It doesn’t matter.”
Pickett accepted the tender smile and the reassurances Jax gave her at face value. Do-Lord knew better. SEALs believed in accountability. Grace was going to find out that from now on there would be consequences, swift and painful, anytime she didn’t treat Pickett with care. And if she didn’t demonstrate she could be trusted, Jax would see to it that she never came near Pickett again.
Somewhere in this room was a man who had avoided the consequences of his dereliction for fifteen years, insulated by money and power. Do-Lord skimmed his hand across the cool silk of Emmie’s shoulder. He traced his finger over the little point where her collarbone ended.
Fate had put in his hands the means to penetrate the layers with which men like Calhoun guarded themselves—the layers which had once defeated him. Do-Lord felt a new surge of satisfaction. When the time came, Calhoun would know exactly who was holding him accountable, and for what.
At his touch Emmie turned toward him, a small inquiring tilt to her lips, the pupils of her wide summer-sky eyes huge—an autonomic nervous system sign of interest over which she had no control.
She also ran her fingertips through the ends of her hair, calling attention to its silky shimmer, and tilted her head toward him. Do-Lord could hardly believe it. Those were the very behaviors he’d noted this afternoon that she never did. Tonight she looked like a different woman. Her eyes looked larger and more tilted at their outer corners, and the strapless dress revealed a form that would stop traffic.
She was ready to move to the next stage.
His scrotum tightened. This was going to be good.
She took a sip of her champagne and smiled at him over the rim of her glass in shy invitation. Nothing improved a man’s mood like the prospect of getting laid, but the updraft of sexual anticipation he’d been riding suddenly died. She not only looked different tonight, she was acting different. He looked again at her eyes. Not only were the pupils large, they looked bleary and unfocused. Her gestures were larger, and she smiled more frequently.
“What kind of drugs are you doing?”
There was a small, but significant, lag as she processed his question. The first thing he’d noticed about her was how quick she was.
“No drugs,” she denied. “Except for the anti-inflammatory.”
“Don’t lie to me.” Cold disgust filled him. To think he’d been taken in by her air of primal innocence. “You’re on something.”
“No. I’m not.”
“Yes, you are,” Pickett contradicted, overhearing their exchange. “You took Vicodin too.”
“No, I didn’t,” Emmie objected. “It makes me”—she waved her hand helplessly—“strange.”
“Oops.” Pickett made a Charlie Brown chagrin-face. “I’m sorry, but you did take it. I gave it to you when Trish was cutting your hair. It should have worn off by now though—that was hours ago.” Pickett eyed her friend more closely. “You are acting kind of smashed. How much champagne have you had?”
Emmie ignored the question. “If you gave it to me then, what did Grace give me?”
“Grace gave you something?”
Emmie nodded. “When I went to the ladies’ room. She fixed my makeup and gave me my medicine.”
Pickett leaned past Jax to tap Grace’s shoulder. “Did you give Emmie her medicine?”
“Yes. I brought it with me because I knew she wouldn’t remember it. You didn’t need to try to keep up with it. I intended to give it to her when we sat down to eat since she’s supposed to take it with food. But I found her in the ladies’ room, so I went ahead and gave it to her. Is there a problem?”
Do-Lord caught Davy’s eye, and in a minute he excused himself from the well-endowed young lady he was charming. He dropped to a squat beside Do-Lord’s chair. “What’s up?”
With Grace and Pickett chiming in, Do-Lord explained the sequence of events and their concern about Emmie.
Davy grinned when he heard the story. “I think I know what happened. She was fine during the wedding, right? Then she had a couple of glasses of champagne, but she was still fine because the first dose was wearing off. Then Grace gave her more Vicodin, and it combined with the alcohol already in her system, and voila, snockered.”
“I never thought to warn her not to drink. Emmie doesn’t drink.” Grace threw up her hands. “You’ve been drinking on top of taking pain pills. Emmie, don’t you know anything?”
Emmie thought the question over carefully. “I know the periodic table of elements,” she announced solemnly. “I know how to conjugate all tenses of all English verbs and many Latin ones. I know how to calculate a chi square distribution. And,” she added with the superior smile of someone clinching an argument, “I know I like champagne.”
They were still kind of unfocused-looking, but Do-Lord thought he caught a mischievous gleam in Emmie’s oh-so-innocent eyes that said she was more sober than she appeared and was playing to her audience. She confirmed his hypothesis by grinning outright when everyone laughed. He had several times today relished her dry, slightly subversive wit delivered with bland innocence. He’d bet people who weren’t quick on the uptake thought she didn’t have a sense of humor.
Davy slapped his thighs and stood up. “I don’t think she needs medical attention. If more than one person manages her meds, get one of those pill-minders to keep from accidentally overdosing. In the meantime, I wouldn’t worry. You’re not going to let her drive, and she’s not operating heavy machinery.” He gave Emmie a warning look. “I’d go easy on the champagne, though. You’re sucking that stuff down.”
“I’m thirsty.”
“The codeine in the Vicodin dries up secretions and makes your mouth feel dry, but alcohol itself is dehydrating. The more you drink, the thirstier you’ll feel.”
“You’re cut off.” Do-Lord lifted the champagne glass from her hand. He thanked Davy with a nod. He helped Emmie to her feet and aimed her toward the non-alcoholic drink table, where an ornate silver punch bowl, big enough to bathe in, lent dignity to the choice not to imbibe in spirits. He guided her wobbling steps with an arm around her waist. “Walk straight,” he whispered, trying not to laugh. “You’re not that high.”
The relief he felt was way out of proportion, and he knew it. He had no moralistic aversion to drugs or those who used them. Where he came from drugs had been a fact of life and dealing the surest source of money, although he’d never dealt himself. He’d watched his mother drift into a fog of drugs that did a better job of supporting her fantasies than the real world did. He’d steered clear of drugs because someone had to be responsible, someone had to foresee consequences. The penalties for possession were severe, and even from a young age he’d realized no one would
look after his mother if he wasn’t there.
He’d land like a Humvee dropped from a transport helo on anyone under him who showed signs of using. SEALs had to be able to trust one another, and there was no trusting someone on drugs. As for the rest of the world—he didn’t have to trust the rest of the world. Drugs existed, and people used them. But he didn’t want Emmie to use. When he’d recognized the symptoms of being stoned, something within him had howled with a total-body fury that had left him momentarily weak.
“Drink this.” He handed her some of the fruity mixture dipped from the ornate silver punch bowl.
Emmie accepted the punch and sipped it, looking around. “Uh-oh. There’s Uncle Teague.” She grimaced. “I guess I have to speak to him—unless,” she added hopefully, “you think I really am too tipsy and probably shouldn’t, lest I make a fool of myself?”
“’Fraid not, kitten.” Do-Lord tapped her softly on her small, straight nose. He’d been tracking Calhoun the last couple of hours, as politician that he was, he worked the room. He would have gotten Emmie near him sooner or later, but to have Calhoun approach him was perfect. Still, he wasn’t faking his commiseration. He liked this playful, uninhibited Emmie, and now that he knew it wasn’t entirely chemically induced, he would have liked a little more time with her. Knowing it would be seen, he tightened his arm around Emmie briefly. “Too bad, but I think he’s seen you, and he’s heading this way.”
“Emmie, little Emmie!” Calhoun outstretched a tanned hand. His prematurely white, wavy hair and tanned, unlined face gave him a look of solid, mid-life vigor. His wide, sparkling white smile made it clear that nothing could have delighted him more than seeing Emmie, and he instantly fulfilled Emmie’s prediction. “You look just like your mother. How are you darlin’?”
Emmie rolled her eyes at Do-Lord as she accepted a kiss on the cheek from Calhoun. “Hello, Uncle Teague. Uncle Teague, may I present Chief Petty Officer Caleb Dulaude? Caleb, this is Senator Teague Calhoun and his wife, Charlotte.”
They shook hands all around. Calhoun’s hand was dry and firm, the clasp quick.
“Where are you from, son?”
Do-Lord didn’t like anyone to call him son. It was usually a power play, disguised as concern. It was a way of saying, “I’m the big guy. You’re the little guy.” Anybody who doubted it should try responding, “Well, Dad…”
“Alabama,” Do-Lord said aloud. He offered only the slightest inclination of his head.
Calhoun’s smile widened. “My father was from Alabama. He moved to North Carolina, but I still have relatives there. Where in Alabama are you from?”
“Near Rose Hill. There’s a portrait of—I guess it would be your father—in the town library.” It was a calculated risk, mentioning the portrait. He didn’t want Calhoun to suspect him yet, but he couldn’t resist the opportunity to drop a clue. After all, although he and Calhoun resembled each other very little, the portrait had been his first clue that his mother’s stories were not entirely products of her imagination.
“Well, well, well. It’s a small world, isn’t it? You probably know my cousins.”
Not likely. Even in a place as small as Rose Hill, people from Calhoun’s class moved in orbits that rarely converged with those of trailer trash. He’d known some of them by sight, though. Heard about their doings. Anything a Calhoun did was news in the whole county. Suddenly, Do-Lord’s breathing jammed. Those cousins were his cousins.
“Caleb and I were saying this afternoon that no matter where you go, you meet people you have connections to,” Emmie put in. “In fact, he has a direct connection to you.”
Oh, shit. Do-Lord jerked back from his daze of memories that were suddenly re-sorting themselves. For one confused second he couldn’t remember what he’d told her about Calhoun. Not that, surely. Had she somehow read his mind?
She turned to Do-Lord. “What did you say? You were ‘tasked to protect him?’”
Relief made the blood pound in his temples. He slammed the inner door on feelings that kept submerging him. He had to stop lagging behind the conversation and get ahead of it.
“You know, some SEALs saved my life in Afghanistan,” Calhoun boomed. “Say, was that your unit? I asked to meet them when I met with Admiral Stoner—wanted to have my picture taken with the sharpshooter.”
“Active SEALs’ pictures can’t appear in the media.”
“Why not?” Emmie asked.
“’Cause none of his buddies would want to be seen standing next to him.” Emmie gave him a blank look. “A lot of SEAL work is covert. The last thing we want is our fifteen minutes of fame. The picture would be everywhere on the Internet in a matter of hours, and terrorist groups would be using it for target practice. Terrorist organizations don’t like us much.”
“That’s what the Admiral told me,” the senator affirmed. Charming and charismatic, full of bonhomie, he still didn’t let the conversation veer away from him for more than a couple of seconds. The awareness steadied Do-Lord. He was back in the game. “And I guess you can’t say whether that was your unit.”
“No, sir.”
“Well, let me shake your hand again anyway—as a way of saying thank you to all our Special Operations.”
Charlotte Calhoun held out her hand. “I’d like to add my thanks, too,” she said in a soft voice. Turning to Emmie, she asked, “Have you two known each other long?”
“Uhm, no…”
Do-Lord gave Emmie an intimate smile. “Just long enough.”
“I’ve got an idea”—the senator beamed—“Emmie, why don’t you bring Chief Dulaude along to our Christmas open house? What’s the date, Charlotte, the fourteenth? I’ll make sure you get invitations. We used to leave the door open and tell our friends to come on in—just like it says. Now, they’ve got to have invitations and be checked off a master list. Hell of a world we’re living in.”
“Uh, I don’t know—”
“We’d love to.” With a wide smile Caleb forestalled her attempt to think of an excuse. Hot day-umn! He’d known Emmie could provide access to Calhoun, but he never expected it to be this easy.
“Can I refresh your drink, sir?” he asked, pointing to the nearly empty glass in the older man’s hand.
“I’d appreciate it.” Calhoun handed over the glass, a pale green paper cocktail napkin wrapped around its base. “Bourbon please. Something else for you Charlotte, Emmie?”
Charlotte shook her head, and Emmie admitted she was cut off. Do-Lord left them discussing the need for Emmie’s sling and the evils of mixing meds and alcohol.
As soon as he was out of their sight, he carefully inserted the highball glass into the zip plastic bag he had tucked in his pocket for this purpose. Calhoun had even had a napkin on the bottom of the glass, so Do-Lord hadn’t touched the glass and risked contamination of the sample.
Do-Lord knew who Calhoun was. He didn’t think he needed DNA proof, but it paid to make sure of one’s facts. Only Calhoun’s DNA would be on the glass, which would make the results indisputable.
As Emmie said, sometimes things went right.
“Can we have a drumroll please?” Jax called out as he placed his fingers around Pickett’s on the cake knife. The band’s drummer obliged, and when the cake slice touched down on the dessert plate Pickett held in her other hand, he finished with a cymbal ba-dum-dum-CHING! Grace looked on proudly.
Ignoring the advice yelled by some of their audience, Jax tipped a forkful of cake into Pickett’s laughing mouth, while she used her fingers to slip a frosting-laden bite between his lips. Pickett reached for a napkin, but Jax pulled her fingers to his mouth. The movement of his mouth against her fingers wasn’t blatant, but it was unquestionably sexy. Pickett’s cheeks flamed bright coral. The saxophone moaned. The drummer added a slide-whistle. Not to be outdone, the guitarist threw in some hot licks, which the drummer had to punctuate with more cymbal action.
The room erupted in laughter, applause, and a few whoo-hoos!
Emmie and Do-Lord
shared a secret smile.
“Ladies and gentlemen,” the band leader announced. “I give you Lt. Commander and Mrs. Jackson Graham.” The band swung into “The Way You Look Tonight.”
It was done. Emmie sank into a chair at one of the tables near the dance floor, so she could watch Pickett and Jax take their first dance as a married couple. Tears stung her eyes, but she didn’t want to cry. She wasn’t sad. She was happy for Pickett.
She and Pickett had seen this day coming for a long time. Planned for it, even. And promised each other that they would never let happen what they had seen happen with some of their other friends. She and Pickett wouldn’t lose their connection.
On the dance floor, Jax stopped pretending to hold a dance pose and put both arms around Pickett, letting his cheek rest on Pickett’s gold curls. He skimmed his palm down Pickett’s arm, and tears heated Emmie’s eyes again. Pickett had found someone who loved her, valued her, respected her. The gesture said everything about how he treasured her. It was right that Pickett had found someone to love her this way. Pickett had earned her moment. The scene blurred with tears Emmie refused to let spill.
She wasn’t emotional. Really. It was just that the wedding was over, and Emmie felt a little flat. Nothing rose to take its place. Emmie could feel herself fading back into the woodwork now that there was no longer anything she was supposed to do. She accepted her place on the edge of people’s lives. She knew how often others forgot she existed. She dressed so no one would notice her in an attempt to make it understandable for people to forget her. Occasionally, she feared she might forget her own self.
She wasn’t losing Pickett, but even if she thought she was, she loved her too much to mar her wedding with tears or trying to hold her back.
Her head felt more floaty than ever. Emmie touched the shorter ends of her hair. It was hard to keep her fingers away. Everything was strange. She was happy for Pickett, and they would talk, of course, but the course of Pickett’s life was altered now. So was hers. For many years she and Pickett had been not only best friends but each other’s emotional support. Emmie had even taken the job at UNC-Wilmington, at least in part, because Pickett lived in the area.
Mary Margret Daughtridge SEALed Bundle Page 41