Troubleshooters 05 Into The Night

by Suzanne Brockmann

  He was Secret Service—no doubt about it. But was he there to keep the unwanted, potentially dangerous riffraff out?

  Or in?

  "I need to speak with Joan DaCosta," Muldoon said. "She doesn't seem to be coming to me, so I thought I'd go looking for her. I know she's around here somewhere."

  "I'm sorry, sir. You've been asked to stay here, in your room."

  "Actually, I haven't been asked anything," Muldoon said, just as pleasantly. "I've only been told." He was running very low on patience—particularly after seeing his picture all over CNN and finding out that certain White House staff members were planning his wedding to a woman he'd never even met.

  "I'm sorry, sir." The agent sounded anything but sorry. "But I can't let you out into the hall without authorization."

  It was absurd. In fact, it was positively ridiculous. Was it possible that this whole thing was Joan's idea of a bad joke?

  From down the corridor, possibly even from the next room over, he could hear the unmistakable sound of her laughter.

  "Look," he told the agent, trying his best to sound not even remotely pissed off, "she's just down that way. I can hear her. I'd like to—"

  "I'm sure she'll be here soon then," the agent said. "I'm going to have to ask you to step back into the room and wait for her there. There's a room service menu on the table, sir."

  Oh, food made it all better. Right.

  As much as he longed to put his fist in this guy's smug face, Muldoon knew that that would be a mistake. If he really wanted to get into a brawl to blow off a little steam, he could do it easily enough later, in the parking lot of the Ladybug with Sam and Cosmo.

  For the first time in a long time, he actually itched to get into a fight.

  Not a good sign.

  Maybe if he could talk to Joan and find out what in God's name was going on, everything would make sense and he'd start to feel better.

  He closed the door on Smugly and, looking across at that still brightly sunlit balcony, he bolted the locks from the inside. Maybe he couldn't go out into the hall, but now Smugly couldn't come in, either.

  The slider to the balcony unlocked easily. He slid the door open and was hit by a breezy gust of fresh air that made the filmy white curtains billow. He brushed past them and stepped outside.

  And, sure enough, a child could get from his balcony to the next room's.

  Well, okay, an athletic child.

  Of course, timing was essential, considering that both balconies were in direct view of the windows of the function room where the admiral's party was due to start in just a short time.

  In fact, Muldoon could see what had to be several more Secret Service agents through those windows. He could pick them out just from the way they stood.

  He waited until he could see the backs of their heads and then quickly swung himself up onto the rail and...

  Then there he was, standing nonchalantly on his immediate neighbor's balcony, as if he'd come out to look at the ocean view. He wasn't even breathing hard.

  The first of two sliders was closed, the filmy curtain drawn. It was the bedroom, and he moved past it quickly, aware that about five people were in there, one of them sitting on the king-sized bed.

  The second slider—the door leading into the suite's sitting room—was open. Muldoon stood there, listening, as he looked inside.

  This suite was even bigger than his, and there were at least another half dozen people in various places around the room. The TV was on and tuned to CNN, but the volume was muted— no doubt because nearly everyone in there was talking on then-cell phone.

  Including Joan, who was over by the bedroom door.

  He stepped into the room, and no one so much as gave him a second glance.

  "I'm sure time will open up in several weeks," Joan was saying into her phone as Muldoon took a seat not far from her on a cushy sofa with a floral pattern. "Yes." Pause. "Yes, I understand the story's hot now, but there are only twenty-four hours in a day. I'm afraid even you can't—" Pause. "And we appreciate it. We do. And I'm sure you can appreciate Brooke's desire not to schedule television appearances while Lieutenant Muldoon is stateside."

  Well, that pretty much took care of any of his lingering doubts. He'd been hoping that Joan had had nothing whatsoever to do with the news stories about his so-called relationship with Brooke Bryant. Yet here she was, spinning it like a pro, making it sound as if he were doing far more with Brooke than merely escorting her to one single party.

  "Thank you," she said into the telephone. "I will definitely get back to you before the end of the day, but please don't be offended if..." Pause. "That's right. Thank you. Thank you." She hung up her phone with a snap. "Jee-zus!" She leaned farther into the bedroom. "Myra. We don't want to do Larry King Live tomorrow night, do we?"

  "No!" came a shout back.

  Joan had her cell phone open and was dialing again. "Yeah, Meredith. Joan. I need a huge-large. In about an hour, call Matt over at Larry King and tell him we can't do tomorrow's show. Apologize, send flowers, make sure they know we love them, and that if Brooke were doing any TV appearances, they'd be high on our list." Pause. "Bad," she said. "And, God, I still haven't talked to Mike—we've been playing telephone tag all afternoon." Pause. "Wouldn't you be mad? He's here at the hotel, right next door, in fact. I just can't bring myself to go over there." Pause. Laughter. "Yeah. Avoid. Always a good policy. Except I'm going to have to talk to him sooner or later. Right. Later, babe."

  Snap.

  There was a counter separating a kitchen area from the rest of the room, and Joan put her cell phone down on it and climbed up on one of the stools. "Give me a scotch and soda on the rocks—make it a double," she said to one of the men who was in the kitchen.

  "Sorry, this is for Brooke," he said. "You have to wait until you're downstairs for yours."

  "I have to wait until tonight is over," she countered. She pointed to the drink. "That's watered down, right? She's already had a few."

  He took a sip, testing. "If it's too watery, she'll come out here and add more scotch herself. We definitely don't want that."

  "Good point. Grab me a coffee mug while you're back there, will you, Dave?"

  "Just what you need—more caffeine," he said, but he took a mug down from the cabinet and slid it along the counter to her.

  "Thanks." There was a coffee machine set up right there, the pot half full, and she poured herself a cup. "So she's agreed to go downstairs?"

  Dave nodded as she took a sip. "Yeah. She'll do it. But she's pretty upset. Do you trust your guy? Should we let him into the loop?"

  "I haven't talked to him yet." Joan put the mug and then her head down on the counter. "Oh, God. I've been putting it off. As of right now, Myra says no. The fewer people who know the real deal, the better." She lifted her head. "I just wish I had been let in a little sooner."

  "Welcome to the White House." The man named Dave carried the drink into the bedroom.

  As Muldoon watched, Joan sat there, forehead in hand, dressed to the nines in a black evening gown, staring into her coffee. She looked gorgeous. And exhausted.

  He refused to feel badly for her. There was no doubt about it now. She'd used him.

  With one finger, she made her cell phone spin on the counter.

  Muldoon took out his own phone and dialed her number.

  Across the room, Joan's phone shrilled, and she sat up. She opened it up, looked at the number on its screen—his—and made a face. "Shit."

  Not too happy to hear from him, apparently.

  She didn't blow him off, though. She braced herself, took a deep breath, exhaled hard, then punched the talk button and brought the phone to her ear. "Hey, Mike." She managed to sound practically cheerful.

  "Hey, Joan. Am I just going to sit here in suspense all night or are you going to bother to explain to me what the hell is going on?"

  Across the room, her head was in her hands again. "Oh, Mike, I am so sorry. I had no idea it would get out of ha
nd like this. And then that picture of you appeared and—

  "It appeared," he said. "You didn't go searching for it?"

  "Absolutely not."

  "And I should believe you because... ?"

  "Because I value your friendship. And because I have no reason to lie to you."

  "Ah," he said. "But when you do have reason to lie, that's when I should look out, huh? Like when you want to set me up so you can send out a press release announcing that Brooke and I have been exchanging email? Or maybe you don't think writing and sending email in someone else's name is lying."

  Joan's back stiffened. "You knew?"

  "Yeah," he told her. "How about that? I'm not as dumb as I look."

  "I never thought you were dumb." Joan slipped off the stool and moved across the room, right past him, literally inches from his white shoes, over to the sliders and out onto the balcony. Clearly, she wanted a little privacy. "I just... Brooke didn't want to write to you. She's ... I can't tell you the details about what's going on here. I wish I could. I can only tell you that she's been distracted lately. I'm sorry, I know that's not enough, but... She asked me to send you a reply, to use her email address and sign her name, so I did. I should have sent a stock message, 'Looking forward to seeing you, blah, blah, blah.' I didn't, and you wrote back and I... It was a mistake and I'm sorry, but I swear to you that I wasn't trying to set you up for this current media circus. I know that's what you're thinking, but it's just not what happened."

  As she spoke, he got to his feet and moved to the balcony door. She was standing out there, all by herself.

  "Okay," he said into his telephone as he stepped outside, too. "I'm listening. What did happen?"

  Joan did a double take as he leaned against the railing right next to her. "Who let you ..." She realized she was still talking into her telephone, and she snapped it shut. "Who let you into Brooke's room?" she asked him directly.

  Muldoon closed his phone, too, and put it into his pocket as he gazed at her. "I let myself in. I got tired of waiting. Good thing I did. Obviously you weren't in any rush to come talk to me."

  "It wasn't supposed to happen this way," she said, looking him squarely in the eye. "None of this. My boss called me yesterday and said, 'Tell me about this Lt. Michael Muldoon who's listed on our sheet as Brooke's escort to tomorrow night's party in Coronado.'

  "So I told her that you were a really great guy who'd volunteered to walk into the room with Brooke on your arm and to stand there, next to her, looking gorgeous and heroic while everyone stared.

  "And she goes, 'Did you know she's been exchanging email with him?'

  "And I said, 'Oops, boss, that wasn't Brooke, that was me.'

  "And she said, 'Don't tell me that—I don't want to know. As far as I'm concerned, Brooke and the lieutenant have been corresponding and they're an item. It will be to everyone's advantage—particularly the President's—if we leak the story that she's dating a hero.'

  "And I said, 'Don't use his name. Call him an officer in the Navy SEALs, if you must. And whatever you do, don't mention that he spent any time in Afghanistan—we don't know for a fact that he was there.'

  "The story went out," Joan continued, "and all the major news organizations wanted a piece of it. We didn't give them any more information, but someone apparently leaked a copy of Brooke's schedule and your name was on it. Like I said, I honestly had no idea—

  "Oh, come on," Muldoon said. She made a convincing argument, particularly when she looked up at him with those big brown eyes, but he wasn't that naive. "You work with the media. You expect me to believe you didn't know they'd jump on this story? That they wouldn't be satisfied until they IDed that 'unnamed SEAL officer'?"

  Joan looked out at the water. "Yeah, that was stupid of me, wasn't it?"

  "A little too stupid," he agreed.

  She turned to face him. "Whether you believe me or not doesn't matter right now. What matters is whether you'll help us out—help the President—and put in an appearance with Brooke at this party tonight."

  "I'm here," Muldoon said. "Aren't I?"

  She nodded. "Yes, you are. And you look fabulous." She forced a smile. "Are you sure you're not going to fall over from the weight of all those medals?"

  Muldoon didn't crack a smile. He didn't even blink as he gazed back at her. "I'd like to get this over with, if possible. I'm meeting some of the guys for a beer and a game of pool as soon as I'm done here."

  "Okay. You're still pissed. I get it. But are you sure that's smart?" she asked. "Shouldn't you keep a low profile, at least for a while? You know, I've made arrangements for you to have a room here at the hotel for as long as you need it. You're on the same floor as Brooke, and you'll have Secret Service protection as well, any time you're off the naval base. I mean, if you want it."

  "Why would I want it?" he asked.

  "Because of that picture of you running down the side of a mountain with—God—a broken kneecap," Joan said. "Because your name is all over the news. Because it's now common knowledge that you're a SEAL and that you spent time in Afghanistan."

  He realized exactly what she was thinking. He might have been pleased at her concern for him—if she hadn't used him so completely.

  "You think now I'm going to be a terrorist target or something?" He made a rude noise. "Just let them try. Come and get me, Osama."

  "But—"

  "I don't need it," he told her. "I don't need the hotel room, I don't need the Secret Service getting in my way, thanks but no thanks."

  "But you said... When I wanted to set up a photo op with Kelly and Meg and some of the other wives..."

  "That's a different deal entirely," Muldoon said. "We don't take any chances with our families. But as for us—believe me, we can take care of ourselves. Now, do you mind if we get this show on the road? I've got things to do."

  Charlotte stayed in the car again as Vince checked in on Donny before they went out to a movie.

  Tonight was some big important event over at the Del, something that Joanie had been worried about. She hadn't said as much, but Charlie knew her granddaughter quite well.

  And then that news story broke—the one about Brooke Bryant dating that young man of Joan's.

  After seeing Lieutenant Muldoon with Joan the other day, and knowing that it was Joan's job to help keep Brooke's mischief—if you could call it that—from the public eye, Charlie thought the whole thing smelled like a decoy story. It smelled like something made up to draw the reporters away from the real story, which—whatever it was—probably put the President's daughter in a far less positive light.

  And if that was the case, poor Lieutenant Muldoon. He was probably going in circles right about now, trying to figure out which way was up.

  Joan, poor dear, was probably still in intense denial. No doubt she wasn't being very much help.

  Charlotte could relate. She'd spent quite a long tune in denial herself.

  Yes, she had been kidding herself completely that night that she'd put on her nightgown—not her best one, but rather the cotton one that James had always loved most. It looked innocent and sweet in its simplicity. But if the light was shining from behind her, the outline of her body was clearly visible.

  Her heart had pounded as she brushed out her hah", letting it fall loose and gleaming around her shoulders. Her hands and feet tingled with a mixture of fear and anticipation as she dabbed the tiniest amount of perfume behind her ears and between her breasts.

  She wanted to be touched so very badly. But that wasn't why she was doing this, she'd told herself. Ah, denial! She'd convinced herself that this wasn't for her.

  This was for Vince. To save Vince. To keep him from going back to that fighting and death.

  Upstairs, Sally still hadn't returned to her habit of sharing her bed with the entire First Infantry or 101st Airborne or whoever was passing through D.C. at the moment. Still, Charlie had waited until after midnight. It was going to be hard enough to do this without having the bedspring serenad
e squeaking in the background. But when she heard Sally turn off her radio and go—alone—into her bedroom, there was no longer a reason to delay.

  With a last silent and heartfelt apology to James, Charlie took a deep breath and went into the hall, turning on the light switch with a click.

  Vince's door was closed.

  She knocked on it softly even as she opened it. "Vince, are you still awake?"

  He sat up in bed. "Is something ..." He saw her standing there. "Uh, is, um, something wrong?"

  Charlotte felt herself blush, knowing that from where he sat, with the hall light streaming in from behind her, it was almost as if she were standing there naked.

  At least he didn't seem to be too horrified. In fact, the expression on his face was a mixture of awe and disbelief and hope.

  It gave her the strength she needed not to run away. This was going to work. She almost wept with relief.

  "I need to talk to you," she told him instead. "May I come in?"

  She didn't wait for him to answer. She crossed to the dresser and turned on the lamp that sat there before she went back and closed the door. Still strategically lit from behind, she moved toward him and sat down beside him on the bed.

  He was trying to be polite, to keep his eyes on her face, but he couldn't keep his gaze from dropping down to her breasts. He didn't say a word as he looked at her. He just waited for her to speak.

  There was no need to do anything other than get directly to the point. "Do you still want to marry me?"

  "Charlotte, what are you doing?" he asked quietly, the muscles jumping in his jaw.

  She put her hand lightly on the lump beneath the covers that was his leg. "I'm making you an offer that I hope you can't refuse. Marry me, Vince."

  She was being shockingly bold, and she felt another rush of heat to her face.

  He took her hand from his leg—his hand was warm, his fingers big and square and roughened from work. It was a man's hand. He may have been younger than she was, but his hands were that of a grown man.

  "You're cold," he said, still in that same quiet, gentle voice. "Maybe you should get a robe. Then we can talk."