Night Is Mine

by M. L. Buchman

  Before Emily could exhale, the First Lady was gone, the agents somehow a step ahead of her, whispering into their sleeve microphones, “Dragon is moving.”

  Dragon? No kidding.

  Daniel lingered behind. “A little breathtaking?”

  “She does manage to suck most of the air out of the room.” Emily clamped down on her tongue, but Daniel laughed. Nice rumbly laugh.

  “Not much slows her down either. Be ready for that same perfect bluster to be running as strongly at midnight as at 6:00 a.m. Which is when she expects breakfast, by the way. My office is through that door,” he indicated the one the agent hadn’t used, “third on the right. I’ll be back in an hour for the list and to show you your apartment. You’ll be on call at all times. You’re one of the very few staffers with quarters in the residence. Even I don’t rate that. They told you?”

  She nodded, even though they hadn’t. What else hadn’t Agent Adams bothered to tell her? Did Adams or Daniel even know of her dual role as cook and bodyguard? No, not with an admiral personally hand-delivering the First Family’s request.

  She made a mental note to call Dad’s driver to bring back her duffel bag.

  At least Daniel didn’t sound miffed about her surprise benefit. She’d assumed she’d be back in her old room at home, too often idle and easily available to her socialite, matchmaking mother. Not that her mother didn’t have a fine eye for a good-looking man, but they were all far too eligible to be interested in a female helicopter pilot. And that discussion would drive her and her mother both crazy from the moment Emily walked in the door. Even tonight, she knew there’d be a couple lurking about for her first dinner home.

  “On call” had defined most of her military career, so no problem there. She didn’t care if the command came from the First Lady or Major Mark Henderson trying to find some new way to put her ass in a sling. He must be so glad she’d been shipped out.

  Though he’d been more pissed than pleased when he read her orders. And he’d certainly fumed all the way to the carrier. Had the hard landing been on her behalf? That rated as too bizarre. She discarded the idea.

  Well, she’d bet the barracks here were a step up from a mosquito-net-shrouded army cot in a sweaty desert tent that froze out around 2:00 a.m. The mosquito net wasn’t for the bugs—too dry for them to survive there. It was for the stray scorpions and snakes seeking someone warm to snuggle up with for the night. Another reason to be glad she usually flew at night and slept during the day.

  “Is there some place I could get a few pots to start some herbs?” She waved a hand toward the patio entrance.

  “Just put it on the list.” Daniel tapped the paper smartly without having to look down and see where it was. “Man who doesn’t miss much” is what the gesture said.

  Daniel started moving out the door, in motion the moment before the First Lady’s call drifted back down the hallway.

  “Then get some rest. You’ll need it.” He headed off.

  “And watch your back.” Then he was gone as smoothly as he’d arrived.

  Now what did that mean?

  Chapter 14

  Daniel’s advice to rest while she could came far too late. Her full shopping list had been filled in mere hours, magnificently. The best dishes always came from having the best ingredients.

  After finishing the list and receiving Daniel’s tour, she’d stowed her belongings in her tiny apartment. She’d slipped into her wallet the receipts for her sidearm and backup piece, being held at the gate. Then she’d hit the White House cafeteria for some lunch.

  While she’d been out, a magical fairy-godmother of a buyer had transformed the all-American, iceberg-lettuce kind of kitchen into an Italian and French paradise of curly pastas and strings of garlic.

  As a nice bonus, her notes to herself at the bottom of the list to buy pots and herb starts had been handled. She couldn’t help sticking her nose close to the container herb garden suddenly sprouting on her patio. The tang of lemon sage, the mouthwatering sweetness of French basil, and both Turkish and Mexican oregano grew in lush abundance. A small bay tree offered fresh leaves for building a stew’s heart into soul.

  Somewhere around two in the afternoon, “No cooking tonight” had turned into a noisy dinner for six around the chopping block featuring antipasto, chicken flambé in brandied cherry sauce, sautéed new potatoes with garlic and fennel, and baby asparagus in truffle-infused clarified butter, with a torta della nonna for dessert. And all of it with a news crew jostling her elbow. Luckily for them, not the same crew who’d filmed her in Pakistan. Though they’d clearly had an agenda as they scooted most of the diners aside for one shot or posed them for another.

  Just as she dropped, exhausted, onto a bar stool with her own slice of almond-crusted cheese tart, Daniel breezed in.

  “Well, that was fun.”

  His dry tone saved her having to ask what. It had been five hours of hell for both of them. Katherine, of course, appeared fresh as a daisy and was presently having dessert and coffee on the veranda with the guests of her impromptu party.

  Without asking, Daniel snagged a slice of the torta and dropped down across the chopping block from her. He jammed a forkful into his mouth and started to chew as he reached for the milk bottle she’d left on the table. Then he froze.

  “Oh.”

  “What?”

  “Oh.” He chewed once more.

  “What? Is it okay? I didn’t have time to taste it.” She rose to her sore feet, but he held out a hand, palm facing her, and she settled back.

  He kept chewing. Then swallowed hard. He turned those pretty blue eyes on her.

  “Marry me!”

  “What?” Emily actually glanced over her shoulder, but they were the only ones in the kitchen.

  “You must! I simply must marry the woman who cooked this dessert.” He jabbed another forkful, stuffed it in his mouth, and closed his eyes as he chewed. “I’ll have to call Mother right away and tell her that I have finally met the girl of her dreams.”

  He opened one eye to glare at her. “You aren’t married, are you?”

  “No.” Not that it was any of his business.

  “Good.” He closed his eye again and licked his lips as if some crumb might have escaped. “That’s settled. April or May. Beautiful time in Tennessee. Outdoor wedding on the farm beneath the shade of the old white oak. May, I think, but early on before the heat really comes up. Rather than cake, we’ll just have tier upon tier of this.”

  She jabbed her fork into her own dessert and tasted it. The vanilla, combined with the lightest hint of citrus from the orange zest, did make the cheese tart taste like spring.

  “I’ve never been a woman for long engagements. And it’s September now.”

  “Nope. Sorry. May on the farm. Calving season. New lambs. The corn just knee high. Perfect.”

  “Never pegged you for a farmer. Surfer boy, maybe. Bet you look damned cute in coveralls.” Coveralls and nothing else.

  “Farmer and Yale political science grad. I hope that doesn’t destroy the wedding plans.”

  He took the last bite from his plate then stood while he was still chewing.

  Even as he headed for the door, the First Lady’s call sounded from the main room.

  “What? Not even a kiss for your bride?” Emily called after him, surprising herself. She wasn’t given to flirting. Ever. It was her worst skill, but this once it came out naturally.

  “Later, honey. Herself calls.” And he was gone.

  Handsome, charming, and funny. Certainly smart as well, have to be that and more to do his job. And she liked him, much to her surprise. A real shocker in this crazy place.

  While she was wrapping the leftovers, a pair of blacksuits glided into the kitchen the way aircraft carriers glide into war zones, all fast and dangerous. Apparently they were riding much tighter herd on the First Lady than normal since the two attempts on her life. They checked the room quickly. Satisfied that no assassins lurked in the side-by-side,
they blended into the background.

  In moments the First Lady swept in with an air of traveling by whim rather than armed escort.

  “Dear Emily. That was splendid. Mariel Anderson was really quite pushy about acquiring your dessert recipe.”

  “I, um, don’t have one, ma’am. No easy way to carry cookbooks to the front, so I mostly make it up as I go. I could try to work it out…”

  Daniel was laughing at her. Not aloud, but with his eyes all crinkled up around the edges. He’d pay for that.

  “No, dear, that’s perfect. I refused, saying that you were very private with your secrets, which you are. We’ll have to have a girl chat one of these days. I don’t think that you’ve put seven words together since you joined our happy little family.”

  A whole twelve hours earlier.

  The First Lady continued rambling on as if her “girl chat” plans were forgotten. Emily would bet her next shore leave that they weren’t. A glance at Daniel, who responded with the slightest tipping of his head, confirmed it. Katherine Matthews was no one’s fool, triple threat of beauty, pleasing personality, and a very sharp brain.

  “That Mariel didn’t give more than a few hundred thousand during the last campaign. I happen to know what her husband is worth, and I also know about her favorite congressional aide.” An avaricious look crossed the First Lady’s face. “But I won’t bring that up for something as trivial as money.”

  Emily noted that the First Lady didn’t say what she would trade that tidbit for. She thanked her lucky stars she wasn’t part of Washington politics.

  “You cooking intuitively is perfect. No evidence of little recipe cards to condemn the guilty.” That dazzling smile flashed into place and Emily returned it, despite now knowing how carefully the woman controlled it. “Well done.”

  Emily suddenly felt ten feet tall and able to leap small buildings at the slightest provocation. She knew she was smiling foolishly, even though alarms were sounding in a dozen parts of her brain, as well as Daniel’s enjoinder to “watch her back.” The woman controlled what she showed to the world with impeccable care. What lay beneath didn’t appear to be nearly as pretty.

  “And tomorrow, I think we’ll take a little journey. Do you miss flying?”

  “Desperately.” The word flew out of her mouth before the question fully registered. Less than, she had to think, not yet one full day since her last flight to the carrier. It felt like a year.

  “Good. At seven tomorrow you’re to meet with Eddie at the Marine One hangar, wherever that is. He’ll check you up or out, or whatever it is they do. Once you have his stamp of approval—awkward but necessary, I apologize in advance for putting you through this, he insisted—fetch Henry and me on the South Lawn at eleven. I told Eddie not to keep you any longer than that.”

  She breezed out with Daniel and the blacksuits in her wake. Only two empty dessert plates remained as evidence. Emily didn’t recall finishing her own. Had Daniel gotten hers when she wasn’t watching?

  Who was Henry? And where were they going?

  She didn’t care, as long as she got to fly.

  She jumped up and fist-pumped the air.

  It was the first good news she’d had since being dumped out of her cot by Henderson.

  ***

  Mark knew it was stupid, even as he did it.

  There’d been no mission, so he’d spent the night and the morning proving that there was little on this planet more unsuited for sleeping than an army cot when you were in a tossing and turning mood. He’d spent an hour pumping iron, taken two showers, and didn’t even remember the name of either movie he’d watched.

  He heard a chopper start winding up out on the field and checked his watch, 7:55 a.m. Twenty-two hours and seven minutes since he’d kissed her. He’d even spun the outer bezel of his watch so that the arrow marked the minute. How was that for sad? He almost spun it clear, but didn’t.

  The turbine settled into a warm-up whine. That would be the carrier run. He jammed on his flight suit, kicked into his boots, grabbed his helmet, and arrived at the bird by 7:58. Archie Stevenson had her humming as Bronson and the two gunners secured the last of the outbound bags.

  Unbelievable that they’d gotten the bird put back together so fast. Beale ran a seriously hot crew. He really should get them back on the line, and with someone other than Bronson, but today they’d served his purpose.

  He tapped Bronson on the shoulder, “Take a breather. I’ve got this one.”

  Bronson tried to ask some question, but Mark just climbed into the right-side pilot seat.

  First Lieutenant Archibald Stevenson III looked over at him. There was not a lot of warmth in his eyes. Mark could feel Big John and Crazy Tim glaring at his back. He wanted to protest that he hadn’t been the one who’d shipped her wherever she was gone to. That he was innocent.

  But he wasn’t. He’d sent one of his finest crews to carrier duty after they’d done one of the bravest things he’d ever seen. And he’d kissed their captain. Good thing they didn’t know that, or he might just happen to fall out of the chopper somewhere over the Arabian Sea.

  “Let’s just do it.”

  Stevenson watched him a moment longer, then jerked the bird upward hard enough to feel like a slap.

  Chapter 15

  Too wound up to sleep, Emily went for a walk on the Mall. She moseyed down to visit her old pal Honest Abe, sitting in his pillared marble cabin as he stared out over the Reflecting Pool, and glared at the Capitol where Congress had fought him almost as hard as the South. She parked her butt on Abe’s front porch and watched Washington wind down for the night. A cart vendor wandered by and enticed her with three tiny scoops of truly exceptional lime gelato as the sun set. The air temperature dropped, and she soon regretted the cold gelato. It was chilly, at least to her desert-thinned blood. No one else looked dressed for the near-Arctic blast.

  Tourist buses of bantering high-school kids poured through in shorts and T-shirts, harried parent chaperones dragging behind. Occasional local couples strolled through the gathering twilight. Easy to pick out the locals; they traveled in pairs, not packs.

  She’d done the same herself. Come to think of it, her first kiss had been here, pressed up against the cool marble of Lincoln’s seat.

  Walter. Walter… Last name gone. Lawrence. Lawrence Walters. That was it. Never Larry. He’d been so emphatic about it that she’d nicknamed him “Never Larry.” And it had stuck. Probably the reason Never Larry never offered a second kiss.

  Given the opportunity, would Mark Henderson want a second kiss? Would she let him if he did? Assess, that’s what a pilot’s good at. He was her commanding officer and never should have kissed her in the first place, they both knew it, so that could be discounted for the moment.

  The kiss itself, an electric-shock kiss. She grinned back over her shoulder at Abe and gave him a private wink. That was an understatement. Her brain had switched off and her body had switched on in a single instant. Even now she couldn’t say if the kiss lasted five seconds or five minutes.

  No question, she’d absolutely remember if she’d ever had a kiss like that before. How could such a hard man have such a soft and gentle mouth? And that rough-palmed hand so tender and strong against her cheek.

  And then she pictured the next moment. Major Mark Henderson pinned to a Formica tabletop by a hand wrenched up behind his back hard enough she knew he’d feel it for days. He’d tapped out with his free hand against the table. A training signal. Several times. Three quick taps meaning she’d gone past initial pain and into serious ouch. The last triple tap almost frantic before she let him go to collapse at her feet. Then did she check on him? No. Apologize? No. She’d stepped over him and gone.

  No second kiss there, that was for sure. She considered again. But what if there were a chance?

  But there wasn’t. Couldn’t be. And now that she identified that, she could feel all the weariness and rage of the day overwhelm her. Her commanding officer had kissed her. T
aken advantage of her first moment of weakness since she’d turned twenty. The first time in nine years. She’d been weak, hurt, confused, and her commanding officer had kissed her.

  It was a court-martial offense. Not that she wanted to press charges. But she couldn’t go back. Not if that was all Mark Henderson thought of her, a pretty bit on the side. What next, private training missions? She’d heard that stupid offer too many times when she still flew regular Army. Groping on the flight line. Pinched—

  Emily wanted to scream. It had all been so good. So happy. She’d saved Michael’s life and been thanked for it. Had been told she was a good pilot by the toughest commander she’d ever been honored to fly with. A man she could truly admire and look up to, who treated her no differently than any other pilot.

  And then he’d ruined it by kissing her. Well to hell with Major Henderson. When she was done with whatever nonsense her mother had landed her in, she’d put in for a transfer, for her entire crew. They’d proved themselves as the toughest team in the toughest company. Anyone would take her. And if Henderson protested, she’d threaten to go to the Military Conduct Board and then see what he said.

  She’d only ever dreamed of one man’s kiss. And, joke was on her, it was a man she’d never kissed. There was no question that she’d let a dozen or more relationships die before they started, all because they never measured up to that one imagined kiss. How was that for stupid? Pining after a married man who never had been and never could be hers.

  She tried not to look. She tried to turn back to check on her buddy Abraham for a distraction. But she turned the wrong way and spotted the White House. She’d been pining for Peter Matthews since she was six. Twenty-three years. How was that for the definition of lost causes?

  And now she worked for his wife, in the same building. The scale for masochistic had just been redefined.

  But even in her daydreams, Peter’s kiss had never sparked inside her. Had never ignited a flame she hadn’t known lurked inside. Hadn’t known a body could contain.