Night Is Mine

by M. L. Buchman

  “Next time you’re on the Internet, search on ‘idiot student crashes helicopter.’ Now that was truly sad flying. You did great.” She really had. Was there anything Katherine Matthews wasn’t a natural at? The woman could really get on her nerves.

  “How is it that you don’t hate me?”

  The question surprised Emily enough to turn and stare. The First Lady’s eyes were focused on her intently.

  “Hate me for taking you away from your people and forcing you to come back stateside and cook, of all irrelevant things?”

  “It turns out it was a good thing I did.”

  “Yes, I’m alive because of you. I know that for a fact. A debt I’ll never be able to repay, except by saying thank you once again.”

  “That’s all that needs saying and is far more than I’m used to receiving. Usually, if you’re lucky, it’s a hearty ‘well done’ from your mission commander. The really spectacular stuff is never told. If we make the news, our assignment did not go well. If we nailed it, even you would never know.”

  “But how…” Katherine trailed off and looked away. Down and away. Embarrassed or afraid, going by her body language, equally hard to believe.

  “How do I not hate you?”

  Katherine nodded without looking up.

  She had come for Peter. Had there been a different President, one she hadn’t known since childhood, would she come to serve his wife at her request? Maybe, maybe not. But with Peter, there was no option.

  “I could answer with the truth, that I serve at the pleasure of the President. I can’t even quit if I want to. I can tender my resignation, but I know a lot of Special Forces soldiers and SEALs who have waited a year, even two or three, for their papers to come through. Having invested so much in us, they are reluctant to let us go. When I am done here, I will be reassigned. Colombia, the Philippines, Africa, I don’t know. Wherever my unit is called.” If they let her back in. They had to. Mark had to.

  She studied the woman beside her, the first woman to capture America’s heart the way Jackie Kennedy had done so long ago.

  “But that’s not the whole truth. I came because you asked and an old family friend said you were afraid for your life. If I can be in service of that defense, I am here.”

  “Lucky for me. Though I knew about you as soon as I met you. I knew you could save me. And you did.”

  An odd way to phrase it. The same as some memory. The hospital. The voice in the hospital. So she hadn’t imagined it in her drug-induced haze. “I knew you could save me.”

  Katherine laid her hand over Emily’s on the collective and squeezed it tightly between both of hers. The earnestness in those green eyes was unmistakable. Unquestionable.

  “You are a splendid pilot, and I will get you back in your sky as soon as may be. For now, I will count you as my savior and my friend. If that’s okay with you.”

  It was Emily’s turn to look away, humbled that so great a lady could care for her. She’d never been impressed much by rank, a matter her superiors never tired of pointing out. But Katherine Matthews dwelt in a different world. One of strategy and power. Of beauty and ruthless politics. And she was offering friendship.

  Emily engaged the autopilot, then returned the handclasp tightly and, for perhaps only the second time in her life, felt as if she belonged exactly where she was.

  Chapter 42

  “My God, Beale.” Mark perched on the stool in Emily’s kitchen.

  His attention was riveted on his slice of fresh strawberry-and-custard tart with a honey-and-currant-jelly glaze. Under the island counter lights, it glistened. The light shone off a hundred facets of glazed strawberry as if she’d sprinkled it with gold glitter rather than the lightest grace of sanding sugar.

  Daniel breezed in. And slammed to a halt when he spotted Mark. It was the only time Emily had seen surprise on his face. If she read his face right, a quick shift to disappointment. He stood in her kitchen looking like a stunned puppy, his gaze swinging from her to the rather disreputable looking character sitting at the counter.

  “Hey, ya.” Mark offered a hand.

  “Hello.” Daniel shook the hand, silently gathered a slice of tart, and retreated down the corridor to his office. He hadn’t even stopped for the crème fraîche she’d made to complement it.

  The reaction didn’t make sense.

  “He’s sweet on you.” Mark waved a fork toward the now closed door.

  “No.” They’d flirted a few times, nothing more. And she didn’t have that effect on men.

  Daniel couldn’t have gone there, could he? Sure, they’d had fun teasing each other over a few late-night desserts. He’d told her about his family’s farm and that he’d come to D.C. to support some secret farming plan that he’d been egging her on to drag out of him. He’d apparently been clerking for Senator Jamison, head of oversight for the Department of Agriculture when Katherine Matthews had spotted him and scooped him into her entourage.

  Mark shrugged and returned his attention to his dessert.

  “How did you learn to do this?”

  “My dad always had a soft spot for the sweets, I liked making him smile.”

  It was much nicer having him here than her earlier guest.

  First Sister Jessica had been a nightmare. When the First Lady had been called away after dinner, the woman had parked herself at Emily’s chopping block with a half-empty bottle of champagne. While Katherine Matthews oozed tact from every pore, Jessica Cunningham swung outrageous jealousies of Katherine like a drug-crazed loon armed with a blunt ax and running around in a slasher film.

  Yet Jessica’s comments hadn’t all fallen flat on Emily’s ears. The First Lady’s sister told stories of a very different “Katty.” Of a girl who always got her way. A queen bee who had to take any boy that any of her circle managed to land. The girls left crumpled in Katty’s wake were mere husks of their former selves.

  Jessica’s inability to maintain a marriage had been laid directly at her avaricious little sister’s feet. Katty had needed to seduce both of Jessica’s husbands and then make sure Jessica caught them, both times, in her own marriage bed. All discussed in whispered confidential tones that wandered more and more as the level lowered in the champagne bottle, “to stiffen my resolve for being here.”

  Emily had poured the First Sister into bed half an hour ago, mumbling how she’d rather be dead than be here but Katty had forced her to come.

  Which Katherine Matthews was the real one? The charming woman the world knew and she’d flown with? Or the hellion described by an embittered and drunk sister?

  Mark snapped his fingers in front of Emily’s face.

  “What?”

  “Where did you go?”

  “Just wondering if Jessica was okay.”

  “Happily pickled.”

  “She…” Emily bit her lip. She didn’t feel comfortable discussing what she’d heard, not knowing when Katherine might breeze in unannounced.

  Mark dolloped the crème fraîche onto his plate. “You make dessert a religious experience. I’ll convert if it tastes even half as good as looks.”

  “It’s better.” She didn’t like to brag, but she liked cooking. Much to her surprise, cooking for Mark was touching her even more than when she cooked for her crew.

  He took a bite, chewed, and after letting out a long sigh, opened those soft gray eyes and focused on her. Really focused. No matter how she had tried to compartmentalize him, he wasn’t looking at her like a sex object. She didn’t know quite how to read that look.

  Army guys always saw her as another challenge to beat down. Emily Beale was always blocking their way to being the best because she had already parked at a level most of them would never reach. In the military “being best” was a major motivator. It kept her flying harder and better. But it left her feeling she was only noticed for what she could do with twenty thousand pounds of steel and av gas. While that was the whole point, it left a girl feeling, well, not very feminine.

  Femi
nine had never been one of her concerns. The pilots didn’t make her feel feminine. Female perhaps, but not feminine. Right now Mark, however…

  “What are you looking at?”

  Moving away to the sink didn’t remove the one-two punch of his wintry-eyed consideration.

  “You’re—Nope. Sorry.” Mark stopped himself. “There must be a better way to ask a question without, you know…”

  “Asking it?”

  “Right. Thanks. See, you’re helpful, too. But why the hell aren’t you, Beale?”

  “Why aren’t I what? A clue would help here, Marky.”

  “I was about to give the stupid speech about how pretty, smart, and wonderful you are and why aren’t you married?”

  “Maybe the right man hasn’t asked.” Coy and flippant. She waited a beat for him to ask the obvious so she could reply with a “Nope, not interested,” and move on as per usual SOP. A standard operating procedure that had always worked before.

  “That’s crap and you know it.” He poked a fork at the tart but didn’t eat it.

  It was crap, and she did know it. And that’s why it always worked. No one expected anything else back. No one until Mark.

  “What is it with you?”

  “Hey. My question is on the table. No shoving it off the edge of the counter for the First Mouse to clean up. Why aren’t you at least shacked up with a guy?”

  “Don’t believe in that.”

  “You’re a virgin?”

  “You know better.” Heat rose, bringing her up on her toes.

  “Almost, close enough that I’ll accept that one. You don’t like ‘shack up’ either. One man at a time. Have to really like him before she does anything. Never lived with a guy.”

  It wasn’t a question, and it really pissed her off.

  “I’ve lived with hundreds. Huh.” That sure didn’t come out right. She cooled down a little at his smile. “Okay. I know where your seedy little mind is going.”

  “It’s not little, but I’ll grant that it’s very seedy. And the U.S. Armed Forces doesn’t count in this conversation. I want to know about Emily Beale, not—” He glanced at the closed doors. Right, he wasn’t supposed to know more about her than she was cook and helicopter pilot to the First Lady.

  She could run away again, hide behind another joke, or change the topic. But there was only so long that held up as a lifestyle. Funny, she’d never run from a fight if she had a helicopter wrapped around her, so why wouldn’t she defend herself when—Question for another time.

  Emily could pop him one. That might cheer her up, but it wasn’t the answer to every problem.

  She hooked a stool and faced him across the counter. Across four feet of solid cherry-and-maple chopping block. Across the mostly untouched slice of custard tart. Across far too little distance.

  “So ask.”

  Chapter 43

  Confident a moment before, Mark went coy. Took another bite of Emily’s tart. Closed his eyes to relish it and offered up a soft, “Damn.”

  “You’re welcome.”

  That snapped him back.

  “So. Why not?”

  “Why aren’t you?”

  “Nu-uh,” he waved his fork at her. “No sidelining.”

  “Even trade then.”

  He considered for a moment too long. She slipped a hand toward his dessert plate. He made a stab of defense with his fork. Without thinking, she grabbed his wrist, flipped it into a twist. Mark rolled with it and came up with his fork in his other hand and pressed it against her throat.

  They both froze. Then with a rough laugh, she let go and he eased back onto his stool.

  “Well, at least our reflexes are still good.”

  Mark waved his fork around the room. “This place is enough to drive you right over the edge of insanity. How did you get so fast, anyway?”

  “You should have seen my hand-to-hand combat instructor. She was lethal. Literally. Guys would see all five foot two of her and laugh, right up until the first one stepped into the dirt training circle. After that, they didn’t laugh so much.”

  Mark nodded, “Now, answer my damned question.”

  She fetched a fork, made a plate for herself, and sat down across from him.

  ***

  “Why aren’t you?” Emily asked.

  She held up a hand to stop Mark’s protest.

  “No. I’m serious. You know you’re incredibly handsome. You’re also a decent man. And don’t give me the line about military-civilian marriages never work, I’ve heard that too many times. And I looked at the photo you always tuck in the corner of the windshield.”

  “Don’t miss much, do you?” He speared a strawberry and studied it, clearly thinking about how much he wanted to say. He bit down, the decision made.

  “Dad taught me from knee tall that the only thing more important than your family is defending it. If I can be half the man Dad is, I’ll have done well.” He looked sour for a long moment, inspecting her with a half glance that she couldn’t figure out how to read.

  “But he sure put Mom through hell every time he left on mission. It was cruel.” He hated himself for saying it, but it was true. “I’ve never told anyone that before. I’ve never even thought that complete thought before.”

  Emily reached out to hold his hand. They sat that way for a long time before he looked back at her. When he pulled his hand back, she felt a little lost.

  Mark cleared his throat and put on a brighter tone.

  “My usual answer is the same as yours, that I haven’t met the right woman, though your desserts may yet convince me that I’m wrong on that account.” He ate another bite and sighed again as he chewed.

  “Now you’re trying to make me all mushy.”

  “Is it working?” He looked up with interest.

  “Dream on.” It was, but there was no way she’d tell him that. How it affected her insides each time his eyes went soft like that.

  “So, neither of us believe in military-civilian marriage working.”

  “And neither of us has met the right opposite partner.”

  Mark didn’t look up. He simply concentrated on eating his tart.

  No. He couldn’t imply that he had. She didn’t like the image of Mark with another woman. Then the image shifted. He couldn’t think she was the right person. Being a woman was the one true disaster area in her life. Pilot, soldier, comrade-in-arms, sure. Woman?

  “Don’t you want family, Beale? Husband, home, kids?”

  “No.” She didn’t. That was her mother’s dream. Not hers. She wanted to fly, not run a Georgetown household with servants and social teas.

  Mark stopped eating his tart and focused those eyes on her once again. Studied her as if he no longer knew her. As if she were a stranger he didn’t want to know.

  Emily turned to the fridge to get away from the slap of that gaze and snagged a bottle of Katherine’s favorite Chardonnay. She’d have to remember to restock it from the pantry before she went to bed.

  Two glasses and a corkscrew later, they were each armed with an overly full glass of the amber wine.

  “To the single life.” Mark raised his glass, clearly being ironic.

  She raised hers in return, clearly not being ironic.

  And took a sip.

  Almost took a sip. The scent was wrong. Almond. This Chardonnay wasn’t supposed to have any hint of almond. Maple and oak. A little currant. Not almond. Especially not slap-you-in-the-face bitter almond.

  Almond was familiar though. Familiar as—

  She slapped Mark’s hand hard enough to send the glass flying from his lips to smash against the floor.

  “Spit! Spit, Mark! Don’t swallow! Spit it out! All of it!”

  He hesitated a moment and then spit it out all over the counter and dessert.

  “Did you swallow any?”

  He shook his head. “What the hell, Beale? Are you enjoying beating on me?” He cradled his offended wrist.

  “Spit again!” She grabbed a jug of mi
lk from the fridge. “Now. Take a mouthful and rinse your mouth, then spit it out.”

  Even as he did, she grabbed the phone, and punched 911. The briefing manual on the plane over the Atlantic had included, “Emergencies, medical, on premises.” Inside the White House, 911 went directly to the emergency response center of the Secret Service, not a distant police dispatcher.

  “Medical team to third-floor residence kitchen. Possible poisoning.”

  She heard the “on our way” and dropped the phone without hanging it back up.

  Mark’s eyes were wider now as she crunched her way over the shattered wineglass to stand in front of him.

  He was again cradling his wrist.

  “How do you feel? Any numbness or dizziness?”

  He shook his head carefully.

  “And you didn’t swallow?”

  Again the slow shake of his head, but his eyes were wide as the reality of the situation sank in for him.

  She threw her arms around his neck and just held him until the med team arrived a few eternities later.

  Chapter 44

  “Nothing to report really,” Emily kept wanting to duck her head. As if someone were continually firing rounds of live ammo just over her head to teach her how to crawl. The Oval Office was really creeping her out. Way too much power came from here and way too much of it radiated to out there. She stood at an uneasy parade rest before the Resolute desk.

  Peter rocked back and forth in his chair and fooled with his pen, taking it apart and putting it back together again.

  “If I knew why you really wanted me here, it might help, but then again maybe not. All I can report, you already know. Two apparent attacks in the past two weeks.”

  “Apparent?”

  “Helps keep my thinking flexible.” She’d almost attributed it to her father, but some hesitancy made her stop without doing so. She was running a secret operation. She had no idea what it was, but it made her want to keep each secret compartmentalized until she had a handle on it.

  Peter rose to his feet and began circling the room.