Lovelace, Merline

by Dark Side of Dawn

  Even Deke Elliott smirked when he strolled into the training office later that afternoon, a newspaper folded conspicuously under one arm.

  Jo's eyes narrowed. "Do not say a word."

  "That's going to make it kinda tough for me to ask for a Mortal Kombat rematch."

  His Wyoming twang was out in full force. Jo rounded her vowels and shot back in her Wisconsin/Minnesota deep woods accent.

  "Ooooh, and do you want me to give you another shellacking, then, big fella?"

  A gleam she couldn't mistake jumped into Deke's eyes. She knew then that a shellacking wasn't all he wanted from her.

  Alarms starting clanging like crazy up and down Jo's nervous system. With every feminine instinct in her body, she sensed that she and Deke were fast approaching what the old SAC bomber crews used to call the failsafe point, the point of no return. She could either put the skids on their banter—and the simmering physical attraction neither had yet acknowledged—right here, right now, or follow them through to their natural conclusion.

  For the rest of her life Jo would wonder whether she would've decided to go or to no-go. Before she could make up her mind, the decision was snatched out of her hands by Gretchen Tobias. Her face alight with excitement, the senior NCO poked her head into the office.

  "You'd better grab your hat and come outside, Captain."

  "Why?"

  "Just grab your hat. I don't want to spoil the surprise."

  "What surprise?" Jo eyed her warily. "There isn't another crowd of photographers lying in wait for me, is there?"

  A sympathetic smile flitted across the sergeant's mouth. No woman likes being photographed with uncombed hair and a naked face.

  "No, it's nothing like that. Come on, Captain. You've gotta see this."

  Still suspicious, Jo shagged her hat from the zippered leg pocket of her flight suit. With Deke right behind her, she followed the sergeant down the corridor. Moments later the three of them stepped out into the parking lot, where a stretch limo sat with engine idling. A uniformed chauffeur leaned against the gleaming black monster, chatting with the crowd of Air Force personnel gathered around him. When someone pointed out Jo, he pushed off the fender.

  "Captain West?"

  "Yes," she answered, still wary.

  "I'm Patrick Smith, ma'am. Mr. Taylor's driver. Mr. Alexander Taylor," he clarified, separating the grandson from his famous grandfather. "He sent me to pick you up."

  "Pick me up for what?"

  "If you have time, he'd like to see you. To thank you privately for saving his life."

  Chapter Four

  Jo lounged in a cloud of soft leather as the stretch limo glided across the base, out the front gate, and onto the Suitland Parkway. Crystal tumblers tinkled in their holders. A single white rose in a silver vase gave off a delicate perfume. The slow, powerful strains of Dvorak's New World Symphony filtered through the limo's speakers. Jo knew the piece well, having suffered along with the rest of her family until her brother Matt finally gave up his misguided goal of becoming a tuba virtuoso in favor of high school wrestling.

  "Now this," she announced to the driver sitting what seemed like half a mile away, "is the only way to fly."

  He grinned at her in the rearview mirror. Lifting her Champagne flute in a toast, Jo let the bubbles tickle her nose before taking another sip. She didn't recognize the label of the dew-streaked bottle resting in a crystal ice bucket, but then, she rarely indulged in Champagne. Wisconsin born and bred, her preferences ran to beer and thick frou-frou drinks like the grasshoppers and White Russians so popular in the pubs around the University of Wisconsin's Madison campus.

  But this particular brand of bubbly wasn't bad.

  Not bad at all.

  Nor was the town house the limo glided to a halt in front of some forty minutes later. It was located in the heart of old Georgetown, where brick-paved sidewalks undulated over the roots of ancient oaks and real estate cost more than the average mortal would earn in a lifetime. The three-story residence ruled the quiet street like a dowager queen, tall, stately, with generations of ivy draped like lace against its white facade. Golden light spilled from wavy-paned windows. The gas-lit brass lanterns mounted on either side of the front entrance glowed a welcome.

  The limo pulled into the pillared port cocherie, lit by a massive carriage lantern suspended overhead. Fallen leaves skittered along the otherwise immaculately swept drive, crunching under Jo's boots as she climbed out of the limo.

  "So this is where the rich and famous hang out," she murmured, more than a little awed by the understated splendor.

  Smith smiled an assent. "When they're in town."

  She stood on the brick-lined drive for a moment, breathing in the scent of damp leaves and chrysanthemums. Someone had a fire going. The tang of burning wood hung on the night, along with a crisp chill that made her glad she'd lifted her leather jacket out of her car before climbing into the limo.

  "I thought I read somewhere that Mr. Taylor lives in the country."

  The chauffeur's smile faded, leaving his expression a bland mask. "Mr. Taylor does prefer the farm at Chestnut Hill, particularly since his wife died," he confirmed.

  His reference to that tragic affair was almost lost in the rustle of leaves as a night breeze teased the oaks on either side of the drive.

  "This way, Captain."

  He ushered her up the stairs toward the black-painted door, which swung open as they approached. Handing Jo off to the butler with a promise to return her to the base whenever she was ready, the driver melted back into the shadows.

  "Good evening, Captain West."

  The butler or majordomo or whatever this dignified individual was called led Jo inside. She stepped into a black-and-white tiled foyer, illuminated by a chandelier that sprouted what looked like a thousand or so crystal drops. Waterford, she guessed, and not of recent vintage.

  "Mr. Taylor is waiting for you in the library. This way, if you please."

  Her first impression of the high-ceilinged room was one of dark wood and ancient treasures. Bookcases filled with leather-bound volumes lined three walls, interspersed at intervals with still lifes done by old masters and narrow windows draped in midnight blue velvet. A massive fireplace dominated the fourth wall, its flames leaping brightly.

  Her second impression was that the library was the perfect backdrop for the men who occupied the wing-back chairs placed before the fire. The older of the two rose at her entrance. With his horn-rimmed glasses, feathery fringe of white hair, and leather elbow patches on his gray wool jacket, he looked at home amid the fine antiques.

  The younger sat with his bandaged ankle propped on a tapestry footstool. In contrast to the scholarly looking older man, Alexander Taylor's black sweater molded his lean frame with the elegance of handwoven Persian mohair and his tan slacks had obviously been tailored by the hand of an expert.

  It was the man who captured Jo's interest, however, not his clothes. As before, his potent masculinity grabbed her right by the throat. Those odd, intense eyes, made even more vivid by the backdrop of the blue velvet drapes, seemed to pierce right through her.

  "Please excuse me for not rising, Captain. It's still a bit difficult, even with the crutches."

  She took the hand he offered. "You're excused. I'm just glad to see you're not sporting a cast."

  "There was some debate about that for a while, but cooler heads prevailed."

  "Yours?" she guessed.

  "Mine," he admitted, his mouth curving above his strong, indented chin. Jo had never paid much attention to men's chins before. Amazing how a Kirk Douglas dimple could make such a statement.

  "This is Doctor Martin Russ," he said, indicating his other guest with a nod.

  "Hello, Doctor." Jo took the elderly man's fingers in an easy grip. "Sounds like you have your hands full with your patient."

  "I'm not Mr. Taylor's physician," he corrected with a smile in his cloudy blue eyes. "I'm his historian."

  Jo figured it
was an honest enough mistake, given the fact that she'd never met anyone who employed a personal historian before.

  "I'm writing the Taylor family chronicles," the doctor explained. "And," he added, catching his host's glance, "I've taken up enough of his time this evening. It was a pleasure meeting you, Captain."

  "You, too."

  "Perhaps I could call you sometime and talk to you about what happened yesterday. For historical purposes, you understand. No, no, you don't need to show me out," he said to the attentive butler before Jo could respond. "I know the way."

  While one guest departed, the butler attended to the other. "May I take your jacket, Captain?"

  He folded the brown leather over his arm with the care he might give a full length sable cloak. Politely, he waited until she'd claimed the chair just vacated by the historian to ask if she'd like a drink.

  "If your tastes run to cognac," her host said, lifting a snifter of thin, shimmering crystal, "this is from a keg a great-great-uncle of mine smuggled in a hundred or so years ago."

  "You have pirates in your family tree as well as presidents?"

  "Some say they're one and the same," he returned with a flash of white teeth. "The Federalists hanged that particular Taylor, but not before he'd stashed away enough contraband to last for generations."

  "Enterprising of him."

  "This is the last keg. I broached it after my near brush with oblivion yesterday."

  "I can't think of a better reason to broach a keg," Jo agreed with a solemn nod.

  "It has a bit of a bite, but I think you'll find it palatable."

  She eyed the cloud of golden liquid in his snifter, wondering how two-hundred-year-old cognac would mix with the Champagne she'd already consumed. Since all she'd had to eat today was the candy bar she'd downed on the way to the wing's public affairs office this morning, she suspected the combination might prove potent.

  "I'd better pass. Two glasses of Champagne on an empty stomach is one more than my limit."

  "An empty stomach? We can remedy that. Evans, pour Captain West some cognac, then bring her a tray, please."

  "Yes, sir."

  Before Jo could protest, the butler splashed a discreet inch or two into a snifter. After handing her the drink, he bowed and left, the leather jacket still draped over his arm.

  She cradled the delicate crystal bowl in both hands and took a cautious taste. The first sip convinced her Taylor's great-great-uncle knew whereof he smuggled. The cognac ignited a slow burn from her throat to her tummy.

  "Funny we should both have relatives in the business of distilling and distributing spirits," she said with a grin. "My great-aunt Gert brewed up some mean tubs of beer in her day.

  Gert had brewed up more than beer for the customers of her rather notorious bawdy house to buy but Jo didn't intend to put that family secret out for public consumption.

  "It sounds as though your ancestors are as colorful and enterprising as mine," her host replied.

  "Well, colorful anyway." She hesitated, suddenly, ridiculously aware of how different their backgrounds really were. "My dad voted for your grandfather in both of his presidential elections," she said shyly. "He'd vote for him again, if he could. He claims a man of J. T. Taylor's moral fiber is exactly who this country needs today."

  The President's grandson stared into his drink for a moment, his eyes shielded. When they lifted once more, Jo experienced another small shock. They were so intense. So penetrating.

  "It's not public knowledge yet," he said slowly, "but my grandfather's dying."

  "Oh, no!" Regret over the loss of a truly great man tugged at her heartstrings. "I'd heard TV reports that he was ill, but had no idea it was that serious. I'm so sorry, Mr. Taylor."

  He nodded once, the movement carefully controlled, as if he'd learned long ago to be wary of the emotion he expressed in public.

  "Thank you. And please, it's Alex." His glass tipped in another slow swirl. "May I call you Joanna?"

  "Of course, although I'm more used to hearing Jo. With six kids in the house, my dad could never manage more than a single syllable per child."

  "Yes, I read you had five brothers."

  Jo resisted the urge to roll her eyes. So much for hoping he'd missed the media blitz, including the front page shots of her nearly naked and frog-mouthed with surprise.

  "Was there something about my brothers in the newspapers, too?"

  "Actually, your family history was detailed in the dossier I had compiled on you."

  She cocked her head, not entirely sure she liked being the subject of a dossier any more than a tabloid news story.

  "You ran a check on me?"

  "On you and Sergeant McPeak. I wanted to learn what I could about the people who saved my life."

  "What, exactly, did you learn?"

  "About you? Nothing of significance that I hadn't already discovered for myself. You're smart, dedicated, brave..."

  Her nose wrinkled. "I sound like a Saint Bernard."

  "And beautiful."

  Jo knew damn well she fell far short of beautiful, but if the man wanted to be polite, she wouldn't argue with him.

  "I was fascinated by the clippings about your rescue of Congresswoman Samuel's daughter," he added. "You made the front pages then, too."

  "At least I had my clothes on that time."

  He looked genuinely contrite, although the smile lingered at the corners of his mouth. "I'm sorry saving my life led to such, ah, embarrassing exposure."

  It was a pretty weak pun, but it won him an answering smile.

  "That's not all it led to," Jo murmured, wishing the fire in the massive hearth didn't blaze with quite so much enthusiasm. Sweat had started down between her breasts in a genteel trickle.

  "What else did it lead to?"

  Her mouth twisted in a wry smile. "I'm flying a desk for a few days, pending a review of the incident."

  "What?"

  "It's just a formality," she assured him, ninety-nine percent certain she was right. It was that one percent that left a little knot just under her sternum.

  "I don't understand." A frown slashed across Taylor's handsome face. His brandy snifter hit the table beside his chair with a clunk. "Tell me who's conducting this review and why!"

  Disconcerted by his swift transition from genial to imperious, Jo thrust her own jets into reverse. Normally, she wouldn't think of blurting out her problems to strangers. Even to friends. She could only blame the combination of Champagne, cognac, heat, and this man's potent personality.

  "It's just a routine inquiry," she repeated. "Mostly concerning collateral damage to the property where I put down."

  "I'm the one who drove his car off the road. If there was any damage done, I'll take care of it."

  "I appreciate that, but this is something the Air Force will have to look into. I shouldn't have even mentioned it." Deliberately, she changed the subject. "I'm more concerned about that bandage wrapped around your ankle. What's the diagnosis?"

  The frown stayed in place, but he followed her lead.

  "It's only a pulled ligament. Far more annoying than painful at this point."

  Jo knew better. Among them, her sports-mad brothers had pulled just about every muscle and shattered most of the breakable bones in the human body. One had spent the past fourteen years in a wheelchair. A disability was never merely annoying.

  A discreet knock on the double doors heralded the butler's return, this time with a wheeled cart and two maids to assist him. When Jo caught the tantalizing aromas drifting from under the array of silver domes, her stomach somersaulted in delight.

  "May I serve you, Captain?" Silver chinked as he removed lid after lid and handed them to the waiting maids. "Caviar, perhaps? Crusted brie?"

  "I'll pass on the caviar, but no true Wisconsinite ever turns down cheese."

  With a small flourish, the butler cut through a decorated pastry shell that in itself was a work of art. The creamy filling spilled over the knife onto a round, wafer-th
in English biscuit. Jo munched away while he proceeded to fill a plate with smoked breast of quail, Westphalian ham shaved into thin curls, ginger curried rice, and watercress drizzled with cranberry vinaigrette. After pointing out the selection of chocolates and cream-filled cakes on the cart's lower shelf and adding another inch of cognac to his employer's glass, he and his minions retreated once more.

  "Tell me about these brothers of yours," Alex said as she worked her way through the delicacies on her plate. "Are they all as intrepid as their sister?"

  "Where do you suppose I got it from?"

  "Toughened you up, did they?"

  "I don't think I ever heard the word can't until I started kindergarten, and by then it was too late."

  If he'd been trying to put her at ease, he'd pushed the right button. Between nibbles, Jo regaled her host with selected incidents from her childhood, all highly edited to minimize the mayhem and maximize the ridiculous. It was a habit she'd acquired early in life, one that had frequently protected her adored, adventurous older siblings from their parents' wrath. Looking back, Jo often wondered how she'd survived infancy, much less girlhood.

  As if sensing how solidly her upbringing had grounded the woman she'd become, Alex sipped his cognac and appeared genuinely interested in her silly stories. While she rambled on, Jo couldn't help contrasting her youth with his. He was the only child of an only child. His father had died of a massive heart attack just months after his son's birth. His mother had served as ambassador to Belgium before marrying a Danish archduke.

  He'd attended private schools. Played polo instead of T-ball. Spent his childhood in the White House with his famous grandfather while his mother flitted about the capitals of Europe until she, too, died some years later in a tragic train accident while she and her duke were on their way to the Italian Riviera.

  Try as Jo might, however, she couldn't cast Taylor in the role of poor little rich boy. He was too confident in his bearing, too comfortable in these luxurious surroundings to elicit even a glimmer of pity.

  "Your oldest brother is a surgeon specializing in neuropathological research, isn't he?" he asked when she ran out of stories at about the same time she finished the shaved ham.