She hung up, dazed all over again by a day that had taken her from joy, to incredulity, to the throat-closing experience of facing an inquiry officer, right back to incredulity again. Damned if the fairy-tale daydream she'd indulged in during the limo ride back to the base the other night hadn't taken on shape and substance. The American equivalent of a prince had just asked Cinderella to the ball.
She needed to go home and sort things through, she decided. Preferably in a steaming hot bathtub. With a cool beer close at hand. She was on her way out the door when she caught the whup-whup-whup of an incoming chopper. A glance out the window showed a blue and white bird on final. Moments later, it eased into a hover above the four-spot, then rocked down to a feather-light landing.
The special mission scheduled earlier to fly Mike and his family to Philadelphia had just returned. Jo hit the light switch and was headed down the hall before Deke cut the engine and the rotors whirled to a slow stop. She waited impatiently in the Ops Center while he and his crew went through the shut-down checklist and climbed out of their bird.
Black thunderclouds were rolling across a horizon already darkening with the early fall dusk when Deke slung his helmet bag over one shoulder and headed for the Ops Center. He looked tired, she thought, noting the way his broad shoulders slumped just a bit inside his flight suit. Tired, yet imbued with the satisfaction unique to an aviator of one more takeoff and landing successfully completed.
"How'd it go?" she asked after he completed the crew debrief, filled out the flight log, and turned in his equipment.
"Good." He raked a hand through hair flattened by his helmet. "Children's had a whole medical team waiting on the roof when we set down. Evidently the donor kidney was already on site. McPeak said he'd call the squadron as soon as he can to let us know how Brenda's doing."
"I hope the transplant goes okay."
He nodded, falling in beside Jo as they made their way through the Ops offices and out into the hangar. Only a few maintenance personnel remained, pulling late duty to ready the aircraft designated for tomorrow's missions.
Deke slanted her a glance. "Funny how Mike's daughter got moved up the list so suddenly."
"Isn't it?"
"McPeak seemed to think Alexander Taylor had something to do with it."
"So he said."
She wanted to tell Deke that Alexander Taylor might have had a hand in other matters, too, but she'd already been burned once by talking out of school. Colonel Marshall's caution that she keep her mouth shut until the inquiry officer finished his work was still fresh in her mind. Besides, until she confirmed that Alex really had paid off the horse farmer and made the incredible donation to her brother's research foundation, there was no point in adding fuel to the speculation already flaming the squadron.
Wrapped up in her private thoughts, she stepped into the parking lot with Deke. A freshening wind whipped the night. Thunder rumbled in the distance. A storm system was sweeping in off the Chesapeake. One of the howlers that made flying in this part of the country so much fun, according to the more experienced squadron hands.
Deke walked her to her MG, blocking the force of the wind with his body. "Want to catch happy hour at the club? You still owe me a rematch, remember?"
Jo hesitated. The Officers' Club usually jumped on Friday nights. But the events of the day had drained her. She needed to decompress.
"I'd better pass."
"How about tomorrow?"
"Sorry," she replied with a smile. "I've got some serious shopping to do. I intend to be at White Flint Mall when it opens."
Deke rested an elbow on the top of the MG while she unlocked the door. "White Flint, huh? That is serious shopping. What's the occasion?"
Once again, Jo hesitated. The ongoing inquiry didn't preclude her from having dinner with Alex... or any other man, for that matter. She just needed to watch what she said. Even more to the point, her brushes with the media and all the ribbing she'd taken from her squadron mates imbued her with a decided urge to keep the appointment with Alex to herself. But her awareness that Deke was ready to take their friendship to the next level demanded an honest response.
"Alex Taylor invited me to a dinner in honor of Krysta Dominick." She tried to pass it off with a cheeky grin. "Imagine, a dairy farmer's daughter from Wisconsin having dinner with the grandson of a president and a poet laureate."
He studied her face for a moment, his hazel eyes narrowed against the brisk wind.
"Yeah," he drawled. "Imagine."
Firmly, Jo quashed a sting of regret as he slid his arm off the MG and tipped her a salute.
See you around, West."
Chapter Six
"The White House?"
Jo almost tripped over the hem of her emerald satin skirt. Alex slipped a hand under her arm to keep her from ending up in an undignified sprawl on the cement walk in front of her little rented house.
"We're having dinner at the White House?" she asked incredulously.
"Is that a problem? We can cancel and go somewhere else, if you prefer."
Cancel at the last minute on a White House function? She didn't think so.
"No, it's not a problem. But I thought your secretary said this would be a small, private dinner."
"It will. That's the only reason I agreed to attend. I've made it a point to avoid public gatherings in the past few years."
Since his wife died. Sympathy for this intense, darkly handsome man tugged at Jo. If half the stories in the tabloids were true, he'd all but withdrawn from life after his wife's brief, tragic illness. Gathering her rustling skirts high in both hands to avoid the damp leaves fringing the sidewalk, she edged him a quick glance.
In his exquisite formal wear of snowy white and midnight black, he didn't look like a brooding, near recluse who fought a constant battle with intrusive media. He looked, she decided with a silly little thump of her heart, like every woman's secret fantasy come to life.
"Ordinarily, I wouldn't attend this gathering tonight," he confessed, guiding her to the waiting limo. "It's no secret that my family donated considerable sums to Bob Hayworth's opponent in the last election. But Krysta was... is... a close personal friend of my grandfather. He asked me to represent him tonight." His fingers were a warm slide on her arm. "And I thought you might enjoy it."
Jo gave the chauffeur standing at rigid attention beside the stretch limo a friendly nod as she slid into its sybaritic confines. As before, a single white rose crowned the silver vase attached to the frame. Its haunting perfume added one more exotic touch to a night that was fast taking on the dimensions of a dream.
"Speaking of donating considerable sums," she said when Alex had joined her and the glass partition separating them from the chauffeur whirred up, "your grant to the Spinal Cord Injury Research Foundation blew me away."
He didn't bother to deny that he was behind the grant. Reaching across the seat, he tucked her hand in his.
"I didn't intend to blow you away. I just wanted to thank you, and since you wouldn't accept even a small personal gift—"
"I couldn't accept it."
"I thought a donation to a cause near to your heart would be more acceptable."
"You couldn't have given me a more wonderful gift," Jo admitted. Her throat got tight, the way it always did when she remembered her brother's painful transition from an energetic, hockey-mad kid to an energetic, hockey-mad paraplegic.
"And Sergeant McPeak's daughter. I won't ask how you pulled that off, but he's not going to forget any time soon what you did for Brenda. Neither will I."
"Any more than I'll forget what you did for me."
As he had the day of the accident, he lifted her hand to his lips. Only this time the gesture didn't carry even a hint of old-fashioned courtesy. This time, he turned her hand and pressed a kiss on the inside of her wrist.
Goose bumps popped out all up and down Jo's arm.
"You look exquisite tonight," he murmured, his lips performing a magic act against her ski
n.
Since this was the first time held seen her in something other than her flight suit, she might have dismissed the compliment with a smile. But in this instance, Jo happened to totally agree with the man. She'd put a serious dent in her savings for this wickedly decadent skirt with its yards and yards of billowing green taffeta. The strapless bustier and matching long-sleeved bolero jacket sewn with beads that sparkled like emeralds in the light had cost even more, but what the heck! Between the gown and the three hundred dollars she'd blown on everything that went with it, including her visit to an exclusive salon this afternoon, she felt like a princess.
Before she let this prince charming sweep her off to the ball, however, she needed to square one more matter with him. Easing her hand from his, Jo searched for a polite way to tell him to back off. She finally decided there wasn't one.
"About the racehorse that broke his neck. I shouldn't have even mentioned that to you, and you shouldn't have paid off the owner."
"Nonsense. Of course I felt obligated to make restitution. I can afford it. Probably more than the Air Force can."
She didn't doubt that for a moment, but the sweeping assertion took her breath away. Or maybe it was his quicksilver grin that caused the sudden hitch in her chest.
"I consider it the height of absurdity that the Air Force grounded you for saving a man's life, by the way."
In her heart, Jo wanted to agree. But she'd flown too many years to dismiss the need for a methodical review of incidents involving safety of flight or damage to civilian property.
"However you feel about it," she replied, "it's Air Force business. Please, don't make anymore calls to the Secretary of Defense."
"I'll agree to that if you agree to keep me posted on the progress of the investigation."
"I can't discuss an ongoing inquiry with you, Alex. Just back off, okay?"
He didn't like being told to butt out. She could see that by the way his jaw set. Prince Charming, she realized, could come across as pretty formidable when he wanted to.
"If that's what you want," he conceded stiffly.
"It's what I want."
Having scored her point, Jo let the small silence spin out between them while the limo glided onto I-295 and headed north toward the Capitol Street Bridge. The lights of Alexandria winked across the Potomac. On this side of the river, traffic flowed in a steady blur of red taillights and white head beams. The smoothly moving vehicles reminded Jo of another subject of great interest to both Alex and her.
"How did you get all the way over from Georgetown to pick me up without the media giving chase?"
"I sent another driver out with a limo a few minutes before I departed," he told her, relaxing once more. "He has instructions to lead any and all interested parties on a long drive to nowhere. We shouldn't face any invasions of our privacy tonight."
Oh, sure! Where were the photographers when she was dressed fit to kill?
Smiling in the darkness, Jo eased back in the seat and let Alex fill her in on what to expect when they arrived at the White House for this small, private affair.
She soon discovered that his definition of both small and private differed considerably from hers. Limos lined up six deep at the security checkpoint, and light poured from every window of the building when they finally arrived at the side entrance. Jo didn't even try to feign a blase disinterest. She soaked up every detail to relate later to her parents, from the uniformed ushers who escorted them inside to the pair of elegant settees with mahogany arms in the shape of swans' heads inside the foyer. Bemused by the splendor, she kept her hand planted firmly in the crook of Alex's arm as they were led to the Blue Room, where, they were informed, President and Mrs. Hayworth and the guest of honor would soon join them.
Located at the rear of the White House, the oval Blue Room lived up to its name. Sapphire satin draped the tall windows and furnishings. Embroidered eagles decorated the backs of the antique armchairs, and a blue carpet set off to perfection white walls trimmed with gold. Eight or ten couples graced the room, the women sparkling with jewels and the men elegant in white tie and tails.
"I wish my mom and dad could see this," an awestruck Jo murmured to Alex.
"That's easily arranged," he answered with a smile. "Just let me know when it's convenient for them to come to Washington. I'll set up a private tour with the curator. He's an old friend."
The casual reminder that her escort had spent part of his youth in this living museum sent a shiver down her spine. As did the President and First Lady's arrival just moments later. To Jo's secret disappointment, brass trumpets didn't ring out with ruffles and flourishes. A more informal atmosphere prevailed as, couple by couple, the guests were escorted across the room to meet their host.
A lantern-jawed Marine colonel approached Jo and Alex. A rigidly polite smile cut through the granite of his face.
"Mr. Taylor. Captain West. If you'll come with me, please."
Her stomach fluttering, Jo accompanied Alex across the room. She would not say anything except yes, no, and it's a pleasure to meet you, she swore fiercely. Maybe not even yes or no. She would not make any remark that could get back to the Pentagon, the wing, or the squadron. She'd sip one drink, very cautiously, before dinner, sit tall in her seat through the meal, and let this glamorous mix of politicians and literi toss the conversational ball.
Unfortunately, those swift, silent vows didn't take either her escort or the President into account. A politician to his bone, Robert Hayworth could charm a smile out of a rock when he set his mind to it.
"The Secretary of State briefed me personally after the incident last week, Captain," the President said.
At least he hadn't read about it in the tabloids, Jo thought on a wave of relief.
"That was quite a rescue."
"I've been involved in hairier ones," she admitted. "But not many."
"Leave it to a Taylor to be dragged out of a burning car by a beautiful woman."
"A very beautiful woman," Alex agreed.
Jo was female enough to bask in the undisguised admiration of both men, and just human enough to feel a bit smug over their attention.
After cocktails, the small party flowed from the Blue Room to the Red Room. And it was red, Jo discovered. Red satin covered the walls. Red and gold silk upholstered the antique sofas and chairs. Red valences topped the gold draperies. Opulently intimate, the room was perfect for this small, elegant group. Despite her determination to keep her mouth shut, she couldn't resist Alex's skillful maneuvers to draw her into discussions that ranged from poetry to politics and back again.
She offered no opinion on anything that sounded even remotely political, but Sister Mary Margaret had hammered enough appreciation of American poets into the heads of the sixth-graders at Saint Bernard's that Jo recognized Whitman, Frost, and e. e. cummings when she heard them. Her familiarity with the works of Maya Angelou she owed to Oprah Winfrey.
But it was Krysta Dominick's after-dinner recital that caught her by the throat. Elbows on the table, her veined hands cradling a red-and-gold china cup, the silver-haired poet laureate poured out her verse in the smoky voice that had made best-sellers of her CDs. She ended with one of her most famous works, a poem as powerful as it was erotic. The last verse resonated with an emotion that seemed to come from her soul.
Silence gripped her audience when she finished, broken a few seconds later by an earthy chuckle.
"I wrote that the day after I met your grandfather in Paris, Alexander. I fell desperately in love with him, you know. Unfortunately, he was engaged at the time."
A smile played at Alex's mouth. "My grandmother always maintained that the course of history might have changed significantly if J.T. had met you before he did her."
Charmed by this very personal glimpse into the famous President of her youth, Jo stored up every word to share with her folks. Her mental recorder had come close to overload when Alex finally handed her into the limo.
"That," she confessed with a
laugh, "was the most exciting and terrifying night of my life."
"Funny, it was the most enjoyable I've ever spent in this house."
She grinned, more than willing to take the compliment as it was intended, and settled back with a rustle of satin skirts into glove-soft leather.
Yanking at the ends of his starched bow tie, Alex let them dangle down the front of his shirt. Another twist of his wrist popped open the top stud. Suddenly, endearingly human, he stretched his legs out beside hers.
"The night's not over yet, Jo. My family's boat is moored at the Georgetown Marina. I have the crew standing by. Shall we take you home via the Potomac instead of the parkway?"
Her heart melted into a puddle of mush. She couldn't imagine a more incredible end to this magical night than standing on the deck of a yacht as it glided past the lights of the city. Particularly with this man standing beside her. Only the sense that she was getting in too far over her head too fast kept her from agreeing instantly.
That, and the casual way Alex reached out to link his hand with hers.
"You're just off your crutches," she reminded him. "You probably shouldn't stand for another hour or two at the rail of a boat."
"It has a glassed-in salon and comfortable chairs on the upper deck, Jo. And three staterooms with king-sized beds below."
The wicked smile in his eyes made her laugh.
"Only three, huh?"
"The main stateroom has slept four presidents and two kings," he added with a waggle of his brows.
"Oh, well, how can I resist adding my name to a roster like that?"
"I'm hoping you can't."
He was serious, she realized with a shock. Under that teasing grin lurked an honest-to-goodness offer of seduction. She was still reeling from that when he slid his hand free of hers and curled it around the back of her neck instead.
"If that doesn't tempt you, maybe this will."
His thumb slid slowly along the line of her jaw. Just as slowly, he tilted her head back. Jo registered a confused melange of sensations... the power of those compelling eyes, the scent of white roses and starched shirtfront, the whispery touch of skin on skin. Then only his mouth, hot and hard on hers.
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