"Hence the name?" Jo guessed.
"You got it. Bella Vista... beautiful sight. Supposedly, these gardens rival those he designed for the Biltmore Estate in North Carolina."
They certainly rivaled anything Jo had ever seen. Acres of manicured lawns, gravel walks, and trimmed hedges defined the terraced areas behind the house. Chrysanthemums in rich purples, yellows, and reds provided bright flags of fall color. Scattered throughout the gardens were classical temples and statuary, with a bridge in the same gray stone arching over a small stream.
The helipad and private landing strip had been carefully situated to keep their twentieth-century functionality from impinging on the estate's nineteenth-century elegance. Screened from the house by rows of tall beeches still fluttering with gold leaves, the airfield facilities included a hangar, a small operations center, and quarters for the crews who flew and maintained the Taylor fleet of corporate jets and helicopters... one of which, Jo saw after she brought the Sikorsky down in a featherlight landing, was configured as a medical ambulance.
She'd flown enough rescue missions to appreciate the 135-degree hinged doors that allowed easy litter loading and the dams in the grooved floorboards to contain body fluids.
Brakeman caught her sideways glance at the other chopper. Waiting until they'd completed engine shutdown procedures, he confirmed her guess as to its function.
"We've got an EMS crew on twenty-four-hour standby. President Taylor wants to remain at home as long as he can, but we're prepared to transport him to an intensive care facility if necessary."
Jo nodded, her chest tightening at the reminder of Alex's bedside vigil. For a cowardly moment, she regretted giving in to his urgent plea to join him here. The last thing he needed during this crisis was her careful explanation of why she thought it best to cut their relationship off now, before they got in any deeper.
She'd let him talk her into it, however. She was here now. She'd just have to find some way to explain her decision before she left tonight. Slinging the strap of her purse over her shoulder, she walked over to a crewman waiting beside a Jeep.
"Frank will take you up to the house," Brakeman said by way of introduction. "Have someone call down to the hangar when you're ready to head back to D.C. We'll get your aircraft fueled and ready to fly."
She felt odd leaving all the postflight chores to someone else. Odd, too, being driven up a road lined with gorgeous flowers to the front entrance of a castle, where a uniformed maid greeted her.
"Mr. Taylor's waiting for you upstairs, ma'am. He thought you might want to stop in and say hello to President Taylor before I show you to your suite."
President Taylor! Jo hadn't envisioned a bedside meeting with the stricken hero of her youth. Gulping, she followed the maid through a tall, vaulted foyer that might have graced a medieval nobleman's hall. Paneled in oak polished to a golden hue, the entry- way boasted graceful alcoves, settees upholstered in rich tapestry, and original works of art. Trailing fingers along a stone railing so smooth it felt like silk, she followed the maid up a wide, branching staircase.
It wasn't Alex who met her at the top of the stairs, however.
Jo recognized the historian she'd met at Alex's Georgetown mansion by his tortoiseshell glasses and feathery fringe of white hair. But it was the expression on the man's face that revved her pulse up a few rpms. She thought she saw desperation, almost fear, in his rheumy blue eyes as he stepped out of an alcove to intercept her.
Chapter Thirteen
"Captain West! May I speak with you a moment?"
With some effort, Jo pulled the historian's name from her memory bank.
"Of course, Dr. Russ."
"Mr. Taylor is waiting for her, Sir," the maid interjected.
"I'll escort the captain to President Taylor's bedside."
"But my orders were to bring her right up."
"I'll take care of it."
Waving a thin hand, the historian shooed the young woman away. She threw a worried glance down the hall, but didn't protest further.
"What is it?" Jo asked, catching the nervous look the professor sent in the same direction. "Has President Taylor... Is he...?"
"He's holding on by a thread."
Grasping her elbow, Russ drew her toward a bench tucked inside the alcove. Vases of blood-red gladiolas on marble pedestals flanked the crimson brocade bench. Trapped by the low, shell-shaped ceiling, the flowers' scent combined with that of the historian's tweed jacket to thicken the air in the little space.
"I didn't know you were coming down until this morning," he began, his shaggy white eyebrows twitching. "I had no idea you and Alex had become so intimate that he would invite you to attend his grandfather's deathbed."
Taken aback by his blunt intrusion into what she considered a private matter, Jo didn't answer.
"There are matters you don't understand, Captain. Matters I've become privy to as I've chronicled the affairs of this family."
"I don't consider my relationship with Alex Taylor a matter for the family chronicles."
"You must..."
He broke off, his clouded blue eyes narrowing at the sound of a door opening at the far end of the hall. He cocked his head, caught the firm tread of footsteps on the hardwood floor. Frowning, he extracted an old-fashioned fountain pen and spiral-bound notebook from his jacket pocket.
"We'll speak later," he murmured, scribbling hurriedly with fingers stained blue-black at the tip. "If not here, perhaps in Washington. Here's my home phone. Call me. We'll arrange a meeting."
He tore the sheet out, folded it, and slipped it into the pocket of Jo's blazer.
"Call me," he urged. "It's most important."
As the footsteps neared, he wiped any trace of urgency from his voice and all expression from his face except a mournful respect.
"I know, my dear. President Taylor's legacy will impact this country for generations. I've truly been privileged to... Oh, hello, Alex."
Astounded by the professor's swift about-face, Jo swiveled on the bench.
A small shock raced along her skin as Alex's eyes cut into her like lasers. Even now, after all the hours she'd spent with the man, those dark-ringed blue eyes still disconcerted her. The fact that they came framed in such a stunningly handsome face only added to their impact. Alex looked every inch the aristocrat today, his shoulders square in a navy blazer sporting double rows of monogrammed gold buttons, a silk scarf folded into a loose ascot at the neck of his white shirt.
Expecting a welcome, Jo found herself surprised for the second time in as many minutes when he ignored her to pin the historian with a cold look.
"I was told you'd waylaid my guest, Martin."
"We met on the stairs," the professor said airily. "I took the opportunity to reintroduce myself to the captain, and invite her once again to get in touch with me. I still wish to record her firsthand account of the tragic accident that almost took your life."
He gave her hand an absent pat and rose. "Call me, dear."
Alex's solid presence blocked his exit from the alcove. Jo saw only the back of Russ's head, his pink scalp showing above the fringe of whispy white, but Alex's face was clearly visible. His jaw was clamped so tight that white showed around the dimple in his chin. After a moment or two, the younger man backed up a step to allow the elder to pass. His eyes followed Russ's progress down the hall.
"Is that what he wanted?" he demanded, swinging back to Jo. "To talk to you about the accident?"
She pushed off the bench, disconcerted once again by his lack of welcome. "Hello to you, too."
An emotion Jo couldn't quite define rippled across his face. Annoyance? Irritation that she would take him to task like that? Before she could decide, his lips curved in a rueful smile.
"I'm sorry, Joanna. Russ hovers over me like a preying mantis, trying to delve into parts of my life that have no place in history. I tolerate him for my grandfather's sake, but I won't allow him to harass you."
"He wasn't harassing me."
; He'd startled her, yes, and confused her with his almost furtive secretiveness. Jo would have to decide later whether she'd agree to his request for an interview. At the moment, Alex demanded her full attention.
He drew her into his arms, his eyes glittering now in unmistakable welcome. "I've missed you, my darling. So very much."
With that, he bent and ground his mouth down on hers.
That was Alex, she thought on a cynical note. So sophisticated in manner and speech, so savage in his needs. His rough magic didn't thrill her as much now as it had before. If he noticed her lack of response, he gave no indication. Heat flushed his cheeks when he drew away.
"I'm glad you're here."
"Alex..."
"We'll have time for each other later. First, I want you to meet my grandfather."
She hung back, hesitant to intrude on a man so gravely ill. "It would be an honor, but he doesn't need strangers hovering over him at a time like this."
"You're not a stranger." He tucked his arm in hers and drew her down the hall. "I've told him all about you. Where you were born, what you do in the Air Force, our plans for the future."
Jo stumbled, her mind bouncing back and forth between the astounding fact that one of the most influential men of the twentieth century knew where she was born and the equally astounding fact that Alex had talked to him about their supposed future.
She had to stop this freight train before it careened completely out of control, she realized in dismay. With that thought echoing through her head, Jo was ushered into the President's sickroom.
She'd encountered death on only a handful of occasions in her rescue career, but those few were enough for her to sense its presence the instant she stepped into the shadowy chamber. Crimson brocade drapes shielded its tall windows, filtering out all but a few determined sunbeams. An inch-thick Persian carpet muffled their approach to the massive bed adorned with ornately carved walnut head- and footboards, but nothing could mute the rhythmic clack of an oxygen machine or the soft beep of life support equipment. The team of medical personnel attending the President stepped aside at Alex's approach.
Eyes closed, John Tyree Taylor lay propped against a bank of pillows. Above the clear plastic oxygen mask, his skin stretched gaunt over hollowed cheeks and sunken eye sockets. Jo might not have recognized him if not for the shock of wavy hair. Only after she and Alex moved closer did she see that the trademark silver mane she remembered so well from her youth had dulled with age and illness.
Jo cringed inside, feeling like a voyeur at the ceremonial passing of a king. She didn't belong here, didn't want to intrude on the last moments of someone who deserved peace and privacy. She was about to say so when J. T. Taylor's veined eyelids fluttered.
Slowly, so slowly, they lifted, revealing the same distinctive eyes he'd passed to his grandson. He stared unseeing at the wall opposite his bed until Alex moved into his line of sight.
"Hello, J.T."
The President dragged his gaze to his grandson's face. Those fragile lids beat like butterfly's wings, struggling to ward off the darkness.
"I've brought Joanna, J.T. Remember, I told you about her? She's the woman who saved my life... in more ways than one."
With a tug on Jo's hand, Alex drew her into the dying man's field of vision.
"It's an honor to meet you, Mr. President."
He regarded her for long seconds with eyes barely comprehending above the oxygen mask. In an agony of embarrassment for having been thrust on him like this, Jo forced a smile.
"My aunt Gert still talks about the time your train made a whistle-stop in Milwaukee during your first campaign. According to her, you washed down a giant-sized bowl of ice cream with what she swears was a gallon of beer. You've been her hero ever since."
For the barest instant, an answering smile softened the gaunt lines of Taylor's face. One side of his mouth moved in an indistinct mumble.
"I... washed down... more than ice cream... to win that... election."
The smile faltered and his lids dropped again, as if the few words had used what little strength he had left. Alex laid his hand gently over his grandfather's.
"I'll come back shortly, J.T., as soon as I get Joanna settled."
Thin, clawlike fingers caught at his grandson before he could withdraw.
"Keep... this... one."
The plastic oxygen mask muffled the order, but it was still audible to Jo. As was Alex's soft reply.
"I intend to."
The imminence of death left Jo subdued, but Alex had faced it long enough now to summon a smile as he escorted her from his grandfather's suite.
"Would you like a sherry before I show you around?"
Jo had only experimented with sherry once before. That taste had convinced her to stick to beer. Since sherry was all that was offered, however, she accepted with a nod. The visit to President Taylor left her feeling shaken. As did the way Alex tucked her hand in his with a casual, unconscious propriety.
"I had them put you in the west wing," he told her as they neared the stairs. "It has the best view of the gardens. The maids should have unpacked your bags by now, if you'd like to freshen up first."
Jo pulled in a deep breath. She'd hoped for a more private setting to break the news that she wasn't staying, but this would have to do.
"I didn't bring any bags."
His step slowed. "Why not?"
"I can't stay."
A muscle jumped under the sleeve of his navy blazer. She felt the sudden tension even as red surged into his cheeks.
"This is absurd. If those idiots at the base won't let you take off a few days to visit a dying former President, it's time they were replaced."
Jo blinked, as astonished at his sweeping indictment of her entire chain of command as by his assumption he could eradicate them at will.
"Perhaps it's time for you to think about leaving the military, as well."
"Excuse me?"
"I need you, Joanna. I want you with me, and not just for the few hours you can wring from your job."
He said it with such finality, as if his needs took precedence over all others, that it took her breath away. It was just seeping back into her lungs... along with a healthy tide of anger... when a maid appeared at the top of the stairs, her arms laden with folded linen. She took one look at her employer's face and murmured an apology.
"Excuse me, sir."
Ignoring her, Alex gripped Jo's arm and steered her toward the stairs. "We'll talk about this in the garden room."
With a wrench, Jo pulled free of his bruising hold.
Damn straight they'd talk about this in the garden room. They'd talk about several things.
More than a little pissed, she followed him down the wide stone stairs to a glass-roofed sanctuary at the rear of the central wing. Under any other circumstances, the antique rattan furniture grouped amid profuse displays of exotic indoor plants would have delighted her. As it was, she barely registered either the furniture or the marble fountain crowned by a bronze goddess bubbling in the center of the room. Shoving her hands in the pockets of her black slacks, she waited while Alex poured them both a sherry.
Red still rode in his cheeks as he handed her the small crystal goblet filled with amber liquid.
"I'd planned a toast to our future. Perhaps we should just toast my grandfather's continuing hold on life?"
"Perhaps we should."
He tipped the rim of his goblet to hers and took a swallow. "All right, Joanna. What's this all about?"
She abandoned her carefully rehearsed speech. "I'm sorry, Alex. I know how stressed you are right now about your grandfather, but—"
"But?" he echoed stiffly.
He was hurt, and wanted her to know it. She got the message. She only hoped he'd get hers.
"I tried to tell you when you called the other night. This relationship isn't working."
He stared down at her, his black-lashed eyes flat as he processed her words. "It's Katherine, isn't it? You're still
upset that I said her name while I made love to you."
"You were making love to her, Alex, not me."
"I knew exactly who I held in my arms."
"Did you?"
He answered her question with one of his own.
"You think I'm still enthralled by her?"
"Given the fact that you keep her pictures all through your house and made a shrine out of her bedroom at Chestnut Hill, I'd say that's a pretty good guess."
His stark expression reminded Jo of all he'd lost... all he was about to lose. Softening, she laid a hand on his arm.
"I'm sorry I'm not Katherine, Alex. I couldn't be her if I tried, and I don't want to try."
Deliberately, he took another sip of his sherry. Just as deliberately, he set it on a glass-topped table. Feeling wretched, Jo bent to place her goblet beside his.
"I hated her."
Her hand jerked, splashing sherry on the cuff of her blazer. Certain she'd mistaken him, she carefully placed the fragile crystal on the table and faced him.
"What?"
"Toward the end, just before she died, I'd come to hate her almost as much as I loved her."
Speechless, Jo stared at him.
"She was going to leave me," he continued in the same emotionless voice. "Just like my mother. No one knew, not even my grandfather, although I think he suspected."
His gaze drifted to the vista framed by the glass wall. Jo knew he wasn't seeing the magnificent gardens beyond, but the raven-haired Katherine.
"She said I was strangling her, that she couldn't take another damned hundred-dollar-a-plate dinner or boring speech. She wanted excitement."
His lips stretched in what might have been a smile or a grimace.
"I tried to give it to her. She liked it rough. Liked the kind of games we played, even came to crave them. Still she wasn't satisfied."
"Then she got sick," Jo whispered.
"Then she got sick," he echoed, his voice empty. "It struck her so fast. An infection of the myocardium. One day she was laughing and raking her nails down my back, the next..."
Jo didn't want to hear the intimate details, didn't need to probe this private agony, but Alex continued, lost in his memories.
Lovelace, Merline Page 13