Love And Honor

by Radclyffe

  “Good. Now let’s get me dressed so you can take me home,” Savard said, reaching for the clothes on her bed. Carefully, she worked each leg into her pants and stood up by the side of the bed, frowning as she contemplated how to close buttons and zippers with only one functioning hand. Her left hand was held tightly across her chest in a sling. “Uh… I think I’m going to need some help here. Sorry.”

  “No problem,” Stark said nonchalantly, stepping forward and sliding up the zipper on the FBI agent’s pants, being careful not to touch the taut smooth skin of her abdomen as Renee held the hospital gown up with her good hand. Then she worked the button closed on the waistband and looked around for Renee’s shirt.

  Renee hooked a finger inside Stark’s belt and tugged playfully. “This is where I should say something clever about how I wish you were undressing me.”

  Stark colored and lifted the dark blue polo shirt from the bottom of the bed. She held it in front of her and said, “Here. I guess we’ll have to take the sling off to get this on.” She frowned. “Is that okay? I don’t want to hurt you.”

  “I can’t raise my arm. I think we’re going to have to use something with buttons,” Savard observed. “Is there anything in the bag like that?”

  Stark rapidly looked through the contents of the gym bag which Renee’s sister had brought earlier that day. “No. Everything pulls on over your head.”

  “Well, I don’t intend to leave here in this hospital gown—and I’m not staying one more minute longer than I have to.” Savard was silent for a few seconds, and then she smiled, her eyes twinkling. “You’re about my size. Give me your shirt.”

  “My shirt!”

  “Well, it buttons, which is the primary thing. You can wear my polo shirt.”

  “There’s a problem,” Stark said, her face reddening again.

  “Paula, I work mostly with men. I went through the FBI Academy with a class that was 90 percent male. A little sweat, especially yours, is not going to bother me.”

  “That’s not the problem,” Stark said stiffly. “I’m not…uh…wearing anything under it.”

  “Even better. A shirt and a bonus.” Renee Savard laughed out loud at Stark’s expression. “Take off the jacket and give me the damn shirt. I want to get out of here—and don’t even think about asking me to close my eyes.”

  Stark shed her jacket and pulled her pale-blue button-down collared shirt from the waistband of her black trousers. Her gun was clipped on the right side of her pants and she steadied the holster with one hand while she worked the buttons free on the front of her shirt with the other.

  “You want me to do that?” Savard asked innocently.

  “You only have one hand remember?” Stark was smiling now. She liked the way Savard’s eyes widened slightly as the material over her breasts parted with each button that she loosened.

  “You’d be amazed what I can do with one hand.” Renee’s voice was lower, a bit husky. She reached out her hand, and Paula stepped back a foot.

  “I’ve got it.”

  “Don’t trust me?” Renee asked teasingly, her eyes on the muscled chest and small, firm breasts now nearly completely exposed.

  “No,” Stark said quietly. “Don’t trust myself.”

  “I do,” Renee whispered, moving closer and placing a kiss on her lips. She held it, savoring the soft full lower lip exploring hers and the barest press of breasts against her own. It was going to be very easy to get lost in Paula Stark’s arms. Sighing with a mixture of pleasure and regret, she broke the kiss. “Time to go.”

  “I have to work tonight,” Stark managed, her throat thick. She held out her shirt, unmindful of her nudity now. Her skin felt so hot all she wanted was the cool touch of Renee’s fingers. “I’m sorry.”

  Savard shook her head and took the shirt. “Until when?”

  “Midnight.”

  “I’ll nap.” Savard tossed her the polo shirt. “You can return my shirt when you get off work.”

  Stark grinned. “Roger that.”

  ———

  Not long after Cam left, Blair set aside her palette and brushes and washed her hands in the work sink tucked into the corner of the loft that served as her studio. Then she lifted the nearby phone and punched in a familiar number. A moment later, a woman answered.

  “Hello?”

  The whiskey tones were huskier than usual, and Blair smiled fondly. “Don’t tell me you just woke you up? It is the middle of the day, you know?”

  “Listen, love, some of us have to work at night.”

  Blair tossed back her head and laughed again. “Oh, please, Diane. I know the kind of work you do after midnight.”

  “How do you know that I wasn’t busy selling one of your paintings?” Diane Bleeker, her business agent and oldest friend, inquired indignantly. “And how do you know that I was sleeping just now?”

  “If you were slaving on my behalf, I appreciate it. If you weren’t, I’d love to hear all the details.”

  “Where are you?” Diane asked, beginning to sound awake.

  “Back in Manhattan.”

  “Is everything all right?”

  The concern in her friend’s voice was genuine. As many times over their fifteen year friendship that they’d disagreed over the direction of each others relationships—or been at odds over the same woman, their deep-rooted affection for one another persisted.

  “I’m fine,” Blair hastened to assure her. “I wouldn’t mind seeing you, though—if your associate from last evening isn’t still there.”

  “Well,” Diane said as if thinking it over. “Let’s say by the time you get here, my calendar will be clear.”

  “Don’t let me rush you.”

  “Oh my dear, never that. Some things should definitely be savored.”

  “Is an hour good enough?”

  “Perfect. Now, let me get back to what I was about to do. I’ll see you soon.”

  After hanging up, Blair stripped off her soiled clothes and headed toward the shower. On her way, she picked up the bedside phone and dialed another number. It was answered immediately.

  “Yes, Ms. Powell?”

  “I’m going out in an hour, Mac.”

  If he were surprised by the advance notice, which was a distinctly unusual phenomenon for the notoriously unpredictable First Daughter, his voice didn’t reveal it. “Very well. I’ll call for the car.”

  “That would be fine, thank you, Mac.”

  Fifty minutes later, dressed in jeans, a white, short-sleeved ribbed cotton top and running shoes, she keyed the penthouse elevator and rode down to the lobby. When the doors opened, Felicia Davis and a small, bespectacled agent, Vince Taylor, a relative newcomer to the team, were waiting for her. She assumed that one of the others was in the car which idled at the curb. It didn’t really matter to her, because her mind was elsewhere. She had told Cam she had no intention of discussing their relationship with Lucinda Washburn, but she knew it was only a matter of time before she would need to. The only reason her proclivities had not become a matter of record much sooner was only because she’d never had a serious relationship. It was much easier to remain anonymous when one’s love interests were anonymous as well. As she stepped from beneath the awning over the entrance to her building, reporters hurried down the sidewalk toward her, microphones extended and cameras at the ready. Clearly, her days of anonymity were numbered.

  After the early morning briefing, her security team was prepared for exactly this occurrence and quickly surrounded her, escorting her rapidly to the Suburban, whose doors stood open to facilitate her entry. Once she was inside, the driver pulled quickly from the curb, and she was able to avoid making any kind of comment whatsoever in response to the shouted questions. Fortunately, New York City traffic prohibited easy pursuit, and by the time day reached Diane Bleekers upper East side condo, they had left the press behind. Felicia Davis accompanied her to Diane’s door and took up a post just outside after Diane answered Blair’s knock.

  �
��That’s one I don’t think I’ve seen before,” Diane remarked after a quick glimpse of the tall ebony-skinned woman who somehow managed to look Paris runway elegant in the standard dark, two-piece suit. “She’s absolutely gorgeous.”

  “Forget it. She’s straight.”

  “And your point would be?” Diane tossed a grin over her shoulder as she led them through the apartment to a sitting area facing the balcony. Through the open French doors, the green expanse of Central Park was visible far below.

  “Don’t you have your hands full with your many other…ah…interests?” Blair teased.

  “Well, variety is the spice of life and all that.”

  “Riiight.”

  “You want something to drink? Beer or wine?”

  Blair shook her head and settled into one corner of the broad beige sectional. She kicked off her shoes, propped her feet on a footstool, and dropped her head against the back of the sofa. “No, I’m fine. Thanks.”

  “Yeah, I can see that.” Diane walked to a nearby serving cart and poured herself a glass of white wine, then returned and sat near Blair. Resting one hand on Blair’s blue-jeaned leg, Diane said, “So. Tell me.”

  Blair raised an eyebrow. “What makes you think there’s anything to tell?”

  “Come on—save me the trouble of teasing it out of you.” Suddenly, she held up a hand. “No wait—let me guess. Roberts has done something to annoy you again.”

  “Why do you say that?” Blair asked in honest curiosity.

  “Because you always get those double frown lines between your brows when she’s driving you crazy.”

  Blair shook her head and smiled. “No. She hasn’t done anything. In fact she’s—fabulous.”

  “Oh my God.” Diane’s voice registered true shock. “You can’t be serious.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “Are you really, truly in love?”

  For moment, Blair wavered. She had said the words to Cam, but only rarely. She’d told Marcea. Still, saying it, she was sure, would destroy the last barricade that stood between her heart and everything that had always threatened to hurt her. Maybe it had started with the loss of her mother, or maybe it had been the betrayal of her first love in prep school, or maybe it had been the long procession of women who had claimed to want her when it was only the spotlight that accompanied her father’s name they wished to experience. She had managed to protect herself from the disappointment of a love lost by never allowing it in. Into the expectant silence, she loosed the fear and breathed the truth. “Yes. Utterly. Madly.”

  Diane stared at her, her face blank and unreadable for what felt like an endless moment. Finally, she sipped her drink and said quietly, “I envy you. And I’m happy for you.”

  Almost shyly, Blair nudged Diane’s leg with her toes. “Thanks.”

  “So, if it’s not Roberts, what’s the problem?”

  “I guess you haven’t seen a newspaper recently.”

  Diane laughed, a deep throated purr that at one time had been enough to make Blair want to throw her down on the bed and ravish her. But they had been teenagers then and they had not been lovers for many years. “There’s a picture of me on the front page of the Post in a compromising position. You can’t tell that it’s Cameron, but eventually someone is going to put it together. I am, to put it bluntly, about to be outed.”

  “You’ve had a pretty good run, you know,” Diane pointed out quietly.

  “I know. I’m just not sure how to handle it. The White House needs to be prepared, because my father is going to catch the fallout.”

  “I’ve always thought that a preemptive strike was the best way to deal with things like this.”

  “You think I should make a statement?”

  “Do you intend to keep on with her?”

  Blair gasped, as if from a sudden pain. “God, I hope so.”

  “Well, that’s the answered then, isn’t it?” Diane shrugged. “If you aren’t willing to give her up, then you’re going to have to deal with the publicity that goes with the relationship. Better have it on your own terms than end up always needing to defend yourself.”

  Blair ran her hands through her hair, then sighed. “It would be so much easier if I didn’t have to worry about the spin doctors in D.C. wanting to control what I say and when I say it and who I say it to.”

  “Screw them. You’re an adult—do what you want to do.”

  “I have been, but I can’t pretend that my father is not the President of the United States. He’s got sort of an important job. I think I’m going to need to run this by some people in the West Wing before I shoot him in the foot.”

  “I suppose you’re right. You want me to come with you?”

  “Thanks, I really appreciate it. I’d better do this alone.”

  “So what do you plan to do?”

  “I’m going to catch a plane to Washington.”

  She leaned over, kissed Diane on the cheek, and stood.

  “Any chance you could lend me one of your spookies?” Diane asked as she rose and threaded her arm through Blair’s.

  “Anyone in particular?” Blair asked playfully as the two friends walked toward the door.

  When Diane opened the door, Felicia Davis stepped away from the wall and glanced in at Blair.

  “She would do nicely,” Diane said sotto voce.

  Felicia raised one elegant eyebrow. “Ready Ms. Powell?”

  “As I’ll ever be,” Blair replied seriously.

  Chapter Twenty-One

  At 1830 hours that evening, Cam sat in a deserted anteroom in front of a plain varnished door with a small sign bearing Stewart Carlisle’s name. She settled in to wait, but just a few minutes passed when his administrative assistant appeared around the corner and said, “He’s ready for you.”

  When she opened the door and stepped into the unadorned office that had little in the way of personalized touches other than a small framed photo on the wall of a very young Stewart Carlisle with John Fitzgerald Kennedy and his brother Robert, her immediate superior was making a notation on the bottom of a report.

  “Grab a chair,” he said without looking up.

  She chose the right hand one of a pair of institutional fabric covered office chairs in front of his desk and crossed her right ankle over her knee, her hands resting loosely on the thin wooden armrests. When he finally closed the folder and pushed the pile of papers away with his right hand, looking up to meet her gaze, his face revealed nothing.

  “What happened with that newspaper photograph?” he began without preamble. “That’s just the kind of thing the White House likes to chew my ass over.”

  “I was going to ask you the same thing,” she said calmly. “We should have had intelligence that the photo was going out over the wires and been prepared for the article in the Post. As it was, we walked into a hornets nest of reporters at Teterboro when we arrived last night. We were lucky it didn’t turn into a free for all. So where was the breakdown in the system?”

  A muscle bunched in his jaw, but his voice, too, was even as he replied, “Since you were there when the picture was taken, I assumed you’d be able to tell me.”

  For a second, Cam thought he was referring to her presence on the beach with Blair, before she realized that he simply meant San Francisco. Oddly, it didn’t bother her. There was not one moment in her relationship with Blair that she would deny to anyone. On the other hand, in a world rife with double dealings, political blackmail, and constant struggle for bureaucratic superiority, she had learned never to divulge information that could be used as a weapon against her or anyone she cared for.

  “The photo was taken with a long-range telephoto lens, probably across the water from an adjacent pier. We had close physical surveillance in place, but no substantial perimeter. I had no reason to believe in that particular location it was required.”

  “The camera could just as well have been a long-range rifle equipped with a night scope,” he pointed out as if discussing
an inconsequential notation in the margin of a not particularly interesting article. “She could be dead instead of just caught in an embarrassing moment.”

  A pain like a shard of glass tore through her chest and it even hurt to take a breath, but outwardly her expression didn’t change. “I’ve thought of that. Unless we keep her at highest priority twenty-four hours a day, we can’t prevent it if someone decides to do it. Ordinarily, that kind of perimeter is not required for her, and I felt our security status at that time was adequate.”

  “Its going to be one more piece of ammunition against you.”

  “Meaning what?”

  “I received a call from Justice this morning. Apparently, a petition for a formal inquest into the outcome of the operation in New York has been lodged by the NSA chief and the Deputy Director of the Bureau.”

  “That’s precedent setting, isn’t it?”

  He shrugged. “It was a joint operation, so the Bureau is within their rights to ask for it. Bottom-line though, its the casualties that resulted that make it difficult to fight without looking like we have something to hide. There’s not much I can do about it.”

  “All right. I understand.”

  “I’m not sure that you do. They want you relieved of duty until the inquiry is completed.”

  Gray eyes hardened, but she didn’t move a muscle. “What did you say?”

  For the first time that day, and for one of the very few times she could ever remember, he looked uncomfortable. “I told them no, but I don’t know how long that will last.”

  “Since when do you let outside departments tell the Secret Service how to run its business?”

  “Since the President was forced to accept an FBI Director who is just a little bit further right than Joe McCarthy. Damn it, Roberts, you know that ever since William Morrow was appointed that the FBI has been working nonstop to expand its investigative reach and confiscate as much power as possible from the other security divisions.”

  “And you think that the Bureau is behind this move to investigate me?”

  “That’s my best guess.”

  “Why? What difference does it make to them who’s in charge of Blair Powell’s security?”