White Diamonds (Capitol Chronicles Book 2)

by Shirley Hailstock

  Carefully stripping the dressing off his side, he looked at the neat row of thread that held his skin together. Again he wondered who had done this.

  Returning to the bedroom, he limped to the window. Maybe his car was outside. If he did need to run, he didn't want to do it on foot.

  "God!" he breathed. He'd never seen so much snow. He'd grown up in Philadelphia. With the subways and elevated trains, snow generally melted quickly after falling. During his junior year at Morgan State University, he and several fraternity brothers had taken a trip to Switzerland to ski. Some of the Florida brothers had never seen snow before. He'd at least seen it, but what was outside this window could rival the Alps.

  He wondered if the entire house was surrounded by as much snow as the amount he could see from the windows in this room.

  There would be no escaping if he was being held by the men who'd tried to kill him. But if he was, why hadn't they killed him? They had to have found . . .

  His hands went to his waist. Where was it? He jerked his shirt aside. Suddenly he weaved back and forth, grabbing the windowsill to still the room and make the whirling halt. The band was gone. His gaze darted around the room. His watch and wallet lay on the nightstand. His pants hung from a wooden butler in the corner and his shoes sat in front of it. He was wearing his shirt and shorts. Nowhere did he see the band or the stones.

  He couldn't have lost them. One man had died for those diamonds. He was almost the second, but somehow he'd escaped his assassins and made it here—wherever here was.

  What was he going to do now? He needed to know where he was and how many people were in the house. He needed to know if they were friend or foe, and if they were foe what more they wanted from him.

  The first thing he needed to do was get dressed. He found the thought difficult to execute. The pain in his side took more out of him than he cared to admit. Sweat popped out on his brow, dizziness overtook him several times, and thoughts of giving up and going back to the comfortable bed had to be forcibly removed.

  After the last week, Wyatt knew the benefits of having the element of surprise on his side. He had to leave this bedroom, before whoever was holding him came back. There was only one door. He hoped there was no guard standing outside it. Quietly, he peeped through the opening. The hall looked deserted. He opened it wider and slipped out. He pressed himself against the wall, straining to hear. Not even a floorboard creaked. The stairs were several feet away.

  He made his way toward them, the effort requiring every ounce of strength. Then he heard someone move. A chair scraped across a floor. He froze still; sure whoever it was knew of his movements. He listened intently. No one started up the stairs. Sweat beaded on his forehead and rolled into his eyes. He wiped it away with his sleeve. How many were there, he wondered. The sound had not repeated and he could hear nothing more. That could mean only one person was in the house, or it could mean, if there were others, they weren't talking. At the top of the steps he peered down. He saw nothing.

  Then she walked by. He jumped back, flattening his back against the rough wooden wall, grinding his teeth together to keep the pain inside. His hands were sweaty and his head felt as if he was carrying the Congressional Record on it. His hand went to the sore spot on his side. Who was she? Was she alone? He'd seen her only briefly as she passed. She had dark hair pulled into a ponytail, and she was wearing black pants and a ski sweater.

  He wondered if he could still ski. If he had any chance of escaping it would have to be over the snow. He remembered trying to get up the road and knew that was no longer a way out. He hadn't been on a pair of skis in at least a decade, and with the pain in his side, he wouldn't last more than a few feet before he'd need to shift his weight onto the side that certainly wouldn't support him.

  He didn't like the situation. He was trapped. His only choice was to go down the steps and find out how bad it was. They hadn't killed him yet, and they did have the stones. What else could they want?

  Chapter 2

  Everett Davis Horton removed his wire-rimmed glasses and massaged the bridge of his nose. He stared through the windows of the White House upstairs sitting room. Lights beamed at him. No matter what direction he chose, he couldn't see much more than the beams of the thousand-watt bulbs that illuminated the White House. If he looked over them he could make out the sky and faint shadows of buildings in the distance. Life here was certainly a fishbowl, constantly in view of the nation.

  They stared at him, scrutinized everything he said and did. They had the advantage. He couldn't see quite as well as they could and there were things that had to be hidden, things that if brought into the light would cause widespread fear and chaos; things like the nearness of global destruction. Former presidents had battled to fund star wars projects, class M submarines, and stealth missiles. His claim to history would be as the President who had lost Project Eagle, a defense system so vital it could change the course of world power. The man who'd designed it was dead, and the man who had the key element couldn't be found.

  Behind him lay the debris of his meeting. He turned from the window and sat down on the sofa. Stale coffee, half-eaten sandwiches, and burned cigarettes were the only remnants of his advisors, cabinet members, and secretaries. They advised, administered, and argued, yet none of them had a shred of information that would bring them a step closer to finding out what had happened to Senator Randolph. The senator held the fate of his presidency in his hands, not to mention the world, and the man didn't even know it.

  Well, he might as well go to bed. There was nothing more he could do tonight. Until someone found Wyatt Randolph and the computer system he had, all they could do was wait and hope. . .hope the newspapers didn't find out about it, and hope no other government got to him first.

  Everett pushed himself out of the chair and walked across the carpet. His feet made only a whisper of sound. He doused the lights and opened the door. Before him stood the imposing hallway that led to his bedroom. The staff had lowered the lighting for the night. Since John Adams had become the first occupant of the national mansion, lights had never been completely off inside the White House. He strolled down the hall that the ghosts of former presidents had walked. Every term had its problems; Teapot Dome lived long after Warren Harding died, Kennedy's problems with J. Edgar Hoover were the subject of documentaries, and Andrew Jackson's ribald inauguration party was touted out every four years. He felt these were minor infractions compared to shutting down world communications.

  Wait until he told Casey in the morning. Quietly he opened the bedroom door and slipped inside. Casey had been asleep for hours and he didn't want to wake her. The president's wife had as many obligations as the President.

  "Wishing we'd never left Texas?" she asked.

  "I thought you were asleep." Everett turned toward the bed.

  Casey Horton leaned over and pressed the button on the bedside lamp. She squinted as she pushed herself up.

  ""You might as well tell me about it tonight."

  "Casey, I can't tell you everything. You need a security clearance to know what happened tonight."

  "What's the highest clearance?"

  "Ten."

  "Well, my level is twelve. I know everything about the President and I'll go to The Washington Post and spill all. Now tell me."

  Everett laughed, the simple act releasing the tension that had coiled inside him. He'd loved this woman for thirty years. She knew everything about him and commanded respect even from his advisors. He'd have appointed her to a cabinet position if it wouldn't have thrown protocol into a frenzy. He recalled the near revolt in Congress when Bill Clinton appointed his wife to head a healthcare commission. Hillary was more than qualified for the job, but the press and the Republicans made her appointment seem like she was an idiot instead of the intelligent attorney and bipartisan committee member she’d been. She was a wife and that’s where they portrayed her position as ending.

  Everett wasn’t going to make that mistake. Casey worked
hard for him, but all her efforts were behind the scene or off the record.

  "Not tonight, Casey. I'm talked out,” Everett said. When the sun rises, I'll tell you everything."

  Casey pushed the covers aside and got out of bed. She wore a white, clinging gown that showed off her body. At forty-nine she still looked like the woman he'd met in college, thin and firm even after giving birth to two children.

  The sun would be up in a few hours. He was dead tired, but suddenly he wanted his wife. He met her, hugged her close, and kissed her shoulder. He smelled the perfume she always wore. Their schedules kept them apart so often that he cherished time when they were together. When he'd decided to run for a small office in their Texas town, he never imagined it would end at the White House. Casey always reminded him of that when he felt this way.

  He pulled her soft body closer, feeling his own arousal. He turned her face to his and found her mouth.

  "Do you think the country would approve of your actions now with the world in crisis?" she asked in a sexy voice that was breathy against his skin and throaty to his ear.

  "I'm sure half of them would approve," he said, reaching down to lift her from the floor and carry her to the bed.

  "Which half?"

  ***

  The whisper of footsteps alerted Sandra that she wasn’t alone. She twisted around from the desk. Wyatt stood on the steps.

  "What are you doing out of bed?" Sandra pushed her books aside and stood up. He'd startled her. She hadn't heard him moving about upstairs or descending the steps. He'd moved like a thief stealing in the darkness, and that was most likely what he was, senator or no senator.

  He didn't answer her immediately but looked her up and down as if he were surprised at her statement. His gaze darted around the room, checking every doorway as if he were looking for someone.

  "We're alone," she told him, thinking better of her statement only after she'd said it. She went toward him. "You really should stay in bed. The stitches might come loose and I don't think I can redo them."

  He checked over his shoulder and looked toward the kitchen. There was a kind of caged fear in him, she noticed. Fear took hold of her. What horror had she let herself in for? Why hadn't she told Brian he was here? Why hadn't she done what was expected of her? She'd always done so before.

  His hand went to his side. Sandra's gaze followed it expecting to see blood seeping through the whiteness of his shirt.

  "You—"

  "I'm not a doctor," she told him. "It was either me or bleed to death. I didn't think you'd mind if I made the choice." She felt the need to explain.

  "You saved my life?"

  He asked it as a question. Sandra nodded. "I did my best."

  "Where. . .am I?" His hesitation told her he was far from able to be out of bed.

  "You're in my cabin at the top of the Pocono Mountains."

  "Who are you?"

  Sandra still thought he was the best-looking man she'd seen in a long time, but he looked as if he couldn't hold his position much longer.

  "You really ought to go back to bed," she said.

  "Who are you?" he asked a little more forcefully.

  "My name is Sandra Rutledge."

  "You're related to him?" His good eye widened in surprise as one hand gripped the newel post for support and the other went to his swollen eye. "What?" he paused.

  Sandra could see he was in obvious pain.

  "Sister? Niece? In-law?" he pressed on.

  "What are you talking about?"

  He was weaving as if his knees wouldn't hold him up much longer. Sandra knew he'd fall soon. Quickly she looked for the stair-seat. It was at the top of the steps where she'd left it when she got him to Annie's room. She took a step forward, instinctively ready to catch him, although she doubted she'd be able to support his bulk.

  "How are you related to him?"

  His words stopped her forward motion. "Who?" she asked, confused at his apparent train of thought.

  Both hands gripped the newel post. "Senator Bradford Campbell Rutledge." He said it as if he were announcing the next candidate for President of the United States.

  "He's my father."

  "Father?" he whispered. "Senator Rutledge has a daughter?"

  He'd asked it as a question, although Sandra didn't know if he was actually speaking to her. She answered anyway. "He does. There are two of us. I have a sister."

  She wondered why he didn't know that. She and Annie had been part of every campaign her father had participated in for as long as she could remember. They'd been posed and positioned, told where to stand and how to smile to best show off the perfect American family. Wyatt Randolph was the junior senator from Pennsylvania. Maybe he hadn't taken note of the neighboring state of New Jersey or maybe he hadn't taken much interest in Washington politics until he'd campaigned for the Senate.

  "What are you doing here?" The question broke into her thoughts. "I'm looking for him."

  Suddenly her back went up. Something about the vehemence in his voice. Just who was interrogating whom? This was her domain, yet his attitude made her feel as if she were an intruder.

  "Excuse me."

  "Where is Senator Rutledge? This is his cabin. I expected him to be here." It was as close to a shout as he could get.

  "Well, you've been misinformed."

  His hand went to his head. Sandra moved in. He recoiled as though he expected her to attack him. His hold on consciousness must be from sheer will, because his weaving was getting worse. Sandra wondered how he could keep the force in his voice. Her anger left her. The man was obviously sick and in pain. She should have more compassion.

  "You need to sit down," she told him. He must have agreed with her, for he looked at the steps behind him. "Let me help you."

  She didn't get the chance. At her first step his legs buckled. She reached for him, spreading her own legs to balance his greater weight. He staggered forward as her arms encircled his waist. She zigzagged backward a few steps before they both crashed to the floor, Sandra pinned under him like a butterfly. Lying inert, she tried to regain the breath Wyatt Randolph's bulk had knocked out of her.

  He lay on top of her heavy and unconscious. She touched his shoulders, intending to push him away, but contact with his heated skin changed her. Suddenly she was aware of him not as her patient but as a man—a vibrant, strong, and virile man. Sandra felt his warmth seep into her where she touched him. How he managed to stand for so long, she didn't know. He was over six feet tall and she fit under his arm like a natural extension. Why did she think that? She'd seen him before. His face had been on the news. She'd watched his story every day for the past week. Yet, in all the Washington parties and politically mandatory events she'd attended, the two of them had never been together in the same room. Until now. She forced herself to breathe in, but the effort drew the clean smell of the soap she'd used to sponge him, the indefinable scent that was unique to him, and a breath of the outdoors. His nearness and his warm body enhanced her awareness of him. Heat pooled in her stomach hot as a self-cleaning oven. Sandra felt his form from breasts to hips. His head lay against her shoulder and his legs settled in the V of her hips. Sandra gritted her teeth and tried to force herself from under him. The effort aroused her.

  It's been too long, Sandra, she thought. Too long since she'd been with a man. Even now, while Wyatt Randolph lay unconscious, she felt a need she'd hadn't felt since John died.

  Her battle to free herself ended. Lying still, she waited for the state of normalcy to return, but it didn't. The longer she lay under him, the more she wanted to stroke his arms, his back, run her hands over him. She only felt more and more the need to stay where she was. His weight impeded her breathing, yet she didn't mind carrying it. Halting her thoughts, she heaved him aside and skittered out from under him.

  Putting the distance of the room between them, she curled her arms around her legs and rocked back and forth, staring at the static figure lying on the braided rug. Dropping her head o
nto her knees, she denied what was happening to her. It must have something to do with all the thoughts of John she'd had since Wyatt arrived. She missed John, and finding herself spread-eagle under a man had to make her body instinctively react. There was nothing to be concerned about. She was a warm-blooded female who hadn't had a man around in a long time. It was perfectly normal to react as she had. After twenty minutes of telling herself this, she almost believed it.

  Slowly Sandra unraveled her long legs and got up. She couldn't sit and watch Wyatt all morning. He might be really hurt and all her work would have gone to waste. Steeling her emotions, she turned him over, purposely avoiding his face and looking at his side. She held her breath at the sight of the muscles of his stomach and concentrated on the stitches. He'd removed the bandage, but thankfully the binding was holding.

  "Wyatt," she whispered. "Wake up." He didn't move. Running to the bathroom, she wet a cloth and rushed back to the figure on the floor. Patting his forehead and cheeks with the cold cloth and calling his name softly, she tried to wake him.

  After a few moments of coaxing, the dark chocolate eyes opened and focused on her. She clamped her teeth down on her inner lip to buy herself enough time to speak coherently. "Can you sit up?" she finally asked.

  He nodded. Sandra slipped her arm under his head and helped him rise into a sitting position. She noticed his wince as he moved forward. Helping him to his feet, they made it across the room and he sank onto the sofa, his head falling against the upholstered back. Sandra dropped down on the other end before her knees gave way and she fell.

  How could this be? She was a rational thirty-two-year-old professor. She'd had relationships with men before. But she'd never reacted like this to a man. Why was her body turning into warm syrup when she touched him? She didn't even know him. Why did she have these feelings when his face was swollen and disfigured—and when she thought he was involved in a major crime?