Dangerous to Know

by Merline Lovelace

  The ambassador and his wife awaited them beneath the striking seven-foot-high bronze bust of John F. Kennedy that dominated the wide hall. Brilliant light from eighteen massive chandeliers overhead made the colorful decorations pinned to the sash across the ambassador’s chest sparkle like precious gems. The same glowing light illuminated the rich green and purple jewel tones of his wife’s sari.

  The diplomat bowed over Maggie’s hand with polished charm. “Madam Vice President. We are most honored that you join us this evening.”

  “It’s my pleasure, Ambassador Awani, Madam Awani. Do you know my escort, Special Envoy Adam Ridgeway?”

  The tips of the ambassador’s luxuriant mustache lifted in a wide smile. “But of course,” he replied, pumping Adam’s hand. “I have played both with and against this rogue on the polo field.”

  “Have you?”

  Maggie arched an inquiring eyebrow at Adam, not really surprised that a man who sculled the Potomac in gray Harvard sweats to keep in shape also played a little polo on the side. Maggie herself was more the tag-football-and-long-lazy-walks type.

  “Did he not tell you that he scored the winning goal for my team the last time he was in Bombay?”

  “No, he didn’t.”

  “It was a lucky shot,” Adam said, with a small shrug of his black-clad shoulders. “I couldn’t have done it without Sulim’s fantastic pass.”

  The ambassador preened visibly at the compliment. With the fervor of a true enthusiast, he plunged into a recap of that memorable game. To Maggie’s amusement, the ensuing conversation was soon peppered with terms like chukker and grass penalty. A spirited argument broke out over a controversial call in the last challenge for the Cup of the Americas. Even the ambassador’s wife joined in, denouncing the officiating in a soft, melodic voice. Polo was a passion in India, she confided to Maggie in a smiling aside. It had been played in her country for over a thousand years.

  As Maggie listened to the lively exchange, a sense of unreality gripped her. She’d been so keyed up for this first appearance as vice president. So intent on maintaining the fierce concentration necessary to stay in character. So determined to dodge any protocol gaffes—not to mention any stray bullets. Yet here she was, chuckling at the increasingly improbable tales of polo games won and lost, as though she moved in these sophisticated circles every day.

  She gave most of the credit for her smooth insertion into this glittering world to Adam. This was his world, she thought, slanting him a quick glance. He moved comfortably among ambassadors and artists, Greek shipping magnates and the high-priced gunmen who guarded them. With his cool air of authority and commanding blue eyes, he appeared every bit as regal as any king or prince she could imagine. Although he wore no jewelry except the small gold studs in his white dress shirt and a thin gold watch, he didn’t need to advertise either his background or his breeding. It showed in his understated, casual elegance and the ease with which he kept both the ambassador and his wife entertained.

  And in the ways he displayed his interest in the woman at his side.

  Adam Ridgeway didn’t resort to any sort of this-is-my-woman caveman tactics to advertise his budding relationship with the vice president. The signals he sent out were subtle, but unmistakable. There was that small, private smile when Maggie laughingly asked if he’d really fallen off his pony in full view of India’s prime minister. The glance that lingered on her face a few seconds longer than necessary. The relaxed stance at her side, not quite touching her, yet close enough for her to catch the clean scent of his after-shave with every small movement.

  He was playing a role, Maggie reminded herself sternly. The same role he’d been playing when he kissed her earlier. When he’d taken her hand to help her out of the limo.

  But then the foyer lights flashed, and Adam’s hand moved to the small of her back to guide her toward the opera house. The gesture was at once courteous and possessive. Comforting and strangely disturbing. Maggie felt it right through her layers of Kevlar and velvet. Tiny ripples of awareness undulated through her middle.

  Of course, she thought ruefully, those rippling sensations might well be hunger pangs. As their party mounted the wide, red-carpeted stairs to the opera house, she gave a silent prayer that her stomach wouldn’t drown out the guest artist’s performance.

  Once they were inside the opera house, a black-suited usher escorted them up a short ramp to the box tier. Denise Kowalski halted the party just outside the entrance to the presidential box.

  “If you’ll wait here, please, I’ll do a final visual.”

  Maggie knew that the Secret Service had swept the entire theater for hidden explosive devices earlier this afternoon. According to Denise, they’d done another sweep just prior to the vice president’s arrival. Now the senior agent made personal eye contact with each of the other agents stationed around the three-tiered red-and-gold auditorium.

  Watching Denise Kowalski in operation, Maggie felt a mounting respect for her cool professionalism. She also tried very hard to ignore the fact that President Lincoln had been assassinated as he sat in a theater box only a few miles from this one.

  At Denise’s nod, Maggie pasted a smile on her face and stepped into the box.

  Heads twisted.

  Necks craned.

  Murmurs snaked through the opera house.

  A seat cushion thumped against a chairback as a lone figure rose. As if in slow motion, he twisted around to face their box.

  Adam stepped to her side, and Maggie felt her nails dig into her palms.

  Then another man rose, and the woman beside him. Within moments, the entire audience was standing. The orchestra broke into “Ruffles and Flourishes,” then played the Indian and American national anthems.

  Unclenching her fist, Maggie placed her palm over her heart. She wasn’t surprised to feel it drumming wildly against its velvet-covered shield. She’d had some interesting moments in her OMEGA career, but for sheer hair-raising, knee-knocking excitement, that second or so when she and the man in the center section had faced each other ranked right up there with the best—or worst—of them. By the time she sank into the plush red seat, her smile was so stiff, it could have been cut from cardboard.

  Immediately, the lights dimmed. The featured artist, a slender, dark-haired flutist of Indian birth and growing international fame, walked out to center stage. Maggie was certain she wouldn’t hear a note over the pounding in her ears, yet the haunting woodwind call gradually pierced the drumming in her ears. The music soothed. Soared. Evoked images of the flowing Ganges and the moonlit Taj Mahal. Beat by beat, her heart picked up the flute’s rhythm. Her spine slowly relaxed. When the last notes of the first half of the program died away, she joined in the thunderous applause.

  During the brief intermission, the ambassador relinquished his place at her side to circulate among his other guests and to allow them access to the vice president. Maggie cast a quick glance at the buffet table, loaded with platters of lobster pastries and succulent slices of smoked ham. Suppressing a sigh, she turned her back on the forbidden feast and forced herself to concentrate on the steady stream of people vying for her attention.

  With Adam at her side, she got through the nerve-racking interval relatively unscathed.

  She soon discovered that most of the politicians who elbowed their way into her circle were more interested in hearing themselves speak than in anything the VP might say. The only near-disaster occurred when the chairman of the senate fiduciary committee groused that the peso’s steep nosedive was going to wreak havoc on international markets.

  Maggie nodded in agreement.

  “Given today’s unrestrained markets, that’s a real possibility,” Adam interjected smoothly. “Of course, the president’s Pan-American Monetary Stabilization Plan, which you helped draft, will help prevent future disasters like that.”

  Right. The president’s Pan-American Monetary Stabilization Plan.

  On behalf of Taylor Grant, Maggie smiled and accepted
Adam’s accolade. The senator immediately launched into a long and incredibly boring explanation of his own strategy to single-handedly save third-world economies. Thankfully, the grand foyer’s lights dimmed before he wound down, saving Maggie from having to formulate a reply.

  By this time, she was feeling the combined effects of her few sips of champagne and her taut nerves, not to mention the pressure of Lillian’s determination to make her a perfect size eight.

  “Do I have time to powder my nose?” she murmured to Adam.

  His mouth lifted. “You have time to powder anything you want. They won’t start the second half of the program until you’re seated.”

  The belated realization that several thousand people would have to wait while she went to the bathroom effectively eliminated Maggie’s need. Before she could tell Adam she’d changed her mind, however, he had steered her toward the ladies’ room on the second-floor landing.

  Denise Kowalski quickly grasped the situation and stepped ahead of them. Signaling to Maggie to wait, she threaded her way through the women standing patiently in line and checked out the facility.

  Good grief, it hadn’t occurred to Maggie that the vice president of the United States couldn’t even tinkle without a security check. She was discovering that this job wasn’t quite as glamorous and exciting as it appeared to the rest of the world.

  Evidently no assassins lurked in the stalls. Denise returned in less than a minute to escort Maggie to the head of the line. The other women graciously yielded their places, but Maggie, now thoroughly embarrassed by the whole affair, paused with one hand on the stall door.

  “This is ridiculous,” she commented. “I’ll bet there isn’t a line like this in the men’s room.”

  The other woman gaped at her for a moment, then broke into laughter.

  “Maybe it’s time the government took a look at the distribution of public toilets by gender,” one of them suggested.

  “Maybe it is,” Maggie agreed. “I’ll put it on the agenda as soon I get back from California.”

  To a chorus of cheers and applause, she sailed into a stall. One way or another, she’d convince Taylor Grant to follow through on her rash promise to look into public potties.

  “What was that all about?” Adam asked when she and the grinning agent in charge emerged a few moments later.

  Tucking her hand in his arm, Maggie smiled demurely. “It’s a woman thing.”

  The presence of the driver and the Secret Service agent prevented Maggie discussing the evening’s events with Adam during the drive back to the naval observatory. Still wired, and reluctant to see their time together end, Maggie forced herself not to fidget, but her fingers tapped an uneven beat on the leather armrest.

  When Adam’s hand closed over hers, she wasn’t sure whether his intent was to still the nervous movement or to further their supposed relationship. Whatever the reason, she obligingly turned her palm up and entwined her fingers with his.

  “Did you enjoy the concert?” he asked conversationally.

  “Very much.” She gave him a quick grin. “Although I enjoyed hearing about your exploits on the polo field even more. Especially the part where you fell off your horse.”

  “I hope that tale didn’t totally destroy my credibility with you.”

  “Well,” she murmured provocatively, “your romantic image is a bit tarnished around the edges. You’ll have to apply some polish to restore it to its former state.”

  He lifted their entwined hands and brushed his mouth across the back of her hand. “I’ll see what I can do.”

  Ruthlessly ignoring the streaks of fire that shot from her hand to her elbow to her heart, Maggie followed Adam’s lead and fell into an easy bantering dialogue for the rest of the ride. All the while, she was blazingly conscious of the warm, strong fingers nesting hers.

  A part of her thrilled to his touch.

  To her considerable surprise, a small part of her also resented it.

  She’d always kept her relationship with her boss strictly professional, which hadn’t been difficult at first. Adam Ridgeway could be somewhat daunting when he chose to. If Maggie had been the dauntable kind, she might have wilted like a limp lettuce leaf the first time he turned that icy stare on her. Or rocked back on her heels the first time those chiseled features had relaxed into a genuine smile.

  Adam’s smile could cause a less sensible, less professional woman than Maggie to weave all kinds of ridiculous fantasies.

  Okay, she admitted, so she’d done some weaving. And some fantasizing. So she’d imagined the feel of his hand in hers more and more often lately, and the memory of his after-shave would tease her at the most unexpected moments. In unguarded moments like this, she found herself wondering just when, or if, they’d tear down the barriers that kept them from acknowledging the attraction simmering between them.

  Because it wasn’t all one-sided. Despite the elegant, sophisticated women Adam escorted to various diplomatic functions, despite the unshakable air of authority he always displayed on the job, Maggie had sensed his growing awareness of her as a woman.

  But being aware of her as a woman and doing something about it were two entirely different matters. Maggie had no idea if he’d felt the same leap of excitement she had at the thought of their spending two weeks together. If his pulse hammered from the feel of her hand in his. Or if he was simply playing his assigned role.

  As they sped north along Rock Creek Parkway under a pale winter moon, she reminded herself that she, too, was playing a part. Still, she couldn’t help wondering just how far they’d take their respective roles when the limo pulled up at the vice-presidential residence.

  After her experience in the ladies’ room, she was just beginning to realize just how little privacy the vice president enjoyed. Conducting a romance, even a fake one, under the watchful eyes of half a dozen agents and those all-pervasive cameras was going to take a bit more savoir faire than she’d realized.

  So when they stepped out of the limo under the sheltering overhang of the porte cochere and Adam suggested a walk in the moonlight to stretch their legs, Maggie readily agreed. Unless she invited him up to the vice president’s bedroom, which she couldn’t quite bring herself to do, the only place they could talk privately was the open air.

  “Are you sure you’ll be warm enough?” he asked, lifting the collar of her angora cloak to frame her cheeks.

  With her face cradled in his hands and his blue eyes gazing down at her like that, Maggie discovered that warm was not a problem.

  “I’m fine.”

  “Good.”

  He pulled on the black wool overcoat he hadn’t bothered with in the limo and tucked her gloved hand in his arm. As he led the way toward the rose garden at the west side of the house, Maggie saw Denise Kowalski nod to another agent who’d stepped out of the chase car. The man bundled his collar up against his ears and trudged after them, staying far enough behind to remain out of earshot.

  Wonderful. Just what she needed, the first time she was alone with Adam Ridgeway on a star-studded, moonlit night. A chaperon.

  Chapter 4

  With the Secret Service agent trudging some distance behind them, Maggie and Adam walked side by side through the dappled moonlight. Snow-laden trees shielded them from the distant murmur of traffic still moving along Massachusetts Avenue. Their footsteps echoed softly on the wet pavement, almost lost in the pounding of Maggie’s pulse.

  She was vividly, stunningly aware of Adam’s nearness. Of the way he slowed his long stride to match hers. Of the warmth of his body where he kept her hand tucked against his side.

  “You did well tonight,” Adam said quietly. “Very well.”

  Her small laugh puffed out in a cloud of white vapor. “I almost blew it on the Pan-American Monetary Stabilization Plan. Thanks for rescuing me.”

  “My pleasure, Madam Vice President.”

  With a confidence that told Maggie he knew his way around, Adam led her to a brick path cutting through a win
ter white garden. Concentric rings of severely pruned rosebushes poked through the blanket of snow, like ghostly dwarfs standing sentinel around the small arched arbor at the center of the garden. Despite the bright moonlight streaming through the latticework, Maggie soon discovered that the airy bower provided an illusion of privacy. She ran a gloved finger along a wooden slat, causing a soft shower of white, and tried not to wonder just how many times Adam had escorted Taylor Grant to this same little arbor.

  Their Secret Service escort halted at the perimeter of the garden. Hunching his shoulders against the cold, he stomped his feet once or twice and turned slowly to survey the surrounding area. As if to take advantage of their privacy, Adam’s shadow merged with Maggie’s from behind, and then his arms slid around her waist. He pulled her back against his chest, and she promptly forgot all about their escort.

  They were playing a role, Maggie reminded herself once more. This intimate contact with Adam was integral to their mission. Despite her stern reminder, however, she was finding it more and more difficult to separate reality from this enactment of her secret, half-formed fantasies. With a little sigh, she laid her head against his shoulder.

  “Did Taylor pass you any information we need to check out?” he asked, his warm breath fanning her ear.

  Taylor, Maggie noted. Not the vice president, or even Mrs. Grant.

  “She thinks Stoney Armstrong was motivated by something other than a desire to see an old friend when he asked to escort her to the fund-raiser in L.A. tomorrow night. He wasn’t particularly pleased when she told him no.”

  Adam tightened his arms, drawing her closer into his warmth. “What does she think was behind his call?”

  “She wasn’t sure, but suggested we talk to his agent and his hairstylist.”

  “His hairstylist?”

  Maggie turned in his arms. Mindful of the cameras that swept the grounds continuously, she flattened her palms against the fine wool worsted of his lapels. The steamy vapor of her breath mingled intimately with his as she tilted her head back to look up at him.