“Evidently Stoney’s stylist has more input into his career than his agent.”
Adam’s hand tunneled under the collar of her cape to cradle her neck. “We’ll check it out.”
His caressing smile made Maggie’s heart thump painfully against her bodysuit. When it came to role-playing, she thought, Adam Ridgeway could give Stoney Armstrong a run for his money at the box office.
“Anything else?”
Maggie stared up at the face just inches from her own. The bright moonlight reflecting off the snow cast his lean, aristocratic features into sharp relief. Cameras or no cameras, she felt the impact of his presence to the tips of her toes. Forcing herself to concentrate on her mission, she relayed what the vice president had told her about the other men who’d appeared so briefly in her personal life.
“Mrs. Grant hasn’t seen Peter Donovan, her former campaign manager, in over three years. He and his new wife received invitations to the inaugural ball but didn’t make it. Donovan had just had surgery, I think.”
“An emergency appendectomy,” Adam confirmed. “What about the treasury secretary?”
“Mrs. Grant meets frequently with James Elliot. Whenever the president calls a cabinet meeting. Or when Elliot needs to talk to her separately on Treasury business.”
The hand cradling her head brought her mouth to within inches of his. Anyone watching would see two people in an intimate embrace, but only Maggie knew just how intimate it was. She’d never realized how well she and Adam would fit together.
“And?” he prompted, his warm breath feathering her cheeks.
She could do this. She could keep her voice calm and her mind focused on the mission with her hips nestled against his and his mouth a whisper from hers.
“She can’t believe the secretary is behind this threat. Besides being one of the president’s closest friends, he’s a good man, according to Mrs. Grant. The crazy weekend they spent together was just that—a moment out of time that neither one expected to happen and neither wants to repeat. James reconciled with his wife shortly after that, and they seem—”
She broke off as his lips traced across her cheek.
“Keep talking,” he murmured.
Right. Uh-huh. She was supposed to talk while Adam planted explosive little kisses on her face and her heart was jackhammering in her chest.
“You said my romantic image needed polishing, remember?” he said, angling her face up for a slow, sensual exploration. “I’ll polish while you tell me what else Taylor had to say.”
There it was again. That friendly little Taylor.
“That’s about it,” Maggie got out. “Anything new from your end?”
“Not much. Jake’s checking out a classified program Donovan’s company, Digicon, is trying to sell the Pentagon. He’s heard rumors that the program is a last-ditch effort to keep the company from going under.”
“Mmm?”
Carefully filing away that bit of information for future reference, Maggie focused on more immediate aspects of her mission. Like the heat that burned just under her skin when Adam trailed a soft kiss toward the corner of her mouth. And the cold that was creeping up under the back hem of her cloak.
“Adam?”
He raised his head. “Yes?”
“Just how much polishing are you planning to do tonight?”
“Quite a bit.”
“Then you’d better do it quickly.” Her lips curved into a quicksilver grin. “My front is all toasty from snuggling up to you like this, but my backside is freezing.”
His blue eyes glinted. “Let’s see what we can do to warm you up.”
Maggie had been kissed by a respectable number of men in her thirty-two years. Some had exhibited more enthusiasm than finesse. A few had demonstrated very skilled techniques. More than one had raised her body temperature by a number of degrees. But none had ignited the instantaneous combustion that Adam did.
At the crush of his mouth on hers, heat speared through Maggie’s stomach. Tiny white-hot flickers of desire darted along her nerves, setting them on fire. In those first, explosive seconds, she decided that Adam’s kiss was all she had dreamed it would be. Hard. Demanding. Consuming.
Then she stopped thinking altogether. Wrapping her arms around his neck, she did some polishing of her own.
When they finally broke contact, Adam’s image had been restored to its full glory and Maggie could barely find the strength to drag air into her starved lungs.
His eyes raked her face, their blue depths gleaming with a fierce light that thrilled her for all of the two or three seconds he allowed it to show.
“Warm enough now?”
“Roasting,” she answered truthfully.
He started to reply, but at that moment a loud, reverberating thump shattered the stillness of the night.
They sprang apart.
Adam whirled toward the sound, his hand diving under the flap of his overcoat.
Maggie jumped to one side to get an unobstructed view around him. She reached instinctively for her weapon, then grimaced when she remembered she wasn’t armed. Muttering a rather un-vice-presidential oath under her breath, she peered across the moonlit rose garden.
Pinned by their combined glares, the Secret Service agent standing guard at the entrance to the rose garden paused, one foot lifted high in the air.
“Er, sorry…”
Shamefaced, he lowered his foot to the ground.
Guilt flooded through Maggie as she straightened. The poor man had obviously been trying to stomp some warmth into his chilled feet. While she and Adam were polishing away, he must have been freezing.
“We’d better go inside,” she murmured.
“I’ll take you back to the house, but I won’t come in. Not tonight.”
Try as she might, Maggie couldn’t tell whether the reluctance in Adam’s voice was real, or part of this charade of theirs. Her reluctance, on the other hand, was very real. “I’ll see you at the airport tomorrow, then.”
He brushed a thumb across her mouth, which was still tender from his kiss. Although his touch and his posture were those of an attentive lover, his message held a hint of grim reality.
“You’ll see me before that, if you need me. We’ve rigged a communications center in the British embassy, right across the street. It’s well within range of the transmitter in your ring. I’ll hear every sound, every breath you take throughout the night.”
Maggie swallowed as an unforeseen aspect of this tight communications net suddenly occurred to her. Good Lord, what if she snored in her sleep?
If the memory of Adam’s searing kiss wasn’t enough to keep her tossing and turning, that daunting thought was. Her own romantic image might need serious polishing come morning, if she treated Adam to a chorus of snores and snuffles.
Tucking her hand in his arm, they strolled back toward the house. Just before they stepped into the pool of light cast by the glowing brass lanterns, Adam pulled her to a halt.
“Here, you’d better take this.”
Keeping her body between his and the watchful eyes of the Secret Service man, he slipped a small, handkerchief-wrapped package into the pocket of her cloak.
“What is it? Something from Special Devices?”
Maybe they’d come up with some kind of a weapon for her, after all.
“No,” Adam replied, escorting her to the front door. “Something from me.”
As she watched the taillights of his car disappear down the long, winding driveway, Maggie felt strangely bereft. She folded her right hand over her left, taking comfort from the feel of the heavy band under her glove.
When the last crunch of tires on snowy pavement faded, she said good-night to her foot-stomping watchdog, went inside and climbed the curving staircase to the second floor.
The soft click of the bedroom door brought Lillian Roth awake. Jerking upright in a chintz-covered armchair, the dresser ran a hand through her fuzzy gray hair. Fatigue etched her face before it settled into its h
abitual severe lines.
“You shouldn’t have waited up,” Maggie protested, shrugging out of the cape.
Lillian pushed herself to her feet. “I always wait up for Mrs. Grant. Well, how did it go?”
“It went…”
A kaleidoscope of colorful images flashed through Maggie’s mind. The Kennedy Center’s brilliant red-and-gold opera house. The huge ruby winking in the decoration pinned to the Indian ambassador’s sash. A moonlit, winter white garden, and Adam’s face hovering inches from hers.
“…very well,” she finished softly.
“Humph.” Lillian reached for the cape lying across the back of a chair.
“I’ll take care of that,” Maggie said. Whatever Adam had tucked in her pocket, she wanted to check it out herself. “Why don’t you go to bed? I can undress myself.”
“Mrs. Grant always—”
“Lillian.”
The small woman squared her shoulders. In the quiet of the sitting room, two strong wills collided.
“Perhaps you intend to sleep in that corset you’re strapped into?”
Maggie conceded defeat. “No, I don’t.”
“I’ll get your gown and robe.”
The expression in Lillian’s black eyes as she sailed toward the huge walk-in closet wasn’t exactly smug, but it was pretty darn close to it.
By the time she returned with a lemony silk nightdress and robe, Maggie had stashed Adam’s package under her pillow and loosened as many of the back buttons on the velvet tunic as she could reach. Turning, she waited while Lillian undid the rest. When the Velcro fastening on the bodysuit gave way, she heaved a sigh of relief.
Only later, when the big house had settled down to an uneven, creaking slumber and Maggie was finally alone, did she pull the package from its hiding place under the pillow. With infinite care, she unwrapped the folds of Adam’s crisp, starched handkerchief.
Two bags of cashews and a souvenir box of Godiva chocolates stamped with the seal of the Indian embassy tumbled onto the sheet.
Maggie gave a gasp of delight. Lifting her hand, she murmured into the ring, “Thunder, this is Chameleon. Do you read me?”
“Loud and clear.”
“You doll! Thanks for the emergency rations. I owe you one.”
After a pause so slight Maggie thought she might have imagined it, his reply drifted through the stillness. “I’ll let you know when I’m ready to collect.”
“Time to get up.”
Maggie opened one eye. She peered at Lillian, then squinted past her at the curtained windows.
“It’s still dark out,” she protested, pulling the covers up around her ears.
“Mrs. Grant always runs early.”
“This early?”
“This early,” Lillian confirmed unsympathetically.
Intel had briefed Maggie about the vice president’s morning jog, of course, but they’d left out one or two key points. Like the fact that it was apparently accomplished in cold, dank darkness.
“I’ve laid out some running clothes in the bathroom. Breakfast will be ready by the time you get back.”
Breakfast!
The thought of food gave Maggie the impetus she needed to crawl out of her warm cocoon. Frigid air washed over her body, raising goose bumps on every patch of exposed skin. She shivered as the silk of her nightdress cooled and new bumps rose. Although she’d much admired this frothy confection of pale yellow silk and gossamer lace last night, Maggie now heartily wished the vice president’s tastes ran to warm flannel pajamas. Pulling on the matching lemon robe, she glanced at the small gold carriage clock on the bedside table.
Five-twenty—a.m.
If she’d slept a full hour last night, she’d be surprised. The knot of tension caused by concentrating so fiercely on her role had taken forever to seep out of Maggie’s system. The tension generated by a certain dark-haired special envoy had refused to seep, however. Instead, her inner agitation had coiled tighter and tighter every time she felt the weight of the ring on her finger. It was as though Adam were with her in the darkness. Which he was.
With every restless toss, she remembered the touch of his mouth on hers. Every turn brought back the scent of his expensive after-shave. And every time her stomach grumbled about its less-than-satisfied state, she snuck another chocolate from the foil-covered box.
As she hurried to the bathroom, Maggie smiled at the memory of those luscious vanilla creams and melt-in-your-mouth caramels. Somehow, that little box of candies symbolized more than anything else the subtle shift that had occurred last night in her relationship with Adam Ridgeway.
Over the past three years, they’d shared some desperate hours and days and weeks. They’d grown close, as only members of a small, tightly knit organization can. But until last night, they hadn’t allowed themselves to step through the invisible wall that separated OMEGA’s cool, authoritative director from his operatives. Maggie had always maintained her independence, and Adam had always kept his distance.
Right now, that wall didn’t seem quite as high. Or as impenetrable. And after last night, the distance between them had shortened considerably. Twisting the gold ring around on her finger, she smiled and turned on the taps full blast.
She returned to the bedroom a short while later dressed in blue metallic spandex thermal leggings, a matching long-sleeved top, and comfortable Reeboks. Lillian eyed her critically, then held up an oversize gold-and-blue UCLA sweatshirt.
“I found this in the closet. It should be long enough to disguise your hips.”
“Thanks,” Maggie said dryly.
“Remember, Mrs. Grant usually does ten minutes of warm-up exercises before her run. Leg bends, calf stretches and twists. Then it’s twice around Observatory Circle and back through the grounds.”
As she tugged the sweatshirt over her head, Maggie did a rapid mental calculation of the circumference of the seventy-three acres that comprised the observatory grounds. She multiplied that by two, translated the distance into miles, and bit back a groan at the result.
Six miles. At least. Good grief!
Of necessity, OMEGA agents kept in top physical shape, but they had all developed their own individualized conditioning programs. Given a choice, Maggie would have far preferred her own regime of high-impact aerobics in a nice warm spa to slogging six miles in the icy, predawn air.
“By the way,” Lillian let drop as she headed for the door, “the agent who usually jogs with Mrs. Grant won the Boston Marathon a couple of years ago.”
This time Maggie didn’t even try to hold back her groan.
Lillian’s mouth softened into something suspiciously close to a smile.
“But that particular individual is in L.A.,” she continued, “working the advance for her—for your trip. The other agents drew straws to see who has to run with you this morning. The loser’s waiting downstairs. He’s a few pounds overweight, and very slow.”
Giving silent thanks for small blessings, Maggie made her way down the curving staircase. Okay, she told herself, it was only six miles. She could do this. She could run six miles in the service of her country.
Four and a half miles later, she was seriously questioning both her sanity and her dedication to her country.
Frigid air lanced into her lungs with every labored breath. Her heart slammed painfully against her ribs. Her legs felt like over-cooked spaghetti and threatened to collapse with every step.
The slap of her sneakers against the wet pavement grew more and more erratic as Maggie struggled to pump her way up yet another damned incline. The rolling hills that had appeared so picturesque when she drove through the naval observatory complex yesterday afternoon now loomed in front of her like mountain peaks. Her only consolation was that the poor agent chugging along behind her couldn’t hear the sound of her labored breath over his own heaving gasps.
At least the gloomy darkness had given way to a drizzly dawn. Headlights sliced through a soupy gray mist as military and civilian workers arri
ved for work at the various scientific facilities scattered around the extensive grounds. The civilians gave a cheerful wave, obviously used to seeing the vice president on her early-morning run. The military snapped to attention and saluted. Hoping her grimace would pass for a smile, Maggie returned their greetings.
When the two-story building that housed the nautical almanac office loomed out of the mist, Maggie sagged with relief. Thank God. Only a half circuit of the perimeter to go! Dragging in another lungful of cold air, she concentrated fiercely on placing one foot in front of the other once. Twice. Three times. Counting seemed to help, she discovered.
Sixty-two steps took her across the broad expanse of parking lot beside the almanac office.
Another thirty-seven brought her to the path that paralleled Massachusetts Avenue.
Five more paces, and she was shielded from the wind by the tall pines, thick on her right, thinner on her left, where the path edged almost to the wrought-iron fence. Her lungs on fire, her calves cramping, Maggie following the curving asphalt trail.
At one hundred and three steps past the west gate, the distinctive conical turret of the vice president’s mansion poked into view above the tops of the snow-laden pines. She almost sobbed in relief.
At exactly one hundred and twenty-six paces, the shot rang out.
With a startled “Umph,” Maggie hit the ground.
Chapter 5
In a small room on the fourth floor of the British embassy, less than a half block away, Adam froze.
He tore his gaze from the bank of flickering monitors and stared down at the face of his watch, as if expecting an instant replay of the single sharp report—and of Maggie’s surprised grunt. Then he exploded into action.
Racing for the door, he snarled an order at the stunned communications technician. “Call Jaguar! Tell him Chameleon’s down.”
He ripped open the door and raced into the deserted hallway, cursing himself every step of the way. How could he have underestimated the threat? How could he have been so damned cold, so analytical, about the security on the grounds of the naval observatory? He shouldn’t have trusted that abstract analysis. Not with Maggie.
Dangerous to Know Page 27