Another woman might have flushed or stammered or at least acknowledged the sudden, leaping tension of the moment. Maggie gave him a wry grin.
“Remind me to tell Field Dress what I think of this blasted contraption when we get back. It was supposedly designed for easy removal, but I’m stuck.”
“So I see. Need some help?”
“Yes, I…”
She straightened, and the last Velcro fastening gave with a snicker of sound. The body shield slipped downward, exposing a half bra of aqua and lace. Maggie bit her lip.
“No, I guess I don’t.”
Across the broad expanse of white carpet, their eyes met. For a long moment, neither moved. Neither spoke. Then her gaze dropped to the cellophane-covered basket in his arms, and she gave a whoop of delight.
“Adam! Is that food? Real food?”
“It is.”
Snatching up a robe, she threw it on. “Thank God! I’m starving! I didn’t know how I was going to get any sleep with my stomach rumbling like this.”
Her forehead furrowed as she crossed the room, yanking at the sash of the robe.
“I got sloppy with Denise tonight, and I know it’s just because I’m tired. And hungry. What’s in the basket?”
“Caviar.”
“Yecch!”
“And Brie.”
Her face brightened, and she reached for the bundle of goodies. “Great! I love Brie. Especially warm, when it’s so soft and creamy, you can spread it on all kinds of stuff.”
Adam’s jaw clenched. He’d spent over a decade in service to his country. He’d done some things he might have been decorated for if they hadn’t been cloaked in secrecy. Some things he might have been shot for if the wrong people had caught up with him. But handing that basket over to Maggie was the toughest act he’d ever had to perform in his personal or professional life.
“Eat up,” he told her, “then get some sleep. You can’t afford to get sloppy. With anyone.”
“Mmm…” she mumbled, busy delving into the assorted treasures.
Tomorrow, Adam promised himself as he walked back to his suite. Tomorrow, this hard, pounding ache would ease. They’d be at the cabin. There’d be fewer people around. He could put a little distance between himself and Maggie, yet still keep her under close surveillance.
By tomorrow, he’d have himself under control.
Chapter 8
The vice-presidential party arrived at the white-painted twenties-era frame house tucked high in the Sierra Nevada late the next evening.
Too late for Maggie and Adam to finish the “discussion” they’d begun on the terrace of the Century Plaza’s penthouse suite. Too late for more than a cursory look around the rustic hideaway. Too late for anything other than a quick cup of hot soup in front of a low, banked fire and a weary good-night. The trip that shouldn’t have taken more than a few hours had spun out for more than twelve.
The short flight from L.A. to Sacramento had gone smoothly enough. They landed in the capital city in time for a late lunch at one of Taylor’s favorite restaurants. Maggie basked in the reflection of the former governor’s popularity with the restaurant staff and managed a cheerful smile when she was served a glutinous green mass in the shape of a crescent with unidentifiable objects jiggling inside it. She was still too stuffed from her late-night raid on Adam’s treasure trove of goodies to give his ham and cheese on sourdough more than a passing glance.
It was only after they lifted off in the specially configured twin-engine Sikorsky helicopter for the final leg of their trip that the problems began. The pilot, a veteran of the Gulf War, countered most of the sudden up-and downdrafts over the foothills with unerring skill. But when the aircraft approached the higher peaks, the ride took on a roller-coaster character.
At one violent thrust to the right, Maggie grabbed the armrests with both hands. Behind her, Denise sucked in a quick breath. Even the redoubtable Lillian gasped.
“Feels like we’ve run into some convective air turbulence,” Adam commented.
“We’ve certainly run into something,” Maggie muttered.
He stretched his long legs out beside hers, unperturbed by the violent pitch and yaw of the craft. Having seen him at the controls of various aircraft a number of times, Maggie wasn’t surprised at his calm. Adam could handle a stick with the best of them. He knew what to expect. She, on the other hand, was bitterly regretting even the few bites of green stuff she’d managed to swallow at lunch.
“This kind of turbulence is common when flying at low levels over mountains.” He scanned the tilting horizon outside the window. “From the looks of those clouds up ahead, we’re going to lose visibility soon.”
“Great.”
He smiled at her drawled comment. “I suspect we’ll have to turn back.”
Sure enough, a few moments later the pilot came back to inform her that regulations required him to return to base. He couldn’t risk flying blind, with only instruments to guide him through the mountains, while ferrying a code-level VIP.
On the ground in Sacramento, they waited over an hour for the front to clear. When the weather reports grew increasingly grim, Maggie was given the choice between remaining overnight in the capital city and driving up to the cabin in a convoy of four-wheel-drive vehicles. In blessed ignorance of the state of the roads leading to Taylor Grant’s mountain retreat, she chose the drive.
At first, she thoroughly enjoyed her first journey into the High Sierras. Despite the lowering clouds, the scenery consisted of spectacular displays of light and shadow. White snow and gray, misty lakes provided dramatic backdrops for dark green ponderosa pine and blue-tinted Douglas firs.
When the convoy of vehicles turned off the interstate onto a narrow two-lane state road, Maggie spied deer tracks in the snow. Chipmunks darted along the branches arching over the road and scattered showers of white on the passing vehicles. Every so often the woods thinned, and she’d catch a glimpse of an ice-covered waterfall hanging like a silvery tassel in the distance.
As they climbed to the higher elevations, however, the two-lane highway gave way to a corkscrew gravel road that twisted and turned back on itself repeatedly. Fog and swirling snow slowed their progress even more, until the four-vehicle convoy was creeping along at barely five miles per hour.
It occurred to Maggie that one of those blind curves would make an excellent spot for an ambush. With the vehicles slowed to a crawl, a sniper perched in a nearby tree would have no difficulty picking off his target. As a result, she spent most of the endless trip alternately searching the gray snowscape ahead and wondering why in hell Taylor Grant would choose such an inaccessible spot for her personal retreat.
As soon as she saw the cabin, she understood. The small white frame structure nestled on the side of a steep slope in a Christmas-card-perfect setting. Surrounded by snow-draped pines and a split-rail fence, its windows spilled golden, welcoming light into the night. The scent of a wood fire greeted Maggie as soon as she stepped out of the Land Rover. While Adam went back to help sort and unload the bags, she stood for a moment in the crisp air. The profound quiet of the night surrounded her. Deliberately she willed the knotted muscles in the back of her neck to relax.
Boots crunched the path behind her. Lillian appeared at her elbow, looking much like a pint-size snowman in a puffy down-filled coat, with a fuzzy beret pulled over her springy curls.
“Feels good to be home,” she said, sniffing the air.
“Mmm…”
“Too bad it’s too late for you to jog down to the lake.”
“Yes, isn’t it?”
Maggie was not looking forward to running anywhere in this thin mountain air, much less down a steep mountain path to the tiny lake she knew crouched in the valley below, then back up again. Running was bad enough at sea level. At an elevation of nine thousand feet, a jog like that would be sheer torture. She had several excuses in mind to justify a change in the vice president’s routine, including a desire for long, slow walks with a certain special
envoy.
Mindful of the agents milling around behind them, Lillian shot her a look heavy with significance.
“You’ll just have to wait until morning to trek down to the lake, even though you say you never feel at home until you’ve seen your tree. The one with the initials.”
Biting back a sigh, Maggie resigned herself to the inevitable. “I don’t. If the snow doesn’t obscure the path, I’ll go down in the—”
“Grrr-oo-of!”
She broke off with a startled gasp as the mounded snowbank on her left suddenly erupted. In a blur of white, a shaggy creature sprang out of the snow and planted itself in front of her. Its shaggy coat hung in thick, uncombed ropes, and only the upright stub of a tail told Maggie which end was which. The thing looked like a well-used floor mop, only this mop had to weigh at least a hundred pounds and was making very unfriendly noises.
“Radizwell! Get back, you idiot!” Lillian swatted the woolly head with her purse. “It’s too late to play games tonight. Go on! Shoo!”
The creature stood its ground, growling deep in its throat at the woman garbed in its mistress’s clothes.
Maggie had been briefed that the livestock kept on Taylor’s small ranch included several horses, a flock of sheep that grazed the high alpine meadows in spring, and a breed of sheepdog she’d never heard of before. According to intelligence, the komondor had been introduced into Europe by the Magyars when they invaded Hungary in the ninth century. The animal was ideal for the rugged Hungarian mountains. Its huge size and thick, corded coat enabled it to withstand the harshest winter climates, and at the same time protected it from the fangs of the predators that preyed on the flocks.
Maggie could understand how the creature in front of her would intimidate a bear or a wolf or a fox. It certainly intimidated her. Unfortunately, intel had stressed that Taylor Grant never went anywhere around the ranch without this beast at her side. Maggie knew she had to win him over, and fast.
Dragging in a deep breath, she crouched down on one heel and held out a hand. “Come here, Radizwell. Come here, boy.”
Another growl issued from deep under those layers of ropelike wool.
Maggie set her jaw. If she could convince a bug-eyed iguana to respond—occasionally—to her commands, she could win over this escapee from a mattress factory.
“Here, Radizwell. Come here.”
A warning rumble sounded deep in its throat.
Despite the almost overpowering urge to draw her arm back, Maggie kept her hand extended. “Here, boy.”
One huge paw inched forward. A black nose poked out of the shaggy layers. The creature sniffed, growled again, then edged closer.
From the corner of one eye, Maggie saw the front door open and a jacketed figure step out onto the porch. She guessed it was Hank McGowan, the caretaker. Of all the dossiers she’d studied for this mission, his had fascinated her the most. An ex-con who owed Taylor both his life and his livelihood, he’d made this isolated ranch his home.
Before Maggie could give her full attention to McGowan, however, the showdown between her and Radizwell had to be decided. One way or another.
“Come here, boy.”
A cold nose nudged her palm. Understanding his confusion, she let the dog sniff her for a few moments. When he didn’t amputate any of her fingers, she lifted her hand and gave his feltlike coat a cautious pat. That proved to be a mistake.
Radizwell instantly moved forward to make a closer inspection. His massive head butted into her chest with the force of a Mack truck. Maggie lost her precarious balance and toppled backward.
Adam and the caretaker arrived at the same moment from opposite directions to find her on her back in the snow, with a hundred pounds of dog straddling her body. Thankfully, its growls had given way to a low rumble as his wet nose moved over her cheeks and chin. She managed a laughing protest to cover what she knew was the dog’s uncharacteristic behavior.
“Radizwell, you idiot. Get off me!”
Shaking his head in disgust, the caretaker burrowed a hand under layers of wool to find a collar.
“I penned him up when they radioed that you were on the last mile stretch. Guess I should have put a lock on the shed.”
He bent forward to haul the dog back, and Maggie saw his face clearly for the first time. Although the dossier she’d studied had prepared her somewhat, his battered features shocked her nonetheless. They added grim emphasis to his checkered past.
Henry “Hank” McGowan. Forty-three. Divorced. Onetime foreman of a huge commercial sheep ranch outside Sacramento. Convicted murderer, whose death sentence had been commuted to life imprisonment by the then-governor, Taylor Grant.
His conviction had been overturned when new evidence proved he hadn’t tracked down and shot the drunk who’d battered him senseless with a tire jack after an argument over a game of pool. McGowan had drifted after that, unable to find work despite his exoneration, until Taylor hired him to act as stockman and caretaker.
In his last security review, McGowan had stated flatly that he owed Taylor Grant his life. He’d give it willingly to shield the vice president from any hurt, any harm.
Right now, that consisted of hauling a hundred pounds of suspicious sheepdog off her prone body.
“For heaven’s sake, lock him in the shearing shed tonight,” Lillian said tartly. “You know how excited the idiot gets whenever we come home. The last time he just about stripped the paint off the porch, marking his territory for the new agents who came with Mrs. Grant.”
To Maggie’s relief, the dog allowed himself to be led away before he felt compelled to mark anything for this stranger in Taylor’s clothes.
“There’s a pot of vegetable stew on the stove,” McGowan tossed over one shoulder. “If anyone’s hungry.”
If anyone was hungry! At this point, even veggies simmering in a rich, hearty broth sounded good to Maggie. She grabbed the hand Adam extended and scrambled up. Dusting the snow from her bottom, she gave him a grin.
“I certainly seem to be taking more than my share of falls lately.”
“So I’ve noticed. Do you think you can make it to the cabin upright, or shall I carry you?”
Now there was an intriguing invitation.
“I can make it,” she said, regret and laughter threading her voice. “Come on, let me show you the homestead, such as it is.”
The vice president’s home had been featured in a five-page spread in Western Living magazine, but not even that glossy layout had prepared Maggie for the stunning interior. Only a woman of Taylor Grant’s style and confidence could pull off this blend of rustic and antique, polished mahogany and shining oak, plank floors and scattered floral rugs.
Most of the cabin’s downstairs interior walls had been demolished, leaving only an open living-dining area, a small kitchen, and the bedroom Lillian occupied. A huge stone fireplace in the living room was the focus of a collection of comfortable dude-ranch-style furniture. A magnificent Chippendale dining room table with eight chairs dominated the dining area. Interspersed throughout were bronze pieces sculpted by Taylor’s deceased husband, Oriental vases filled with dried flowers, framed Western art, and the occasional mounted trophy, including a huge moose head beside the door that served as a hat rack.
While Maggie showed Adam around, using the impromptu tour as an excuse to familiarize herself with the downstairs, Lillian went upstairs to direct the placement of the luggage. Denise dragged off her gloves and conferred with the agent who’d been sent to the cabin several days ago as part of the advance team. After a thorough walk-through of the entire cabin, she joined Maggie and Adam at the stone fireplace. Politely declining a mug of the steaming stew, she gave a brief report.
“The cabin and the grounds are secure, Mrs. Grant. We’ve activated the command center in the barn.”
According to intelligence, the Secret Service had converted the barn behind the cabin into a well-equipped bunkhouse and a high-tech command-and-control center—at a cost of several mill
ion dollars. Idly Maggie wondered whether the horses were going to enjoy the central heat and exercise room when the Secret Service finally vacated the premises.
“If you don’t need me any more tonight, I’ll get the team settled. Dunliff will stand the first shift.”
“All right. It’s been a long day. Get some rest, Denise.”
“You too,” the agent responded.
Although Denise kept her face carefully neutral when she wished Adam a courteous good-night, Maggie caught the quick speculative look the other woman gave him.
A few moments later, Lillian came downstairs. “You’re all unpacked, Mrs. Grant.”
“Thank you.”
“I think I’ll turn in, too. It takes me a while to reacclimate to the altitude.”
“Don’t you want some stew? It’s delicious.”
Surprisingly, it was. Maggie might have awarded the rich stew her own personal blue ribbon, if it had contained just a chunk or two of beef or lamb or even chicken.
“No, thank you.”
When Lillian retired to her room, the agent on duty discreetly left Maggie and Adam alone. More or less. Hidden cameras swept the downstairs continuously, allowing the occupants only the illusion of privacy.
Upstairs, Maggie knew, was a different matter. Upstairs there were only two small rooms, each with its own bath. Upstairs, Mrs. Grant had insisted on privacy for herself and her guests. Which meant Maggie and Adam didn’t have to take their assigned roles as lovers any farther than the first stair. At this moment, Maggie wasn’t sure whether she was more relieved or disappointed.
This complex role they were playing had become so confused, so blurred, she’d stopped trying to sort out what was real and what wasn’t. Since last night, when she’d felt Adam’s arms locked around her and his naked chest beneath her splayed hands, she’d hungered for a repeat performance.
Not that she’d either experience it or allow it. The rational part of her mind told her they wouldn’t, couldn’t, complicate their mission further by setting a spark to the fire building between them. But when she thought of that small, private nest upstairs, her fingers itched for a match.
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