First Lady

by Philips, Susan Elizabeth

  “Hearing that song . . .”

  “I know. God, he'd love watching you do this.”

  She smiled at her chubby, rumpled friend. He looked better than he had at any time since Dennis's death. This campaign was good for him.

  With Terry and Jim just behind her, she smiled, waved, and worked her way through the crowd to the platform at the front of the room. Her father was already there, along with other party leaders. One of them, a popular local congressman, stepped to the microphone and introduced her.

  The reporters applauded politely, and her campaign workers cheered. She moved to the microphone and began her thank-yous. Then she launched into the heart of her speech.

  “Most of you know why I called this press conference. Usually political candidates say they've thought long and hard before they decide to run for office. I didn't have to do that. This is something I've wanted for a long time, although I didn't realize how much until recently.” She made a few brief references to the proud history of Virginia and the need for strong leadership in a new millennium. Then she declared her intention of challenging Jack Hollings in the June primary.

  “. . . and so today I am officially stepping into the ring and asking the wonderful people of the Commonwealth of Virginia to honor me with their trust and elect me as their next United States Senator.”

  The cameras flashed and television reporters spoke into their microphones over the applause. When the room finally quieted, she began outlining the major issues she'd be campaigning on, then cocked her head to take questions. Up until now, she'd been scripted. It was time to think on her feet.

  “Callie Burns, Richmond Times-Dispatch. Mrs. Case, how does your decision to run for office relate to your disappearance?”

  It was a question she'd expected. Reporters knew their readers were more interested right now in her personal life than her political views. “Getting away from the White House gave me a chance to put my life in perspective .. .” Her preparation had paid off, and she had no trouble answering.

  “Harry Jenkins, Roanoke Times. You've made no secret of your dissatisfaction with political life. Why work so hard to get back into it?”

  “As First Lady, I had no real power to effect change . . .”

  One question followed another. Although she'd been expecting it, she was still disappointed that so few dealt with the issues.

  Suddenly a deep voice rang out above the others. “Mat Jorik, Chicago Standard. ”

  She stiffened. The ballroom instantly quieted as everyone tried to locate the source of that voice.

  Mat stepped out from behind one of the square pillars at the back of the ballroom. He'd tucked one hand into the pocket of his slacks, and a well-worn brown leather bomber jacket hung open over his shirt. Even from a distance, he seemed to fill up the room—all big body, commanding voice, and rough edges.

  A thousand images flashed through her mind. Her fingers tightened on the corner of the podium as she tried to push them away and stay focused. She heard herself speak in a voice that was almost steady. “Hello, Mat.”

  The crowd buzzed. Cameras flashed. His presence was a story all its own.

  He nodded. Curt. Down to business. “You said you were going to focus your campaign on economic issues. Could you be more specific?”

  She somehow managed her public smile. “Thank you for giving me the opportunity to talk about a topic of vital importance to the people of Virginia . . .”

  Even with Mat staring her down, she somehow managed to launch into the remarks she'd prepared, but she'd barely finished before he came at her with a follow-up question. When she'd finished responding, another reporter jumped in with a question about the Balkans.

  Mat kept silent after that, but he stayed where he was—arms crossed, one shoulder resting against the pillar behind him, never taking his eyes off her.

  Terry finally stepped in to end the questions and thank everyone for attending. Her father closed in on one side, Jim Millington on the other, Terry behind. She looked around for Mat, but he'd disappeared.

  Her father rode with her to their next stop. “I suppose I shouldn't have been so surprised to see that Jorik fellow. He'll probably make a career out of writing about you.”

  She shuddered at the idea.

  Her next speech, an hour and a half later, was in the meeting room of a banquet hall. She'd barely begun before she spotted Mat standing in the back watching her. He asked no more questions, but she didn't mistake his intentions. Until she arranged a meeting, he wasn't going away.

  By nine-thirty that evening, as she finished her last speech at a Chamber of Commerce dinner, she'd made up her mind. If he thought she was going to let him play cat and mouse with her, he was gravely mistaken.

  She broke away from shaking hands with the members of the Falls Church Chamber of Commerce and made her way toward him before he could slip away. The photographers who were still following her surged forward to get the first pictures of the two of them together.

  She regarded Mat levelly. “I want to see you at my house at ten tomorrow morning.”

  He smiled. “Yes, ma'am.”

  * * *

  She barely slept that night, something she could ill afford with a full afternoon of meetings ahead of her. As soon as Tamarah put Andre down for his morning nap, she sent her into town with Button on a series of errands that would keep the baby out of the house until Mat was gone. Then she watched the clock crawl toward ten o'clock.

  Squid perked up his ears as the sound of a whimper came over the baby intercom. Andre usually took a long morning nap, but today he'd apparently decided to wake early. Her housekeeper wouldn't be arriving until noon, so Nealy hurried to get him, the dog following.

  The baby lay on his back in the crib. He wore a bright blue Winnie the Pooh sleeper, and his brown eyes were filled with tears that stopped falling as soon as he spotted her. For a few moments Nealy forgot her own troubles as she gazed down at him, so sweet and full of personality.

  “What's the matter, little guy? Have a bad dream?” She scooped her hands beneath his warm body and lifted him to her shoulder. He was a beautiful baby with milk chocolate skin and a studious air, as if he hadn't yet decided what to make of the world.

  The intercom from the front gate buzzed twice, announcing that she had company on the way, and Nealy said one of Button Jorik's favorite words. “Sit!”

  She tucked the baby in the crook of her arm and made her way to the front of the house. “Okay, buddy, it's just you, me, and the dog.”

  The bell rang. She counted to ten, then reached for the knob.

  First Lady

  23

  Mat gazed at the woman in the doorway and felt everything inside him melt. He'd been able to hold it together yesterday when there'd been cameras around, but now there were none, and she was only a step away.

  Unfortunately, the woman standing before him wasn't the Nealy he'd left in Iowa. This Nealy was elegant. Aristocratic. Pure WASP from the top of her patrician head to the toes of her Cole Haan loafers. She was wearing a strand of pearls that had probably come over on the Mayflower, a simple sweater that could only be cashmere, and perfectly tailored gray flannel slacks. Only the mangy dog who'd come out on the porch to jump on him and the cute brown-skinned baby nestled in her arms didn't fit the image.

  God, it was good to see her again. He itched to sweep her up and carry her to the bedroom where he could strip away all the signs of her wealth and position, but he figured that might not go over too well—either with her or with the Secret Service agent watching from the edge of the drive.

  His heart swelled in his chest, but he couldn't think of anything to say except I love you, which seemed a little premature, so he greeted the dog. “Hey, Squid.”

  The baby blinked at Mat's voice, then gave him a gummy smile.

  The Queen of America stepped back from her door to let him in. His stomach sank. She was looking at him as if he were a distant memory of someone she'd once seen in steerage.


  He followed her down a hallway that should have been in the Smithsonian and into a formal living room with lots of cherry, wing chairs, and old oil paintings. He'd grown up in a house full of mismatched furniture, Formica tabletops, and wooden crucifixes with dried-out palm fronds stuck behind them.

  She gestured toward a spindly-legged love seat with a camel back. He carefully lowered his weight, half expecting the sucker to buckle underneath him.

  She regarded him with all the confidence of a woman who finally knew exactly who she was. “I'd offer you something to drink, but we're fresh out of root beer.”

  Right now he'd settle for scotch, straight from the bottle. He noticed she was holding the baby so tight the kid was starting to squirm. “A new addition?”

  “Andre belongs to Tamarah, the woman who watches Button.”

  “I thought you were watching Button!” He winced at the accusing note in his voice.

  She gave him a steely glare and didn't bother to respond.

  “Sorry.” His palms had started to sweat.

  She chose a wing chair near a fireplace that the Founding Fathers had probably gathered around to discuss exactly how far they wanted to go with this Constitution thing.

  The baby was still fidgeting. He waited for her to shift him to a more comfortable position, but she didn't do it. She almost seemed to have forgotten she was holding him. He hoped that meant she was nervous.

  She didn't look nervous.

  The love seat creaked ominously as he settled back into it and extended his legs. If he didn't say something soon, he'd look like a complete fool. “How are they? The girls?”

  “You know how they are. I've been sending regular reports.”

  The baby wriggled. He wondered where she'd stashed Button. He'd give anything to see that little baby girl again—change one of those stinky diapers, have her drop some drool on him, receive one of her I-love-you-more-than-anybody smiles. “A report isn't the same as seeing for myself. I've missed them.”

  "I'm sure you have, but that doesn't mean you can bounce in and out of their lives when you want.

  We have an agreement."

  This wasn't going the way he'd hoped. The baby whimpered. “I understand that, but.. .” Although she was still thin, that gaunt look she'd had when they'd first met was gone. He was relieved . .. and disappointed. Some part of him wanted her wasting away for him.

  As if Nealy Case would waste away over a man.

  There was only one thing to do, and it flew in the face of every ounce of testosterone in his body. He drew a deep breath. “I've missed you, too.”

  She didn't look impressed.

  He retrenched. “I've missed you and the girls.”

  Another whimper came from the blue sleeper. The baby kept trying to get his arms free, but she had too tight a grip. Mat couldn't stand it anymore, and he leaped up. “Give me the kid before you strangle him to death!”

  “What—”

  He whipped up the little guy and put him to his shoulder. The kid relaxed right away. He smelled good. Like a boy.

  She narrowed her eyes, then tapped her fingers on the arm of the chair. “What happened with the results of the DNA tests? My attorney's asked for a copy several times, but he stil! hasn't received one.”

  Oh, man. . . Busted. He'd torn up the envelope he'd received from the lab in Davenport without ever opening it. “Me either. I guess the lab misplaced it.”

  “Misplaced it?”

  “It happens.”

  She tilted her head, studied him closely. “1 know how important this is to you. Maybe the tests should be done again.”

  “Are you crazy? Do you want to put Button through something like that again? I guess it's easy for you to say because you weren't there. You didn't see the way they held her down!”

  She gazed at him as if he'd lost his mind, which was so close to the truth that he had to turn his back on her and head for the fireplace.

  “What are you doing here, Mat?”

  The baby's head settled against his jaw. He glared at her. “Okay, here's the way it is. I screwed up, all right? I admit it, so let's put it behind both of us and move on.”

  “Move on?” Cold as a flock of Presbyterians in an unheated church.

  “Because, the thing is, it's the future that counts.” Was it hot in here, or was it just him? “We need to look ahead and not behind us.”

  Everything about the stare she leveled at him reeked of aristocratic disdain. He suddenly felt as if he were wearing a red satin bowling shirt and gulping down a kielbasa. It was time to cut to the chase.

  “I need to know how you feel about me.”

  “That's what you wanted to talk to me about?”

  Mat nodded. The baby tucked his head against his neck, and he would have given anything right then to go play with him instead of facing how bleak his own future was going to be if the ice queen living inside Nealy's body kicked him out.

  “Well... I'm very appreciative that you didn't betray me in the articles you wrote.”

  “Appreciative?”

  “And I'm grateful that you're trusting me with the girls.”

  “You're grateful?” This was a nightmare. He sank back down on the ancestral couch.

  “Immensely.”

  The grandfather clock ticked away in the corner. She didn't seem to mind the silence that was stretching longer and longer.

  “Anything else?” he asked.

  “No, I don't believe so.”

  That ticked him off. She damn well had to have felt something more than that or she'd never have let him near all those hot, moist places he'd made his own.

  He set his jaw. Shifted the baby to his other shoulder. “Think harder.”

  She arched an eyebrow. Touched the pearls with her fingertips. “Nothing else springs to mind.”

  He leaped up from the chair. “Well, something else springs to my mind! I love you, damn it! And if you don't like it, that's too damn bad.”

  The baby gave a mew of displeasure. Nealy's eyes shot open. “You love me?”

  He waited for her lips to bloom in a smile, her eyes to soften. Instead, she looked as if she'd been hit by the first round of musket fire at Lexington.

  Lunkhead! He slipped the baby under his arm and moved forward. “I'm sorry. That didn't come out right. I just— Is it hot in here? Maybe your furnace isn't working right. I could look at it.”

  What was wrong with him? He'd lived around women for years. He understood their habits. Why was he falling apart when he most needed to keep himself together?

  A thousand emotions flickered across her face, but for the life of him he couldn't identify any of them. She leaned back in the chair, crossed those slim legs, and made a little Protestant church steeple with her fingers. “When did you have this startling—and obviously unwelcome—revelation?”

  “Sunday.”

  Her nostrils flared. “This past Sunday?” Not a question but an accusation.

  “Yes! And it wasn't unwelcome.” The baby's whimpers grew louder. He jiggled him.

  “You only discovered this two days ago?”

  “That doesn't mean I haven't felt it all along.” As a line of defense, it seemed weak even to him. His voice cracked. “I've loved you for a long time.”

  “Ahh ... I see.” She rose and walked over to him, not to fall into his lap as he hoped, but to take the baby back.

  The pint-sized Benedict Arnold seemed more than happy to resettle on her shoulder. “You don't look very happy about it,” she said. The baby wrapped a fist around the Mayflower pearls and shoved them in his mouth.

  “I'm happy! I'm delirious!”

  There went that eyebrow again.

  Damn it! He made his living with words. Why had they deserted him now? It went against his grain, but he knew the time had come to throw himself on the mercy of the court. “Nealy, I love you. I'm sorry it took me so long to figure it out, but that doesn't make it any less true. What we have together is too good to thro
w away just because I screwed up.”

  She didn't seem impressed. “Your idea of showing your tender feelings is to go on CNN and talk about me to the world. Is that right?”

  “I was bluffing. You wouldn't take my phone calls, remember? I needed to get your attention.”

  “My mistake. And what do you propose to do about these newfound feelings of yours?”

  “I propose to marry you, what do you think?”

  “Ah.”

  The baby gummed happily away at her pearls. Mat would have liked to do a little gumming of his own— on her bottom lip, her earlobe ... a breast. He nearly groaned. Now was definitely not the time to be thinking about breasts, or any other enticing body parts. “Well?”

  “Well, what?”

  “Are you going to marry me?”

  She gave him a frigid look that told him he needed a really good argument. Something logical instead of emotional. “I know you probably think of it as marrying down, since I'm not an aristocrat like you. But it might be time to refresh the Litchfield family genetic pool. Add a little Eastern European peasant blood to the mixture.”

  “Then make a run for the Triple Crown?”

  He narrowed his eyes. Exactly what was going on here?

  Nealy watched him tilt that big, handsome head and study her as if she were a specimen under a microscope. She hurt so badly she could barely maintain her composure. Had he really thought she'd believe this begrudging declaration of love and accept that pitiful excuse for a marriage proposal?

  Now she recognized her mistake in trying to cut the girls out of his life. Even though he hadn't been able to express it, she should have known how much he loved them. But she would never have suspected he'd go this far to have them back in his life. She would never have imagined he'd be desperate enough to suggest marriage.

  It still didn't seem to have occurred to him that he could simply take the girls away from her. He was their legal guardian, and the adoption wasn't final. All he had to do was say that he'd changed his mind. But his sense of honor would never allow that.

  Her knees turned to water. Would his sense of honor permit him to ask a woman he didn't love to marry him just so he could get his children back?