Love And Honor Page 2

  “No. I’m fine.”

  “Good.” Savard closed her eyes.

  After a few minutes of watching her breathe, Stark figured she had fallen asleep. Gently, she disentangled her fingers from Renee’s laid the slumbering woman’s hand down on the covers. When she looked up, Renee was watching her.

  “Are you leaving? Savard asked.”

  “Not if you don’t want me to.”

  “I want you to.”

  “Oh.” Stark looked away, swallowed.

  “Paula.”

  “Huh?”

  “Look at me.”

  Slowly, Stark brought her gaze to Renee’s. The room had lightened enough to see the brilliant blue of them and she couldn’t help but smile.

  Savard smiled back. “I’m going to get well soon as I can.”

  “I know that,” Stark said quickly.

  “No really. And you can’t sit here worrying while I do.”

  “I’m not worr—”

  “Go back to work if you don’t want to take time off. Call me every day.”

  “Every day, huh?” Stark grinned. “Morning or night?”

  “Either.”

  “Both?”

  “If you like.”

  Starks voice was husky when she replied. “Oh, I like.”

  “Hovering. Yeah pretty much,” Stark finally admitted with a faint laugh. “Yep.”

  Blair turned her head in time to catch the smile that even the darkness couldn’t hide. Ah ha. Our young Stark has a crush. I wonder

  The phone on Starks belt trilled, breaking the silence, and they both jumped.

  “Don’t answer it,” Blair said quickly.

  Stark shook head, her hand already at her waist. “I have to.”

  When she heard the familiar deep voice, she was very glad she had.

  Chapter Three

  “Is she with you?”

  Stark leaped to her feet, her body rigid—nearly at attention as she pressed the phone to her ear. “Yes, ma’am. She is.”

  “Anyone else?”

  “No, ma’am.”

  Stark heard a muffled curse. Protocol dictated that three agents be with Egret whenever she was outside the residence. Stark had known from the moment that they’d left the house that the President’s daughter was seriously under-protected, and she also knew that it was her own fault for allowing it.

  That’s it. I’ll be back doing site prep and background checks by morning.

  The process of gathering the information necessary to organize and coordinate any public outing for a high-profile protectee was desk work, and the assignment a death sentence for most agents who coveted the excitement of field duty.

  “Put her on, please.”

  Stark turned and extended the phone. Blair reached up from her seat on the sand and took it.

  “Hello?”

  “You turned your cell off.”

  “I know.” She turned slightly away from Stark, although she knew that the agent would do her best not to listen. Its not as if she doesn’t suspect. Not as if they all don’t wonder. But suspecting and knowing are not the same thing.

  It was fully dark, the water black now beneath a blacker sky broken only by shafts of moonlight and pinpoints of stars. “I just brought it along it in case…just…in case.” If there was trouble, I could call for help.

  “Thank you for that.”

  “How did you know I was out here?”

  Across the country, Cam shifted on the sofa, watching the lights of an airplane blink rhythmically as it banked over Washington D.C. on its approach to Reagan National Airport. “I didn’t know where you were. I called the house and got Davis when you didn’t answer your cell. She checked upstairs and discovered that both you and Stark were missing. You weren’t in the bedroom.”

  Blair laughed. “You didn’t really think —”

  “No.”

  “It’s not her fault.”

  There was no response, and Blair repeated, “Cam, it’s not Stark’s fault. I didn’t give her any choice.”

  “No, you rarely do. However, that’s no excuse.”

  Blair ran a hand through her hair and got to her feet. She moved ten feet away and glanced back over her shoulder. The Secret Service agent had moved to within three feet of her. Whispering stridently, she said to Stark, “Will you back off?”

  “I can’t do that, I’m sorry. There’s just me here and I need to be close.”

  “I’m fine. Look around were alone. So go away.”

  Stark didn’t budge.

  “God, she’s almost as stubborn as you are,” Blair said into the phone again.

  “She’d better be, if she’s your only security.”

  “Why were you calling me?”

  A second passed, then another.

  “Cam?”

  “I couldn’t sleep.”

  It was Blair’s turn for silence. Suddenly, there was a fist in her throat, blocking her breath, stealing her words. Cam always did this to her—took her by surprise just when she thought she was too angry to be touched. Somehow, Cam reached past the hurt and the anger and found the places that mattered most. “The last time you couldn’t sleep, you came to my bed.”

  “I would now, if I could.” After a moment’s hesitation, Cam asked, “Would I be welcome?”

  “You need to ask?”

  “You left the house in the middle of the night with no word to the team. Your phone’s off. You’re three thousand fucking miles away and I can’t see your face. Yes. I need to ask.”

  “You make me so angry.”

  “I know. I don’t mean to.”

  “I know.”

  “You piss me off pretty well, too.”

  “Yeah.” Blair’s voice was softer now, wistful. Lowering her voice, she added, “I just wanted to get out. Nothing else.”

  “I’m sorry I upset you.” A regretful sigh came through the line. “Will you go home now, please?”

  “Well, I had planned on a ferry ride to Alcatraz—”

  “Blair,” Cam said threateningly. “My sense of humor is running rather thin right now.”

  “All right then, Stark and I will head for home.”

  “No. I’ll call Mac and have him send a car.”

  “Cam, no one noticed us, and we’re only ten blocks from the house. Please. We’ll be fine.”

  “Only if Davis walks down to meet you.”

  “All right.”

  “Put Stark back on the phone. Wait—” After a beat, she added, “Call me later when you get settled.”

  “Won’t Stark do that?”

  “It’s not the same thing.”

  “I should hope not.” Smiling, Blair held out the cell. “The Commander—for you.”

  Chapter Four

  Felicia Davis met them halfway to the house as they climbed back up Hyde Street to the top of Russian Hill. The tall, lithe, ebony-skinned woman nodded cordially and silently fell into step beside Stark, who moved slightly to her left so that the two Secret Service agents walked slightly behind and on either side of Blair Powell.

  Almost oblivious to their presence, Blair replayed the conversation with Cam in her mind as she climbed. She couldn’t shake the feeling that something wasn’t right. Even though they’d known each other less than a year, and for a good part of that time, they had been estranged, she could sense the tension in Cam’s voice, and it was more than fatigue.

  They’d been lovers for the last two tumultuous months—following an even more harrowing four months during which Cam had been in the hospital and then on medical leave after being struck by a bullet meant for Blair—a bullet that had nearly killed her. A bullet which the Secret Service agent had intentionally blocked with her own body.

  For the first time in her life, Blair had to face the stark truth that her life—by virtue of her father’s position—was somehow valued more than that of another human being. It was a realization which she could not accept, and because of that, and the haunting image of what that reality
had almost cost the woman she loved, it was increasingly difficult for her to allow anyone to place themselves between her and danger.

  Intellectually, she understood the need. If she were kidnapped, it would bring unbearable pressure on her father to give in to threats and manipulation. Something that as a man, and as a father, she knew he would want to do. However, as the President of the United States, it was something he would never be able to do. For that reason, she also bore the responsibility of seeing that he was never placed in that position. The conflict for her was a lifelong struggle, because she had been in the public eye since the time her father was a governor, and during the eight years of his Vice Presidency when he was being very publicly groomed for the office of President. And now, she was having an affair with the chief of her personal security detail.

  Life was a lot simpler a year ago.

  “Do you need something, Ms. Powell?” Felicia Davis asked, inclining her head slightly at the sound of Blair’s voice.

  “No. I’m fine.”

  The three women walked on in silence. When they reached the house, entering this time through the front door, Marcea Cassells, Cameron Roberts’ mother, was just bidding her other house guests good night. The dark-eyed, strikingly beautiful woman turned as the trio came through the door and smiled.

  “I see you’ve found each other.”

  “Yes,” Blair replied, smiling in return. In a casual, emerald green silk blouse and darker slacks, Marcea looked like a softer, only slightly older version of Cam. That alone would have drawn Blair’s smile, but she liked and respected the other woman. An artist herself, Blair was still slightly in awe of the critically acclaimed painter.

  “Can I get you anything?” Marcea asked. “A drink or something to eat?”

  “If there’s port—that would be great,” Blair replied.

  The two Secret Service agents declined. Davis crossed the living room and disappeared into the depths of the house to check the back entrance and the rear grounds. Stark followed, but stationed herself in the dining room which adjoined the living room through an archway. She took up a post from where she had a clear sight line to the front door, but a position that was far enough away to afford Blair and Marcea privacy.

  “Did you speak with Cameron?” Marcea inquired while pouring the wine into two crystal glasses. She carried them to the sofa were Blair was seated, handed her one, and sank into one of the matching chairs that sat at right angles to the sofa.

  The house itself was a contemporary multilevel structure with many skylights, small decks beyond sliding glass doors that extended from the hillside rooms, and a general sense of uncluttered expansiveness. The sharp, cool lines of the structure were softened by the warm, muted colors of the rugs and furnishings. It was an Architectural Digest home made for living in. Only one painting out of the many gracing the walls was Marcea’s. Despite her international reputation, she had the same sense of intense privacy that her daughter displayed. “She called looking for you.”

  “I spoke with her briefly a few minutes ago.”

  “I suppose she thought I wouldn’t notice, but she sounded…worried.”

  Blair hesitated. She wasn’t accustomed to discussing personal matters with anyone—well, anyone other than Diane. Diane Bleeker was her business agent as well as her oldest friend, and although they had often shared a rivalry over the years for the same women, they understood each other. She thought that quality, more than anything else, was the most important thing a friend could offer.

  Nevertheless, despite her short association with Marcea, they shared a critical experience, and one that had forged a deep bond. For nearly forty-eight hours after Cam had been shot, they’d waited together by her bedside. Forty-eight hours during which time they hadn’t known whether she would live or die. They had stood silent witness to her struggle, and they had shared grief and uncertainty. They’d also shared something else, although they had not spoken of it. They both loved her.

  Blair drew a deep breath, and smiled a bit wanly. “That’s my fault, I think. I decided to go for a walk, and I’m afraid I didn’t follow Roberts’ rules of order.”

  “I can imagine those rules must get very tiresome.”

  Blair shrugged. “They do, but I suppose, too, I should be used to it by now.”

  “I doubt very much I could ever get used to it,” Marcea stated emphatically. “I also have a feeling that Cam understands that.” There was kindness in her tone, and sympathy that sounded genuine.

  To her absolute horror, Blair felt her eyes well with tears. Abruptly, she rose and crossed to the front window, desperately trying to contain her sadness. “Cam understands,” she said, her back to face Marcea. “I know she does. But she has a job to do, and I’m her job. That comes first.”

  “Yes. I know how seriously she takes that. I’m sure that’s why she was given the job.” Marcea’s voice was calm and gentle. “Loving you must make it quite a challenge for you both.”

  Startled, Blair turned abruptly, meeting Marcea’s eyes. “Has she said—”

  “No,” Marcea said with another smile. “But it’s plain to see every time she looks at you. I’m not trying to excuse her, you know. She’s like her father—completely devoted to her work, often to the exclusion of her own needs. But in her defense—”

  “You don’t need to defend her to me. I lo—” She fell silent, shocked. She hadn’t meant to say that—she’d never said that to anyone—about anyone ever before. First, because there’d never been anyone about whom to say it. And even had there been, there was no one to whom she would’ve felt safe saying it. Not even to Diane—not because she didn’t trust her friend with the knowledge, but because saying it would make it real. She’d have to acknowledge her own vulnerability. To say it would be to feel it, and that was terrifying.

  The silence between them grew longer until Marcea spoke softly.

  “I didn’t intend to defend her. I’m sorry—it’s the mother in me. I only meant to say that despite her single-mindedness, she cares.”

  “I know she does.” Blair tilted the glass and swallowed the rest of the wine. She carried it to the sideboard and placed it carefully on the silver serving tray. I only wish I knew if it was me or the First Daughter who came first in her affections.

  She turned and said tonelessly, “I need to call her. I promised I’d let her know when we got back.”

  “I hope I haven’t offended you.”

  “No. You haven’t.”

  Wordlessly, they nodded good night. As Blair passed Stark in the dining room, she informed her without turning in her direction, “I’m going to bed.”

  Start did not reply, because no reply was required. She’d already radioed Mac to inform him that Egret was secured for the night, and she had called Cameron Roberts in Washington DC to tell her the same thing.

  Now, she herself could go to bed.

  ———

  Blair showered quickly and got into bed, naked. She turned off the lights and punched in Cam’s number by the faint glow from the LCD readout on her cell. The line was picked up after the first ring.

  “Roberts.”

  “It’s me.”

  “How are you?”

  “Tired, I think. Jet lag probably.”

  “Yes.”

  Neither of them mentioned that in the last two weeks there’d been an assassination attempt, a car bombing, and several explosions—all of the events involving Blair or a member of her security detail.

  Blair shifted on her side so she could watch the moon as it moved slowly in and out behind the few scattered clouds in the sky. The house was very still and quiet—unlike the ever-present city noises she was used to hearing, even from her eighth floor penthouse on Gramercy Park in NYC. The view, too, was so different than New York, the sky somehow brighter and the stars more brilliant. It was beautiful, and she felt again the stab of loneliness. “What does it look like, out of your window?”

  Cam was silent a moment as she focused on th
e night. “The sky is nearly cloudless, and very black. I can see the stars and a lot of planes taking off and landing. There’s a glow off to the left that reaches into the lower layers of the clouds—that’s the White House. It’s always flooded with light. I’m surprised anyone can sleep—” She laughed shortly. “Well, you know that don’t you?”

  “It’s not easy to sleep there,” Blair said thoughtfully. “For any number of reasons. As you know, it’s not my favorite place.”

  Cam chuckled. “I have noticed that.”

  “It’s what, almost three there?”

  “Just about.”

  “And what time do you bureaucrat types reconvene in the morning?”

  “Seven.” Cam tried to keep her weariness from showing in her voice. “I think the bureaucrats feel guilty about not really doing anything, so they work extra long hours to make up for it.”

  “I believe you have a point,” Blair agreed, laughing. “You should go to sleep, Cam. You’ve got to be even more tired than I am.”

  “At least I don’t have to contend with jet lag.”

  “No, but you haven’t had much sleep in the last week and you’re hurt.”

  There was silence and Blair could envision Cam trying to find a neutral comeback. That silence was more telling than anything else. “How bad is it?”

  “I’ve got a knot on the back of my head that throbs at inopportune moments. Of course, it could be listening to Doyle for twelve hours—”

  “Cam.”

  Cam heard the serious tone in Blair’s voice and sighed. “I feel like a stream roller ran over me—coming and going. Twice.”

  “What else?” She’d seen the bruises the day before God, was it just yesterday? and although they looked painful, it would take more than that to make Cam complain.

  “Nothing too bad a bit of dizziness, a little blurry visi—”

  “Jesus. You shouldn’t be working you should be in bed. Can’t you postpone this goddamned briefing?”

  “It’s got to be done—and the sooner the better. Events tend to get skewed the longer we wait. People have selective memory loss, or fortuitous recollections that make them look good and everyone else look bad.”

  “You expect trouble, don’t you?”