The Night Is Mine

Chapter 31

31

“A summons?” Emily refolded the damp towel she’d been using to wipe the counter. She had thirty minutes to be in front of her parents’ house to cut Mark off. She should never have warned the agents guarding her father to expect him, but she didn’t feel right withdrawing that invitation either. And he’d left no number for her to call him off.

“A request, ma’am. I’m to escort you to a meeting.” Mr. Frank Adams, blacksuit extraordinaire, stood at parade rest inside the swinging door leading from her kitchen to the third-floor Residence dining room.

It was nice being called “ma’am.” In the military, she was either “Sir” or “Hey, Beale!” But in the confines of her kitchen, “ma’am” sounded nice.

Emily decided to let Mr. Frank Adams wait while she hung the towel and shut down the lights. It afforded her a moment with her back to him.

Adams was scowling at her when she turned, getting tired of waiting for her answer. An invitation from a blacksuit; that gave her pause. They were always so damn polite. So damn serious. And so damn hard to read.

And Adams had to be the most inscrutable of them all. He’d barely let her in through the front gate. Now she sized him up as an opponent. A barrel of a man with rock-solid muscle. The only way she’d dropped him last week on the grand staircase had been her embodiment of the unexpected. A mistake she’d bet a month’s pay he’d not make again. He could snap her like a twig if he set his mind to it.

Another possibility came to mind. Was this for real? Or was Frank Adams not above a revenge?

“No hard feelings? I’m not about to walk into a game of pummel-the-newbie?”

“No, ma’am. No hard feelings. We’ve actually added that scenario to our training. It’s easy to forget that someone we know as well as the FBI Director’s daughter could be turned.” The vitriol dripping off that title could stain the hardwood floor. She’d wager that somewhere in the vast depths of Adams’ calm gaze lurked a desire for serious retribution. She’d hate to be the agent playing the role of the trusted traitor in the next round of exercises.

“No hard feelings, my ass.”

He actually grinned. Mr. Blacksuit Frank Adams the Inscrutable actually grinned. A nice smile, too. Lit up those dark eyes as well.

“Let’s just say, if you ever want to train in our sparring gym, I’d pay dearly to be the first in line.”

“Careful. I might take you up on that. I’m sorry, but I don’t have time tonight.” She pictured her mother left alone with a chance to sink her claws into Marky Herman. Helen Beale would shred such an unworthy candidate.

“I’ve been asked to escort you to the West Wing for a meeting.”

“The West Wing?” She hadn’t been there in her six days at the White House. Actually, two days here, two days in the hospital, and two days of home rest.

“I wouldn’t suggest trying to skip this one.”

She closed her eyes for a moment and, not liking the image for a moment, opened them again. “Marky” would have to deal with her mother. It served him right for showing up unannounced and uninvited.

“Should I go change?” The puttanesca sauce had left several long, blood-red tomato spatters down the white sleeve of her men’s dress shirt. The pork roast had peppered her tan slacks with several greasy bullets while searing.

“We aren’t as formal under this President as, ah…”

“But go change. Got it. I’ll meet you in three minutes where I dropped you like a brick.” A part of her simply couldn’t resist poking the beast.

He favored her with a nearly feral smile. “You are welcome in the Secret Service gym any time you want.” If smiles could kill.

They laughed together. Briefly. Chopped off in unison. She’d made an enemy into a friend. A dangerous one, but a friend.

Guy-speak. She was amazed every time it worked. Maybe she should teach classes. If she ever worked with anyone other than guys.

She headed out of the kitchen at a fast clip.

The brief glance Emily spared the mirror in her room accused her of not working out often enough.

“I knew that without your help.” She was as obsessed with fitness as any SOAR pilot. Not as much as the SOF operators, but daily 10K runs were common practice for her squad. Diagnosis? Presently grounded, eating far too well, and feeling it in the first week.

West Wing meeting? About what?

Perhaps with the Secret Service. That made sense. They had an office on the ground floor of the West Wing. Maybe they’d finally uncovered her dual role here as chef and guardian, and wanted to do cooperative planning. And she had a bridge to sell super cheap.

Much more likely, a round of uncooperative planning and a power-play game would be the schedule. Two could play at that.

She pulled on clean slacks, fine, straight-leg, white denim, and a satin blue blouse her mother had insisted she buy because it showed more curve. She’d bought it because it showed less skin. Sandals with a frustratingly small ankle strap. A quick brush of her hair and she was on the landing at two minutes and fifty-three seconds.

Agent Frank made no initial remark on her arrival. He simply stood there and looked her head to toe.

“You got a problem that I’m seven seconds early?”

“No.” He looked her head to toe again, not in a leering way at least. “Never knew a woman who could look so good so fast. You clean up nice, Captain.”

“Aw, shucks, Agent Adams. Y’all say the sweetest durn thangs to a gal. Y’all trying to trip me, Agent Man?”

“Only if I want my wife to bash my brains in.”

No ring. But that could be an occupational hazard. Fliers sometimes wore them; most didn’t because they might snag something at the wrong moment.

“So, you’re a tame one.”

“Outside the sparring ring.”

She laughed one short, sharp “Ha!” before she could stop it. Then she sighed. For better or worse, she’d made an appointment.

He accepted the challenge with something between a smile and a grimace, then turned to lead the way.

Guy-speak had its drawbacks. There was no way out once a challenge had been laid down and accepted.

She’d worry about that later. For now…

Emily halted at the closed door.

“Go on in.”

She looked at the door and back at Frank Adams.

“Nuh-uh. You said I was going to a meeting in the West Wing.”

“I never said with whom.” His smile now wicked.

“That’s not nice.”

“Sue me.”

“This wall is curved.” The hallway had been trucking along as straight as could be. Where it turned a nice clean ninety to the right, the outside corner wasn’t square. It wasn’t the least bit cornerish. It was…rounded.

“You lying, deceitful, obnoxious…”

“Don’t say it. The President isn’t a big fan of the ‘F’ word in his White House.”

“He wasn’t a fan of it at eighteen either, but that doesn’t mean he didn’t find a use for it.” On the day she’d sent him swimming in the Reflecting Pool wearing brand-new sneakers, had been particularly memorable. Though not as spectacular as the night of his junior prom when he’d discovered his dress shoes filled to the brim with grape jam. Or…

“Are you going in, or are you just going to admire the damn thing?”

The door itself was curved. Bulging outward. Pushing her away.

“You’re loving this, aren’t you?”

“Can’t say I’m being real disappointed at this moment. Now show some balls and get in there.”

“Duh, Adams. I’m female. I don’t have any.” But she stepped forward to show that she did.