CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE 2 page

"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."

Stark did not reply, because no reply was required. She'd already radioed Mac to inform her that Egret was secured for the night, and she had called Cameron Roberts in Washington D.C 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 the 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?”

Again Cam hesitated, because she had spent more than a dozen years on the payroll of the US Treasury Department, and she wasn’t used to discussing her work with anyone. Even when she and Janet had been together, they hadn’t talked shop. And Janet had been a cop. If we’d talked a little more, maybe I would have known where she’d be that morning. Maybe I could have warned her off. Maybe she wouldn’t be de—

“Cam?”

“Sorry. I guess I am tired.” She rubbed her eyes, pushed the memories aside. “We have one dead agent and two seriously wounded. You came very close to being a victim yourself. Any one of those events is a serious issue. All of them together—there has to be an accounting.”

“But you’re okay in all of this, right? My God, Cam—you almost died. If it hadn’t been for you, who knows what would have happened to Grant and Savard.”

“I’ll be fine. Don’t worry.”

"Will you tell me what happens?" Blair knew that she was asking Cam to cross a line. But they'd crossed so many already, and if they were ever going to have anything together...

She waited.

"Full report."

"I miss you." It took all Blair's willpower to say it, but it was such an overwhelming feeling that she had nowhere else to put it. She had to give it voice or choke on it.

"I'd give anything I have to be lying next to you right now," Cam said very quietly. "Anything."

"You know what makes me angry so about you, Roberts?"

"No, what?"

"I can't stay angry at you very long."

Cam laughed. "I have to have something going for me, because I know that most of the chips don't fall on my side."

"You're wrong about that, Commander."

Blair's voice was very quiet, too, but Cam heard her clearly. "Things will get better once these debriefings are done."

"Will they?" Blair asked. "Washington politics never change. You know that, Cam. It's just more of the same in a different package."

"Things will get easier for you, at any rate. Now that he's been stopped..."

"You mean now that he's dead."

"Yes," Cam said softly. "Now that he's dead, your life will be a little bit easier."

"Do you have the final ID?"

Cam hesitated, but only for a second. "No, not yet. Everything is being handled out of Quantico, and you probably know how notoriously slowly those wheels turn."

"But there isn't any doubt, right?"

"There isn't any doubt we got the right man," Cam said with as much conviction as she could convey. "The ID remains open, but Savard took care of him."

Blair shifted uneasily under the covers, acutely aware of what Cam wasn't saying. The FBI task force had indeed gotten someone. That someone was presumably the man who had been stalking her, threatening her life, and endangering her entire team. She was too intelligent not to know that what Cam wasn't saying was that only time would tell if indeed the dead man was whom they'd been tracking.

"Are you going to make it for your mother's opening?" Blair asked, changing the subject intentionally. Neither of them could do anything to change the circumstances regarding Loverboy. There was no point in talking about it.

"I'm going to try," Cam replied. "I haven't made it to very many of them, and I know this one is particularly important. I'll do the best I can."

"Good. I know she wouldn't say it, but I can tell she likes it when you're there."

Cam sighed again and rubbed at the tension between her eyes. "I know."

"Go try to get some sleep."

"I will," Cam assured her, wondering if she could possibly, now, having heard the touch of forgiveness in Blair's voice.

"Call me tomorrow?" Blair asked.

"I will. As soon as I get a break. About the morning...Mac will be..."

"Cameron, Mac can handle things. I'm fine."

"Right." After a moment, Cam added softly, "Goodnight, Blair."

"Goodnight," she whispered.

Blair shut off her cell and laid it on the bedside table. She drew the covers up to her shoulders and continued to stare out the window.

Cam placed the receiver in the cradle, then stood and stretched. Her shoulders ached from the bruising she had sustained from being forcibly slammed to the ground by the concussive force of the explosion. She crossed the short distance to the window, drink in hand, and contemplated the skyline again.

Finally she drained the scotch and set it on the nearby bar. She needed to try to sleep. As she turned from the window, the phone rang.

Immediately, she grabbed it up.

“Roberts.” She listened for a moment, then said, “No, that’s fine. Send her up.”

A minute later she opened her door to admit a tall, stately blond exquisitely attired in an expensive evening dress.

“Hello, Claire. Come in.”

CHAPTER FIVE

Cam opened her eyes in darkness, warm breath on the back of her neck. A woman pressed close...full breasts against her spine, an arm curving over the crest of her hip from behind, fingers moving softly over her skin. She started to turn onto her back, but the hand on her hip pressed forward, preventing her. A throaty voice spoke in her ear, familiar and commanding.

"No. Don't move. And keep your eyes closed."

Still on her side, Cam closed her eyes and obeyed. Every cell was acutely focused on the knowing touch tracing the hollow of her hip, the curve of her ribs, and the long plane of her abdomen. Light teasing strokes drew the breath from her lungs in sharp, nearly painful gasps as particularly sensitive spots were tormented, then abandoned.

"Ahh—"

"Shh."

Soon she was heavy and hard, and she tilted her hips back to allow the questing hand to journey lower, between her thighs. Fingers parted her, sought her heat, and brushed feather soft over nerve endings already twitching with arousal. She heard herself groan, shuddering as the fist of release pounded between her legs, and knew that surcease from the exquisite torture was not far away.

"Do you plan on making me come?" Cam whispered, her voice catching as her breath stuttered over peaks of excitement.

"Eventually."

The touch continued working her length, tugging at sensitive skin and tracing tender folds...drawing forth her desire on a flood of urgency.

"Now? Jesus..."

"Be patient."

"It's not...up to me anymore," Cam managed, legs taut as the explosion gathered force. "You're...in command."

A husky laugh and the pressure of a thumb added to circling fingertips. "I've always been in command. Isn't that how you've always wanted it?"

"You always...know...just how...to touch me," Cam murmured, her hips lifting as her thighs parted, inviting entrance.

"Turn over on your stomach," the honeyed voice ordered.

"I'm so close. Can't I co..."

"Just do it."

Trembling, Cam turned onto her stomach, cradling the pillow in her arms, eyes closed tightly as she fought for control. She moaned as a hand slipped between her legs and claimed her again, this time entering her while sliding simultaneously over her clitoris.

"Oh, god..."

She was too far gone to contain the spiraling climax any longer...with another stroke or two, she would be gone.

"You're going to make me come," she warned, barely breathing now.

"I know. That's what you wanted, wasn't it?"

"Yes. Yes, it's what I wanted. God, yes... Clai..."

Cam shot straight up in bed, shocked into wakefulness by the imminent orgasm. Gasping, she threw back the covers and swung her legs over the side of the bed, bracing herself with a hand on either side of her body, clutching the mattress as she struggled with her reeling senses.

"Jesus."

Legs shaking, stomach clenched in preparation for release, she rode the thin edge of orgasm, finally forcing down the swell of arousal. The red numerals of the bedside clock read 6:05. She'd been in bed an hour. She was quite alone.

Sweat drenched and breathing heavily, she stood on wooden legs and walked unsteadily to the bathroom. Viciously, she twisted the knobs on the shower, stepped in, and leaned her forehead against the cool tiles as water began to stream from the shower head.

"Jesus," she whispered again.

She couldn't remember anything like that ever happening before, and to have it happen now, after the unsettling visit the night before, numbed her brain. She trembled still with the unanswered demand pulsing in her depths, knowing that with the briefest touch, she could satisfy the physical need. Her body cried out for it, but her heart resisted.

Turning her face into the still cold water, she let it beat against her head and chest. Shivering, she placed her hands against the wall in front of her and lowered her head, soaking her hair and back. Finally, the churning pressure between her thighs began to abate and she flung her head back, rubbing her face with both hands.

She stood in the shower a long time...until her body was quiet and her head was clear, save for the distant echo of the ever-present headache. Thankfully, that was barely a distraction, because she would need all her mental facilities when she met with Carlisle and the others in less then an hour.

For the time being, she couldn't afford to think about what had just happened...or what had taken place the night before.

“Let’s wrap this thing up,” Stewart Carlisle said to the group convened around the conference table, coffee cups situated within easy reach. “The statements of the agents on scene all confirm the events as outlined in Agent Roberts’ report. There’s nothing new or contradictory in them.”

The accumulated field reports generated by the FBI, Secret Service agents, and State Police teams present the night an unidentified subject—UNSUB—had lured a woman thought to be Blair Powell to a deserted location, had been gathered into a file two inches thick. A copy sat in front of each person along with an equally thick binder filled with preliminary forensic and laboratory results. They’d spent the better part of the day going through them. Carlisle gestured to them as he spoke.

“I think we can all agree that the causalities were acceptable given the level of threat to the protectee. Acceptable and unavoidable.”

The phrase was understood by all present to mean that no one was to be held responsible for the chain of events leading to the near fatal injuries sustained by several agents.

“My department in conjunction with the New York bureau field office will follow-up on the final ID,” he added, handily glossing over the FBI investigative oversights that had allowed the perpetrator to elude the task force for months. By cutting the other agency a break, he’d garner favors that he could call in when he needed leverage on something in the future. “So…”

“There’s the matter of the security breach in Central Park,” Patrick Doyle interjected.

Warily, Carlisle regarded the blocky, thick-necked man who sat opposite him at the far end of the table. Hard blue eyes stared back from a broad, roughly handsome face. FBI Special Agent in Charge Patrick Doyle had headed up the task force formed to apprehend the man stalking the President’s daughter after the first attempt on her life. Before Carlisle could respond, Cam spoke instead.

“That’s a matter for the Secret Service to review, Doyle.” She was stating the obvious, because everyone present knew that the Secret Service never discussed procedures and protocol with anyone outside the Agency. Of course, Doyle knows that, too. So what’s his game?

“I should think that two nearly successful attempts on a high-level protectee’s life would bring into question the adequacy of her security,” Doyle said pointedly, his gaze still on Stewart Carlisle’s face. “After all, any time she’s at a public function, it’s her security team that coordinates all the other forces, right? Police, Transit Authority, Tactical teams—the whole ball of wax. So, if someone gets through all that, who’s to blame?”

“The Secret Service does not comment on procedure,” Carlisle replied stiffly, but the gauntlet had been thrown. As the man directly overseeing the teams providing the First daughter’s protection, he couldn’t ignore the implied criticism or the not so subtle accusation that her security had been lacking.

“I agree with Agent Doyle, Assistant Director,” Robert Owens, the National Security Agency deputy director said. “My department also needs an accounting of events.”

“Fine. I’ll send you a report,” Carlisle snapped.

“Perhaps something a little more formal is called for,” Owens replied, “such as an impartial inquiry.”

Cam’s hands, resting on her lap, tightened into fists. “An inquiry by whom?”

“Justice should appoint a panel,” Owens answered with an alacrity that suggested he’d prepared the response.

“That kind of investigation will require exposing information essential to the First Daughter’s security,” Cam pointed out.

“Well, that remains to be seen, doesn’t it?”

Cam waited for Carlisle to put an end to the discussion, and as the seconds passed with no response from him, her anger grew.

"I’ll take it under advisement,” Carlisle finally said. “Are we through here then, gentlemen?”

There was a general rumble of assent and the scraping of chairs as the group dispersed. Cam didn’t look in Doyle’s direction, because she was certain if she saw the smirk she knew would be there, she’d launch herself over the table at him. As soon as the last man filed out, she was on her feet.

“Jesus Christ, Stewart, are you going to let Doyle and Owens railroad you into an outside inquiry? What the hell kind of precedent does that set? We have our own internal review for this kind of occurrence.”

“Nothing’s been decided,” he retorted, his temper frayed to breaking.

“How about you tell them to stick it up their bureaucratic asses?”

“Not very diplomatic.”

“Fuck diplomacy. We’re talking about compromising our working strategies.” She tried to lower her voice, but she was too tired and too nauseous to control everything at once. “And that puts protectees at risk. I won’t do it.”

“You’ll do whatever I need you to do, Agent,” Carlisle said testily.

“Not if it means endangering Blair Powell.”

“If you refuse to testify before a Justice board of inquiry, you’ll be in contempt of a sanctioned federal investigative body. At the very least you’ll lose your job—worst case scenario, you could be looking at jail time.”

She studied the face of her boss, a man she thought she knew, and couldn’t read what was behind his eyes. Then she decided she didn’t really care.

“Fine. If you need to reach me, you know how to find me.

CHAPTER SIX

Blair clicked off the phone with a sigh.

Still no answer. Not at her apartment, not on her cell phone, not on her two-way pager.

She glanced at the bedside clock. 9:02 PM. It was midnight in D.C. Cam had said she would call during breaks in the meetings, but she hadn’t. Even in Washington, bureaucrats didn't work this late on Friday night.

She'd spent a good part of her day with Marcea in her studio, a jutting extension of the top floor that was all windows and light. While Marcea packed up the few remaining canvasses for the show the next night, Blair sketched. It had been peaceful and companionable, although they rarely spoke as the hours passed.

Late in the day, Marcea stopped by her side and, gesturing to the sketchpad Blair had balanced on her knees, asked, "May I?"

Blushing faintly, Blair turned the sketch pad in her direction, amazed at her own shyness with the woman who had never been anything but gracious and kind. But her art was her soul, and the one place she had never needed to hide her feelings. She wondered what Marcea would see beneath the charcoal and paper.

"You have a very good memory," Marcea said with a smile, studying the images of herself and her daughter, their profiles interspersed, overlapped, and in some views, transforming one to the other. "You capture her perfectly."

"Do I," Blair said contemplatively.

Marcea's eyes were warm and caring as they rose to Blair's. "You do." Gesturing to the sketch, she asked, "Might I possibly keep this?"

Blair nodded. "I'd be honored."

"Thank you," Marcea murmured, lifting long delicate fingers to Blair's cheek.

Blair grew still, transfixed by the touch, feeling welcomed and fleetingly, as if she had come home.

Remembering the interlude now, thinking of how much Cam resembled her mother, only made Blair miss Cam more.

Pacing fretfully around the confines of her room, she worked hard not to imagine where Cam might be. Unwinding with a drink after two continuous days of meetings? In a bar? Over dinner? Alone?

In the two months they'd been lovers, Blair had barely had time to adjust to the fact that she had broken her own most fundamental rule...never to get emotionally involved with anyone she slept with. Never let anyone touch her—not physically, most of the time, and definitely not emotionally...ever. She’d tried hard to keep Cam outside the formidable defenses she’d erected over the years, and she’d failed.

Cam, she knew, had broken more than one of her own rules, too—at least professionally. The most significant one being never to become intimately involved with a protectee. Blair had a feeling that Cam had probably broken several of her personal rules as well, but they had not spoken of it. There were other things they had not spoken of...fidelity, exclusivity, the shape of their future. They were concepts which to Blair had seemed foreign only a few months before. Now, the ideas had moved beyond philosophy to take on far greater significance. When she thought of Cam with another woman, something between fury and despair welled within her.

"This is ridiculous," she muttered to herself. "I can't sit here any longer...I'm going stir crazy."

She stripped off her jeans and T-shirt and crossed to be adjoining bath. Quickly, mechanically, she showered and washed her hair. She left her hair loose, as she usually did when she was going out and didn't want to be recognized. Over the years, she had learned that subtle alterations in her physical appearance and dress made it almost impossible for a member of the general public to recognize her as the President’s daughter. Associating her with the image they saw on television and in magazines, the average citizen expected to see a sophisticated, elegant woman in tasteful but expensive clothes, wearing just the right amount of makeup, and with her curling, shoulder length blond hair gathered at the base of her neck with a gold clasp. In leather pants, a body hugging sleeveless top, and her hair down and free, Blair bore almost no resemblance to the First Daughter.

When she finished dressing, she slipped a slim leather wallet with nothing other than her ID and cash into her back pocket and opened the door to her room. This time, the hallway was empty and she crossed quickly to the back stairs that led to the kitchen and the rear exit. To her surprise, the kitchen was empty, too. She knew that Davis was off duty that evening and Ed Hernandez was somewhere in the front of the house, probably in the living room. She didn't see Stark and was surprised, but grateful. She wasn't anxious to elude her and draw yet more negative attention to the agent.

Carefully sliding open the glass door, she stepped out onto the cedar-planked deck that was cantilevered over the slope of Russian Hill below. Moving quietly, she started down the first of many wooden staircases that cut back and forth across the lower portion of Marcea's property toward the street below. Halfway down, she stopped at the sound of a voice just below her.

Date: 2015-12-11; view: 1008