Читать книгу Her Secret Service Agent - Stephanie Doyle - Страница 12

CHAPTER FOUR

“HAIL TO THE CHIEF.”

The song broke through her sleep. Vivian lifted her head and reached for her cell phone on the nightstand. It was just after one in the morning. Only her father would think to call her at this time of night, and the ringtone proved it.

“Hi, Daddy.”

“Oh, baby, were you actually sleeping and I woke you up? You’re never asleep at this hour.”

It was true. If she did manage to get a couple of hours in, it was usually between four and seven. Somehow, knowing dawn was approaching made it easier to sleep.

“I know, but don’t be upset.” Vivian looked at the time again and considered how long she’d been out. “I had four solid hours. That’s a lot for me. What’s up? How are the China negotiations?”

“They would be going a lot better if everyone in the room simply listened to me.”

Vivian smiled as she sat up. “There’s a surprise. Alan Bennett thinks he knows what’s best for everyone.”

“I can’t help it if it’s true. But I didn’t call for that. I want an update on the letter situation. I’m not happy they assigned Mather to review your case. He is incompetent. I’ve been thinking we should approach this from a different angle. Have someone privately look into the matter.”

Vivian almost chuckled. Great minds did think alike. Although she doubted her father would have approved her choice for bodyguard/investigator. All Vivian had to do was mention Joe’s name and her father would immediately look like he needed to hit something.

Another reason why letting Joe go was probably a smart idea. She couldn’t imagine her father would ever accept him as part of her life. Any part.

“I’ve considered that, too, Daddy. I’ll start researching investigators tomorrow. See if I can find someone I’m comfortable with.”

Because that had been the plan, right? Certainly not to go groveling back to Joe. She had her pride, and he’d insulted her. That was way more important than her peace of mind. And her father didn’t like him, and...

And when he’d asked where her bed was, she’d imagined something happening between them, and that was more dangerous to her peace of mind than her stalker.

“Okay. I want a list of names next time I call. I’ll have them properly vetted. In the meantime, I’m going to talk to the director of the service and see if I can’t get him to assign someone more qualified than Mather to investigate.”

Mather was how her father referred to Carl after the kidnapping. Carl hadn’t shouldered anywhere close to the blame Joe had, but her father’s opinion of the man had lowered significantly. Despite trying to explain to her father for years that Carl had nothing to do with her kidnapping, she’d never been able to convince him.

Vivian sometimes wondered who had it worse. Joe for losing his job, or Carl for keeping his but forever being known in the agency to his superiors as That Carl. At least Joe had gone on to have something for himself, with no one to answer to.

She wondered if her father would even mention that Carl had seen Joe today. Had questioned him in a formal capacity as a person of interest. Doubtful, since he probably knew it would upset her and he wouldn’t want to have that fight. Not over Joe. Not again, when they hadn’t had it in so many years.

“I’ll get some names and figure out what to do from here,” she said. “You worry about saving the world and making it a better place for mankind.”

“I can multitask. I’ll be back in a few days for Christmas. Speaking of which, there is an event at the end of this week I would like you to attend with me. A fund-raiser for underprivileged children in DC. The president will be in attendance and he’s asked me to come.”

Vivian was about to agree.

“Jefferson will be there, as well,” her father added before she could reply.

Right. Jefferson Caldwell, junior congressman from northern Virginia’s district ten. He was handsome, he was charming, but most important he was single and looking for a politically suitable wife.

Despite her scandal, Vivian fit the bill of a suitable political wife with the appropriate political pedigree. She’d met Jefferson on a handful of occasions, all arranged by her father. He’d seemed nice and considerate, but she hadn’t felt any spark. Nothing like what she’d felt upon seeing Joe again. The instant attraction. The need to touch any part of him so she was connected to him. The desire to hear him speak, the comfort of having him listen.

There had been a few other men in her life in the last ten years. Nice men. Kind men, other than Nicholas.

One she had liked very much, but as soon as he’d started to hint at marriage she’d called it off, knowing instinctively that wasn’t what she wanted from him. Companionship, yes. Commitment, no.

Adolescent crush. Hero worship. Fantasy-based infatuation.

Or love.

It didn’t matter what anyone called it, Vivian could only speak to how it felt. Maybe now that she’d seen him again, had said what she’d wanted to say to him, it would start to fade.

Their relationship ten years ago had ended with an abrupt separation. Because of that, she’d never been able to move beyond those feelings. There had been no resolution to them. Now there was. She’d said she was sorry. He’d said she ruined his life.

Then he’d hurt her. Intentionally. Spitefully.

Now they were over for good. Which meant she had to consider what she wanted her future to be. She wanted love, a husband, children.

None of that was going to happen with Joe Hunt.

“It will be lovely to see him again,” Vivian said after a beat. Maybe it would be. For the first time she might be able to look at a man and not compare him with Joe. Accept him at face value for who he was.

“Excellent. Then it’s a plan. I love you, sweetie.”

“Love you, too, Daddy.”

“Try to get some more sleep—that’s an order.”

Vivian smiled. “Yes, sir.”

Although even as she disconnected the call she knew it wasn’t going to happen. Her brain was fully awake and she actually felt refreshed. As if her sleep had been deep and steady where usually she tossed and turned and slept in short bursts.

Leaving her bedroom, she headed into the kitchen to scrounge for some food. A plan of hot chocolate and a late-night movie was already starting to form. Vivian stopped, though, when she saw the blinking light on her home phone.

Few people called her on her home phone, as her friends and employees all had her cell.

The automated voice told her she had two new messages. Wow, she thought. She’d been so out of it she hadn’t even heard it ring the second time. Actual sound sleep.

“Vivian, this is Jefferson. I had hoped to catch you at home.”

See, she told herself, he sounds perfectly normal. A deep voice with a hint of a Southern accent. There was no reason not to find this man attractive. Except when he’d asked for her phone number, she had purposely given him only her house number, not the cell she always had with her. There was always a sense of distance. Susan used to call these behaviors her barriers. Vivian had always been inclined to build them around herself. The kidnapping had only made that worse.

“I would like to extend you an invitation to a Christmas fund-raising event. I’m sure your father will be there, too, but...well, I would like you to come as my date. The three of us, of course, can sit together.”

“Of course we can sit together. Otherwise you lose the chance at a photo-op,” she muttered, then immediately winced. She was supposed to be keeping an open mind. It was just that she couldn’t help but feel as if Jefferson’s interest in her had more to do with her name than her.

It had been the way he’d casually brought up the scandal when they had first met. How she had been a victim. Vulnerable after having survived such a horrific event. Nicholas Rossi had been the villain and should have been treated by the country as such.

The American people must realize that now in hindsight. That was what Jefferson had said.

As if the American people cared at all about a ten-year-old affair, no matter whom she was.

The former president’s grown daughter was of no interest to the American people. However, as the wife of an up-and-coming congressman, that could change. Suddenly the name Bennett would be back in the political spotlight.

Spin.

His words had felt like spin to her, as if he were already spinning how he would handle any questions related to her very public affair with Nicholas.

Vivian had left DC to stop the spinning.

“Please call me...”

She hit the number to end and save the message, cutting Jefferson off in midsentence. She didn’t have the strength to deal with him yet, so the best thing she could do was put him off. Tomorrow she would play the message again and see if the sound of his voice didn’t make her cringe, make her think of reporters, cameras and fake smiles. Everything politics was and everything she was not. For now she had to admit she was a little oversensitive.

“Second message.”

At first there was nothing. Possibly a hang-up or a wrong number. Then the buzz of a conversation played as if on speaker and Vivian could hear people in the background.

“Why did he do it? Can you tell us that?”

“No. I don’t know why he did it. He said he wanted to make me clean. He said he loved me.”

“Do you think he loved you?”

“I think he was crazy.”

For a moment Vivian didn’t understand what she was hearing. It was her voice on the phone. Her voice and Katy Thurman’s, the CBS correspondent.

This was the interview. The only interview she’d done after the kidnapping. The one her father had insisted she do, to give the country closure. She’d considered it torture having to share publicly everything she had lived through, because it meant living through it again. Only this time with people watching. As if they could actually see her naked and tied to a chair. Bloody and bruised. No one ever wanted to be that vulnerable. Certainly not her.

But she hadn’t been able to say no to her father when he was telling her it was something the American people needed from her.

“How do I ask this without sounding like a monster? Is there a part of you that is relieved he was killed? That you don’t have to suffer through a trial where you would have to confront him every day?”

“I’m just glad I’ll never have to hear his voice again.”

There was a pause. Long enough that Vivian might have thought to delete the message if she hadn’t been focused on trying to breathe past the panic that had gripped her chest. Then she heard it. It was faint and distant, not as loud as the replay of the interview had been. But she definitely heard it.

“Sugarplum. I love you.”

This time the surge of fear propelled her into action. She pulled the phone off the counter. The plug flew out of the socket and the light on the handset dimmed. She stood there with it in her hands as if it were a snake ready to bite her. She considered tossing it in the trash but realized it didn’t make a difference what she did with it.

She’d gotten the message.

McGraw was still alive. He had to be. It was the only explanation—that was his voice. Maybe Joe only thought he had killed him. Maybe McGraw had been in a coma all this time and had just woken up.

Vivian giggled in a near-hysterical state. She was starting to sound like a writer for a soap opera. McGraw was dead. Closing her eyes, she tried to remember that night. It wasn’t a place she often went back to. Her memories were hazy and disjointed. Like clips of a movie she’d never seen from beginning to end.

She was cold. So cold. McGraw was screaming. At her and at Joe.

Shots. Then the sound of Joe’s voice.

“You’re going to be okay.”

“Joe?”

“I’m here, baby. Everything’s going to be okay.”

“I’m so cold.”

Vaguely, she recalled Joe carrying her outside the room where she’d been held. He’d set her down on a chair and kneeled in front of her.

“I’m naked.”

“Shh. Shh.”

“I don’t want you to see me this way.”

“It’s okay, baby. You’re safe with me. Will someone get me a damn blanket!”

“I don’t want you to see me this way. Please, Joe. Help me.”

At her plea, he’d taken off his Secret Service–issued windbreaker and pulled it over her head. She remembered thinking she wanted to crawl inside it and never come out.

There had been agents all around her barking orders. Everything so loud and chaotic it was hard to focus. Until she understood that if she was sitting with Joe, it meant The Hand was dead. She’d wanted to see the body. She remembered needing to be sure.

She’d gotten up and run back into the room before Joe could stop her. FBI agents were standing over the body, and she shoved one from behind to move him out of way.

Then she saw him. Harold McGraw. On the floor at her feet. The knife he’d pricked her with for days an inch or two from his hands. Blood pooled out from underneath him and he didn’t move. He never moved. Then Joe was lifting her again, and carrying her out of the room, his arms secured tightly around her.

“Don’t look.”

“I need to see. I need to know.”

“It’s over. Everything is going to be okay now. I promise.”

“He’s really dead?”

“He’s dead.”

Over his shoulder she’d watched McGraw the whole time as Joe carried her back out of the cabin, waiting to see if he would get up, waiting to see if he would come after her.

He never moved. Not an inch.

He was dead.

Vivian blinked away the memories. Because now she had to question all of it. Her memories, the sound of the gunshots. What if McGraw wasn’t dead? The only person she knew to tell was the person who was supposed to have killed him.

Vivian bolted into action. She ran back to her room and pulled on an old pair of jeans, a sweater and some boots. Dashing toward her front door, she noticed the clock in the kitchen and remembered it was the middle of the night.

It didn’t matter. She had proof. She had a message with his voice on it. She couldn’t have made that up. Joe needed to hear it. He needed to tell her she was wrong and it wasn’t McGraw’s voice because he was dead. Because Joe had killed him.

Grabbing her coat and purse, she opened the door and sprinted out into the hallway. Only she didn’t get very far. Someone was sitting outside her door, waiting for her.

The feel of a hand wrapping around her ankle paralyzed her at first. Then she began to scream.