First Lady

  “Mr. Jorik?”

  “Yes.”

  “I’m sorry, sir, but Mrs. Case won’t be able to see you.”

  Mat gripped the wheel. “I’ll come back later today.”

  “No, sir.”

  He waited, and the longer he waited, the more uneasy he felt. “How about tomorrow morning?”

  “No. Mrs. Case won’t see you at all.”

  * * *

  Nealy’s stomach was in a knot, and her hands were freezing. Mat was here. Right outside her gate. She wanted to race from the house and down the drive, fling herself in his arms . . . only to be pushed away again.

  It hadn’t taken her long to figure out why he was here. Even though he’d been kept informed about the girls, he’d wanted to see for himself. Mr. Responsible.

  Her hand trembled as she reached for the telephone in the family room to call her attorney. Mat couldn’t simply breeze in and out of the girls’ lives at his whim. It wasn’t good for them, and it would be devastating for her. She had a campaign to concentrate on. A new life to build.

  “Ma!” Button had already decided she didn’t like having Nealy on the telephone. She banged her plastic truck against the carpet and gazed at her with a mulish expression that looked so much like Mat’s it made Nealy want to weep.

  She set down the phone, pushed aside the briefing book she’d been studying, and went over to sit cross-legged on the floor. Button immediately climbed into her lap, bringing along her truck and one of Andre’s tiny blue sneakers.

  “Gah bleg flel ma.”

  Nealy hugged her close to comfort herself. “Me, too.”

  She kissed her cheek and toyed with a lock of her hair, which was longer now and beginning to curl. “How can Mat do this?”

  “Da?”

  It was the first time Button had said the word since they’d left Iowa. The baby frowned and said it again. “Da?” Filled those lungs. “DA!”

  Nealy couldn’t let him in. She was barely getting through the nights as it was, and she couldn’t make herself start the whole grieving process all over again. Especially when she had the most important press conference of her life tomorrow.

  Nealy kissed her hand. “Sorry, sweetheart. It’s not going to happen.”

  Button stuck out her lower lip, and her eyes formed big blue circles. She rested her cheek against Nealy’s breast.

  Nealy stroked her hair and wished the four of them were back on the road again.

  Mat parked on the street outside the gates with a half-baked plan to intercept Lucy when she came home from school, but a snub-nosed Secret Service agent had other ideas.

  Mat started to point out that this was a public street, then decided not to give the guy a hard time. He was only doing his job, and his job was to keep Mat’s family safe. The family Mat had walked away from.

  As he headed to his hotel, he tried to think. But every insulting thing he’d said to Nealy, every order he’d tossed out, every complaint he’d made about being surrounded by women came back to haunt him. Nobody could ever accuse him of showing her his best side.

  He was so caught up in misery that he drove past the hotel. What kind of jerk threw away something so precious? What kind of jerk threw away his family?

  As he turned around, he decided he could spend the rest of his life beating himself up, or he could try to fix what he’d done his best to ruin. And to do that, he needed a plan.

  Nealy exploded. “What do you mean, he’s going on CNN?” She gripped her cell phone tighter and sank back into the leather interior of her Lincoln Town Car.

  Steve Cruzak, the Secret Service agent who was driving tonight, glanced at her in the rearview mirror, then looked over at his partner, sitting in the passenger seat. Beyond the tinted windows, the rolling hills of northern Virginia gleamed in the morning sun as they headed east toward the Arlington hotel where Nealy would make her announcement.

  “He didn’t offer any explanations,” her attorney replied.

  The heavy Chanel earring she’d tugged off to answer her phone bit into her palm. Normally her assistant would have been in the car with her, but she had the flu. Jim Millington, her new campaign manager, along with Terry and her key staffers, were already at the hotel mingling with the press as they awaited her arrival.

  For three months Mat had refused to give any television interviews, but the day of the most important press conference in her career, he suddenly changed his mind. He was blackmailing her.

  “Maybe you should talk to him,” her lawyer said.

  “No.”

  “Nealy, I’m not a political advisor, but the eyes of the entire country are going to be on your campaign. This guy’s a loose cannon. Who knows what he has in mind? It wouldn’t do any harm to sound him out. ”

  More harm than he could imagine. “It’s out of the question.”

  “I’ll try to talk to him.”

  She returned her phone to the brown leather tote she carried instead of a purse, then clipped her gold earring back on. For her press conference, she was wearing a soft butterscotch wool Armani sheath with a silk scarf knotted at her throat. The untidy haircut she’d worn on the road had been reshaped by her longtime hairdresser so that it looked sophisticated, but still contemporary. She’d decided to keep it short, just as she’d decided to keep her color natural. They were small changes, but to her they were significant. Each change was a sign that she had finally taken control of her life, which was why she couldn’t let Mat force her into a meeting that would only cause her grief.

  She pulled out her leather portfolio and studied the notes she’d been compiling for the past three months. They no longer made sense. Since Mat was so determined to speak with her, why hadn’t he used the most obvious means at his disposal? Why hadn’t he threatened to call a halt to the adoption if she refused to meet with him?

  Because something that ugly would never have occurred to him.

  “We’re here, Mrs. Case.”

  She realized they’d arrived at the hotel. The butterflies in her stomach began to tango as she put her notes away, then let the agent open the door for her.

  A cluster of photographers waited, along with Jim Millington, a crusty Georgia-born political handler with a Deep South accent. “We’ve got ourselves a full house,” he whispered, as he took her tote from her. “Reporters from all over the country. You ready to rumble?”

  “As ready as I’ll ever be.”

  Jim led her into the ballroom, which was filled with far more reporters than anyone else’s primary campaign could attract. Nobody went through free food faster than the press, and the food tables looked as though they’d been attacked.

  Terry approached her just as the speakers began playing Van Halen’s “Right Now.” A fist squeezed her heart. It had been Dennis’s campaign song and now it was hers. She and Terry had debated using it, but in the end they knew it would be both a tribute and a symbol of transition.

  Terry took her arm. “Steady, babe.”

  “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.

  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 swe
at.

  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—”