The President's Daughter

  “That’s it?” her mother said. “That’s all you know? Where does he live? What do his parents do? Is he a good driver?”

  “I, um, think his father works for the FCC,” Meg said uncertainly.

  Her mother frowned.

  What, was that an agency she disliked or something? “We don’t talk about that kind of stuff,” Meg said, aware that she wasn’t making a very good case for herself.

  “What do you talk about?” her mother asked.

  Hmmm. Well, okay, they didn’t talk all that much; mostly, they just looked at each other. Meg shrugged. “Sex, drugs, liquor. You know how it is.”

  Her mother’s eyes narrowed. “If you’re trying to reassure me, it’s not working.”

  Had the Senator had a better sense of humor than the President did? Surely, she must have. Whereas, the President was a damn grouch. “What do you want to hear?” Meg asked. “My God, we’re only going to a movie. I’m even going to have armed guards. How much trouble can I get into?”

  “Probably not very much.” Her mother sighed again. “I’m afraid I still don’t like the idea.”

  Which meant that her position was starting to move, finally. “But, I can go?” Meg asked.

  “I suppose so. I mean, I guess,” her mother picked up a delicate silver pen, toying with it, “that I should trust your judgment.”

  Hell, yeah. Meg nodded. “Absolutely. And don’t worry, he really is nice.”

  “And handsome?” her mother asked wryly.

  “Very handsome,” Meg said.

  HER FATHER WASN’T happy that her mother had given in, saying that if Adam was really all right, he wouldn’t mind putting it off until they could meet him, but Meg won him over with the agents-as-strict-chaperones logic. Needless to say, she didn’t tell Adam how concerned they were about the whole thing.

  Friday, in the locker-room after gym class, Alison MacGregor, the girl who reminded her of Annie Hall, came over to talk to her, both her expression and her voice hesitant.

  “Hi,” she said, very distinctive in baggy pants, cowboy boots with skinny heels, and an oversized shirt with a man’s tie for a belt.

  “Hi,” Meg said, hoping that—for once—someone was going to treat her normally.

  They looked at each other.

  “I hate gym,” Alison said. “Don’t you?”

  Okay, so they would establish some common ground. “Yeah, really,” Meg said. And it was even true, since she only engaged in sports involving racquets or downhill skis. “How many times can you play volleyball?”

  “Last fall, we did square dancing,” Alison said.

  Oy vey. Meg managed not to shudder. “Sorry I missed it.”

  “That’s what you think.” Alison started to say something, then stopped. “I, uh—you look a lot like your mother.”

  Yeah, so what else was new? Meg shrugged, pretty much losing interest in wherever this conversation was now going. “A little, I guess.”

  “It’s just—” Alison stopped again. “I mean—”

  The bell rang, and they both automatically looked up at the clock.

  “We’d better get to French,” Alison said.

  Where a vocabulary quiz awaited them. “It’s just what?” Meg asked.

  Alison shook her head. “Nothing.”

  Naturally. Meg adjusted her knapsack on her shoulder and started for the door.

  Alison caught up to her. “Wait a minute.”

  Meg paused.

  “I was new last year,” Alison said.

  Okay, that was potentially interesting—and certainly common ground. Meg looked over. “Oh, yeah?”

  Alison nodded. “It takes people a while to loosen up.”

  “How long?” Meg asked.

  Alison laughed. “Is it really that bad?”

  Unless one enjoyed being unpopular.

  “I just meant that it would probably be easier if you looked like your father, instead,” Alison said.

  “What—you mean, masculine?” Meg asked.

  Alison grinned. “If you think that would work for you, sure.”

  Well, it would certainly be a good way to torment Linda.

  As they went out into the hall, she saw Adam coming towards them and moved her hair back over her shoulders, hoping that she looked fairly presentable. Unlike certain Leaders of the Free World, she didn’t always remember to check mirrors whenever they were handy.

  “Do you like him that much?” Alison asked.

  Meg blushed. “He seems like a nice guy,” she said, trying not to stare as he ambled along in their direction. How could any human being be that incredibly good-looking? She glanced at Alison. “Don’t you think so?”

  “Yeah,” Alison said, although her voice sounded kind of—flat. “Sure.”

  “Hi,” Adam said, nodding slightly at Alison and then grinning at her.

  “Hi,” Meg said, flushing as he slid his arm around her waist. “Adam, come on.” She pushed at his hand. “Don’t.”

  He kept his arm right where it was. “Why not?”

  “I guess I’ll see you guys later,” Alison said, edging away.

  “Well, wait—” Meg started, but Alison had already joined some other people from their gym class and was heading down the hall. She turned back to Adam, and he put his other hand on her shoulder. “Come on, don’t,” she said, knowing that her arms wanted very much to go around his neck, and for him to kiss her—no matter what anyone else thought.

  “How come?” he asked, leaning closer.

  “Everyone’s looking,” she said. Including, she assumed, the Secret Service.

  He glanced around, grinning. “Yeah. So?”

  “Just don’t, okay?” She pulled free, very embarrassed.

  He shrugged, put his arm back around her waist, and walked her towards their next class.

  RIGHT BEFORE HER parents and brothers went off to the play that night—Steven complaining that there was no way he should have to go, if Meg got to skip it—her mother told her to be careful, still not looking happy about the situation, and her father warned her not to give her agents any trouble, and to be home by midnight. Steven had been doing things like trying to lose his agents lately, and her parents were really mad about it.

  To say nothing of the agents.

  She took a shower, then paced around her bedroom, trying to decide what to wear. Adam was the type who would show up in a jacket, maybe even a tie, so she ended up going with a skirt and the grey cashmere sweater she’d gotten for Christmas. She put on some perfume—too much?—grabbed her Bloomingdale’s coat from the closet, and went downstairs to wait for him. He was supposed to be coming to the South Entrance, and she decided to wait in the Red Room, sitting on the American Empire sofa, which had legs in the shape of what Meg thought were very unattractive gold dolphins. She checked the clock above the mantelpiece several times, drumming on the red damask arm of the sofa with her right hand, getting more and more nervous about this date as it got closer.

  She didn’t really know him. They hadn’t talked much. She had no idea what, if anything, they had in common—other than the fact that they went to the same school. And, worst of all, what if her parents were—right?

  Which made her feel a little better, because there was no way that they were right; they were just being overprotective.

  Promptly at seven-thirty, a butler appeared.

  “Mr. Miller has arrived, Miss Powers,” he said. “Shall I show him upstairs?”

  “Oh.” She stopped drumming. “No, thank you, I’ll go right down.”

  She took the elevator instead of the stairs, staring briefly at the mirror and deciding that she looked—not so hot. Maybe she should have worn something else. Beth had been full of suggestions—none of which she had taken, and now, that seemed like a really big mistake.

  Adam was standing just inside the Diplomatic Reception Room, wearing, indeed, a jacket, with a tie underneath his sweater.

  “Hi,” he said. “I mean, hello.” His eyes went
down her outfit. “You look nice.”

  And if she were less stubborn, she could probably have looked nicer. Damn it. “Thank you,” she said. “So do you.”

  “Is your family here?” he asked, looking around.

  She shook her head. “They went to the Kennedy Center.”

  They stood awkwardly for a minute, not looking at each other.

  “Guess we should probably be going,” he said.

  Meg nodded, relieved that he hadn’t asked her to take him on a tour or something. She’d feel like a jerk doing that, even though she could tell from his expression that he wanted one. “Uh, my parents are going to be home around eleven or so. Maybe after, you can come up and meet them. They were sorry they had to miss you.”

  “Sounds good,” he said, immediately.

  They didn’t say anything else until they were in his car, with her agents in two other cars. He glanced over, now not shy about letting his eyes move.

  “You look great,” he said.

  She blushed, focusing out through the windshield.

  “You sure this movie is okay with you?” he asked.

  “Oh, yeah,” she said. Lied, actually. When they had made the plans, he’d suggested going to one of those serial murderer movies Hollywood was always churning out. Since it had seemed like he wanted to see it, she had agreed without blinking, even though she would have been much happier going to almost anything else. At dinner, her father had asked what movie they were going to see, and when she told him, he had frowned and exchanged glances with her mother, who asked if it had been her idea or Adam’s. Meg feigned confusion and changed the subject by asking her to pass the salt.

  A big, dumb comedy was opening that night; maybe she should ask him if he wanted to go to that, instead. Or, in retrospect, they could have watched absolutely any movie they wanted in the White House private theater—and he probably would have been really into the idea.

  Too late now, though.

  “Why you sitting way over there?” he asked.

  Because she was shy, maybe? “Am I?” she said.

  “Yeah. Come on, move over.” He patted the seat next to him.

  She wasn’t really comfortable taking off her seatbelt, and she looked behind them at one of her agents’ cars, and didn’t move.

  “What,” he gestured with his head towards the rear window, “you uptight about them?”

  “Kind of.” She looked through the windshield at the city streets, ignoring the battle the emotional and intellectual parts of her head were having. The emotional part was insisting that he was really nice, really handsome, really everything—while the intellectual side was saying, very quietly, that he was kind of a jerk, and she ought to face up to it.

  “You okay?” he asked.

  “What?” She blinked. “Oh. Sure.”

  “You look good tonight.” He reached over and touched her face with his right hand. “I wasn’t kidding.”

  Yes, flattery would get him everywhere. “Thank you,” she said, feeling her intellectual arguments weakening.

  The theater was mostly empty, so they had no trouble finding seats, and only one person seemed to notice them, although he promptly nudged his companions, who all turned around and stared.

  Great. The guy probably hadn’t recognized her, but even when her agents dressed down, they were still pretty obvious.

  Adam chose seats far over on one side, letting her go into the row first. One of her agents sat up near the front, and two others were up behind them somewhere.

  “You want popcorn or anything?” he asked, taking off his jacket.

  “If you do,” she said.

  He looked around. “Am I allowed to leave you to go get some?”

  “Yeah, they’re right there,” she said.

  He nodded, a little grimly, and then headed for the concessions stand.

  While he was gone, two of the people who had recognized her started to come over—but one of her agents instantly took such a subtle, but threatening, position that the guys stopped in their tracks and then went straight back to their seats.

  When Adam returned, he settled into his chair, putting his arm around her as soon as the lights went down. She spent the first few minutes of the movie thinking about how much she liked the opposite sex and how great their arms were. She felt warm, she felt safe, she felt very female—and she felt like throwing him down and kissing him.

  Yeah, the emotional argument was gaining ground.

  He pulled her closer. “You still here?”

  “What?” she asked. “I mean, yeah.”

  “You like it?” he asked.

  She nodded, looking up at the screen, seeing that the movie was in the middle of another embarrassing sex scene, which, if the plot stuck to its current course, would end with the beautiful girl lying on the floor in a pool of blood, while the camera lingered on her. She closed her eyes.

  His hand was creeping down over the front of her shoulder and she moved, avoiding it. He tried again, then got the hint, and kept his hand where it was.

  The fourth murder was particularly offensive, and even Adam seemed uncomfortable.

  “I didn’t know it was going to be this bad,” he whispered.

  “It’s not that bad,” she said bravely.

  “It’s awful.” He glanced behind them, then at her, sliding closer. “You really do look good tonight.”

  “Well, so do you.” She also looked over her shoulder, sensing that he was about to kiss her, and wondering if her agents—and the people who had recognized her before—were all going to be able to see him do it.

  At least, they were way over on the side. Did she really want him to kiss her so much that she was willing to do it in public? The answer was very easy, and she blushed in the darkness. Better to have him kiss her here, where her agents could pretend to be paying attention to the movie.

  “Come here,” he said, and turned her face to him. Then, he kissed her, one hand on her cheek.

  She couldn’t keep back a quick, shuddering sigh of relief, having wanted him to do that ever since she’d met him, but then she pulled her head away, embarrassed—and startled—by the intensity of her reaction.

  “You okay?” he asked.

  She nodded, blushing, and as he kissed her again, she let a tentative hand move up into his hair, feeling very—new—at all of this. She opened her eyes, and saw that his were closed, then checked to see if her agents were watching—which they weren’t, thank God.

  His breathing was faster, and she hoped that it was something she had done, and not just puberty. His arms were warm around her, and she noticed how good he smelled; he was wearing some kind of really sexy aftershave. And—his hand was not only already under her sweater, but also under her bra. She flinched, surprised that it felt so good—and that he had managed it so deftly. But, this was the first time they’d ever—and they were sitting in a movie, and—she really couldn’t let him—

  “Adam, don’t,” she said in a very low voice.

  He looked confused. “Hunh?”

  “Come on, don’t.” She pushed his hand down, hoping—again—that no one was watching or listening.

  “Why not?” he asked.

  “Because I don’t want you to,” she said.

  He tried to get his hand back underneath her sweater, and she dodged it. “Why not?”

  “Because it’s—I mean, because we’re—” She tried to think of a way to explain it. Especially since the answer seemed so damn obvious. “I just don’t.”

  “I don’t believe it.” He sat back in his seat, scowling up at the screen, and Meg sat back, too, folding her arms defensively across her chest.

  “We didn’t see you as a tease,” he said quietly.

  What? She stared at him. “I’m not!”

  “You led me on,” he said.

  How? By sitting next to him? “I did not,” she said.

  “Yeah, well, guess we didn’t see you as being frigid, either.” He watched the fifth murder.
>
  “I’m not—” She stopped, shoulders crumpling. “You said ‘we.’”

  He shrugged. “So what?”

  “Oh, God.” She lowered her head, not trusting her expression, and fumbled for her coat.

  “What are you doing?” he asked.

  She got up, walking—almost running—up the aisle, as her agents jumped up to follow her.

  “Meg?” One of them caught up to her in the lobby. “What’s wrong?”

  “I don’t feel very good.” She didn’t look at him, fighting back a strong urge to burst into tears. “I think I’d better go home.”

  Adam hurried out after them. “Meg, what’s going on?”

  “I need to go home,” she said. “I don’t feel very good.”

  He stared at her. “You’re gonna leave? Just like that?”

  Damn straight. Luckily, the lobby was almost empty, and she was able to make her way to the main doors almost completely unrecognized.

  “You’re not even going to let me drive you?” he asked.

  “I have a ride,” she said, and kept walking.

  “Meg, come on.” He touched her arm. “Look, let me drive you, okay? I’m sorry.”

  She shook his hand off. “I have a ride.”

  “Okay, okay, look,” he said. “Just get in my car for a second. I have to talk to you, okay?”

  She hesitated.

  “Just for a second, okay?” he asked.

  She thought about that, then nodded and got in, staying close to the passenger’s door.

  “Look, uh—” He put his keys in the ignition, then turned to face her. “I’m sorry. What did I do?”

  She was supposed to believe that he didn’t know precisely what he had done? She stared back at him. “Did you ask me out because of who I am?”

  “No, I—” He shifted uneasily. “I mean, it’s not that you’re not—”

  She nodded stiffly, and opened the door.

  “Meg, wait.” He put his hand on her arm again. “I didn’t mean it that way—it was before you even came. Everyone figured you might go with me, and then we could—”

  “Figure out how far I went?” she asked.

  “No, I—” He stopped. “Well, sort of.”

  “Terrific.” She knocked his hand away. “Make sure you tell them.”