Madam President (6 page)

Devlyn was wearing fashionably wide-legged, worsted wool trousers in the darkest of greens. Underneath a jacket that matched the slacks was a sleek-looking metallic silver turtleneck that complemented Dev's lightly tanned complexion and glossy black hair. She had the body of a track star, long and lean, with endless legs. Lauren's eyes widened as she realized she hadn't heard a word past 'Hi.' Her mind raced frantically.
Shit! I know her lips were moving!

Devlyn wondered at the sudden look of confusion coloring the younger woman's face. "Sandwich?" she prompted hesitantly.

Right. That was it.
"No, thank you, Madam President. I already had lunch."
The few bites that the bat-sized butterflies in my stomach would allow, that is.

Sweet Southern accent.
"Do you mind if I indulge? The NRA failed in its attempt to poison me over lunch. And I'm..."

"Of course, Madam President." Lauren smiled and tucked a strand of pale behind her ear. She slid off her glasses and began absently gnawing on the tip of one earpiece as Dev turned around.

Just like Christopher wears,
the President mused. The boy was always fiddling with his glasses. Dev smiled again. He'd like knowing someone else who wore them too. A lot. Glasses were unusual nowadays, and she knew Chris hated wearing them, despite the fact that the lenses would actually correct his near-sightedness, so that he wouldn't have to wear them at all in a few years.

"Thanks," Dev said over her shoulder, breathing a slight sigh of relief.
Yes! She's not mad that I'm late.
"I swear, I'll be right back." With that, Dev pulled the door closed and stepped back out into the outer office. "One sandwich and one hour," she told Liza, who was now explaining some White House protocol to Jane Shultz, Dev's longtime secretary. The President gave Jane a small wave and received a sympathetic smile in return.

"One sandwich, fifty-six minutes." Liza grinned tentatively and tapped her large-faced, gold watch.

Dev raised an eyebrow, glad, and a little surprised, that the young woman was already growing more at ease with her. Everyone had begun this new administration in a way that was almost painfully formal, and although it was to be expected, and wholly appropriate, it wasn't making her own adjustment any easier.

"Right. Thanks." Dev re-entered her office. Leaning her shoulders against the door to close it, her eyes slid shut and she exhaled a long, slow breath. The breath turned into a happy whimper when the heavy door clicked shut, effectively locking away the rest of a very demanding world for another fifty-five minutes.

Lauren, who stood behind one of the rich leather chairs that sat in the center of the room, looked appropriately amused. Her hands restlessly rubbed at the back of the chair, and it looked as though she was trying very hard to stifle a laugh.

Dev stood up straight, intent on recovering at least a shred of her Presidential demeanor. But one look into understanding, even slightly indulgent eyes, and she gave up instantly, grinning as she slumped back against the door. "Tell you what, let's make a deal right now. You let me be myself when we're alone, and we both might make it through the next few years without going insane." She smiled at Lauren's intently interested look. "Besides, if I have to be the President of the United States all of the time, the book's gonna be crap, and we both know it."

"Deal." Lauren was grinning now, but her smile quickly faded. "Does 'you' being 'you' equal 'off the record'?"
Oh, boy.
Here it comes.
The biographer instantly chastised herself for not listening to her first instincts and turning down this assignment.

Dev pushed away from the door. Padding over to the leather sofa across from Lauren, she gracelessly dropped into it, sighing with satisfaction. "Nope," she replied blithely, gesturing for Lauren to retake her seat. "The good, the bad, and the ugly of my life are an open book to you, Ms. Strayer." Unexpectedly, the President's voice grew serious, and she leveled a frank stare at the writer; one that caused her to lean forward as she listened. "My children, however..."

"You don't have to be concerned about that, Madam President," Lauren interrupted urgently. "I would never invade their privacy. As far as your biography is concerned, they are only relevant in the ways that they directly affect you."

Dev looked at her curiously and barked out a tiny laugh. "Well, that would be in just about every way, wouldn't it?"

Lauren was about to disagree, but stopped herself.
Shut up, Lauren. It's not like you have kids. Well, at least ones that don't occasionally drink from the toilet. No assumptions, remember?

The writer's first biography had been of Karina Jacobs, the star of the 2016 Olympics who had been born in Harlem, addicted to crack cocaine. She was immediately touted as a 21st Century Wilma Rudolph and ended up winning seven gold medals, despite several physical disabilities she'd been born with. Karina was single with no children.

Lauren's second biography had been of Peter Orlosky, the mega-nerd who had brought down the Microsoft empire with his single, non-proprietary operating system. It could handle everything from the desktop computer to the largest global networks – instantly resolving the problems of interoperability that had plagued computer and network operations people for years. Not only was he unmarried and childless, but Lauren was pretty damned sure he'd never even had sex. With another human being, that is. But ultimately that tidbit didn't make it into his biography because she figured everyone could figure that out just by looking at or listening to Peter. She certainly didn't need to tell them.

And, finally, her most recent biographical subject had been Cardinal O'Roarke. While she was certain that he and his long time male secretary, Andre Ricardo, had a
very
up-close and personal relationship... as far as she could tell, he had never, literally, fathered any children. So how exactly could she know how President Marlowe's children affected her?

"Let me rephrase that..." Lauren tried again, her tone every bit as serious as Devlyn's. But unconsciously her gaze had softened. "You can trust me to know what's private in your children's lives... and what could hurt them. I promise," she swore intently.

Dev nodded. "If I weren't already certain of that, you wouldn't be here, Ms. Strayer. I don't take chances with the well being of my babies."

Lauren smiled engagingly, slightly taken aback by the President's choice of words.
'My babies'... so personal. Maternal. For some reason, I didn't think she'd be that way.
"But I'd be pleased if you felt like you could be relaxed and be yourself around me, despite my job." She raised a playful eyebrow at the woman who was comfortably reclining in front of her, with pleasure so complete it bordered on sensual... "I can see how hard that will be for you," Lauren teased gently.

Dev laughed, glad that her genuine nervousness didn't appear to be showing. "Good. Because this," she laid her hand on her abdomen and, as if on cue, it growled ferociously, "is me... tired, hungry," she glanced at one of the several clocks mounted on the wall, her eyes quickly finding the one showing the correct time zone, "and a little late."

She's a talker. Thank you, God!

"I really wanted to make a good first impression. But being late kinda blew that, didn't it?" Dev inquired sheepishly.

She wanted to impress
me
?
Lauren cocked her head slightly to the side as she regarded the leader of the free world with ever-growing curiosity. "Some would say so."
But I wouldn't happen to be among them. You make a charming first impression, President Devlyn Marlowe. But I'll bet you already knew that.

"Then I guess all I can do is say I'm sorry, and hope you can find it in your heart to forgive me." A flash of white teeth brought Dev's face to life.

The writer's mind was already spinning, weaving a tapestry with words that would eventually form a picture of Devlyn herself. And there was one word that Lauren could already see was going to pop up again and again when it came to President Devlyn Marlowe.
Charisma...
in spades.
It fairly oozed from the tall woman's pores. But it was in an understated kind of way that was both compelling and alluring. "I think under the circumstances, I can forgive you, Madam President."

"Thanks." The tall woman scooted forward a little on the sofa and leaned forward, her arms resting on her thighs with her fingers interlaced. What she really wanted to do was ask the writer about some of her work... especially a few pieces that had been written under the pseudonym Lauren Gallager.

But now wasn't the time to be a goofy fan. There was still one major wrinkle to iron out that Dev had saved for a face to face discussion. Something she hoped would give this biography a sense of intimacy and candor that she found lacking in so many others.
Just ask her Dev. The worst she can say is 'no'. Well, that's not quite true. She could laugh, accuse you of being insane and wanting to micromanage her work, and then say 'no'.
"You just arrived in town this morning?" the Dev began casually.

Lauren shook her head. "Last night. The Emancipation Party is putting me up at the Hay-Adams Hotel."

"And your room is nice? You like it there, I mean?"

A wry smile wanted to twitch at Lauren's lips, but she felt a tiny kernel of worry germinate in her belly.
Where is she going with this?
"Well, it's Italian Renaissance. Not exactly the Motel-6, but
somehow
I’m making do," she said drolly.

"Good... good." Dev missed the joke. She was too wrapped up in what she was about to ask. "I, um... well, actually, I had something a little closer in mind. I mean, if you're going to follow me around on anything like a regular basis, you'll need to be close."
That was brilliant. Duh.

Pale eyebrows lifted. "The Hay-Adams is less than 3 blocks away. Any closer and I'd be residing in your back pocket."

"Hmm... true..."
Shut up, Dev. God, don't scare her off now.
"Okay, maybe not my back pocket, but how about in residence with me and my family?"

Lauren's jaw sagged. "
Inside
the White House?"

Dev grinned. "I've found inside the White House to be far more comfortable than outside the White House. The park benches around here suck." When Lauren didn't answer Dev pressed on. "Look, if you really want to get to know me and understand what I do, you're going to have to tag along after me. And you can't very well do that from the Hay-Adams Hotel. I don't exactly keep regular hours, and there simply isn't enough time in the day for a lot of one-on-one research discussions." And, while that was true, Dev knew instantly that if Lauren Strayer asked, she'd make time for her anytime she wanted.

"I, umm... Madam President, I don't know what to say," she admitted honestly. Sure it would make things interesting, but Lauren knew she needed her privacy. She wasn't at all sure that she could stand living in more of a fish bowl than she was already subjecting herself to.

"Living here is the only way to really know what I do," she said reasonably. "It doesn't have to be for the entire term. Just until you feel like you've got a good handle on my day-to-day life."
C'mon, Lauren, say yes.
Lauren's head began to sway slightly, and Dev knew she was considering it. She went in for the kill. "I want a totally honest and accurate accounting of the first term of office for the first female, American President. I don't take my legacy lightly, Ms. Strayer. The easiest way for me to give you full access is to have you nearby. I don't want to pull any punches."

"Do you really want that?" Lauren asked curiously. Giving her editorial control of the book was an enormous risk, and she knew it.

Sky blue eyes fastened on Lauren's with an almost painful honesty. "Yes. I really do."

Lauren found it nearly impossible to disbelieve the President's words.
Damn, I'll bet that comes in handy in her profession.
But a tiny part of the writer still found this opportunity too good to be true. "And no one is going to be whispering in my ear, telling me what to write?"