Saving Liberty (Kissing #6) (10 page)

He glanced at Miller. “Miller here has already registered his protest.” He paused. “Several times.” He let the tension in the room build for several seconds before continuing. “You were in the Corps?”

“Yes sir.”

“And you were
good.
But you left after four years. Why?”

I closed my eyes: only for a split-second, but it felt like it lasted a lifetime. Stinging sand in my face, the wetness of blood and the sound of their screams in my ears.

“I lost some men, Mr. President.”

His gaze softened just a little. He’d served himself, long ago: Army, if I remembered right. Then, as quickly as it had appeared, the softness was gone. “And then you joined the Secret Service... and you refused to do things by the book.”

“Three counts of insubordination,” muttered Miller. “And the third one—”

“The third one would have been assault, if the ambassador had pressed charges,” said the President. “You should be in jail, O’Harra, not protecting anyone. Least of all my daughter.”

I couldn’t meet his gaze any longer. I stood there staring at the floor with the heat rising in my face. It was useless to try to explain. I’d tried that enough times when it happened and it had gotten me nowhere. Clearly, this wasn’t going to happen after all. I waited for him to order me out: I actually lifted the file I was holding, ready to give it back to Miller.

But the order never came. I slowly lifted my eyes and found he was still staring at me.

“My daughter doesn’t eat,” he said. “She doesn’t sleep. She won’t—
can’t—
leave the building. She thinks you can help her. Can you?”

“Yes sir, Mr. President,” I said. “I believe I can.”

The President gave me a long, appraising look. “Then I don’t care what you did,” he said at last. He nodded at the door. “Go to work.”

Suddenly, the heat of shame was gone, replaced by cool, clean air that filled my lungs. All of the resentment Miller had stirred up faded away. “Yes sir, Mr. President.”

I walked out of the Oval Office about an inch taller than when I’d walked in. It lasted ten paces, until Miller stopped me in the hallway. “The President is desperate,” he told me. “I have to go along with this; I don’t have to like it. Maybe you got away with things on your old detail but this is the White House and I don’t need a loose cannon on my team. One mistake, O’Harra, one screw up and I’ll personally kick your ass out the door and all the way down Pennsylvania Avenue. You are
not
going to embarrass the Secret Service again.”

I felt my hands tighten into fists but I knew that was what he wanted. “Yes sir,” I said. “Understood.”

“Go to the residence,” he almost spat. “And for God’s sake, learn how to use a razor!”

I stalked away, only stopping to stash the file he’d given me in my locker and put on my radio. Moments later, I’d reached the residence. And there, right at the end of the hall….

I slowed to a stop as I reached Emily’s door. I’d been mad as hell when I left Miller but, suddenly, all the rage was draining out of me, to be replaced by something even stronger. It was as if I could feel her presence oozing through the thick oak of the door: a subtle hint of her perfume, an aura of soft femininity.

I stopped. My hand was already raised to knock but, all of a sudden, I was as nervous as some kid arriving to pick up his prom date. How did she do that to me?

I knocked. A second later, she opened the door wide and—

It wasn’t how it had been in the car. Maybe it was because we were alone, this time, or maybe it was the quiet of the hallway but it felt much more intense—way too intense to deny. A good foot or so separated us and yet it felt as if we were already touching. I was immersed in that aura that surrounded her, the sweet warmth of her bathing me. And I could feel her responding, too, shifting her weight from foot to foot, her eyes stroking over my arms, my chest, my face. This thing we’d started... it was like a physical presence between us, the air pulsing with it.

“You scrub up well,” she said at last.

I inclined my head. “Reporting for duty, Ma’am,” I said. Inside, I was asking myself what the hell I thought I was doing. This was a bad, bad idea. I’d sworn I’d never let myself care about anyone. But she needed me: I could see how scared she was and it made my chest ache. That feeling that I had to protect her, combined with the attraction... I could feel it tugging at me, drawing me towards her... and it was only going to get worse.

“Well, you’d better come in, then,” she said. And stepped back out of the way.

I knew, then, what was different. It wasn’t just that we were alone or that it was quiet. It was that I was standing on the threshold of her private space: the one room where the press couldn’t follow. And she was inviting me in.

I took a deep breath... and stepped inside.

Emily

Holy hell, he gets better looking every time I see him.

I stepped back from the door, praying he couldn’t see how he was affecting me. I could feel his gaze on me, leaving a trail of heat as it passed over my face, my neck, my breasts... either he wasn’t bothering to hide it or he couldn’t and both of those options made me heady. I’d never had a guy want me like that—not in such a direct way. Washington guys played mind games. Kian didn’t.

At least
I
wasn’t that obvious. I tried to stop looking at the smooth curve of his pecs under that snow-white shirt.
He doesn’t know,
I reassured myself.
He totally doesn’t know.

I had a sudden stab of worry as he closed the door behind him. Was that what this was really about? Had I really tracked him down and gotten him reinstated because I was—I weakened and admitted it—
ferociously
attracted to him?

I took a deep breath and looked at him, pushing the feelings away, and...
no.
It wasn’t just that. I could already feel the fear easing, the black waters retreating like a tide.

It was real: he made me feel safe. I took another slow, deep breath and it felt
good.
It felt as if I could really fill my lungs for the first time in days—I hadn’t realized how tight my chest had been. I luxuriated in the feeling... and then noticed that Kian’s eyes had dropped to my breasts and were following their slow rise and fall. I turned away, blushing, and pulled my cardigan a little tighter around me... but a wave of heat was rippling down to my groin and I felt oddly proud.

“Kian,” I said to break the silence. I tried to pronounce it like he did:
Key-an.
“Is that Irish?”

“Yes Ma’am. Born over here, but my dad’s Irish.”

I turned around just in time to see a flicker of pain at the mention of his dad. It made me curious... but I didn’t know him nearly well enough. Not yet. So I said, “Are you really going to call me
ma’am
the whole time?”

“Yes ma’am.” He looked down at my leg, my injured calf visible beneath my green skirt. “How’s the leg?”

I looked down at it. “It’s okay. Not too bad as long as I don’t walk far... and I haven’t been doing much of that, of late. It stiffens up, sometimes…” I looked up at him... and found he was still gazing at my legs. He seemed to be having trouble taking his eyes off them. Part of me wanted to be righteously offended but... it didn’t feel lecherous or creepy, as it would have if some stranger in the street had stared. Coming from Kian, it felt...
honest.
Good, clean, absolutely filthy red-hot desire
...
aimed at me. Maybe that would be normal for some women, but I’m nothing special. I didn’t understand why he was so into me... but the fact he was sent a deep, warm glow through me.

He finally looked up and met my eyes. He didn’t look the slightest bit guilty that he’d been savoring my legs. There was another one of those silences, the ones that built and built until I wanted to just hurl myself against him. “
Anyway,”
I said to break it, “at least it made some people happy.”

He frowned, confused.

“My leg,” I said. “Me getting shot. It made some people happy.”

“Who?”

“Commenters, on the internet.” He frowned deeper, not understanding, and I sighed. “It’s nothing. Morons sitting in their mom’s basement. They post... you know. Mean stuff.” I shrugged and looked at the floor. I hadn’t been looking for sympathy. “It’s no big deal.”

“Mean stuff?”

I shrugged again. “Death threats.”

He took a step towards me. “Death threats? People send you
death threats?”

“They’re not serious. The Secret Service look into anything that’s a viable threat to my life. Most of them are just... you know. Wishing that I’d die in horrible ways.” I looked up at him and tried to smile. “You can relax, they’re just idiots. They’re not dangerous.”

And then I saw his expression and realized he wasn’t worried: he was angry. “What do they say?” he asked, his voice a low, dangerous growl.

No one had ever really talked to me about it before. The Secret Service were only interested in investigating the viable threats, not the other 99% that were simple outpourings of hate. And no one had ever seemed interested in how it affected
me.
“Just... you know...
I hope you fucking die,”
I told him.
“
Or, when we went on the trip to Africa, it was
I hope you get gang-raped and get AIDS and die.
Or—”

His hand gripped my arm. I could feel the tension in him—he was almost shaking in rage. When I looked up into his eyes, it was as if he wanted to kill every single one of them. “You... shouldn’t read that stuff,” he said tightly. He was having to force each word out past his anger.

I swallowed. “I know. But it’s like picking at a scab, y’know? Sometimes, I can’t help myself.” I searched his face in wonder. No one had ever looked so...
indignant
about it. It was as if he honestly believed I didn’t deserve it, as if I shouldn’t just accept that it came with the territory. I felt this tight knot of emotion rise up inside and I wasn’t sure how to deal with it. So I looked away.

After a few seconds, he said “You should be exercising that leg. It’ll help. Didn’t they give you exercises to do?”

I nodded, glad of the change of subject. “Yeah, but…” I bit my lip guiltily.

“I was the same. Never seemed to get around to it. But you should do it.”

“You were hurt?”

He tapped the right side of his chest. “Got hit by some shrapnel just here. The doctors kept telling me to exercise it as it healed, but that just reminded me of it, so I kept finding excuses.”

He looked at me and I nodded. That sounded familiar.

“Wish I had, though,” he said. “Would have got my strength back a lot sooner. C’mon: what are you supposed to do?”

“Calf raises,” I said. And I showed him, going up on my toes and then slowly back down again. I had to hang onto the back of a chair for support but, like everything else in the White House, the chair was an antique and wobbly as hell. I lurched sideways.

“Here,” he said, slipping off his jacket and offering his shoulder. “Hang onto me.”

I swallowed. On the outside, he was still all crisp white shirt and professionalism, but the sunlight from the windows was streaming through the thin fabric and silhouetting the body beneath. I could see the dark ink of the tattoos on his arms and the shadows between each ridge of his abs. The bad underneath the good. As he turned to toss his jacket on the bed, I could see one more tattoo, small and circular, right between his shoulder blades. I squinted, but I couldn’t make out what it was.

He turned back to me and I put a hand on his shoulder. I’d touched him before, in the park and in the car, but I’d never held onto him like this. It was like grabbing hold of a sun-warmed cliff, solid and infinitely strong: I knew that, even if I lifted my feet off the ground and dangled, he wouldn’t move an inch.

I rose slowly up onto my toes. Our eyes were locked on each other and, as I rose, our faces came closer and closer. His gaze tracked me all the way up... and down.
Three. I’ll do three.