First Lady (22 page)

“I think she liked it.”

“Yeah, I think so, too.” He slowed, and for a moment she wondered if he’d spotted something in their path. “Come here. Out of the light.”

The husky note in his voice made her senses quicken. She felt a queer combination of excitement and misgiving as he drew her off the path into a thicket, then led her to the base of a large tree. Without letting go, he braced his back against the trunk and pulled her in front of him. Then he kissed her.

It was urgent and carnal, revealing decades of sexual experience, but this time she didn’t let herself worry about whether she was doing things right. She simply wound her arms around his neck and gave in to it.

His hands skittered over her body, igniting fires wherever he touched. “I can’t get enough of you.”

He cupped her breast through her nightgown, ran his thumb over the crest. His head dipped, his lips found her nipple, and he suckled her through the thin cotton fabric.

She moaned. The sensation was exquisite—deeply arousing, magical . . . exactly right. She heard herself murmur, “I don’t want—”

“Yes, you do.”

She’d meant to say that she didn’t want to be outside—she wanted privacy. But she couldn’t be bothered to explain.

He reached under her nightgown. Found her panties. Gently cupped her through the nylon. “You’re wet.”

His blunt words made her shiver. Was this the way lovers talked to each other? He began stroking her. She arched her back and clung to him, her legs parting of their own volition.

“Take off your nightgown,” he whispered.

His words jolted her back to reality. She could only handle so many new experiences at a time. “We’re outside.”

“That makes it even better.” He gathered the gown in his hands.

She began to resist, then stopped herself. She was sick of caution, sick of following other people’s rules. She relaxed her arms.

Cool air slid over her bare skin as he pulled it off and dropped it. “Now your panties,” he whispered. “Hand them to me.”

She hesitated.

“Do it.”

His rough, sensual command thrilled her. At the same time, some primitive female instinct made her want to play a little, too, so she tried to sound put-upon. “Oh, all right.”

She was rewarded with a dark chuckle that ran like warm honey through her blood. As she bent over, she was thrilled by the tawdriness of what she was doing. Even though no one in the campground seemed to be stirring, they were still in a public place.

He took her panties from her, and she thought he might be slipping them into his pocket. “Stand completely still,” he whispered.

She couldn’t have moved for the world.

He cupped her bare shoulders, kissed the nape of her neck. Then he touched her breasts, dallying there until she was breathless. Her foot arched, then wrapped around his calf. Sensation spiraled through her until she couldn’t bear it any longer. She clasped his wrists to still his movement.

“It’s your turn.” Her voice was throaty, barely audible. “You take off your clothes.”

Another of those low, rumbling chuckles. “Are you crazy? We’re outside. Only a rampant exhibitionist would get naked outside.”

“You’re a dead man,” she managed.

“Humor me.” His palms slipped along her spine and the teasing faded. “You feel so damn good.”

His stroking felt even better.

He touched her bottom, the back of her thighs, pulled her more tightly against him. “Do you have any idea what I want to do with you right now?”

Yes, but she still wanted him to tell her. She wanted to hear words that weren’t polite. Lovely sexual dirty talk that would stir her blood. “Tell me,” she heard herself say. “Tell me exactly.”

He squeezed her nipple. A deliciously sensuous threat. “You like playing with fire?”

“Yes.”

“Then get ready to burn.”

And burn she did . . . at the graphic descriptions. The lusty demands. The earthy language of sex and lust.

“. . . stretch you out . . . open your legs . . . open you . . .”

He spoke into her mouth. Claimed her with his tongue. And his hands . . . oh, his hands . . . they were everywhere. Possessing her body as if he owned it.

“. . . touch you here . . . press right here . . .”

Between her legs . . . fingers seeking . . .

“. . . in here.”

No reticence, no hesitation, no repulsion because she was female.

“And here . . .”

Reveling in her woman’s scent and feel . . .

“A little deeper . . .”

Burning for her.

His touch quickened. She cried out and shattered.

He held her and kissed her through the tender earthquakes.

As the aftershocks faded, she grew aware of his strong bare back beneath her palms, the skin hot and damp, muscles taut from self-control. She reached between their bodies and touched him.

He leaned into her hand. His breath rasped in her ear. And then he jerked away. “Damn those kids!”

She dragged air into her lungs.

“I want you to myself!” His voice was ragged with frustration. “I don’t want to worry about how much noise we’re making or whether somebody’s going to wake up for a drink of water.” He uttered a blistering obscenity, one he’d used in an entirely different way only moments before. And then he straightened. “Iowa!”

Her brain felt muzzy. “What?”

“No kids. And a bed . . .” His hands slicked over her. “Not just a pile of pine needles. As soon as we get to Iowa, we’ll have real privacy, and then we can finish this.”

“Iowa . . .” So far away.

He bent over, and she heard a rustle. He pressed her nightgown against her. “I’m not giving back the panties.”

He sounded as cranky as an animal with a thorn in its paw, and she gave a shaky laugh. “Iowa?”

“That’s right. Iowa. Mark it in ink on your calendar, sweetheart.”

Just like that, the Hawkeye State became the Land of Lust.

M
AT SPENT THE
night alternating between wakefulness and fever-hot dreams. The next morning, he mainlined his first cup of coffee, then poured a second as Nell and Lucy left with Button to say good-bye to the Waynes. He slouched in the passenger seat with his mug and told himself that he was an adult, not a randy teenager, but the sight of Nell as she’d emerged from the bathroom less than an hour ago in that plain blue nightgown had been just about more than he could handle. He turned on the radio to distract himself.

“. . .
the disappearance of Cornelia Case continues to have the entire nation on edge . . .
”

He was slipping. He’d been so caught up in his sexual frustration that he’d forgotten all about the Case story. It was hard to believe she still hadn’t surfaced. How many places were there where one of the most famous women in the world could have disappeared?

A funny tingling crept down his neck.

The door of the motor home flew open, and Lucy stormed in, glaring at him. “I don’t know why we couldn’t stay here another day like Bertis and Charlie! You have to have everything your way!”

“You’re damn right,” he growled. “Now buckle up. We’re leaving.”

Nell was coming in with Button, and she raised an eyebrow at his surly tone, but he pretended not to notice. She knew better than anybody why he was so irritable.

He felt guilty about the way he’d snapped at Lucy, so he ignored the fact that his favorite Blackhawks cap was perched on her head. He couldn’t begin to count how many items of his clothing had ended up in his sisters’ closets.

After they’d finished filling the water tank and using the flushing station, they began heading west across Indiana. Nell seemed to be spending an unusual amount of time with Lucy, so he figured she was self-conscious about last night. The kids felt like even bigger millstones. If it weren’t for them, Nell’s self-consciousness would be a thing of the past.

He tuned in the radio again and listened to the news, keeping the volume just low enough so that no one else could hear. He wanted a little more time to think this over.

The story grew bigger as the morning progressed, and with each report, the pronouncements of the fatuous Washington pundits became more irresponsible.

“
Although no one likes to think about it, Mrs. Case’s life could be in danger . . .

“
. . . It’s impossible not to speculate on the repercussions if the First Lady fell into unfriendly hands . . .

“
. . . domestic enemies to consider as well as foreign ones. Imagine if a militia group, for example . . .
”

When a popular radio psychologist suggested that Cornelia Case might have experienced a nervous breakdown because of her sorrow over the President’s death, Mat flipped off the radio. Idiots. It was a lot easier speculating about a story than it was doing the legwork to get at the truth.

But who was he to cast stones? Not long ago, he’d spent three days following a transvestite with a camera crew. He had too many of the same sins on his own conscience to criticize the way other journalists sensationalized the news.

The morning slipped by, and as the passenger seat next to him remained empty except for occasional visits from Lucy trying to talk him into making unnecessary stops, he realized Nell was deliberately avoiding him. Maybe it was better that way. He wouldn’t be so distracted. Still, as they approached Indiana’s western border, he realized how much he missed her cheerful running travelogue.

Those cloud formations remind me of a circus parade.

Who do you think is funding that recycling center?

What a pretty town! They have a blueberry festival. Let’s go!

Wildflowers! We have to stop!

And at least every other hour . . .
Let’s see where that road goes.

Even though he missed her enthusiasm, he was still surprised when he heard himself say, “Anybody for a picnic?”

“Yes!” Nell exclaimed.

“I guess.” Lucy tried to hide her enthusiasm but couldn’t quite manage it, and half an hour later, he was parking in front of a Vincennes, Indiana, Kroger grocery store. He picked up Button and followed Nell and Lucy inside.

“William Henry Harrison lived right here in Vincennes,” Nell said. “He was the ninth president of the United States, but he died in office a month after he was inaugurated.”

He told himself it was information anyone could know. The fact that Vincennes was Harrison’s home had been printed on one of the signs as they were coming into town.

Nell headed for the produce department, still chatting about William Henry Harrison and his successor, John Tyler. He watched her happily examining a display of blueberries, then admiring cartons of strawberries as if she’d never seen them before. This whole grocery store thing was way too domestic for him, and he started feeling claustrophobic. The feeling got worse when the Demon sighed and tucked her head under his chin. “Daaa . . .”

“Take her, Lucy. I’ve got to go buy some . . . some . . . guy stuff.”

“
EEOOWWW!
”

“Never mind,” he sighed. “I’ll take her with me.”

They left Vincennes and almost immediately crossed the border into Illinois. Nell hummed as she stood at the counter, swaying with the motion of the Winnebago while she made sandwiches. She looked so happy that he was glad he’d come up with the idea of having a picnic.

His hand crept back to the radio when he heard one of Mrs. Case’s old college friends being interviewed.

“
. . . we knew we could count on Nealy to have the best class notes when it was time for an exam . . .
”

Nealy?
He’d forgotten that was Mrs. Case’s nickname. The press seldom used it.
Nealy. Nell
. Close.

Forget it. He was a journalist. He dealt in facts, not fancy. He’d always been proud of having no imagination, and only someone with a big imagination could believe that the First Lady of the United States would take off across the country in a Chevy Corsica, then hook up with a man hauling around two kids who didn’t belong to him so she could change diapers, put up with a teenager’s sass, and practice tongue kisses.

But the nape of his neck was still tingling.

Toni peered through a magnifier to study the proof sheet the photographer for the small West Virginia newspaper had given her. There wasn’t a single clear shot of the Cornelia Case lookalike. A shoulder here, the top of her head, part of her back. That was it.

She handed them to Jason. “Does anything strike you as strange?”

While Jason took his time studying the photographs, she moved restlessly around the newspaper photographer’s tiny office. Their interview with Laurie Reynolds, the promotion manager at WGRB radio and the person who’d been running the contest, hadn’t given them much to go on.

According to Reynolds, the woman who’d called herself Brandy Butt had only spoken Spanish and seemed to have been forced into the contest by the teenage girl who was with her. Afterward, she’d run off the stage and Reynolds had seen her leave the mall with a good-looking dark-haired man, a baby girl in a pink cap, and the teenager.