The MacGregor Brides (28 page)

He did his best to imagine a bucket of cold water splashed in his face, an icy waterfall raining over his head, anything to help him cool off. The best he could do was shove his hands in his pockets before they started ripping at her clothes.

“Okay,” he said as calmly as possible. “But, Jules, you’ll have to admit that was a little more than a lapse.”

“I’ve got to stay away from you.” She clutched her blouse tighter. Beneath it, her breasts were still tingling from his hands. “We need to take a break, then we need to decide, if this is going to happen—”

“I think we’ve just answered that part of the question,” Cullum said dryly.

“All right, this is going to happen, so we have to figure out how to handle it. We’ll go to our respective corners—so to speak—for a few days. You can outline what your thoughts on this are, and I’ll do the same. When I come back, we can …”

“Negotiate terms?” he finished for her.

“In a way. We certainly have to have some groundwork here, so we know how we’ll deal with … after.”

It was sensible, and it annoyed the hell out of him. “Okay, MacGregor, you work up your proposal and I’ll work up mine. We’ll have a meeting on it when you get back.”

“There’s no need to get testy.”

He stared at her. There she was, he thought, her hair rumpled, her blouse undone, her mouth swollen from his, and she didn’t think he should get testy because she was turning it into a business deal.

“Have a good trip, MacGregor.”

“Cullum.” She sighed once when he stopped with his hand on the door and shot her a fiery look. “I have a professional and a personal relationship with your father, and with you. It’s important to me not to compromise it.”

He could think of nothing he wanted to say to that, and only nodded briefly and walked out.

Alone, she sat on the edge of the bed and waited for her system to level. Unless she was very much mistaken, her Murdoch project had taken a sharp detour, and might very well already be hopelessly compromised.

Julia loved the elegant row house in Georgetown. She had started life there, then, after an eight-year residence at another Washington address, had spent the last of her teenage years in the lofty-ceilinged and airy rooms.

She had no complaints about the time when she’d been able to play in the Rose Garden, or entertain her cousins in the private theater. Her parents, against all odds, had made that Pennsylvania Avenue mansion a home for their children. She’d been given the opportunity to travel all over the world and been taught a sense of responsibility for her neighbors, whether they lived next door or across an ocean.

She could remember even now the warm rush of pride she’d felt when she saw her father man the desk in the Oval Office, or when she watched her mother rise to a thunder of applause before she gave one of a thousand speeches on human rights.

She’d tolerated the omnipresence of the Secret Service, something that had become particularly smothering during her teenage years. She’d accepted the restrictions, the impossibility of just dashing off to shop with friends or share pizza and foolishness at some local restaurant. Her parents had done their best to provide areas of normalcy for Julia and her brother. But Julia had always known she came from greatness. And such miracles had a price.

She remembered the day they had moved back into the home of her early childhood, how her mother had hugged them all, then grinned and told them that they were all going out for pizza and a movie.

It had been one of the sweetest nights of Julia’s life.

Now she stood on the sidewalk as her cab drove off. The house still drew her, still comforted. She knew she bought and sold houses to give herself that comfort time and time again, and then to pass it on to others.

Love needed a home to shelter it, and she had been so fortunate in hers.

She hefted her bag and walked up the few brick steps, then rolled the bag behind her down the narrow walk. The fall flowers were fading, she mused. Their autumn brightness dulling as winter blew close. In a bit more than a month, the house would gleam with colored lights, a wreath would hang on the tall front door, and a fresh pine tree, laden with ornaments made by her family, would shine through the graceful front window.

Memories such as those were welcoming.

She knocked, using the brass crest of the MacGregors to thump on the door. The crowned lion eyed her fiercely and made her think of her grandfather.

When the door opened, Julia beamed at the small, tidy woman who stood there. “Boxy, don’t you ever change?”

“Miss Julia!” Elizabeth Boxlieter threw her short arms around Julia and squeezed. Boxy had served
a multitude of functions for the MacGregors over a fifteen-year period. Administrative assistant to Mrs. MacGregor had been her title during the White House era. But what she did was manage. Everything.

Boxy drew back, and even though pleasure sparkled in her eyes, she wagged a scolding finger. “You didn’t let anyone know you were coming, didn’t give us a minute’s notice. What if we’d been away?”

“Then I’d have let myself in and felt very sorry for myself.” With a laugh, Julia ducked down to kiss Boxy’s cheek. “I wanted to surprise all of you. Mom and Dad are home, aren’t they?”

“As it happens.” Boxy shut the front door. “Your father is just back from Camp David. I swear, they won’t leave the man alone, always asking him to negotiate this, advise on that.”

“Well someone has to keep the free world safe, don’t they?”

“He did more than his share. The man should be able to go off fishing for a month.”

“Dad doesn’t fish.”

“What difference does that make? He’s up in his office on an overseas call, and your mother is back in her workroom.”

“I’ll interrupt Mom,” Julia decided, “then we’ll interrupt Dad. Don’t carry that suitcase up, Boxy,” she said as she started down the hall. “I’ll take it myself in a few minutes.”

Boxy huffed. As if she’d leave luggage cluttering up the foyer. And, taking the suitcase, she went upstairs.

Shelby MacGregor’s workroom was a converted summer kitchen that offered space for her potter’s wheel and kiln, her worktable and supplies. Throughout her husband’s administration she had continued as a working artist, as much to satisfy her need to create as to make a statement on the human right to pursue a career.

Now, the former First Lady was perched on a stool at her wheel, throwing a pot. Her hands were slicked with clay to the wrists, her forearms speckled. Her dark red hair was bundled messily on top of her head, and her smoke-gray eyes were dark with concentration.

Music played in the background, a somewhat violent concerto. As Julia watched, the clay formed under her mother’s clever hands, changing from a shapeless mass, elongating, slimming, becoming an elegant vessel. Julia leaned on the doorjamb and waited.

“Not bad,” Shelby muttered, rolling her head and working the kinks out of her neck as she stopped the wheel.

“It’ll be beautiful. They’re always beautiful.”

“Julia!” Shelby popped up, and was halfway to her daughter before she stopped. “Oh, I’m a mess,” she said with a laugh, holding out her coated hands. “Here, you kiss me.”

Julia obliged, pressed her lips to her mother’s cheeks in turn.

“This is a surprise.”

“A good one, I hope.”

“The best. Let me wash up so I can hug you. Have you seen your father?” Shelby asked as she hurried to a sink to scrub the clay from her hands and arms.

“No, Boxy said he was on the phone, so I came back to interrupt you first.”

“Well, he needs a break, so we’ll double-team him.” She dried off quickly, then turned around to throw her arms around Julia. “Oh, I’ve missed you. You’ll have to tell me everything that’s new and wonderful. How are your cousins, little Daniel, how’s the house going? How long can you stay? Are you hungry? Answer any or all of the above questions in the order of your choice.”

Laughing, Julia walked arm in arm with her mother up the back stairs. “Let’s see, the cousins are wonderful. Laura looks like a Madonna with young Daniel, and Gwen’s glowing like an angel. I ate
something remotely like food on the plane, and I can only stay a couple of days. The house … it’s going very well.”

Shelby noted the hesitation, decided to probe its cause shortly. She turned toward her husband’s office, gave what passed for a knock and opened the door.

Alan MacGregor sat behind his desk. His hair had gone a rich silver, and the sunlight that poured through the window glinted off it. As always, Julia thought him the handsomest man in the world, and she watched as those lines of care around his dark eyes turned to lines of joy.

The phone still at his ear, he got to his feet, held out his hand. “I’ll consider it. Yes, seriously consider it.” He wrapped his arm around his daughter, brought her close to his side. “I’m sorry, Senator, I’ll have to get back to you. Something’s come up here. Yes, I will.” He hung up and, turning, gathered Julia close. “Something irresistible,” he murmured, kissing the top of her head.

* * *

Within an hour, Julia was stretched out in front of the fire in the family parlor, sipping an excellent white wine and more relaxed than she’d been for weeks. Her instincts in coming home had been right on target, she decided.

“This is wonderful.” She rested her head against the arm of her father’s chair, all but purring when he stroked her hair. “Is Boxy going insane canceling your evening obligations?”

“Only one dinner party,” Shelby told her. “A really tedious one. I’m delighted to be able to stay home.” She crossed her bare feet at the ankles. The quick glance she sent Alan was a signal. Picking it up, Alan ruffled Julia’s hair.

“Are you used to living on your own yet?”

“I miss them,” she admitted. “Laura, Gwen and I were a trio for so long. I still see them all the time.”

“But it’s not the same,” Alan finished for her.

“No, it’s not. In some ways it’s better. They’re so happy, it’s a kick to see it.”

“Are you happy?”

“Yes.” She turned her head so that she could smile up at him. “Yes, I am. I love where I am and what I’m doing, how I’m doing it. Right now I’m having tremendous fun watching the house come together.”

There, Shelby thought, was her opening. “I can’t wait to see it.” She smiled at her husband as the conversational relay baton was passed smoothly. “How far along are you?”

“My bedroom’s finished. It was a priority for me. Of course, I had to butt heads with Murdoch over getting the subs in to paint and paper, but I am the one writing the check.”

“Absolutely.” Not Mr. Murdoch, Shelby noted, but Murdoch. That would be the son. “Having some trouble with your head contractor?”

“A bit. It’s Cullum Murdoch I’m working with on this. His father’s not quite well.”

“Michael?” Concerned, Alan straightened in his chair. “What’s wrong?”

“He caught a nasty summer cold, and it took him some time to shake it. He’s on the mend, but Cullum’s already hip-deep in the job, so …” She trailed off with a shrug. “He does excellent work. It’s just that we … clash styles, I suppose. He wants it done his way, I want it done mine. Simple as that.”

Julia drained her wine and took a deep breath. “I’m thinking about becoming involved with him.”

“Oh.” It was a quick little stab, just under the heart. Instinctively Shelby rubbed a hand over the ache. “But if you don’t get along … ?”

“That’s one level.” Letting out a little sigh, Julia stretched out her legs. “On another level we appear to get along like gangbusters.”

“The physical level isn’t enough,” Shelby interjected, then fought to stem her panic as Alan sent her a warm, amused look.

“It appears your mother is thinking about another lovely young woman who tried to convince herself she couldn’t get along with a certain young man on a particular level.” His dark eyes glinted when he grinned. “So I seduced her.”

“Alan.” Caught between laughter and concern, Shelby shook her head. “This is our little girl here, and I don’t think either one of us wants her seduced by a Murdoch.”

“Sounds more like the MacGregor than the MacGregor,” Alan murmured to his daughter, and watched the warrior’s light he loved flash in his wife’s eyes. “I’d say that depended on the Murdoch,” he continued. “And on Julia. You’re a smart woman, Julia. You know right and wrong and what’s right for you.”

“What seemed right, for the moment, was to get some distance, and to talk to both of you. Don’t worry about me, Mom.” She laid a hand on Shelby’s knee. “It wouldn’t be seduction. If I get involved with Murdoch, it’ll be with eyes wide open.”

The three of them talked for a while longer, and then, when Julia left to unpack and change, Shelby turned to her husband.

“Alan, this is serious.”

“Hmm.” He rose to refill his wife’s glass.

“Don’t use that diplomatic
hmm
on me.” She scowled up at him over the rim of her glass. “I’m not naive enough to believe Julia hasn’t been involved with a man before. But none of them has ever mattered enough to worry her, or to have her come to us to talk about it.”

Sitting on the arm of her chair, Alan skimmed a finger along his wife’s bangs. “Are you worried that she’s in love, or in lust?”

“Both.” She sighed. Her little girl, she thought. Her baby. She hadn’t had enough time to prepare. “I just think it might be wise if we knew a little more about him.”

“My father’s known the Murdochs for years.” Alan’s mouth quirked as he brought his glass up to sip. “I imagine he’s going to be very pleased with the situation.”

It only took Shelby an instant. She clamped a hand over Alan’s. “You don’t think he arranged this somehow?”

“No.” Alan leaned down, kissed his wife’s scowling mouth until it softened, then added, “I’m absolutely sure he did.”

Cullum brooded into his beer while the jukebox tinkled out a song of love gone sour. Didn’t it always? he wondered. Nothing lasted forever—if it did, he’d be out of business. Dry rot set in, or age, or simple monotony. Buildings weren’t all that much different from people, he mused. And some were high-maintenance.

Julia MacGregor was definitely high-maintenance.