Every inch of her ached for his touch, craved the tease of his fingers. Morgan moved closer to him, hampered by the confines of the small space. Jack reached into one of the containers over her head and came back with a foil square. Morgan smiled when she saw it. Taking it from him, she broke the seal. A slight hissing noise accompanied the tear as she opened it. Reaching between them, Jack gripped the vehicle's floor when her warm hands caressed his erection.

"Hurry," he said, his voice dark and strained.

Morgan slipped the protection over him. For a moment she smoothed her hands over his hair-roughened legs. She felt the muscles contract where she touched. Jack's face told her he was in agony, but the agony was from the pleasure she gave him. She knew how much her touch pleased him and she continued.

She kissed his shoulders, working her hands around his body, and her mouth across his torso, feeling the subtle changes in him as rapture enclosed them in a cocoon of fiery need. Hooking her fingers about his neck, she pulled him down as she lay back, giving him access to her body.

"I love you," she whispered as Jack entered her. Morgan couldn't hold back the throaty moan of pleasure that accompanied his penetration. She felt as if it were their first time, although she was familiar with him. The sensations running through her were different. She felt her blood and Adrenaline coupled with TNT to cause an imminent explosion.

Losing all sense of time and place, she felt Jack move inside her. They were alone. The world didn't exist outside their surroundings. She loved Jack and wanted him to know it. She gave herself, all of herself, all she had to give flowed through her and into him.

Jack cupped her hips and she raised them, giving him greater access. She felt him totally inside her as huge waves of love caught her in their glory and lifted her to a sea of sensation that prior to this she had not known, would not have believed possible.

With Jack, she knew everything was possible.

Anything was possible.

 

***

 

Hart Lewiston tries to regain some of the ground he's lost in a recent trip to Atlanta, Georgia. The television announcer droned on with the lead story. Carla Lewiston curled up in her hotel bed and pulled the covers up to her neck. She watched her image on the screen standing next to Hart, smiling for the cameras and looking out over the crowd as Hart spoke into the microphone.

He looked tired, aged, she thought. In a matter of weeks he'd gone from a strong, robust man to someone she hardly recognized. They'd been married for twenty-three years, had traveled together, done everything with the same goal in mind, yet on the screen, emerging through the electronic wizardry of some long-dead inventor, was a man she hardly knew. When had that changed? Where had she been when Hart had become intent on family?

They'd never wanted children. They hadn't discussed children when they got married. It was to be just the two of them. They didn't need children to complement their lives. They had their careers. Their lives were full, busy, satisfying, but she never thought she was too busy for Hart, or he for her. Yet they were different. She knew no one could ever completely know another human being, but she thought she and Hart came as close as any two people ever would to accomplishing that.

But he'd proved her wrong.

The news story on Hart ended, replaced by Hart's daughter. Carla felt her anger rise. She frowned at the child, the nineteen-year-old Olympic winner. Didn't they have any current footage, she wondered? This twelve-year-old film of her at the Seoul Olympics was getting tired. She wasn't a nineteen-year-old any longer. She wasn't America's sweetheart vying for her place in the light. Her place had come and gone, but Hart saw fit to thrust her back onto center stage.

Carla sat forward, staring at the screen and the girl on it. Was she the trump card? This child was America. She represented us to the world. The international posters Carla had seen so often as the Director of the Children's Relief Program flashed into her mind. Germany was represented by a blonde woman with pig tails and a printed dress over which she wore a white apron. The Japanese wore kimonos. Carla knew the world thought of the United States as represented by a cowboy, complete with chaps and boots, wrangling a steer to the ground or of some jeans-clad young man with a two-day beard. But that image had been replaced in the international mind by this child, Morgan Kirkwood, astride her chosen steer, a gymnastics beam.

She stood poised on it, her uniform, not jeans, but a white leotard with the stars and stripes on her right arm. The front of the torso held huge slashes of red and blue. She was perfect, young, golden, her hair in a ponytail that bobbed with each movement. Her arms extended as if in a dancer's pose and her eyes, the eyes of innocence, the face of vulnerability, epitomized all that was good and right in America. A poster child for patriotism, Carla thought. Was that it? Was that why Hart had seen fit to suddenly pull her into the picture?

Carla shook her head and fell back against the plushness of the pillows in the suite's king-sized bed. He didn't need this girl. His ratings in the polls were miles ahead of his competition. All he needed to do was wait out the time. But he'd chosen to do something stupid and now he was trying to backpedal.

And Carla had to stand beside him, her smile carefully in place, and help.

 

***

 

Jack bolted upright. Stiff muscles protested his sleeping in the cramped space. Forgetting his discomfort, he checked over his shoulder, searching. He was covered with one of the sleeping bags. Morgan would have put it there. When he fell asleep, he was covered only by her radiance and the afterglow of a love that blanketed them under a bubble of warmth.

Yet where was she? "Morgan," he called, already knowing she wouldn't answer. Listening for a moment, his suspicions were confirmed. "Damn!" Jack cursed. She was gone. His heartbeat escalated. She wouldn't be far. She couldn't have risked her life to save his only to leave him during the night. And especially after the night they had just shared. But she knew better than to go off alone. Or she should, he corrected. They were too close to the mine and its inhabitants, ready to kill them, for her to go off on her own.

Discarding the sooty clothes from yesterday, he grabbed a clean shirt and jeans and shrugged into them. As soon as he pushed his feet into running shoes, he weighed the most obvious direction she might have headed. Then he remembered the small body of water where she'd cleaned his face. It wasn't far, only a few steps. He went toward it with the speed of an agile cat.

Jack stopped short when he saw her. It was barely dawn. The air was still cool. Dew wafted off the water like a celestial mist. She swam in the dark pool, gliding through the liquid like a water nymph. Her hair, loose and darkened by the wetness, floated on the surface of her shoulders. Jack remembered it falling over his hands last night, thick and soft, dark as velvet. His body tightened, reacting to hers with all the remembered love of a few hours ago and a lifetime of forevers.

She swam away from him, her head above water, her arms coming together in front of her, and pushing the water away, slicing a path which she pulled into, only to repeat the action. He heard her humming one of the country music tunes she liked, her cares momentarily forgotten. Her body was nude, hidden by the concealing water, teasing him as parts of her surfaced while others went under. He saw her naked legs, her breasts, the soft curve of her hips peeking in and out of the mist. Jack stood rooted to the spot, unable to move or call to her, unable to do anything but watch her dance for his eyes only.

He'd never seen anyone swim like her. He swam with purpose, laps up and back, methodically, rhythmically, his only goal to get from one side of the pool to the other and repeat the action. Morgan swam without purpose, with a grace and elegance that made her one with the medium in which she'd immersed herself. Jack was caught up in her motion, watching with awe as something invisible but tangible took hold of his heart and squeezed it. He could only stare. He couldn't move, couldn't call to her. He only wanted to stand in this virgin land and watch her gentle ballet as misty ghosts banked off the surface. Ethereal and cloudlike, Jack felt as if they were alone in the world. This was their private Garden of Eden and Morgan was his Eve. The setting was perfect, the surface clouds ushering in the morning and Morgan warm and naked in his arms.

He was about to go to her and make his thoughts reality when she called to him, "Hey." She turned, facing him, treading water in her steamy setting. "You should come in. It's a little cold at first, but you get used to it."

Jack was lost. She disarmed him. She'd always done it, but he'd been able to control it in the past. When she was only a figment of his dreams, he could keep it at bay. With her this close, he couldn't. He wanted to get into the water. He wanted to scoop her into his arms and let the formless liquid buoy them. He wanted to join her in the erotic ballet, slide into her with the sloshing comfort of the liquid about them and make love until neither of them had a brain between them.

Jack looked away. Suddenly he was uncomfortable. It had nothing to do with Morgan, more with himself. He knew better than to get involved. He also knew he had no choice.

"It's time to get dressed," he said, trying to cover his discomfort, replacing an idyllic life together with images that talked of a future the two of them would never have. "We've got to get out of here."

Jack turned and headed back to the SUV. He couldn't watch as she came out of the water, ascending the sea like some golden-brown mermaid sacrificing her fins for legs to walk the earth and love a man. Jack couldn't be that man. As much as he wanted it, craved it so badly he thought his heart would burst, as much as he wanted to give up everything for her, it was not to be. He didn't need Jacob Winston to read him the riot act. He didn't need Forrest Washington to explain the rules of engagement. Neither of them could tell him anything he hadn't already said to himself, but neither of them had held Morgan in their arms and they hadn't listened to her soft, breathy sound as she made love.

"What is it with you?" Morgan asked, coming up behind him as he stood in the van's open door.

Grabbing his arm, she spun him around to face her. Hands on hips, she looked like a predatory lion ready to do battle. He said nothing. She appeared to grow angrier.

God, he thought, why did she have to be so beautiful? Her wet hair was slicked back off her face. It fell in spiked tendrils on her shoulders. Droplets of water soaked the ends, absorbing into her shirt with the sureness of a napkin. She wore no makeup. Her skin was tight and healthy, her nose and cheeks shiny. Ribbons of darkness skated across her midriff, proving she'd pulled the T-shirt over her head while her body was still wet. Jack gripped the door to keep from grabbing her and pulling her into his arms, smelling the freshness of the water on her skin and the cleanliness of her hair.

"You know what your problem is, Jack?" Morgan said, although she gave him no time to answer. "You stand back when love tries to touch you. You're a strong man and you think love will make you weak, vulnerable. It won't. It'll make you human. You've been out here saving the world for a long time. A lone ranger, needing no one, wanting no one. Is that the way you want it?'' She paused, taking a breath. "To live your life having sex but not making love, touching but not feeling, meeting people but never taking the time to know them? If so, then we're much too different and life for us will never be a success."

"It's a moot point, Morgan. When we get to Washington, if they don't kill us first, you're out of my life."

She stepped back as if he'd hit her.

"Wherever I stand on love, back, forward or in between, is useless to discuss. So let's keep our minds on the problem at hand."

She stared at him for a long moment. Jack watched her facial muscles twitch as she tried to keep them in place. She wanted to cry. She was going to cry.

"Is that what we were doing last night, Jack? Keeping our minds on the problem at hand?"

Not waiting for an answer, she stalked away. He moved around the SUV to where she could not see him before letting out the breath he'd been holding.

Standing back when love tried to touch him. It was part of his I.D. as surely as his name was. She'd taught it to him, although she didn't know it. It was a hard lesson, one he thought he'd learned well. He vowed never to get involved again, never let a woman get into his blood. When he let his feelings become involved, he'd immediately walk away. He'd been good at it too. It had become his nature, but not now.

She had touched him, reached into his soul and held him in place, refusing to allow him to walk away. She'd worked her way into his heart and anchored herself there. His father had once told him he'd know he was in love when a woman was in his blood. Morgan had taken up that station and there was nothing he could do about it. He was in love with her, but he had to let her think he could walk away without a backward glance. She would surely be wrenched away from him as soon as they set foot in the FBI. He couldn't afford to let her know how he would suffer when she was gone. Let her hate him. It was better for them both.

He could never hate her.

 

CHAPTER 15

The silence inside the van was palpable. Morgan didn't understand what had happened. One minute they were making love and the next Jack was telling her to get lost.

She sat stiffly next to her door as far away from him as the tiny space allowed. Desperately her mind sought a solution to their dilemma. Jack was in love with her. She was sure of it, she told herself. He'd never said it. Between them stood her predicament. They could have no life together. If she didn't accept the government's protection she surely would be caught one day. If she wanted to live, she had to look at it rationally, the way Jack had. This had to end. They couldn't run forever. Either they would be caught and killed or they'd make it to Clarksburg and she'd enter witness protection. Jack would resume his life in the CIA or retreat to his Montana paradise. In either case, it would be without her.

Tears misted in her eyes, but she swallowed them down. There was no time for emotion now. She should be checking for vehicles following them or helicopters poised to shoot from the sky, but she was too caught up in—

It hit her then. Helicopters. There were two of them. Not two helicopters, but two different people shooting.

When the helicopter had taken off with Jack in it and she jumped to the ground, shots had helped her escape, shots that came from the ground. She wondered if Jack remembered.

Morgan almost turned in her seat. She had become used to talking to him, planning with him. She felt gagged by her own anger.

Jack hadn't said a word since he climbed into the driver's seat. His swollen face made his profile grotesque. His features were tight, his hands powerful, gripping the steering wheel as the SUV mowed down bushes and small trees, over abandoned hiking trails, making its own road through the dense greenery.

Morgan glanced behind her, through the window at the back of the van. The sleeping bag she'd pulled over them in the early morning lay like a crumpled reminder of what she would lose only a few miles down this imaginary road. She'd never think of an SUV again without being reminded of Jack lying there, holding her, making love to her.

She woke before Jack had. Darkness shrouded the night. The crickets and cicadas had ended their song. All about her was quiet. Nothing moved to break the stillness, except for Jack's easy breathing. It was that very quiet that had awakened her.

The pond drew her like a siren's song drew a sailor. She went there and entered the water, swimming until she saw him watching her. His face was hard, set in the stony semi-darkness, as if he'd made some irrevocable decision.

And indeed he had.

"Jack." Morgan couldn't be quiet a moment longer. He glanced at her, his face still set. "I'm not going to bring up the lake."

She saw his jaw muscles tighten and it gave her a secret pleasure to know he was upset by his own decision.

"Last night—" She stopped. That wasn't what she meant to say. "Yesterday, in the helicopter." Her words were staggered, even though she tried to control them. "I only got away because of—"

"The other shots," he finished her sentence.

"You heard them?" she asked in surprise. Why was she surprised? Jack saw everything. He'd been trained to observe. Even the tiniest details didn't get past him. She wondered about his life. She wanted to know every aspect of his life, his future. They were only fifty miles, maybe less, from their destination. Time had eluded her. She'd spent twelve years trying not to think of him and only a couple of weeks thinking of nothing else.

"Any idea who they are?"

"I thought they were together until they started shooting. Why do you think. . ." She didn't know how to finish.

"There are two of them."

Morgan shuddered. She didn't really want her thoughts confirmed.

"Why?"

"I haven't a clue. You've made some powerful enemies."

"Do you think both of the candidates have people looking for those papers?"

"It's possible. The information is valuable to both sides. The men in the cabin knew about the ring and the papers. They wanted them. I assumed they were working for one of the groups in Korea campaigning for president, but I don't know which side. They would answer none of my questions."

Morgan slumped back against the upholstery. Then she heard it. The beat of the air. The unmistakable sound of helicopter rotors.

"They've found us," she shouted, her body instantly arrested with fear. She leaned forward, staring into the sky, trying to find out which direction they were coming from. She also wondered who they were. She'd feared only one side of the Koreans, but why not both? The papers could help and hurt either side.

Morgan racked her mind trying to think of something to do. Back in St. Charles she'd been in control. She knew everything about the area, the places to hide, dead-ends, roadblocks. It was her turf. Here she was lost They had no road, only what they carved out of the forest. Jack banked hard on the steering wheel, taking the vehicle into a ravine, and abruptly braked. She was slung forward and thrown back into her seat. She closed her eyes for a moment listening for the distant sound. The trees hung over each other here and the Lexus was hidden from the sky.

Morgan held her breath until she confirmed the sound was receding. The helicopter was going in the opposite direction from the one they were traveling. She glanced at the odometer. Since they left the highway more than twenty-four hours ago, they'd only traveled thirty miles. Sixty miles of prime forest sat between them and their goal.

"Jack, we have to return to the main road." She spoke logically. Emotions, which rioted through her, were absent from her voice. "At this rate it will take us days to get to Clarksburg, even if you're sure of the direction."

"I've come to that conclusion myself. If we were here alone and safe, it would be the best route, but with two different factions trying to find us, we need to find the fastest method."

"Why don't we just call your friend at the CIA and ask them to pick us up?''

"I thought of that, but. . ." he trailed off.

"But what?"

Jack didn't answer. He stared straight ahead looking at nothing.

"There's something not quite right. I can't put my finger on it. My gut tells me we've got to do this alone."

His instincts must have paid off in the past. He didn't say it, but she heard it nevertheless.

"Do you know who is chasing us? I mean both groups?"

"Only one. I don't know who's behind the second one."

Morgan thought again about her enemies. She could think of no one, at least no one that had a face. She had taken the papers from Korea along with Hart—her father. She got him out of the jail, but had only been seen by the one guard. Yet he had aided her. Had he told the others who she was? It had been years. Look at where Hart was today, very likely the next U.S. president. Look at the politics of Korea. That guard could have bought himself a higher station with that piece of information. Knowledge of her identity could be the reason the Koreans had her in their sights now.

But that only accounted for one group of assassins. Had the guard played both sides of the field and sold his information to two political parties? She didn't know, but it was the only thing that made sense.

Jack's movement caught her attention. He leaned forward and looked up. Nothing could be seen through the trees. Only the slight craning of his head told her he was listening. She strained. No sound. The helicopter was gone.

But not for long.

They would circle and circle, expanding their circumference until they spotted the SUV and the two inhabitants.

Jack started the engine. He pulled out of the trees and through the narrow ravine. Now they were out in the open. Only a few trees helped to keep them shaded. Jack drove with breakneck speed. Morgan gripped the seat arms and often ducked oncoming trees. He was tense and she could see him check the skies and listen for sound as he propelled the Lexus ever closer to the road they had left a day and a night ago.

When they saw it, a strip of black shining in the sun, they were above it. Jack didn't start downward, but continued parallel, forever checking the sky, until the road and the mountains met. He slipped back through a rail-less outcrop and onto the blacktop. Cars, vans and trucks flirted with his SUV whizzing passed it on their way to distant destinations.

clarksburg - 40, the sign said. Forty miles. "We're almost there," Morgan breathed.

Jack nodded.

Morgan checked the rear windows. There were several cars behind them. Not one looked menacing, but she knew better than to believe the innocence of appearance. Jack too checked the mirrors frequently. Five miles later Morgan relaxed a little.

Big mistake.

 

***

 

"Tighten your seat belt," Jack said needlessly. Since their first encounter with the road and all its surprises Morgan had worn her seatbelt just short of tight enough to slow her circulation.

"What's wrong?"

"They're back," he said, not differentiating between who "they" were. Were "they" the supporters of the Korean president? Were "they" the opposition to his election? Could "they" be someone altogether different?

Morgan's head whipped back and forth looking for something, anything. She didn't know what she expected to see.

"I don't see anything."

"Right," Jack agreed. "There is no longer any traffic on either side of the roadway."

Morgan checked the south side of the road. In both directions she saw nothing but the vast, beautiful landscape that should win some kind of highway award. On the north side, again the only vehicle cleaving the wind was the Lexus SUV in which she and Jack traveled.

"Where do you think they are? Should we get off the road?''

"We're going in."

Jack's voice made her look at him. It was cold, hard, determined. His face, even the swollen side, took on the chiseled effect of granite. Whatever was about to happen it was going to happen here.

"I want you to get down on the floor in the back."

"No!"

"Don't argue with me," he shouted. "This time they'll stop at nothing. Now get down."

Morgan moved then. She skirted around behind his chair. He couldn't see her, but she had picked the best place. She was wedged between his seat and a huge metal crate. There was a strap on the wall that Jack had installed. She didn't ask about it, but he felt her using it to strap herself to the reinforced wall.

The van was suddenly jolted as a barrage of bullets churned up the dirt and pavement. Along with it came the sound of helicopter blades churning the air. Jack was glad Morgan was behind him. He didn't need the distraction of trying to make sure she was all right while he dodged bullets.

It was the Apache. Jack was tired of that aircraft tracking them. More than tired, he thought. It loomed in the sky in the path of the SUV, a green bug ready to sting. And this time it had reinforcements. Bullets burst from the onboard guns. Jack ducked, but kept on the straight and narrow. He expected a pellet to hit the windshield, burst the glass and invade the cabin. He wore a bulletproof vest so he was protected from ordinary bullets and if the shooter aimed for his chest. Morgan hadn't protested when he'd insisted she wear one, too.

Behind him the trucks were back. Two of them rode within the painted lanes and one used the shoulder. Jack knew this group was with the helicopter. It still bothered him that the others had shot at them. It had given Morgan the cover she needed to get away, but they weren't with these guys. Having two sets of killers out there was disorienting. He needed to deal with these now.

Not without surprises, Jack had given Burton and Tilden instructions on what he wanted in the SUV and they had delivered. He wouldn't mind having them around to back him up.

The helicopter hung lower. It was coming in for another bullet run. Jack saw the gunwales begin to turn. He wouldn't wait for another burst. He'd let them feel his sting. Flipping open the specially installed panel on the console that separated the two front seats, Jack hit the red button. On both sides of the van panels opened. Each held a rocket. The navigational system activated, targeting the flying aircraft. Jack hit the green button once and one of the missiles fired. He felt the drag on the van as it took off. It pulled the van to the left, spinning it across the road, out of control. Jack gripped the steering wheel so tightly he thought he'd pull the heavy plastic circle off the column. He tried to fight the ricocheting effect that threw the van back and forth across the double lanes as if some magnet attracted the metal body on one side of the road then the other in a zigzagging, crisscrossing pattern.

Before he regained control, he saw his missile clip its target. "Damn," Jack cursed. It hadn't been a direct hit, but it set the helicopter into a gyro spin. The bird spun around as much out of control as the van. The pilot worked feverishly to keep the bird in the air. It lost altitude. The Lexus careened toward it, three thousand pounds of forged metal at seventy miles an hour. Collision was imminent. Behind them the three trucks brought up the rear, pinning them in like cellar rats.

Jack swerved hard. The helicopter sat down sideways on the pavement, its bulk dropping fast in a test that was never part of any performance evaluation of the bird's air-worthiness. Jack turned the steering wheel while practically standing on the brakes. He could see the gray-white smoke from the tires, smell the burning rubber as friction between the pavement and the tires disagreed in heated proportions.

The vehicle spun completely around, avoiding the bird, coming to a stop three feet from contact. The Apache was behind him. Its guns were out of position, pointing at the median that divided the highway.

One rotor was bent askew in an angle that had it touching the ground like a balancing rod. The Apache was down and out.

The trucks bore down on them. They had a minute perhaps before they got there. Jack switched from brake to accelerator. The SUV lurched forward.

"Jack, what's happening?" Morgan asked.

"Stay put," he ordered, forgetting she was even in the vehicle. "We're going to play chicken." He muttered the last to himself.

He hadn't done this in years, but he was banking on human nature and the instinct for self-preservation in his enemies. Jack pressed the accelerator harder, increasing his speed. The three trucks in front of him came toward him at a speed equal to his own. Jack stared at them, rushing down the center of the two lanes. If one of them didn't chicken out and swerve their vehicle right or left, they'd have a head-on collision.

He didn't think about anything beyond the speed. The air whistled outside the Lexus. The sound was high pitched and whining as if he was hurting it as he cut through it. Fifty feet, he estimated. This was usually where the average driver peeled off. These were not average drivers.

Forty feet.

Thirty feet.

Still they came forward. Jack held his position. He selected another button on the panel and poised his finger over it

"Jack." He felt Morgan look around his seat, trying to see through the front windshield.

"Get back," he shouted, pressing the button and letting go a barrage of gunfire that struck the ground in front of the processional.

Twenty feet.

The middle truck driver caved. Pulling his steering wheel to the left, he forced the truck next to him off the road. The two of them collided. The sound of metal mangling was loud as the two vehicles pitched through the guardrail and skidded down the side of the mountain.

Jack didn't brake. He continued traveling south, the opposite direction of the one he wanted to go. Checking his mirror, he saw the final truck swinging around and giving chase. Jack hit the brakes. The resulting squeal of tires and defiance of the laws governing bodies in motion had the Lexus spinning in circles. Plastic boxes, sleeping bags and supplies spilled about the inner space. For a moment he thought of Morgan. Had anything hit her? He couldn't look back. He couldn't take his hands off the steering wheel.

The truck bore down on him. Chicken wouldn't work this time. This time skill and luck would determine the victor. Jack was a good driver. He'd driven over sand, mud, through mosquito-ridden swamps, on the speedways of the world's top sports arenas and through the traffic of major highways. This fight wouldn't be won by the better driver, but by the one with the best wits and the most luck. He was determined to stand in that winner's circle.

Only a hundred yards separated them. He could see someone hang out the window and take a shot. Jack flinched to the side. The bullet struck the windshield. It shattered. His hand instinctively came up to protect his face. The sudden burst of wind took his breath.

Loose papers flew about the small cabin. Unidentified debris scuttled about the floor. A Styrofoam cup struck his foot. He ignored it. What he couldn't ignore was Morgan's voice.

"That's it," she shouted.

Jack heard her moving.

"What are you doing?"

Morgan didn't answer. Several seconds went by. She scrambled toward the back of the vehicle. He didn't know what she was doing. He glanced toward the rearview mirror, only to discover it had fallen to the floor when the glass shattered. More bullets chipped the ground in front of the van. He swerved left and right. Morgan would be thrown against the walls if she didn't hit one of the containers that he'd packed food and supplies in. Jack repeated the spray of bullets. They crossed the front of the approaching vehicle level with the lights. Bulbs burst in small explosions. The truck crunched over the glass, although Jack could not hear it. It continued its suicide run straight for him.

The deafening sound of gunfire came from behind him. A tire blew and the on-coming truck defied gravity as it jumped in the air. Morgan knelt in the open column of space, a high-powered rifle at her shoulder. Jack pulled to the left. The truck completed its arc on the right. It bounced, leaping into the air like a metallic ballet dancer yet to learn the graceful steps of the dance. Rubber tires came off at odd angles, bouncing and rolling across the highway. Metal bumpers were ripped away as the truck continued its odd streak along the roadway. Tripping over its own feet, it caught a fender piece that had broken loose. The truck flipped on its side, its weight carrying it completely over. Skidding along, creating a sparkle of fire-blue streaks as metal and roadway fought for dominance. The truck moved onward toward Jack and Morgan.

"Get down," he shouted to Morgan. "It's going to be close." Morgan dashed behind his seat and held on. He felt her hands at his waist as she gripped the sides of his chair.

Jack turned the steering wheel as hard as he could. The truck rushed in a straight line directly across the highway. "Here's where the luck comes in," he murmured. The truck headed on an irrevocable angle that would cross paths with their own. He prayed there was time to get out of the way.

There wasn't.

The truck, moving like a rampaging bull, clipped the back of the Lexus. It started a weird spin. Jack heard the sound of metal striking pavement and knew the silver bumper had been yanked free of its moldings. He pumped the brakes, bringing the vehicle to a stop in time to see the huge hunk of tangled metal hit the guardrail where it came to a full and complete stop.

For a while everything was silent, the mangled truck engine's ticking the only sound. Morgan's head came up level with his.

"Is it over?" she asked.

He nodded. "It's over."

She let out a sigh and launched herself into his arms. Oh, God, she felt good. Jack released his seat belt and drew her to him. l love you, he wanted to say. I'll love you forever. But all he said was, "It's over, sweetheart. It's over."

"Not quite," a deep voice contradicted him.

 

***

 

The FBI building in Clarksburg, West Virginia, is a modem structure built in 1993. It stands as a many-windowed white building. The director of this facility doesn't have the protection of the United States and its borders as one of his priorities. He isn't concerned with the enforcement of the law, only keeping track of its paperwork. Clarksburg is a huge computer facility, housing the fingerprint division for the vast resources of law enforcement.

On the third floor, in a corner conference room of dark paneling that looked as if it was polished only moments ago, two men entered the room, joining two others who'd been together far too often in the past several weeks. Jacob Winston and Clarence Christopher shook hands with Forrest Washington and Brian Ashleigh before taking seats at one end of a long conference table. A speaker phone sat on the table between them.

"Has there been anything further?" Brian asked.

"Not since Morgan Kirkwood called yesterday," Jacob answered. He knew Forrest was concerned about Jack. "We don't know if she found Jack or not."

She found him. Jacob knew it. He didn't say it out loud. He didn't want to get anyone's hopes up. Yet he was sure Morgan had found Jack. The more he learned about her, talked to her, saw her in the films, the more he liked this woman. She reminded him of two other strong women. The first was his wife, Marianne, whom he worshiped and who he knew was patient and resourceful. The other was Brooke Richards, a former member of his special group of protected people. She'd endured five years of the worst kind of existence. Jacob had watched Brooke being the brave, courageous standard bearer while her own life died, but she didn't give up. She fought with everything she had to save her child and her love for her husband.

Morgan was a lot like them. She hadn't said anything to make him think it, but Jacob knew she wanted to find Jack for more reasons than because he'd saved her life or that he was in trouble on her account. She was in love with him. It was on the films. The way she looked at him twelve years ago. The way he went to her with those roses crushed to her breast. Marianne had noticed it, just as Krysta had seen the ring.

If Morgan hadn't called in that she'd found Jack, there would be other things on her mind that took priority over telephone calls to him.

Clarence had authorized a search and there were people out looking for the duo at this minute. They would report in as soon as they found anything.

All they could do now was wait.

The door opened and all eyes turned to look up. A man in a white cook's uniform wheeled a cart in with coffee and food on it. Silently he laid the service out on a low credenza. No one said a word while he worked. He finished and left the room as silently as he'd entered it. The door clicked closed.

The telephone rang.

 

***

 

The unmistakable cock of a handgun sounded close to Morgan's ear. She gasped as she moved back in Jack's arms. He didn't let her go completely.

"Hello again." The green giant was back. Only this time he was wearing blood on his face and arms. His smile of bright white teeth was menacing enough to send a cold finger down her spine. "I underestimated you before, Ms. Kirkwood. Rest assured I won't do it again."

Morgan understood him exactly. She'd played her one and only trump card at their last encounter. This time he'd shackle her too.

Or kill her.

"Separate," he ordered them. "And keep your hands where I can see them."

Morgan raised her hands and moved back. The seat belt Jack had released snapped up. Jack's hands came up too.

"Now, out of the vehicle." He moved around to the front, pointing the gun at Morgan through the windowless frame. "You even think of doing something smart and she gets it."

Jack stepped out.

"Over there." He pointed with one finger to a place away from the Lexus while keeping the gun level and straight on target. Jack moved to the appointed spot.

"Who are you?" Morgan repeated her question from the first time she'd seen him.

"You don't learn, do you?" His face screwed into a dark frown. "I ask the questions. Out of the vehicle."

Morgan started to turn toward the passenger door.

"This way," he said. "That door." He indicated the driver's side. Morgan knew he didn't want either her or Jack out of his sight for even a second.

She climbed over the console. It was awkward getting into the driver's seat. She lost her balance. Her leg fell onto the console. Bullets came out the front of the van and cut the giant across the legs. The man screamed in pain.

Jack moved as he went down. He grabbed the gun from his hand and checked for others. Morgan jumped down from the driver's seat and joined him.

"Good thinking," he said. The man on the ground writhed with pain. Blood covered his legs, soaking into the fabric of his fatigues. The big man grabbed his legs, pressing his blood-soaked hands on them in an attempt to stem the flow.

Morgan got the first-aid kit from the truck. "I'm going to look at your legs," she told him. "But first. . ." She pulled out the set of handcuffs he'd forced her to shackle herself with and cuffed his hands behind him.

"And remember whose got the gun," Jack said. Morgan cut his pants legs and looked at the places the bullets had cut. He had two wounds in each leg. "You're lucky," she told him. "Apparently the bullets didn't hit anything vital. You'll be well when they strap you in the electric chair."

As she bandaged his legs, the sound came again. She and Jack looked at the sky at the same time.

"I thought the helicopter crashed," she said.

"It did," Jack said. He looked behind them at the crippled Apache sitting on the road a quarter of a mile away.

"I hear another one."

"Let's get out of here." Morgan jumped up and started for the Lexus. Jack grabbed her arm and stopped her. "What?"

He let out a whoop that would rival a victory yell.

"Jack!" Morgan pulled at his arm. They had to get away. Why was he hesitating? They were standing out in the open. Jack put his arm around her and pointed to the approaching bird.

"Look," he said, laughing. "The cavalry's arrived."

 

***

 

Jim Burton landed the black helicopter with the FBI decal on the side thirty feet from where Jack and Morgan stood. The green giant, still lying on the ground where he'd fallen, squeezed his eyes shut and pulled his body up and away from the churning debris caused by the aircraft's rotors. Morgan shaded her eyes until the blades slowed. With both hands she held her hair back. The smile on her face at the approaching savior must have been as wide as an ocean. She was just as glad to see him as she'd been to find Jack alive last night. Relief threaded through her with the force of Niagara Falls.

"How'd you find us?" Jack asked as the roar of wind died down to normal.

"I got here as fast as I could after the phone call."

"Phone call?"

"I hoped Jacob would still be monitoring the line," Morgan explained. "While you were busy swerving all over the highway, the phone skittered across the floor. That's when I released the belt and lunged for it. I hit the redial button and then got the rifle."

"We got a call to get in the air," Burton picked up the story. "And speaking of calls, there's a really angry man on the headset who wants to talk to you, Jack."

Jack smiled and started for the helicopter.

"There was a roadblock in front of and behind you," Burton continued. "We've got them. The locals should be here any minute."

"Hey, I'm lying here. Bleeding." The green giant spoke like a wayward child being ignored.

"You're lucky you're not lying there dead," Morgan stated with more bravado than she felt. She hadn't thought anything when she pressed that button. Jack was outside and the giant had a gun. She was trapped. They were trapped with nowhere to go. This time he wouldn't give them time to escape and he'd told her he'd treat her with the same care and consideration he'd given Jack. It was push that button or die.

Morgan's eyes were closed when the bullets began to fly. If they hit him in the chest or some vital part of his body, she didn't know what she'd feel, but she had to take the chance. And she was glad she'd only wounded him, even though he would not have given her the same consideration.

She checked his legs from her position out of his reach. The bandages were soaked with blood, but he'd be fine. He wouldn't die.

"What happened here?" Burton asked.

"They chased us. Three trucks and the skybird. He was in the chopper." She indicated the man lying on the ground and then related the entire ordeal for Burton, ending with Jack's comment on the cavalry's arrival.

"Who are you working for?" Burton asked the man.

"Yo mama," he snarled.

At that moment they heard the sirens. Coming toward them was a six-pack of police cars.

"Great," Morgan said, glancing down. "We can turn you over to them."

Blue and red lights on the car's crossbar cycled back and forth, like colored strobes. Sirens blared as if they were horn testers out for a final run before horns were forever banned. Morgan covered her ears.

"How are Allie and Jan?"

Burton's face suddenly turned soft. "Out of their minds with worry."

Morgan knew how he felt about Jan. She hoped her friend would give him a chance. Morgan liked him. He seemed to be a really good guy, like Jack.

"You didn't call," Burton was saying when she brought her attention back to him. "I practically had to tie Jan up to get in the chopper without her. I promised I'd let her know immediately when I found you."

They both looked at Jack. He was obviously trying to get a word in. Morgan could see his mouth say the word "but" as if he were stuck in a rerun. The cars, their sirens winding down, came to a stop a few feet behind the Lexus. Uniformed officers, guns drawn and ready, rushed to them.

Jim Burton held up his identification badge. The officers acknowledged it. "Everything all right here?" A tall man with graying hair and the build of an ex-football player spoke.

"There's a helicopter up there." Morgan pointed to a place behind Jack. "He came out of it." The giant smirked at her then winced in pain. "There were also three trucks. Two of them went over the side. The other is there."

The officers listened to her and the obvious leader dispersed men to check out the places Morgan mentioned.

She glanced at Jack. He had his arm over his head as he leaned on the windshield of the helicopter. But he was talking. He'd managed to get a word in and probably taken over the conversation, she thought.

The officers moved around her. Like a well-oiled machine they split into teams and went to work taking care of the wounded or the trucks. A car with two officers sped around them and headed for the downed helicopter around the bend. The other officers knew what to do. They appeared to be locking down everything, making sure there was no danger from explosions or surprise attacks. Ambulances joined the growing crowd of vehicles.

The tinkling sound of a cell phone went off. Burton pulled a unit from his pocket and the ringing became louder. He spoke in short, cryptic phrases. Without a good-bye or a word to her, he pressed a button and handed the phone to Morgan.

"Call them," he said and winked at her. Then he went to the tall officer in charge and spoke quickly.

Morgan smiled and began dialing the memorized number,

"Burton, did you find her?' Jan's voice was breathy and frightened.

"He found me," she said. "We're fine."

"Where are you? Did you get to Clarksburg?"

Morgan didn't want to share the details of the past twenty-four hours. "We'll be there in a few minutes," she said, glancing at the group standing a few feet away. Morgan assured them she was all right and that Jack was taking care of her. After a few minutes of repeating herself, and promises to keep in touch, she clicked the phone off and returned it to Burton.

Burton seemed to wait for her to finish her call. Then he came to her, indicating she should follow him. Morgan had to walk fast to keep up with him. They joined Jack, who ended his phone call as they approached. Burton helped her into the helicopter without a word. Climbing into the back, Morgan remembered the last time she got aboard a helicopter. Her heart beat a little faster even though she didn't expect to have to dive out of this one. Jack and Burton got in the front seats. She sat behind Jack, nervous, unsure of what was about to happen.

Morgan felt as if she was being rushed. Most of her life she had controlled her own destiny. She'd been her own champion of causes, responsible for herself, making her own decisions. Now, as this machine lifted her off the ground, she felt as if she'd been inside some game. For twelve years she'd been running around in circles, back and forth through the same maze of tunnels, going nowhere.

And now the sign read, "Game Over."

She'd lost.

 

CHAPTER 16

The FBI's Criminal Justice and Information Services—Fingerprint Identification Division Complex was a multimillion-dollar construction project. The complete complex sat on 986 acres within the city of Clarksburg, West Virginia. Total employment at the facility exceeded 3,600 people.

The whitewashed, three-story building flurried out in an array of connected facilities. It had no helicopter pad. The chopper set down at the edge of a parking lot that had been cordoned off. A car sat on the other side of the orange and white barrier. Two men got out as soon as Burton turned the engine off and the whine of the blades started to fade.

Jack and Burton got out. Morgan remained where she was, her throat dry, her legs feeling as heavy as lead pillars. Two men walked toward them. The taller one was lanky with dark hair. He didn't squint even though the sun shone directly in his face. He moved with an air of confidence that spoke of quiet control. The second man was shorter. His body was squarely cut, square shoulders leading to a thick but not fat waistline. Morgan had the impression that he was solid from the skin all the way through.

Jack smiled and shook hands with the shorter man. Then they hugged in that awkward I-am-a-man-and-men-don't-hug manner. Morgan knew this had to be Forrest Washington. She remembered his name now. Jack then shook hands with the other man. They said something to each other, but Morgan couldn't hear what it was. She still sat in her seat, staring through the glass in front of her, unseeing, unmoving, afraid of what was to happen. She'd been running for what seemed like years, but her journey ended here. It was over. She'd get out and walk into that bright, white building and her life would never be hers again.

Briefly, she thought of Hart Lewiston. Her father. She'd never get to know him. She hadn't decided if she even wanted to know him, but the decision wouldn't be hers. Even as president he couldn't protect her from a bullet.

And Jack.

She did move when she thought of Jack. He was still talking to Forrest Washington. Morgan reached for the door and pushed it open. Outside it stood the other man, the tall one. He had clear blue eyes that were trusting. Morgan found it hard to look away from him. His presence spoke of safety and care. She actually thought he cared about her. A stranger cared about her safety.

"I'm Jacob Winston," he said. "Director of the—"

"You don't have to introduce yourself." She'd never met him in person, but she knew who he was. Once she thought of him as her savior. Today he appeared as her jailer, kind eyes or not.

"Neither do you." His mouth curved into something less than a smile. "I've seen films and photos of you."

Morgan dropped her eyes. Everyone had seen those films.

She'd done the deed, performed for the world and no one would ever let her live it down. They saw it as pride. She could tell that even Jacob Winston, honcho of the witness protection program, thought of her as a national hero. While all she remembered was risking her life, nearly losing it for—

She stopped. For her father. She'd saved the man who fathered her, who said he didn't know about her, but claimed her for some unknown reason.

"I was very young in those films," she said.

"And very brave," he finished.

He helped her out of the aircraft. The white letters F-B-I caught her attention as she stepped onto the blacktop. She looked at the man Jack was talking to, then up at Jacob.

"Forrest Washington?"

Jacob nodded, glancing over his shoulder. The two men stopped talking and Forrest looked at her. They came to where she stood.

"I'm glad you're safe," he said.

Morgan reached out and shook hands with him. He was only a couple of inches taller than she was, and for all his bulk, his hands were surprisingly soft and gentle. Not like Jack's, which were rough and calloused. Washington's skin was a darker brown than her own, but where her underlying pigment was yellow, his was red. He wore a mustache and his brown eyes were serious and concerned.

"Why don't we go inside," he said. Instead of walking the short distance, a car was there and they all piled into it. The ride was only seconds long, then they went into the white building and were led to a conference room on the third floor. Waiting for them were two other men. One of them, a man in his fifties she estimated, had a shock of white hair and ruddy complexion. It made him stand out against the dark paneling. Morgan recognized him. She'd seen him a few times years ago. He was introduced to her as Clarence Christopher, director of the FBI. The other man was Brian Ashleigh, director of the CIA. He had the kind of face that was hard to put an age to. Morgan assumed, due to his position, he was probably a contemporary of the FBI director. His eyes were light brown, and his blond hair was graying in streaks and balding on the crown of his head.

She was dutifully impressed but didn't say anything. She wondered why they were here and for her. She assumed Jacob would accompany her back to Washington and from there she'd be sent to her new home with a new identity. Then she remembered Hart Lewiston and her relationship to him. Were they here because her father would probably be the next president? Or would he? She and Jack had been out of touch with news reports. What was the pressing saying about Hart's revelation?

She shook hands with them both and sat down. Jack set a cup of coffee in front of her and took the seat next to hers. Morgan wanted to take his hand. She needed something to hold onto, but she only watched as Jack tore a sugar packet open and dumped the contents into his own cup of hot liquid. Then as usual, he stuffed the top into the bottom and dropped them on the polished table. Morgan lifted her cup and sipped. She was suddenly extremely hungry.

She tried to concentrate on food. When was the last time she ate? What time was it? But she couldn't. She could only think that there were too many people in this room. Maybe it had to do with Hart Lewiston. He was political and the top men in the agencies were here to stay on his good side. If he was elected president they would work for him. It wouldn't hurt to make sure his daughter received their attention.

She stole another glance at Jack.

"Jacob." She sought out the only man, other than Jack, she could put her trust in. The silence had gone on too long. "What happens to me now?''

Her question garnered more quiet and looks passed between the men in the room. Morgan's ears turned red hot. She took Jack's hand under the table.

"We hadn't planned to get into any details," Jacob said. "You and Jack have been through a lot. You're probably hungry and tired."

"I want to know," she said before he could go on.

"That is not an easy question, Ms. Kirkwood," the white-haired director of the FBI answered. "Your father. . .complicates things."

"My father?"

"Hart Lewiston."

"I know who you mean. What does he have to do with this?"

The director sighed. "The world has changed since his announcement. By right, you deserve the protection of the secret service. There's some jurisdictional wrangling going on. In the meantime, we are charged with your security.

"It's not like we can put the daughter of the possible next president in the program."

Anger flashed through Morgan. It was irrational. She didn't want to go into the program. It would mean leaving Jack. She wanted to be with him. She wanted to spend her life with him. Yet that survival instinct inside her had been loosened. She wanted to live. She'd been dead all these years and she didn't want her life to return to that existence. Going into the program would close a cell door on her, return her to the place she did not want to be. Yet the words in her heart broke forth of their own volition.

"I don't believe the decision is his."

 

***

 

Jack woke up in a safe house in northern Virginia. He'd been asleep for almost twelve hours and his head ached from too much sleep. It had felt good to lie on a soft pillow, pale green sheets that smelled like flowers and a soft comforter that made him yearn for Morgan. He'd spent a lot of his life in places where beds weren't an option and other places where the ground was preferable. His assignments didn't often call for scented sheets and mattresses.

He wasn't sure if he didn't want one of those places now. As long as he could keep Morgan with him. Yesterday Jacob had ended the meeting shortly after it began. Morgan was in no condition to endure a long debate, he'd said. He'd been partially right. Jack and Morgan both needed rest. Now that they were in protective custody, they could afford to wait another twenty-four hours to straighten out the details. Jack wanted the reprieve. Another day with Morgan. He wanted another night with her too, but by the time they'd flown to Washington and then been transported to this place, Morgan was worn out. She'd never admit it, but after what they'd been through in the last few weeks, he was amazed she could still stand on her own two feet.

Morgan was in the next room. He wondered if she was awake. Leaving the bed, he pulled on clean pants. Clothes had been sent to him. The sizes were perfect and they were stiff with newness. Asking where they came from would be useless. He just pulled them on.

Outside, the lawn was long. The property, dotted with weeping willow trees that swayed in the soft breeze, was huge. He could see a paddock in the distance. The smell of horses wafted on the air with the scent of freshly cut grass.

Jack poked his head around the door adjoining his room to Morgan's. He'd left her there after their arrival. He'd wanted to stay with her, hold her, but they needed sleep more than they needed each other. She'd fallen asleep as soon as she got out of the shower. Jack had retired to his room and done the same.

 

***

 

Morgan sat in the middle of the bed, her knees up, her hands hugging them, her face turned toward the windows. The room was modern, complemented with furniture that was low and had straight lines. One wall was all windows. Morgan had opened the curtains and light filtered in. After sleeping in caves and vehicles covered with branches, he understood her insistence that they leave the curtains open last night.

She wore a pink nightgown. Her hair was pushed back from her face, reminding Jack of the morning he'd seen her swimming in the mountain lake. She appeared to be watching the horses.

"In," he said. He approached the bed.

"In," she answered. She didn't smile. She'd been deep in thought. "Did you sleep well?"

"No," he told her. She smiled then and he knew she understood his meaning. They'd been together constantly for the past few weeks. Sleeping without her had only happened because he was exhausted. If he'd stayed with her neither of them would have slept and they both knew it.

Jack sat on the covers. She reached for him. He came closer to her, immediately taking the soft hand, noticing the cuts and bruises that marred her arm, souvenirs of their ordeal. The marks would fade in time, but the sight of them cut through his gut like a rusty knife.

Morgan leaned forward. Her arms went around him. Jack folded her into his embrace and squeezed her close. She smelled of the soap and shampoo she'd used the night before. He inhaled deeply. She was warm and soft and he wanted nothing more than to hold onto her forever.

"Do you know anything?" she asked softly.

"Nothing that you don't know." He kissed her neck. "Only that Hart Lewiston is pulling out all the stops to find out where you are." Morgan pulled back and looked at Jack. "How do you feel about him?"

"I haven't really had time to think much about him."

She looked confused. "There is so much to think about. He's a senator. He's going to be president. He's from a different life. And I'm a grown woman. It might have been different if I were twelve and on the streets. Then I'd have given anything for a warm bed." 1 She smoothed her hand over the pink sheets. “Now, I could only be a liability to him and. . .”

“And you?” Jack prompted.

She frowned in an expression that said she had many problems and none with a solution. Hart Lewiston was only one of them. Jack understood. He had his own unsolvable complications.

“He’s going to be the next president,” Jack continued. “His announcement about you caused a dip in the polls, but he’ll recover. His father is a Supreme Court justice. He’s popular, a national hero.” Jack tipped her face up to look into her eyes. “That makes you a very important person.”

“I don’t feel very important,” she said. “Just scared.”

Jack was scared too. He didn’t know if she could see it in his eyes, but he didn’t try to disguise it this time. He wanted her to see him, see into his soul and know everything he thought and felt. He pulled her forward and kissed her. He couldn’t not kiss her. He was scared of being without her again. Terrified. He knew what it was like to carry around a love so heavy that it was painful to push it aside and do other things, and he knew what it was like to run out of time. They were nearly out of it.

Emotion streaked through him like a lightning rod and he kissed her deeply. He held her close, feeling her softness, imprinting her lines on him, slipping his hands over the satiny feel of her nightgown, rubbing the backs of his hands over her breasts, swallowing the soft breath of surprise that escaped her throat when his touch reached one of her erogenous zones.

Jack felt himself grow hard. He wanted her. Centuries must have passed since he’d last held her. And this could be the final time. He knew he shouldn’t. He knew it wasn’t fair to either of them. They should talk, but he couldn’t help himself. Pushing her down among all the pink folds of the bedcovers, he kissed her shoulders, her collarbones, listened for her short intake of breath that had become familiar when they made love. He loved her, would always love her. He kissed her again, long and deep, his hands buried deep in the richness of her hair. He couldn’t believe the way she made him feel. Did other people feel like this? How could he ever have thought he was alive before he met her? How was he to survive without her with him? She wasn’t his other half. With them there were no halves, no quarters, no parts at all. There was only a whole. Together they were one solitary unit, one entity, one intensely burning flame that burst into being whenever they came together, one single form of energy, packed densely as if the bonding between them was now and forever.

Moving one tiny scrape of fabric no wider than half an inch, Jack kissed the skin he uncovered. He repeated the action on her other shoulder. Morgan’s arms slipped down Jack’s. He felt her fingers trail over his skin. Jack pulled her up and released the straps from the prison of her arms. The gown pooled at her waist, baring her breasts. Jack groaned when he saw the clear, smooth skin that covered her from neck to waist.

Lowering his head, he kissed one puckered nipple and was rewarded by her catch of breath and the arms that clutched his head, holding him to her. Her nipple pebbled in his mouth. He listened to her pleasure-moans, the sound driving him on.

She was so smooth, so soft. He wanted to know every inch of her, touch her, taste her. He wanted to learn her secrets, explore her caverns, and, once learned, return for a second pass. He wanted to make that pass every day, include it in his daily routine, look forward to waking in the morning and finding her with him.

Jack eased back and slipped the gown down legs as long as Pennsylvania Avenue. He felt himself pressing harder against the denim of his jeans with each inch of leg exposed under the pink covering. He wanted to be inside her.

Pulling the zipper on his own pants, he rid himself of them and joined her on the bed.

“I don’t think I’m going to be able to live without you,” he whispered in her ear. His hands slipped under her, taking her hips and lifting her up to meet his entry. He closed his eyes, clenching his teeth, clamping down on the pleasure that ran through him as he pushed himself into her. Waves of pleasure splashed through him as he filled her, going deeper and deeper with each thrust, driving himself into her until he thought he would explode. Morgan moaned his name in his ear. She kissed him, kissed him all over, holding him with her hands and then her legs. She circled him with those unending legs. Jack had to have died and gone to heaven.

Jack nearly shouted. He couldn't hold on. He couldn't hold anything back. He let her know through his body that he loved her, with each thrust that he worshiped her, with each kiss that as much as he might try, he could never forget her. He'd wasted so much time, precious time. They'd spent a lifetime apart and they'd lived a lifetime in the past two weeks.

Jack knew he was going to die here, today, in a moment. Morgan was finally going to kill him. He couldn't stop himself. He no longer had the strength. Morgan had him clutched to her and he never wanted her to let go. He felt his release. The wave built in him, overwhelming him with the force of pleasure so strong that it would drive him to death. He willingly went, followed Morgan, jumped with her, rode with her, carried her. He was power and she was powerful.

Flipping her over, Jack traded places. She took control immediately, although neither of them really had any. They were spurred on by forces beyond their control, beyond explanation. Magic, voodoo, poltergeist, Jack didn't know which and didn't care. He only knew that it happened with Morgan and Morgan only. She was the catalyst, the fireworks display, the woman of his dreams, the woman he wanted to go to forever with. He'd never wanted to marry. Never thought of it fitting into his career, but with her, it was constantly on his mind.

He buried his face in her shoulder, muffling her name, as their bodies joined and rejoined. He burned for her and the burning consumed him, seared them into one bright, white-hot light. Everything and nothing mattered to Jack, except the passion that flowed between them. He heard the primal sounds that must have defined the first couple. They were his, mingled with hers. Together they pushed and pulled, circled the world and came back to the beginning. Heat surrounded them, hot and white, erupting in wild thunder, scorching their very souls.

Bewitched by this she-devil, enflamed by a world without control, Jack felt the sparks of irresistible dynamite that exploded the two of them in mutual climax.

Morgan collapsed on his chest. His breathing was raspy, labored, hard, as was hers. He dragged air into his lungs, riding the wave of pure sensation that tore through him. His arms tightened around her. He repeated her name over and over, whispering it in her ear, running his hands over her lithe body, over her incredibly long legs and over hips that were made for the contour of his palms.

He didn't know if he could ever describe what she did to him, how she made him feel or even if they could repeat this impossibly wonderful love that happened between them. He knew without a doubt that he loved her, that he'd given her everything he had to give.

Even his headache was gone.

 

***

 

The horses fascinated her. Morgan had never seen a horse up close. She never knew she liked them. She'd seen the mounted police in Central Park in New York. And she'd seen horses pulling hansom cabs during a short trip to Chicago, but none of those horses were as beautiful as the ones running on the other side of the track. Morgan propped her arms on the slatted fence and watched. They moved with sureness, confidence, defying gravity as they danced in the morning sun.

"Do you ride?"

Morgan turned toward the voice. Jacob Winston stood next to her at the fence. She hadn't heard him approach. Her concentration had been on the horses.

"I've never been on a horse," she told him.

"Would you like to go for a ride?"

"I don't think so." She shook her head.

"You can go anytime you wish. Just let them know." He glanced toward the stables.

"I will," Morgan smiled, knowing she wouldn't. "I want to thank you."

"For what?"

He put his foot on the bottom rung of the fence. Morgan turned back to watch the majesty as horse and rider played with the wind and the sun in the distant field.

"For getting me out of that room yesterday."

He smiled. Morgan liked him. She'd liked his voice on the other end of the phone and the way he hadn't argued with her when she called and told him she needed information. He sounded concerned for her safety then and she knew now that he did care about her. Why, she didn't understand. They didn't know each other, yet he didn't look at her as if she'd gotten herself into this predicament and it was his job to get her out. She glanced at the ring on his third finger. He was married. His wife must be a very lucky woman.

"You needed time. Running for your life is hard work." She laughed then, realizing she hadn't laughed in weeks. "The Clarksburg location receives requests for more than fifty thousand fingerprint matches a day. It was built for that purpose, but it's not set up for meetings that needed the kind of security yours would."

"Are we about to have that meeting now?"

"Not out here. I came to give you a message."

"A message?"

Morgan's hands tightened on the fence. Was he about to tell her Jack was gone?

"Hart Lewiston wants to see you."

"I can't." She bowed her head, leaning it on the rough splintered wood, relieved that it wasn't about Jack.

"There's a strong possibility that when you leave here you'll be going into permanent protective custody. It might be your only chance to talk to him."

"I'm not ready."

Morgan had seen Hart's face on television. He'd looked at her from every newspaper from Missouri to Washington, D.C. She'd heard his voice, knew his smile. She'd watched him speak, knew the way he stood for the camera with his wife holding onto his arm and smiling. She knew everything about his appearance, yet he was a stranger.

Morgan had carried him, scooped him up and put him in a kangaroo pouch, and like a trapeze artist, flown through the air with him. Yet she wasn't prepared to face the living individual.

How was she supposed to act? What did a grown woman say when she met her father for the first time? Should she joke? Should she be humble? Aggressive? Angry? Should she tell him she didn't need him after her mother died and she didn't need him now? She was used to surviving on her own. She could tell him she was onto his scheme, that she understood his motives. That she knew he only wanted to use her as a pawn in the Hart Lewiston political election machine.

"Just start with hello and see where it takes you," Jacob brought her back to the present.

"You must be a father." She looked up at him.

He took a position at the fence like hers and smiled and looked into space for a moment. "My daughter is three."

"She's very lucky."

"I'm the lucky one. I can't imagine life without her."

Morgan saw where he was going. "It's different with you," she began. "You've been with your daughter all her life. You two have a history together. It might only be three years old, but for her it's her whole life. Hart and I. . ." She faced him, spreading her hands. "We have nothing."

"You have something, Morgan." He stared into her eyes, giving her the chance to remember.

"I saved his life," she said.

"You could have died getting him out of there," Jacob reminded her. "He knows that."

"He wasn't even aware of the escape in Korea. He's never seen me, only the television image of a scared teenager."

 

***

 

The metropolitan area around Washington, D.C., which included this secluded Virginia landscape, was usually bathed in humidity at this time of the year. Fortunately they were enjoying a brief period where the air was warm and breathable. Yet the doors to the house were closed and the air conditioning was running. Jacob stood with his back to the room.

The library of the safe house faced the paddock fences where he had left Morgan. She no longer stood there. She'd stayed for a while watching the horses as she had been doing when he found her. Then she walked toward the stables. He waited for her to come back into his line of vision. He assumed she'd changed her mind about riding.

She was safe here. Everyone on this property had been hand-picked. Even the stable hands had security clearance.

"Is this what you brought me down here for?" Jacob heard as Forrest Washington's voice. He turned as two men came into the room. Jack was the second.

"Jacob, I'm glad you're here," Jack said.

Washington was carrying a single sheet of paper. Jacob glanced through the window. Morgan came out of the stables. He recognized the agent holding the reins of two horses. One was a gentle mare. The hand helped her into the saddle and climbed on his own animal. Together they left in a slow walk.

Washington handed him the paper. Jacob read it and handed it back.

"You're not surprised?" Washington asked.

"I knew," Jack said.

"It's why I came home," Jack said.

Washington turned and stared at him. "You came home to resign?"

Jack nodded.

"Well what stopped you?" Forrest Washington was not prone to frequent anger, but Jacob recognized it now.

"I met Jacob for lunch. Then. . ." He stopped. "I got sidetracked," he ended weakly.

"I think you need a vacation. Take some time to yourself," Washington began. "The past few months have been a nightmare. Then to come home and got caught up in this mess. You need time to decompress, regroup."

"I don't need a vacation," Jack shouted. For a moment the room was quiet. No one said anything. Jack turned away then back. "I want out, Forrest. I'm going into witness protection with Morgan."

 

***

 

The man sat back in the chair, his hands steepled in front of him. He stared through the small triangle the hands created. The appearance was calm, but his slanted eyes told different story. It had been minutes since he said anything. He appeared to concentrate on the walls. They were covered with silk prints of flaming dragons and ugly dogs. The stones in the flooring were colored, tan and brown with a few red appearing here and there haphazardly.

The other man sat on that floor, nervously waiting for the man to speak. He was below his employer, reduced to feeling inferior by their positions. The man in his chair, him on the smooth stone floor. At least he wasn't sitting on loose stones. He didn't know which room he preferred more. Then he thought he'd rather be outside than in any of the rooms in this house. They were too. . .too much. If they were bright, they were too bright. If they were dark, they were too dark. Too small. Too crowded or too sparse. Nothing was done in moderation, only extremes.

"All of them?" the other man asked, but he already knew the answer.

"Those that are still alive are in the hands of the FBI."

"I suppose I don't have to say how disappointed I am." The statement was spoken with a calmness he was known for. He could sit peacefully or he could flare into a raging dragon. In either mood his eyes were piercing. This time he looked a little different, however. This time it was personal. He was involved in this one more than any of the others. How, was the question. Nevertheless there was no question that all the facts weren't known. No one would put so much effort into finding one woman and the man with her.

"What do you plan to do to rectify this situation?"

Facing the older man, he swallowed hard. All he had was bad news. "At the moment we don't know where they've taken Ms. Kirkwood. She was at the FBI headquarters in West Virginia, but she's been moved. My guess is to a safe house. She could be anywhere."

The other man shot up from his chair so fast it slid across the room and hit the wall behind him. "Find them,'' he shouted. "I will have no further delays or excuses. I want her and I want him. I want them dead and those papers in my hands."

He spread his hands, palms out, so the contrast of light and dark could clearly be seen. Compared with his own hands, the other man's were small, stubby, his fingernails short. He was proud of telling people how long his life lines were. He would have a long life and live well. He proved he could live well by his surroundings.

Looks, however, were deceiving. The room was appointed with expensive pieces, dynasty items that had been transported all the way around the world to get here. Even people who had no idea of the worth of Oriental furniture could tell from the weight and high gloss of the room that it was populated with many American dollars. Regardless of the international exchange rates, nothing diminished the flash of the green. Yet all the money in the world couldn't wash the dirt off this man's hands.

"Come back again without completing this job"—he leaned forward, his fingers bearing his weight as he leaned on the desk—"and we'll use your blood to paint the rest of the stones on this floor."

The other man got up and turned to leave. As he reached for the door panel, it opened. Three men stepped inside. One in front and two flanking the leader.

"FBI," he said.

 

***

 

"How do I look?" Morgan checked her image in the mirror for the tenth time in the last half hour. She'd changed clothes four times. She had on a black strapless gown with a white sash around the waist. "Cleavage," she said. She put her hands up. "Too much cleavage." She couldn't wear this. It was way too sexy.

She grabbed the zipper and pulled it down.

"Morgan, what are you doing?" Jack asked.

"I can't wear this. It shows too much. . ." She spread her hands. The dress slipped to the floor.

"Not as much as you're showing now." Jack raised and lowered his eyebrows in a lecherous gesture.

Morgan looked at herself. She wore a one-piece bustier, thigh-high stockings and three-inch heels. Everything she had on was fire engine red. She didn't know whose idea it was to buy this underwear. She hadn't ordered any of it, but she had had some like this before she blew her house up in St. Charles.

Jack picked up one of the other dresses. He held it by the rhinestone straps. Red. It had a fitted bodice and a skirt that billowed out at the bottom. It felt like liquid against her legs.

"Hart Lewiston is outwitting the press and his campaign people to make this little dinner. He'll be here in ten minutes. If you don't get dressed we are going to be conspicuously absent from dinner."

Jack had fire in his eyes when she looked at him. She felt the sting of desire in her belly. He approached her and for a moment they stared into each other's eyes. He had on a black tuxedo. He looked devastating. For a moment Morgan considered staying in the room. She would much rather make love with Jack than go through the ordeal of making small talk with a famous stranger.

Jack went down on one knee. He held the dress for her. Morgan stepped into it. He started raising it, dragging the fabric up her legs. Before he got to the tops of her thighs, the place where the stockings ended and she began, he leaned forward and kissed her skin. Morgan shuddered, grabbing his shoulders as sensation rocketed through her, threatening to buckle her knees. Jack pulled back and continued to cover her skin with the fabric growing from the floor until he was standing upright and she was threading her arms through the jeweled straps.

"I'm scared," she whispered. " Why had she agreed to this? Jacob and Jack had convinced her to meet Hart. It wouldn't kill her, they had said.

"He wants to meet you," Jack said. "And you want to meet him too. He's the family you always wanted."

Morgan was too afraid. It was going to be a disaster. There was no reason for her to meet Hart Lewiston. Why wasn't he out campaigning? He needed to regain the points he'd lost in the polls, not fly in here to meet a thirty-one-year-old daughter he'd never actually seen.

"You look fine," Jack said as he zipped her in and turned her to face him. He was calm while her heart was racing to the beat of a drum.

"You look beautiful, with your hair up like that." He touched hair she'd curled and styled and pulled up into a mane on the top of her head. One micro-braid hung down the side of her face to her chin. "You looked like this when you came into your house, wearing that black dress and high heels.''

Morgan thought that had been a century ago, when it was only three weeks.

"Jack, I don't want to do this."

He folded her in his arms. "Sure you do," he whispered. "If you don't, you'll wonder for the rest of your life what he was like. You'll kick yourself for a missed opportunity."

"I know what he's like."

Jack was shaking his head as she spoke. "You know his television image, his political views, his public service. You don't know the man."

Morgan leaned back. "He could be a terrible person in private."

"You'll want to know that too," he reassured her.

Morgan kissed him on the cheek. She put her arms around his neck and held on for a while. Jack knew what to say. That was one of the things Morgan loved about him.

"Ready?" he asked, pushing her back.

"Give me a minute." She went to the dresser. "Someone bought this jewelry. The least I can do is wear it." She put a pair of red teardrop earrings through her pierced ears, and their length danced along her jaw. Jack took the matching necklace, made of a gold chain with a red teardrop stone at the end. Morgan and fastened it about her neck.

She picked up a tissue and turned to him, wiping her lipstick from his cheek.

"Ready," she said. Together they left the room. The corridor was wide and Morgan slipped her arm through his as they reached the top of the stairs. She looked down. What was this evening going to be like? she wondered.

She and Jack started down. Jack stopped halfway to the bottom. "There's something I want you to remember for the rest of the evening. Whenever you're afraid or at a loss for something to say."

Morgan tightened her grip on his arm. She looked up at him. "What is it?" she asked.

He leaned toward her. "Red is your color," he whispered close to her lips. "And I'll be thinking about getting my hands on the tops of those stockings every time I look at you."

 

***

 

There was more security here than he'd seen in any place on the campaign trail. Hart had no doubt that everyone from the chopper pilot to the maid that opened the door for them had the highest security clearance. He was used to security. Campaigning these days meant taking your life in your hands. There were plenty of crazies out there looking to be the next James Earl Ray or Sirhan Sirhan.

The helicopter ride had been short, no more than thirty minutes, although his watch had been removed before he boarded the craft and he and Carla had been blindfolded. He didn't know where they actually were. It was disorienting not being able to see. For a moment, it had taken him back to his ordeal in Korea where part of his torture was to be blindfolded and beaten. He probably would have had a more troublesome time of it, except that Carla had complained the entire way about the absurdity of such a device. He'd never seen her so agitated. She'd insisted on accompanying him, although he'd told her he could do this alone. Still she persisted. Hart admired his wife. He knew she felt uncertain, confused, out of control. He felt the same, but he couldn't let that stop him. When those papers arrived a week ago, he was stunned. It brought his love for Rose Kirkwood back to him.

Hart had been surprised by the fire of it. He thought he was over her. He loved Carla. She was his wife of twenty-three years, but he never forgot Rose, and they'd made a daughter.

How could he not want to see her, talk to her, make her part of his life? But Carla's life was connected to his, and if he brought Morgan into it, he would have to have his wife's consent.

Carla had sat rigidly during the short ride here, but now she appeared to relax. Her face wasn't as pale as it had been. Hart knew she didn't like to fly. They arrived in a helicopter, a flight quite different from an airplane. Maybe now that she was back on the ground she would have more command of herself.

They went into a large drawing room. The walls were a muted blue. The furniture was dark and heavy and the chandelier that lit the room was huge and bright. Hart was reminded of the White House. A uniformed waiter, complete with white gloves and a silver tray, brought him a drink he hadn't ordered. Hart tasted the orange juice and ginger ale concoction. He didn't drink often and liked the virgin Mimosa more than its alcoholic replacement. It was exactly as he liked it. He had no doubt Carla's was also to her liking.

"Ms. Kirkwood will be in shortly," the waiter said and left them alone. Hart took a sip of his drink and looked at the huge painting of the Jefferson Memorial over the dark fireplace.

"Any idea where—" Carla began, but stopped when the door clicked. They both turned at the sound. Morgan Kirkwood stepped inside. She walked directly toward them. Hart didn't know who he expected to see. He had the image of a nineteen-year-old, wearing a leotard and poised on a narrow beam. The woman who crossed the carpet with a tight smile wasn't nineteen and she wasn't wearing a leotard. His knees went weak and he set the glass down on the mantel where he stood.

After so many years he thought it was impossible. He never expected to see her again, but Rose Kirkwood, the image of Rose Kirkwood, floated in front of him and then stopped. He swallowed, knowing if he tried to speak at that moment his voice would crack . He stared at her. She was as tall as Carla. Her skin was clear and smooth and he noticed her cheeks were tinged with an undercoat of blush that wasn't makeup, but some heightened sense of nerves. He felt it too.

"You look like your mother," he said.

 

***

 

Morgan didn't know what to say. So she said nothing. She stood looking at her father. He thought she looked like her mother, but seeing him was like seeing herself. She wondered why other women looked in the mirror as they grew older and saw the reflection of their parents, either more of their mother than they wanted or more of their father than they ever thought possible. Morgan saw her mother's eyes and her smile in that mirror. People told her that when she was a child. She did have her mother's eyes and her mouth. Looking at the man across the room from her, she knew everything else about her appearance came from him.

Yet when he looked at her, he saw her mother. Did he want to see her mother in her? She understood why her skin tone was so pale. She was brown, but the undercoat of yellow was directly derived from him.

She smiled at his statement, not contradicting him.

"Hello," she said, offering her hand to Carla. "I'm Morgan Kirkwood. You're Carla Lewiston."

Carla accepted her hand. Her fingers were cold as they closed around Morgan's. "I thought we might want to talk for a few minutes alone."

Carla looked stately. Her clothes said she was ready to carry out the duties of the First Lady with as much pomp and circumstance as any of the past First Ladies. Her sequined gown was royal blue with hidden slit pockets. One of Carla's hands disappeared in that pocket. The other hand held a matching purse. She played nervously with the short strap.

Morgan sat down on one of the sofas in front of the fireplace. Hart and Carla faced her on the other. She noticed Carla take his hand as if she needed the solid protection of his presence. Morgan couldn't believe how calm she appeared. Inside her stomach was boiling. Jack had offered to stand with her, but she refused him meeting her parents was something she needed to do alone.

Neither of them spoke and the silence stretched. "I'm a little nervous," she finally said. "I never expected to find my father alive or that it could be you. I thought. . ." she hesitated. "I thought you might want to have everything confirmed."

"Confirmed?" Carla spoke for the first time.

"Blood tests," Morgan suggested. "DNA?"

"We don't have to talk about that now," Hart said. "Tell me about you."

Morgan didn't want to talk about herself. Her story wasn't especially pretty. She hadn't grown up taking dance classes or being one of the cheerleaders in school. It was natural that he'd want to know about her, but it wasn't a story she wanted to tell. She was surprised he didn't already know everything there was to know.

She gave him the abridged version of her life, leaving out all the bad, only telling him that her mother died and she was adopted and went on to join the gymnastics team. The way she told the story, you'd never know she lived on the streets, scavenging food and watched her best friend bleed to death. She wore an expensive dress, her hair was curled and her makeup flawless. She looked like someone living the American Dream, but Morgan lived the American Nightmare and it hadn't ended yet.

"I'm sure you've heard more from Mr. Christopher," Morgan ended. "I now live in St. Charles, Missouri, or at least I did." She thought about the loss of her house. "What about you? I know nothing about you and my mother." Morgan looked at Carla for any clue of her feelings. She saw none.

Hart explained that he'd grown up in a middle class family. They always had food and clothes and he wasn't concerned about having the latest electronic devices, although somehow his parents gave him some of those things. That his father was a country lawyer until he was tapped for the Supreme Court.

Hart followed in his dad's footsteps and went to law school, but found himself training for the Central Intelligence Agency.

"And you know about my capture and subsequent rescue."

Morgan nodded. He didn't look totally comfortable talking about that part of his past. Morgan wanted to know about him and her mother, but decided that was a conversation for a time when Carla Lewiston wasn't present.

 

***

 

Dinner went better than she expected it to be, mostly due to Jack. Morgan was placed at the head of the table in the small dining room. Hart was on her right and Carla Lewiston on her left. The rest of the table had Jack next to Carla, then Jacob Winston. On Hart's side of the table sat Clarence Christopher and Forrest Washington. Brian Ashleigh sat directly across from her at the other end of the table.

Hart spoke softly and asked her questions about her past. Morgan did her best to answer them as truthfully as she could. She steered the conversation toward him as often as she could, asking him about his life after he returned from Korea, although neither of them mentioned their common association to the Far Eastern country. Jack kept Carla busy in a conversation that didn't give her the chance to direct uncomfortable looks at Morgan. Morgan supposed it was natural for Carla to distrust and dislike her spouse's child, especially when she didn't know about her, but Morgan didn't like the looks she got any more than she'd enjoy dental surgery.

Morgan couldn't remember what they ate. She thought there was lobster bisque, and her plate had a soufflé on it when they moved from the table, but she had no memory of eating anything.

Back in the drawing room with a cup of flavored coffee in her hand, she stood next to the window with Jack.

"How's it going?" he asked.

"I'm not sure. I feel like a piece of sculpture. Hart plays the art lover who wants to examine every curve and obtain detailed explanations for each inch of the stone, while his wife hates art and wonders what the big deal is."

Jack laughed quietly. "I'll try to keep her away from you."

"Thank you, Jack, but like Eliza Doolittle, I think it's time she had her way with me."

Morgan smiled, set her cup down and turned toward Mrs. Hart Lewiston. Jack caught her arm and kissed her cheek. "Don't be too hard on her. She is the next First Lady."

He released her and Morgan walked across the room. Carla sat on a sofa and Morgan saw her stiffen as she approached. Morgan smiled, hoping to make her relax. She'd been talking to Forrest Washington, who excused himself as she approached.

"Would you like more coffee?" Morgan asked. The older woman shook her head. Morgan took the seat next to her. "You'll make a wonderful First Lady," she said.

"If Hart is elected." She glanced at her husband, who was talking to Jack.

"I think he'll get elected."

"His announcement regarding you didn't help him."

She'd opened the door. Morgan knew this was the heart of her hostility. Carla resented her position being threatened by Hart telling the world Morgan was his daughter.

Morgan leaned closer to her so no one around them could hear what she had to say.

"Mrs. Lewiston." She addressed her formally, knowing they weren't friends, and Morgan knew they wouldn't have the chance to become friends. "I am not here to threaten your position or to suddenly insinuate myself into Hart's life.'' Carla Lewiston looked at her with interest and question in her eyes. "I'm afraid there are things I cannot tell you. They involve most of the men in this room." Carla looked about. "They are not here because of candidate Hart Lewiston. When you leave here tonight you will never see me again."

Morgan waited for a sign. She expected relief in the woman's eyes, but she got nothing but stony silence.

"Why are they here?" she finally asked.

"I can't tell you." She paused and surveyed the room. "What I can tell you"—Morgan stopped and looked back at Carla—"is that within a few days I'll be gone. Hart won't be able to find me. No one will." A pang of pain crushed her heart as she looked at Jack. "So you don't need to worry. Without my presence, the media will find something else to use as a torch. I'll fade into the woodwork. Your life will go on exactly as you planned it."

At that point Morgan placed her hand on Carla's. It was still cold. She smiled briefly and left the woman sitting alone. She wanted to go to her room. She wanted all these people out of here. She wanted to be alone with her thoughts, without the need to hold her head up, or smile, or conceal her real thoughts. She needed some time and space.

Jack caught her eye and she knew he understood. He came to her, leaned close to her ear. "Remember what I said about red."

Morgan burst into laughter. She knew Jack had done it on purpose. He'd taken the fuel from her, making her laugh to relieve the building tension.

"What's going on over there?" Morgan asked. Jack glanced back at the senator and the director of the FBI. "Your father,'' he said succinctly, making her freeze. "He wants to know what the FBI is doing to catch the people trying to kill you and how long you'll be sequestered in this house."

"Did they tell him?"

"Apparently not."

"I thought he understood his trip here was for this time only. That there would be nothing more."

"That might have been the original plan, but he's met you now."

"Maybe it's time I put an end to this."

"Want some help?" Jack asked.

She shook her head, but he followed her. Approaching the small group, they stopped talking and each took a step back. "I'd like to talk to Hart, if you don't mind." Each man nodded as she looked at him. "Why don't we go for a walk?"

Morgan took his arm and led him toward the French doors. She opened them and they left the room behind, yet she could feel the sets of eyes trained on her. She led Hart away from the house. The sun set later during summer months. It was getting dark, but it was still light enough to see. The air was clear and brushed her naked shoulders. She stopped at the paddock fence. Hart's secret service agents stopped a few yards away--out of ear shot.

"This is where Jacob convinced me to see you." She looked over the empty paddock. The horses were all in the stables.

"You didn't want to see me?"

She looked away. "Not at first. It's been a long time. I've lived my whole life without a father. It's too late to acquire one now."

"It's not too late for us to get to know each other."

"I think it is."

"Why?"

"You've read about me in the papers," she stated.

He nodded.

"Then you should know that tonight is it. Tomorrow you go back to your life, your campaign, and I. . .I continue with mine."

"It doesn't have to be that way. There must be something that can be done."

"They're doing it," Morgan said.

"We can hire an investigator."

"No—"

"Find out who is—"

"No,'' she shouted. 'You're not listening to me. Everything that can be done is being done." She gripped the splintering fence and calmed her voice. "If there was a way, Jack would have found it."

"Jack?"

The single word was a volume in itself. Everything she felt about Jack was asked in the one word.

"Yes, Jack." She looked him straight in the eyes. A lump gathered in her throat. She swallowed it down. "I'll be leaving him too."

Suddenly he looked tired. Morgan had a thousand questions and no time to get answers. He probably had a thousand more for her. She called him her father, sometimes thought of him as her father, but there was nothing to bond them. She had a great love for her mother. When she thought of Rose Kirkwood, feelings ran through her, happy days at the park, a Christmas tree, being read to, having her shampooed hair brushed. She had a short lifetime of memories. She couldn't explain how she felt. It was a place that was warm and bright and made her feel good. When she thought of Hart. . .when she looked at him, she had none of those feelings. He was a stranger, the presidential nominee.

She didn't know what he saw when he looked at her. Now that they had met, he could go back to his campaign and forget her. They had no tie, no connection, no love lost or found. They were two strangers who had a nice dinner. She had never been one to share childhood stories. Hers weren't the campfire variety and she thought they would make him feel bad if she told him the unvarnished truth. It was best for them to separate.

"I've done most of the talking tonight. Is there anything you want to ask me?" Hart asked.

"I'd like you to tell me about my mother."

 

CHAPTER 17

Clarence Christopher listened intently to the voice in his ear. He'd been waiting all through dinner for this call. Each time a waiter came in to serve another course he'd hoped to be called to the phone, but it hadn't happened. The entire evening had gone and nothing, but he smiled now.

"Are you sure you've got them all?" he asked.

"Fine," he said a moment later. "Make sure the report is on my desk in the morning.

He replaced the receiver. Jacob stood next to him.

"I take it they got them?" he asked.

"All of them," he said. "According to Carver, they are singing like birds. Where are Morgan and Jack?"

"Outside with the Lewistons," Clarence said. "Hart and Morgan went out first. Mrs. Lewiston followed a few minutes later. I guess this means they won't be needing my services," Jacob said with a smile.

"I think not. We have to be sure, but with what we have on Chung and his cronies and what they tried to do, I'm sure their government will be willing to accept anything we present to keep the scandal off the front pages."

Jacob nodded. "It would be awful to discover that the presidential candidate was trying to kill the daughter of an American icon."

Clarence nodded. He heard the chopper blades as the helicopter returning Senator Lewiston and his wife took off.

"Why don't you deliver the good news to the happy couple,'' Clarence said to Jacob. "I'll let Ashleigh know."

 

***

 

Jack slipped his arm around Morgan as they walked back toward the house. The chopper carrying Hart and Carla Lewiston back to Andrews Air Force Base, where they would enter their limousine for the trip back into D.C., was overhead. The sound of the blades beating the air became fainter and fainter. Morgan didn't know how long it would be before that sound didn't set her teeth on edge. Likewise the cars with Jacob, Forrest and Brian had also left for their return to the city. They were alone except for the staff. Morgan leaned into him and he tightened his arm around her.

"How did you like him?"

''I don't know,'' she said. "If we had time I suppose I could get used to the idea, but. . ." She left the sentence trailing. They didn't have enough time. She was scheduled to leave tomorrow for the program. He wouldn't see her again after tonight. She didn't even know it yet. Jack put off telling her until after Hart could get here and go.

He'd watched the two of them when the rotors started to turn. Carla had already entered the aircraft. Father and daughter faced each other awkwardly. Neither knew what to do. Jack put his hand on Morgan's back and pushed her. She hugged Hart like a stilted doll. He squeezed her and closed his eyes. Jack thought he genuinely would miss her.

They both would.

Inside, Morgan excused herself to go to her room.

"Before you go," Jack stopped her. "I have some news for you."

"I hope it's good news."

"It is."

She waited for him to say something.

"Well," she said. "Tell me."

Jack smiled. "I told Jacob I was going into the program with you."

A smile the size of the entire Commonwealth of Virginia spread across her face.

"But. . ." he trailed off.

"But?" She waited expecting bad news was coming

"But they caught the Koreans tonight. You won't be going into the program."

Morgan opened her mouth to speak. Nothing came out. Tears welled in her eyes and spilled down her cheeks. "Are you sure, Jack?"

"I'm sure."

"Are you really sure?"

He pulled her in his arms. "On my honor." Jack didn't think good news would make her cry. He knew she was happy, but her tears hurt him. He didn't ask her to stop or push her away. He held her just as he had in that closet twelve years ago until she stopped.

She stepped back when her emotions were under control. "I'd better go wash my face," she said.

"All right, Red."

She laughed through the tears and started for the stairs.

Jack started his nightly routine of making sure everything was secure. He checked the outside perimeter, contacting each of the stationed agents, making sure everything was secure. Then he'd go through all the downstairs rooms, looking for anything out of place, unlocked or unsecured. His hand was on the doorknob of the drawing room when the microphone in his ear activated.

"Jack, someone's just come over the fence on the south wall."

"How many?"

"Three, but I think there are more."

"Take care of them. I'm going to secure Morgan."

He took the steps three at a time. Without knocking, he burst through the door of Morgan's room. She was in front of the mirror, pulling her hair down. She'd changed from the red dress and wore a white robe. She shifted when he opened the door.

"What's wrong?"

His face must have told her something was happening.

"Don't leave this room," Jack said and pulled the door closed. He went back down the stairs, speaking into the mike as he went. "Where are they now?"

"There are six of them and they're heading for the house. They've spread out."

"Any around the back?"

"The back is secure."

"Take them down," Jack ordered. "All other areas report."

"Caldwell, secure."

"Markum, secure."

"Greene, secure."

One by one they reported in. The only place it appeared they had penetrated was along the south wall.

"You know what to do," Jack spoke to the group.

He headed toward the south. Gunfire startled him. He hit the dirt, keeping his head down. Short bursts broke the silence. Jack crawled toward the sound. He pulled infrared glasses from a pocket near his gun and put them on. The world took on a red glow, and only the hot spots moved in the surreal world. With his gun in his hand, he chambered a shell and started toward the gunfire.

"Damn," he cursed after moving only a few feet. The helicopter was back. And it was landing. What was Lewiston doing here? He didn't need him too. He was a hanging target up there. Then the light came on and shone directly on the target. Jack smiled. "Thank you, Hart." He was showing them where the assailants were.

"They're retreating," he heard one of the agents say.

"Don't let them get away,'' Jack replied. They'd been chasing him too long. He wanted to know who they were and what they wanted.

The helicopter continued to follow the retreating men, keeping its light trained on them. Jack saw a hot spot through his glasses. The person extended his arm, aiming for the chopper. Lying on his stomach, Jack gripped his handgun with both hands, aimed and pulled the trigger. He heard the short scream of pain as the bullet found its mark. Jack had aimed for his shoulder. He wanted him alive. He wanted to look this one in the eye and make him tell the complete and utter truth.

He wanted to know who was really masterminding this operation. With everyone dead they would only be buying time until another assault could be planned or she went into the program. Jack wanted to prevent that if he could.

Another short burst of gunfire stopped his movement.

"This is Chandler. I've got two of them."

"Are they alive?" Jack shot back.

"Yes."

"Rayfield, two dead in front of me."

"Tomlison, report," Jack barked into his microphone.

"This is Tomlison. I'm outside the fence. I got two coming over."

"I've got one down, but not secure by the west wall," Jack had to shout over the sound of the landing chopper.

"Neville here. I'm behind him, Jack." In seconds Jack saw the man he'd shot raising his good hand. Neville was on him, handcuffing him.

"Taylor?" The only female on the detail hadn't reported.

"I'm outside a truck about five hundred feet north of the front gate.'' Her voice was distinctive, low and purring as if she could roll all the letters in the alphabet. "There are two men inside. I could use some backup."

"Innis here," her partner identified himself. "I'm on my way."

Jack got up from the ground. "Bring them in," he ordered. "Greene, make sure Mr. Lewiston and his wife are safe."

"On my way," Greene replied.

 

***

 

Morgan pulled a shirt over her head and grabbed her jeans. She wasn't staying here. She heard gunfire outside. Where was Jack? He was heading for it. He could get killed. She tried to put her jeans on while running. She tripped and hopped, all the while pulling at the stubborn pants. When she got them on, she slipped her sockless feet into sneakers, taking no time to tie the laces.

She heard more gunfire and then the helicopter. What now? she thought. If she never heard another helicopter it would be too soon. Yanking the door inward, she rushed into the hall. As she turned toward the front stairs a man stepped in front of her. Her heart lurched into her throat. He pointed a black gun at her.

"That's far enough," he said. He was dressed entirely in black. This one was only as tall as she was, but he was burly enough to knock the air out of her with only a swat.

Morgan stopped on the balls of her feet. She rocked back, feeling as if he'd pushed her.

"Who are you?" she asked, fear so evident in her voice she could hardly speak.

"Who I am is unimportant."

"What do you want?"

"More than you've got," he replied, reminding her of the green giant. "Now do what I say and we'll both be happy. That way." He indicated an area behind her. Morgan took a couple of steps backward. She didn't want to take her eyes off the gun. She didn't know this house. It was supposed to be safe. How did this man get up here? He wasn't part of the staff. She'd met all of them. Hadn't Jack just told her the danger was over?

She had to turn or she'd trip. Morgan knew if she did, he would use the gun as a club and she had no desire to be pistol-whipped. The walls had portraits on them. At the far end was a doorway that led to the back stairs. There was nothing between her and the door she could use. And this man had a gun pointed at her heart. She could do many things, but outrunning a bullet wasn't one of them.

Opening the door, she started down the stairs. His hand grabbed her shoulder. "Not so fast." She felt the cold steel through the T-shirt as he poked the gun in her back. Slowly she walked down the stairs. They ended up in the kitchen. Morgan hoped there would be someone there to help her, like Jack. She was disappointed. The room was empty.

Food and dishes in various stages of cleanup were spread about the room. The center island would have been huge in a normal kitchen but it fit this one. Above it was a massive wrought iron frame. Only a few of the gleaming copper pots hung from it. The rest were on the counter, the table and the sink. Morgan wondered where the kitchen help was. She hadn't heard any shots in the house, but there were other ways of killing people without bullets. She hoped they were all right. She hoped she could count on them for help.

"Through the door," he commanded.

Where was anybody? This place had a normal staff of ten, not including the gardeners. Tonight, with the dinner and Hart Lewiston in attendance, there was a complement of people at the house. She heard another burst of gunfire and jumped. She couldn't help glancing over her shoulder at the door to the front of the house.

"Don't look for help," the menacing voice said. "And if you think Jack Temple will come to your rescue, believe me when I tell you he's probably dead now."

Jack. Dead. Her heart sank, stopped, then lurched. She turned and pierced him with her eyes. "Jack is not dead," she spoke as if to a young child she was angry with.

"You hope," he said with as much venom as she had.

A door opened in the front of the house. Footsteps and voices reached her. The square man was distracted a second. He looked toward the door. Morgan didn't think. This was going to be her only chance to get help. She took two running steps and grabbed the frame hanging from the ceiling. Swinging across the array of pots on the counter, her feet scattered them as she arced to the other side. Hitting the floor she let go of the frame and pivoted to face her killer. He was raising the gun. Morgan went down and grasped the legs of the butcher block counter. She heaved it up. The bullet struck it, pitching shards of wood. She'd wonder later how she lifted the heavy table. The footsteps increased.

"Jack," she called. "He's got a gun."

Morgan didn't wait for Jack or for the gunman to come around the upturned table. Using it as cover, she rushed for the back door. She was out of it, slamming it behind her, before he could get to her. Going sideways on the porch, she took the banister in a solid jump instead of the steps. She spent several seconds hiding in the bushes expecting him to follow her. She heard no steps on the porch and no gunshots.

Leaving her hiding place, she made sure she didn't ruffle any branches or make any noise. She inched her way back to the porch. Silently peeking through the slats in the banister, she held her breath, expecting to see feet, prepared to quickly return to her hiding place. The porch was clear.

What was happening? She wanted to know. Grabbing the bottom support post, she heaved herself up to floor level. She could hear what sounded like fighting in the kitchen. She tiptoed toward the door, making sure she made no noise. She got close to the door when it suddenly burst open, slapping against the wall as it extended past the hinge design. Morgan jumped back, pressing herself against the wall. A man hit the porch hard on his back. He tried to get up, faltered, tried again, and finally passed out.

Morgan let out an audible breath. Jack came out on the porch. His stance was ready for battle. He must have been fighting with the refrigerator-sized man.

"Jack," she said when she could speak.

He whipped around. For a moment he stared at her. In two steps he had her in his arms. She breathed hard against him.

"Are you all right?"

"I'm fine," she said, her voice cracking. She tightened her arms around him. "I'm fine."

 

***

 

Morgan massaged her temples. She was tired and her head throbbed with pain. She hoped this signal wouldn't turn into one of her migraines, but it would be a miracle if it didn't. The night had been long, filled with the burning lights of police cars. Hart and Carla had returned. Why, she didn't know.

Four men, including the one who'd held her at gunpoint, had sat on the rose and beige sofa, their hands tied, the eyes focused on the wall. None were talking, but sat as tight-lipped as statues. Hart looked pale as a sheet while Carla's face was blood red and her chin trembled.

Finally, they were gone. Police cars lit up the night like a holiday procession heading down the driveway. Morgan and Jack stepped back in the door and went to the drawing room where Hart and Carla Lewiston remained, secret service in tow.

"Thank God it's over," Morgan said.

"Not quite," Jack contradicted, causing her to look at him.

"What do you mean?"

He pulled the sliding doors closed and walked further into the room.

"Would you like to explain the rest. . . Mrs. Lewiston?"

Carla gasped at the sound of her name. So did Morgan. What did Carla Lewiston have to do with this?

"Are you out of your mind?" Hart took a step forward.

"I-I have no idea what you're talking about," Carla offered. The blood that had been so near the surface of Carla Lewiston's face drained to make her look like a Dracula victim.

Jack looked extremely comfortable in his role. "There's a strange thing that's happened in the United States," he said. "A few years ago, terrorists started picking off candidates." He paced about the room. "Uncle Sam couldn't let that happen, not in a civilized country like this one." He stopped and faced her squarely. "So he instituted safeguards. Tonight was planned with extreme care. Everyone here, everyone with any reason to be here, was carefully screened. Many of them have worked this detail for years. Their loyalty is unquestionable. The house was swept more than once." He didn't bother to explain what swept meant. Morgan was sure Carla knew. "No one knew the location. Not you and not the senator."

"Jack, what are you accusing my wife of doing? She knows nothing about what happened here tonight."

"Doesn't she?" Jack glanced at Hart. Morgan was stunned.

"Tell him!" Jack challenged Mrs. Hart Lewiston.

"Tell him what?" she asked. "Those men tried to kill us. And we don't have to stand here and be accused of being accomplices." She looked Jack up and down, giving him the same stare she'd give a scorpion.

"Where's your purse, Mrs. Lewiston?" Jack seemed to change directions.

"Jack, that's enough." Hart walked toward him. "If you're accusing my wife of something, come out with it."

He looked at Carla. "Last chance," he said.

"I have nothing to say."

"Morgan, would you open the door?" Jack addressed her. She did what he asked and the Lewistons' helicopter operator came in carrying a blue evening bag covered with sequins.

"Give me that." Carla lunged for the bag. Jack snatched it out of the man's hand.

"Thank you," Jack said to the pilot who left the room and closed the door behind him.

Quickly he opened the purse and reached inside. He pulled out a small device that looked like a portable phone. "This is what you used to send a signal to the men waiting on the ground. You brought them here and you sent them a signal to let them know you and the senator were in the air. Safely away from here. They could then come in and execute your plan."

"Carla, do you know what he's talking about?" Hart asked.

"No!" she assured him. "He's obviously making this up. Why, I don't know. Maybe he's responsible for the things that have happened to Ms. Kirkwood. Nothing really happened to her until he came into her life. Maybe he's working for the Koreans and trying to shift the blame."

Morgan thought she had a good argument. Jack could be working for anyone, but she knew better. The one piece of knowledge she had over anything Carla Lewiston knew was that Jack had held her in his arms. He'd been willing to give up his career for her. And he'd put his life in danger to save hers.

"The Koreans have been caught, Mrs. Lewiston. Tonight before the FBI director left, he received a phone call giving him the details of an FBI operation. The Koreans were picked up while you were having your soufflé." He paused a moment. "It disturbed me to think that there were two separate groups trying to kill Ms. Kirkwood. Initially, we thought it was one until we tried to get to Clarksburg and found one group shooting at the other."

"How could I possibly do anything in Clarksburg?" she addressed Jack.

"We took down two helicopters. It took a while to trace them, but we discovered one of them was from Korea. The U.S. had sold it at an auction, and it ended up in Korean hands. The other helicopter, however, was attached to the Children's Relief Program."

Carla looked as white as a ghost. "Is this true, Carla?" Hart asked.

"Of course it isn't true," she denied.

"Then how do you explain this device?" Hart asked, taking it from Jack.

"It was planted, Hart. You've got to believe me. I've never seen it before."

"While the police were conducting their initial investigation in here, there was a crew outside, and they went over this little black box." Jack took it back from Hart. "The signal went to the truck that one of the outside agents found parked close to the perimeter. One other thing they found was a complete set of fingerprints.'' He turned and faced Carla Lewiston. "Guess whose they are?"

"Carla?" Hart said.

She looked at him. "Oh, stop it," she said, venom dripping from each word. "This is all your fault. We were doing fine. The election was a shoo-in." She paused. "But you had to destroy it because of her." She pointed at Morgan, who tried to remain still but stepped back as surely as if Carla Lewiston had sent a lightning bolt her way. "We had everything. We were this close." She used her thumb and forefinger to show a space only an inch wide. "Now look at us. We'll be lucky if we carry our home state. Winning is out of the question. The most we can hope for is a respectable loss."

"For that, Carla? For power?" Hart moved to face her. "For the chance to be the First Lady you would kill?"

"It was my right!" she shouted. "I worked for it, following you around, taking jobs that were political because we were a power to be reckoned with. You think I liked working for those children? You think I liked getting in the dirt and having my shoes wet and grimy so a camera could take a picture that would further your career? We were a team, Hart. We wanted the same thing."

"No, Carla. I want to be president. I worked for it too, but I would never kill for it.''

Hart glanced at Morgan. He came to where she stood next to Jack. "I'm sorry, Morgan. I didn't know. Carla and I have lived together for twenty-three years. I've known her for almost thirty. I would have sworn she was incapable of anything like this. I'm just so—" He stopped, unable to go on.

Morgan's heart broke for him. His world had ended. She flung herself into his arms almost before she knew what she was doing.

At that moment, he became her father. She became his daughter.

"Is that sweet?" Carla said, her words dripping with venom. "Father and daughter."

Morgan moved out of Hart's embrace and turned around.

"Well you haven't had the last word yet." Carla put her hand in her sequined pocket and pulled out a small gun.

Morgan gasped.

"Carla," Jack said. "That will solve nothing."

"Why didn't you stay invisible?" She ignored Jack, addressing her comments to Morgan. "You'd been in Missouri for all these years. Why didn't you stay there and leave us alone?"

"Carla, you don't want to do this," Hart said.

His voice seemed to make her remember him.

"And you," she spit the word. "You wouldn't listen to reason. We could have contained this. There was no reason for you to go public with the knowledge that you'd fathered a child." She took a deep breath. "How do you think I felt? Everyone whispering behind our backs. Wherever we went people stopped talking when we came in the room. And the polls. Do you want to talk about the polls?''

"Carla, this is temporary. We'll pull it off. Put the gun down."

Jack had been taking slow steps toward Carla, but she saw him and pointed the gun in his direction. "If you want a vent somewhere in the middle of your chest, take another step."

Jack stood still.

"Carla, what do you want?" Morgan asked.

"I want you gone," she smiled. "I want to turn the clock back. Since I can't do that I'll settle for—"

"Carla," Hart interrupted her. "It's not worth it. You'll never get away with it."

"What a dramatic line," she said.

"He's right, Carla," Jack commented. "If the men outside that door don't kill you, you'll spend the rest of your life in jail."

"Put the gun down, Carla," Hart pleaded. "We can talk this over, the way we've talked over everything."

"We never talked her over," Carla shouted. Morgan had never seen anyone look at her with such hatred in her eyes. "When it came to her, it was just the two of you. I was left out." She lowered her voice. "Well I won't be left out anymore."

Morgan saw her aim. She was going to shoot her. Jack moved. Carla shifted her aim.

"No!" Morgan cried and jumped in front of him as Carla pulled the trigger.

 

***

 

"Jack, let her go," the ambulance driver said. "We can't help her if you don't let her go."

Hart Lewiston pried Jack's fingers loose and the ambulance driver took her from him. There was so much blood. Jack couldn't remember seeing so much blood. How much did the body hold? How much had she lost? Was she alive? Would she die?

Jack watched as paramedics placed her on a gurney. One set up an IV drip. Jack's vision was too blurred to see what was in the plastic bag. Another medic mopped the blood from her shoulder. He applied something to the area and then they were wheeling her away. Jack took a step to go with her. Hart stopped him, applying pressure to his arm.

Jack turned away, his insides shaking. He walked behind the white-clad medicine men. Hart was by his side. Outside the red and blue lights of police cars and ambulances filled the yard for the second time that evening.

The secret service broke into the room and secured Carla Lewiston.

When Morgan jumped in front of him, Jack felt as if his entire life was over. Hart had moved at the same time, subduing his wife, taking the gun from her and restraining her in the fierce fight she put up to get free. The room was suddenly filled with agents. Maids, butlers, cooks, gardeners, poured into the room. Hart sketched the details of what had happened while Jack held Morgan, whispering to her, brushing her hair back from her face. He didn't know who called the police or how long he held Morgan. They were there and she was being worked on.

Outside, the red and blue lights threw garish colors on the trees and bushes in front of him. Jack grabbed the leaf-laden branch of a bush near the front door with both hands as they lifted the white-sheeted Gurney into the ambulance.

Hart remained with him. Jack felt numb on the outside but inside he felt as if a hot knife was cutting through his stomach. His hands curved over the branches and he held on as if he could pull the bush from the ground, roots and all.

He was in love with her. And she might die if she wasn't dead already. He couldn't turn around to see. Didn't want to face the reality that she might be gone, that he'd never told her and might not get the chance again.

He felt Hart move next to him and he looked sideways. The older man pushed both hands in his pants pockets. Jack had seen them shaking.

"Is she—" He couldn't finish the sentence. He didn't want to know the answer.

"We don't know," Hart said. "She's going to be fine, Jack. She's going to be fine."

Jack could tell by his voice he didn't know for sure. The medics told him nothing. She could be critical. Why had she done it? Why had she jumped in front of a bullet to save him? Didn't she know he'd rather take it than have her hurt?

He loved her.

He couldn't lose her.

Not now.

 

***

 

Jack paced the tiny strip of floor before a single window in Virginia General Hospital for the past five hours. Hart slept awkwardly on a sofa inside Morgan's private room. Secret Service and FBI agents hovered outside the door, tired and longing for sleep. Morgan, swathed in white bandages across her left shoulder, breathed shallowly under starched sheets. She looked small and pale.

Sitting in a chair near the bed, Jack took her hand and held it. It was warm and limp. In the subdued light, he checked her fingernails for any sign that something might be wrong. They were pink and healthy looking. He let out a breath.

Hart shifted and Jack glanced at him. Jack had suggested that Hart return to the house and get some sleep, but he refused. He'd spent hours at the police station before coming to the hospital. Since his arrival in the early hours of the morning, he'd been like a beaten man.

His life was so altered by only a few hours. He had no idea when he woke yesterday morning that the day would end with his wife in jail and his daughter in a hospital. What this would do to his campaign was another story.

Morgan had been in and out of surgery. The doctor assured him she'd come through it fine and she would heal. She'd been lucky, he'd told him. Like Hart, Jack refused to leave her side.

He wanted to be there when she woke up. He wanted to tell her how much he loved her.

"Jack," Morgan said in a dry voice. Instantly he was on his feet, still holding her hand. He brought it to his chest where his heart beat so fast he thought it would burst. "Are you all right?"

He wanted to laugh. The sheer release of letting the pent-up tension go should do him good, but he didn't.

"How do you feel?"

"My shoulder hurts. And my throat is dry."

He poured her a cup of water and helped her up to drink it through the angled straw. "The anesthetic makes your throat dry."

"And the bullet?"

She remembered, he thought. "The doctor says you'll be fine."

"I guess my Olympic days are really over now." She tried to laugh, but ended with her face seized by pain and her hand reaching toward her shoulder.

"Let me call the nurse to give you something." Jack picked up the call button.

"No," Morgan said. "I want to stay awake for a while."

Jack took the hand she held up to stop him.

"What happened to Carla?"

Jack looked over at Hart. He was still asleep on the sofa. "She was arrested. You were right about there being two separate groups tracking us. The Koreans were behind one, but Carla was behind the other attempts on your life. She found out you were Hart's daughter and thought you were a threat to him and the presidency. She needed to get you out of the way." He looked at Hart again. "He really loved her."

Morgan peered at him. "She loved him too. Only a great love could make her do what she tried to do."

"You don't forgive her, do you? She tried to kill you."

"No,'' Morgan said. "I don't forgive her, but I do understand.''

Jack looked at her. Her words seemed to have another meaning. She wasn't talking about Carla and Hart. She meant them.

"Morgan, I love you." He looked down at her, but she'd fallen asleep.

 

CHAPTER 18

"Did you say you loved me?" It was the first thing Morgan said when she awakened six weeks ago in the Virginia hospital. Jack had been by her bedside as he'd been when she woke the first time.

He'd gotten up from the chair he'd been sitting in and stood near the head of the bed. "I do love you," he nodded.

Morgan went to throw her arms around him, only to be reminded of the pain in her shoulder. She flopped back against the pillows.

"How long have you known?" she asked.

"Twelve years."

Morgan's eyes must have opened as wide as saucers. "You mean when we were in—"

He took her hand, interrupting her. "Yes, when we were in Korea. I gave what I felt about you other names. I told myself it was nothing special. That I could live without you. I told myself it wasn't love, yet the moment I found out you were in trouble I couldn't stay away."

The room was semi-dark. Sunrise painted the sky shades of gold and orange. Hart no longer slept on the sofa. Jack's voice was low and reverent, as if the two of them needed to whisper.

"You have to get well," Jack said. "The moment you're out of here we're getting married. Twelve years is a long enough engagement."

Morgan's recovery was nothing short of miraculous after that. She was happy. She didn't think she could ever be happier, but each day brought another surprise. The newspapers broke the story of her attempted murder by Carla Lewiston and Carla' s subsequent arrest. Reporters descended on the hospital like Baptists at a revival. Jack and a battalion of secret service and private nurses kept everyone away from her, but the papers and television news stepped up programs of them, pulling out everything they had in their archives about her and Hart. Hart was constantly on the screen, and strangely his ratings in the polls went up. The increase, however, didn't have the odds makers predicting a win for him.

Allie and Jan showed up the day after the story broke. Some of Morgan's other Olympic teammates sent flowers or fruit baskets. Get well cards poured in by the tens of thousands. Jack got a kick out of teasing her about all the "friends" she had.

Days later her room looked like a florist's shop. The day she was released she took a phone call from the Olympic Committee. They asked her to officially open the games in St. Louis if she was well enough.

Morgan thought she'd die from happiness. She chose to do her physical therapy at Jan's camp, under the direction of her taskmaster friend and former team member. Leaving the hospital, she and Jack returned with Jan and Allie to West Virginia.

Only two weeks before the opening ceremony Morgan stood in the beam gym. The runway looked longer than she remembered it. The place was full of campers at different stages of exercise. Morgan had almost no pain from the gunshot wound. Her daily exercise routine helped her gain strength and muscle definition. She was nearly back to her normal self.

She concentrated on the beam. Freeing her mind of all thoughts, she looked only at her goal. Raising up on her tiptoes, she started the run. Picking up speed as she went, her arms pumping the air around her, she saw the springboard. With the precision of a broad jumper, she leapt into the air and came down on the springboard. Into the air she went, higher than she thought she'd ever done. She tumbled, her body completing a full revolution in the air and her feet coming down on the four-inch beam as if it were as wide as a diving board. She stood up straight, her arms extended. Then she did a one-hand cartwheel, turned and walked the length of the beam to her starting point. Concentrating again, she ran the short distance and reached for the sky. She did a full layout with a twist and landed on the soft padded floor without a hitch. Her arms went up and she smiled.

She smiled often these days and for no apparent reason. She'd think of Jack and a smile would break out on her face no matter where she was or what she was doing.

Jack and Morgan hadn't been separated since she was released from the hospital, but he'd gone to Montana last week. She missed him more than she thought possible. Working out with Jan, getting ready for a short performance in the Olympics, helped keep her mind off his absence. Her nights were the worst. She missed having his arms around her, making love with him, but she did have a few moments to give to Allie, who'd seized the opportunity to play wedding planner. She was planning Morgan and Jack's wedding.

Jan was in the back of the gym when she turned around. "Great!" Jan shouted. "You're ready."

"I think I'll try it again with the torch," Morgan said as she picked it up and came toward Jan. She was to light the torch at the opening, the Olympics' official notice to the world that the modern games were to begin.

"That's enough for today," Jan said. "We'll practice with the torch tomorrow. I'm sure you'll do the routine perfectly. Right now I believe there's someone waiting for you with a torch of his own."

 

***

 

Water sliced over Jack's head and down his back. Morgan's arms circled his neck and he kissed her. He knew she often ended her workout sessions with a long relaxing bath. Today she chose a hot shower and he thanked her for it. He'd been gone a week. It felt like a year. He was impatient. He needed her, wanted her, wanted to be inside her as fast as he could.

His body screamed for hers. He'd never known that before, never realized he could be so driven to one woman. She brought out the animal in him, and the lamb. He wanted to ram himself into her folds and he wanted to slide into her with all the tenderness he could muster.

The water sprayed them, creating a mist. Steam clouded the stall. He held her, taking her mouth, running his soapy hands over the curves of her slick-smooth body. She moaned in his mouth and he took the sound, his body aroused and growing harder with each drop of water that ran down his skin.

"I missed you," he said, only releasing her mouth long enough to reposition it. Her lips were soft, wonderful. His mouth was rough. His body was holding back, but his mouth drank everything she gave, and he craved more. Forcing her head back, his tongue swept into her mouth, taking possession, like a man who knew the exact moment of his death was near, like a man who wanted to savor, possess, fulfill, prolong the pleasure for just a second more, keep the blood pumping in his chest for just another moment so he could love just a moment more.

Water rained over them, spattering to the sides. It could have sounded like thunder, but the beat of his heart would drowned it out.

He lifted Morgan, feeling her tingling breasts move up his chest as her legs wrapped around him. He pushed her against the wet, warm tile of the shower and entered her with the slowness of a man walking through knee-deep water. He felt her convulse as the first anticipated wave of pleasure shot through her. It shot through him like a quiet undertow, unsuspecting, sudden. Where there had been strength and sure-footing, he was fighting the shifting sand. Waves of pleasure raced through him and he filled her with slow, easy strokes.

Her arms wrapped around his neck as she gave him complete control over her. He didn't think she'd ever done that in her entire life. She couldn't move. He imprisoned her against the wet wall, their bodies as slick as the tile. He felt powerful and wonderful that she trusted him as she trusted no other.

Their bodies joined and rejoined. Water poured between them. Her breasts were heavy and pouting each time they touched him, teasing him, giving him pleasure and taking it away, making him beg for it as the two held onto each other and the heat coming off their bodies threatened to boil the water at his feet, converting the sprays to steam as it dropped from the showerhead.

Jack kissed her, his body lost to him, seemingly with a mind of its own. He moaned a low, animal sound, losing all control and moving faster and faster, pleasure, aching, longing pleasure, sensual, ragged, hot pleasure rioting through him, urging him on, making him feel as if the two of them would burn in a tsunami of fire that overtook them with a force neither could stop or deny.

Suddenly Morgan screamed, or was that his voice? They collapsed. He held her in place as the real world seemed to refocus. The water struck his body in needlepoints. His breath was audible, mingled with hers. She slid down the wall, her legs, one at a time, brushing down his like the smooth liquid that drained through the shower floor. Jack didn't understand why he and Morgan still had substance, why they didn't dissolve and melt into the water and disappear too.

Neither had the strength to do anything. Their bones had turned to rubber and even simple things like turning off the water was denied them. Jack and Morgan remained there until their hearts returned to earth and marrow returned to their bones.

"You're incredible," Jack said.

"We're incredible," she said and turned the shower off.

 

***

 

This is where it had all started, Morgan thought. And it was a fitting place to end. She stood poised to begin her run. The arena just outside of St. Louis, was packed to capacity with spectators. Sixty thousand people watched, cheering, waiting, anticipating the moment when she would light the flame signaling the beginning of the Olympic games they'd waited four years to see.

Excitement as tangible as fine netting electrified the air. Morgan lifted the torch higher. The flame smelled of sulfur. Spotlights swept across her. The crowd roared. She wore a white body suit with splashes of blue and red. The lights turned the white background a rainbow of colors.

Morgan looked ahead at her goal. She was going to do the part of the beam routine that had won her a gold medal at the Korean games, modified somewhat for the lighted torch. She looked up. Jack Temple stood at the end of her run. He was in nearly the same place he'd been twelve years ago when her concentration focused only on him. She smiled and started her run toward a future that was bright and filled with love.

Toward Jack.

 

Epilogue

". . . that you will faithfully execute the office of the President of the United States. . ."

January 20th. The day was cold. The wind blew from the Potomac River up Pennsylvania Avenue to the steps of the Capitol. Morgan turned her coat collar up closer about her neck. Jack's arm pulled her into his side, offering her a bit of his warmth. She looked up and smiled. Tears swam in her eyes. She was happier than anyone deserved to be.

Her grandfather and father stood in front of her. She had Jack and she had them—a family. Allie and Jan stood in the front row facing them.

Morgan and Jack had gone to Montana when everything was finally over. There they'd been besieged by phone calls from other team members concerned about her. With Jack's help, her teammates had joined Hart's campaign. Morgan's heart swelled to discover how many friends she really had.

Hart won the election, not by the huge majority he'd hoped for, but by an eyelash, as one reporter put it. Yet a win was a win. Morgan knew even if it were by a tenth of a point, it counted. Supreme Court Justice Angus Lewiston administered the oath of office to his son while she and Jack joined thousands of people who looked on. Even if he only eked by in the Electoral College, he had four years to prove his worth. Morgan had no doubt he would succeed.

It was a proud day.

Carla Lewiston had been indicted on charges of attempted murder, conspiracy, kidnapping and a long list of other charges Morgan couldn't remember. She'd wanted to be the First Lady. Little did she know that without her attempts to cover everything up, to keep the public from discovering the family skeleton, everything would have worked out as she wanted it. Morgan felt sorry for her. She had so much, but she wanted so much more.

“I, Hart Lewiston, do solemnly swear that I will faithfully execute the office of President of the United States, and I will to the best of my ability, preserve, protect, and defend the Constitution of the United States."

Jack tightened his arm around her as Hart spoke the oath. Morgan's heart was in her eyes when she met Jack's gaze. It wasn't so far from the alleys of Southeast to the steps of this famous landmark, but Morgan never dreamed she'd make the trip.

Or that the man of her dreams would be standing by her side when she did.

 

THE END

 

 

Dear Reader,

 

I hope you enjoyed spending time with Morgan Kirkwood and Jack Temple. I enjoy crafting stories and nothing pleases me more than a good romantic suspense. When Morgan Kirkwood and Jack Temple popped into my head, the fighting had already started. More Than Gold showed me Morgan's dream. It seems simple to most of us who have a loving family, but for her the dream meant More Than Gold. Her triumph over the odds had me singing too.

As the next summer Olympics begin, I hope you will enjoy them more knowing that the athletes go through years of painful preparation for their moment to shine.

I receive many letters from the women and men who read my books. Thank you for your generous comments and words of encouragement. I love reading your letters as much as I enjoy writing the books.

If you'd like to hear more about More Than Gold, other books I've written or upcoming releases, please send a business size, self-addressed, stamped envelope to me at the following address:

 

If you'd like to hear more about More Than Gold, other books I've written, or upcoming releases, you can reach me at shirley.hailstock@comcast.net. I also have a newsletter that you can subscribe to by sending an e-mail to mailto:ShirleyHailstock-subscribe@yahoogroups.com

You can visit my Web page at the following address - http://www.ShirleyHailstock.net