Commander in Chief
Page 17
- Background:
- Text Font:
- Text Size:
- Line Height:
- Line Break Height:
- Frame:
Matt contacts the FBI next. I’m still rattled by things. As Sigmund Cox arrives to the Oval, Matt asks me to stay. As he hands over the scarf, his roiling bronze eyes meet mine, and they look crisp and metallic, cold as I feel.
I know what this finding means. How disappointing it could be—to imagine that his father possibly had an affair what he was president. Especially considering he neglected his mother and son. For the country, it was one thing, but for another woman?
After explaining to Cox what we found, Matt slides the FBI files across his desk.
“I want the case reopened and I want a special task investigator working twenty-four seven on this. I want real information on this. I want specifics. Details. I also want this to be top secret. Nobody but you, those of us in this room, and the special investigator will know.”
16
GALA
Charlotte
I slept that night in his arms in the Queens’ Bedroom, thinking of his father, knowing he was in Matt’s thoughts too. “What did you tell my dad when you asked to talk to him alone?” I whispered.
“That I’m in love with you,” he said simply.
Now it’s past 6 p.m. the next afternoon when I’m told by one of the members of the residence staff that the president sent the gown that hangs in my dressing room.
Jack hurries excitedly into my bedroom as if he plans to report to Matthew what I thought of his gift.
It is breathtaking.
From an up-and-coming American designer who’s going to take the world by storm, it is a heavily detailed lace-and-sequin dress with just the right amount of sheerness to give a glimpse of skin on my back and shoulders.
I dress carefully and glance at myself in the mirror to make sure I look about as good as the first lady representing our country should. The gold dress falls to my ankles, sparkling like a jewel, and I let my red hair tumble down my shoulders. I grab a little shawl that matches the dress and step out into the hall.
Matt is standing at the end of the hall, his hands in the pockets of his pants, his jacket raised at his back because of his position as he gazes out the window at the gardens. When faced with the perfection of that tall, black-clad figure, his stance emphasizing the force of his thighs and the slimness of his hips, his pants pressing into his ass because of his hands being jammed into his pockets—
Breathe, Charlotte!
I force my lungs to work in a breath; and as if he senses me, he turns.
A look of surprise flicks across his features, followed by a slow trailing of his eyes down my dress. Jack pads toward him and Matt pets the top of his head as he comes to a perfect sit beside him, and yet his whole undivided attention seems to be on me. His eyes study my face as if memorizing it. As if he’d forgotten it.
I eye him covetously too. Standing there with his dog, he would already kill me. But in a tux? I’m completely gone over this guy. He wears the tux like he wears the presidency. With grace, confidence, and so much ease he seems to have been born destined for both that presidency and that damn onyx-black tuxedo.
He looks devilishly handsome.
His hair is combed back and oh, how I love every chiseled inch of his face. He’s the first to move, prying his hands from his pockets, eyes flaring, inhaling visibly—his inhale stretching the fabric of that black tux.
Disbelief and a punch of longing to have all of this man, his love and his name and his babies, hits me as he approaches. I’m gazing at him walk to me down the hall of the White House residence, both of us ready to attend a social dinner. My first public event with him.
I need a moment, or a thousand moments, to adjust to this new role.
Matt continues advancing—with every step his eyes drinking me in, his lips curling in a seductive, appreciative smile.
“You ready?” He stretches out his hand.
I nod and look at that hand—the hand I’ve held so many times, and that held me. I slide my fingers down the length of his, and he grips them and leads me down the staircase with him.
I grab my dress and lift it to avoid tripping on the hem as we descend, watching as Jack bounds down and announces with a happy bark to the rest of the Secret Service that we’ve arrived downstairs.
Matt glances ahead at our waiting detail as we head toward the exit of the North Portico doors.
“It’s not my first time with the media. I should know better than to feel exposed.”
“Don’t be nervous. You’ll blow every single person in the room away.”
I stop in my tracks, looking at Matt.
Matt, recently showered, absolutely poised and drool-worthy in the tux.
He looks every bit the president. Cool and completely confident.
“You don’t look that blown away,” I say.
“I’m schooled in the art of controlling my emotions. Trust me. I’m blown away.” The heat in his eyes sizzles as he looks at me, and his voice thickens, making my knees wobbly under my dress.
His gaze smolders as he reaches out to tuck my arm into the crook of his and lead me down the White House steps and to the waiting car.
“Behave, Jack,” Matt warns with a raising of his brows as Jack sits at the door and watches us leave.
We climb into the presidential state car and head on our way with a line of black cars flanking us front and back.
It feels surreal to be riding in a motorcade with him. The size of the team required to protect him is in the hundreds. Twenty-six cars travel with us, including medical assistance, motorcycles, and press. I know snipers are planted on the route, mailboxes removed to avoid explosives. It’s a perfectly orchestrated master symphony of hundreds of players, all circling around the president and his safety.
I’m so aware of the people glancing toward our cars as we pass that it takes me a moment to become aware of Matt watching me.
He looks stunning in that tux and he smells so good, his cologne making me dizzy.
His presence, his nearness, his gaze. I clench my thighs together under my gorgeous, glittering Cinderella dress, wanting him. Wanting him so much, not just physically, but emotionally. I crave our nights alone, talking . . .
In the White House, there are so many people—butlers, maids, doormen, ushers, plus the West Wing staff—I wonder if I’ll ever be able to have the courage to do more than steal in secret into his room. Or let him steal into mine.
I meet his gaze. “It feels completely surreal.”
His lips curl, and he looks at me a moment more. “Let’s come out as a couple tonight.”
The low but firm words trigger a tremor down my spine.
I remember hundreds of nights during the campaign, sleepless, wanting him.
I remember that he won. That I went to Europe. That I’m living in the White House with him, more in love than ever. And that we’re taking it slow.
Slow.
And utterly, exquisitely slowly, Matt slips his hand under the fall of my hair and places a kiss on my forehead, then my mouth. It’s a soft kiss, fleeting, but it leaves a burning sensation behind when he eases back.
He looks at my kissed lips with a male pride and not one bit of apology. “I’m tired of keeping you in the shadows. I want everyone to know that you’re mine. But I know what I’m asking is for you to become even more public, and possibly under scrutiny. I will wait for as long as we need to, but I’m ready to move this forward, Charlotte.”
I swallow.
“I want that more than anything,” I breathe.
He slips his hand over the curve of my shoulder, touching my bare skin as we ride to the event.
“I just had this hope that . . . I’d prove myself as a first lady first, before we announced our relationship to the world. I’m not so sure what I want to do anymore.” I meet his gaze.
There’s something predatory about the way he’s looking at me.
“But I’ve always wanted to just be with you. Without the concerns and the hiding,” I admit.
“So. Be with me.”
The smoldering flame in his eyes warms me to my core, and I hear myself say, “It seems to me that if we took it slow, there’s a better chance for the citizens to adjust to the idea of you having a girlfriend in the White House.”
“The speculations are running amok already. Half the country will be worried you distract me—the other half will be thrilled. It doesn’t matter. I want you. I want you indefinitely—and eventually, baby”—he takes my chin—“you’re going to need to own up to the fact that the man you’re in love with is the president, and you helped put me here.”
I know what this finding means. How disappointing it could be—to imagine that his father possibly had an affair what he was president. Especially considering he neglected his mother and son. For the country, it was one thing, but for another woman?
After explaining to Cox what we found, Matt slides the FBI files across his desk.
“I want the case reopened and I want a special task investigator working twenty-four seven on this. I want real information on this. I want specifics. Details. I also want this to be top secret. Nobody but you, those of us in this room, and the special investigator will know.”
16
GALA
Charlotte
I slept that night in his arms in the Queens’ Bedroom, thinking of his father, knowing he was in Matt’s thoughts too. “What did you tell my dad when you asked to talk to him alone?” I whispered.
“That I’m in love with you,” he said simply.
Now it’s past 6 p.m. the next afternoon when I’m told by one of the members of the residence staff that the president sent the gown that hangs in my dressing room.
Jack hurries excitedly into my bedroom as if he plans to report to Matthew what I thought of his gift.
It is breathtaking.
From an up-and-coming American designer who’s going to take the world by storm, it is a heavily detailed lace-and-sequin dress with just the right amount of sheerness to give a glimpse of skin on my back and shoulders.
I dress carefully and glance at myself in the mirror to make sure I look about as good as the first lady representing our country should. The gold dress falls to my ankles, sparkling like a jewel, and I let my red hair tumble down my shoulders. I grab a little shawl that matches the dress and step out into the hall.
Matt is standing at the end of the hall, his hands in the pockets of his pants, his jacket raised at his back because of his position as he gazes out the window at the gardens. When faced with the perfection of that tall, black-clad figure, his stance emphasizing the force of his thighs and the slimness of his hips, his pants pressing into his ass because of his hands being jammed into his pockets—
Breathe, Charlotte!
I force my lungs to work in a breath; and as if he senses me, he turns.
A look of surprise flicks across his features, followed by a slow trailing of his eyes down my dress. Jack pads toward him and Matt pets the top of his head as he comes to a perfect sit beside him, and yet his whole undivided attention seems to be on me. His eyes study my face as if memorizing it. As if he’d forgotten it.
I eye him covetously too. Standing there with his dog, he would already kill me. But in a tux? I’m completely gone over this guy. He wears the tux like he wears the presidency. With grace, confidence, and so much ease he seems to have been born destined for both that presidency and that damn onyx-black tuxedo.
He looks devilishly handsome.
His hair is combed back and oh, how I love every chiseled inch of his face. He’s the first to move, prying his hands from his pockets, eyes flaring, inhaling visibly—his inhale stretching the fabric of that black tux.
Disbelief and a punch of longing to have all of this man, his love and his name and his babies, hits me as he approaches. I’m gazing at him walk to me down the hall of the White House residence, both of us ready to attend a social dinner. My first public event with him.
I need a moment, or a thousand moments, to adjust to this new role.
Matt continues advancing—with every step his eyes drinking me in, his lips curling in a seductive, appreciative smile.
“You ready?” He stretches out his hand.
I nod and look at that hand—the hand I’ve held so many times, and that held me. I slide my fingers down the length of his, and he grips them and leads me down the staircase with him.
I grab my dress and lift it to avoid tripping on the hem as we descend, watching as Jack bounds down and announces with a happy bark to the rest of the Secret Service that we’ve arrived downstairs.
Matt glances ahead at our waiting detail as we head toward the exit of the North Portico doors.
“It’s not my first time with the media. I should know better than to feel exposed.”
“Don’t be nervous. You’ll blow every single person in the room away.”
I stop in my tracks, looking at Matt.
Matt, recently showered, absolutely poised and drool-worthy in the tux.
He looks every bit the president. Cool and completely confident.
“You don’t look that blown away,” I say.
“I’m schooled in the art of controlling my emotions. Trust me. I’m blown away.” The heat in his eyes sizzles as he looks at me, and his voice thickens, making my knees wobbly under my dress.
His gaze smolders as he reaches out to tuck my arm into the crook of his and lead me down the White House steps and to the waiting car.
“Behave, Jack,” Matt warns with a raising of his brows as Jack sits at the door and watches us leave.
We climb into the presidential state car and head on our way with a line of black cars flanking us front and back.
It feels surreal to be riding in a motorcade with him. The size of the team required to protect him is in the hundreds. Twenty-six cars travel with us, including medical assistance, motorcycles, and press. I know snipers are planted on the route, mailboxes removed to avoid explosives. It’s a perfectly orchestrated master symphony of hundreds of players, all circling around the president and his safety.
I’m so aware of the people glancing toward our cars as we pass that it takes me a moment to become aware of Matt watching me.
He looks stunning in that tux and he smells so good, his cologne making me dizzy.
His presence, his nearness, his gaze. I clench my thighs together under my gorgeous, glittering Cinderella dress, wanting him. Wanting him so much, not just physically, but emotionally. I crave our nights alone, talking . . .
In the White House, there are so many people—butlers, maids, doormen, ushers, plus the West Wing staff—I wonder if I’ll ever be able to have the courage to do more than steal in secret into his room. Or let him steal into mine.
I meet his gaze. “It feels completely surreal.”
His lips curl, and he looks at me a moment more. “Let’s come out as a couple tonight.”
The low but firm words trigger a tremor down my spine.
I remember hundreds of nights during the campaign, sleepless, wanting him.
I remember that he won. That I went to Europe. That I’m living in the White House with him, more in love than ever. And that we’re taking it slow.
Slow.
And utterly, exquisitely slowly, Matt slips his hand under the fall of my hair and places a kiss on my forehead, then my mouth. It’s a soft kiss, fleeting, but it leaves a burning sensation behind when he eases back.
He looks at my kissed lips with a male pride and not one bit of apology. “I’m tired of keeping you in the shadows. I want everyone to know that you’re mine. But I know what I’m asking is for you to become even more public, and possibly under scrutiny. I will wait for as long as we need to, but I’m ready to move this forward, Charlotte.”
I swallow.
“I want that more than anything,” I breathe.
He slips his hand over the curve of my shoulder, touching my bare skin as we ride to the event.
“I just had this hope that . . . I’d prove myself as a first lady first, before we announced our relationship to the world. I’m not so sure what I want to do anymore.” I meet his gaze.
There’s something predatory about the way he’s looking at me.
“But I’ve always wanted to just be with you. Without the concerns and the hiding,” I admit.
“So. Be with me.”
The smoldering flame in his eyes warms me to my core, and I hear myself say, “It seems to me that if we took it slow, there’s a better chance for the citizens to adjust to the idea of you having a girlfriend in the White House.”
“The speculations are running amok already. Half the country will be worried you distract me—the other half will be thrilled. It doesn’t matter. I want you. I want you indefinitely—and eventually, baby”—he takes my chin—“you’re going to need to own up to the fact that the man you’re in love with is the president, and you helped put me here.”
