Affairs of Steak Page 16

  “I hope you’re right.”

  “Yeah,” he chuckled. “Except that doesn’t apply to you.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “You never keep your head down.”

  “Ha-ha.”

  The phone rang next to me and I picked it up. “Ollie, it’s Tom. Got your message. I’d rather do this in person,” he said. “Can you stop by my office in about ten minutes?”

  I looked at my watch. “I’ll be right there.”

  When I hung up, Bucky said, “Uh-oh.”

  “What?”

  “From the look on your face and the tone of your voice, I’m worried.”

  “Don’t be.” I pulled out my pen and began writing a few notes. “Just a quick trip over to Secret Service. I have no idea how long I’ll be, but here are a few ideas I wanted to talk with you about regarding the party. Given how today is already scattering, I’m afraid if I wait much longer, I’ll forget something.”

  “You’re using your new pen. Any particular reason?”

  I looked at him, deadpan. “To write with?”

  “Or because it reminds you of Ethan Nagy’s visit here? Cyan is convinced he wants you to call him.”

  “Cyan’s got stars in her eyes.” I held up the pen. “This is a nice remembrance of doing a good deed. They didn’t need to give me anything, but I take my positives wherever I can.”

  “So you’re not interested in Nagy?”

  “Why, are you trying to set me up now?”

  He gave me a shrewd look. “Not if you’re already seeing someone.”

  I felt the blush rise to my cheeks.

  He grinned. “I knew it.”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about, but I need to get over to Secret Service, pronto.”

  “I’ll hold down the fort.”

  I started off but stopped at the doorway. “Not that it matters,” I said, feeling lame even as I asked, “but who exactly do you think I’m seeing?”

  Bucky smiled enigmatically. “Get going. You don’t want to be late.”

  There was no way Bucky knew about Gav. No possible way. As I made my way to the Secret Service office in the West Wing, I argued with myself. Gav and I had something, clearly, but we hadn’t yet defined exactly what that was. A tight friendship? Something more? And who the heck said it needed to be defined immediately anyway?

  The only thing stopping us at this point was his reluctance to move forward. Based on what he’d told me about his two prior relationships, I understood his fears completely. But I didn’t know what I could do to help him see that what we had was different. That he wasn’t a jinx.

  Tom was waiting for me. “Come on in,” he said, “and shut the door.”

  I complied and sat down.

  “If I get this straight, you want us to cut your Secret Service detail, correct?”

  “That’s it in a nutshell. Mrs. Wentworth, my neighbor—”

  “I remember Mrs. Wentworth.”

  I felt the blush creep up again. Of course he did. “She saw someone hanging around my apartment.”

  “I know.”

  “I found out it was Milton Folgate, Peter Sargeant’s nephew.”

  The look on Tom’s face would have been comical in a different circumstance. “I heard he showed up yesterday morning to talk with you. What’s going on here, Ollie? Why is he bothering you?”

  “Mostly he just wants a job at the White House, and he thinks I have some pull.”

  “Hello? Reality check. You don’t get hired by the White House when you’re caught stalking the staff.”

  “Yeah, well…He also wanted to share that information about the double murder.”

  Tom looked at me. “What information?”

  “I talked with one of your agents here yesterday,” I said, then explained about the guy who had bumped into Sargeant that morning, and about Milton shouting after him.

  Tom nodded. “I remember that from your statement. But no one here said anything about this yesterday. Go on.”

  There had been a lot of bad press over the past few months about mishandlings by the Secret Service, and I wondered now how much of that was based in fact. Tom should have been apprised immediately. “Milton swears he saw him again. With another guy. When I asked him to describe this other fellow, it sounded a lot like Brad, who’d followed me on the Metro.”

  Tom blew out a breath as he wrote a note on the pad next to him. “Why is it always—”

  “Me?” I shook a finger at him. “Don’t say it.”

  He looked up. “Fair enough. Is that it?”

  “The two guys met a third guy.”

  “Description?”

  “Not much. Just that Milton knows he works for the government. Unfortunately, he can’t remember where he’s seen him before.”

  “That’s not much, but every little bit helps. He told you all this yesterday?”

  “Yeah, but he’d been drinking. I could smell it on him. I can’t promise that anything he said is worth anything.”

  “Probably not.”

  “So,” I asked, “since it was Milton hanging around my place, can we dispense with the armed escort?”

  “I’ll consider it.”

  My face must have fallen because he added, “I can’t make that decision right here and now without giving it careful consideration. There’s no doubt in my mind that whoever Brad was, he was somehow involved in the murders and possibly also in Mr. Bettencourt’s disappearance. If this Milton fellow is right and Brad is connected with your ‘bump guy’ from the day of the murder…” Tom stopped, looked up and closed his eyes. “I’m starting to sound like you. We don’t have any evidence that the bump guy is in any way connected, yet I’m starting to see conspiracies.”

  “If Milton saw him with Brad, that’s something.”

  “You said that you never got a clear look at the bump guy’s face and that you didn’t believe Sargeant or Milton did either. How can he be so sure he’s seeing the same person now?”

  “Good point. No idea.”

  “Everybody wants to help the Secret Service.”

  “Take it as a compliment.”

  “Not when they think we’re falling on our faces.”

  I stood up. “You’ll let me know?”

  “Yeah,” he said.

  Just as I got to the door, he said, “Ollie…”

  I turned.

  Tom played with the pen in his hand. He readjusted himself in his seat. “Are you and Special Agent Gavin…” He spread his hands in question.

  I had no idea how to respond to that. Of all the people in the world, Tom deserved a straight answer, but I didn’t have one to give. I hesitated.

  “You can tell me it’s none of my business,” he said.

  “No, it’s not that.” I searched for the right words. “It’s just…”

  He waited.

  “The truth is, I don’t know,” I said. I didn’t want to be disloyal to Gav by sharing personal information, but there was precious little to share and this much, I was sure, would be fair game. “He’s a friend.”

  Tom stared down at the pen again. “He’s a good man, Ollie.”

  “He says the same thing about you.”

  Tom gave me a sad smile.

  “The thing is…” I wrapped my fingers around the doorknob. “…you’re both right.”

  CHAPTER 15

  WITH NO WORD FROM TOM, I WAS STILL UNDER Agent Scorroco’s conversation-less guard on the way home. Just as I was about to alight, however, he said, “I won’t be here tomorrow.”

  “Day off?” I asked.

  “No, ma’am. The Secret Service has eliminated the need for your coverage.”

  “This is it, then? I’m done?”

  “That’s what I’ve been told, ma’am.”

  “Nobody told me.”

  “I’m telling you.”

  “Yes, of course. Thank you.”

  He gave a brief nod and pulled away the moment I shut the passenger door. “W
ell, wasn’t that fun?” I said aloud. Delighted to be on my own, I grabbed my cell phone and dialed Gav. He answered right away.

  “Hey,” I said, “guess what?”

  “You no longer require an armed escort to and from work?”

  “It’s hard to be mysterious around you.”

  He laughed. “What’s up?”

  “It’s a Sunday night, I’m free as a bird, and I’d love to cook you dinner. What do you say?”

  He hesitated. “Tell you what: Let me take you to dinner. Somewhere near your place.”

  We agreed to meet at a seafood restaurant about a mile or so from my building. An easy walk on a spring evening. I had about an hour to get ready, so I immediately dashed into the shower. I usually wore my shoulder-length hair in a ponytail to keep it out of my face, but tonight I expended a little effort with the blow dryer and a styling brush to add bounce. When I was finished, I picked up the curling iron and gave myself a critical glance.

  I kind of liked the sleek look. It was younger, more fun. Okay, I thought, done with the hair. Next, makeup. Except for mascara, I generally went to the White House each day wearing nothing on my face except moisturizer and sunscreen. Tonight I added a little eyeliner, dusted on some mineral powder and even a little blush. I decided to wear my favorite black pants, a new fuchsia top I’d recently picked up, and silver earrings. A last look in the mirror and I was quite pleased. Best of all, I was done with plenty of time to spare.

  I hoped to get to the restaurant before Gav did. He’d offered to pick me up, but I knew he’d be coming from work—possibly running late—and now that I was out from under the watchful eye of the Secret Service, I craved being outdoors by myself. Plus, it wouldn’t be dark for at least another half hour.

  I pushed through the restaurant’s revolving doors into the dimly lit bar area. Fairly quiet in here tonight, there were three couples at high tables and a group of men chatting amiably at the bar. I glanced around, but didn’t see Gav.

  “Hey,” he said from behind me.

  I spun. “You scared me.”

  “Good. That’ll teach you to be more observant.” He stepped back. “You look wonderful.”

  His words warmed me from my head to my toes. “Thank

  you.”

  “Come on,” he said, “our table is waiting.”

  As we were seated, the hostess handed us menus and told us our waitress would be with us momentarily. “I’m off duty tonight,” Gav said, as he perused the wine list. “Would you like to share a bottle?”

  Surprised, I was nonetheless pleased. “Absolutely. What did you have in mind?”

  He studied the wine list as I studied him. There were tiny crow’s-feet at the corners of his eyes, and the brackets around his mouth had deepened since we’d first met. But he was a very handsome man. Tall, distinguished looking. Smart, too. I felt a little flutter in my heart as I took him in. So serious. Even about picking the right wine.

  When he looked up, he didn’t seem surprised to catch me watching. Instead, he smiled, and the flutter in my heart beat a little faster.

  “You know wines?” I asked.

  “A bit. I have a couple of favorites. I can’t always find them.”

  The waitress came by to recite the evening’s specials and ask us about drinks. Gav ordered a vintage that seemed to impress the waitress. She pointed to the wine list. “This one, right?” she asked as though she wanted to make sure.

  When the waitress brought it and went through the customary showing, offering, pouring, Gav smiled his approval. “You’re in for a treat,” he said to me.

  The moment she left, he lifted his glass. “To…first dates?” he asked. “This is actually our first real date, isn’t it?”

  My stomach was now in the midst of full-out flip-flops. “First dates. I like that,” I said as our glasses clinked. “Although I feel as if I’ve known you forever.”

  “If anyone would have told me I’d be here, clinking glasses with that little upstart from the kitchen…” He let the thought hang, but he was smiling as he sipped his wine.

  I sipped, too. “Oh,” I said as I savored the taste, “that’s wonderful.”

  “One of my favorite whites,” he said. “I’m usually more of a red man.”

  “I thought you might be.”

  “Did you, now?” He placed his glass down and set his elbows on the table. “Are those your superior deductive skills at work?”

  “You know it.” I took another sip. “This really is an extraordinary wine.”

  “I’m glad you like it.”

  “What I like,” I said softly, “is being here with you.”

  “I want to talk about that,” he said.

  I put my glass down.

  The waitress took that as a signal. “Are you ready?” she asked.

  “I don’t think he is.” I shot a meaningful look at Gav that had nothing to do with ordering food.

  “I’ll give you a few minutes, then.”

  Gav gave me a shrewd stare. “Still the smart aleck, aren’t you?”

  “You bring out the best in me.”

  “Do I?” He placed his menu on his lap and leaned forward. “Or…” he hesitated, “am I making things worse?”

  “What?” I said too loudly.

  He shushed me.

  “What can you possibly mean by that?” I asked.

  “I’m older than you are.”

  “So?” I said, then added, “Not by much.”

  “I’ve been single a long time.”

  I tried reading the look in his eyes, but I was coming up short. “And you don’t want to give that up?”

  He laughed, but it was a sad laugh. “Hardly.”

  “It’s me, then.”

  “You know it’s not you, Ollie.”

  My menu was open in front of me, I leaned forward, too, pressing it to my chest. “That’s exactly the problem.”

  I could tell I’d confused him.

  I sighed. “Whatever is stopping you from moving forward should be about me. If it isn’t, then why not? If you really wanted to be with me, if you wanted this to be a relationship instead of just a first date, you would.” I leaned back and pretended to read the menu. “It’s that simple.” So attuned to Gav, his mood, whatever he was about to say next, I had no idea whether I was looking at appetizers or entrées.

  “It’s not that I don’t want to be with you.”

  I looked up. “When I really want something, nothing can stop me.”

  “I know that.”

  “But?” I went back to reading the menu. Still not seeing it. “There’s a ‘but’ hanging there. What is it?”

  “You scare me.”

  That caught my attention. I glanced up. The look on his face said he wasn’t making a joke.

  “You are like no one I’ve ever known before. Willing to stick your neck out—sometimes quite literally—for the greater good. You’re brave, strong, upbeat.”

  “There’s something wrong with that?”

  “Ollie.” He said it so softly it made the hairs stand up on my arms. “You know better.”

  I wasn’t angry and I didn’t want him to misconstrue. “I told you I’d be patient. I don’t intend to go back on my word.”

  The waitress reappeared. “Ready?”

  Gav handed her the menu but held his hand out to me. “Ladies first.”

  “Uh…” Caught unawares, I quickly scanned the menu. “I’ll have the trout.” Made with cannellini beans, garlic, sun-dried tomatoes, and arugula, it sounded like an interesting combination.

  “The swordfish special for me,” Gav said, “but could you substitute another vegetable for the asparagus?”

  “Brussels sprouts or spinach?” she asked.

  “Brussels sprouts, thanks.”

  “You don’t like asparagus?” I asked when she left.

  He made a face. “Had it once as a kid. Never recovered.”

  “You’ve never tasted my asparagus.”

  “Tha
t’s true enough.”

  “I bet I could make a believer out of you.”

  “I’d like to try.” His eyes grew serious. “Now, what were you saying about not going back on your word?”

  “Gav.” I played with my wineglass. “You need to understand something: I want to wait for you. I’m happy to do it.”

  “Then what is it?”

  How could I feel this much emotion for this man when we’d both just agreed this was our first date? I could feel how right we were together. How good. But there was one major stumbling block.

  “You.”

  “I don’t—”

  “There’s something else holding you back, Gav.” I paused, hoping he’d jump in and deny, but he simply waited for me to continue. “It isn’t just you believing yourself to be a jinx to people you care about. There’s more. I think we have something special here, but I’m wondering if you really want to move forward. If maybe you’re having second thoughts.”

  He was silent for a long moment. Too long. My words had touched a nerve. I could see it in the way he blinked, looked away, then tried to smile.

  “Deductive skills, Ollie. You really should have considered a job with the bureau.”

  The tone was light, but his words cut me. I tried to mask my reaction by taking another sip of the wine.

  He asked, “What do you want from me right now?”

  “Honesty.”

  His mouth curled in a way that told me he knew I’d say that. “Then you will have honesty. But not here. Not now. Let’s talk the way we usually do. Like friends. Like colleagues. Like brothers in arms. Tell me what’s new. What’s going on. Then later we’ll talk about us.”

  “Later as in tonight? Or later as in a year from now?”

  “Tonight. I promise we’ll talk. I’m uncomfortable having this discussion in the middle of a restaurant.”

  I sat back, but my stomach had other ideas. Dinner, no matter how tasty, would be wasted on me tonight. What did he have to share that couldn’t be discussed here? “Okay.”

  “Now, how’s the kitchen? Anything new?”

  Without veering into a discussion that could compromise the Hydens in any way, I told him about Virgil’s most recent meltdown. “Doug doesn’t seem to have a handle on the position the way Paul did,” I said. “He sent Virgil off to…” I couldn’t very well say “Camp David,” so I used the escape’s former name. “…Shangri-La to let him cool down. That’s hardly an effective way to deal with the problem.”