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"I was hoping you might come with me."
She tensed and stared at him through widening eyes. "What are you saying?"
He took her hand and gripped it tightly. "What I'm saying, Loren Smith, is that I think the time has come for me to beg for your hand in marriage."
She stared at him in disbelief. "You wouldn't... you couldn't be joking," she said, her voice choking.
"I'm deadly serious," he said, seeing the tears form in her violet eyes. "I love you, I loved you for what seems an eternity, and I want you to be my wife."
She sat there trembling, the iron maiden of the House of Representatives, the lady who never backed down despite the political pressure, the woman who was as strong as or stronger than any man in Washington. Then she took back her hand and held it with the other over her eyes as she sobbed uncontrollably.
He came around the table and embraced her around the shoulders. "I'm sorry, I didn't mean to upset you."
She looked up, tears flooding her eyes. "You fool, don't you know how long I've waited to hear those words?"
Pitt was bewildered. "When the subject came up before, you always said marriage was out of the question because we were already married to our work."
"Do you always believe everything a woman tells you?"
Pitt gently raised her to her feet and kissed her lightly on the lips. "Forgive me for being late as well as stupid. But the question still stands. Will you marry me?"
Loren threw her arms around his neck and flooded his face with kisses. "Yes, you fool," she said in the throes of ecstasy. "Yes, yes, yes!"
42
When he awoke in the morning, Loren had already left for her apartment to shower and change for another day's battle in Congress. He felt a glow remembering her joyful embraces with her arms held tight around him through the night. Though he had a meeting to attend at the White House, he didn't feel in the mood to put on a business suit and play the role of bureaucrat. Besides, his mind was made up to retire so he felt he no longer had to impress presidential advisors. Instead he wore slacks, a golf shirt and a sport coat.
Another black Lincoln, driven by a Secret Service agent, was waiting when he walked from his hangar. The driver, broad-shouldered, but with a fairly substantial belt line, said nothing as he sat behind the wheel, letting Pitt open his own rear door. The journey to Al's condo was conducted in silence.
After Giordino eased into the rear seat next to Pitt, it soon became clear that the driver was not taking the normal route toward the White House. Giordino leaned over the front seat. "Excuse me, pal, but aren't you taking the long way around?"
> The driver kept his eyes straight ahead and did not answer.
Giordino turned to Pitt with an expression of circumspection. "A real chatterbox, this guy."
"Ask him where he's taking us."
"How about it?" Giordino spoke directly into the driver's ear. "If not the White House, what's our destination?"
Still no answer. The driver ignored Giordino and steered the car as if he was a robot.
"What do you think?" Giordino muttered. "Should we stick an ice pick in his ear at the next stoplight and hijack the car?"
"How do we know he's actually with the Secret Service?" said Pitt.
The driver's face remained impassive as reflected in the rearview mirror. He reached an arm over his shoulder with his hand displaying his Secret Service identification.
Giordino peered at the ID. "He's genuine. He has to be with a name like Otis McGonigle."
"I'm glad it's not the White House," Pitt said, yawning as if bored. "The people inside are so drab and dreary. And what's worse, they think the country will go to the dogs without them."
"Especially those toadies who protect the president," Giordino added.
"You mean those deadheads who stand around with little radios in their ears wearing sunglasses that went out of fashion thirty years ago?"
"The same."
Still no response, not even a twitch of irritation.
