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As she stalked over to the sink, she decided that Nell Kelly might not be dead after all.
Mat smoldered. He was the one who’d been wronged, but she acted as if this were his fault.
The fact that his emotions were still getting in the way of his journalistic detachment only made it worse. The biggest story of his career was unfolding right in front of him, and all he wanted to do was grab his subject by her shoulders and shake her until those aristocratic little teeth rattled.
His self-control snapped a few hours later as he was paying for some groceries at a combination service station and convenience store in rural southern Illinois and realized that Nell—Mrs. Case—had disappeared. A chill shot through him. For the first time, it hit him that this woman should be protected by a cadre of Secret Service agents, and she only had him.
He grabbed the groceries and shot outside. She hadn’t gone into the motor home. It was parked right by the door, and he would have seen her. He took in a collection of dusty vehicles, a gas pump, and a mean-looking German shepherd. Where in the hell was she?
The dire predictions of all the conspiracy nuts he’d heard on the radio came rushing back to him. He hurried to the side of the building and saw a weedy field and a scrap heap of old tires, but no runaway First Lady. He raced for the other side and found her standing at the pay phone that was mounted next to an air hose.
“Damn it!”
Her head shot up as he dropped the groceries and charged toward her. She spoke quickly into the telephone, then hung up.
“Don’t y
ou ever do that to me again!” He knew he was yelling, but he couldn’t help himself.
“I hope there weren’t any eggs in those sacks. And what did I do?”
“Disappear like that! I thought you were— Damn it, Nell, when we’re not in that motor home, I want you stuck to my side, do you hear me?”
“Won’t that be a little uncomfortable for us both?”
First Lady or not, they were going to get a few things straight. He lowered his voice to a hiss. “You may think this is goddamn funny—playing the runaway princess, amusing yourself with the hoi polloi—but it isn’t a game. Do you have any idea what could happen if some kind of extremists got hold of you?”
“I have a better idea than you,” she hissed back. “And you’re the only person who knows where I am. Granted, your behavior can be a little extreme at times, but—”
“Don’t you dare start making jokes!”
She smiled at him and whispered, “This is more like it.”
His blood hit the boiling point. “You think this is funny?”
“Not funny. It’s just nice to have you back to your normal arrogant self again.” Her smile faded. “And I’m not amusing myself with the hoi polloi.”
“What else would you call it?”
“Freedom!” Her eyes flashed. “It’s the basic right of every American citizen unless she happens to be First Lady. You listen to me, Mat Jorik . . .” She stunned him by jabbing his chest. “In the past year, I buried my husband and got maneuvered into keeping a job I didn’t want. I’ve lived in the spotlight since I was born, doing the right thing, putting everybody’s interests in front of mine. If I’m being selfish now, well, that’s tough! I’ve earned it, and I’m going to enjoy every minute.”
“Is that so?”
“You bet it is, buster!”
He was the one who should be yelling, and he couldn’t figure out how he’d managed to lose the upper hand. “Who were you calling?” he snapped.
“Barbara Bush.”
“Yeah, tell me another—” He broke off as he realized it was entirely possible she had called Barbara Bush.
Her expression was annoyingly close to a smirk. “Do you know what she said just before I hung up?”
He shook his head.
“She said, ‘You go, girl.’ ”
“Uh . . . did she?”
