Commander in Chief (White House #2)(52)

“My husband has been very angry at the United States for a long time.” She eyes me. “We haven’t had the same . . . agenda, shall we say.”

“No two countries ever do. That’s what compromises are for.”

She scowls delicately. “Yes, but my husband is not good at compromising.”

“My husband is great at what he does. I’m sure they’ll come to an understanding. May I show you around?” I offer.

We watch as the men head to the West Wing, and I lead her around the White House, telling her stories about our ancestors, funny or interesting tidbits about things that happened in each room.

“How lovely, your passion,” she says.

I only smile.

“You are to have a baby, yes?”

“I’m due December.”

“We never had children. Kev said it was too much, to have brats and be in charge of Russia.”

She sounds forlorn. “I’m sorry to hear that. I’m sure Matthew has his concerns, but I do believe it’s possible to both have a family and be commander in chief.”

“Ah, youth.”

“Maybe it is youth, or maybe simply determination.”

“Is your husband not concerned he’ll leave his child fatherless? Like his father?”

I raise my brow. “No. We trust the Secret Service to keep him safe.”

“But they couldn’t keep your beloved President Law safe.” She eyes me. “It would be a shame to lose such a perfect example of masculinity to a mistake.”

I manage to keep my expression neutral, my gaze direct. “Thank you for your concern, but my husband and his administration are stronger than ever and will continue to be,” I say, my tone no-nonsense.

Katarina leaves early, and her husband remains with mine—I’m not sure where, but somewhere in the White House, probably the Oval, where all the big stuff is discussed.

I’m exhausted, so I hit the bed in the Queens’ Bedroom, unsure of when Matt will be done.

I keep replaying my conversation with Katarina as I drift off to sleep.

I have a nightmare. It’s dark and I’m aware that I’m dreaming, but everything feels too real to be a dream. The fear pulses through me, the regret, and the confusion.

Carlisle is bloodied, and I look and follow the trail of blood to Matt. He’s lying down, not breathing, his hand holding a small one, and it’s me, lying in that same pool of blood, his father’s pin bloodied on my lapel.

I sit up in bed with a gasp, then glance around as the world spins. My throat constricted, my heart beating, I’m dizzy. I scramble out of bed in search of the bathroom and realize I’m not in my apartment. I’m in the Queens’ Bedroom. In the White House. I inhale, then grab a robe and step outside. My agent Stacey stands up at attention.

“Everything all right?”

“Yes, just getting some water, thank you.”

I head to the kitchen and notice Wilson down the hall—and my eyes instantly jerk to the side to see Matt seated in the yellow sitting area.

“You’re back,” I gasp.

“Got in a while ago.”

“How did it go?”

“Not as well as I wanted, but better than I expected.” He scrapes his hand over his jaw and looks at me, then at Wilson, and Wilson scats.

The fear of my nightmare wanes with his presence.

I’m aching, his piercing coffee eyes, his infectious smile, his husky voice, and the way I want to be with him greater than my fear.

His low, sexy voice is like a blanket around me. “How are you? Are you uncomfortable?”

“I don’t have time to be uncomfortable.” I smile.

I head over to him and he draws me to sit on his thigh. “You outdid yourself tonight.” He cups my abdomen. Kisses it. “You look tired.” He peers at my face, his gaze too penetrating. Too knowing.

“A little. I think it went well. The Kebchovs were definitely impressed. The first lady was impressed by you, but I’m getting used to that.”

He frowns and strokes a hand over my hair, and I angle my head into the touch, stroking my hand up his chest. There’s a nearly imperceptible darkening in his eyes, a hunger lurking all of a sudden in his irises.

“Let’s get you to bed.”

“Are you coming with me?”

He doesn’t answer, simply leads me there.

Once in bed, he strips me, and then strips himself. I cuddle into his chest, in his arms, Matt sitting with his back propped against the headrest. “Rest, Matt,” I groan, kissing his pec, caressing the dusting of hair on his chest.

“I will. I’m just thinking.” He kisses my forehead.

I reach up to press his face against mine, stroking his hair, until I feel him turn his head into my hair and close his eyes, able to catch a few hours of sleep before the hum of the early-morning White House begins, and it’s a full day for the both of us again.



During the week, I have another group of important visitors at the White House. Kids from a local art school arrive, and I’ve set up small tables in the East Room so we can all do a White House–themed project.

One of the six-year-old girls calls me to her table and asks, “Like this?”

I reach over and adjust the paper so I can see it. Just then, she lifts the brush and smears paint on my cheek, and I laugh when I see Matt stop at the door—the room falling silent for a second, followed by a round of gasps from the little kids.