Night Is Mine by Buchman M. L

Author:Buchman, M. L. [Buchman, M. L.]
Language: eng
Format: epub, mobi
Publisher: Sourcebooks, Inc.
Published: 2012-02-01T06:00:00+00:00

Chapter 33

As his watch ticked over to nineteen-hundred hours sharp, Mark rapped smartly on the vast door of the colonnaded Georgian home of the FBI Director. The two agents who’d frisked him at the entry had barely let him through, despite Emily calling authorization ahead. That she hadn’t arrived yet was unusual for a SOAR pilot. He’d expected to see her landing at the doorstep within seconds of his own arrival. D.C. ground traffic could do that to even the best flier.

The door swept open, and he was confronted by an elegant woman almost as tall as Emily. Not with Emily’s amazing blue eyes, but a testament to female beauty extending into mature years.

The brown eyes that assessed him reflected a chilling assessment. Mark almost glanced down at himself to see why before he remembered. Jet-setting bum. Right. Marky. He tried to pull his other self on like a dirty cloak.

With Emily’s name as a calling card, he was whisked into the parlor where her mother’s other half waited. Emily’s blue eyes looked at him out of a handsome male face, blond hair gone gray. Strong shoulders filling out the director’s light dress shirt, a glass of scotch in his hand.

For the count of five, they all stood assessing each other while Mark let his mouth run.

“Emmy said it would be okay if I dropped in. She should be here. Have you heard from her? I can’t get enough of that girl. You’ve raised a beautiful daughter. And White House chef? Hoo-whee! Who knew? Damn, but man is life full of cool surprises.”

Mom Beale wore a cloak of ice as she sized him up.

At the end of the five count, Dad Beale nodded to himself. A half smile cracked his face for a moment as he glanced sideways at his wife, then clicked off.

He stepped forward to shake Mark’s hand. “Can I offer you a whiskey? Emily said she’d be home by now. She must have been held up.” The hand Mark shook wasn’t the weak grip of some desk jockey. It was hard and strong. And it didn’t play games. No test of strength, but the statement was there. Clearly, his disguise hadn’t fooled the Director of the FBI for a moment. Not a big surprise. Father Beale might not know who Mark was, but he’d clearly connected that his daughter hadn’t sent a scruffy playboy to their home unescorted for no reason.

Mark almost asked for a soda, as Major Henderson would, but changed that to a beer, Marky’s drink of choice.

Now Mom Beale was looking back and forth between them. She hadn’t missed her husband’s shift, but clearly didn’t understand it.

She fetched him a Heineken in a chilled bottle and waved him to a chair.

“So, Marky, is it? Please tell us about yourself. It is so rare that our Emily”—strong emphasis on our—“brings home a man. And she’s told us so little about you.”

Not a word, he’d bet. Now to see how well his act held up.

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