Love & Honor

Chapter Sixteen

Cam hesitated briefly on the sidewalk. It was two o'clock in the morning. She glanced up and diagonally across the block-wide oasis of trees that comprised Gramercy Park to the building where she lived when in New York City on assignment. The prospect of pacing for several sleepless hours in her utilitarian apartment held little appeal. The prospect of tossing in her solitary bed trying to forget the way Blair had looked walking away from her held even less. Quickly, she walked to the southeast corner of the square and flagged a cab. She gave the cabbie an intersection in the East Village.

Traffic was light in the small hours of the morning in Manhattan, even though there was more activity there at any hour than in any other American city. When she paid the driver and stepped out, there were still people strolling on the sidewalks, and here and there music wafted from the open doors of taverns and all-night restaurants. It was a short walk to her destination, and less than a half an hour after leaving Blair's building, she was seated on a corner barstool in a small, neighborhood bar. The bartender, a hard-bodied, hard-eyed brunette came over almost immediately. The muscles in her well-developed shoulders and upper arms strained the fabric of the tight white T-shirt she wore tucked into faded blue jeans.

"How you doin'?"

"Fine," Cam said. "Glenlivet. Double-straight up."

"Sure thing."

A minute later, Cam was sipping the aged, single malt scotch and trying to make sense of the last few hours.

Hell, the last few days.

She turned the glass aimlessly on the bar top and tried to make sense of a puzzle from which too many pieces were missing. It had started with the debriefing in Washington and Stewart Carlisle's odd capitulation to Doyles bullying threats of an investigation and had culminated with the night's oblique threat to Blair. And then, of course, there was Claire.

She sighed wearily. «Claire.

From beside her, a voice softly questioned, "Girlfriend?"

Cam jumped, startled, and that in itself spoke volumes about her muddled state of mind. Or perhaps just her persistent state of fatigue. She turned her eyes to the redhead who had slipped onto the barstool beside her without her even noticing. The woman looked to be in her early twenties, but might be a decade older. Her green eyes were wide and liquid with invitation, and her high, full breasts-shown off to their full advantage in a scoop-necked tank top that exposed plenty of cleavage in addition to the sharp prominences of her nipples-were ripe with promise.

"Has to be a woman to make you look that down," the woman remarked again.

"No." Cam shook her head. "Just thinking."

"If there's something-or someone-you'd like to forget for a few hours, I can think of a couple of interesting ways to help you out."

"No, thanks," Cam said, smiling slightly. "What I need is to think, not forget."

"It never pays to think alone," the redhead said, leaning closer, her fingers pressing lightly on the top of Cam's right hand.

"I'm not alone," Cam said softly.

The woman studied her silently for a moment, then nodded. "Then I'll let you get back to whatever is keeping you up tonight."

With that she moved away and Cam returned to studying her drink. The touch of the stranger's hand had made her think of Claire.

Claire. Is she a part of this?

Until a few days ago, she had thought that chapter of her life closed.

After she hung up the phone, Cam hurriedly crossed to the bedroom, stripped off the robe, and grabbed for the first thing that was handy. She was just buttoning the fly of her jeans when the doorbell rang. Quickly, she pulled on the T-shirt and opened the door.

"Hello, Claire."

"I'm sorry," the woman in the hallway began. "I know I shouldn't have come -"

"No. It's all right." Cam extended her hand, and Claire took it. "Come inside."

Claire was dressed as she often was-tasteful evening dress and matching heels, her blond hair in a French twist, her makeup flawless, and her jewelry expensive. She hesitated just inside the door, then dropped her purse onto the mail table in the small foyer. "You look tired. It's late, isnt it? God, I should go."

"Come into the living room. Can I get you a drink?"

"Wine, if you have it."

Several minutes later, Cam joined Claire on the sofa in front of the windows where less than thirty minutes before she had been sitting speaking to her lover. She forced the image of Blair from her mind and handed the glass of cabernet to the woman who had made love to her countless times. The lines of stress around Claire's eyes were obvious. "What is it?"

"I've been hearing things from my...colleagues...for the last several weeks. Someone has been asking questions."

Cam frowned. "Someone has been trying to get information out of the...escorts?"

Claire smiled, her blue eyes troubled. "First you must understand-with this establishment, confidentiality is absolutely the most critical service we provide. Every one of us is thoroughly screenedthere are background checks to rival the federal governments, known associates are identified, resumes, transcripts-everything ever documented is reviewed. No one gives out information about a client. It just doesn't happen."

"But now you think someone's been talking?"

"I don't know." Claire shook her head. "All I know is that someone, orsomeones, have certainly been asking questions."

"And why are you telling me?"

"Because they're asking questions about the President."

Cam shrugged. "There have been rumors going around Washington since before he was elected that he uses a...service for his...social needs. That's not news."

"I know," Claire said. "But this is the first time any of us has been approached. For one thing, our names are carefully omitted from any transactions-even on paper. No one has access to our true identities, so it's almost impossible for us to be individually associated with any particular establishment or client. But more than one of us has been questioned about him."

Cam was quiet, considering the information. "Which means that someone may have identified your organization and gotten access to your files."

"Yes. And if that's the case, they might have access to much more than just the escort identities. They may have the client lists."

"Ah, I see." Cam rubbed her forehead with one hand, trying desperately to assuage the pounding headache that was making it difficult for her to think. "Are you here to warn me?"

"Partly, and..."

"What?"

"I know who you are."

"Meaning?" Cam asked quietly.

"Your picture has been on television."

"Yes," Cam acknowledged with a sigh. "I suppose you've known for a long time."

Claire rested her hand on Cam's thigh. It was the first time she had touched her in almost six months. "It's my businessnotto know who you are. My only responsibility is to know what you need."

The touch of Claire's hand stirred a visceral memory that was as automatic as the awakening of hunger stirred by a familiar smell. For months after Janet's death, Cam had wanted nothing more than the few hours of dreamless sleep that the satisfaction of Claire's caress had given her. Her body had grown used to the stroke of Claires fingers. Cams nerve endings remembered, too, and her breath quickened. Ignoring the sweet stab of unbidden desire, she asked, "Has anyone asked about me specifically?"

"Not that I know of, but I've only heard these rumors from a few people. There may be other things I don't know about yet."

"I'm not sure what I can do with this information, or what I can doaboutit," Cam said.

"I don't know that there's anythingtodo, especially if we're as compromised as it seems. But I don't want to see anyone hurt-especially not the President." She lifted her eyes to Cam's, resting her fingers lightly now against her cheek. Her lips were very close to Cam's when she whispered, "Or you."

Cam jerked, as if feeling the warmth of Claire's fingers again. That was a memory she could not afford to ponder. She rubbed her eyes, then quickly downed the rest of her scotch. Tomorrow, she would be with Claire. Then, perhaps, she would find some answers.

*****

Blair turned over in bed and looked at the clock. The red numerals showed it to be shortly after 1:00 a.m. With a sigh, she threw back the light sheet and swung her legs to the floor. Naked, she walked through the moonlit loft and stopped in front of the floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the park below. From her vantage point she could see Cam's building, and she knew which were her windows. Her lover's apartment was dark. She knew she shouldn't wake her, because by now, she recognized the subtle signs of pain that Cam would never speak of. The faint deepening of the lines around her eyes and the slight, nearly imperceptible tightening of her shoulders as she shifted her position in a chair. What Cam needed now was to sleep and to heal.

Finally, Blair returned to her bed and sat on the edge, watching flickers of unearthly light dance across the hardwood floor, caught between reason and desire. A very long time ago, she had taught herself not to need the solace of a woman's body in the dark. She never spent the night with anyone she made love to; she never sought the sound of another's voice to console her pain or assuage her fears. She slept alone and she bore her uncertainty and disappointment and loneliness in silence.

Everything had changed when Cam had come into her life.

Almost against her will, she reached for the phone. A minute later, after listening to it ring unanswered, she laid the receiver carefully into its cradle. Then she stretched out on the bed, rolled onto her side, and closed her eyes. It was a long time before her breathing eased into the steady, quiet cadence of sleep.