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Once she was inside, the driver pulled quickly from the curb, and she was able to avoid making any kind
of comment whatsoever in response to the shouted questions. Fortunately, New York City traffic
prohibited easy pursuit, and by the time day reached Diane Bleekers upper East side condo, they had left
the press behind. Felicia Davis accompanied her to Diane's door and took up a post just outside after
Diane answered Blair's knock.
"That's one I don't think I've seen before," Diane remarked after a quick glimpse of the tall
ebony-skinned woman who somehow managed to look Paris runway elegant in the standard dark,
two-piece suit. "She's absolutely gorgeous."
"Forget it. She's straight."
"And your point would be?" Diane tossed a grin over her shoulder as she led them through the apartment
to a sitting area facing the balcony. Through the open French doors, the green expanse of Central Park
was visible far below.
"Don't you have your hands full with your many other...ah...interests?" Blair teased.
"Well, variety is the spice of life and all that."
"Riiight."
"You want something to drink? Beer or wine?"
Blair shook her head and settled into one corner of the broad beige sectional. She kicked off her shoes,
propped her feet on a footstool, and dropped her head against the back of the sofa. "No, I'm fine.
Thanks."
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"Yeah, I can see that." Diane walked to a nearby serving cart and poured herself a glass of white wine,
then returned and sat near Blair. Resting one hand on Blair's blue-jeaned leg, Diane said, "So. Tell me."
Blair raised an eyebrow. "What makes you think there's anything to tell?"
"Come on--save me the trouble of teasing it out of you. Suddenly, she held up a hand.  No wait--let me
guess. Roberts has done something to annoy you again."
"Why do you say that?" Blair asked in honest curiosity.
"Because you always get those double frown lines between your brows when she's driving you crazy."
Blair shook her head and smiled. "No. She hasn't done anything. In fact she's--fabulous."
"Oh my God." Diane's voice registered true shock. "You can't be serious."
"What are you talking about?"
"Are you really, truly in love?"
For moment, Blair wavered. She had said the words to Cam, but only rarely. Shed told Marcea. Still,
saying it, she was sure, would destroy the last barricade that stood between her heart and everything that
had always threatened to hurt her. Maybe it had started with the loss of her mother, or maybe it had been
the betrayal of her first love in prep school, or maybe it had been the long procession of women who had
claimed to want her when it was only the spotlight that accompanied her father's name they wished to
experience. She had managed to protect herself from the disappointment of a love lost by never allowing
it in. Into the expectant silence, she loosed the fear and breathed the truth. "Yes. Utterly. Madly. "
Diane stared at her, her face blank and unreadable for what felt like an endless moment. Finally, she
sipped her drink and said quietly, "I envy you. And I'm happy for you."
Almost shyly, Blair nudged Diane's leg with her toes. "Thanks."
"So, if it's not Roberts, what's the problem?"
"I guess you haven't seen a newspaper recently."
Diane laughed, a deep throated purr that at one time had been enough to make Blair want to throw her
down on the bed and ravish her. But they had been teenagers then and they had not been lovers for many
years. "There's a picture of me on the front page of the Post in a compromising position. You can't tell
that it's Cameron, but eventually someone is going to put it together. I am, to put it bluntly, about to be
outed."
"You've had a pretty good run, you know," Diane pointed out quietly.
"I know. I'm just not sure how to handle it. The White House needs to be prepared, because my father
is going to catch the fallout."
"I've always thought that a preemptive strike was the best way to deal with things like this."
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"You think I should make a statement?"
"Do you intend to keep on with her?"
Blair gasped, as if from a sudden pain. "God, I hope so."
"Well, that's the answered then, isn't it?" Diane shrugged. "If you aren't willing to give her up, then you're
going to have to deal with the publicity that goes with the relationship. Better have it on your own terms
than end up always needing to defend yourself."
Blair ran her hands through her hair, then sighed. "It would be so much easier if I didn't have to worry
about the spin doctors in D.C. wanting to control what I say and when I say it and who I say it to."
"Screw them. You're an adult--do what you want to do."
"I have been, but I can't pretend that my father is not the President of the United States. He's got sort of
an important job. I think I'm going to need to run this by some people in the West Wing before I shoot
him in the foot."
"I suppose you're right. You want me to come with you?"
"Thanks, I really appreciate it. I'd better do this alone."
"So what do you plan to do?"
"I'm going to catch a plane to Washington."
She leaned over, kissed Diane on the cheek, and stood.
"Any chance you could lend me one of your spookies?" Diane asked as she rose and threaded her arm
through Blair's.
"Anyone in particular?" Blair asked playfully as the two friends walked toward the door.
When Diane opened the door, Felicia Davis stepped away from the wall and glanced in at Blair.
"She would do nicely," Diane said sotto voce.
Felicia raised one elegant eyebrow. "Ready Ms. Powell?"
"As I'll ever be," Blair replied seriously.
Chapter Twentyone
At 1830 hours that evening, Cam sat in a deserted anteroom in front of a plain varnished door with a
small sign bearing Stewart Carlisles name. She settled in to wait, but just a few minutes passed when his
administrative assistant appeared around the corner and said,  Hes ready for you.
When she opened the door and stepped into the unadorned office that had little in the way of
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personalized touches other than a small framed photo on the wall of a very young Stewart Carlisle with
John Fitzgerald Kennedy and his brother Robert, her immediate superior was making a notation on the
bottom of a report.
 Grab a chair, he said without looking up.
She chose the right hand one of a pair of institutional fabric covered office chairs in front of his desk and
crossed her right ankle over her knee, her hands resting loosely on the thin wooden armrests. When he
finally closed the folder and pushed the pile of papers away with his right hand, looking up to meet her
gaze, his face revealed nothing.
 What happened with that newspaper photograph? he began without preamble.  Thats just the kind of
thing the White House likes to chew my ass over.
 I was going to ask you the same thing, she said calmly.  We should have had intelligence that the photo [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]