Epilogue
“You should be resting.”
President Blane Kirk glanced up from where he was sitting behind his desk, going through the stacks of briefs and memos that had piled up during his absence. His wife had entered the Oval Office.
As always, the sight of her momentarily took his breath away. A reaction he’d had from the first time he’d laid eyes on her in New York nearly ten years ago.
He’d been at a charity event—a fashion show with designers with names like Versace, de la Renta, Chanel, and more—that had drawn the very wealthiest of New York’s elite. Anne was one of the models, and when she’d walked the runway—clad in a diaphanous silver gown, her dark hair cascading down her back, with eyes that were deep pools he could get lost in—he’d been unable to think of anything but meeting her.
She’d proven somewhat elusive. Born to an old-money family, she’d been wary of his interest. But Blane himself wasn’t unfamiliar with those drawn to wealth and beauty. He’d persisted, even as she was finishing her master’s degree in fashion design. They’d married in a New York cathedral—with more than five hundred of their closest friends—and honeymooned in France.
Anne had been by his side through his terms as senator as well as a grueling presidential campaign. The people loved her. She was warm and approachable, beautiful and kind. Then they’d had the twins and cemented their spot as America’s Perfect Couple. Blane had lost track of the number of magazine covers one or both of them had graced, though he knew Kathleen—his brother’s wife—kept track of them all. She was adamant about it, saying the twins would want to have copies of them when they were older.
“I said, you should be resting,” Anne repeated, pulling Blane from his memories. “It’s late.” She settled one hip against the edge of the desk.
“I’ve rested enough. The work has to get done. Somehow, the business of running the country doesn’t pause just because I’m a little under the weather.”
Her eyebrows rose. “A little under the weather? You were shot.”
Blane took her hips in his hands and slid her closer to him on the desk. “I’ve been shot before,” he gently reminded her.
“That doesn’t mean I have to like it.”
“I know.” Anne had been horrified at the shooting and had refused to leave his side in the hospital, protecting him like a wolf with her mate. She’d been adamant that he needed time to recover. Kade and Kathleen had been nearly the only ones she’d allowed in the room.
“Did they catch the man who did it?” she asked.
Blane nodded. He’d just been on the phone with Kade and been caught up on the events in Nebraska. “He won’t be bothering us again.”
“Did they find out who or why?”
“It was a soldier who’d been left behind on an op six years ago,” Blane explained. “I was the ranking member of the Intelligence Committee at the time. Someone leaked the attack plan to Gaddafi. He must’ve thought it was me—”
“You’d never do something like that,” Anne interrupted. “You’d never put soldiers at risk like that.”
“I know that, but obviously he didn’t.”
“Do you know who did leak it?”
“No,” he answered grimly. “But I think it’s time I found out.”
Anne sighed. “Always intrigue and treachery. Like Caesar, having to watch your back before the next person stabs you.” She sounded bitter.
“That’s politics,” Blane absently replied. He was distracted by the way the light shown behind her, outlining her body through the silk nightgown she wore. Tall, thin, and lithe, her legs stretched on for miles. Laying his hand on her calf, he slid his palm underneath the fabric up the silken length of thigh.
“Excuse me, Mr. President,” Anne teased, stopping his hand with her own. “You’re not supposed to indulge in any rigorous activity until you’re fully healed.”
“Then I suppose I’ll be lazy and make you be on top.” Scooping her into his arms, the tinkling sound of her laughter in his ears, he carried her from the room.
Kade Dennon stretched, the kinks in his neck and shoulders reminding him that sitting in front of a computer for hours wasn’t good for the muscles. But he’d finished, and all the loose ends were satisfactorily tied up. Mostly. Danvers was still an issue. But he’d deal with that later.
Turning off the lights to his office, he set the house alarm and headed upstairs. He’d moved to DC during Blane’s campaign, buying a house Kathleen had fallen in love with. An old Georgetown colonial, it was homier than it should be for its size.
Although he was certain he made no noise, Kathleen still stirred when he slipped into bed beside her.
“About time,” she murmured, nestling sleepily into his arms. “Everything okay?”
“Everything’s fine,” he replied, stroking her long hair. “Go back to sleep.”
“That girl . . . China . . . she’s all right?” she persisted.
“Yes. Choppers got there in time.” No need to go into the details of how close “in time” had been.
“Good.” She yawned and sighed.
Kade lay awake, staring at the ceiling, his fingers gently combing through her hair as her breaths evened and deepened in slumber. He often did this. Lay awake in the still of the night, just holding his wife and doing what she’d call “counting his blessings.” His life could’ve been very different had things not gone the way they had. And not a day passed that he didn’t stop and take a moment to appreciate what he’d been given.
He hoped China would be no worse for wear after this. She was a tough chick, but even tough chicks had their limits. She’d deserved to know the truth about her mother and Danvers. Truth was often painful, but also freeing. She’d have questions, and she’d want to hunt down her real father, something they had in common.
Danvers couldn’t hide from them both.