Kiss the Bride (57 page)

She spied Shane’s physical therapist, Pete Larkin, coming up the ramp with Shane bringing up the rear. At the sight of her ex-husband, Tish’s breath slipped from her lungs, falling like mercury through a thermometer during a Blue Norther. Even before their tête-à-tête on the porch at the Benedict ranch house, Tish had been battling old memories and feelings she thought she’d put to rest.

He looked like Sir Galahad with a beam of sunlight streaming in through the window from over his shoulders, as if he were a mythological god bringing illumination to those inside. He wore the ubiquitous Secret Service sunglasses, even though he was no longer Elysee’s bodyguard.

Old habits died hard.

For some strange reason that thought lifted her spirits. Like what? Was she subconsciously thinking of herself as one of Shane’s old habits?

Stop it. Stop it right now.

He spotted Elysee sitting in the corner, but apparently he hadn’t seen Tish. His face softened into a gentle smile as he went toward the President’s daughter.

Elysee smiled back and tilted her face up to him. He leaned down and pressed a kiss to her cheek. Elysee looked at him as if he’d singlehandedly created the world.

It was a sweet, romantic moment that knocked the breath from Tish’s lungs. She felt mean and petty and hurt. Jealousy was an ugly thing.

Panic spread through her veins like a firestorm.

It’s all a mistake. Coming here today. Going to Washington. Agreeing to be the videographer for their wedding.

Not fighting harder to keep Shane.

What made her so self-destructive? Why couldn’t she latch on to what was wrong with her and fix it? Why wasn’t she able to control her spending? How come she swept her
finances under the rug? Why had she just given up on their marriage?

He gave up on me first!

Misery had her jonesing for Ben and Jerry’s Cherry Garcia. Either that or a double shot of really strong tequila. Unexpected hysteria clamped down on her mind.

I can’t do this. I can’t stand by and watch while Shane marries another woman.

Her knees trembled and her heart was in free fall, tumbling out of her chest and into her feet.

Elysee noticed her, waved, and called out, “Tish, come sit with us.”

I’d rather stick a hot poker in my eye, thank you very much.
“Okay.”

Pasting on a fake smile worthy of a politician, Tish ambled over to a quartet of plush leather chairs arranged so they faced each other. Elysee and her secretary, Lola, sat on the forward-facing chairs, while Shane and Tish sat side by side on the backward-facing chairs.

If she were to reach out her right hand she could trail her fingers along the left sleeve of Shane’s dark jacket. Instead, she made sure that both hands were tightly clutching her camera bag.

“Something to drink?” asked an attendant.

“V-8 juice, please, if you have it.”

“Certainly, miss.” The flight attendant departed.

Silence descended. Tish was aware that Elysee was studying Shane, who was looking over at her, an enigmatic expression in his eyes. He’d taken off the sunglasses and tucked them in the front pocket of his jacket. Lola was discreetly staring out the window.

Tish inhaled sharply. Oh God, this trip was going to be horrible.

“So what do you think about
Air Force One
?” Elysee asked. Tish could tell she was struggling to make pleasant conversation.

“Impressive. Photographs don’t do it justice.”

“It is difficult, catching the atmosphere of something on camera.” Elysee gave a forced laugh. “But of course you know that. You spend your life trying to breathe dimension into a one-dimensional medium.”

It sounded like a criticism, even though Tish knew Elysee hadn’t meant it that way.

“Oh,” Elysee said and brought two fingers to her lips. “That sounded stupid, didn’t it? It’s just that Shane told me how hard you work to capture the core emotional content of a moment with your camera. He said you focus in on the small details. An untied shoelace on a two-year-old ring bearer, a single bead of perspiration on the upper lip of the father of the bride, a bridesmaid fondling her own bare ring finger.”

“He said that?” Tish slid her gaze in Shane’s direction.

“Don’t sound so surprised,” he said gruffly.

“I never realized you ever paid much attention to my work.” She studied him with fresh eyes.

“I was proud of you; of course I paid attention.”

“Really? When was that? Before or after you bitched at me for buying this camera?” She clutched her camera bag to her chest.

“Tish.” He leveled a warning glance. “You’re distorting things.”

“You’re right.” She held up her palms. “Ancient history.”

“I didn’t mean to stir up controversy between you two,” Elysee apologized.

“You didn’t,” Tish and Shane said in unison and glared
at each other. The undercurrent of tension was still there, strong as ever.

The flight attendant returned with the V-8 juice she’d ordered and Tish set it in the cup holder nestled in the arm of her chair and rested her camera bag at her feet.

A commotion at the door drew Tish’s attention to the entrance. A knot of Secret Service surrounded the President as he entered the plane. Awestruck, she stared openmouthed as the Commander-in-Chief made his way over to Elysee.

Nathan Benedict’s presence was palpable. Not only because of everyone’s reaction to him, but from the aura emanating from him. He had steel gray hair and a no-nonsense stride. He slipped out of his suit jacket, handed it to an underling, and rolled up the sleeves of his starched white shirt. He hugged Elysee, shook Shane’s hand, nodded hello to Lola, and then turned to her.

“You must be Tish,” he said warmly. “My daughter speaks very highly of you and your work as a videographer.”

“It’s a great honor to meet you, sir.”

“Likewise.”

“Please, take my seat, Mr. President; sit with your daughter.”

She was up and moving, desperate to get away from the sudden claustrophobia squeezing her lungs. This was too much. She was ill-prepared for such a momentous encounter. She couldn’t look the President in the eye. Not when she was still aching for Shane, who was about to marry his daughter. She was terrified that this perceptive man would see her secret etched upon her face.

“No, young lady, sit, sit.” The President gestured toward the chair she’d vacated.

“I’m more comfortable standing.”

“We’re about to take off,” he said, a bemused smile playing across his lips. “You have to sit down.”

Tish pointed over her shoulder at vacant seating in the rear corner. “I’ll be more comfortable over there.”

He studied her a moment, obviously reading her nervousness.

“As you wish.”

She snatched up her camera bag and grabbed her V-8 juice from the cup holder on the chair. She moved to the right. The President went in the same direction.

“Oh, sorry,” she mumbled and stepped left at the very instant he did the same.

“Hold still, young lady, and let me get around you.” Nathan Benedict chuckled and reached out with both hands to grab her shoulders.

Call it a subconscious response. Call it extreme nervousness. Or call it what it really was—her self-destructive mode kicking into high gear. Either way, it was a major snafu.

The second he reached for her, Tish raised her arm in a protective gesture, forgetting she was clutching a glass of viscous V-8 juice.

Her hand went up.

The glass came down.

Thick red juice splashed, blooming like blood in the center of Nathan Benedict’s pristine white shirt.

The President made a startled sound.

Tish gasped.

“She stabbed the President!” someone shouted.

The Secret Service converged in a swarm.

The next thing Tish knew she was pinned to the floor by six burly bodyguards.

People were shouting. Hard knees jammed into her back, pressing down on her lungs, making it hard for her to breathe. Someone sat on her legs. Her knees dug into the carpeting. Both of her hands were staked to the ground by thick wrists heavier than iron shackles and her camera bag had disappeared.

Panic seized her. Her camera was her most valuable possession. It had cost her fifteen thousand dollars and her marriage.

“My camera!” she cried. “Where’s my camera?”

Above all the hubbub she heard Shane calmly explaining that they could let her go, because while his ex-wife was a monumental klutz, she’d hardly intended to assassinate the leader of the free world with a glass of V-8 juice.

“Get off my wife.” The words were on the tip of his tongue. Shane almost spoke them, but just in the nick of time, he managed to bite them back. Instead he said, “All clear, suspect no threat to the eagle.”

“I’m fine,” Nathan Benedict reiterated as another agent whisked him away. “It’s nothing more than spilled tomato juice.”

“I can’t breathe,” Tish mumbled, her face pressed against the floor.

A shock of concern passed through him. “Get off,” he snapped at the bodyguards. “You’re hurting her.”

Slowly, the Secret Service agents let her up and backed away, holstering their drawn weapons as they went. Shane understood why they’d done what they’d done, but he couldn’t help feeling as if they’d acted overzealously.

He reached down to take Tish’s arm. “You okay?”

She raised her head, pushed up on her knees, and threw him a scathing glance. Reluctantly she took his proffered
hand, but once on her feet she immediately twisted from his grasp and glowered at him darkly.

“Are you pissed off at me?”

“Why on earth would I be pissed off at you?” Her voice was laden with sarcasm.

“I don’t know. That’s why I’m asking.”

She just glared and leaned over to dust off the knees of her jeans. When she did the gauzy top she was wearing fell forward, giving him a clear view of her cleavage.

Tish’s skin was so creamy and soft. He remembered exactly what it felt like to press his face into the delicious scoop of her cleavage. He could smell her scent—an intoxicating cinnamon, ginger, and licorice mix. His heart did a weird somersault.

It had been a very long time since he’d been privy to that amazing view and he hadn’t realized exactly how much he missed it. Shane blinked and just stood there for the few seconds it took to remember where he was and what he was supposed to be doing.

You’re an adult
, he scolded himself.
Not a randy teenager. Knock it off. Remember what you promised yourself. Remember, you’re engaged to Elysee.

Tish raised her head and her eyes met his. For that split second in time it was just him and Tish and the way things used to be.

Once upon a time, when it came to sex, they’d been insatiable for each other. Even in the rockiest moments of their marriage, their lovemaking had been monumental. She could turn him on with just one sultry, well-placed glance. Fortunately for Shane, she was scowling at him as if he had leprosy.

“Where’s my camera?” she demanded.

“Hang on.”

“I want my camera.”

Shane glanced around and saw that Cal had it slung over his shoulder. He also saw his old partner had noticed Tish’s cleavage. Shane had the sudden urge to smack him right in the kisser.

“Cal?” He stepped closer and held out his hand. “May I have the camera?”

“You sure that’s a good idea?”

“She’s not a security threat,” Shane growled.
And stop looking at her like that.

“Maybe not intentionally,” Cal muttered low enough where only Shane could hear. “But she’s got ‘walking disaster’ written all over her. Remember the first time you met her?”

“Give me that.” He snatched the camera from him. “And mind your own damned business.”

Cal arched an eyebrow. “Guarding the first daughter is my business. What’s yours, Tremont?”

Shane glared. He knew where Cal was coming from, but he also knew Tish was mentally browbeating herself for having caused such a scene. She took things so personally.

“I feel so humiliated,” Tish moaned softly when Shane brought the camera back to her.

“Don’t be. It happens.”

“What about the President?” She worried her bottom lip with her teeth. “Is he okay?”

“He’s gone to change his clothes. Don’t worry about it. No damage done. President Benedict knows you were just nervous.”

“I don’t get how you do it.” Tish shook her head.

“Do what?”

“Move in these circles and act so cool.”

“Practice,” he said. “FYI, whenever you bend forward, that blouse shows off a lot more than it should.”

Tish splayed a hand to her cleavage. “Really?”

“Really. Why do you think Cal was staring?”

“Oh, no, and I leaned over the President to pick up my camera. Do you suppose he—”

“Saw your ta-tas? Probably.”