Radclyffe: Oath of Honor

“I’m yours, forever. Count on it.”

“I do.”

“I do too,” Cam said.

“I’ll see you downstairs, then, and we can say it again for the whole world to hear.” Blair released Cam’s hand and rejoined her father. “Ready, Daddy?”

“Absolutely,” her father said.

Blair glanced back at Cam and raised her brow. “Commander?”

“Anything you say, Ms. Powell,” Cam called after her.

Her steps as light as her heart, Blair laughed.

*

“Wes!”

Wes spun around, caught sight of Emory Constantine hurrying toward her, and opened her arms. “Hi, Em.”

“Hi yourself!” Emory’s arms went around her neck and warm lips brushed her cheek. Emory hugged her hard.

“It’s great to see you,” Wes said gruffly, her throat tightening. Why was it so hard to keep in touch with the most important people in her life? She hadn’t seen Emory for months, about as long as it had been since she’d been home. She missed Emory like family. Emory was family. Wes had acquaintances at work, colleagues she liked and respected, people she talked with every day. But no one she shared with. Emory, and her mother and her sisters, were the ones she trusted. “You look beautiful.”

Wes stepped back, keeping Emory’s hands in hers. Emory’s shimmering blue dress brought out the highlights in her dark eyes and glossy shoulder-length black hair. She was, as always, utterly stunning while radiating complete confidence and self-assurance. Some people probably thought her ease, even when surrounded by some of the most influential people in the world, came from being lauded on the covers of Time and People for her lab’s stem-cell breakthroughs, but Emory had been certain about everything as long as Wes had known her. Emory never lost sight of what she wanted, where she was headed, what she would accomplish. Wes loved her single-mindedness and total confidence. Emory had always said the same thing about her, but Wes suspected she only looked self-assured on the outside as a result of her height and her athletic build and the lessons she’d learned early in life—never show fear, never show weakness, and never, ever be ashamed of who she was. Poverty had a way of creating dignity; at least it had in her house. But she knew it was camouflage. Even all these years later, she still wondered where she fit in the world and was always aware of what she had to do to secure her place. Her work was her lifeline—her security and her satisfaction.

Emory brushed her hand over the fruit salad above Wes’s heart, her fingertips making the ribbons and medals sway against the immaculate blue material a shade darker than Emory’s dress. “Look who’s talking. You’re downright dashing in this uniform, Captain. I fear I might swoon.”

Wes laughed, and a sandy-haired, sharp-eyed woman in a dark suit and coffee-colored shirt coughed discreetly at Emory’s elbow, her body language possessive without being proprietary. “I’m standing right here, babe.”

Emory’s face lit up with an expression Wes had never seen there before. Pure joy. Emory grabbed the lanky newcomer around the waist and pulled her close. “Wes, this is Dana. She’s my”—Emory glanced at Dana, an eyebrow raised—“fiancée?”

Dana laughed, a deep throaty chuckle. “Proposal accepted.” She held out her hand to Wes. “Dana Barnett. I’m with Emory.”

“Yes,” Wes said. “I believe I’ve heard your name mentioned a time or two…hundred.”

Dana grinned. “Same.”

“Wes,” Emory said, “I didn’t expect to see you here. I thought you had interviews and all that.”

“Circumstances are a little pressured,” Wes said obliquely. Emory was her best friend, but her new job demanded discretion of the highest order. “Things are moving a bit faster than normal.”

Emory’s expression grew somber. “I was so sorry to hear about Leonard. What a tragedy.”

“It was.” Wes hadn’t known Leonard O’Shaughnessy personally, but even though she dealt with death on a daily basis, sometimes the seeming unfairness of life defied rationalization. A sudden twist of fate could send so many lives, including her own, careening down paths never anticipated. She shook off the cloud of sadness. “My orders were to report promptly, so—”

Emory laughed. “Do they have any idea who they appointed? Dr. Punctuality herself.”

“Probably not,” Wes said, hoping someone somewhere had actually looked at her file, or this might be a very short posting.

“Well, it’s wonderful to see you, and now that you’ll be—” Emory broke off as a hushed “Oh!” escaped the crowd.

Wes followed her gaze. At the far end of the room, the wedding party descended the stairs. Oddly, no cameras flashed.

She’d been to a lot of weddings, including some extraordinarily elaborate ones. She would’ve expected the wedding of the daughter of the president of the United States to be a State affair. But then she thought about Blair Powell—despite her well-known public persona, there was very little about her private life in the public domain. Blair rarely gave interviews and avoided media glitz and paparazzi. Her romantic relationship with Cameron Roberts had created quite a bit of controversy in the national media news, but Blair had had very little to say other than to acknowledge the truth of the rumors. She might be the public face of the presidential family, but her personal life was a mystery.

The gathering today was small, considering the importance of the event, and Wes bet everyone there, with the exception of security, was a personal friend of the first family or Cameron Roberts’s family. There were few foreign dignitaries, no Hollywood stars, no political pundits. Only ordinary people gathered to celebrate the special day of someone they loved.

For a moment, Wes felt like an intruder. She was used to boundaries—clear, solid ones. She was about to witness an extremely personal moment in the lives of strangers, without even the excuse of professional involvement to excuse her presence. Then she recognized a face at the far side of the room from the briefing documents she’d been given earlier. Dr. Peter Chang, the acting head of the White House Medical Unit. A bulky black leather bag sat by his right leg—a bag that carried a defibrillator, emergency resuscitation equipment, surgical instruments, and drugs. This gathering might appear to be an ordinary wedding, but it wasn’t. Nothing about any event with the president in attendance was ordinary.

Chang was present along with a flight nurse and a physician’s assistant to ensure the safety and welfare of the president of the United States—the duty Wes would be assuming within a matter of days. As the chief of the White House Medical Unit—her new posting—her charge was to ensure the health and welfare of every employee, visitor, and dignitary within the White House and grounds. But above all, her number one responsibility was to the president of the United States. In a crisis situation, he was her only patient, earning her the title of First Doctor of the United States. She’d have to get used to witnessing private moments as well as world-changing ones, since she would never be far from his side again. Where he went, she went.

Right now, President Andrew Powell looked like every other proud father she’d ever witnessed. He wore a dark blue suit, snowy white shirt, and red tie. His face still held a hint of summer tan, and his thick blond hair made him appear younger than his fifty years. Blair, her arm linked with her father’s as they descended the staircase, had the same midnight blue eyes, although her hair was a deeper gold. Her full-length cream-colored dress, with its square-cut bodice and figure-hugging design, accentuated her svelte, athletic body. Her arms were sleek and muscular, her carriage confident and graceful. She was beautiful. Cameron Roberts was just behind her, holding the hand of a beautiful woman who looked very much like her. Marcea Casells, Roberts’s mother. Roberts—tall, thick black hair brushed back from her face, intense charcoal eyes—was dressed formally in a gray morning coat, silver-gray pleated tuxedo shirt, and dark trousers with a satin stripe down the side. Her gaze followed Blair as if no one else was in the room.