Madame President - Tara Sue Me Page 0,53
finally comes to a stop in the library, and declares it the perfect interview location for Chats with the Chief, GBNC’s new interview miniseries. She doesn’t care for the title, but agrees to live with it when I tell her Gabe’s suggestion is Babbles and Talk from the Top Babe. I doubt that one’s even on the network’s radar, but just hearing the potential of something so hideous is enough to make Chats sound perfect. I’m fairly sure this impromptu tour of the White House is her sort of payback.
She lifts the pointer finger of her right hand to her mouth as if thinking about something. “But you know, we could go to the East Wing. That’s where the First Lady’s Rooms are and unless I can come up with a use for them, they probably won’t be used at all during my administration. And I hate that because they’re so pretty.”
A glance at her eyes tells me I’m right about her inability to cover them with a mask; she’s definitely teasing me.
“I think this room has an elegant and intelligent feel to it, Madame President,” I say. “But if you don’t think it’s the right room for whatever reason, I’m more than happy to look at any other ones you’d like to.”
She’s pulling this I-don’t-know-what-room-I-want-to-film-in ploy because it’s only the two of us plus the Secret Service agents here today. If the GBNC production crew were on this tour, she wouldn’t be dragging everyone all over the White House in an attempt to discover the perfect location. In fact, knowing her the way I do, she’s already picked out which room we’re going to use, and probably did so last week.
In fact, this whole parade of rooms is totally out of character for Anna. She’s never been anything other than upfront and straight to the point before. At least as far as I know, anyway. But I’d be lying to say it doesn’t give me something of a thrill to know I can push her buttons so easily and get her to act out of character.
“Speaking of those rooms,” I say. “If you were married, would those First Lady rooms be your husband’s to use and decorate? Could he change all the floral to plaid or should he leave it as is? Who entertains foreign dignitary wives while you’re meeting with their husbands, anyway? Would he be expected to?”
I’m not sure what it was in those few sentences, but something I said is wrong. It’s as if I flipped a switch. All at once, any trace of teasing disappears from her eyes.
“I don’t know what he would do,” she says. “I suppose it’s probably a good thing I don’t have a husband, isn’t it?” Her tone is sharp and unexpected. “We’ll use the library for the interviews. If you’ll excuse me, I have a meeting. One of the agents will escort you back to the press offices.”
She turns around to leave. Shit.
“Madame President,” I rush to catch up with her, desperate for her not to leave, but having no clue how to make her stay. “I apologize if I said something to offend or hurt you in any way. That was not my intent.”
She stops and when she looks at me, the fire in her eyes stops me in my tracks. “Don’t make it worse by lying.”
I hold up my hands, unsure what she means. “Lying? About what?”
“All that talk about if I had a husband. You knew exactly what you were doing. I know I don’t have a husband. Hell, I haven’t even had a date since I declared my intention to run. I don’t need you to remind me.”
I watch in shock as she speaks, trying to figure out how she came to such a ridiculous conclusion. Not only that, but I’m appalled she thinks I’d use her singleness against her. There’s something else besides anger lurking in the depths of her eyes, and it takes me a few seconds, but eventually I see. Hurt. She hides it well, but it’s there.
I can’t imagine who could have hurt her so deeply, and it’s probably a good thing I have no idea who she dated in the past, because I have a sudden urge to kick his ass.
“I swear, Madame President,” I say. “I meant nothing malicious with my words.”
She’s still for a long minute, looking at me as if trying to determine if I’m being truthful. Her jaw clenches, and she exhales. “If I took your words