Fatal Chaos

“Was it something I said?” Spencer asked.

“Duh,” his wife, Sam’s sister Angela, said as she fed their daughter, Ella, who was seated in a high chair at the end of the long picnic-style table. “You think they want to talk about that BS?”

“Sorry, guys,” Spencer said. “I wasn’t thinking.”

“No worries,” Nick said. “It’s not going away, as much as we wish it would.”

“But you don’t have to deal with it this week,” Spencer said. “My bad.”

“Don’t sweat it.” Nick held out a hand to Sam. “Let’s walk.”

She took his hand and followed him through the sliding glass doors to the deck, where several members of his Secret Service detail were gathered at a table, drinking coffee.

John “Brant” Brantly Jr., the lead agent on Nick’s detail, stood when he saw them coming. “Good morning, Mr. Vice President, Mrs. Cappuano.”

“Morning, Brant,” Nick said. “We’d like to take a walk on the beach.”

“Of course, sir. Give us a few minutes to make that happen.”

Sam watched Nick’s jaw tighten with frustration. He hated having to ask permission to do something as simple as take a walk with his wife. She dropped his hand, slipped her arms around his waist and rested her head against his chest, hoping to give him something else to think about.

He put his arms around her and kissed the top of her head, his body relaxing in stages as the agents conferred and planned for a simple walk on the beach. Except nothing was ever simple. Not anymore. Well, that wasn’t entirely true. When it was just the two of them, alone together, it was still as simple as it had ever been, even as the world went mad around them. As they did when the madness swirled, they closed ranks, spent as much time alone as they possibly could and weathered the storm the best way they knew how, by keeping their heads down, their mouths shut and their arms wrapped around each other.

The press was desperate for interviews from either, or preferably both, but other than a perfunctory statement issued from Nick’s office after Christopher Nelson’s arrest, they hadn’t said a word about the controversy swirling around the president and his son or how it affected them. Nor had they offered any speculation on what it could mean for them if Nelson was forced to resign.

They were taking it one day, one hour, one minute at a time.

It had done them good to get out of Washington for this beach getaway with their extended family. Sam had spent weeks coordinating with the Secret Service to make it happen. Planning the vacation had been a huge undertaking that included finding a beachfront property big enough for all of them that met security requirements, clearing Nick’s schedule, taking vacation from her job as the Metro Police Department’s Homicide lieutenant and ensuring her paralyzed father would be able to join them for a visit. But the hassle had been so worth it.

In the three days they’d been here, Nick had been more relaxed than he’d been in weeks. Not to mention, he was actually sleeping rather than being tortured by the insomnia that plagued him, particularly during stressful times. Sam was determined to ensure he continued to relax and didn’t think too far into the future about what might happen when they returned to town the day before Labor Day.

“If you’re ready, Mr. Vice President,” Brant said a few minutes later.

Neither Sam nor Nick commented that they’d been “ready” fifteen minutes ago.

Nick kept an arm around her as they followed the detail down the stairs to the boardwalk that led to Dewey Beach on the Delaware coast. They’d garnered quite a bit of attention from people on the beach, but for the most part, they’d been left alone to enjoy their vacation. If by “left alone” you could overlook the Secret Service agents and the media that were camped nearby, hoping for a glimpse of the second family—or perhaps an exclusive, which wasn’t going to happen.

As they walked toward the water’s edge, Sam made a conscious effort to forget the agents trailing close behind them so she could focus exclusively on her husband. “Sorry about that back there,” she said.

“No need to be sorry. He was just reading the headlines plastered across the front pages of every paper in the country.”

“Still... We were hoping for a total break from it.”

“Then we should’ve confiscated every smartphone, unplugged the TV and forbidden newspaper deliveries,” he said with a note of humor in his voice. “Or we should’ve taken our vacation on the moon, where we’d be out of satellite range.”

“I’ll see if I can arrange that next year.”

“I don’t care where we are. As long as you and Scotty are there, I’m good.”

“Even if Washington chaos interferes?”

“What would our lives be like without a little Washington chaos to keep things interesting?”

“Um, is that a rhetorical question?”

“Yeah, babe,” he said with a chuckle. “Maybe when we retire, we could get a place out here so we can walk on the beach every day. I could get used to this.”

“What’s this word you speak of? Retire? Who’s planning to retire?”

Laughing, he said, “Only you would see that as a dirty word.”

“It’s a disgusting word, and I never want to hear it out of your mouth again.”

“Yes, dear,” he said in the long-suffering tone of husbands everywhere. “But the beach house... That might be possible even if we never do that R word thing, yes?”

“I might be willing to consider that. It sure is beautiful here.”

Seagulls squawked overhead as the waves crashed against the shore. A few families had gotten an early start, and as Sam and Nick walked past, they nodded to say hello to the stunned people they encountered. One man was so surprised to see them that he seemed to forget he’d taken his toddler to fill a bucket with water. Only Brant’s quick action stopped the child from being sucked off the beach by a wave.

Brant handed the sandy toddler to his grateful father. “Sorry about that. I wasn’t expecting to see the vice president and his wife on the beach.”

“He must be living under a rock,” Sam muttered to Nick. “The whole freaking world knows where we are.”

“This must be what it feels like for a goldfish stuck in a bowl,” Nick said. “Constantly being watched as he swims in circles.”

“Speaking of swimming...” Sam dropped her arm from around his waist, kicked off her sandals, pulled the cover-up over her head and ran for the surf, calling over her shoulder, “Catch me if you can.”

She dived into a wave and resurfaced to look for Nick, but didn’t see him on the beach or in the water. Then a tug from below dragged her underwater. She came up sputtering as her husband laughed at her reaction.

“I caught ya,” he said, bringing her into his embrace. “I’ll always catch you, Samantha.” Turning his back to the shore, where the Secret Service, photographers with long-range lenses and other gawkers were probably watching them, he kissed her.

Sam was tempted to look over his shoulder to see if they were attracting even more attention, but she forced herself to stay focused on him and this moment alone in the fishbowl. She curled her legs around his hips and her arms around his neck, raising her face to the warm sunshine.

His hands slid up her ribs to cup her breasts under the water, running his thumbs over the hard points of her nipples.

“Mr. Vice President, don’t you have enough chaos and scandal swirling around you without making it worse?”

“If it means I get to cop a feel of my gorgeous cop, it’s a risk I’m willing to take.”

“Cop away,” she said with a sigh. After all, when had she ever objected to him putting his hands on her? She gasped when she realized he’d untied the bottom half of her black bikini top. “Nick!”

“Shhh.”

“You’re playing with fire.”

“No, I’m playing with my gorgeous wife.” As he pinched her nipples between his fingers, he captured her mouth in a deep, searching kiss that had her forgetting where they were and who might be watching. She couldn’t spare the brain cells to care when her every thought was focused on him and the way he made her feel every time he touched her.

“It’s not fair that you’re getting me all hot and bothered when we can’t do anything about it for hours and hours.”