Deja Vu. Fern Michaels

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СКАЧАТЬ dream after another, until she woke drenched in sweat. She didn’t have to touch her forehead with the underside of her arm, the way her mother used to do when she came down with a bad cold, to know her fever was gone.

      The president wiped at her forehead, face, and neck with a handful of tissues. Maybe she wasn’t going to die after all. She picked up the remote control and clicked until she hit the USA Network to watch a rerun of NCIS. She wished, and not for the first time, that she had someone on her staff like Mark Harmon. She did love Leroy Jethro Gibbs’s wicked smile. She wondered what would happen if she invited the entire cast and crew to the White House for dinner. Maybe she would do just that before the new season started in September. The more she thought about it, the better she liked the idea. And that idea brought another one swimming to the surface.

      The president leaned back into her nest and let her mind race. Her idea was so over the top, so outside the box, she knew she could make it work. And if she couldn’t make it work, she seriously did not belong in her job. She smiled as her mind continued to race one way, then another. Within minutes, she had herself so psyched that she wobbled out to the kitchen to make another toddy. If one had worked so quickly, a second one should be the magic bullet. Maybe she could sweat out more toxins, and by tomorrow, she’d be almost totally recovered. She would definitely have to be at the top of her game to put this particular plan into action.

      Martine dozed and woke, dozed and woke until she woke from a light sleep to see her doctor standing over her. She smiled when he reached down to touch her forehead. Alfred was definitely old school. “I’m feeling much better, and the underside of my arm told me earlier, after the first toddy, actually, that my fever had broken. Would that be your assessment, Alfred?”

      “It would, and you are right on the money, but you aren’t out of the woods, Marti. I’m still confining you to quarters. You can do what you have to do from here.” Ten minutes later, Montrose was done peering down her throat, done with checking her blood pressure and reading her pulse. He listened to her heart and lungs and made some notes. When he was finished, he reached into his pocket and withdrew the bunched-up tissues that held Marti’s engagement ring. He held it out to Marti, who reached for it with a trembling hand.

      “I’m sorry, Marti. The jeweler said it was a high-grade diamonique. He said they’re big sellers on the home shopping networks and that they look more real than a real diamond. The value he put on it is fourteen hundred dollars. I wrapped the jeweler’s report around the ring.”

      Marti made a very unladylike sound and muttered something that made her doctor grin outright.

      It was dark out when Martine woke again. She lay quietly, a little disoriented from her deep sleep. Once again, she was drenched in sweat. She looked around, aware that it was totally dark outside. Inside, the only light in the room came from the television set, which she had put on mute before she fell asleep. She wished, and not for the first time, that she had gotten a dog when she moved into the White House. Someone, she couldn’t remember who, had talked her out of it. Right now, right this minute, she wished she had a warm body comforting her, even if it was a dog. It was sad to remember how many things she’d been talked out of. Well, that wasn’t going to happen again.

      Martine wiggled, stretched, and realized she felt a lot better than when Alfred had first arrived. Must have been the hot “tea.” She reached up and turned the lamp on. Still another rerun of NCIS was playing. Must be some kind of marathon today, she decided.

      Because she felt so good emotionally, Martine headed off to her bathroom, where she showered and washed her hair. Alfred hadn’t said anything about not doing it, so she wasn’t disobeying doctor’s orders. Powdered, perfumed, and dressed in a clean nightgown and her ratty robe, she made her way back to the sofa and curled up again. She spent the rest of the evening dozing and watching the NCIS marathon.

      This time, her dreams were pleasant; she was running through a field of flowers, with a magnificent golden retriever at her side. She knew she was dreaming because no faceless person with a gun would chase a woman and her dog through a field of flowers.

      Satisfied that she was on the road to recovery, Martine made a cup of plain tea with honey and lemon and carried it over to the sofa. She folded up the purple afghan and draped it over the back of the couch. Warm afghans were for sick people. As far as she was concerned, she was no longer sick, just under the weather. She did her best to concentrate on the late news. She wasn’t the least bit surprised to find out she was the lead news at the top of the hour. She grimaced when the anchor and crew wished her a speedy recovery.

      Martine couldn’t believe how excited she was at the plan swirling around inside her head. Satisfied that with a little tweaking she could make it work, she let her mind wander to other things, like her small family. Such as it was. The day she’d taken the oath of office, her sister, Agnes, had kissed her good-bye, wished her good luck, and said she didn’t want to be part of Washington’s fishbowl. Agnes had signed up for Doctors Without Borders, and that was the last Martine had heard of her. God alone knew where Aggie was. Then there was Alvin, her brother, who had virtually said the same thing, although he’d whispered in her ear that he was proud of her. He’d mumbled something vague about going to build bridges in India somewhere. So much for family. Now, if she had a dog, she would have a family, someone to celebrate the holidays with. Someone to talk to, someone who wouldn’t argue with her, someone who, she hoped, would listen attentively and not pass judgment. She could frolic and play with him or her when she went to Camp David. He or she could sleep at the foot of her bed. Maybe she’d let him or her sleep in the Lincoln Bedroom. Yessiree, very soon she was going to have a family if she didn’t chicken out. She could hardly wait.

      Three cups of tea and two glasses of orange juice later, Martine looked at the clock. Her PDB would be arriving along with her chief of staff any minute. The president’s daily brief always arrived just as the sun was coming up. She was still wearing her ratty old-friend robe and her fuzzy-bear slippers.

      When the COS arrived, they got right down to presidential business, which lasted all of fifteen minutes. The COS then inquired about the president’s health and asked if she had any specific instructions for him.

      “Actually, I do have something you can do for me if you can somehow do it without a media blitz. Can you get me a dog? A big one. One that needs a home, a rescue if possible. A shepherd or maybe a golden retriever. Gender isn’t important, but I think I lean more toward a female. Can you do it?”

      The COS looked stunned at the request, but he rose to the occasion. “Do I have a time limit, Madam President?”

      Martine squared her shoulders. “Today will be just fine,” she responded in her best I-am-the-president voice. The COS blinked, mumbled something about wishing her a good day, and left with the PDB.

      Martine found herself giggling when the door closed behind the COS. World affairs would be taking a backseat at least for as long as it took the COS to delegate her request to others. Satisfied that she had started her day on a roll, she picked up her phone and asked her secretary to come to her quarters. Plans were only as good as the follow-through. She needed help with what needed to be done. In order to get any, she had to start in her own backyard.

      Martine settled deeper into the chocolate sofa and flipped through the channels till she found the Home Shopping Network. She narrowed her eyes to slits as she stared at the array of jewelry being hawked. Sooner or later they would show something diamonique.

       Chapter 2

      Charles Martin had set up a buffet on the terrace at Pinewood. “It would be a shame СКАЧАТЬ