Word of Honor

Word of Honor

First Daughter Blair Powell and her lover Cameron Roberts, newly appointed deputy director of the Homeland Security Office, escape to a ski chalet in the Rockies after a harrowing attack by members of a domestic terrorism organization. Under orders from the White House, Blair reluctantly allows a member of the "enemy camp," investigative reporter Dana Barnett, to join her inner circle in the hopes of limiting her media exposure. Dana isn't any happier about being pulled from her coverage of the escalating conflict in the Middle East to write a society "fluff piece," although the presence of beautiful Dr. Emory Constantine does make the assignment a little more enticing.

With the nation under attack, the world on the verge of war, and their personal lives the focus of intense public scrutiny, Cam and Blair come under fire both publicly and privately when an old nemesis resurfaces intent on finishing his holy mission—to kill Blair Powell.

Chapter 1

Thursday

“I’m going to kill whoever is pounding on the ceiling downstairs,” Blair Powell muttered, stretching across the naked body of her lover to squint at the alarm clock. “It’s five fifteen. I’m not just going to kill them, I’m going to dismember them.”

“Baby, hang on for a minute.” Cameron Roberts pulled Blair down against her chest and stroked her back. Threading her fingers through Blair’s tousled, curly blond hair, she kissed her. She bypassed the playful first-of-the-day good morning, I love you kisses and moved right along to the deep, possessive you belong to me kisses that would distract Blair from the activities going on in the command center below them.

“Mmm.” Blair relaxed on top of Cam and fit her hips to the hollow of Cam’s pelvis. “Don’t think I don’t know what you’re doing.”

Cam chuckled and skimmed her hands up and down Blair’s back, ending at her firm backside. She massaged Blair’s ass and kissed her again. When Blair gasped and tipped her head back, Cam trailed the tip of her tongue down Blair’s neck to the base of her throat. “If you don’t know by now, I’ve been doing something wrong for almost a year.”

“I know you think this will buy whoever’s down there a few more minutes of safety.”

“Is it working?”

“What do you think?” Blair braced her arms on either side of Cam’s shoulders and watched Cam’s face as she slowly rocked between her legs. In mid-November, dawn was still an hour away, and she had only the glow of the streetlights bordering Gramercy Park to see by, but it didn’t matter. She would have known Cam’s scent, her touch, the carved angles and planes of her face in total darkness. Her heart beat to the rhythm of Cam’s heart, and she knew with quiet and unrepentant certainty that were Cam’s heart to stop beating, hers would too. Cam’s heart beat quickly now, strong and full, as Cam lifted her hips to meet Blair’s. Cam’s jaw tightened and her dark eyes focused with fierce intensity on Blair’s face.

“I think you’ve started something you’re going to have to finish,” Cam said.

Blair smiled, her breath coming faster as she felt the teasing anticipation swirl in the pit of her stomach. “Oh really?”

Cam reached between them and cradled Blair’s breast. She rubbed the pad of her thumb over Blair’s nipple until Blair caught her lower lip between her teeth and moaned softly. “Yes, really.”

“If you keep doing that,” Blair murmured, leaning down to lick Cam’s lower lip, “I’m going to finish first.” She closed her eyes and bore down harder with each rolling thrust, letting the pleasure Cam was igniting in her nipple flame the excitement between her legs. So easy, so easy to let everything go, to lose herself for just a few minutes in Cam. “God, that feels good.”

A loud thumping filled the room and the bed vibrated, the legs rattling against the polished wood planks.

Blair’s eyes snapped open. “What the—”

“Ignore them,” Cam ordered, covering Blair’s other breast. Rapidly, she squeezed and released her nipples. “Weren’t you just about to—?”

“Yes.”

“Yes, what?”

“I’m going to come,” Blair whispered, her lips parted in pleasure.

“That’s what I thought.” Cam drank in the sight of Blair trembling above her, the muscles in her neck standing out in sharp relief as she climbed toward climax.

“Oh that’s…Cam, I’m…” Blair whimpered softly and shuddered into orgasm.

Cam caught her as she slumped down and cradled her face against the curve of her neck. She kissed Blair’s forehead as Blair snuggled into her and sighed contentedly. “The alarm doesn’t go off until six. Go back to sleep.”

“What about you?” Blair said drowsily.

“You can join me in the shower.”

Blair murmured something that sounded like goody and dropped off.

Cam sifted Blair’s hair through her fingers and watched the patterns of light flicker on the ceiling as sunlight penetrated the fall sky. The sound of hammering and the occasional screech of nails pulling free from wood filtered up from the floor below. The renovations on the command center used by the Secret Service agents who guarded Blair should be finished in a day or so. The same morning as the terrorist attacks on the World Trade Center, four heavily armed men had invaded Blair’s penthouse apartment in a building bordering Manhattan’s Gramercy Park and nearly succeeded in killing her. Blair’s loft—code-named the Aerie—had largely escaped damage during the assault, but her Secret Service operations center one floor down had taken heavy fire. Blair hadn’t been able to return to Manhattan until just a few days ago when her protection detail could resume on-site monitoring as well as coordinate the security for her day-to-day activities. In addition to personal protection, her eight-person security team coordinated advance reconnaissance for her many public appearances and assessed the myriad reports complied daily by the National Intelligence Program from sixteen or so intelligence organizations.

Unfortunately, although the command center was functional, some construction remained to be finished, and Blair’s tolerance for noise and disruption was wearing thin. Everyone’s patience, not just Blair’s, was honed to the bone. The lives of the men and women who provided vital security for the first daughter, as well as those who had been assigned to Cam’s special OHS counterterrorism team, had been irrevocably altered on the morning of September 11. For those who dedicated their lives to preserving the security of the nation and its most important representatives, the desperate search for answers and the heightened pressure to prevent further tragedy were a constant strain.

Cam considered her new team—the best of the best—culled from other security agencies when the Office of Homeland Security was hastily put together and she was named a deputy director. Renee Savard, former FBI; Felicia Davis, former Secret Service; Ricky Sanchez, her newest recruit from the ATF; and one other, a deep CIA operative who might still be the target of a domestic terrorism cell and those in power who aided them. All highly trained, all seasoned agents. None of them were sleeping well. All of them struggled with guilt over their inability to foresee or prevent the terrible events of that fateful Tuesday in September. And now they lived with the unspoken fear that it could happen again unless they did something.

Two months after the attacks, the nation remained at red alert and Blair’s security status at Priority One. Blair was never without a security detail, not even when she was home. The only reason there wasn’t an agent in her apartment at that moment was because Cam had been Blair ’s security chief for most of the previous year and could stand in for an agent when necessary. Still, Blair chafed at the restrictions, and as much as Cam understood and sympathized with her lover’s reluctance to have her freedom so severely restricted, she wholeheartedly embraced the necessity of safeguarding the president’s daughter. Blair was not just the president’s only child, she was an important public figure in her own right. She often represented the White House at public functions and acted as an international diplomat in her father’s stead. She was a symbol of the United States, and as such, her security was nearly as critical as the president’s.

Cam shifted carefully and tightened her hold on the woman who slumbered in her arms. Blair had already been a target of a sniper’s bullet and the skillfully orchestrated full-on tactical assault that had nearly succeeded in assassinating her in her own home. Cam had been in charge of Blair’s security detail then, and she would never forgive herself for allowing the infiltration of her team by a traitor who nearly managed to gun down her lover. She’d been cleared of any dereliction of duty, but no report exonerating her from responsibility for the assault could assuage the knowledge that she had failed. She could not afford to fail again. None of them could.

“You’re not sleeping,” Blair said, smoothing her palm over Cam’s chest. “And you’re not relaxed. Your heart is pounding like you’re running a marathon.”

“That’s what instant replays of the good parts do to me,” Cam replied lightly.

“Cameron.”

Cam sighed. “Sorry. I don’t know why I haven’t figured out that you can read my mind.”

“I can’t read your mind. But I know what your body’s telling me. What are you worrying about?”

“Nothing.” Cam kissed Blair before she could protest. “I mean it. I was just thinking.”

“And…” Blair leaned up on an elbow and traced a finger along the edge of Cam’s jaw. “Don’t make me pull it out of you, Cam. That will only piss me off.”

“Being back here—it’s hard not to think about what happened.”

Blair caressed Cam’s face. “I suppose it would be foolish of me to think you’re ever going to forgive yourself.”

“It’s not about forgiveness,” Cam said. “I need to understand what went wrong, so it doesn’t happen again.”

“I get that part,” Blair said. “But I also know you’re blaming yourself.”

Cam laughed sharply. “Since I was in charge, that seems appropriate.”

“See? You’re starting to piss me off.”

“I know. I’m sorry.” Cam ran her hands through Blair’s hair and cradled her face in her palms. She traced her thumbs over the arch of Blair’s cheekbones. “I love you. It doesn’t matter to me who your father is or what claim the world has on you. You’re the woman I love, and that means I need to keep you safe.”

“Oh, Cam.” Blair kissed her softly, then shook her head. “I love you for exactly the things about you that drive me crazy.”

Cam grinned. “I think that works in my favor.”

“I think you’re right.”

“Is it time for that shower?”

Blair bit Cam gently on the chin. “You think if you cloud my brain with sex I’ll forget that you’re beating yourself up over something that wasn’t your fault?”

“I know you won’t let me get away with feeling guilty for long.” Cam wrapped her arms around Blair and turned them over in bed until she was lying on top of her. “I know you love me and you want to protect me.”

“That seems silly, doesn’t it,” Blair said. “Me protecting you.”

“No, not at all.” Cam rested her forehead against Blair’s. “It makes me feel safe. The only place in the world I feel safe is with you.”

“Don’t make me cry, Cam.” Blair’s voice was hoarse and her hand trembled as she ran her fingers through Cam’s thick dark hair. “You’ve been hurt too—almost killed more than once. I can’t stop seeing every single bruise and scar, even when I close my eyes.”

“Blair, baby,” Cam said soothingly.

“No. Don’t tell me about facts and figures and how it’s a one in a million thing you’ll ever be hurt again.” Blair’s smile softened the harsh edge to her words. “I understand the risks. It’s a new world now, and I know there’s no looking back. I understand that we all have to do what we can to make it a safe one.”

Cam was quiet a long moment. “I was thinking one of the first things we need to do is get married.”

Blair laughed, some of the heaviness in her heart lifting. “Well, I’m glad that’s on your agenda, because we have a date to do just that in just about ten days.”

Diane Bleeker bolted upright in the center of the king-sized bed in her Upper East Side condo overlooking Central Park. The space beside her was empty, and with a gasp, she threw back the covers and swung her legs to the floor. She was nude except for a pale peach camisole, and she shivered although the apartment was warm. She grasped a navy silk robe from the bottom of the bed and pulled it on as she rushed down the darkened hall. She didn’t bother turning on lights. The early gray light filtering through the double glass doors from the living room balcony was enough for what she needed to see. Valerie.

Heart sinking, she surveyed the empty living room before yanking open the closet next to the front door. Valerie’s coat was there, but the last time Valerie had vanished in the middle of the night, she had taken nothing with her.

“Diane, I’m here.”

“Oh!” Diane clutched her robe closed and spun around. Valerie stepped inside from the balcony and closed the doors behind her. She wore an oversized cotton shirt closed with a few buttons between her breasts. Her legs were bare. “God, darling, you must be freezing.”

“I’m fine,” Valerie said.

When she gripped Diane’s shoulders carefully and kissed her, her hands were cold but her lips were invitingly warm. “I can’t seem to stop frightening you. I’m sorry.”

“You didn’t frighten me.” Diane rubbed Valerie’s forearms, wishing that she could warm the cold place inside her. She’d never been more aware that love was not always enough, and she alternated between feeling angry and helpless. “Couldn’t sleep?”

“Just restless.” Valerie forced a smile, which she expected Diane could see right through. In the four weeks since she had almost been killed by the same fanatical “patriot” who had tried to assassinate Blair, she’d been haunted not by the near-death experience, but by the fifteen years of her life she had blindly devoted to an organization she could no longer trust. Recruited into the Company right out of high school, she had assumed an identity that had been painstakingly created for her, and over the years she had been many people. So many people that she wasn’t certain there was anything of her left at all. When she awakened in the night from her never quite sleeping state to find Diane slumbering innocently beside her, she was tormented with the absolute certainty that she did not deserve this woman’s trust or her love. Cameron Roberts might have orchestrated both her death in an explosion in the Atlantic as well as her subsequent rebirth as an OHS agent, but that didn’t mean the Company hadn’t targeted her for elimination. Even someone as powerful as Cameron Roberts could not protect her from a shot in the dark on a deserted street or an ice pick slipped between her ribs in a crowded subway. In some part of her mind, she had always expected death to come that way, swiftly and unexpectedly. She didn’t fear her own death, but she was terrified that her mere presence in Diane’s life placed her in harm’s way.

“If you tell me what’s wrong, I can help you,” Diane said quietly.

Valerie caressed Diane’s cheek and kissed her again. “I’m not certain I should be here. It might be better if I stayed in a hotel for a while.”

“Because?”

“Someone may be looking for me.”

Diane drew a shaky breath. “Someone may be trying to kill you.”

“Diane,” Valerie said gently.

“There’s no point pretending otherwise. I know you might still be in danger.” Diane took Valerie’s hand. “Come back to bed.”

“I can’t. I need to get ready for the briefing.”

“I keep forgetting how ridiculously early you people start your day.” Diane forced a note of levity into her voice. “Then come into the kitchen while I make coffee.”

Valerie followed her, and in comfortable silence they ground coffee, filled the coffeepot, and took down cups while waiting for the coffee to brew. She had never shared such simple domestic moments with anyone in her life. She had never lived with anyone, never had a long-term relationship, never been in love. She had loved another woman, one woman, and loved her still, but not with the consuming need that she felt for Diane.

Valerie leaned back against the counter and Diane put her arms around her waist.

“You told me that Cam hasn’t been able to uncover any evidence that the Company or anyone else is looking for you,” Diane said. “You said the cover story of you being killed in the boat explosion would be enough. Especially with your handler gone.”

“All of that is probably true. Henry was the link between me and whoever he reported to up the company food chain, and with him dead and the cover story Cam put out about my death, I might just be a line item on someone’s tally sheet.” Valerie knew the hole in the argument was that her handler might have given her identity away, but she wasn’t going to frighten Diane over things she couldn’t change. “So with everyone in the intelligence community focused on finding who was behind 9/11, I’m probably not on anyone’s to-do list.”

“But you don’t believe it?”

Valerie looked away.

“I know it’s hard for you to trust me—”

“No,” Valerie said immediately. “I do trust you. It’s just that—listen to yourself. You’re standing in your kitchen talking about handlers and targets and cover stories.” Frustrated and angry, hating the weakness that kept her in Diane’s life when she knew, she knew, it was wrong, Valerie plunged a hand through her short, thick red-blond curls. She’d cut her hair, she’d changed the color, she was wearing green contact lenses to cover her blue irises—another new identity, another new history. But at heart, she remained a cipher, even to herself. “Is this really what you want in your life?”

“Is that a rhetorical question?” Diane snapped. “Because I’m tired of answering it.” She gave Valerie a small shake and forced her to meet her gaze. “I love you,” she said with slow emphasis on each word. “What part of that don’t you understand?”

“Any of it.” Valerie closed her eyes and pulled Diane close. They were very nearly the same height, and she rested her cheek against Diane’s. The scent of Diane’s perfume lingered ever so faintly along her hairline. She’d gone to sleep countless nights dreaming of that fragrance. “I don’t have a clue why you love me.”

“Well, I’m tired of telling you.” Diane kissed Valerie’s mouth, then moved to her neck. “So I’ll have to work harder at showing you. Come back to bed. The coffee will keep.”

Valerie laughed softly and abandoned good judgment, letting Diane tease her into surrendering, for the moment.

A stocky young redhead sipped coffee from a tall paper cup as he stood at the window of his rental unit watching Blair Powell’s building. Directly across the gated park that occupied a square city block, the lights came on in Blair Powell’s loft. Shadows flickered behind the drawn curtains of what must be the bedroom. To the casual observer on the street, her windows appeared to be like all the others in the building, but he knew they were constructed of bulletproof glass. The doorman who stood inside the double doors in a topcoat and uniform was also a private security agent. A Secret Service agent would be stationed behind the desk. Secret Service Agent Cynthia Parker had been at that post when his brothers-in-arms had burst through those doors a little over two months before, firing automatic weapons. According to intelligence reports, the female Secret Service agent had killed one of his compatriots before she’d been gunned down. They had expected casualties upon entry, and one death was excellent. They hadn’t anticipated that Cameron Roberts would fire on her own agent without a moment’s hesitation. They had always planned for Secret Service Agent Foster to die during the assault, but not before he had assassinated Blair Powell. They had underestimated Cameron Roberts not once, but twice. That could not happen again.

His cell phone rang, and without taking his eyes off the first daughter’s bedroom, he answered it.

“Yes sir?”

“Good morning, Colonel,” General Thomas Jefferson Matheson said cheerily. “Enjoying the view?”

“Yes sir, very much, sir.”

“I’m happy to report you’ll have the afternoon off.”

Colonel Jonathan Perry frowned. “I’m not due to be relieved until eighteen hundred hours, sir.”

“I’ve been advised that our bird will be flying this afternoon. We’ll pick her up when she lands.”

“Sir, I would prefer to follow her my—”

“Patience, Colonel,” Matheson said, his deep baritone oddly soothing, “our time is very nearly at hand. I have something special planned for you.”

“Yes sir, whatever you say, sir.”

“You might use the time off to buy some new winter clothing. It’s cold in Colorado this time of year.”

“Yes sir,” Perry said with a slow smile. “I’ll do that.”

Chapter Two

Paula Stark halted just inside the reinforced steel door of the command center and surveyed the long rectangular room. Opposite her, floor-to-ceiling windows faced Gramercy Park. The glass was reinforced, shatterproof, and impregnated with filters to block UV and infrared penetration, making video surveillance from external sources impossible. The filters also distorted the view through a high-powered laser rifle scope.

A semicircular monitoring station covered with equipment— satellite receivers, radio transmitters, computers, and every other form of electronic hardware required for communication and intelligence assessment—took up the far end of the room. In addition, separate high-speed computer and surface lines maintained direct links to the NYPD and the New York City Transit Authority in case another 9/11 event necessitated the evacuation of Blair Powell—code name Egret—from the city. Just now, at a little before seven a.m., Secret Service agents from the night shift occupied rolling desk chairs in front of the bank of monitors displaying continuous feeds from the video cameras mounted above the entrance to the building, in the lobby, over the rear exit, and in the underground parking garage.

“Looks like they’re about done.” Renee Savard gestured to two workmen who stood on tall wooden ladders in the center of the room, riveting bulletproof shields to the subfloor of the loft apartment above. Should a bomb detonate in the command center, Blair ’s apartment would be partially buffered from the direct effects of the blast. “Finally.”

“Can’t be too soon for me.” Paula was very aware of Renee’s shoulder almost brushing hers, and she needed to remind herself not to touch her. An hour before they had been lying naked in bed together, which made the transition to being just colleagues a challenge. But what made maintaining her professional distance from Renee even harder was that Renee had come close to dying when the South Tower came down, and not much later had been wounded in the gun battle to apprehend the man believed to be partially responsible for the terrorist attack. Paula had a hard time not constantly touching Renee to reassure herself she was alive and well. Although only slightly taller than Paula’s 5’7”, Renee gave the impression of more height because she’d lost weight, and what had once been a naturally trim, athletic figure was now honed down to taut muscle and bone. Her coffee and cream complexion was as flawless as ever, but her blue eyes had lost their sparkle. In fact, Renee rarely smiled, and Paula missed not just her radiance, but her joy. She forced a smile and tried to keep her tone light. “After an hour of listening to this racket, I have a headache.”

“You shouldn’t complain.” Renee gave her boyishly handsome dark-haired lover a playful arm bump. “You security guys get the room with a view and we’re stuck in the back with no windows.”

Paula lowered her voice and teased, “Spooks are supposed to be hidden away in dark corners.”

“You wouldn’t say that if the commander were here.”

“Damn right I wouldn’t.” Despite the fact that Paula was now the chief of Blair’s security detail, she and the other team members who had worked under Cameron Roberts before Cam moved over to the OHS still considered her their leader. Paula was just getting used to hearing people call her Chief, and although she didn’t let anyone know, she was also just beginning to believe that she didn’t have to fill Cam’s shoes to do the job right. She squeezed Renee’s hand for a millisecond, then released it. “I’ll catch up with you later.”

“Be careful,” Renee said, as she always did when they parted.

“You too,” Paula replied. They didn’t talk about it, but she knew that Renee felt the same way she did. They loved their jobs, they loved their country, they loved each other. Danger was an inherent part of their work, and not something anyone in their position dwelled on. But the unfathomable events of 9/11 had taught them and everyone who worked to secure the safety of the nation that death waited around the next corner. To forget was to invite disaster. None of them would ever forget.

Renee stopped in the small kitchenette midway between the Secret Service command center and the new regional office of the OHS. She wasn’t sure how the commander had gotten the team out of DC and onto the same floor as Blair’s security ops, but she was glad not to have to worry that someone was tapping their lines or hacking their files. Here they could fly under the radar, which was just the way they all liked it.

She fished her coffee cup out of a precariously stacked pile on the drain board and filled it. She heard voices coming from the conference room as she walked down the hall cautiously sipping her coffee. It was fresh and strong. She was willing to bet the commander had made it. It didn’t matter what time Renee arrived for work, Cam was always there first. So too, it seemed, was Valerie. Cam and Valerie sat at one end of a long conference table, cups of coffee and open file folders in front of them. Cam tapped her pen on a tabletop as they talked.

“Morning,” Renee said as she sat down opposite Cam.

Both women returned her greeting, then Cam said to her, “We’ll wait for the others to brief formally, but I’m glad you’re here. I’m going to be out of pocket a fair amount for the next week or so, and you’ll be in charge here.”

“Yes ma’am,” Renee said. Six weeks ago she had thought her career was over. She’d taken a bullet in the knee during the raid on Matheson’s mountain compound, and the injury was the kind to put her out of the running for any kind of field duty in the FBI despite the fact that she’d made almost a total recovery. Then Cam had offered her something better. Not just a place on her newly formed OHS team, but responsibility for the antiterrorism arm of their operation.

“You and the rest of the team need to focus on finding Matheson,” Cam went on, “while I…” She grinned ruefully and shook her head. “While I am busy doing the marriage stuff.”

“Wedding planning,” Valerie said in her low, husky voice. “It’s called wedding planning, Cameron. I know, since it’s all Diane talks about these days. I think she’s enjoying your wedding a lot more than you are at the moment.”

“It couldn’t be a worse time to be getting married,” Cam said.

“With all respect, Commander,” Renee said, “I think it’s a perfect time.”

Cam raised an eyebrow.

“Personally, of course, I think it’s great. But it’s more than that. You and Blair are sending a message. You’re telling the world that life goes on, that we’re not afraid, that we won’t be beaten. That we won’t live our lives in fear. You’re making a statement for all of us.”

“Ah hell,” Cam muttered. “The last thing I want is to be a symbol of anything.”

“Blair has always been a symbol, and never more than now,” Valerie said, sounding oddly gentle. “Standing beside her in this is another way of telling the world she’s not touchable.”

Renee wasn’t surprised that Valerie was the one to point out the one thing that would mean more to the commander than anything else. Blair’s safety. Valerie and the commander had a history, and as much as the rest of them admired Cam and would give their lives for her, they weren’t her friends—not in the way that Valerie was. No one other than Blair and Valerie ever really spoke to the commander without a certain degree of reservation and respect. The boundaries were necessary to enable the team to function, and although Valerie was officially part of the team, she would always be a little bit apart. Just as she was a little bit apart from all of them.

“Making Blair a target hardly seems a great way to keep her safe,” Cam said, almost to herself.

Valerie extended her hand as if she were going to touch the commander’s forearm, and then pulled it back. “The more visible she is, the tighter her security will be. She’ll be safer in Colorado than she might be walking down the street here in New York. I know it will be difficult, but try to enjoy the next week or so.”

“I agree,” Renee said. “Blair has great security. Mac and Ellen are doing the advance groundwork at the lodge, and you know they’re the best at it.”

Ellen Marks, a seasoned agent, had been on sick leave for almost three months following an injury sustained in a bomb blast. She and Mac Phillips were already at the Rocky Mountain ski resort where the wedding would take place. Part of their advance work included coordinating plans with local authorities for security along Blair’s anticipated travel routes, detailing evacuation plans in case of injury or imminent threat, and liaising with representatives from the local media.

Cam nodded. “It’s good to have Ellen back on the team.”

“And we’re close to getting this bastard, Cam,” Valerie said with quiet vehemence. “We know who he is, we know where he came from, and we know where his last base of operations was. Felicia is cross-referencing his known contacts—family, ex-Army associates, military school graduates—against names Ricky is pulling from the ATF and FBI patriot watch lists. We’ll find him through his friends.” Her gaze became distant and her voice dropped to a whisper. “The friends are always the weak links.”

Renee wondered if that was why Valerie seemed to have no friends, no family, no connections to anyone except the commander, and now, Diane. The Company discouraged its field operatives from forming intimate relationships, even friendships, because friends could be compromised. Unless of course the relationship itself provided cover. Valerie had been alone for years except for her handler, whom Cam had ordered killed just weeks before. Renee tried to imagine what it would be like to be violently cut off from the only real relationship one had ever had, even if it was a manipulative one. The loneliness had to be devastating, but Valerie never seemed anything except calm and cool. And she had Diane now. Sometimes it seemed love was all that kept any of them going. Renee allowed herself a brief moment to think about Paula and to be thankful for having found her, before refocusing on the hunt for the man who had helped destroy so many lives.

“We have to dig under rocks and sift through a quagmire of disconnected bits of information to get even a whiff of Matheson’s trail,” Cam said bitterly, “but all he has to do is listen to the news or read the daily paper—or better yet, check the goddamn White House Web site—to know exactly where Blair is.” Cam stood abruptly, surprising Renee with the barely constrained tension in her body and the rage in her voice. The commander never lost control. “While we keep her locked down, he’s walking around free. It’s wrong.”

Renee caught the look of concern that flashed across Valerie’s face for a fraction of a second before her usual impenetrable expression returned. They all tended to forget that the commander was human, because they looked to her as their foundation. Her sense of duty was absolute, the clarity of her belief never cloudy, and her certainty of the right course never in doubt. She epitomized what every young agent dreamed of being—brave, honorable, and just. And for those who’d seen battle, like Renee, her strength of purpose helped them cast aside their own disillusionment and disappointment. Cam helped them believe that justice would triumph. And in all of this, she stood alone, and that, Renee realized, was unfair. Sometimes they all needed to let her be human.

“I’m going to get the morning reports together for the briefing,” Renee said as she rose. “See you in a few minutes.”

She closed the door gently on her way out.

Cam stared at the closed door for a moment, then sank into her seat. She rubbed the bridge of her nose and tilted her head back to stare at the ceiling. “Sorry.”

Valerie moved her chair closer until her stocking-clad knees just barely touched Cam’s dark blended silk trousers. She rested her fingertips on Cam’s thigh. “You needn’t apologize to me.”

“What are the chances that he’ll give up?”

Valerie considered lying, because Cam looked tired. More than just tired, she looked soul-weary. At one time, Cameron had escaped her pain and loneliness by taking refuge in Valerie’s arms. She had comforted Cam then, and by doing so had found her own solace. She had nothing as simple to give now, because that door were closed for both of them. So she gave her what she knew Cam needed most. The truth. “He won’t give up. He might have had some rational plan before September—some reason, at least in his mind, for what he was doing. I don’t think that’s the case now. He’s a fanatic, and Blair is a symbol of everything he seeks to destroy.”

“Why go after her and not her father?” Cam asked, as if there were some reason to insanity.

“I don’t know,” Valerie said. “Perhaps because she’s more real than her father. The presidency is an institution as much as a person, but Blair is a living, breathing woman. Her loss would strike at the heart of people.”

The pain in Cam’s chest at the thought of Blair hurt was real, as acute as the bullet that had torn into her flesh and spilled her blood out onto the sidewalk in front of this very building. When she looked at Valerie, agony swam in her eyes. “If I find him, I’ll kill him. No questions asked.”

“Yes,” Valerie said calmly. “If you do, and it comes to that, I’ll make sure it appears totally justifiable.”

“Just like that? Your total support, even if I’m wrong?”

“You’re not wrong. We both know he’s guilty. He’s a murderer and a traitor.”

“What about the law? What about justice?”

“Justice,” Valerie said contemplatively. “Justice is often so much simpler than the laws we create to define it. There isn’t a member of this team or Blair’s security detail who would question the rightness of eliminating him.”

“That makes us vigilantes.”

“No, that makes us soldiers, and make no mistake, Cameron, this is war.”

Cam placed her hand over Valerie’s. “I don’t want you or any of the others to jeopardize yourselves for me.”

“That’s an order you can’t give.” She smiled as she threaded her fingers through Cam’s. “Or I should say, you can give it, but I doubt that any of us will listen.”

“Some leader I am,” Cam muttered.

“That’s exactly right.”

The door opened and Felicia Davis, a statuesque African American woman who looked as if she should be gracing the pages of a fashion magazine rather than hacking into databases, said, “The team’s assembled and there’s a message for you, Commander.” Her gaze flickered down to their joined hands and then away, her expression never changing. “Do you two want more coffee?”

“No, thanks,” Cam said, continuing to clasp Valerie’s hand lightly. “We’ll be right there.”

“Good enough.”

Valerie waited until they were alone again, then asked, “Does Blair know just how badly you need her to stay out of the public eye right now?”

“No. And I’m not going to tell her.”

“Why not? If she knew what this was doing to you—”

“No. Everyone who has ever loved her has asked her to give up something, and I’m not going to be another one.”

“Well then, we’ll just have to find him and make sure he’s not a problem.”

Cam smiled grimly. “I have a feeling if we don’t, he’ll find us.”

Chapter Three

“Ricky, why don’t you bring us up to speed on your frontrunners,” Cam said, addressing the newest member of her team. Ricky Sanchez, a thirty-year-old with curly, dark hair, an olive complexion, and bedroom eyes, had most recently been stationed in the Southwest with the ATF. He’d run a number of operations with the DEA when their territories overlapped. Drugs and firearms often went hand in hand, and both were popular commodities with the paramilitary groups for use in financing their operations. The patriot organizations served as conduits between drug runners from Mexico and South America and dealers in the States, and the money they made brokering the goods went for guns. The guns were valuable assets when negotiating with foreign terrorists, who very often had money but no ready access to weaponry. Sanchez was as close to an expert on the patriot organizations as could be found, and when Cam offered him the opportunity to come over to her team, he jumped at it. Married with two kids, he’d been urged by his wife to get out of the field, and every agent knew that antiterrorism was the hot place to be now.

“The patriots have no central organization—no ruling hierarchy,” Ricky said, lounging back in his chair. He wore boot cut jeans, a wide leather belt with a hammered silver buckle, and scuffed hand-tooled Tony Lamas. “These guys have too much ego to actually work together. They all want to be in charge.”

He leaned forward enough to push several keys on a small laptop computer and an image projected on a wall-mounted monitor. Head shots of three men, ranging in age from late twenties to early fifties, appeared. All were clean-shaven, with short, military-style haircuts and flinty stares.

“From left to right—John Jamieson, Robert Douglas, and Randolph Hogan. The White Aryan Brotherhood, the Soldiers of God, and the Homeland Liberation Front. These three are the most radical of the patriot leaders—they like to make noise about taking back America for the Americans, meaning white men—but we haven’t been able to put them anywhere close to the guys who took down the Towers.”

“What about Matheson?” Cam asked. “Any connection to him?”

“We’re looking for one.” Ricky shrugged. “These guys are camera shy, and they rarely communicate by anything other than disposable phones or face-to-face meetings. Even then, they usually send their second or third in command.”

Savard cut in. “On the other hand, the hijackers weren’t particularly careful about covering their movements after they entered this country. The FBI has a fairly complete picture of where they lived, where and when they took their flight training, and the routes they took to get to the airports. Somewhere along the way, they crossed paths with the team that hit the Aerie. There’s no way it could have been coordinated the way it was without someone organizing it here. We just need to find the intersection point.”

Cam nodded. “I agree. We know Matheson sent that team to Manhattan to hit Blair. They were his hand-picked boys. Which means he knew the timetable for the hijacking. I can’t believe he would have let anyone else orchestrate this thing. We need to backtrack his movements.” She looked to Felicia. “Somewhere, he left a bit of paper. He used a credit card for gas, paid for dinner, spent the night in a Motel Six. Got a parking ticket. He might be elusive, but he’s not invisible. Find out where he’s been in the last four months and put him with one of Ricky’s guys. Or one of the hijackers.”

“I’m on it, Commander,” Felicia said. “If he so much as took money out of an ATM, I’ll find out when and where.”

Cam swept her hand toward the screen. “All of these guys. We need to know everything there is to know about them. Yesterday.”

A knock on the door caught everyone’s attention, and Cam walked over to open it. Stark stood in the hallway.

“Sorry to interrupt, Commander, but I just got a call from Egret. She informed us she’s going to DC.”

Cam frowned. “First I’ve heard of it.”

“Lucinda Washburn was mentioned.”

“Ah, that explains it,” Cam said with a sigh. Lucinda Washburn was Andrew Powell’s chief of staff and also a close, longtime friend of Blair’s family. When Lucinda called, everyone jumped. “When?”

“We have a flight scheduled in two hours, so I thought you’d want to know. I assume you’ll be accompanying her, and we’re leaving for the airport in forty-five minutes.”

“Thanks, Chief. Let me finish up here, and I’ll be with you.”

“Yes ma’am.”

Cam closed the door, thinking the dog-and-pony show was about to begin. She would have minded the public exposure a lot more if she wasn’t looking forward to getting married. Love had a funny way of changing one’s outlook on things. She turned back to her team. “So, let’s go over it again. What do we know, and what do we need to know. And how are we going to find it out.”

Cam found Blair in the studio section of the loft where Blair painted. The 4x5 foot canvas on the easel in front of her was a riot of bright red, glaring purples, and garish yellows. Blair had applied the paint thickly, in wide swirling swaths, and Cam felt almost dizzy from the motion as her gaze tracked over the surface. Blair didn’t usually paint abstracts, but she had been for the last few weeks. As Cam took this one in, she realized it wasn’t as abstract as she’d first thought. She recognized what she was looking at. A fireball. She’d seen something like it time and time again in the replays of the jetliners crashing into the North and South Towers. She wondered if Blair had consciously depicted the inferno that had resulted, and didn’t know if she should ask. After growing up with a mother who was a world-renowned painter and being surrounded by her mother’s friends, Cam had learned that artists drew from deeply personal, often painful emotions to infuse their art with power and passion. Perhaps this was Blair’s way of exorcising the horror, and Cam wouldn’t take a chance of hurting her by asking.

In her usual work attire of paint-streaked jeans and T-shirt, with her hair tied back by a red bandanna, Blair looked young and vulnerable. Cam’s heart swelled and she wished with everything she was that

Blair’s life could be as simple as other people’s seemed to be—that her days could be filled with friendship, and with the work she craved, and with the love they shared. Jazz played on the stereo in the corner, and Blair didn’t turn as Cam approached.

“Baby,” Cam called softly.

Blair looked back, a question formed in her eyes. “What is it?”

Cam smiled. “Nothing.”

“No. You sighed. What’s bothering you?”

“You’re scary, you know that?” Gently, Cam kissed Blair and put her arms around her waist.

“Cam, I’m covered with paint,” Blair said, trying to pull away. “Your suit.”

“Forget my suit,” Cam murmured. “I love you.”

Blair stilled and her eyes softened. She looped her arms around Cam’s neck and kissed her back. “I’m all right.”

“I know.” Cam held her, running her hands lightly up and down her back. “Stark told me Lucinda requested our presence.”

“She called after you left for the briefing. I told her we were both too busy, but she insisted we talk face-to-face.” Blair rolled her eyes. “At least this time she didn’t play the national security card.”

Cam grinned. “She’s probably holding that in reserve.”

“Lucinda never holds anything in reserve. She doesn’t need to. She’s always got plenty of ammunition.”

“True.” Cam released Blair and checked her watch. “Do I need to pack? Are we staying overnight?”

“I think it’s an in-and-out thing. Besides, I’m not staying in DC. We just got home.”

Cam glanced around the loft. It was home. At least one of them, she thought with satisfaction. They had just completed the purchase of the house on Whitley Point where they’d been staying intermittently for the last two months. That house above the windswept dunes was their refuge, and at least a dozen times a day, she wished she could just send Blair there with a security detail until some kind of sanity was restored to the world. Except that wasn’t likely to happen soon, if ever, and Blair would never submit to being sequestered. Even for her own safety.

“Let me get some work together for the flight, then,” Cam said.

“I need to shower and change.” Blair brushed her fingers over

Cam’s cheek. “I expect this will be about the wedding, and I know how much you have on your mind right now. Thank you for doing this.”

Cam caught Blair’s wrist and brushed her lips over Blair’s fingertips. “I’m doing this for me too. I’m fine.”

“Say that in a week.” Blair kissed Cam’s cheek and walked away.

Cam watched her go, thinking that a lot could happen in a week.

The West Wing of the White House was never quiet, but since 9/11, the activity level had escalated to the point that there was very little difference between noon and midnight. Aides worked eighteen hours straight and staffers slept on couches. Even the White House chief of staff catnapped on her sofa, which was where Blair and Cam discovered Lucinda Washburn when her assistant Emilio bade them to enter her hallowed quarters.

“Sorry,” Blair said as Lucinda lifted the arm that had been covering her eyes and glanced toward the door.

“Good, you’re here.” Instantly alert and looking completely fresh, Lucinda shifted her stocking-clad feet to the floor and slid into her pumps without looking. She walked to the credenza and poured coffee. Looking over her shoulder, she asked, “Some for you?”

“No, thanks,” Blair said. She and Cam took their usual seats side by side on the sofa. “How are things?”

Lucinda lifted her brows as she settled into the wingback chair across from them and sipped her coffee. “We’re making progress. Being able to identify the hijackers has helped things tremendously.” She shifted her gaze to Cam. “How are we doing on identifying the domestic cell?”

“We have a lot of threads, but no connecting factors yet.”

“It’s frustrating that we can identify a terrorist leader thousands of miles away but we can’t use our surveillance to find a traitor in our own backyard.”

“I think we call that preserving civil rights,” Cam said dryly.

“Of course,” Lucinda agreed. “But it’s damned inconvenient when we’re under attack from our own people.”

“We’ll get them,” Cam said.

“No doubt.” Lucinda set her cup aside. “You’re here for another reason.”

“I can’t imagine what,” Blair said.

Lucinda half smiled. “We tried to quietly slide an announcement of your upcoming nuptials into the press briefing this morning.”

Blair snorted.

“Yes. Suddenly, global terrorism is no longer everyone’s top priority.” She fixed Blair with a piercing stare. “You are.”

Blair stiffened, and Cam took her hand.

“So far, we’ve had calls from the Christian Morality Coalition, Family First, the chairman of the reelection campaign, several of our largest donors, and the National Organization for Gay Rights.” Lucinda shook her head. “Congratulations, Blair. You’re a celebrity.”

“That wasn’t my intention,” Blair snapped. She rose abruptly and took one step toward the floor-to-ceiling windows that fronted the Esplanade before realizing that she’d made that trip across Lucinda’s office in anger or frustration a dozen times before. Not once had the journey ever helped her understand why her private life was of such interest to so many, and it never changed the outcome of whatever Lucinda had decided to do about it. She regarded Lucinda. “How’s my father taking it?”

“We haven’t drafted his official statement—”

“I don’t care about the party line.” Blair hoped Cam couldn’t see her shaking. She hated that her life was something that required her father to consult with his advisers before commenting.

“I’m sorry,” Lucinda said gently. “Your father feels exactly the same way today as he did when you first told him. He supports you, and he plans on attending.”

“That’s a very bad idea,” Cam said immediately.

“As is usually the case, Commander,” Lucinda said wryly, “I agree with you. However, you may have noticed that it’s a Powell family trait to do exactly as they please regardless of what their advisers recommend.”

Blair sank down beside Cam. “I’ll ask him not to come.”

“You certainly can,” Lucinda said, “but I don’t think it will change his mind.”

“We haven’t factored a presidential presence into our advance planning,” Cam said. “Stark’s team hasn’t—”

“Tom Turner sent his people to Colorado several days ago. I suspect they’ll liaise with Mac Phillips and Ellen Marks today.”

“And Stark hasn’t been informed?” Cam said incredulously. “That’s a complete breach of protocol.”

“These are unusual times,” Lucinda said. “The president’s security adviser wanted it done this way. While in Colorado, President Powell’s security chief will command the total operation.”

“I don’t like it,” Cam said flatly.

“No, I didn’t think you would, and I imagine that Agent Stark will agree with you.” Lucinda lifted her hands. “On the other hand, it’s not negotiable.”

“Tom is a good man,” Cam went on as if Lucinda hadn’t spoken, “but he isn’t used to the kind of personal security that Blair requires. No one gets as close to the president as they do to Blair.”

“Agent Stark will remain in charge of Blair’s personal detail, unless there is an emergent situation.”

“Which is exactly when Blair would need the best coverage.” Cam shifted on the sofa and took Blair’s hands. “Blair, I know what this means to you. It means a lot to me too. But I think we should postpone.”

Blair studied their joined hands, then met Cam’s gaze. “All right.”

Lucinda crossed her legs and folded her hands in her lap. “A month ago you would have made me very happy. Unfortunately, we can’t back out now because too many eyes are watching. Plus, we can’t have it appear as if your father is capitulating to the vocal right.”

“You can’t force us to get married,” Blair objected. She ran a hand through her hair. “This is unreal. All of a sudden, you want me to get married.”

“Don’t you?”

“Yes!”

“Good.” Lucinda rose, walked to her desk, and called her assistant. “Emilio? Is Dana Barnett here yet? Send her in, would you?”

“Dana Barnett,” Blair said. “Isn’t she—”

“A reporter for the Washington Chronicle. Yes,” Lucinda replied as Emilio held the door open for a woman of average height and build in wrinkled tan chinos, a white T-shirt, and a shapeless black V-neck sweater. She wore mud-encrusted combat boots and needed a haircut.

Her collar-length chestnut hair was shaggy and her deep brown eyes shadowed with fatigue. Despite her casual attire, she moved briskly and swept the room with sharp eyes that appeared to take in everything with one glance.

“Ms. Barnett,” Lucinda said. “Thank you so much for coming.”

Dana’s eyebrows lifted almost imperceptibly. “You’re welcome,” she said in a resonant alto. “I just got off a plane, so forgive my informal attire.” She nodded in Blair and Cam’s direction. “Good morning, Ms. Powell. Deputy Director Roberts.”

“Good to meet you,” Blair said. She and Cam stood, and Blair held out her hand. “Where are you in from?”

“The Middle East,” Dana said somewhat evasively. She glanced at Lucinda. “I didn’t get much of a briefing, just that you wanted to see me.”

“I told the people at the paper I’d fill you in,” Lucinda said. She gestured to the seating area. “You must be tired.”

“No, actually, I spent the last six hours sleeping on the floor in the hold of a military transport plane. I’d rather stand, if you don’t mind.”

Blair thought what Dana Barnett hadn’t said was that she’d rather be anywhere else but there. She could almost feel her bristling. From what she knew of Dana’s reputation, she was a hard-hitting investigative reporter who covered controversial topics in every corner of the globe. She didn’t doubt that Dana’s assignment in the Middle East had to do with terrorism.

“Since you’ve been out of the country,” Lucinda said smoothly, apparently oblivious to the edge in Dana Barnett’s manner, “you may not have heard that Ms. Powell and the deputy director are getting married next week.”

“Congratulations,” Dana said, her eyes wary.

“As you can imagine,” Lucinda said, “there is a great deal of media interest in the entire event. To facilitate information flow and spare Ms. Powell and the deputy director undue attention, we’ve decided to allow one reporter total access to the first daughter for the duration of the event. Exclusive coverage commencing with the preplanning stages.”

Dana slid her hands into the pockets of her chinos and glanced from Lucinda to Blair. “I can recommend several excellent lifestyle reporters who would—”

“That won’t be necessary. You’ve got the job.” Lucinda smiled.

“Luce,” Blair said, “can we talk for a minute, please?” The last thing Blair wanted was a reporter in her face twenty-four hours a day. It was bad enough to have twice a day press conferences.

“I think it’s an excellent idea,” Cam said.

Blair stared at her. “What?”

“It will limit your exposure if the members of the press realize that you’re not available to make impromptu comments, and it will allow us to determine when and how you’re interviewed.” She nodded. “It’s a good idea.”

“It’s a lousy idea,” Blair retorted.

Dana Barnett folded her arms, an amused expression on her face.

“I realize you’ve just come off an arduous assignment, Dana,” Lucinda said. “We’ll arrange transportation for you to Manhattan tomorrow. You can start then.”

The smile on Dana’s face disappeared. “I’m afraid I really can’t—”

“I haven’t agreed—” Blair interrupted.

Lucinda glanced at her watch. “And I’m late for a meeting with the budget committee. Thank you all so much for coming.” She reached across her desk, grabbed a stack of folders, and walked out.

Blair and Dana stared after her.

“Son of a bitch!” Dana and Blair exclaimed simultaneously.

Cam, wisely, said nothing.

Chapter Four

Dana took a deep breath and smiled ruefully at the first daughter. She’d seen her in photographs and on television before, of course, but she’d never met her in person. Dressed casually, with her hair loose and her temper showing, Blair Powell was even more beautiful than her media image projected. Dana had always admired her for her subtle disdain for political games and her tendency to be outspoken regardless of the party line. And the fact that she had become more candid about her sexual orientation in the last year had earned Dana’s respect. As a reporter, Dana had a healthy regard for the power of the press to make or break careers as well as sway public opinion. It was refreshing to meet someone so close to the seats of power who didn’t seem to care, although handling her press relations must be a nightmare for the White House.

“Nothing personal, Ms. Powell,” Dana said, “but I’m not the right reporter for this assignment.”

“Nothing personal, Ms. Barnett,” Blair said, “but this assignment doesn’t work for me either.”

Dana laughed, then caught the steely expression on Deputy Director Roberts’s face. Dana wasn’t naïve, and even if she hadn’t just come back from the Middle East, she would have had a very good idea of just how precarious the state of national security was at the moment. Anyone who paid attention to the political scene, and Dana did, knew that Blair Powell had dropped from sight immediately after 9/11 and the White House had been very vague as to why. Now she was emerging in the midst of controversy. So much for maintaining a low profile, which Dana was willing to bet the White House and the deputy director would have preferred. She didn’t envy Roberts’s position in all of this, and she definitely didn’t want to piss her off.

“I agree with your take on controlling the press by setting up exclusive coverage, Deputy Director,” Dana said. “It’s a good idea. My only point is—”

“I think you’ve made your position clear,” Cam said flatly. “You apparently find contributing to Ms. Powell’s security beneath you.”

Dana flushed. She knew, as did every other reporter in the United States—in the world, most likely—that Cameron Roberts had nearly died from a sniper’s bullet intended for the first daughter. Roberts might have taken the bullet because she was protecting her lover, but no one doubted she would have done it for anyone under her protection. She was a genuine hero, and one who hadn’t capitalized on her notoriety in any way. For just a second, Dana felt petty in her desire not to be cast as a celebrity reporter, and the discomfort stoked her temper. “There are half a dozen reporters the Chronicle could assign who would fit in better than me and who have more experience with this kind of thing. I’m a field reporter, for Christ’s sake.”

“It doesn’t matter,” Blair interjected, “because it’s not happening.” She looped her left arm through Cam’s and held her right hand out to Dana. “Like I said, nothing personal. It was nice meeting you.”

“Same here,” Dana said.

When the first daughter and the deputy director started out of the office, Dana hurried after them. It would have been nice to think the matter closed, but she knew things were never that simple where politics were concerned.

“You were kind of hard on her, weren’t you?” Blair asked lightly as she and Cam left the West Wing.

“She’s cocky,” Cam said.

“And?”

“And nothing.” Cam pulled her cell phone off her belt and punched in Paula Stark’s number on speed dial. “We’re coming out, Chief.” She glanced at Blair. “Ready to go home?”

“More than ready.” Blair slowed in the lobby just inside the entrance to the West Wing and pulled Cam around to face her. “You don’t usually give up so easily.”

Cam grinned. “Who said I was giving up?”

Blair rolled her eyes. “That’s exactly what I was afraid of.” She looked around to make sure no one was listening, but everyone seemed to be rushing to get to their destination and paid them no mind. Nevertheless, she lowered her voice out of habit. “I’m not having a stranger follow me around, recording my every thought and feeling, during one of the most important times of my life. God, Cam, I don’t even do that for a routine public appearance.”

Cam settled her hands on Blair’s shoulders. “Nothing is routine anymore, baby.”

“This is ours,” Blair said vehemently. She pressed her hand to Cam’s chest. “Ours. I’m not letting anyone take it away from us, not even Lucinda and my father.”

“No one will. I promise.” Cam kissed her softly while a uniformed Marine guard standing nearby stared straight ahead, seemingly oblivious to them. “But the press are going to be all over us, and that makes Stark’s job ten times more difficult. Lucinda is right on this one, Blair. It’s the best way to control the flow of information and keep some distance between you and the reporters.”

“No,” Blair said. “As far as I’m concerned, the matter is closed.”

Cam said nothing, but her eyes took on the shuttered appearance they always did when she was holding in her temper.

“And don’t think about pulling rank on me, either,” Blair snapped, the effort it took to keep her voice down making her tremble.

When it came right down to it, Blair knew that what she wanted didn’t carry as much weight as what others decided was best for her. And one of those other people who had that kind of power over her was her own lover. She resented being made a bystander to her own life, and her solution to that in the past had been to assert her independence any way she could. Sometimes in ways that weren’t particularly smart, or safe. But now she had something that mattered as much as her own personal freedom, and that was her relationship with Cam. When the two things that mattered most to her were at odds, like now, Blair’s better judgment sometimes suffered in the wake of impotent fury. “I don’t want to fight about this.”

“Neither do I.” Cam tensed as they stepped outside under the portico.

Blair noticed Cam automatically scan the grounds. Despite the fact that they were in one of the most secure locations in the world, Cam didn’t let down her guard. She never let down her guard. Blair wasn’t sure she would recognize her if she ever truly relaxed. Even as she thought it, Blair knew there was one time when Cam wasn’t thinking about danger, wasn’t thinking about guarding her, wasn’t thinking about anything at all. When they made love, when Cam gave herself to Blair, the only thing in her mind—the only thing that mattered—was what existed between the two of them. Blair was certain of it, because that was the way she felt too, and she desperately wanted to have that feeling for more than just the moments when they made love. Not just for herself, but for Cam. And if she had to stand up to Lucinda and her father and the whole goddamn world to get it, she would.

“Dana! You’re back!”

“Hiya, gorgeous.” Dana stepped around behind an old-fashioned gunmetal gray desk with dented file cabinets built into either end and kissed the silky-soft skin of the white-haired woman who guarded the door to editor-in-chief Clive Russell’s office with the ferocity of a gorgon. Rumor had it that Amanda Smith held more shares in the paper than half the board members, but preferred her role as secretary to sitting in meetings. Dana had a feeling Amanda had more power right where she was. “Thanks for arranging my ride back.”

Amanda merely smiled as her gaze swept over Dana. “Bad over there?”

“Bad and getting worse,” Dana said grimly. She had a feeling she hadn’t seen the last of Afghanistan, and considering what she’d been piecing together from her sources in the military and on Capitol Hill, Iraq was about to be added to the nasty mix.

“Those pieces you sent back were horrifying.” Amanda touched Dana’s arm fleetingly. “And brilliant. As always.”

Dana flushed at the compliment. Amanda had been known to skim a reporter’s copy and hand it back to be rewritten, declaring it a waste of Clive’s time. Only a rookie would ever argue with her. Dana eyed the closed door to Clive’s office. The lights were on but the blinds in the two huge glass windows facing into the newsroom were drawn, meaning he was unavailable. “I need to see the man.”

Still smiling, Amanda shook her head. “Not now, you don’t. It’s budget time. Try him tomorrow around nine twenty. He’ll have a few minutes then.”

“It’s important.”

Amanda regarded her steadily and Dana held her breath.

Dana never pulled rank, even though she was one of the senior investigative reporters and could pretty much call her own shots as to what she worked on and when. She was as much a team player as she could be, given that her nature was to be solitary. She’d gotten used to being alone as a child. She had no siblings and didn’t fit in with the other kids in her working-class neighborhood. After a certain age, the boys wouldn’t play with her and she had no idea how to play with the girls, whose games didn’t interest her. She couldn’t fathom the fun in playing house and pretending that she wanted to grow up to be something that felt completely foreign to her. She didn’t want to be someone’s wife or mother. She wanted adventures like those in the books she loved to read. She wanted to explore the world like the characters she pretended to be. And most of all, she wanted to know why—why the world worked the way it did. And the more she learned, the more she questioned. Her love of words and her endless curiosity led her into journalism, and here she was. Traveling the world and asking why.

“You know I can’t do this,” Dana said, hearing the plea in her own voice.

“Five minutes,” Amanda said gently. “Don’t make me come and get you.”

Dana kissed her cheek again. “Thanks. I owe you.”

Amanda chuckled. “Of course you do. Go on now.”

As Dana walked to the door, she heard Amanda pick up the phone and murmur something. She knocked and a deep rumble that she took to mean come in emanated from the other side.

“Hi, Clive,” Dana said as she entered the cluttered office. The evening edition of the Chronicle sat in the center of the huge oak desk. Stacks of papers covered just about every surface in the room that wasn’t already occupied with the computer, fax machine, television, phones, and other equipment that kept Clive connected to the world of information. “Sorry to bother you.”

“Then why are you?” the big man behind the desk asked impatiently.

Despite the hundreds of times she’d seen him, Dana was still taken aback by not just his size, but his presence. Clive filled the room even when he was sitting behind his desk. His close-cropped red hair was sprinkled with gray, but he looked younger than his fifty-odd years by a decade. The ex-college football player’s neck was almost as wide as his head and his shoulders bigger than her refrigerator. She’d known him long enough not to be intimidated by his appearance, but she never liked being on the receiving end of his formidable temper. Fortunately, since she never missed deadlines and always gave him more than he asked for, his ire was rarely directed at her.

“I need a favor,” Dana said, hoping the fact that she never asked for one would make up for her going outside channels. “Some idiot pulled my name out of a hat and assigned me to do a celebrity personal for the next couple of weeks. I need you to get me out of it. Things are really heating up over—”

“I’m the idiot,” Clive growled.

Dana stared. “You? Why? Why would you do this to me? You know I’m not—”

“The White House called, Barnett. You know, the place on Pennsylvania Avenue where the president of the United States lives?”

She gritted her teeth. “I’ve seen it.”

“Then you probably also know that we try to be accommodating when the chief of staff over there asks us for a favor,” Clive said sarcastically.

“I get that part,” Dana said. “I understand politics, even though it’s not my favorite game.” She ran her hand through her hair. “But Jesus Christ, Clive. Me?”

He regarded her impassively.

Dana narrowed her eyes, searching her mind for what she was missing. Then she shook her head in disgust. “Obviously sleeping on the floor of a transport plane jarred something loose between my ears. It’s about me being a lesbian, right?”

“That wasn’t mentioned.”

“It didn’t need to be.” She jammed her hands in her pockets and turned in a tight circle, wishing there were room to pace. She should be more bothered that she’d been chosen for an assignment for no other reason than the fact she slept with women. Then she thought of the society reporters and couldn’t help but laugh despite her irritation. “Wouldn’t Priscilla Reynolds just love this assignment.”

The corner of Clive’s mouth twitched, as if he were actually about to smile. Priscilla prided herself on being the first to know everything that was newsworthy about everyone on the Hill. Rumor had it a lot of her information came from pillow talk, and she was unabashedly outspoken about her aversion to gays and lesbians. On the rare occasions when Dana and Priscilla ran into each other, Priscilla acted as if Dana had a contagious disease.

“A newspaper doesn’t turn down an offer for exclusive coverage, especially not when it’s something this big.” Clive passed a sheet of paper across the desk. “This is a preliminary guest list.”

Dana scanned it. It was shorter than she might have expected, but despite the public announcements regarding the event, she suspected that the president’s daughter wanted as much privacy as possible. She recognized quite a few of the names. One stood out and she raised an eyebrow. “Emory Constantine? The stem cell researcher?”

Clive nodded. “The elusive Dr. Constantine. The one who doesn’t give interviews and has almost as many security guards as Blair Powell. Since the attack on her in Boston last month, the Johnson Foundation has been locked up tighter than Fort Knox. There’s a story there, and I want you to get it.”

“There’s talk that the foundation is doing more than just basic biological research.” Dana handed the list back to Clive. “As in biological warfare.”

“If they are, no one’s talking about it. Maybe you can change that.” He rolled his massive shoulders. “Dr. Constantine apparently likes the ladies.”

Dana snorted. “Well then, I sure as hell don’t qualify.” She folded her arms. “And I don’t get my stories in the bedroom.”

“I don’t care how you get the story. Just get it.” He pointed to the door. “Now get out. I’m busy trying to figure out how to pay your salary next year.”

“Have you factored in a raise?” When Clive placed both hands flat on the desk as if he were about to get up, Dana backed toward the door. “I’m going.”

“Make sure you get your ass on a plane to Manhattan.”

“Yes, boss,” Dana muttered as she let the door close on her last hope of reprieve. “Crap.”

“Here you are, dear,” Amanda said, holding out an envelope. “Your itinerary and tickets. You’re expected at Ms. Powell’s in the morning.”

“Pretty sure I’d be going, weren’t you?”

Amanda smiled beatifically. “Of course. You were my first choice.”

Crap.

Matheson walked carefully along the narrow rows between the plain white headstones, leaving his son’s grave behind. When he reached the banks of the Potomac, the hallowed ground of Arlington Cemetery stretching out behind him, he stared across the water. The Lincoln Memorial and the White House stood opposite him just beyond the river. Symbols of freedom and national pride, now tarnished by those who had forgotten what had made the country great. The most powerful nation on Earth made impotent by laws enacted to protect the unworthy, financially and morally bankrupted from supporting the weak, the ignorant, and the debauched. It was time to return to power those who rightfully deserved it, to reward the sons of those who had built this great land. When he showed the people the mockery their leaders had made of their heritage, when the pretenders were unveiled as nothing more than puppets for perverts and thieves, the true patriots would rise again. And he would have justice.

Chapter Five

As the plane touched down at Teterboro Airport across the river from Manhattan in New Jersey, Cam noted the two hulking black shapes with bright halogen eyes idling on the tarmac. She couldn’t see beyond the tinted windows of the Suburbans, and she considered how easy it would be for someone to intercept the assigned vehicles on their way to the airport and replace them with identical vehicles filled with hostiles. That would, of course, assume a break in communication had gone unnoticed somewhere along the approach route. How long would it take to make the switch? Thirty seconds? Would a burst of static and less than a minute of patchy radio communications signal to anyone back at the command center that something had gone wrong? Could Blair walk unsuspectingly down the stairway from the plane and directly into a fusillade of bullets?

“Just sit tight for a second,” Cam murmured to Blair and unbuckled her seat belt.

“Cam?” Blair called after her, but Cam had already edged her way up the aisle.

“Who do you have on the ground?” Cam asked as she dropped into the seat next to Paula Stark.

Stark folded the week’s itinerary she’d been studying and slid it into the inside pocket of her navy blue blazer. Without the slightest hesitation, she replied, “Phelps, Edwards, Ramsey, and Wozinski. Problem, Commander?”

“I don’t want Blair to disembark until you’ve verified the identities of everyone in both vehicles.”

Stark regarded Cam steadily. “That’s standard procedure.”

“I know.” Cam blew out a breath and looked past Stark out the window. The runway lights created sharp, flat circles of white interspersed with inky blackness, like so many pearls on an ebony chain. “And I know that you know it. I just—” She lifted her shoulder. “I’m sorry.”

When Cam started to rise, Stark, in a wholly uncharacteristic move, restrained her with a hand on her arm. Cam could count on one hand the times Stark had touched her, so she sat back down and waited for Stark to speak.

“I don’t think I’ve ever said this to you, but I’ve always believed it,” Stark said, holding Cam’s gaze. “You’re the best Secret Service agent I’ve ever seen. None of our training prepared us for what happened in September, but you made the right calls and probably saved all of us. If you ever have a feeling something’s not right, I want to know about it.”

“Even if it’s just nerves?” Cam said self-critically.

“It’s not nerves, Commander. It’s instinct.”

Cam smiled faintly. “I don’t think I’ve ever said this to you, but I believe it. You’re the right person to head Blair’s detail.”

Stark blushed and, for the first time, looked down. “Thank you.”

“There are some things you need to know about Colorado. Let’s talk when we get back to base.”

“Yes ma’am.”

“What was that all about back there in the plane?” Blair asked once she and Cam were settled in the back of the Suburban. Greg Wozinski, six-five and two hundred fifty pounds of blond-haired, blue-eyed beefsteak, managed to appear invisible as he occupied the facing seat in the rear of the armor-plated SUV. His expression was impassive and he might have been deaf for all the reaction he gave to their conversation. Nevertheless, she kept her voice low. She leaned into Cam’s body and kept one hand on Cam’s thigh. “What happened?”

“Nothing important,” Cam said.

“Stark doesn’t usually keep me strapped in that long after landing. Did you tell her to do that?”

“I don’t tell Stark what to do.”

“You’re hedging.”

Cam took Blair’s hand and held it against her middle. “I would have asked her to do it, if she hadn’t been planning to already. Your security is going to be doubled until after the wedding.”

“It could hardly be any heavier,” Blair said tightly. “I’ve got people with me all the time. And let’s not forget, soon I’ll have my very own personal reporter.”

“That hasn’t been confirmed.”

“Oh, please. Lucinda has decreed it.” Blair leaned her cheek against Cam’s shoulder. “I love her. I really do. But I can’t believe I let her use me the way she does. Is nothing sacred?”

“For Lucinda? Yes. The presidency.” Cam kissed Blair’s temple. “But she loves you too.”

“That doesn’t stop her from manipulating my private life.”

“She doesn’t see any difference between the personal and professional.”

“I used to think that about you,” Blair said.

“For most of my life that’s been true.” Cam shrugged. “It’s that way for most agents.”

“If you had to choose between me and your duty…” Blair shook her head. “Never mind.”

“You. I’d choose you.”

“I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have asked you that. I’m just tired.”

Cam released Blair’s hand and slipped her arm around her shoulder, pulling her closer. “We’re all tired. But you can ask me anything you need to know, anytime.”

“I don’t want Dana Barnett inside my life.”

“You’ll be safer this way.”

Blair pulled away. “I’ve already got all the security I need. You said so yourself.”

“That’s not what I—”

“Forget it. Let’s just forget it. I already know how you feel. You agree with Lucinda.”

“Yes,” Cam said, feeling a barrier settle between them. On this one issue, Blair’s safety, she would never compromise, no matter how much Blair needed her to. Not even when it drove a wedge between them.

Diane held open her apartment door and peered at Blair, who’d arrived unannounced. Seeing Blair in tight jeans and a tighter black sweater, with her hair down and a wild look in her eyes, Diane was reminded of old times. Old times when Blair was unhappy and looking for trouble to take her mind off her troubles. What was different was that Patrice Hara, one of Blair’s Secret Service agents, stood just to the left of the door with her back to the wall in a position that gave her a view up and down the hallway to the elevator and the stairwells. In the pre-Cam days, Blair would have given her spookies the slip. “Hello, darling. You do know it’s after midnight?”

“The night is young.” Blair tossed her leather jacket on the chair as she crossed Diane’s living room to the minibar tucked into one corner. She pulled a bottle of wine and a corkscrew from underneath and set about opening it. Diane’s platinum blond hair fell loose to her shoulders and, barefoot and wearing pale blue silk pajamas, she looked ready for bed. “Am I keeping you awake?”

“Of course not—I was reading. I still keep New York hours.” Diane settled onto the arm of the sofa, watching Blair curiously. “Since you’ve gone domestic with Cam, you’re the one on a DC schedule. Up at an ungodly hour and no carousing until dawn anymore.”

Blair paused, the wine bottle suspended in one hand as she looked around the apartment. “I didn’t even think to ask if Valerie was here. I can’t get used to you living with someone.”

“She’s not here. And I’m not living with her.”

“Uh-huh.”

“She’s still…at work hardly seems to cover it.” Diane walked over to the bar, picked up an empty wineglass, and held it out. “And even if I were cohabitating, you can drop by anytime. What’s going on?”

“Cam is working late too.”

“That’s nothing new.”

Blair filled their glasses and sipped from hers. “We have a new member of the wedding party.”

“Really? I was about to tell you the same thing.”

“You tell first. I think your news is probably better than mine.”

Blair flopped onto the couch and propped her scuffed brown boots on the gleaming wood coffee table.

Diane curled up beside her on the deep red sofa, drawing her legs up beneath her and turning sideways to face Blair. “I got an e-mail from Emory. She’s coming into the city tomorrow for some kind of grant meeting and she mentioned she was going to spend a few days here before heading out to Colorado. I invited her to get together with us while we put the finishing touches on the wedding plans. Do you mind?”

“No, that’s great. I like Emory.” Blair stared moodily into her wine. “I’d offer for her to stay at my place, but who would want to stay there? I don’t even want to stay there.”

“I already told her she could stay with me, but she said she was fine at the hotel.” Diane tapped a polished fingernail on Blair’s knee. “What’s Cam done, sweetie?”

“What makes you think it’s her?”

“You’re fretting. Lucinda annoys you. Nosy reporters make you swear. I have even been known to irritate you now and then. But only Cam makes you fret and pine.”

“I’m not pining. I’m pissed off.”

“Okay.” Diane stroked Blair’s leg, then patted it. “So. Tell.”

“Lucinda had the bright idea of assigning a reporter to cover the wedding, and Cam agrees.”

Diane frowned. “You knew you were going to create a buzz. After the press announcement this morning, I’m surprised you don’t already have a news van parked in front of your building.”

“I do. Three of them.” Blair grimaced. “Fortunately, they can’t come within thirty feet of the entrance, so all they can do is yell questions. This situation is different.”

“What, Lucinda promised some reporter a one-on-one? You’ve done plenty of interviews before.”

“We’re not talking an interview,” Blair said glumly. “We’re talking a member of the wedding. She’s showing up tomorrow and she’s going to be with us all day, every day, until this is over.”

“You’re kidding.”

“I’m not.”

“And you agreed?” Diane got up to refill their glasses. “Why?”

“I didn’t agree. Lucinda ordered it and Cam backed her.” Blair waved Diane and the wine away. She hadn’t even finished half a glass yet. She hated being at odds with Cam. For so many years, anger had fueled her life. Her resistance to the restrictions imposed by her father’s career had actually invigorated her. Certainly, her rage had inspired some of her best paintings. Since Cam, she had learned to compromise, and the new balance in her life had led her in surprising new directions in her art. She didn’t resent the changes, but there were times, like now, when she needed Cam to take her part. And it hurt when she didn’t. “You know what it’s like saying no to Lucinda.”

“But that’s not what has you drinking wine on my sofa in the middle of the night.”

“It’s silly, but I want Cam to care about the wedding like I do.”

Diane wrapped her arm around Blair’s shoulders and hugged her. “Congratulations. I don’t think I’ve ever actually heard you say that you wanted something from a lover before. Other than hot sex, that is.”

Blair laughed. “That’s one thing I never have to request from Cam.”

“Don’t gloat.”

“You should talk,” Blair teased. “If wanting something from her is such a good thing, why does it feel lousy?”

“Just because we want something doesn’t mean we’re going to get it, or even that we should. But we rarely want things from people we don’t care about, and you never let yourself care before.”

“You already know I’m crazy about her.”

“I know,” Diane said, “but that’s not the same thing.” Diane rubbed Blair’s shoulder. “But she probably can’t read your mind, so you’ll have to tell her what you need.”

“It sounds silly when I say it out loud.”

“No it doesn’t.”

Blair sighed. “Besides, she’s not going to change her mind about the reporter.”

“Cam doesn’t strike me as the type who likes publicity any more than you do. Why is she going along with it?”

Blair said nothing.

“Aha. What aren’t you telling me?”

“Cam thinks it will make security easier because we’ll be able to limit my exposure. Fewer press conferences, fewer interviews. You know the drill.”

Diane laughed. “You don’t really expect Cam to say no to anything that’s going to keep you safe?”

“I am safe,” Blair said vehemently. “Have you looked outside your door? Hara will be there until I come out. And there are more downstairs, outside the building and in the car.”

“Well, I happen to be glad about that. I wish Valerie had people following her everywhere she went.” Abruptly, Diane stood and strode to the balcony doors. She wrapped her arms around her body as if she were cold. “I know the lack of privacy is horrible for you.” She spun around, her eyes fierce. “But you have a team of experts to keep you safe. No one is protecting her.”

“I’m sorry,” Blair said softly. “I should be grateful, and I’m not. And you must be sick with worry over her.”

Diane pushed her fingers through her hair and heaved a deep breath. “I want to believe that no one cares about her or about what she might know any longer, but it’s hard. I know that agents like her have very little connection to one another, and almost no one except their handlers even know who they are. But every time she walks out the door…”

“You’re afraid she won’t come back,” Blair said, voicing their shared nightmare.

“I can’t tell her because she already thinks I’ll be better off without her.”

“God, they don’t get it, do they?” Blair said in exasperation.

Diane laughed. “Which part? That if we’d be better off without them, we wouldn’t be so terrified of losing them?”

“For starters.” Blair held out her hand and Diane took it, settling beside her on the couch once again.

“So,” Diane said. “Tell me about this reporter.”

“The only good thing about this,” Blair said, “is that she’s not any happier about it than I am. Dana Barnett. She’s—”

“The investigative reporter? I’ve seen her on television. God, she’s gorgeous.”

Blair leaned back and regarded Diane through narrowed lids. “I thought you were off the market?”

“Off the market, yes. Dead and buried, no.”

Blair laughed. “She’s very good looking. She also seems tough and smart and doesn’t want this assignment. So maybe she won’t bother us very much.”

“She can bother me all she wants,” Diane muttered.

“Well, don’t expect me to run interference. I’m out of practice.” Blair nudged her. “And don’t forget that Valerie is armed.”

Diane smiled. “I never thought I’d say this, but I really can’t imagine being with anyone except her. God, that is terrifying.”

Blair leaned her head back and closed her eyes. “Tell me about it.”

Paula Stark rubbed her eyes and picked up the most recent stack of intelligence reports in one hand and a cold cup of coffee in the other. She sipped absently while scanning the memos from that day’s summaries, focusing on the sections that had been highlighted by Iggie Jackson, the acting communications coordinator while Mac was in Colorado. She paid particular attention to anything mentioning Andrew Powell, New York City, the Midwest, patriot organizations, or Blair. Five of the twenty pages were devoted to excerpts from newspaper articles, Web posts, speeches, or other responses to the official White House press release regarding the upcoming wedding. All of the usual suspects were represented—fundamentalist Christians, the Roman Catholic Assembly of Archbishops, the Anglicans, and any number of other religious institutions opposed to gay marriage—but what interested her most were several statements from patriot organization leaders. She circled one from Randolph Hogan.

“Something interesting?” Cam asked as she dropped into a swivel chair next to Paula.

“One of the right-wing paramilitary guys posted a blog blaming Blair for the decline of…just about everything. The family, the church, and the state of the nation.”

Cam frowned and held out her hand. She read the excerpt and handed it back. “He’s on our list of possible Matheson contacts.”

“I know. I got the update from Renee while we were in Washington.” Stark set the stack of papers aside. “Coincidence?”

“What do you think?”

“I think all these guys are in bed together. On the other hand, if he’s got ties to Matheson, he’d be pretty stupid to make a public statement like this.”

“Ego often trumps judgment,” Cam noted.

“It would be nice to have someone inside his camp.”

“Maybe we do, but the FBI has not been forthcoming about their sources.” A muscle bunched along the edge of Cam’s jaw. “And apparently they didn’t get the directive about interagency cooperation.”

“It’s going to take a while for everyone to adjust to this new hierarchy,” Paula said. “I’m not even sure who I work for anymore.”

Cam regarded her steadily.

Stark grinned. “Well, I know who I report to, Commander.”

“Nice save.” Cam laughed briefly, then her eyes grew serious. “We’re going to have serious chain of command issues in Colorado. You know about Tom Turner?”

Paula frowned. “I do now. He called this afternoon to tell me his people were on the ground out there. Coordinating with Mac and Ellen. He was very friendly and made it sound like we’d all be one big happy family.”

“Tom’s priority is POTUS, and it should be,” Cam said. “My concern is Blair.”

“So is mine.” Paula sensed Cam waiting, and she had no problem replying to the unspoken question. “My job is to secure the welfare of the first daughter. Nothing takes priority over that.”

“Thanks, Chief.”

“No problem, Commander.”

“I take it you’ve been briefed on the new member of the team joining us tomorrow?” Cam checked the plain-faced clock on the wall. One a.m. “Today, I should say.”

Paula pointed to a folder. “Dana Barnett.” She hesitated, judging her next words. She did not want to tread into personal territory with the commander, but she needed to know what kind of trouble she was looking at. “I don’t imagine Egret is pleased.”

Cam smiled wryly. “I didn’t know you were given to understatement, Chief.”

“We’ll handle it,” Paula said confidently.

“I imagine you will.” Cam stood, her eyes weary. “Probably better than I have. Good night, Chief.”

Paula watched her go, wishing she knew how to ease her burden. Then she reached for the last of the security bulletins, because they all had their parts to play even if they didn’t understand this new stage they’d been thrust upon.

Chapter Six

Friday

A little after six, Cam got up from the sofa where she’d fallen asleep a few hours earlier and walked into the kitchen. She had slept in a T-shirt and a pair of flannel boxers, and the apartment felt cold. Cold and empty. She contemplated making coffee, but sat at the breakfast bar instead and read the note that she’d read three times when she had returned from the command center the night before.

Cam, I’ve gone to Diane’s. I’ll probably spend the night. I love you, Blair.

Cam touched the lower right hand corner of the slip of paper with the tip of her index finger and slowly turned the note clockwise until the words blurred, although the message remained starkly clear. Blair was angry. Upset and angry. She’d gone to a safe place, not onto the streets or to a club or into a stranger’s bed. She had done that more than once—taken refuge in sex when the invisible bars of her very real cage had become too oppressive and she’d finally broken free. Even before Cam had fallen in love with her, she’d hated to see Blair waste herself on women who couldn’t begin to appreciate what it meant to touch her. Now, the idea of anyone else putting that hazy look of desire in Blair’s eyes, bringing that tremble to her lips, causing that quick catch of excitement in her breath was enough to make Cam lose any semblance of civilized reason. She became animal, primitive, driven by the instinct to guard what was hers. She slowed the revolution of the notepaper and read it again.

I love you, Blair.

Cam smiled dryly. They’d made an agreement not that long ago that neither of them would leave if they were angry. Blair had adhered to the letter of the law. Even though she’d left, she’d told Cam where she was going.

I love you too, Cam thought. She left the note on the counter and went to the bathroom, stripped, and showered. After she pulled on jeans and a workout T-shirt, she called Renee Savard.

“Good morning, Commander,” Renee said, sounding as if she’d been awake for hours.

“I’m going to be a little late this morning. I need you to handle the briefing and find out where they transferred the detainees from Matheson’s compound. I want to question them.”

“We’ve got some of their statements in the FBI reports, such as they are.”

“You mean we have what someone else thinks we should know,” Cam corrected. “Time to gather our own Intel.”

“Yes ma’am. Shall I make flight arrangements?”

“Yes.” Cam paused. “For both of us. Today.”

“Yes ma’am,” Renee said, her excitement apparent even over the phone.

“Thanks.” Cam disconnected and contemplated her next call. It wasn’t difficult to find Blair. Her whereabouts were known to at least half a dozen people at any given moment. All she needed to do was call the shift leader in the command center and ask. She dialed a number and waited.

“Hello?”

“Diane, it’s Cam. Is Blair there?”

“Good morning, Cam. No, I’m afraid you’ve missed her. She left a while ago.”

Cam’s stomach tightened. Why hadn’t she come home? Did Stark’s team have her or had she slipped out on them? For an instant she came close to disconnecting the call to roust Stark and demand a status check. Instead she closed her eyes and remembered the note. I love you. “Did she say where she was going?”

“Forgive me,” Diane replied with a note of disbelief in her voice, “but don’t you have ways of finding out where she is?”

“I do. But she wouldn’t like it.”

Diane laughed, the sound of bells pealing on an impossibly clear, bracingly brisk spring morning. “Oh, you are very good.”

“Apparently not.”

“Well, I shall have to play my part as well. As her best friend, of course, my only concern is her best interests. So I’m not inclined to help you.”

“I know,” Cam said completely seriously.

“Are you appropriately sorry for upsetting her?”

“Completely.”

“Do you have any idea what you’re apologizing for?” Diane asked gently.

“Not entirely, but it doesn’t matter. She’s upset, that’s all I care about.”

“She said she was going to the gym.”

“Thank you,” Cam said. “You could’ve drawn that out quite a bit longer, you know.”

“I know, but there’s no pleasure in it when I know that she needs you to find her as much as you do.”

“I don’t think I’ve mentioned it,” Cam said, “but I appreciate everything you’re doing for the wedding.”

“I’m doing it because I love Blair, and you make her happy. And I’m really quite fond of you too.” Diane drew a breath that sounded shaky. “And you saved Valerie’s life.”

“No thanks are needed for that.”

“But I thank you nevertheless,” Diane whispered. “Now go see to Blair.”

“I will.” Cam disconnected, collected her keys and wallet and gym bag from the closet, and headed out the door.

The first thing Cam saw when she turned down the narrow alley off Houston was the Suburban in the middle of the block, parked halfway up on the sidewalk to allow delivery trucks and the occasional cab to get past. She was certain the agents in the vehicle took note of her, but there was no outward indication that they saw her. She didn’t acknowledge them either as she pushed through the unmarked windowless door sandwiched between a shoe repair shop that had been closed for two decades—a few unclaimed shoes coated with a thick layer of dust lay on the counter behind the smeared front window—and a bodega with iron grates drawn down to the sidewalk. The instant she stepped into the dimly lit hallway and began climbing the steep narrow stairs, she smelled mold, sweat, and testosterone. The third floor reverberated with the rumble of male voices and bodies falling, and heavy equipment thudding onto the floor. The warehouse-sized space was lit at intervals with fluorescent lights dangling unevenly on chains and whatever light filtered through the grimy windows set high in the wall along the roof line. Two roped-off boxing rings with stained canvas mats stood center stage, surrounded by a haphazard array of weightlifting equipment, speed bags, and hanging heavy bags. As was often the case, Blair was the only woman in a sea of bulked-up men covered with tattoos and scars. One of the new members of Blair’s team, Cliff Vaughn, a muscular African American looking out of place in his tailored slacks and double-breasted blazer, stood with his arms folded over his chest on the far side of the boxing ring where Blair was sparring with a young white guy with a shaved head and prison tats on his neck. Patrice Hara, flanking the ring on the side closest to Cam, nodded a greeting without taking her eyes off Blair as Cam slipped up beside her.

“Morning, Commander,” Hara said.

“Hara. How’s she doing?”

“She’s playing with him.”

“Ah.” That was not good news. When Blair was spoiling for a real fight, she never instigated it. Being smaller and more agile than all of her opponents, she frustrated them by refusing to engage—slipping or blocking their punches and then sneaking in for a quick jab. Men who weren’t used to her very quickly forgot that they weren’t supposed to hit a woman, and after each impotent blow they threw, they came back harder. Blair couldn’t avoid every punch indefinitely, and ultimately, one landed hard enough to knock her down. Then she came out swinging, and they swung back. She usually managed to fight off her pent-up fury, but unfortunately, she ended up taking a beating too. This morning, Cam just wasn’t in the mood to see Blair get hammered by this young guy’s hard right hand.

Quickly, she skirted around the ring to the tiny women’s changing room. A single bench stood before three rickety steel lockers without locks. She pulled open a locker, stripped down to her sports bra, and tossed in her clothes. Then she yanked on long, loose blood-red Thai fighting shorts and kicked into her loafers for the walk back to the ring. A few heads turned but she stared straight ahead, wrapping her hands with fight tape on her way. When she reached the ring she slid an arm under the lower rope and slapped the mat hard to get the fighters’ attention. As soon as both Blair and her opponent turned in her direction, Cam vaulted the ropes into the ring, barefoot.

“Thanks for warming her up,” Cam said in a friendly tone as she tapped her fist lightly against the young guy’s shoulder. “You mind if I get in a few rounds?” Her tone of voice indicated it wasn’t a request.

The guy shrugged. “Sure. She’s slippery.”

“I noticed.”

“Don’t you have a briefing?” Blair said as she danced from foot to foot. She’d tied her hair back with a rolled black bandanna and she wore her usual sparring outfit—a cut off T-shirt that left her midriff bare and gray cotton gym shorts. A strip of tape covered her navel ring to prevent it from being torn out inadvertently.

“Savard’s handling it.” Cam bowed slightly. “Freestyle?”

Blair grinned and tilted her head. “Sounds good.”

Cam’s fighting style was a mixture of Thai kickboxing and the hand-to-hand combat techniques employed by federal agents. Blair had adapted her formal martial arts training to street fighting. They were equally matched. Cam raised her hands to face level, her fists loosely clenched, and circled. Blair, pumped from having been sparring a while, didn’t hesitate. She feinted a punch and swept Cam’s legs out from under her. Cam hit the canvas and rolled backward, rising to her feet just in time to block the follow-up jab she knew was coming. They traded kicks and blows for ten minutes until they were both drenched in sweat, then Cam sidestepped a snap kick aimed at her chin that could have broken her jaw if it had landed. She swung around behind Blair, clamped her forearm across Blair’s throat, and planted her knee in the center of Blair’s back. Then she lifted in a move designed to snap an opponent’s neck or break their spine. She modulated the force of both the choke and the backbend so she wouldn’t injure Blair, but it was a painful hold nonetheless. Blair resisted for a few seconds, then rapidly slapped Cam’s arm twice to signal submission.

Immediately, Cam released her and stepped back.

“You okay?” Cam asked, panting lightly.

Blair nodded, also breathing quickly. “Nice move. I always forget that when you fight, you fight to kill.”

“These guys at Ernie’s aren’t the right partners for you. We should set you up with Stark or Hara so you can learn to fight the way you need to on the street.”

“Why not Wozinski?” Blair grinned.

“You might hurt him.”

“I didn’t hurt you.” Blair gripped the ropes, swung over onto the floor in one fluid motion, and headed off.

Cam quickly followed her to the locker room.

“So,” Blair said as she pulled off her T-shirt and dropped it on the bench. She peeled her shorts off and faced Cam nude, the width of the narrow bench all that separated them. “You think I need to learn to fight to kill?”

Cam skimmed her finger down the center of Blair’s chest, gathering a drop of sweat on her fingertip. Holding Blair’s gaze, she touched the tip of her tongue to the tiny droplet. “I do.”

Blair’s eyes darkened and her skin flushed. “We managed to fuck in here once with no one noticing. Care to try for twice?”

“I want,” Cam said with a grin. “But I think not.”

“We’re getting old.”

“We have a comfortable bed twenty minutes away.”

Blair leaned over the bench and braced both hands on Cam’s shoulders. Then she kissed her, a long, probing kiss designed to make them both needy. It worked. She pulled away, breathing hard. “I missed sleeping with you last night.”

Cam stripped, aware of Blair’s eyes raking over her body. “I missed you too.”

“Are you mad?”

Cam stepped over the bench and pulled Blair into her arms. She coursed her hands up and down Blair’s back, caressing the hard pumped muscles beneath her satin skin. Blair parted her thighs in a movement as innate as drawing breath, and just as naturally, Cam slid her leg between them. Cam kissed Blair’s mouth, her neck, the base of her throat. She whispered against her skin, “I’m sorry.”

Blair drove her fingers into Cam’s thick dark hair and pulled her head back to cover her mouth with another bruising kiss. Their bodies, slick with sweat from the workout and the heat of rising passion, fused. Blair traced her lips over the rim of Cam’s ear. “I love you so much it hurts.”

“I never want to hurt you,” Cam murmured, her eyes black with need. She brought her hand between them and cupped Blair’s breast.

“Enough,” Blair groaned, covering Cam’s hand with hers. “I’ll bet you any amount of money Cliff is right outside that curtain.”

“I wouldn’t care except I don’t share.” Cam forced herself to step back. “Thanks for letting me know you went to Diane’s last night.”

“I just needed to vent,” Blair said, reaching for a clean T-shirt with shaking hands. She laughed unsteadily. “God, I’m a mess.” She glanced at Cam, her mouth curling into a half-smile. “What I really need is for you to fuck me.”

“I’ll make a note of it.” Cam pulled on briefs and then her jeans, never taking her eyes from Blair. “It’s mutual, by the way.”

Blair raised an eyebrow. “Which part?”

“All of it. I need you inside me right now. I want to marry you. I want our wedding to be as special as what we share.”

“Damn you, Cameron,” Blair whispered, tears brimming on her lashes. “I’m not done being pissed off yet.”

Cam brushed her thumb beneath Blair’s eye, catching her tears. “Okay.”

“Finish dressing. I don’t trust myself.” Blair grabbed Cam’s wrist and gently bit her thumb. “And your note? Mark down I want it more than once.”

Cam laughed. “Got it.”

A few minutes later, they were ready to leave. Cam gripped her gym bag and wrapped an arm around Blair’s waist, stopping her just before they left the locker room. “I may be flying out later today.”

“Until when?”

“Hopefully just tonight. Possibly until tomorrow.”

Blair searched Cam’s face. “Is it anything I need to be worried about?”

“Absolutely not. Just some routine information gathering.”

“That requires the deputy director to do it personally,” Blair said sarcastically.

“There are some things I need to do myself,” Cam replied.

“I’m being an ass.” Blair gave Cam a quick kiss. “I know you should be at a briefing right now instead of chasing down here after me—”

“I’m exactly where I want to be.” Cam took Blair’s hand. “I needed to kick a little butt to get my day off to a good start.”

Blair snorted. “Dream on.”

Cam flashed her grin. “I’ll be too busy making those notes.”

Chapter Seven

“Let me out on the far side of the park,” Dana instructed the cabbie as she extracted money from her wallet.

The taciturn driver swerved to the curb and she handed him a handful of bills. “Got a receipt?”

Wordlessly, he tore off a blank square from a coffee-stained pad and handed it through the divide between the front and rear seats. She pocketed it, grabbed her duffel, and stepped out into a cold misty rain a little before eight a.m. Hunching her shoulders in her too light nylon windbreaker, she hiked to the corner, dodging early morning pedestrians, and stopped on the corner to study Blair Powell’s apartment building across the way. She’d spent most of the previous evening scouring online sources for information on her new subject. She never undertook any assignment without doing the background work herself. A lot of reporters used assistants to prepare profiles and gather data, or didn’t bother at all, but she did the legwork. She never knew what little nugget of information might spark a story, and she trusted her instincts more than anyone else’s. If she was going to spend the next ten days with the first daughter of the United States, she wasn’t going to be writing about Blair Powell’s fashion sense. She was going to write about what she had discovered was surprisingly absent in the media. An in-depth look at the woman behind the glamorous façade. Thumbnail sketches abounded—wealthy only child, glamorous and sophisticated first daughter, notorious bad girl. All too easy and all supported only by superficial glimpses, as fleeting as a reflection in the surface of a fast-running stream.

Who was Blair Powell? That’s what Dana planned to find out.

The apartment building was a typical New York City building— plain-faced stone façade, short green awning above double glass doors with the shadow of a doorman just inside. The exact location of the first daughter’s apartment was not public knowledge, but a quick search of the reverse directories indicated that most of the units in the building were held as corporate rentals, and she was willing to bet they were empty or used intermittently for vetted government officials and visiting dignitaries needing temporary housing in the city. She was also willing to lay money that she would never find out. She crossed to the wrought iron fence that enclosed Gramercy Park and peered through the gray drizzle into the impeccably maintained postage-stamp park. Not surprisingly, it was empty. With a practiced eye, she swept the streets looking for anything suspicious. She might be back on American soil, but the habits she’d developed in combat zones around the world were permanently ingrained. Never take anything for granted and always question the unusual.

Dana didn’t see anything she hadn’t expected to see. A news van was parked diagonally across the street from the entrance to Blair Powell’s apartment building and another down the block. Security cameras swiveled lazily above the front door and high up on the corners of the building. A black Suburban with dark tinted windows and a short, subtle satellite antenna bookended the van on the opposite side of the entrance. Two opposing forces—the media and those devoted to secrecy.

“It’s going to be a fun week or so,” Dana muttered as she slung the strap of her duffel over her shoulder, jammed her hands in the pockets of her black chinos, and headed off to start her new assignment.

Dana hadn’t quite reached Blair Powell’s front door when it swung open. She couldn’t make out the features of the person just inside, but she got the impression of big. When she stepped into the lobby, she saw that she was right. Tank would have been a good nickname for the clean-shaven, square-jawed man with the inscrutable dark eyes. The flesh-toned curlicue wire leading from his right ear down his neck and disappearing under the collar of his nice white dress shirt spelled Fed.

“Good morning, Ms. Barnett,” he said in a pleasant baritone. “I’m Agent Ramsey. If you’d step over to the desk for a moment, please.”

A bank of elevators made up the wall to her left, and the last one was keyed. To her right a freestanding waist-high counter stood out from the wall. Dana hefted her duffel on top and walked to the end of the desk. She preferred not to be frisked in full view of the front door. Agent Ramsey joined her, his expression still pleasant, and quickly and efficiently patted her down. He wanded her and the duffel. “Would you open the bag, please.”

“Sure.” Dana unzipped and opened the duffel to reveal her clothes neatly rolled and stacked inside.

Ramsey methodically sorted through the contents, then stepped away. “Thank you.”

While Dana secured her clothes, he murmured into a wrist unit.

“If you’ll wait here for a moment,” he said.

“Right.” Dana stared at him while he divided his attention between the front sidewalk and her.

Five minutes later, one of the two unkeyed elevators opened and an athletic woman a few years younger than Dana stepped out. Her dark collar-length hair was plainly styled and her brown eyes sharp despite the faint shadows beneath them. She approached quickly with her hand outstretched. “Morning. I am Agent Stark.”

Dana shook her hand. “Dana Barnett. I take it you know why I’m here.”

“Yes.” For a brief second, a smile flickered across the agent’s face. “I’ll let Ms. Powell know that you’ve arrived. Before you meet with her, there are some things we should review.”

“Fine,” Dana said, annoyed by the red tape even though she had expected it. Security types were notoriously anal, even worse than their military counterparts in her opinion. Somehow, she found the overt military hierarchy easier to tolerate than the secrecy and paranoia that often seemed to permeate the civilian security agencies. As she stepped into the elevator, she wondered what it must be like to be immersed in that atmosphere day in and day out for months and years at a time. The doors glided closed and they were alone. Time to send out a test probe. “Is Cameron Roberts still heading up Ms. Powell’s security?”

“No,” Stark replied.

Dana didn’t consider the response any particular indication of cooperation, since it was public knowledge that the celebrated agent had been replaced. She was encouraged, though, since most of the Feds she knew wouldn’t agree it was raining if they were standing in a downpour. “So who has the job now?”

“Here we are,” Stark said as the elevator door opened.

So much for two-way communication. Dana followed her out into an unadorned foyer with hallways extending to each side. They turned right and immediately entered a small conference room. Four chairs flanked a scratched wooden table. Otherwise the room was empty. Obviously, they didn’t get many visitors. Dana waited until the agent indicated a chair, then pulled one out, dropped her duffel, and sat down. Agent Stark sat across from her.

“I will provide you with Ms. Powell’s daily social schedule so you can decide which events you’d like to cover,” Stark said. “Along with that, we’ll arrange your transportation.”

“Thank you.” Dana contemplated the best approach and then decided there was no way to diplomatically handle things. “I don’t suppose you’re any happier about me being here than I am.”

Stark said nothing but again, that flicker of a smile.

Dana grinned. “Okay, maybe you’re even more unhappy than me.”

“We enjoy a challenge.”

Dana laughed. “So do I.” She leaned forward and her laughter died away. “I’m very serious about my work. I respect what the first daughter is doing and I consider it a privilege to be able to tell her story. I’m going to want unrestricted access to her twenty-four hours a day. That was the deal.”

“That will be up to her.”

“Then I should be talking to her.”

Stark leaned forward too, her hands loosely clasped on the tabletop, her eyes boring into Dana’s. “While in the first daughter’s presence, you will be subject to the jurisdiction of the Secret Service. We will tell you where to move, when to move, and how quickly. If at any time the security of the first daughter is threatened, your safety will not be a priority.”

“I understand.” Dana actually felt relieved. She liked this woman. She understood that even though the assignment might be a soft one, the circumstances were not. Anyone who thought that the world was going to return to the way it had been before September was fooling themselves. Getting an inside look at the first daughter’s security was a story in itself. “I’m pretty steady under fire, Agent Stark.”

“I’m aware of that.” Stark knew a great deal about Dana Barnett in addition to the fact that she was thirty years old, the daughter of a steelworker, and an Ivy League graduate with a full merit scholarship. She knew where Barnett had been for the last six weeks and just how much heavy bombardment and small weapons fire she had endured. Stark was also aware that the year before, the reporter had been isolated with a group of Red Cross volunteers during an uprising in Africa and had carried a wounded nurse on a makeshift litter for twenty miles through the jungle. All things considered, if they had to deal with a reporter inside their perimeter, Dana Barnett was an excellent choice. Stark doubted that Egret would agree, but that had little to do with Barnett personally.

“I don’t think you’ll find this assignment as exciting as your last one.”

“Believe me, I won’t mind.”

Dana had no doubt that Stark or someone on her team—and it was apparent to her now that Stark was in charge—had investigated her far more thoroughly than she had been able to investigate any of them. There had to be a file on her somewhere, but if anyone really wanted to know about her all they needed to do was read her articles. While the news was based on fact, the truth a reporter chose to bring to the public was always colored by their own perceptions, prejudices, and beliefs. She prided herself on digging out the real story, despite its popularity, or lack of it.

Stark stood. “If you’ll wait here, I’ll advise Ms. Powell that you’ll be joining her later. She is not scheduled for anything until this afternoon. Then I believe she and a friend are conferring with the caterers.”

Dana winced and quickly smothered it. “I would very much like to meet with her before her formal day begins. If you could relay my request.”

“I’ll tell her,” Stark said, feeling very very glad she didn’t have Dana Barnett’s job.

Blair lay on her stomach, her eyes closed and her head pillowed on her folded arms. She focused every ounce of her concentration on not having an orgasm. The ride back from the gym in the rear seat of the Suburban had been intolerable. She kept seeing Cam in the ring, the muscles in her abdomen bunching and stretching as Cam blocked her kicks and parried her punches. All she could feel was the hot slide of Cam’s fingertip between her breasts and the slick tease of Cam’s tongue inside her mouth. She’d wanted her right there in the locker room, and she hadn’t cared if Cliff or Hara or every man in the gym had heard them fucking. The only reason she let Cam put her off was because she knew it would be even better when she finally got Cam inside her.

Where she was now.

Cam brushed her mouth over Blair’s ear and pushed a little deeper. “You’re holding back.”

“No, I’m not.” Blair trembled, opening her legs a little wider. Cam’s knuckles brushed the underside of her clitoris and she bit her lip as whispers of pleasure swirled through her belly. “But you can…go ahead and come if you want to.”

“Why, thank you,” Cam murmured, half laughing, half groaning. She lay partially on Blair’s back, her weight braced on one arm, slowly rocking against her ass while she thrust her hand between Blair’s legs. She kissed the back of Blair’s neck, then the edge of her jaw, and leaned farther over and found her mouth.

Blair arched her back and sucked on Cam’s tongue. When she felt Cam’s thumb press and circle between her buttocks, she moaned. Breaking the kiss, she panted and clenched her thighs, trying to hold back the tide. “Oh, God.”

“You’re so tight on my fingers right now,” Cam groaned, resting her face in the curve of Blair’s neck. Her breath wafted hot across Blair’s face. “You’re going to come.”

“Yes,” Blair whispered. “You. Wait.”

Cam held her breath as Blair flowed beneath and around her. “Oh, yes.”

Before the last tendrils of her orgasm had spun themselves out, Blair raised her hips and, despite Cam’s protests, dislodged her. Then she pushed Cam over onto her back and slid down between her legs. Cam was just as hot and hard as Blair had known she would be, and Blair moaned with pleasure as she took her into her mouth.

“What happened to more than once?” Cam groaned. “Oh, God, baby.”

“I’ll be back for seconds,” Blair said, quickly taking her in again. As Cam pulsed between her lips, she reached up to caress her breasts and abdomen, judging how close she was to coming by the heaving of her chest and the quivering of her muscles.

“Blair,” Cam warned, half sitting as she clutched Blair’s head. She jerked once, then curled forward, trembling violently. “I’m coming, baby.”

This was the moment Blair loved, when her strong, brave lover was completely, totally hers. When Cam fell onto her side, her limbs twitching helplessly, Blair stretched out beside her and kissed her. “I love you.”

“Same,” Cam croaked.

“Catch your breath, and I’ll be ready for round—” Blair stiffened as the phone rang. She ignored it and it stopped ringing. “I’m going to have that disconnected.”

“Good idea.”

Blair cradled Cam’s head against her breasts and stroked her hair. “You’re going to need another shower.”

Cam opened her eyes. They were hazy and satisfied. “Take one with me?”

“What time are you leaving?”

“Nine.”

Blair tried to keep her voice even. “We don’t have much time.”

“Sure we do.” Cam eased Blair onto her back and caressed between her legs.

Blair caught her breath. “Okay. We’ve got enough time.”

Grinning, Cam sucked a nipple into her mouth and massaged Blair’s clitoris with her thumb.

“Time’s up,” Blair cried, letting the inevitable claim her. When she couldn’t take another second of pleasure, she clamped her hand over Cam’s. “Stop.”

“Not a chance.” Cam laughed.

“Okay. Revise that. Desist momentarily.”

Cam dropped onto her back and pulled Blair into her arms. She kissed her and sighed. “On second thought, maybe you working out with Stark or Hara isn’t such a good idea.”

“You’re not serious.”

“They’re going to be frustrated enough when you beat the hell out of them. Adding sexual torment on top—”

Blair slapped Cam’s stomach. “Not everyone finds me irresistible.”

Cam tilted Blair’s head up with a finger beneath her chin. “You’re wrong about that.”

“You’re not worried, are you?” Blair asked, frown lines forming between her brows.

“No.” Cam kissed her gently. “Don’t you think you should check who called?”

“No. I don’t care who called.”

“Okay.”

“Just like that?” Blair murmured. When Cam didn’t answer, Blair heaved a sigh and reached across her for the phone. She checked Caller ID, then pushed Call. “It was Stark.”

“Mmm.”

“Paula? It’s Blair. Who?” Blair sat up, continuing to stroke Cam, who regarded her intently. She covered the mouthpiece. “Barnett.”

“I want to speak to her before I leave today,” Cam said.

Blair rolled her eyes. “All right. Half an hour.” She tossed the phone aside and glared at Cam. “This is all your fault, you know.”

“I know.”

“It’s a good thing you’re so good in bed.”

“Ah, is there any safe answer to that?” Cam asked.

Blair shook her head, her gaze dropping to Cam’s mouth. “But there is a very good reply of another sort.”

“How much time do we have?” Cam moved down the bed.

Blair spread her fingers through Cam’s hair. “Enough.”

Chapter Eight

“Sir?"

“Good morning, Colonel.” Matheson held the phone in one hand and balanced his coffee mug on the knee of his crisply creased trousers with the other as he sat in a comfortable chair in front of a huge stone fireplace. He’d played on that hearth with his best friend as a child. Charlie was dead now, a martyr in the battle to secure the American way of life. But his memory remained, and his son, unlike Matheson’s, also lived on to fight for the cause.

“I received some intelligence that I thought I should bring to your attention.”

“Go ahead, Colonel.”

“A reporter has been assigned to cover the target’s upcoming… uh…event. Full access.”

“Anyone we can use?” Matheson watched the logs shift, sending showers of sparks onto the stones.

“Doubtful, sir, but we’re running background checks now.”

“How reliable is your source?”

“Very, sir. She’s an assistant in the office of the White House Deputy Press—”

“That will do.” Matheson didn’t trust even the most secure of lines. He smiled at the thought of a patriot in the West Wing. A woman, whom no one would suspect. It wasn’t true that only men could serve, it was simply a matter of recognizing a woman’s unique skills. While not having the mental fortitude or physical constitution for combat, women were a natural for communications work. “I like the press angle. Get me a list of names. We’ll want someone out there right away to establish connections before the target arrives.”