Why she’d left wasn’t much of a mystery. Blair had heard she was the subject of the strategy meeting that afternoon, and she likely knew of Cam’s opposition to her joining the campaign junket too. There were no real secrets in Washington, not even in the White House. She didn’t blame Blair for being angry—especially since she couldn’t honestly tell Blair she was sorry for trying to sway Eisley and Lucinda from including her in the early schedule. She hadn’t called the meeting, but she’d been happy for the chance to try, one more time, to keep Blair out of the hot zone.

Cam badged her way past the guard at the door and made her way down the silent and mostly deserted halls to her impersonally furnished government office. She had to set personal issues aside for the time being. Stark would see that Blair was safe tonight. The best way she could ensure Blair’s safety, and that of the president, was to discover who had orchestrated Jennifer Pattee’s plan to attack the president.

Jennifer Pattee was her best lead and her biggest challenge. The lieutenant was disciplined, confident, and prepared to be interrogated. Some of her resistance to questioning might have been a result of her military training, but Cam suspected her self-possession went far deeper than that. She’d met Jennifer’s kind of terrorist before—fanatical but not unbalanced. Absolutely dedicated to their cause, unshakable in their belief that what they were doing was right and, in many cases, righteous. Jennifer had the air of someone who had trained her whole life for exactly what she was doing now—waging war on the American government.

When Cam got to the office she rarely used, she hung up her coat and suit jacket, rolled up her sleeves, and booted up her computer. She was searching for a ghost, the ghost of Jennifer Pattee’s past, because whoever Jennifer claimed to be today was not who she had been when someone had trained her for terrorism.


*


Blair pushed aside her unfinished glass of wine, the third she had failed to finish that evening. The band was good—young, experimental, filled with wild energy and passion. She and Diane had moved on from Francine’s after they’d been besieged by one too many offers of company. This club was just as crowded and seething with sexual tension, but she and Diane had scored a table close to the stage and sat close enough to send off couple vibes, keeping the hunters at bay.

The lead vocalist, an androgynous twentysomething in skinny black jeans, knee-high boots with heavy metal buckles, and a white shirt open between her breasts, moved with the barely suppressed rage of a tiger in a cage. Shock waves of sexual power radiated from her as she railed against a world that refused to see her. As she sang, her gaze returned to Blair again and again, the connection sizzling through the air between them.

Diane leaned close. “That girl is on fire.”

“She’s good,” Blair said.

“She’s hot.”

Blair laughed softly. “Yeah, that too.”

Diane glanced over her shoulder. “Where are your spookies?”

“They’re here somewhere.” Blair didn’t bother looking for them anymore or care what they might observe of her life. If she did, she’d be accepting the prison that she had fought to break out of her entire life. The best she could do was accept their presence and then ignore it.

“You’re not going to make me come up with some kind of distraction while you run off, are you?” Diane asked.

Blair watched the singer, recalling all the times she’d disappeared in a crowd while Diane covered for her. She’d made a career out of eluding her keepers and declaring her independence by bedding strangers—when she actually got as far as a bed. Sometimes she didn’t even wait that long. She hadn’t cared about the risk. All she’d cared about was the freedom.

“I thought I’d take care of that myself,” Blair said.

“Really? What do you have planned?”

Blair looked away from the young animal on the stage, severing the tenuous strand of heat between them. She already knew the reality would leave her cold. “I actually thought we might head home. Is Valerie home tonight, or can you tolerate a houseguest?”

“Sweetie, I’m always happy to have you as a guest. Valerie won’t mind, although I’m not expecting her.”

“Good, let’s go, then.”

“What about…” Diane tilted her head toward the stage.

Blair laughed. “You’re kidding, right? What would I do with that?”

“Oh, I can think of so many things.”

“Thinking and doing are two different things.” Blair slid her arm around Diane’s waist as they walked toward the door, their coats over their arms. “And in case you missed the bulletin, I’m married now.”

“I was there, remember?”

“Of course I do. Did you think it was all just for the media?”

Diane stopped, her expression completely serious. “Of course I didn’t. I know exactly how much it meant to you. And I was kidding about fire girl.”

“I know.”

“You’re not sorry, are you?”

“About marrying Cam?” Blair shrugged into her duster. Her anger warred with the ache of separation she always experienced when they were apart. “Not for a second. But I can still be pissed.”

“Oh, absolutely. Let’s stop for ice cream on the way home.”

“All right. Just hold on a second.” Blair took her phone from her pocket and texted Cam. With Diane. Be careful tomorrow. I love you.

Chapter Twelve


Hooker rolled away from the blonde with the great breasts and fumbled in his pants pocket on the floor for his phone. The girl—Nancy? Nina, maybe?—reached around him and grabbed his cock.

“Don’t answer that, baby. We’ve got all night, remember?”

Hooker grunted and moved her hand. Jesus, why didn’t women understand you couldn’t wring the damn thing like a dish towel? And since he’d paid for her company, he ought to know how long he had to go. He was just taking a break after she damn near sucked his eyeballs out through his dick. And as good as she was with her mouth, business was business.

“Yeah,” he rasped when he got the phone turned around right.

“I kept up my end of things,” an angry male voice said in a tight whisper. “Your turn to pay up. It wasn’t supposed to go down this way. Where the fuck were you?”

“Look,” Hooker said, “I can’t talk right now. But my part was done when I handed off the goods. Delivery wasn’t part of the deal.”

“So you hire some flunky who blows the whole thing?”

“It wasn’t him that queered the exchange. The woman was the one who tipped them, and that was your end of things.” Hooker tensed as a warm mouth skated down the length of his cock and closed over him. He gripped the back of her head and pushed her lower.

“No way. Je—she wouldn’t have given anything away.”

“So you say.”

“So what are we going to do about getting her out?”

“We?” Hooker laughed abruptly and tugged on the blonde’s hair, pulling her off his cock. “You’ve got the wrong guy, buddy.”

“Really? Then maybe I should ask your boss.”

Hooker squeezed the phone. The little fuck had the balls to threaten him. He couldn’t know who Hooker worked for—he’d been very careful to keep Russo deep in the shadows. But he had to be sure of what the snitch really knew. “Look—let’s talk this over. When can we meet?”

“I’ll call you.”

“What else have you got?”

Silence for a moment. “The daughter is definitely going. I’ll have the advance info soon.”

“Good. Then let me see what I can do on this other thing.”

“Make it sooner rather than later—we want the woman out of there.”

Yeah, right. And he wanted a ten-inch dick too. “That’s asking for a miracle.”

“We’re not asking.”

The line went dead and Hooker dropped the phone onto the pile of clothes next to the bed. “Fuck.”

“Mmm, baby. Now you’re talking.”

The mouth went back to work on his cock while Hooker stared at the dark ceiling, wondering how long he could keep the snitch before he became more trouble than he was worth. One thing was for sure—he couldn’t let Russo know his cover was at risk, or Hooker would be out of a job and possibly a dead man.


*


The guard silently escorted Jennifer back to her cell, walking one step behind, the press of his stun gun against the middle of her spine a reminder that she could not escape. The chains connecting her cuffs grated softly with each step. The door of her cell stood open, a mocking invitation, but she walked through without slowing. She would not show weakness to her captors. The solid metal door with a foot-square window of reinforced glass swung closed behind her, and the lock ratcheted into place with the heavy sound of finality. The eight-by-eight windowless room was stark and barren: plain gray tile floors, blank white walls, air-conditioning and heating vents bolted in place, a stainless steel commode in one corner without benefit of a privacy screen, a stainless steel pedestal sink next to that, and a metal bed frame with a single mattress, utilitarian white sheets, and a plain gray wool blanket. No television, no radio, no computer, nothing to connect her to the outside world.

She wasn’t being tortured. They fed her. She was warm and dry. And totally isolated. She had no watch, and the lights cycled on and off according to a schedule too random for her to judge the time. In an age where information was instant and the world was accessible with the press of a fingertip, she was as lost as a castaway on an uncharted island. She didn’t know if any others had been captured, or if anyone even knew that she had been. She was completely at the mercy of her jailers. If they forgot her, and sometimes as the hours stretched, they seemed to—in her disoriented world, a few seconds could feel like hours—she could starve or die of thirst. But they always came, silently sliding plastic trays, bearing paper plates and cups filled with institutional food, through the slot in her door. She wasn’t starving, but at times she hungered in a way she’d never known—for an instant’s simple human connection to affirm she still existed.