Loren ignored it.


*


“Merry Christmas,” Cam said to Brock Nunez, the newest member of Blair’s security detail, as she closed the door to the condo and left him outside in the hall. She shrugged out of her black wool topcoat, hung it on a coat tree, and leaned back against the door to watch Blair kick off her heels and drape her coat on the back of the sofa that faced the floor-to-ceiling windows. Beyond the glass, the White House glowed like a jewel backdropped against black velvet. They’d just left there and hadn’t been alone since the Christmas festivities began more than twelve hours before.

For the president and his family, private traditions often gave way to public ceremonies. Even though today’s event, with only a few dozen of the family’s friends and supporters, had been a smaller, quieter affair than the official White House party that had hosted hundreds a few weeks before, politics was a silent, ever-present undercurrent. She didn’t care for politics. She’d grown up in a political world. Living abroad with her ambassador father, she’d learned young that every message had subtext and often another meaning entirely than what was said aloud. Nothing was as it appeared on the surface, anywhere but at home. In the laughter- and art-filled villa with her painter mother and a father who adored them both, she’d been safe and protected and loved. All that had ended the morning he’d gotten into a car that exploded before her eyes, destroying the myth of security her parents had so painstakingly created for her. From that moment on, securing the lives of those entrusted to her had become her life.

Blair threaded her arms around Cam’s neck and kissed her. Leaning into her, molding herself to the angles and planes she knew so well but never grew tired of exploring, she rested her cheek against Cam’s shoulder. “What is it? Something’s making you sad.”

Cam wrapped her arms around Blair’s waist and stroked the soft skin above the scooped back of her silk dress. She kissed the golden hair at Blair’s temple and nuzzled the fragrant waves. “I’m sorry. I’m fine. You know how I feel about festivities.”

“Oh, Christmas Grinch is back?” Blair laughed softly and smoothed her hands over Cam’s chest. “I know you don’t really mean it, there’s something else.”

“I was just thinking about being alone with you. Really alone.”

Blair tilted her head back, studied Cam’s face. “I’m really selfish. Sometimes I forget that I’m not the only one who lives in a fishbowl because of my father. I’ve dragged you right into it, haven’t I? The wedding is just going to make it worse.”

“Hey, no. I’m not complaining. I wouldn’t change one single thing about being with you.” Cam shook her head, trying to shake off the melancholy. “You were wonderful today, as usual. The press practically genuflects at your feet, although I can see why.” She buried her fingers in Blair’s hair and kissed her, slowly and thoroughly. Her heart beat hard when she pulled away. “You’re smart, beautiful, charming—”

“Cameron,” Blair murmured, nibbling on Cam’s lower lip, “if you just want to get laid, you don’t have to flatter me.”

Cam laughed and the clouds lifted. “When you put it like that, who could resist?”

“Well, not you, I hope.” Blair brushed back the black wave of hair that insisted on falling across Cam’s forehead. “Are you sure you’re all right? Is it the new mission?”

“I won’t deny it’s on my mind.” Cam clasped Blair’s hand and led her toward the bedroom. “Terrorism doesn’t stop for holidays—in fact, holidays are a prime time to make a statement. I need to get my team together and start moving on this. Especially with Andrew scheduled to leave right after New Year’s.”

“You think they’ll try again?” Blair didn’t quite mask the tremor in her voice.

“No reason to think that.” Angry at herself for worrying Blair, Cam yanked off her jacket and tossed it over a stuffed chair near the bed. “But we can’t assume there isn’t a backup plan, and we can’t allow terrorists to believe they can launch an attack on the president of the United States without reprisal.”

Blair nodded, her jaw set and her eyes clear of fear. “What do you plan to do first?”

Cam unbuttoned her shirt and stripped it off along with the silk undershirt. “First thing is to decide who I can read in on this. Then I plan to talk to someone who might be able to give me a closer look at what’s going on with the militia groups.”

“Unzip me.” Blair turned her back to Cam. “Who?”

“I’ve got a few contacts who can put me in touch with other agents monitoring paramilitary organizations. I might have to call in some favors, but I’ll start there.”

“I guess you won’t be able to stay away from fieldwork.”

Cam teased the zipper down to the small of Blair’s back, brushed the straps of Blair’s midnight gown from her shoulders, and pulled her back against her chest. She kissed Blair’s shoulder at the curve of her neck. “I would if I could, but we can’t afford a leak. And the only way to contain a leak is to limit those in the know. Everyone who does know will need to be boots on the ground.”

Blair stiffened but kept her voice light. “You’re a deputy director of Homeland Security. You don’t have to get your boots wet.”

Cam pushed Blair’s dress slowly down over her hips where it gathered at her feet like a glimmering pool under the moonlight. Sliding both hands up Blair’s torso, she cupped her breasts and brushed her mouth over Blair’s ear. “I know what you want. I’ll do my best.”

Blair’s head fell back against Cam’s shoulder, and she arched into Cam’s hands. “I know you will. You always do.”

“I love you, Blair.” Cam turned Blair until Blair’s breasts brushed against her chest. She kissed her, felt their bodies fuse, their spirits join, and the memories of loss and fears for the future faded. There was only Blair, and Blair was everything.

Chapter Two


Senator Franklin Russo walked the last guest down the spacious central hall to the front door of his estate in Idaho Falls. His assistant held out a long sable coat for the doyen of the county, a widow who wielded the power her money could buy with the cold indifference of a threshing machine. Whoever was unfortunate enough to stand in the path of her plan to put a man worthy of God and country in the White House was destined to be mown down. Fortunately for him, he was that man.

“I’m so glad you could come tonight, Eleanor.”

Eleanor Bigelow smiled at him thinly and turned her back so Russo’s deferential assistant, a thirty-year-old man in a conservative navy blazer, charcoal pants, and narrow red-striped tie, could drape the coat over her shoulders. “I know how busy you are, Franklin, and I’ve been wanting a moment with you for some time. It’s always wise to know what my money is buying.”

Franklin kept his expression bland, reminding himself that once he sat in the Oval Office, no one would own him. The power would be his. Until then, he would ingratiate himself as need be. He had his own resources and his campaign coffers were healthy, but some expenditures he couldn’t afford to have made public. Private benefactors rarely demanded an exact accounting of how their funds were spent. Knowledge might be power, but it was also culpability, and the rich coveted the illusion of clean hands. The language of politics was less what was said and more what was implied and inferred, and he had understood Mrs. Charles Bigelow quite well. She expected her candidate to put a gun back in every house, God in every school, and the white elite in every position of power. Since he happened to agree, he wasn’t worried about placating her need to exercise her authority, at least on the surface.

He bowed ever so slightly. “You can be sure I’ll see that your generosity is put to use in support of an agenda—”

“You can save the speech for the campaign, Franklin. Just see that Washington doesn’t give away what’s left of the country, and put the power back in the hands of those who know what to do with it.”

“Yes, ma’am,” Franklin said solicitously. “I surely will.”

Franklin stood in the doorway, the brightly lit, expansive hall decked out in holiday trimmings at his back, until the limo driver hurried up the path from the driveway to escort his employer to the idling Town Car. Snow drifted into Franklin’s face and coated his shoulders, but he didn’t move until Bigelow departed. Then he dusted off his black cashmere jacket and stepped back inside.

Derrick was waiting. “I take it the meeting was a success?”

“She’s promised us three million. For starters.”

“Merry Christmas,” Derrick murmured softly. He nodded toward the paneled door of Franklin’s study across the hall. “Can I pour you a drink?”

“I’d say this calls for one.” Franklin frowned. “Where’s my wife?”

“She retired some time ago.”

“Of course.” Franklin followed Derrick into the study and settled behind his broad desk. His wife managed to perform her hostess duties out of some long-ingrained sense of decorum, a virtue of her Southern upbringing, but she was barely able to do much more. With every passing week, she became more of a liability than a benefit. Idly he wondered which would create a more sympathetic figure in the voters’ eyes—a widower or a devoted husband to an infirm wife. Powell had certainly gotten a lot of mileage out of his widower status, and the absence of a first lady had given Powell the excuse to push his degenerate daughter onto the national stage. “Pour one for yourself.”

“Thank you, sir,” Derrick said, handing Franklin two fingers of scotch in a crystal rock glass and holding up a glass of his own. “To a victorious campaign.”