“No,” Lucinda said softly. “You just caught me off guard.”

Blair laughed. “That’s not easy to do.”

“I’m not sure you’re right, though,” Luce said, sounding uncharacteristically uncertain. Andrew Powell’s chief of staff was never uncertain. Everything that happened in the White House and far beyond was channeled through her. She was the president’s confidant, his buffer, some said his enforcer. She was the first one he came to for advice in a crisis or to discuss a new policy, and no one got through to him who didn’t first have to deal with her. But she was also a woman who had been Andrew Powell’s best friend his entire life, even more so since the untimely death of his wife.

“You know,” Blair said carefully, “he might be the president, but he’s also a man. And he’s been alone for a long time. Well, I don’t actually know that—nor do I want to,” she said quickly, “but you might think about what’s best for both of you sometimes.”

“I wish I had one-tenth of your courage.”

“It’s not courage.” Blair listened to the shower in the other room, thinking about Cam stepping out naked with water trickling over the smooth surface of her skin. Skin that was scarred in places from wounds that might’ve taken her away. Blair’s heart froze for an instant until she banished the memories and the fear. “Selfishness. I wanted her, and the world be damned.”

“Well, we can’t have the president be damned with an election coming up,” Luce said with a touch of the old steel returning to her voice. “And right now, our main concern is being sure that he’s safe while he’s out winning the minds and hearts of the people.”

“All right, you win for now. No Boxing Day, no candlelit dinners. So, what can we do for you?”

“Ah, I was actually calling Director Roberts.”

“Well lucky you, now you’ve got two of us.”

Lucinda sighed. “We need a strategy meeting. Say, nine o’clock?”

Blair glanced at the clock. Not quite seven a.m. “That should work. See you then.”

She ended the call and leaned across the bed to put the cell phone back on Cam’s night table.

“Who was that?” Cam asked, walking into the room as she toweled off her hair.

Blair pushed the sheet aside and rose, naked also. She took the towel from Cam and kissed her. “Lucinda.”

“Ah. What time?”

“Nine.”

Cam turned toward the adjoining dressing room, and Blair caught her hand. “You’re not dry yet. Stand still.”

Cam raised an eyebrow but obeyed. Blair finished drying Cam’s hair, then her chest and abdomen. She slipped behind her and drew the towel across her shoulders and down her back to the curve of her muscled ass. Tossing the towel into the bathroom, she wrapped her arms around Cam’s waist and kissed the back of her neck.

“Mmm. Morning,” Blair whispered, pressing her breasts to the warm skin of Cam’s back.

“Blair,” Cam said, “don’t forget Lucinda.”

“How could I?” Blair drew Cam back toward the bed. She sat on the edge, spun Cam to face her, and kissed the tight plane of her belly. “I don’t need a lot of time. But I do need you.”

Cam braced her hands on Blair’s shoulders and parted her legs. “I’m all yours.”

Blair kissed lower. “I know.”

Cam shuddered and closed her eyes.

Blair took her deeper, her awareness eclipsed by the scent and taste of her. Time was something she would never take for granted. Cameron was hers, and she would yield that to no one. Ever.


*


The plain white door to the motel room opened. The room beyond was shadowed, only a sliver of light leaking past a partially open door in the back corner—probably the bathroom. The redhead was just a dark outline, a slightly grayer silhouette in the gloom.

Loren stepped inside. “You don’t need the gun.”

“I guess we’ll find out.” The redhead, whose name was almost certainly not Lisa, motioned toward the single straight-backed wooden chair pushed into the corner next to the dresser. “Want to put your jacket over there and leave the gun in the pocket?”

“That hardly seems fair.”

“Who said anything about fair? I didn’t invite you.”

Loren shrugged out of her jacket and dropped it onto the seat of the chair, leaving her Glock inside. She didn’t like being without a weapon, but she wasn’t inclined to get into a shootout, nor could she afford to. Now was not the time to draw attention to herself, and leaving a body in a roadside motel was likely to get her looked at.

She turned back, her eyes adjusting to the dim light. The redhead looked even better without clothes than she had in them. She was still wearing the turquoise tank, but the jeans were gone, and her long legs were bare except for white bikini panties. Loren lifted both hands. “You’ve got the advantage. Want to lose the gun now?”

The redhead lowered the gun to her side. “What do you want?”

“Answers.”

The redhead laughed. “Those are rare commodities.”

Loren smiled. “I know.”

“Why don’t we trade?”

Loren shook her head. “I don’t think so. You’re the one here under false pretenses.”

“Really?”

“Where’s the real Lisa Smith?”

“Taking a little vacation.”

“You do know what Jerome will do to you when he finds out you’re here using one of his people as a cover.”

“I wasn’t planning on telling him. Are you?”

“I guess that depends.”

“On what?”

“On who you are and what you’re doing here.”

Sky weighed her options, which were slim to none. She hadn’t been sure the night before if the club had recording devices in the Ugly Rooster, and she couldn’t risk exposing her identity to Loren while they’d been sitting at the bar. She hadn’t even been sure she wasn’t going to just disappear into the night and continue to handle Loren from a distance. Now the decision was out of her hands.

“You haven’t been checking in on schedule.”

Loren, to her credit, didn’t react. She hadn’t survived undercover by being naïve or easily led. “I’m not following.”

Sky smiled. “Sure you are. I never required regular reports, but not taking my calls?” She shook her head, feigning a frown. “Missing your weekly check-ins? What did you think was going to happen?”

“I don’t know you.”

Sky put her Sig on the rickety nightstand next to the bed, reached for her jeans, and pulled them on. She lifted the small suitcase onto the bed, pushed the clothes aside, and triggered the hidden lock. A portion of one inner wall popped open and she extracted the cell phone. She tapped 1 on the speed dial. A second later, Loren looked down at her leg. Sky murmured, “Answer your phone, Loren.”

“Where’d you get my number?” Loren made no move to touch the phone she must have inside her leathers.

“Still don’t believe me?”

“Like I said, I don’t know you.”

Skylar held Loren’s gaze as she thumbed off the call. “Nobody does.”

Chapter Four


Lucinda had scheduled the meeting for a briefing room on the ground floor of the West Wing. Cam and Blair were the first to arrive. A coffee service with bagels, muffins, and assorted spreads sat on a sideboard. They helped themselves and sat down around the long table in the center of the room. A few minutes later, a door opened, and Tom Turner, the special agent in charge of the Presidential Protective Division, walked in alone. His intense brown eyes focused on Cam and held for a few seconds before he nodded to Blair. “With all due respect, Ms. Powell, this might be something better discussed alone with the director.”

“Why don’t you sit down, Tom.” Cam gestured to a nearby chair. “I’m happy for Blair to stay. She’s been read in on all the details.”

Tom’s face contorted for a moment, an oddity for him. He was the epitome of calm in every situation and rarely showed any emotion, even in a crisis. Today, though, anger tinged his smooth dark features with an undertone of red. “I guess I’m the last one to know.”

“That was my call.” Cam had been expecting a confrontation after Tom had been excluded from the recent apprehension of a terrorist bent on assassinating the president—the man Tom was responsible for protecting. She suspected Lucinda had arranged for the three of them to have a few moments alone to sort things out. “By now, you’ve probably read the after-action report and can understand why you were out of the loop.”

Tom remained standing, but his voice was calm. “I understand that one of the principal subjects under suspicion was named Tom, but I’m not sure I follow the connection to me.”

Cam understood his anger. She would have been furious if someone had excluded her from an operation for any reason, but particularly if she was under suspicion. Trust was everything in their position. Personally, she would have been affronted and outraged, but professionally, she would have acknowledged the necessity of protecting not only the operation but, ultimately, the president. Their decisions were not personal, couldn’t be personal, and Tom knew that as much as she did. Right now he was reacting as a man whose honor had been impugned, and the only answer was to reach out to the professional in him. “Every member of the team knew you weren’t involved, but the president’s life was at stake. The right call—the only call—had to be one that guaranteed security, a hundred and ten percent. Like I said, my call.”

A muscle in Tom’s jaw bunched, and Cam wondered if she had lost a friend. She’d worked closely with Tom when she’d been in charge of Blair’s protection detail and would continue to work closely with him as long as he headed PPD. But duty trumped friendship. Duty trumped everything except one. Except Blair. Where Blair’s life and happiness were concerned, Cam suspected she would do anything necessary to preserve them. Anything except betray what meant most to both of them, and because she knew Blair would never ask that, she never worried about what she might need to do.