"Oh yeah." Gasping, Renee pressed her forehead to Stark's chest. "Oh yeah. I think maybe I'm done waiting."

"You gotta wait..." Stark's voice was a desperate plea. "Just a little longer. I gotta go."

Groaning, Renee could only nod.

"I'm gonna think about you all—"

"Shh," Renee murmured, pressing tightly to her. "Once you walk out of here, I don't want you to think about anything except the job. I want you totally focused on Egret, just like you always are. Then, when you're off shift, I want you to come back to me. Safe and sound."

"I don't know how I got so lucky," Stark whispered, tilting Renee's chin up and kissing her with a series of tender, gentle caresses.

"We got lucky," Renee sighed against her mouth.

The thin man knelt by the three-foot wall that rimmed the fiat expanse of the rooftop, shielded from view by the oversized air-conditioning units and heating ducts. If anyone opened the rooftop door, he would hear them, and he had the advantage of surprise.

He did not, however, expect visitors. The first security check was over, and the second was likely to be cursory. After assessing the sightline to the hospital entrance, he once again opened the toolbox, this time lifting out the upper compartment. Beneath that lay the barrel of a Heckler and Koch G36 assault rifle. From various pockets in his gray coveralls, he removed the remaining components of the weapon, which he had fleldstripped just that morning before departing the rooming house he had inhabited for the last fourteen months. Quickly and efficiently, he assembled the 3.6 kilogram weapon and loaded it with a standard magazine carrying thirty rounds. In the lower compartment of the tool chest were additional magazines. The German assault rifle was capable of firing 750 rounds of 5.56 x 45mm bullets per minute. He did not expect to need more than one.

Seated on the sofa in the high-ceilinged palatial suite, Blair drew out her sketch pad and opened it on her lap. Critically, she appraised that morning's work, thinking about the upcoming show scheduled in Manhattan in three weeks. It wasn't her first gallery exhibition, but it was her first solo showing. She was nervous and excited and just a little resentful that she couldn't concentrate completely on the work that mattered the most to her. Her other responsibilities—her official duties—so often interfered. Although she was proud to represent her country and happy to assist her father in any way possible, his dream had never been her dream. Nevertheless, she had embraced it as much as she possibly could. She flipped through the pages until she came to the last drawing she had done. Cam had not been aware of Blair sketching her, or if she had been, she had not shown any sign of it.

Cam was Blair's favorite subject. Not only was she beautiful, with the coloring and bone structure that any artist loves to draw, but Blair reveled in the opportunity to study her. Even knowing it was impossible, she still tried to capture the essence of Cam's unique nobility and strength through her art. Lightly, she traced her fingers over the drawing, feeling Cam's flesh beneath her own.

I love you.

Carefully, she closed the pad and secured it away. Then she leaned over and drew the phone from the table beside the sofa and punched in a series of numbers from memory. After less than a moment, her call was answered.

"Johnny? It's Blair. I don't suppose there's any chance... You're sure?...Of course." A minute passed, and then she sat up straighter. "Dad?"

"Blair. Everything all right?"

"Yes, fine."

"Still in Paris?"

"For another two days. Everything is going well on that front."

"Have you been to the hospital yet?"

The question startled her. She hadn't realized he had any idea of her itinerary. She swallowed and kept her voice even. "Just about to go in an hour or so."

"Doing okay?"

"Yes. Fine." She took a deep breath. "I guess you've seen the newspapers?"

A dry chuckle came through the line. "I haven't actually read any of the articles, since I already know from you what the interview entailed. But I gather someone jumped the gun."

"Looks like. I just wanted to make sure that...I'm not sure what, exactly," she confessed.

"It's okay, honey. There's nothing you need to be concerned about. Just concentrate on the trip, and try to enjoy it as much as you can."

"What does Lucinda have to say?" Blair pressed. Lucinda often had a better sense of the undercurrents of public opinion than her father did.

"Lucinda worries a little too much sometimes."

"You should listen to her. I'm sorry if I caus—"

"Blair," her father's voice was at once firm and gentle, "I can't think of anything you've ever done that you need to apologize to me for. I am nothing but proud of you."

She heard a muffled conversation and knew that he had covered the phone.

"Look, Dad, I know you're busy. I can—"

"Sorry, I am running late. How's Cam?"

Blair's heart skipped a beat "She's,..she's fine. Traveling is difficult, and she's preoccupied."

"She should be. But she's okay.,.with this other?"

Blair's throat tightened. She wasn't certain, but she thought her father might be asking her if everything was all right with her relationship. "She's great I'm...happy."

"That's the best news I could get. I'm sorry, honey. I'm going to have to go. Call me again soon."

"Okay. Yes. I will."

"Be careful. Bye, honey."

"Bye, Dad." Blair set the phone down gently. They'd never had a conversation anywhere near like this one. It was terrifyingly strange and strangely wonderful.

Intentionally or not, she had kept a barrier between herself and her father all her life, just as she had shielded her private self from the prying eyes of the public and hidden the true longings of her heart from the women she had touched. Until Cam. Loving Cam had changed everything, and as frightening as that sometimes was—to be vulnerable and exposed, not just to heartbreak, but to the unmerciful scrutiny of strangers—she had never felt so free.

CHAPTER SEVEN

F elicia was the first of the lead team agents to arrive for the briefing. When she entered the comm center, Mac was the only other person present. A murmur of conversation emanated from the adjoining room where Cynthia and Barry spent most of their time, hunched over their consoles searching for intel hidden in cyberspace. She walked to the sideboard, poured a cup of coffee, and crossed the room to the conference table.

At the sound of the quiet movement behind him, Mac swiveled away from the monitors and silently observed Felicia. She was dressed in the same two-piece suit, tailored shirt, and functional shoes that all the agents, male or female, wore. On her long, svelte frame, however, the outfit managed to appear elegant. Her slender neck, high-arched cheeks, and fine-boned jaw gave her the look of an ancient priestess or warrior. She was painfully beautiful, as well as being intrmidatingly intelligent and inestimably competent. They'd had two dates before she'd told him in firm gentle tones that it had been a mistake.

Mac cleared his throat. "Good afternoon."

Felicia looked up from the most recent field reports related to the afternoon's engagement and turned her head with a smile. "Hello."

Nothing in her eyes to suggest familiarity. The same pleasant yet cool inflection she used with everyone. He swallowed his disappointment and tried to tell himself that it didn't matter. "Did you get a chance to see anything of the city during your downtime?"

"A little," Felicia replied carefully. It was not her habit to discuss her personal life with colleagues. Mac was different, and that difference concerned her. Ever since they had spent sixty or so stress-filled hours in each other's company, monitoring an operation that ultimately might have cost the president's daughter her life, she had felt more for him than for any man she had ever worked with. Any man, she acknowledged, with whom she had been involved hi any way for a long time. Eventually, she'd succumbed to the uniqueness of that unusual connection and had broken one of her own rules. She had dinner with him. Twice. He was precisely as she had expected him to be. Charming, intelligent, gentle. After the second evening, when he'd walked her to the door of her East Village apartment building, he'd kissed her briefly on the mouth. The kiss had been slightly more than friendly, but not intrusive or demanding. It had been a very nice kiss. It had been a kiss she wouldn't have minded repeating. And that's when she'd told him that there would be no more dinners.

"The Secret Service isn't exactly the way to see the world," Mac commented wryly.

Felicia grinned. "No more than the navy. Or any other branch of service."

"Still, a posting in Paris does beat spending a week in a lot of other places I could think of."

"Agreed."

"Felicia—"

Stark walked in and abruptly stumbled to a halt. She took one look around the room with the sense that she had just walked in on something personal. Coloring, she desperately sought a way out.

"Paula," Felicia said smoothly, indicating the seat across from her with a graceful hand. "Get some coffee and have a seat. We can go over the deployment positions before the commander arrives." She glanced at her watch. "Which I estimate will be in two minutes."

"Uh...okay. Sure. Fine."

Disappointed, but not entirely certain he knew what he'd been about to say anyhow, Mac turned back to his ever-present companions—the flickering images on the dozen monitors where shadow figures moved in and out of focus with jerky, robotic movements. As he gathered his papers, he thought that there were times when he was no more tangible to others than those disembodied people captured on his screens. He recognized the sensation as loneliness and quickly pushed it aside.