"And just how do you intend to stake your claim?" Renee's blue eyes were suddenly filled with questions.

Stark stopped halfway to the next kiss and searched her lover's face. The last two days had changed everything. A month ago they had talked about a three-week trial of living together. Just to see how it worked out, as if they had all the time in the world. And maybe they still did. And maybe Renee would walk out the door in thirty minutes and never come back. "Maybe we should start with you moving the rest of your stuff into my apartment."

"Maybe." There was a note of uncharacteristic uncertainty in Renee's voice. "I don't know what's going to happen when I get back to Manhattan. There was no real organization up there after.. .after the Towers. Every available agent was activated, but most of us weren't even working with our regular squads. We were just thrown into it. I got pulled off the Tower investigation almost immediately and sent up to the Aerie because of the attack on Blair. Then, eight hours later, I was reassigned to one of the counterterrorism units and back at Ground Zero. I might not even be in New York City after today."

"You have to live somewhere." Stark placed a quick kiss on Renee's mouth. She smiled, but her dark eyes were serious. "It doesn't matter where you're stationed, you still need a place to call home."

"I need...a little time." Renee brushed her fingers over Stark's cheek, then kissed her to soften her words. "It's not about loving you. It's just...these last few days. Sometimes I feel...numb. And then, suddenly, it's like every nerve is screaming." She laughed shakily. "I'm a bit of a mess."

"You were right there, honey. You were in the South Tower. I can't even imagine how bad that must have been." Stark eased back onto her side and drew Renee into her arms. "And then you worked for two days straight in the middle of all that horror. It's no wonder things feel off."

"I just don't want to start our life together when I'm not sure I can be totally there."

Stark's stomach went queasy, but she managed to keep her expression calm. The very thought of Renee going away, leaving her somehow, not loving her, was terrifying. She made the monumental effort to concentrate on what was happening for Renee and to set aside her own fear. Still, she barely managed to hide her hurt, "I love you. We don't have to decide anything right away."

Renee pressed her face to the curve of Stark's neck. She couldn't see the clock, but she could hear it ticking in her mind. Their time was almost up. She wanted to he close, she wanted to make love, and yet inside, she felt so cold. "Would you mind very much just holding me? Is that all right?"

"It's more than all right." Stark kissed her forehead and held her tightly. "It's everything."

*

The chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff and the president's national security adviser exited the president's private dining room just as Blair and Cam walked down the hall. Both men nodded to Blair and ignored Cam as they passed. Secret Service agents were no more than background noise in the normal day-to-day life of the first family and were rarely acknowledged as individuals.

Blair knocked and, at the sound of a deep male voice calling Come in, pushed the heavy walnut door open and entered. Her father sat alone at a white-linen-covered table in the center of the room with a cup of coffee by his right hand and a half-finished omelet on a china plate pushed to one side. A stack of documents rested in front of him.

"Hi, Dad."

Andrew Powell, a trim and vigorous fifty-year-old with thick blond hair a shade darker than Blair's, was already dressed for the day in a white shirt and dark trousers. When he removed his reading glasses and smiled at Blair, his cobalt blue eyes were only faintly shadowed with fatigue. He showed no other outward signs of stress. "Hi, honey. Cam."

"Sir," Cam replied. She was always just a bit startled to see the strong resemblance between her lover and the president of the United States. Automatically, she stopped a few feet inside the door, in the position she would ordinarily take when guarding Blair in a social situation. Far enough away to afford privacy, but close enough to intercept an assailant or interpose her own body between Blair's and any source of danger.

Blair stopped and turned back with a soft smile. She extended her hand. "Cameron. Let's sit down with my father."

Cam glanced at the president.

"There's plenty of coffee," Andrew Powell said, gesturing to the silver carafe. "You two could probably use some." He glanced at his watch. "I have thirty minutes before I'm due in the operations room, and we have some things to talk about."

Cam and Blair took seats on the opposite side of the table and helped themselves to coffee. Then they waited.

"Blair," he said, "everything all right?"

Blair lifted a shoulder. What could she say? I've been assaulted and nearly killed. My lover's been shot. Some lunatics have massacred thousands of people blocks from where I live. The world has gone crazy and I just want to be left alone. "I'm okay, Dad."

The president studied her a moment longer, then nodded slightly and looked at Cam. "I've been briefed by the directors of both the Secret Service and the FBI about what happened at Blair's on Tuesday morning. I'd like your report."

"I apologize, sir. I haven't had a chance to prepare that yet."

Powell shook his head. "I'm not interested in paperwork. I want your opinion. I want to know what you think happened—and I want to know how and why it's possible that someone nearly assassinated my daughter in her own apartment."

"Dad," Blair said quietly. "Cam isn't respons—"

Both Cam and the president spoke at once.

"I am—"

"She is—"

The president held up a hand. "There's a difference between being responsible and being at fault." He smiled at Blair. "I have no doubt that Cam guarded you better than anyone else could have. What I need to know now is whether it's going to happen again." He swung his gaze back to Cam. "And how to prevent it."

Cam nodded gravely. "I agree. I don't have enough information yet to give you a complete report, Mr. President, but I can tell you that four heavily armed men with a knowledge of both the layout of Blair's apartment building and the placement of our agents carried out a well-timed and well-conceived assault." Her eyes never wavered from his. "I can also tell you that at least one of the Secret Service agents on Blair's personal security team was involved."

"Just one?"

"I don't know that, sir. But I intend to find out."

"Gut feeling?"

"He acted alone. The probability of two rogue agents assigned simultaneously to Blair's team is not impossible, but extremely unlikely. My feeling is that Foster is the key, and that's where our investigation needs to start."

"Our investigation?" The president's tone was mild but his gaze was intensely focused on Cam's face.

"I'm not leaving this to anyone else, sir. I spent twelve years in the investigative division of the Secret Service. I know how to uncover and infiltrate clandestine organizations."

Blair turned in her seat and stared at Cam. "And just when did you decide this?"

Cam shifted her attention to her lover. "It wasn't something that needed to be decided. The minute they came through that door, it was done."

For a millisecond, Blair closed her eyes, then snapped them open; her blue eyes were on fire. "You're not doing this. We have the entire FBI, the CIA, the National Security Agency, and I don't know what all else to do this kind of thing. It's not going to be you."

"Sir. You tell her."

"What?" Blair snapped. She looked at her father, her body rigid. "What?"

"Honey," Powell said gently. "As your father, you are my number one priority. But the number one priority of the country right now, and therefore my number one priority as president, is to find out what happened in Manhattan on September 11, to bring those responsible to justice, and to ensure that it never happens again. Yes, a team will be appointed to investigate the assault on you. Good people. Dedicated people." He sighed. "But there's going to be pressure from all fronts to deal with the terrorist threat, and that's going to overshadow every other agenda. 1 need someone leading the investigative team who won't be sidetracked by politics—or anything else."

"Not my lover." Blair's voice was as hard and cold as ice. Her hands trembled and she kept them out of sight beneath the table. "Because I know Cameron. She'll find out who's behind it, and she'll go after them, and this might be the time that she doesn't win." She turned to Cam. "I don't want you to do this."

Cam's eyes were tender, her voice gentle. "Blair. It's the only way to be sure you're safe."

"It's the right decision," Andrew Powell added.

"I don't care about what's right," Blair shouted. "I am sick to death of hearing about what's right, about duty, and responsibility, and fucking justice. I'm tired of giving up everything that matters to me because of someone else's—" Her voice broke and she looked away, covering her eyes with a trembling hand.

"Hey." Cam slid her chair closer to Blair and wrapped an arm around her shaking shoulders. She brought her mouth close to Blair's ear. "It's all right. The last two days have been hell. We all need a chance to get our bearings again." She kissed Blair's temple, "It's all right."

Blair pressed her face to Cam's neck, her arm going around Cam's waist underneath her blazer. "I'm sorry. When they were shooting at us, when you and Paula were in front of me and all the bullets—I kept seeing you that morning on the sidewalk in front of my apartment building. I kept seeing the blood and then.. .then you stopped breathing. Oh God, Cam. You stopped breathing."