"Jesus Christ, Stewart, are you going to let Doyle and Owens railroad you into an outside inquiry? What the hell kind of precedent does that set? We have our own internal review for this kind of occurrence".

"Nothings been decided", he retorted, his temper frayed to breaking.

"How about you tell them to stick it up their bureaucratic asses?"

"Not very diplomatic".

"Fuck diplomacy. Were talking about compromising our working strategies". She tried to lower her voice, but she was too tired and too nauseous to control everything at once. "And that puts protectees at risk. I wont do it".

"Youll do whatever I need you to do", Agent, Carlisle said testily.

"Not if it means endangering Blair Powell".

"If you refuse to testify before a Justice board of inquiry, youll be in contempt of a sanctioned federal investigative body. At the very least youll lose your jobworst case scenario, you could be looking at jail time".

She studied the face of her boss, a man she thought she knew, and couldnt read what was behind his eyes. Then she decided she didnt really care.

"Fine. If you need to reach me, you know how to find me".

Chapter Six

Blair clicked off the phone with a sigh.

Still no answer. Not at her apartment, not on her cell phone, not on her two-way pager.

She glanced at the bedside clock. 9:02 PM. It was midnight in D.C. Cam had said she would call during breaks in the meetings, but she hadnt. Even in Washington, bureaucrats didn't work this late on Friday night.

She'd spent a good part of her day with Marcea in her studio, a jutting extension of the top floor that was all windows and light. While Marcea packed up the few remaining canvasses for the show the next night, Blair sketched. It had been peaceful and companionable, although they rarely spoke as the hours passed.

Late in the day, Marcea stopped by her side and, gesturing to the sketchpad Blair had balanced on her knees, asked, "May I?"

Blushing faintly, Blair turned the sketch pad in her direction, amazed at her own shyness with the woman who had never been anything but gracious and kind. But her art was her soul, and the one place she had never needed to hide her feelings. She wondered what Marcea would see beneath the charcoal and paper.

"You have a very good memory," Marcea said with a smile, studying the images of herself and her daughter, their profiles interspersed, overlapped, and in some views, transforming one to the other. "You capture her perfectly."

"Do I," Blair said contemplatively.

Marcea's eyes were warm and caring as they rose to Blair's. "You do." Gesturing to the sketch, she asked, "Might I possibly keep this?"

Blair nodded. "I'd be honored."

"Thank you," Marcea murmured, lifting long delicate fingers to Blair's cheek.

Blair grew still, transfixed by the touch, feeling welcomed and fleetingly, as if she had come home.

Remembering the interlude now, thinking of how much Cam resembled her mother, only made Blair miss Cam more.

Pacing fretfully around the confines of her room, she worked hard not to imagine where Cam might be.Unwinding with a drink after two continuous days of meetings? In a bar? Over dinner? Alone?

In the two months they'd been lovers, Blair had barely had time to adjust to the fact that she had broken her own most fundamental rule-never to get emotionally involved with anyone she slept with. Never let anyone touch hernot physically, most of the time, and definitely not emotionally-ever. Shed tried hard to keep Cam outside the formidable defenses shed erected over the years, and shed failed.

Cam, she knew, had broken more than one of her own rules, tooat least professionally. The most significant one being never to become intimately involved with a protectee. Blair had a feeling that Cam had probably broken several of her personal rules as well, but they had not spoken of it. There were other things they had not spoken of-fidelity, exclusivity, the shape of their future. They were concepts which to Blair had seemed foreign only a few months before. Now, the ideas had moved beyond philosophy to take on far greater significance. When she thought of Cam with another woman, something between fury and despair welled within her.

"This is ridiculous," she muttered to herself. "I can't sit here any longer-I'm going stir crazy."

She stripped off her jeans and T-shirt and crossed to be adjoining bath. Quickly, mechanically, she showered and washed her hair. She left her hair loose, as she usually did when she was going out and didn't want to be recognized. Over the years, she had learned that subtle alterations in her physical appearance and dress made it almost impossible for a member of the general public to recognize her as the Presidents daughter. Associating her with the image they saw on television and in magazines, the average citizen expected to see a sophisticated, elegant woman in tasteful but expensive clothes, wearing just the right amount of makeup, and with her curling, shoulder length blond hair gathered at the base of her neck with a gold clasp. In leather pants, a body hugging sleeveless top, and her hair down and free, Blair bore almost no resemblance to the First Daughter.

When she finished dressing, she slipped a slim leather wallet with nothing other than her ID and cash into her back pocket and opened the door to her room. This time, the hallway was empty and she crossed quickly to the back stairs that led to the kitchen and the rear exit. To her surprise, the kitchen was empty, too. She knew that Davis was off duty that evening and Ed Hernandez was somewhere in the front of the house, probably in the living room. She didn't see Stark and was surprised, but grateful. She wasn't anxious to elude her and draw yet more negative attention to the agent.

Carefully sliding open the glass door, she stepped out onto the cedar-planked deck that was cantilevered over the slope of Russian Hill below. Moving quietly, she started down the first of many wooden staircases that cut back and forth across the lower portion of Marcea's property toward the street below. Halfway down, she stopped at the sound of a voice just below her.

"Another walk?"

Blair leaned over the railing and looked down into the shadows. Paula Stark looked back. "I'm going out for awhile."

"Then I guess I am, too."

"Why don't you continue your perimeter check and pretend you didn't see me?" Blair started down the stairs again.

Stark met her at the bottom and said, "We both know I can't. I don't even want to. It's my job to be with you tonight, especially if you're outside this building."

Blair regarded her steadily, surprised by the somber tone in her voice. She'd always known Stark was incredibly responsible and almost obsessively dedicated to her job, but tonight, there was something else in her voice. Maturity perhaps. For a moment there, she'd sounded like Cam. "Any room for negotiation?"

"No. I need to inform Mac that we're leaving home base. I'd like to be able to tell him where we're going."

"I don't know yet. I just want to get a drink and..."

"Please. You don't need to explain to me, Ms. Powell. It's only our destination I have any interest in. Would you object to taking the cars?"

"I'd rather walk." As they spoke, Blair moved off down the path that cut through the dense shrubbery toward the street and the sidewalk.

Stark fell in beside her and pulled her cell from her belt. She spoke softly as they walked, informing Mac that Egret was moving, destination undetermined. Mac, she knew, would detail Hernandez to the car and eventually, wherever she and Blair stopped, the other agent would eventually show up. In all likelihood, Mac would order one other agent to join Hernandez in the car for backup. It was somewhat unorthodox to have only one agent on foot, but typical of the way they were forced to deploy with the First Daughter. Egret didn't welcome their presence and rarely made it easy for them. However, the Commander had made it clear that despite Egret's objections, securitywould be provided. Stark had no intention of leaving her unguarded, no matter what she had to do.

"Let's take a streetcar," Blair said impulsively, heading to the corner just as a car trundled up the steep hill.

Hastening to follow, Stark grabbed onto the rail as Blair jumped up onto the step that ran on the outside of the car.

"Grab on", Blair called, extending her hand and laughing as Stark ran a few steps alongside and finally caught her hand.

"Thanks", Stark puffed as she pulled herself up.Wouldnt that have been just terrific if Id lost her because I was too slow. Ive gotto start running. Pumping iron is just not enough.

Their hands touched as they both grasped the vertical pole for support. The streetcar lurched off and the two of them rocked back and forth, shoulder to shoulder, facing one another. It was the kind of thing that tourists always did, but Stark had never been a tourist in San Francisco before. It was the kind of thing that lovers did as well.

The experience was both exhilarating and slightly confusing. Blair Powell was a beautiful woman, and Stark remembered all too clearly what it felt like when the hand that was lightly brushing hers now had done more than that for the few hours they had spent together in a remote hotel room in the Rockies. Those hands had been accomplished and unexpectedly tender, and the memory echoed forcibly through her. Their faces were only inches apart, and in the flickering intermittent glow of the street lights, she could see Blair's slightly parted lips and her sensuous smile, and for a moment, desire twisted within her.