Squiggly radio feeds running from behind their left ears and steely expressions pegged them as security. The discreet lapel pins, conservative suits, and all-American good looks said federal agents. These weren’t rent-a-cops or gun-for-hire mercenaries. The man was six foot four and on the lean side. Wes would have pegged him for a runner, except the broad shoulders and solid thighs that stretched his not-off-the-rack suit said serious weight training. The woman was maybe five-six or seven and looked toned and fit, but next to him, she looked downright delicate. Wes doubted she was. Her tailored jacket and pants, crisp white opened-collared shirt, and low-heeled black boots screamed style while being completely functional. Definitely professionals. Considering the event—Secret Service.

Neither of them moved as Wes parked behind a long line of empty vehicles, exited, and walked toward them, but she knew they were following her every step. She couldn’t see their eyes behind the unnecessary shades. The sky was blanketed in a thick cover of gray clouds, and she doubted either of them had any trouble seeing in the flat midday light. Being able to observe without being observed was a power play. It probably worked on civilians.

“I’m Captain Wesley Masters,” she said when she stopped a few feet away from them, stating the obvious, as the insignia on her dress blues, visible under her open topcoat, clearly indicated her rank. “I’m here to liaise with the Medical Unit.”

“We know all the members of the WHMU,” the woman said in a surprisingly full, smooth alto. No intonation. Not aggressive, not challenging, not interested. Just the facts, thank you, ma’am. “You’re not on it.”

Up close, Wes could see that what she had taken for glossy dark hair was actually a deep burgundy—as if the midnight sky was flaming. Barely tamed curls fell to below the crisp white collar and fanned artfully around what appeared to be a sharply drawn but distinctive face. She’d put the eyes at blue on a guess, but the opaque shades made it impossible to tell. The agent had a body under those clothes, despite the suit being cut, intentionally Wes would bet, to blunt her figure. The tailored lines couldn’t hide the curves of her breasts and thighs—she was fit and flinty and quite attractively female. The guy with her still hadn’t said anything. The redhead was in charge.

“Your intel is out-of-date, then,” Wes said, and the agent stiffened perceptibly. “You might want to check with your boss.” She turned her wrist slightly. 1159. One minute. “If you could do that promptly, I’d appreciate it.”

One perfectly sculpted brow arched above the flat rim of the dark shades. “ID, please.”

Wes slid her hand into the pocket of her topcoat and handed over her military ID card. She smiled. “Here you are.”

The male agent’s lips lifted in a faint smile. The woman’s face remained blank. Beautiful and remote. Wes waited while the agent spoke softly into her wrist mic. A few seconds later, the agent held out her ID.

“You’re cleared to enter, Captain.”

The man turned to open the gate. Wes slid her ID back into her pocket. “Thank you, Agent…”

“Daniels, ma’am,” Agent Daniels said formally. “An agent will meet you just inside the gate to escort you.”

“Thank you,” Wes said. “I’m sure I can find—”

“It’s protocol. Captain.”

“Understood.” Wes stepped through the gates and they swung closed behind her. She had a lot to learn, and she was out of her element on every level. Hopefully the WHMU personnel would be a little more welcoming than Agent Daniels.

*

“She the one?” Gary Brown asked as the gates swung closed behind the naval officer.

“Looks like it.” Evyn scanned the approach road and the dense underbrush growing right up to the shoulders. The advance team had been on-site for four days and had locked down the north half of the island. Fire roads and beach-access lanes that might provide curious onlookers and those with more serious agendas a way to get close to Whitley Manor had been barricaded and were being patrolled by agents, on foot and ATV. A two-mile no-fly zone had been established around the island. As protective details went, this one was fairly close to ideal. One access road, no surrounding buildings with line of sight, and the only other approach by sea. They had the Coast Guard patrolling that. There was even an expansive lawn big enough and clear enough to accommodate Marine One, so no motorcade route to secure. The nearest hospital was a short helo ride away. All in all, today looked routine, but that wasn’t a word in her vocabulary. Complacency bred error. And she didn’t make mistakes.

“That was pretty fast,” Gary said. “Getting her on board. O’Shaughnessy hasn’t even been dead two days.”

“It’s not like they could leave the spot open,” Evyn said darkly. Except why the hell the powers that be had gone outside to bring in a complete novice was beyond her. They already had a field-tested, experienced battle surgeon who could have stepped into O’Shaughnessy’s shoes without a ripple in routine. Instead, they dropped an unknown into their lap. Hell, they hadn’t even been briefed she was going to show up today.

“Is Pete pissed he got passed over?” Gary asked.

“You know Pete. He’s a team player. But that job should’ve been his.” Evyn could be mad for Pete if he wasn’t going to be mad for himself. After all, that’s what friends were for, and even though they’d only worked together two years, they were tight. They shared a near-maniacal need to win at everything, which had been obvious the first time they’d played cards on an overnight flight to some now-forgotten destination. She came by her competitiveness growing up in a family of super-achievers, he by being the first American-born child in a family of immigrants. Pete had to be disappointed he didn’t get the job, but he didn’t let on. So she’d be disappointed and pissed off for him. “Who knows what strings got pulled? It’s a political appointment—probably someone somewhere knows someone who owed somebody a favor.”

“Happens all the time on the Beltway,” Gary said.

“Yeah, I know.” She rarely paid attention to politics—who had time? And if this appointment hadn’t affected her so personally and her job so intimately, she wouldn’t have cared.

“Younger than I thought she’d be,” Gary commented casually. “Kind of…interesting.”

Evyn didn’t react to his not-so-subtle probing. Hell. She couldn’t argue. The captain was younger—and way hotter—than O’Shaughnessy. She still couldn’t take in that O’Shaughnessy was dead. He’d only been in his early fifties and a good-looking fifty, still fit and trim. Ran five miles every day. Didn’t smoke, hardly drank. Who would have expected him to drop dead in the gym? She’d figured his replacement would be closer to his age, not almost two decades younger, like Captain Wesley Masters. The navy doctor was a lot more than interesting too. She was five feet ten inches or so of sinewy grace, capped off by golden brown hair shot through with sunlight and wheat and cut a bit rough-and-tumble around her face and throat. The effect was a little casual and a lot sexy. And her eyes, even on a gray, overcast day, were heather green. Spring-kissed. Gorgeous. Evyn grimaced. She’d rather have to dislike someone who wasn’t so damn good looking, but she’d manage.

“You know,” Gary said, “it’s probably not her fault she got tapped for the post.”

“Never said it was,” Evyn said sharply. Of course Gary would pick up on the slightest sign of attraction—the guy was a sponge when it came to reading people. Never missed anything. She had to stay on her toes all the time or he’d be watching the X-rated fantasies she occasionally played in her head to pass the time standing post.

“Just saying,” he went on, “since we have to work together and all. Might be smart to play nice.”

“You don’t have to worry about that. I can work with her just fine. As long as no one expects us all to be one big happy family.”

“Kind of works better when we are, considering…”

Evyn folded her arms across her chest and made another visual sweep of the area. “Then they should have given Pete the job. After all, he earned it.”

*

The Secret Service agent who escorted Wes to the building was silent as they strode up the meandering flagstone walkway between snow-filled sunken pools. The manor house rose suddenly from the late-morning mist, a sweeping three-story stone edifice sitting high above cascading dunes that fell away to the ocean’s edge. A white-pillared wraparound veranda, which she imagined was the perfect place for summer entertaining, was empty now except for security posted at regular intervals along its perimeter. The muted rumble of voices carried through the carved wooden front doors as the agent opened them for her.

“Thank you,” Wes said, stepping inside.

A white-jacketed valet appeared instantly at her side. “May I take your coat, Captain?”

She shrugged out of it, said, “Yes, thank you,” and handed it over.

She continued down a wide hallway, following the murmur of conversation into a great room with soaring ceilings and one entire wall of glass that afforded a view of the island and ocean. The sliding glass doors to the veranda were closed now, but in the summer the sea breezes would fill the space. She glanced around, taking stock of the guests. She was surprised to see—or rather, not see—many dignitaries in attendance. Some of the quietly milling crowd was in uniform, but many wore civilian clothes. She didn’t know much about the president’s daughter, other than what most of the world knew—Blair Powell had been by her father’s side on the campaign trail and, since his election, often stood in for him at political events where an official presence was required but the president himself was not needed. Blair was the unofficial first lady of the nation, and the nation loved her.