All the same, it only took an instant to grasp a concealed weapon and fire.

As they stepped from the limo, Blair’s detail was already waiting and moved in on all sides. The president and Lucinda were ahead of them, similarly sheltered. Blair slid her hand into the crook of Cam’s arm. The walk had been shoveled free of ice, but the wind was a force of its own, blustery and fierce, and Cam pulled her close. Reporters and TV crews extended cameras and booms to record the short procession into the building. A few shouted questions, but no one lingered to answer.

Once inside, the lead agents directed the president down a side hallway where he would enter the stage from the rear. Stark indicated a side entrance to the auditorium through which they could reach their front-row seats. As they entered, a handful of reporters from the local and national news surged forward against the inner rope line. For the moment, this was the only story to be had.

“How does the president really feel about having a lesbian daughter?” someone called.

“How do you think your marriage will affect your father’s position in conservative states?”

“Will he push for a federa—”

“How do you think God feels about your sin?”

The question cut through the others like a scythe.

A man the size of a linebacker with what appeared to be a press badge around his neck surged out of the crowd, knocking aside the short barricade cordoning off the area in front of the stage.

“Stark!” Cam pushed Blair toward Stark, who grabbed her and pulled her away. Brock quickly stepped up next to Cam and, shoulder-to-shoulder, they formed a wall between Blair and the charging man. He was even bigger up close, and running full out. He took them both down in a heap. His shoulder hit Cam straight in the solar plexus and air whooshed out of her lungs. Two more agents piled on top of them, and her vision grayed.

An instant later the weight lifted off her chest. A melee of agents wrestled the man facedown onto the floor, yanked his arms behind him, and cuffed him.

Cam coughed and fought the panic of not being able to breathe. It wasn’t the first time, and experience kicked in. Consciously stifling the urge to gasp and flail, she took slow, shallow breaths until her diaphragm recovered and her lungs re-expanded. She looked around for Blair and didn’t see her. Carefully, still dizzy, she pushed to her knees. Brock lay on his side, red faced and grimacing.

“You okay?” she croaked.

“Will be in a minute.”

She glanced down and saw his hand clutched between his legs.

Mac Phillips, the ASAC of Blair’s detail, yelled, “Everyone all right?”

“Brock needs to be replaced.” Cam pushed the rest of the way to her feet. Pain burned down her injured leg and she winced.

“Are you hurt, Commander?” Mac’s usually perfectly groomed blond hair was tousled and his deep blue eyes dark with worry.

“Nothing serious. Where’s Blair?”

“The chief has her secured in the back.”

“I want to see her. And I want to know how the hell that guy got in here.”

Mac grimaced. “We’ve got him in the command center. We’ll know soon.”

Cam glanced out over the crowd. Most didn’t even know what had happened. Those who were close enough to have seen the brief encounter watched avidly. She was sure some of the reporters had gotten photos.

“I want to see Blair.”

Mac took her along a series of halls to a room off the main ballroom. When Cam walked in, Blair was pacing with her arms folded across her chest. Her hands were clenched into tight white fists. Her eyes were furious.

“What did you think you were doing?”

“Are you all right?” Cam asked.

“Me first,” Blair snapped, hands on her hips. Stark wisely retreated to the farthest corner of the room and pretended she’d gone deaf. “Let me see you.”

Cam held her arms out to her sides. “I’m fine.”

Blair stepped closer, eyes narrowed. “You have a bruise on your cheek.”

“Probably bumped into Brock. It’s nothing.”

“What happened to the part where you weren’t going to do anything except advise?” Blair feathered a finger over a spot on Cam’s cheek and frowned.

“I was right there.” Cam carefully did not flinch. The spot was tender—she probably was going to have a bruise. “I could hardly step aside and let him bulldoze you.”

“That’s why I have agents.”

“I know.” Cam slid her arms around Blair’s waist and pulled her tight. “You all right?”

Blair hugged her, her face against Cam’s neck. “I’m fine. Pissed, that’s all.”

“That’s good then.”

“He could have had a gun.”

“He didn’t.” Cam kissed her cheek. “Besides, the crowd inside is scanned. Metal detectors, remember?”

“You’re never going to change, are you?”

Cam leaned back until she could see Blair’s face. “Not where you’re concerned.”

“You have to start wearing a vest.”

“That’s cruel.”

Blair smiled faintly. “Stark wants me to stay back here.”

“She’s right. He might not be alone.”

“My father will look for me. He’ll know something’s wrong.”

“He’ll—”

“And I’ll look like I’m a coward.”

“Blair, no one—”

“Or ashamed.”

“Ah.” Cam glanced at Stark, who was listening despite her unfocused gaze and expressionless demeanor.

“Chief?”

“You know the protocol.”

“I do. But…”

Stark sighed. “Let me get a sit rep. Then we’ll go out.”

“Thank you,” Blair said and took Cam’s hand.

Chapter Twelve

Blair sat in the front row of the packed auditorium between Cam and Lucinda, trying to focus on her father’s speech. Usually that wasn’t difficult. He was a natural orator, not in the words he used so much as in the way he used them. He spoke without referring to his notes, which always made the White House press secretary and his campaign manager nervous. They feared he’d say something he wouldn’t be able to retract and they wouldn’t be able to spin. But he didn’t. Because he spoke what he believed, and his message had always been unswerving. The constituents felt his sincerity precisely because there was no sense of rehearsal. He wasn’t reading what someone else had written for him—he was sharing his beliefs, his desire to improve and secure the lives of Americans everywhere.

As much as she loved to hear him speak, today she couldn’t fully concentrate. Her body hummed with adrenaline and her muscles roiled with rage. She wasn’t afraid, not for herself. She was angry. Being attacked always made her angry, and not being able to fight back herself only heightened her fury. She hated being dragged to safety by a cadre of Secret Service agents, and she hated even more when someone she liked, or loved, was injured because of her. Brock still hadn’t returned to his post, although Cam assured her he was all right. Cam was hurt, although of course she pretended otherwise. A purple bruise bloomed on her left cheek. That blow had been glancing, Cam said, but it might not have been. She could have a broken jaw or concussion or worse instead of a scrape. Cam probably thought she didn’t notice her limping, either.

And to solidify her outrage, Cam and Stark and the rest of them somehow thought it was perfectly all right that they be injured and not her. She was sick to death of the arguments as to why she should just accept protection with a smile, and tired of trying to rationalize away her reluctance. She understood the concept of representing something larger than herself and the need to keep that image unassailable. She’d given in to Cam and the others because it made sense. But right now she was having a hard time making sense of anything. She would not, could not, change who she was or who she loved. Especially not when some idiot claiming to know God’s mind attacked her.

Cam slid a hand across the space between their seats and squeezed her hand. Just a second or two of contact, subtle, designed not to be noticed, but Blair felt the message.

It’s all right. I love you. We can handle this.

And because she loved Cam more than any amount of anger could diminish, she squeezed her hand back.

When the speeches were over and her father left the stage, Blair, Cam, and Lucinda rose and were quickly surrounded by agents, who escorted them to the banquet hall. They wouldn’t be eating with the attendees, although her father would make a brief appearance one more time and thank all his potential benefactors. It was just too difficult to protect him at a sit-down meal with hundreds of people. Even state banquets in other countries were declined if at all possible. The president’s food needed to be prepared separately by his own stewards, at the risk of offending the host nation. Here in Chicago food prep wasn’t an issue, but every one of his donors would want a moment with him, and that was impossible. Thankfully the train’s departure time gave them a reason to escape once breakfast was under way.

The throng of reporters and onlookers waiting outside had grown. Blair noticed a contingent of men and women and a few children waving placards protesting the president’s policies on immigration, environmental issues, and the escalating war overseas. And added to the usual mix was a cluster of vocal antigay protesters. Their signs held biblical quotes and clever admonishments such as God made Adam and Eve, not Adam and Steve.

She kept her eyes forward, her hand through the curve of Cam’s arm, and her teeth tightly clamped. They did not need to start off this campaign tour with a pithy comment from her flooding the airwaves. She climbed into the Beast with a swell of gratitude for its soundproofing and tinted windows.

“Thank God,” she muttered. “One down and ten zillion to go.”