A familiar sensation of rivalry flared in her chest—she’d competed all her life professionally, so she recognized it—but the quick surge of possessiveness that rushed through her when she looked at Viv was new. She wasn’t quite sure what to make of that, but one thing was for sure. She wasn’t leaving. She started down the aisle, and Viv was all she saw.

Viv looked up and smiled. Dusty could read that smile too, at least she hoped she could, because it seemed to say I’m glad to see you.

She couldn’t stop her answering smile. I’m really glad you’re here. I couldn’t wait.

“Hi,” Viv said.

“Hi.” Dusty didn’t care that four guys were trying to catch Viv’s attention. She had a date for dinner with Viv in an hour. No, forty-nine minutes now, and that’s what mattered. And Viv had smiled at her, a smile that said she was glad to see her.

She leaned against the booth across from Viv. “Working?”

“Just finishing,” Viv said. “You done for the day?”

The guys turned as one and gave Dusty curious looks.

She just grinned. “So far, but you never can tell.”

“You got that right,” Joe Aiello, one of the drivers, said importantly. “You never know when you might get called in.”

“It’s been great talking to you guys. I really appreciate all the information.” Viv rose, gave the men a smile, and nodded to Phil Virtucci. “And thanks again for being so generous in giving me access to your crew.”

“No problem,” Phil said.

Dusty felt them all watching as Viv moved next to her. “Maybe we can fill in some of the blanks from the interview this morning.”

“Great idea,” Viv said. “Dining car?”

“Absolutely.” Dusty couldn’t take her eyes away from Viv. Little sparkles of light kept bursting and swirling in Viv’s dark eyes, like they were dancing. Her face glowed too, and her lips turned up at the corners, just a little bit of a smile that seemed to say Come with me. And that was exactly what Dusty wanted to do. Follow her anywhere. She swallowed because her throat was suddenly dry. “I’m at your service.”

The little lights in Viv’s eyes danced even faster.

*

Cam nodded to the steward who appeared silently beside their table to take their plates away. The train had been under way for thirty minutes, and the view out the window was one of a cold, blustery winter day with a light snowfall softening the harsh sky. Blair was quiet, drinking her coffee, reading a newspaper. Cam was content to watch her, always astounded by the many facets of her beauty. Blair was most beautiful when she was painting, when her passion and enthusiasm and intelligence all sparked together. But she was beautiful in moments like this too, when she was relaxed and unconcerned about what was happening around her. Blair almost never truly relaxed, probably because she almost never felt safe. Cam’s jaw tightened with the frustration that had plagued her since the first time she’d seen Blair. She wished for the impossible—to change the circumstances of Blair’s life—and she could no more do that than Blair could change hers.

“I can feel you watching me,” Blair said quietly.

“I like watching you.”

“I’m not doing anything.”

“I know. That’s why I like watching you.”

Blair put the paper down beside her plate and studied Cam from beneath narrowed brows. “Want to tell me why?”

“I like seeing you with your guard down. Your edges get soft.”

“Really. Are you trying to say most of the time I’m prickly and unapproachable?”

Cam grinned. “You mean like now? No.”

Blair suppressed a smile. One of the things she loved about Cam was the way Cam never feared her temper—in fact, she sometimes seemed to enjoy goading her. Maybe that was because they always had such great makeup sex. Maybe that was why she was never afraid to let her temper show, even though, now that she thought of it, her temper had cooled since they’d been together. “You know, all you have to do is ask.”

“Ask what?” Cam said.

Blair leaned forward over the table, glancing around the car to see how close the agents were. Ellen and Mac were at a table just inside the door. Lucinda sat at the far end of the presidential dining car drinking a cup of tea and reading a stack of briefs. No one close by. “If you want to get laid, all you need to do is say so.”

“I might be able to manage it even without asking.” Cam leaned too. “I’m good with my hands.”

Blair grinned. “That’s a possibility.”

“It doesn’t look like Lucinda is going anywhere for a while,” Cam said. “We’ll have the entire car to ourselves.”

“Even if we didn’t, I’m pretty sure all of the berths are soundproof.” Blair pushed back her chair. “Want to test it out?”

“Yes.” Cam dropped her napkin on the table and rose. “Ready?”

Blair stood and slipped her phone into her back pocket. “Absolutely.”

Cam’s phone went off just as Blair opened their door. She glanced at it and grimaced. “I’m going to have to take this. Sorry.”

Blair turned to face her, kicked off her boots, and unzipped her jeans. “Go ahead. I’ll wait.”

Cam watched her as she took the call. “Roberts.”

Blair pushed her jeans down and off, taking her underwear with it. Cam slid a hand behind her and locked the cabin door. She leaned against it as Blair slowly undressed.

“I think I’ve got something for you,” Loren McElroy said.

“Go ahead.”

“Turns out one of the deputies in the local sheriff’s department has been feeding information to the bikers around here for almost ten years. We’ve got somebody in the department too, and he reports this good old boy likes to talk a little bit. Seems he got word that the militia was about to pull a double cross and there was likely to be a lot of firepower involved. He tipped the bikers, who came in shooting.”

“What was his source?” Cam shrugged out of her sweater. Blair smiled, pulled back the blanket and sheet on the bunk, and lay down on her side. Cam held up one finger and shot her a look begging for mercy.

“It’s a guy by the name of Hooker, could be an alias, probably is. But he’s been feeding this deputy—and probably pumping him for plenty too—for quite a while. That suggests he’s operating local.”

“A merc?”

“Seems like it. Anyhow, we’re digging. We’ve got some of the militia in lock-up. They may have had dealings with him. If we don’t get anywhere, we’ll pull in the deputy. We’ll get an ID.”

“Push it.” Cam stepped over to the bed. “And good work.”

“No problem. I’ll be in touch.”

Cam cut the call and tossed the phone onto the pint-sized dresser.

Blair reached for her belt. “My turn.”

Chapter Fourteen

Idaho

Russo stabbed the off button on the remote, and the eighty-inch plasma screen above the fieldstone fireplace went black. He’d seen enough of Andrew Powell in twelve hours to last the rest of the year. Every national and local news channel had been covering the first day of Powell’s Greet the People trip through the heartland, as it was cleverly being called, nonstop since six a.m. Powell’s campaign strategists had made a smart move getting the smug bastard out of the cloistered halls of Washington and into people’s front yards. Into the heart of conservative, traditional, God-fearing America. His territory.

And while he and his rivals for the national nomination were traipsing back and forth across the country from Boca Raton to Palm Springs, Vegas, and every other winter getaway where conservative donors gathered to flaunt their money and force the candidates to prance around like whores soliciting favors, Powell was out glad-handing the constituents like some old-time, friend-of-the-common-man politician. As if he didn’t know political offices were bought, not won at the ballot box.

And of course people, sheep-like, flocked to the media circus. Large crowds congregated at points along the train route, standing in the arctic cold for hours, for a chance to see the historic passage. Sure, many of them were pro-Powell standard bearers, but just as many were merely curious to see the spectacle. Who they supported didn’t matter now. All those citizens gathered to see him gave an impression of popularity Powell didn’t deserve, and he was savvy enough to capitalize on the lie. The goddamned train slowed even at the places it wasn’t scheduled to stop—Franklin had seen the schedule, as had everyone else with an Internet connection—and Powell emerged from his car to stand in the blowing wind and snow, hatless in just a suit, waving to the crowds, looking young and vigorous and accessible. As if the weather that would freeze an ordinary man’s balls had no effect on him at all. Must have given his security fits, being exposed like that.

The speeches at the scheduled stops were all more of the same rhetoric he’d been spouting since his inauguration—getting Americans back to work, ensuring a strong America in the global market, protecting our shores and our interests abroad, safeguarding the rights of all Americans. That last was where he tripped up, of course. Because what Powell considered rights others considered sacrilege. That was one of his many weaknesses Franklin planned to make clear to the voters, no matter what it took. All the same, the entire train trip was a brilliant political move that couldn’t go unanswered.

Derek handed him a scotch. “The novelty will wear off in a day or two.”

“I doubt it. Americans love a spectacle, and he’s certainly making one.” Franklin wasn’t in the mood to be placated. For once, he found Derek’s earnest faith annoying and naïve. Could his aide still be as much a Boy Scout as he appeared in his khaki pants and button-down shirt and pale blue cashmere sweater? Hadn’t the past four years with Franklin taught him anything?