“No. I don’t care who called.”

“Okay.”

“Just like that?” Blair murmured. When Cam didn’t answer, Blair heaved a sigh and reached across her for the phone. She checked Caller ID, then pushed Call. “It was Stark.”

“Mmm.”

“Paula? It’s Blair. Who?” Blair sat up, continuing to stroke Cam, who regarded her intently. She covered the mouthpiece. “Barnett.”

“I want to speak to her before I leave today,” Cam said.

Blair rolled her eyes. “All right. Half an hour.” She tossed the phone aside and glared at Cam. “This is all your fault, you know.”

“I know.”

“It’s a good thing you’re so good in bed.”

“Ah, is there any safe answer to that?” Cam asked.

Blair shook her head, her gaze dropping to Cam’s mouth. “But there is a very good reply of another sort.”

“How much time do we have?” Cam moved down the bed.

Blair spread her fingers through Cam’s hair. “Enough.”

Chapter Eight

“Sir?"

“Good morning, Colonel.” Matheson held the phone in one hand and balanced his coffee mug on the knee of his crisply creased trousers with the other as he sat in a comfortable chair in front of a huge stone fireplace. He’d played on that hearth with his best friend as a child. Charlie was dead now, a martyr in the battle to secure the American way of life. But his memory remained, and his son, unlike Matheson’s, also lived on to fight for the cause.

“I received some intelligence that I thought I should bring to your attention.”

“Go ahead, Colonel.”

“A reporter has been assigned to cover the target’s upcoming… uh…event. Full access.”

“Anyone we can use?” Matheson watched the logs shift, sending showers of sparks onto the stones.

“Doubtful, sir, but we’re running background checks now.”

“How reliable is your source?”

“Very, sir. She’s an assistant in the office of the White House Deputy Press—”

“That will do.” Matheson didn’t trust even the most secure of lines. He smiled at the thought of a patriot in the West Wing. A woman, whom no one would suspect. It wasn’t true that only men could serve, it was simply a matter of recognizing a woman’s unique skills. While not having the mental fortitude or physical constitution for combat, women were a natural for communications work. “I like the press angle. Get me a list of names. We’ll want someone out there right away to establish connections before the target arrives.”

“Yes sir. Are you comfortable, sir? Everything you need there?”

“Perfectly, Colonel. Thank you and carry on.”

“Sir.”

Matheson disconnected and settled back in the chair, crossing his long legs at the ankle. Information was easy to come by. Until recently, access to potential targets—people and places—had been relatively simple as well. Getting close to Blair Powell might be more difficult now, but it was far from impossible. He smiled. A challenge merely made the hunt more satisfying.

The outcome was not in question. After all, he had God on his side.

Dana stepped off the elevator into a foyer that could have been in any luxury apartment building in the city. The eight by ten foot space was dimly lit by wall sconces, the marble floor nearly hidden beneath a thick oriental carpet, and the walls papered in some muted classic pattern above dark wood wainscoting. The surroundings spoke of money and taste and elegance. Even the cameras discreetly tucked into several corners weren’t that unusual in a security-conscious city, nor was the fact that the elevator required a special key, which Agent Stark had produced when they were ready to ride up. The man standing with his back to the wall next to the only door in the foyer was different, though. A blond-haired, blue-eyed clone of the one who had greeted her in the lobby downstairs scrutinized her and Stark with unapologetic intensity. Agent Stark handed him Dana’s ID, which Dana had surrendered upon request when Stark had informed her that the first daughter would see her.

“This is Dana Barnett,” Agent Stark said, handing the ID to the agent guarding the door.

The man studied Dana’s face, then the ID, then Dana once more. He held out her ID and she took it.

“Why the ID check? Doesn’t he believe you?” Dana asked Agent Stark. She didn’t get an answer, and she wasn’t entirely surprised. Thus far she’d been told three times in slightly different fashions that the Secret Service does not discuss protocol. “If I don’t know, I may have to make things up.”

“Perhaps you just shouldn’t report on topics that haven’t been cleared,” Stark replied mildly.

“Is anything ever going to be cleared?”

“I’m sure Ms. Powell’s wardrobe…no, actually, I’m not certain of that either.”

Dana grinned ruefully. She had a feeling that Agent Stark wasn’t making a joke. “All right, tell me if I’m hot or cold. He won’t take your word for it because I could have coerced you into bringing me up here. However, since I wouldn’t know to give you my ID to give to him, that’s a signal that you brought me here intentionally. It’s a code.”

“I doubt that Ms. Powell has much time allotted for you,” Stark said. “We probably shouldn’t waste any.”

“You’re right.” Dana waited while Stark knocked on the door. “But I was hot, wasn’t I?”

As she spoke, the door swung open and Blair Powell regarded them with interest. “Something new and exciting I should know about?”

Stark blushed. “No, ma’am. Dana Barnett to see you.”

Blair looked Barnett over. She appeared slightly more rested than the day before, but obviously wasn’t concerned about the image she projected. Her chinos and white button-down collar shirt were clean but not pressed, the black leather belt cinched above narrow hips was dull with age, and her boots similarly worn. Her casual disregard for her appearance and her lack of desire to make a good impression were refreshing.

“I gather you couldn’t convince anyone there’d been a terrible mistake?” Blair asked.

Dana couldn’t help but smile. “Apparently, Lucinda Washburn doesn’t make mistakes.” She raised a hopeful eyebrow. “What about you? Any luck?”

“Apparently not,” Blair said dryly, appreciating Barnett’s disregard for her position. Usually the press tended to be obsequious or obnoxious, but rarely unimpressed. “You’re here.”

Cam stepped up next to Blair. “I only have a few more minutes.”

“I know.” Blair slipped an arm around Cam’s waist. “Come in, Ms. Barnett.”

“Please, call me Dana.” Dana followed the first daughter and the deputy director as they crossed to a seating area in the center of the loft. She had caught the flash of discomfort that streaked across Blair Powell’s face an instant before she hid it behind the beautiful façade the world was used to seeing. The first daughter was unhappy about something. The deputy director looked as impassive as a stone statue. Except. Except when her eyes moved ever so briefly to Blair Powell’s face. Then her charcoal eyes sparked with tenderness and heat. The wave of raw desire emanating from Cameron Roberts washed over Dana so unexpectedly she had no time to prepare. She broke out into a sweat and her heart rate soared. Jesus. These two should come with a warning sign.

Roberts turned to Dana and Dana stiffened under the unwavering gaze.

“Sit down, Ms. Barnett,” Roberts said, taking Blair Powell’s hand as the two sat on a leather sofa in a seating area with a fireplace on one wall, huge windows on the other and open space. The hammered tin ceilings had to be twenty feet high.

Dana forced her tense muscles to relax as she settled onto a matching sofa with a sleek dark coffee table the same color as the floor between them. “I appreciate you seeing me this morning, Ms. Powell.”

Blair smiled. “I have a feeling you would have made Stark’s morning unpleasant if I hadn’t.”

“I make it a point not to misrepresent myself, so I won’t disagree.” Dana fixed on the deputy director. “You wanted to talk to me?”

“I supported Lucinda Washburn’s position on you having exclusive access to Ms. Powell for the next week or so,” Roberts said, “because I feel that it benefits the first daughter. If that should no longer be the case, we’ll sever your contact with her.”

“Are you trying to offer me a loophole to slip out of this assignment, Deputy Director?”

“Is that what you want?” Roberts replied.

Dana thought about the two women sitting across from her. Blair Powell was publicly one of the most important women in the United States by virtue of her position as well as her popularity. Cameron Roberts held a critical position vital to the security of the United States and yet remained a cipher, virtually unrecognizable to the man on the street. They were about to become the focus of intense media scrutiny and much debate. They were news, no question. But they were more than reluctant celebrities—they were the public and not so public faces of power, and she had the opportunity to be closer to them than anyone in her position ever had. “No. I’m not looking for an out.”

“Why not?” Cam asked. “Twenty-four hours ago you didn’t think this assignment was very important.”

Dana took a deep breath. “I apologize for that.” She looked at Blair. “Ms. Powell, I hope you forgive my arrogance. I’m honored to be able to take part in what I know must be a very important event in your life.”

Blair laughed. “What part interests you the most? My trousseau? The menu? The floral arrangements?”

“Uh.” Dana felt the blood drain from her face and scrambled for an answer. She frowned. “How do you decide what to wear? I mean, for the majority of couples it’s a tux and a dress. So what will it be for you two? Dresses?” As she looked from one to the other, she had the satisfaction of seeing Cameron Roberts’s face blanch.