“Cameron,” Blair murmured, nibbling on Cam’s lower lip, “if you just want to get laid, you don’t have to flatter me.”

Cam laughed and the clouds lifted. “When you put it like that, who could resist?”

“Well, not you, I hope.” Blair brushed back the black wave of hair that insisted on falling across Cam’s forehead. “Are you sure you’re all right? Is it the new mission?”

“I won’t deny it’s on my mind.” Cam clasped Blair’s hand and led her toward the bedroom. “Terrorism doesn’t stop for holidays—in fact, holidays are a prime time to make a statement. I need to get my team together and start moving on this. Especially with Andrew scheduled to leave right after New Year’s.”

“You think they’ll try again?” Blair didn’t quite mask the tremor in her voice.

“No reason to think that.” Angry at herself for worrying Blair, Cam yanked off her jacket and tossed it over a stuffed chair near the bed. “But we can’t assume there isn’t a backup plan, and we can’t allow terrorists to believe they can launch an attack on the president of the United States without reprisal.”

Blair nodded, her jaw set and her eyes clear of fear. “What do you plan to do first?”

Cam unbuttoned her shirt and stripped it off along with the silk undershirt. “First thing is to decide who I can read in on this. Then I plan to talk to someone who might be able to give me a closer look at what’s going on with the militia groups.”

“Unzip me.” Blair turned her back to Cam. “Who?”

“I’ve got a few contacts who can put me in touch with other agents monitoring paramilitary organizations. I might have to call in some favors, but I’ll start there.”

“I guess you won’t be able to stay away from fieldwork.”

Cam teased the zipper down to the small of Blair’s back, brushed the straps of Blair’s midnight gown from her shoulders, and pulled her back against her chest. She kissed Blair’s shoulder at the curve of her neck. “I would if I could, but we can’t afford a leak. And the only way to contain a leak is to limit those in the know. Everyone who does know will need to be boots on the ground.”

Blair stiffened but kept her voice light. “You’re a deputy director of Homeland Security. You don’t have to get your boots wet.”

Cam pushed Blair’s dress slowly down over her hips where it gathered at her feet like a glimmering pool under the moonlight. Sliding both hands up Blair’s torso, she cupped her breasts and brushed her mouth over Blair’s ear. “I know what you want. I’ll do my best.”

Blair’s head fell back against Cam’s shoulder, and she arched into Cam’s hands. “I know you will. You always do.”

“I love you, Blair.” Cam turned Blair until Blair’s breasts brushed against her chest. She kissed her, felt their bodies fuse, their spirits join, and the memories of loss and fears for the future faded. There was only Blair, and Blair was everything.

Chapter Two


Senator Franklin Russo walked the last guest down the spacious central hall to the front door of his estate in Idaho Falls. His assistant held out a long sable coat for the doyen of the county, a widow who wielded the power her money could buy with the cold indifference of a threshing machine. Whoever was unfortunate enough to stand in the path of her plan to put a man worthy of God and country in the White House was destined to be mown down. Fortunately for him, he was that man.

“I’m so glad you could come tonight, Eleanor.”

Eleanor Bigelow smiled at him thinly and turned her back so Russo’s deferential assistant, a thirty-year-old man in a conservative navy blazer, charcoal pants, and narrow red-striped tie, could drape the coat over her shoulders. “I know how busy you are, Franklin, and I’ve been wanting a moment with you for some time. It’s always wise to know what my money is buying.”

Franklin kept his expression bland, reminding himself that once he sat in the Oval Office, no one would own him. The power would be his. Until then, he would ingratiate himself as need be. He had his own resources and his campaign coffers were healthy, but some expenditures he couldn’t afford to have made public. Private benefactors rarely demanded an exact accounting of how their funds were spent. Knowledge might be power, but it was also culpability, and the rich coveted the illusion of clean hands. The language of politics was less what was said and more what was implied and inferred, and he had understood Mrs. Charles Bigelow quite well. She expected her candidate to put a gun back in every house, God in every school, and the white elite in every position of power. Since he happened to agree, he wasn’t worried about placating her need to exercise her authority, at least on the surface.

He bowed ever so slightly. “You can be sure I’ll see that your generosity is put to use in support of an agenda—”

“You can save the speech for the campaign, Franklin. Just see that Washington doesn’t give away what’s left of the country, and put the power back in the hands of those who know what to do with it.”

“Yes, ma’am,” Franklin said solicitously. “I surely will.”

Franklin stood in the doorway, the brightly lit, expansive hall decked out in holiday trimmings at his back, until the limo driver hurried up the path from the driveway to escort his employer to the idling Town Car. Snow drifted into Franklin’s face and coated his shoulders, but he didn’t move until Bigelow departed. Then he dusted off his black cashmere jacket and stepped back inside.

Derrick was waiting. “I take it the meeting was a success?”

“She’s promised us three million. For starters.”

“Merry Christmas,” Derrick murmured softly. He nodded toward the paneled door of Franklin’s study across the hall. “Can I pour you a drink?”

“I’d say this calls for one.” Franklin frowned. “Where’s my wife?”

“She retired some time ago.”

“Of course.” Franklin followed Derrick into the study and settled behind his broad desk. His wife managed to perform her hostess duties out of some long-ingrained sense of decorum, a virtue of her Southern upbringing, but she was barely able to do much more. With every passing week, she became more of a liability than a benefit. Idly he wondered which would create a more sympathetic figure in the voters’ eyes—a widower or a devoted husband to an infirm wife. Powell had certainly gotten a lot of mileage out of his widower status, and the absence of a first lady had given Powell the excuse to push his degenerate daughter onto the national stage. “Pour one for yourself.”

“Thank you, sir,” Derrick said, handing Franklin two fingers of scotch in a crystal rock glass and holding up a glass of his own. “To a victorious campaign.”

“To winning.” Franklin drained the whiskey in one long swallow. He had ten months until all his plans paid off, but he didn’t intend to wait that long to take care of Andrew Powell.


*


Loren noticed the redhead the instant she stepped into the bar. At three in the morning, the only people in the place should have been club members, their old ladies, and hopefuls, girls hoping to become somebody’s old lady. The redhead looked too confident and too high-class to be a hopeful, unlike the two girls in skimpy halters and jeans cut so low their pubic hair would’ve shown if they hadn’t shaved it all off who were slouched in a couple of battered chairs, sleeping off too much booze or too much sex or both. Nobody was behind the bar, but the redhead had a whiskey glass in front of her.

Realizing her steps had slowed as she took in the redhead’s shoulder-length waves, smooth creamy complexion, sharp green eyes, and killer body, Loren averted her gaze and followed Quincy toward the hallway that led to the club rooms in the back.

Quincy stopped next to the redhead, and Loren pulled up behind him.

“You lost?” Quincy said.

The redhead swiveled on the stool, her long slender legs, encased in tight blue jeans, crossed at the knee and ending in shiny black leather boots with four-inch heels. Her leather jacket was open down the front, exposing a tight, scooped-neck turquoise T-shirt and no bra. She had nice breasts, just the right size. She had hot and sexy written all over her. Loren yanked her gaze up and saw the redhead watching her look.

Quincy tapped her chin with his fingertip and repeated, “Lost, sweetheart?”

“I don’t think so,” the redhead said in a throaty voice, finally giving him a slow smile. “I saw the bikes out front. I love bikes. Bikers too.”

“The place is closed,” Quincy said.

“The door was open.”

“Look, honey—”

A gravelly rumble from the far end of the room said, “Let her stay. She brightens up the place. Nice change of scenery.”

Loren, Quincy, and Armeo shifted in the direction of the club president. Ramsey slouched in the door, his muscled arms folded across his leather vest, the black T-shirt underneath tucked into broken-in jeans. His wide black belt sported a buckle with the club’s logo on it—an American flag with wings. His wedding ring glinted on his left hand. His eyes glinted at the babe at the bar. Looked like the Prez had already staked out his territory, and Loren registered a flush of anger that she quickly brushed aside. None of her business who the president chose to bounce with.

Quincy started forward again, and Loren fell into step next to him.

The redhead murmured, “See you later,” and Loren could’ve sworn she was talking directly to her.

They all filed into the club room, and the heavy wooden doors swung closed behind them. All the voting members were there: Ramsey—the president, Quincy—the VP, Armeo—the treasurer, Loren—exact description still open, but procurer was probably the best term, and Griffin—the enforcer. They all settled around the table in traditional order, with Ramsey at the head, Quincy at his left, Griffin to his right, then Loren across from Armeo. Ramsey pulled a cigar from the inside pocket of his black leather vest, bit off the end, spat it unerringly into the dented wastebasket leaning in the corner, and lit it with a silver Zippo. He drew in, savored the smoke, and exhaled slowly. His gaze moved over Loren and Armeo and landed on Quincy. “Everything all right tonight?”

Quincy said, “No problems.”

“Terms?”

Quincy relayed the particulars of the meeting and the agreed-upon price. Ramsey nodded in satisfaction.

“Are we going to have any trouble filling the order?” He looked at Loren.

Loren shook her head. “It’ll take at least two weeks, but there shouldn’t be a problem.” She thought about the calls she’d need to make, the guns she’d need to have moved into the warehouse. “For that quantity, though, we ought to make two runs on different days, different couriers in both directions.”

Ramsey nodded in agreement. “Set it up.”

“How sure are we these militia guys can be trusted?” Quincy said.

“The Bloods have dealt with them before and they say they’re solid,” Ramsey said.

“We’re going to be inside their turf when we make the exchange,” Quincy went on. “That’s a lot of money and merchandise we’re talking about.”

Loren saw an opening, and she might not have another one. “I’m with Quincy on this. If we agree to make the transfer inside the Liberation compound, we’ll be outmanned and outgunned. People disappear all the time up in the Bitterroots. And we can’t exactly file a missing-persons report if some of us don’t come back.”

“So we’ll take precautions,” Ramsey said. “Can we get a backup team up in the mountains to cover the meet?”

Quincy shook his head. “No way up but the one road. They’ll have that watched.”

Ramsey grunted. “Anybody got any suggestions?”

“How about we request some kind of insurance policy before the meet,” Loren said. “One of their guys comes down here and one of us goes up there. Nobody goes home until the money and the guns are transferred and everybody moves back to neutral space.”

“What if they send somebody down here they don’t care about losing?” Griffin said. “A hostage is only worth as much as his value to the other side. They could shoot up our guys, rip us off, and leave us with a useless body to deal with.”

Quincy pointed a finger like he was shooting a gun. “The Bloods know these guys. We can get a rundown on the major players from them. Make sure they send someone with weight.”

“Let me think about it,” Ramsey said. “I don’t like putting one of our guys out there with nothing but his dick for a weapon.”

“No problem,” Loren said. “I’ll go.”