“Make a decision yet?” Skylar asked.

“I guess you forgot to add mind reader to your list of accomplishments.”

“Not really.” Skylar wiped her mouth on a paper napkin, balled it up, and slid it into her pocket. She tugged another paper napkin from the holder and methodically cleaned each utensil she’d used as well as the rim of the cup. Her movements were practiced and, unless someone was watching her very carefully, not at all obvious.

“Okay, that’s impressive.”

Skylar laughed shortly. “Never can be too careful.”

“I know.”

Leaning back, Skylar shrugged. “There’s not much else I can do to convince you. And, really, if you were an easy sell, I’d be worried. But we don’t have a lot of time. Things are heating up, and I’m not sure we have a great picture of exactly where all the pieces are going to fall. We need to get out in front of this.”

“There’s nothing going on with the Renegades that hasn’t been going on for the last couple of years. So you’re here because of the militia.”

Skylar’s left eyebrow rose an eighth of an inch. “Well, I see you’ve made a decision.”

She had, and it wasn’t because of any conclusion she’d come to through logic or analysis. Her gut told her Skylar was on the level, and her gut had kept her alive this long. If she was wrong, then she could hope that she’d figure it out before Skylar reported back to whoever had hired her. If she took Skylar out and made it look like an accident, she’d buy time before someone else came looking. She’d just have to keep Skylar close. “So? What’s going on with the militia?”

“That’s what we want to find out. Right now, all we’re hearing is a lot of chatter on the Internet and reports of high-level deals from various informants—details murky.” Skylar leaned forward. “We need to compare notes.”

Loren scanned the diner. No one was paying much attention to them, but she was never happy about staying in one place for too long. If they bumped into someone she knew, she wasn’t sure how she’d explain her early-morning breakfast with the babe who’d showed up out of nowhere the night before. She pulled her wallet from her back pocket and laid a twenty on the table. “Let’s go somewhere else to talk.”

“Where do you suggest?”

“My place.”


*


Cam landed hard on her back and tucked her chin to prevent her skull from slamming into the thin canvas mat. Blair dropped beside her and trapped her right arm in a figure-four hold before flipping her onto her stomach. The pressure in her shoulder increased as Blair ratcheted her arm higher between her shoulder blades. Cam tapped the mat and the pressure disappeared. She rolled over and Blair knelt on the mat, her hands relaxed on her thighs.

“Nice move,” Cam said.

“Your attention was wavering.” Blair grinned.

“No, it wasn’t. You were just a little faster that time.”

“I’ve been wanting to try that move.” Blair shrugged. “Had enough?”

They’d been at it for forty-five minutes. Cam’s T-shirt was soaked with sweat. Blair’s hair lay in dark golden strands along her neck, her face glowed, and her eyes gleamed bright and clear. “If you’re satisfied, I could do with a shower and a late breakfast.”

“Shower here or at home?” Blair asked.

Cam pushed herself up to a sitting position and flipped the wet hair off her forehead. She eyed Blair slowly. “I think home would be safer.”

Blair laughed and rose gracefully to her feet. “Something you have in mind?”

“Yeah. A move I’ve been wanting to try.”

Chapter Seven


Cam held the line while the operator at Quantico patched her through to Eddie Byrnes, an FBI special agent she’d worked with when she was in the investigative division. They’d run a few joint task forces together, chasing drug money being laundered through seemingly legal gambling operations in Atlantic City. Eddie had moved over into counterterrorism after the bombings, and she’d eventually been rerouted to Homeland Security. Counterterrorism covered a lot of potential threat areas, from monitoring terrorist activities overseas to ferreting out sleeper cells at home. Eddie would be working closely with teams monitoring subversive domestic groups, and he’d know who she ought to talk to. She just had to get the information from him without revealing exactly why she needed it.

“Byrnes,” a raspy voice said.

“Eddie, it’s Cam Roberts.”

“Cam, hey. I hear congratulations are in order.”

“Ah, thanks,” Cam said, still not used to how her private life had suddenly become public. When you married the president’s daughter, privacy became wishful thinking.

“Nice catch. Any advice?”

Cam laughed. “’Fraid not. Just lucky.”

“Uh-huh. So—what’s doing?”

“Can you spare me a few minutes?”

“Sure—what’s your schedule like?”

“I was hoping today.”

“Must be important,” Eddie said, probing a little.

“It’s time sensitive. I’ll come to you—you still based out of Richmond?”

“So I heard you were HS now. They give you your own plane too?”

“A loaner.”

Eddie snorted. “Hate to disappoint you, but I’m in DC. You can take a cab.”

“Even better. When and where?”

“How about Duggin’s around three?”

“I’ll be there. Thanks, Eddie.”

“Sure thing.”

Cam hung up and checked a text that had come in while they’d talked. Lucinda. Meeting at 1345. Her office. Cam sighed. Back to the White House.

On my way, Cam texted back.

Blair had gone to the spare room she used as a studio to paint, and Cam stopped to say good-bye. Blair had her back to the doorway, applying background colors to a five-by-five canvas in broad, sweeping strokes of magenta and purple. She was listening to something through her earphones and swaying rhythmically with each bold stroke. She’d stripped off her shirt and wore just a faded green tank top and low-cut jeans. She was barefoot, her hair damp from the shower they’d finally shared after a fast and furious few moments in bed. The lovemaking had felt as cathartic as the workout in the gym and nearly as rigorous. Despite the intense connection they’d shared just a short while before, Cam chafed under the uneasy sense that something was off between them. She suspected she was the cause—she didn’t want Blair anywhere near the campaign trail until the threat of reprisal for the thwarted attack and apprehension of Jennifer Pattee was resolved. And she couldn’t do a damn thing to stop her. Deciding not to inflict her dark mood on Blair, she turned away.

“Call me if you’re going to be late,” Blair said from behind her.

Cam turned back. “Sorry, I didn’t want to disturb you.”

Blair studied her solemnly, her brilliant blue eyes stormy gray. “You bother me in many ways, Cameron, but being near me has never been one of them.”

Cam walked over and kissed her. “I love to watch you paint.”

Blair held both hands out away from Cam’s crisp white shirt and tailored charcoal jacket. “You won’t love me if I get paint on you.”

Cam grinned. “I might. Depends on the circumstances.”

Blair leaned in and nipped at Cam’s lip. “Guess we’ll have to see, then.”

“I don’t expect to be too late. Meetings. You know how that goes.”

“All right. Whatever you need to do.”

“I’m flying to Atlanta first thing in the morning.”

Blair nodded. “If you don’t mind, I think I’ll go home for a while.”

“Yes. Of course.” Cam’s condo was their Washington residence, but it’d never been home for Blair. The sanctuary she had made for herself in New York City across from Gramercy Park was home. The loft space, the wide-open studio, but perhaps most of all, the city itself—where she could step out the door and disappear into the throngs of people—were her touchstones. The city represented freedom to her like no other place ever had. Right now, facing the constraints of heightened security on the campaign trail, she probably needed that freedom, or at least the semblance of freedom, more than she had in a long time. “When?”

“Tomorrow after you leave.”

“Do you want me to join you there?”

Blair’s eyes softened and the storm clouds disappeared. She leaned her cheek against Cam’s shoulder. “Of course I do. There’s nowhere in the world I want to be without you.”

Cam kissed her forehead. “Then I’ll be there. Soon as I can.”

Blair kissed her neck. “I know. I love you.”

“I love you too,” Cam said quietly.


*


Lucinda’s aide directed Cam into Lucinda’s West Wing office as soon as she arrived. Paula Stark and Adam Eisley—Andrew Powell’s political strategist and campaign manager, a fortysomething Ivy Leaguer with hawk-like eyes—were already waiting in the formal sitting area. Lucinda put aside a report and joined them.

“Can I order anything up from the kitchen for you, Cam?” Lucinda asked.

“No, I’m fine. Thanks.” Cam nodded to the others and sat down.

“I won’t keep you long, then,” Lucinda said. “Paula and Adam have been discussing the itinerary, and since there’s some difference of opinion as to just how we should proceed, I thought you ought to be here for the discussion.”

Adam looked like he had developed an acute ulcer. “This is a waste of time, as I’ve already noted. There’s nothing to discuss.”

Stark’s normally calm dark eyes sparked. “You can’t just make unilateral decisions about areas outside your expertise.”

“I can when my job takes precedence over everyone else’s—which it does if any of you want to have a job in a few more months.”

“We’re not talking about job security here, we’re—”

“If you did the job you were—”

Cam followed the thinly veiled insults being hurled back and forth, as to who knew what and who had the final say, for a few minutes, then interrupted. “I take it this is about Blair.”

Paula and Adam looked at her as if just now realizing they were discussing her wife. Paula blushed. Adam just shook his head in apparent disgust.

Paula said, “For the record, I’m opposed to Ms. Powell accompanying the campaign entourage given the recent circumstances.”

Adam made a sound like rocks tumbling down a metal chute. “What the hell does that mean?”

Lucinda said, “We’ve had a recent spate of death threats aimed at POTUS.”

“So what else is new? That’s part of the job description.” He cocked his head at Cam. “Isn’t the whole point of the Secret Service to see nothing comes of it?”

“Yes,” Can said, aware that Lucinda had purposefully not told Adam about the actual attack, “but when the density of threats increases, we take notice.”

“So—put more bodies around him.”

“Then you’ll complain we’re keeping him away from the public,” Stark muttered.

“Cam,” Lucinda said calmly, “what are the chances the security threat level will be lowered by the time we depart?”

Cam sighed. “A situation like this can change quickly—there’s no way to say.”

Adam grunted. “There you have it. We can’t keep the president under wraps, and if he goes on the trail, Blair goes.”

“Blair isn’t essential,” Paula said. “Not enough to outweigh the risks. She’s been a target before. She’s an obvious secondary now.” She glanced at Lucinda. “I can’t order her to stay, but you or the president could.”

“Look,” Adam said. “No one wants anyone in harm’s way, but that’s the reality of the game. None of you can say whether next week, or next month, or four months from now will be any safer.” He glared at Cam. “Right?”

“Yes,” Cam said reluctantly.

Paula sat forward in her chair. “From a security point of view, it makes sound tactical sense to remove an obvious secondary target and put all our resources into securing the primary, at least until we can investigate some of the potential threats.”

“I agree,” Cam said. “If we could have a few weeks to get this cleared up before Blair—”

“You just said you can’t guarantee a quick resolution,” Adam said, “and the president has a fight on his hands right now.”

Lucinda rubbed her eyes. “Cam, I know how you feel, but I’m afraid Adam is right. The opposition is gaining strength all the time, and Andrew, right or wrong, has gotten the reputation of being remote and removed from the people. Never mind that he’s working thirty-six hours a day handling foreign crises and economic upheaval here at home. The voters need to believe that he is one of them, that he understands their problems, that he can walk in their shoes. And the only way for him to do that is to get out there, with them.”