"Blackmail?"

"If it is, they've got more balls than brains. You don't blackmail the daughter of the President of the United States. Not like this-and, goddamn it-not on my watch."

"Well", Blair said resignedly, suddenly aware of a weariness that went deeper than flesh, "Im sure well know soon enough."

Tiredly, she leaned her forehead against the glass, watching the night slide by. The stretch of highway outside the speeding vehicle was barren and seemed to echo the emptiness in her heart. Of course she had been foolish to think that she would be allowed to love anyone in peace, let alone someone like the woman seated across from her. She closed her eyes, knowing that she would sleep alone that night, and wanting more than anything else for that not to be true.

Chapter Fifteen

Cam watched Blair as wordless moments passed. It was the quiet that worried her. Anger she would have expectedeven, considering the circumstances-embraced. Accusations of her own complicity in allowing the photo to be taken, however unfounded, would have been more welcome than the curtain of silence that fell heavily between them.

She tried to imagine how it must feel to have one's most personal experiences on display, not just once, but repeatedly. She couldn't, even though it washer picture in the newspaper as well. Even had her face been clear, and her name printed in bold letters beneath the image, it wouldn't have been the same thing for her as it was for Blair. She wasn't recognized the world over, nor was her family likely to be held up to scrutiny by self-appointed guardians of right and wrong whose true motivation was nothing loftier their own their political gain. She was guilty of nothing, but even if she were, her transgression would soon be forgotten.

That was not the case for Blair Powell or her father. The President was not immune to the effect of public opinion, just the opposite. Right or wrong had nothing to do with the fact that powerful groups jockeyed constantly for position and influence in the Washington political arena. Something as inflammatory as Andrew Powell's daughter's love affair-especially herlesbian love affair-would give his opponents one more piece of ammunition to threaten him with.

"Blair," Cam began gently, "is there anything I can do?"

Finally turning away from the window and the night and her own troubled thoughts, Blair straightened infinitesimally. When she spoke, her voice was stronger, carrying a hint of its old steel. "Yes. You can tell me right now if you're up for what's coming."

"What?" Cam exclaimed, too surprised by the question to even absorb it completely. When the reality of what Blair was asking finally hit her, she replied heatedly, "You can't really think that this would matter to me?"

"It's one thing to talk in the abstract about the possibility of exposure. It's quite another thing to be the center of a media circus. Believe me, I know."

"Jesus Christ."

Cam stared at her as she bit back another irate retort. Blairs voice had been calm, steady-her face expressionless. She looked the way she'd looked the first day Cam had met her-cool, controlled, untouchable. Cam remembered very well the angry, wounded woman Blair had been, and how in recent weeks that rage had burned less brightly and the wounds had seemed less raw. Until this.

Christ, she's scared.

That realization defused Cam's anger. Fear was not something she associated with the Presidents daughter, and perhaps for the first time, she understood the price of Blairs strength-the isolation and the impenetrable defenses and the expectation of loss.

Quickly, Cam shifted across the narrow space between them until she was sitting on the seat next to Blair. She found her hand in semi-darkness and whispered vehemently, "I intend to find out who is behind this. Once I do, I intend to kick their ass from one side of this continent to the other. I love you. Nothing and no one will ever change that."

Blair tightened her grip on Cam's hand and leaned into the reassuring solidity of her body. "You don't even know yet what kind of pressure there's going to be for us to stop seeing one another."

The words hit Cam in the center of her chest like a sledgehammer. Even being shot hadn't hurt as much. "No. Don't even think it, because it gives the possibility power. Please."

"When you were shot", Blair said as if reading her thoughts, «I felt parts of me dying with you. Her voice was hushed, as if she were speaking in a dream. "I had only just begun to let you in, and I was nearly lost already. Now, I dont think I could survi"

"Blair. I love you. I am not going anywhere. I swear."

Blair searched her eyes and saw only truth. "It scares me how much I need you."

"Dont forget I need you, too". Cam lifted Blairs hand, brushed a kiss swiftly across the back of her knuckles. "More than youll ever know."

"Ill try to remember that". Blair drew the first full breath shed taken since the airport. "So-what do we do now, Commander?"

Cam laughed, but there was an edge to the laughter. "Im a Secret Service agent. Do you think I cant track down the little bastard that gave that photo to the wire service?"

"Just be careful, Cam", Blair warned. «Someone doesnt need a gun to be dangerous. In the right hands, a camera can be lethal.

"Any coward who chooses this underhanded way of going after you is no threat to me. Dont worry."

"Why dont I feel reassured?"

"Ill be careful. But this is what I do."

"I suppose I have to accept the logic of that", Blair finally conceded. Again she sighed. "I'm surprised I haven't heard from the White House by now. The Chief of Staff must be having kittens all over the West Wing."

"I thought Lucinda Washburn was a personal friend of your family's," Cam said, referring to the woman who most people considered the most powerful woman in Washington. As the first female Chief of Staff, she held the President's ear and served as his most instrumental adviser. When Andrew Powell had run for the presidency, he had made it very clear that no decision would be made without her input. That had proved to be true over the first months of his tenure when economic crises at home and the reemergence of violent foreign unrest had placed his administration in the spotlight.

"Trust me," Blair said without any hint of animosity. "Lucy's number one goal from the day my father was sworn in has been to get him reelected. She's known him since they were in college, and I think she's been working to get him where he is today since then. She'd sacrifice almost anything oranyone to keep him in the White House for a second term."

"And you think that includes forcing you to...what?" Cam asked in frustration. "Give up our relationship?"

"I think Lucy considers relationships expendable if they stand in the way of a higher goal."

"What about your father? Does he feel the same way?"

"I don't know." Blair glanced out the window as they emerged from the Lincoln Tunnel into Manhattan, realizing that they were only moments from her building. "I don't know him well enough to guess. But I don't think it will be very long before we find out."

*****

A few minutes later, the cars pulled up in front of Blair's apartment building, and the occupants of both vehicles began the familiar, choreographed routine of disembarking. Once through the doors and into the small but ornate lobby of the elegant building, Blair hesitated. The elevator was twenty feet away, and Stark had already walked over to it and keyed the single locked car which went to Blair's top floor apartment. Turning her back to the elevator and the agents waiting nearby, Blair faced Cam and said hurriedly in a voice too low for the others to hear, "Is there any way you can stay?"

Cam could only imagine what it cost Blair to ask that. Her eyes swept over the agents waiting to accompany Blair upstairs, several of whom would remain one floor below her apartment in the command center for the remainder of the night shift.

"I want to. You know that don't you?" Cam said, her voice a strained whisper.

Blair's eyes swiftly became unreadable. "I'm sorry. I shouldn't have asked."

"Blair..."

Abruptly, Blair turned and walked directly across the lobby and into the open elevator. Stark followed her in and the doors closed soundlessly behind them.

Turning to Davis and the others, Cam said bitingly, "I'll be on my pager."

"Roger," Felicia Davis replied, her expression carefully neutral.

Cam turned without another word, pushed through the double doors, and was quickly lost to the dark.

Chapter Sixteen

Cam hesitated briefly on the sidewalk. It was two o'clock in the morning. She glanced up and diagonally across the block-wide oasis of trees that comprised Gramercy Park to the building where she lived when in New York City on assignment. The prospect of pacing for several sleepless hours in her utilitarian apartment held little appeal. The prospect of tossing in her solitary bed trying to forget the way Blair had looked walking away from her held even less. Quickly, she walked to the southeast corner of the square and flagged a cab. She gave the cabbie an intersection in the East Village.

Traffic was light in the small hours of the morning in Manhattan, even though there was more activity there at any hour than in any other American city. When she paid the driver and stepped out, there were still people strolling on the sidewalks, and here and there music wafted from the open doors of taverns and all-night restaurants. It was a short walk to her destination, and less than a half an hour after leaving Blair's building, she was seated on a corner barstool in a small, neighborhood bar. The bartender, a hard-bodied, hard-eyed brunette came over almost immediately. The muscles in her well-developed shoulders and upper arms strained the fabric of the tight white T-shirt she wore tucked into faded blue jeans.

"How you doin'?"

"Fine," Cam said. "Glenlivet. Double-straight up."

"Sure thing."

A minute later, Cam was sipping the aged, single malt scotch and trying to make sense of the last few hours.

Hell, the last few days.

She turned the glass aimlessly on the bar top and tried to make sense of a puzzle from which too many pieces were missing. It had started with the debriefing in Washington and Stewart Carlisle's odd capitulation to Doyles bullying threats of an investigation and had culminated with the night's oblique threat to Blair. And then, of course, there was Claire.

She sighed wearily. «Claire.

From beside her, a voice softly questioned, "Girlfriend?"

Cam jumped, startled, and that in itself spoke volumes about her muddled state of mind. Or perhaps just her persistent state of fatigue. She turned her eyes to the redhead who had slipped onto the barstool beside her without her even noticing. The woman looked to be in her early twenties, but might be a decade older. Her green eyes were wide and liquid with invitation, and her high, full breasts-shown off to their full advantage in a scoop-necked tank top that exposed plenty of cleavage in addition to the sharp prominences of her nipples-were ripe with promise.

"Has to be a woman to make you look that down," the woman remarked again.

"No." Cam shook her head. "Just thinking."

"If there's something-or someone-you'd like to forget for a few hours, I can think of a couple of interesting ways to help you out."

"No, thanks," Cam said, smiling slightly. "What I need is to think, not forget."

"It never pays to think alone," the redhead said, leaning closer, her fingers pressing lightly on the top of Cam's right hand.

"I'm not alone," Cam said softly.

The woman studied her silently for a moment, then nodded. "Then I'll let you get back to whatever is keeping you up tonight."

With that she moved away and Cam returned to studying her drink. The touch of the stranger's hand had made her think of Claire.

Claire. Is she a part of this?

Until a few days ago, she had thought that chapter of her life closed.

After she hung up the phone, Cam hurriedly crossed to the bedroom, stripped off the robe, and grabbed for the first thing that was handy. She was just buttoning the fly of her jeans when the doorbell rang. Quickly, she pulled on the T-shirt and opened the door.

"Hello, Claire."

"I'm sorry," the woman in the hallway began. "I know I shouldn't have come -"