Her father was an experienced journalist, and he’d originally intended to write the book himself, but after a few months’ work, he’d decided one viewpoint was too limiting. He wanted several perspectives, each highlighting a different aspect of Nealy’s life, so he’d asked Nealy’s father to write one section and Terry Ackerman, Nealy’s longtime aide, to write another. Most of all, he wanted Lucy’s viewpoint. She had been an inside witness from the time Nealy had first run for the Senate through her presidency, and she was to write about Nealy as a mother. Lucy had jumped at the opportunity, but so far she hadn’t written a word. Even though her deadline wasn’t until September, now would be a perfect time to get started.

She’d found a laptop computer in the den—a computer wiped clean of any personal information—and after she’d finished breakfast, she carried it out to the porch. As she arranged herself on one of the chaises she had covered with a beach towel, she inspected the tattoo of thorns and blood drops that encircled her bicep. It was gloriously tacky, and she loved it, or maybe she simply loved the idea of displaying something like it, if only temporarily. The packaging said it could last up to two weeks, but she’d bought replacements as well as a few other tattoo patterns she might or might not use.

She pulled her eyes away from the bloody thorns and thought about what she wanted to write. Finally she set her fingers on the keys.

When my mother was president …

A squirrel chattering just outside the screen distracted her. She pulled her attention back to the keyboard.

When my mother was president, her working day started every morning before six with a stint on the treadmill …

Lucy hated treadmills. She’d rather walk outside in the rain and snow than on a machine.

My mother believed in the benefits of exercise.

So did Lucy, which didn’t mean she liked it. The trick was to find something you didn’t hate doing.

A trainer had designed her program, but she and my father were usually alone in the gym.

Lucy didn’t like gyms, either.

They started their routine with easy stretches, then—

She frowned. Anyone could have written those boring sentences. Mat wanted something personal, and this wasn’t it.

She deleted the file and shut down the computer. The morning was too beautiful to write anyway. She grabbed her baseball hat and climbed down the rickety wooden steps to the boat dock. The life vest in the kayak was too big for her, but she cinched it up anyway and took the boat out.

Even as she paddled around the rocky beach that marked the perimeter of Goose Cove, she had a hard time believing she was holed up on an island in the Great Lakes. She’d come here to unearth the secrets of the man her parents had hired to keep her safe, but the house hadn’t yielded any clues, so why was she still here?

Because she didn’t want to leave.

The wind picked up as she hit the open waters of the lake, and she turned the bow into the waves. She rested her arms for a moment, rubbed the bloody thorn tattoo. She didn’t know who she was anymore. The product of a chaotic childhood? An orphan who’d taken responsibility for her infant sister? A celebrity child who’d become part of the symbolic American family? She had been an exemplary student, a dedicated social worker, and she was an accomplished lobbyist. She’d raised a lot of money for some very worthwhile causes and promoted legislation that had made a difference in a lot of lives. Never mind how much she’d grown to dislike that work. Most recently, she was a neurotic bride who’d turned her back on the man destined to be the love of her life.

Between her job, her family, and planning her wedding, she’d been too busy for introspection. Now that she had time for it, she didn’t like the way it made her feel, so she headed back toward the house. She was paddling against the current, and she had to work harder, but it felt good. She reached the shelter of the cove and paused to rest. That’s when she saw the lone figure standing on the end of the dock.

His features were indistinguishable, but she would have known that silhouette anywhere. Wide shoulders and narrow hips. Long legs braced for action, hair blowing around his head.

Her heart started to pound. She bought herself time by making an unnecessary detour to inspect a beaver lodge, then another detour to check out a tree that had fallen into the water. Taking it slow. Pulling herself together.

He should never have kissed her at the Memphis airport. Should never have looked at her like that. If he hadn’t kissed her—hadn’t looked at her with all those turbulent emotions churning in his eyes—she’d have gone back to Washington—gone back to her job—and he’d have been nothing more than her only one-night hookup.

The closer she got, the angrier she became, not just with him but with herself. What if he thought she was chasing him? That hadn’t been it at all, but that’s how it would look.

She slid the kayak up to the dock. The rocky shoreline made it hard for her to beach the boat, so as long as the weather was good, she generally tied it to the ladder. But she didn’t do that now. Instead she secured the kayak loosely—too loosely—to the post at the end of the dock. Finally she looked up at him.

He loomed above her in his standard uniform of jeans and T-shirt, this one bearing the faded insignia of the Detroit Police Department. She took in those high cheekbones; that strong nose; those thin, sadistic lips and laser-sharp blue eyes. He glowered down at her.

“What the hell happened to your hair? And what are you doing out on the lake by yourself? Exactly who did you think was going to rescue you if you went in?”

“Your two weeks are up,” she shot back, “so none of that is your concern. Now I’d appreciate it if you’d help me up on the dock. I’ve got a cramp.”

He should have seen it coming. But he knew only Lucy, not Viper. He moved to the edge of the dock, a lamb to the slaughter, and reached down for her. She grabbed his wrist—braced herself—and, using all her strength, gave a sudden, sharp yank.

Dumb ass. He went right in. She went in, too, but she didn’t care. She cared only about getting the best of him in whatever way she could.

He came up cussing and sputtering from the freezing water, hair wild and wet. All he needed was a cutlass in his teeth. She flipped her own dripping hair out of her eyes and yelled, “I thought you couldn’t swim.”

“I learned,” he yelled back.

She swam away from the kayak, the life vest inching up under her armpits. “You’re a jerk, you know that? A lying, money-grubbing jerk.”

“Get it all out.” He swam toward the ladder, his strokes long and powerful.

She swam after him, her own strokes choppy with anger. “And you’re a first-class—” Viper found the right word. “Asshole!”

He glanced back at her, then mounted the ladder. “Anything else?”

She grabbed the bottom rung. The water hadn’t lost its spring chill, and her teeth chattered so hard they hurt. “A liar, a fraud, a—” She broke off as she spotted the lump. Exactly where she expected to see it. She scrambled up the ladder after him. “I hope that gun is waterproof. No? Too bad.”

He sat on the dock and peeled up the right leg of his jeans, revealing the black leather ankle holster that explained why he’d refused to wear shorts at Caddo Lake, why he wouldn’t go in the water. He pulled the gun out and flipped open the bullet chamber.

“Are you back on duty?” She shoved her wet, dyed hair out of her eyes, her finger snagging on a dread. “Did my parents extend your contract?”

“If you have a problem with what happened, take it up with your family, not with me. I was just doing my job.” He knocked the bullets into his hand.

“They hired you again. That’s why you’re here.”

“No. I’m here because I heard that somebody was squatting in my house. Anybody mention that breaking and entering is a crime?” He blew into the empty chambers.

She was dizzy with fury. “Anybody mention that bodyguards are supposed to identify themselves?”

“Like I said. Take it up with your family.”

She stared down at the top of his head. His hair was already starting to curl. Those wild curls. Thick and rancorous. What kind of man had hair like that? She fumbled with the buckles on her life vest, so angry with him—with herself—she could barely unfasten them. She’d come all this way because of a kiss that she’d convinced herself meant something. And she’d been partially right. It meant that she’d lost her mind. She tore off the vest. “That’s going to be your defense, isn’t it? You were just doing your job.”

“Believe me. It wasn’t easy.” He stopped blowing into the bullet chambers long enough to take in her hair and the thorn and blood tattoo around her arm. “I hope none of that’s permanent. You look weird.”

“Screw you.” Viper would have said, “Fuck you,” but Lucy’s lips couldn’t quite shape the words. “I’m sure you liked that little job perk you picked up at the end? Nailing the president’s daughter has to give you bragging rights in the bodyguard locker room.”

Now he looked almost as angry as she felt. “Is that what you think?”

What I think is that I lost every shred of my dignity when I came here. “What I think is that you’re a professional, so you should have acted like one. That meant telling me who you were. More important, it meant keeping your hands to yourself.”

He sprang up from the dock. “I damn well did! All those days we were trapped in that shitty little hole on Caddo Lake. The two of us rubbing against each other. You running around in a piece of black cellophane you called a bathing suit and that pink top even somebody half blind could see through. I damn well kept my hands to myself then.”

She’d pierced his armor, a small bandage to her pride. “You knew all about me, Panda—or whatever your name really is. You had a dossier full of information on me, but you didn’t reveal one honest thing about yourself. You played me for an idiot.”

“I didn’t play you at all. What happened that night had nothing to do with the job. We were two people who wanted each other. It’s that simple.”

But it hadn’t been simple to her. If it had been simple, she would never have come here.

“I did my job,” he said. “I don’t owe you any more explanations.”

She had to know—had to ask—and Viper formed a sneer to hide the importance of her question. “Did your job include that pathetic, guilt-filled kiss at the airport?”

“What are you talking about?”

His confusion cracked another layer of her self-esteem. “That kiss had your guilty conscience smeared all over it,” she said. “You wanted some kind of absolution because you knew exactly how sleazy you were.”

He stood there stony-faced. “If that’s the way you see it, I’m not going to try to change your mind.”

She wanted him to change her mind. To say something that would make her feel better about everything that had happened since she’d jumped on the back of his motorcycle. But he didn’t, and she’d only inspire pity if she said more herself.

He didn’t try to hold her back as she left the dock. She stopped at the outdoor shower. With her clothes on, she shampooed the lake water out of her hair, then wrapped a beach towel around herself and went inside. A trail of wet footprints followed her across the kitchen floor. She shot the lock on her bedroom door, peeled off her wet clothes, and slipped into a black tank, her leather-belted green tutu skirt, and her combat boots. She took another few minutes to smudge her eyes in black and her lips in brown, and put in her nose ring. Then she stuffed everything she could fit into her backpack. The ferry left in half an hour. It was finally time to go home.

A late-model dark gray SUV with Illinois plates sat in the drive. Odd to think of him behind the wheel of a car. She climbed on the mountain bike and headed for town.

It was a hot, sunny afternoon. The summer season didn’t launch into high gear until the Fourth of July, but tourists in shorts and flip-flops were already mingling with the locals on Beachcomber Boulevard. The smell of French fries wafted from Dogs ’N’ Malts, a beach shack with a squeaky screen door and splintery picnic tables. She passed the Painted Frog Café, where just yesterday she’d picked up a cappuccino. Next door, a dog lounged in the shade by the entrance to Jerry’s Trading Post. As she took it all in, she realized how much she liked this place, how much she didn’t want to leave it.

Jake’s Dive Shop doubled as the ferry’s ticket office. It smelled of musty rubber and oily coffee. She bought a one-way ticket and stashed the bike in a rack at the municipal dock. Maybe Panda would find it there. Maybe not. She didn’t care.