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“That old chestnut, sure. But, sir, I’m from New Orleans, and we take ghosts very seriously down there. I know a haunted house when I see one.”
My lips part.
“Didn’t anyone warn you, Mr. President?”
“Anyone? You mean like the head of my detail?”
He grins. He’s absolutely shameless. “President Truman used to say he could hear the ghosts of Presidents Lincoln and Jackson moving through the hallways at night. He said the floorboards creaked and the drapes moved on their own.”
“I’ve heard creaking.”
“President Harrison was the first president to die in the White House. He haunts the third floor. Seems like every few months, I have to send an agent up to check out reports of rattling and banging around.”
Now I’m catching on, my shock shifting to chagrin as I try to give as good as he is dishing out. “Right. Harrison’s ghost. Surely not your snipers on the roof playing a prank on the new agents on the detail.”
His eyes hold mine. He doesn’t speak, not right away. The air between us is vibrating. “Now that you mention it, Mr. President, it does seem to always be the new agents who are sent on ghost sweeps in the White House attic.” His voice is a honey-drawl, smooth as silk, slow as summertime.
This is what I wanted. To peek beneath the outer layers, to see the man I’ve caught glimpses of from the shadows. See his unbridled smile, hear his playful chuckle. Listen to him say something that isn’t procedure or a report.
I want to know him, because I haven’t known any man in a meaningful way since I cut my heart out all those years ago.
Too risky. Too dangerous. This is what could happen if I let myself slide into my secrets. Wanting. Craving.
Falling.
Stop now, while you still can.
If I still can.
Reese takes a hearty sip from his coffee. Our eye contact, finally, breaks, and I drag in a shuddering breath as discreetly as I can. I’ve shredded the wrapper on my own coffee cup. Paper pulp covers my lap like I’ve tried to disassemble the cardboard into atoms.
“Would you like to go over the security procedures for when we land, sir?”
For the next ten minutes, Reese details the timeline of our arrival and the choreography of moving me through the world. “After the cocktail reception, we’ll depart the prime minister’s residence at twenty-one hundred and return to Air Force One. Pushback is scheduled at twenty-one thirty, with wheels down in Washington at twenty-three hundred. Marine One will bring you to the White House at twenty-three forty-five. Any questions, Mr. President?”
If I met you in another life, would you let me take you to dinner?
No questions. His brief is as professional and tight as he is. Beneath my feet, the deck begins to pitch forward. We’re on the descent to Ottawa. Our time is almost up.
I watch Reese, and he studies me in turn. And then—
His eyes dart down to my mouth, and lower, to my chest, then to my hand clutching my coffee in my lap. A moment later, his gaze slides back up and locks onto mine again.
Surely not. Surely, completely not. Don’t imagine things that aren’t there. The Secret Service agents in the West Wing take in every person they meet, eyes scanning from head to toe and everywhere in between. He’s not checking you out.
Heat waves build inside me. Say something. Salvage this moment. I have to clear my throat before I can speak. “I, uh, thought there weren’t any women on the Counter Assault Team.”
“There aren’t yet. But anyone who meets the physical standards can try out. Hundreds of agents do. CAT accepts less than 1 percent of all agents who apply.”
“Is Roberts trying out?”
Another slow draw of that dimpled smile. “Not after today, sir.”
Silence fills the office again. Questions build. Within me, within his gaze. They carpet the floor, crawl up the walls. I ask none of them.
“Thank you. Excellent briefing.”
My ears pop. Across from me, Reese works his jaw, helping his own along. In a commercial flight, we’d be stowing our tray tables and buckling seat belts, but I suppose no one is going to tell me to sit down and turn off my cell phone and laptop.
