Bellamy. Bellamy. Bellamy.

Her name beats along with my heart, out of all control, a triple punch to the chest with every step I take. It’s fucking cold outside, but not even the February wind can cool the heat raging in my face.

And elsewhere.

Not that I would ever let it show. Not that I can let it show, with all the carrion fluttering over me like I’m a crime scene to be photographed. There are more of them now. I wouldn’t be surprised if Kelting called them up himself. He would. He wants last night’s party swept under the rug more than anyone. The only person who wants it more is President Blackpool.

I keep my eyes straight ahead. My wool coat isn’t worth much against the wind, and I want to tear it off and throw it to the ground. It was custom-made in Italy. It should be better than this.

Or maybe I should be better than this. Maybe it’s not the coat that’s the weak outer layer. Maybe it’s me who has skin so weak that it could be opened to the cold with a few cutting words from a barista at the kitshiest coffee shop I’ve ever seen.

She was fire in human form.

Who would dare speak to me like that? Like we were equals, sparring together for dominance? And how am I the one flayed alive, my heart lurching against my chest? It feels almost like hate, but no—that’s not what it is. It’s only that I’m the one in control. I’m always the one in control.

And Bellamy, a woman who is nobody, might as well have taken my tie in her fist and yanked me across that counter.

The air is supercharged with her audacity and I tighten my grip on the coffee cup. That was some confidence, changing my order. The nerve of that woman—

One of the photographers inserts himself between me and the unmarked SUV I’m supposed to be in, and Jameson puts out a hand. “A moment, sir.”

I want to growl with impatience. Let me in the fucking car. I want to block all this singeing, scratching energy out. I want to shut the door on it.

I keep my face studiously neutral while the photog fires off a few shots, and the second agent steps in to have a quiet word with him.

“Mr. Blackpool!”

Her voice is clear, verging on panic, and it rakes its fingers right down the back of my neck.

What the hell does she want?

“Mr. Blackpool, wait!”

I turn around at the same time Jameson does. She’ll be contrite, I’m sure. It’s not the first time a woman has chased me out of a building, apologizing for some bullshit or other. It’s just coffee, I’ll smirk. Perfectly All-American.

Bellamy is not contrite.

She rushes toward me, brows furrowed, jaw set. A frisson of adrenaline swan dives from my shoulders to my fingertips, and my heart beats a jagged rhythm.

Holy shit.

She’s coming after me.

Nobody looks like this for an innocent reason.

Her hair, up in that stylishly messy bun, bounces with every determined step. Across the sidewalk, heads swivel to follow the path of her red polo shirt blazing bright in the February sun. One of the journalists—or maybe he’s just a tourist dressed like he works at a Radio Shack—raises his phone to eye-level, his mouth gleefully open. It’s a shockwave that goes through everybody who came out to see the president’s fuck-up of a younger brother. One by one, it infects them all.

Jameson reacts.

He steps in front of me and puts a firm hand up. “Stop advancing, miss.”

Bellamy doesn’t hear him. Or if she does, she ignores him. She keeps coming.

“Mr. Blackpool—”

What is this? Is she’s someone I met at a party and forgot? No. I couldn’t have forgotten her. Not for anything. Not for drinks or drugs—not for anything. A terrorist? My brother is only the third unmarried president in the history of the nation. If the wrong person assumed that we were close, if they decided to act on it—

“I’m going to have to ask you to stop, miss!”

The plainclothes agents from inside the store burst out, hustling behind Bellamy.

All four of them converge on her, like a trap tightening around prey.

“Back up, miss. Back up!” Jameson shouts.

In the center of the circle, Bellamy’s gray eyes are wide. “Wait. What? I’m just trying—”

“Come this way,” demands Krista, one of the plainclothes agents, and takes Bellamy by the arm.

“Stop.” Bellamy’s voice is irritated, as if she hasn’t fully processed what’s happening right now. “I was only trying to—God, you’re hurting my arm. Is anybody going to listen to me?” I stifle the urge to laugh out loud. First, the wrong coffee order. Now she’s going to get testy with the Secret Service? I see the moment it registers. All the snarky attitude drops from her face. They’re all talking to her, barking orders, and she blinks. Oh, my God is written all over her face.

“Jameson.”

At the sound of my voice, he turns his head. “Sir?”

“It’s fine. You can let her go.”

“You sure about that?”

“Yes.”

There’s a pause when I think they might not, but then, one by one, the agents step away from Bellamy. Krista’s last.

Bellamy stands in the middle of the sidewalk, breathing hard. “Is everybody cool?” Her eyes dart from side to side, and her cheeks get pinker with every passing moment.

“Was there something you wanted to say to me?” I move closer, so she doesn’t have to shout at me any longer. Not that it’s going to matter. I can hear them all around us, the whisper-soft click of camera shutters. A warmth swells in my chest. It’ll be nice to hear someone recognize that it’s not me who’s at fault.

Bellamy glances to the side, then back at me. Her eyes are like nothing I’ve ever seen. Is that a ring of violet around her pupils, or only a darker shade of gray? She pulls a hundred-dollar bill out of her pocket. “You dropped this.”

I laugh out loud. She came all the way out here to give a billionaire a hundred-dollar bill? Surely, she knows who I am. She knows what I have. “Consider it a tip.” I push her hand back toward her.

Her cheeks were pink before—now they’re scarlet. “No.” She shoves her hand toward me. Jameson steps closer. I hold up one hand. “It’s yours.”

Is she kidding?

I step closer, dropping my voice. Click, click, click. So many camera shutters. “Take it. For a job well done.”

Her defiance crackles in the air between us and I am seized—seized—by the desire to shut her mouth with a savage kiss.

She huffs out a breath. “It wasn’t a job well done, and you and I both know it. Here.” Bellamy tries to twist the bill into my hand.

“Jesus.” I whip my hand away from her. Shit—I shouldn’t have let my irritation show. Too fucking late now. They’ve got it on camera. I grit my teeth. “Bellamy—that is your name, isn’t it? Keep the money and go back inside.” I might have looked generous and benevolent before. Now I probably look like a grenade with the pin pulled out. “You’re causing a scene.”

She flicks her eyes to the people around us. “You’re causing a scene. This fell out of your pocket. I’m returning it. Take it.”

Everything—from this morning’s call from the White House to the spinning madness of last night’s party—wells up in my brain and overwhelms it. And just like before, I lean toward her, drawn close by a gravity I can’t resist. “Do you ever do as you’re told?”

Bellamy looks me square in the eye and a charge zings through me. “Yes.”

“Then practice that skill now. Keep the money.”

“It wouldn’t be right.” She raises her chin. “But maybe this once...”

I should ignore the fire in those eyes.

I know I should.

“Truce?”

She extends her hand, and like a fool, like an incredible fool, I shake it.

One touch, and it’s a tussle. Bellamy narrows her eyes and shakes hard. “Are you fucking kidding me—” Please, let my voice be too low to hear.

“It was nice to meet you, Mr. Blackpool.” She drops her hand.

I’m left with the money tucked into my palm.

Click. Click. Click.