Kamal paced on the thick carpet of the president’s living room. It was a formal space—antique furniture, perfectly coordinated artwork, knickknacks that were all symbolic, but none that were personal. Somehow, while it was calm and elegant like its owner, it was lacking her personality. He suspected that the president spent very little time in this room.

“Mr. Ambassador?” A Secret Service agent put his head into the room. “The president is on her way.”

“Yes, thank you,” Kamal answered, looking down at his phone that had just chimed with the tenth text in the last two hours from his security detail, who were waiting outside the White House. Non-White House security details weren’t allowed inside the building, so his driver and guard had waited in the driveway as they always did, but once the attack happened, they became increasingly agitated that their ambassador was out of their eyesight. No matter how many times he’d assured them he was safe, they continued to check on him.

He shot off a quick text reiterating that he was fine, before he started pacing again. He was amazed by how jittery he felt. Being under fire earlier had discombobulated him—he was off-center, anxious—but not because he was scared for his own safety or life, but rather because he was furious that someone had taken a shot at her. It had taken all his self-control not to take off into the darkness searching for the bastards who had tried to harm the president. He was hot with the rage, fantasizing about putting his hands around the neck of some terrorist asshole who thought he could fracture a country by gunning down a woman.

He shook his head, trying once again to dispel the emotion. He’d seen she was fine, talked to her, watched her charm the party guests, but he still had a visceral need to touch her, assure himself that she was whole and happy.

The door swung open, and she stepped inside, shutting it behind her. He stopped and simply watched her as she froze, caught in his gaze. Her eyes were tired, tension playing at the corners and around her lips. Her pretty blue dress had been torn at the hem during the shooting, and a piece hung loose. She’d shed her shoes at some point, the high heels undoubtedly becoming uncomfortable, and now she carried them in her hand, looking a bit like a sorority girl trekking home from a late-night party.

He stepped closer to her, the need to touch and test washing over him again. She watched him, wary but so vulnerable.

“You’re okay?” he asked softly.

She nodded, and he lost the battle, reaching out and pulling her into his arms, holding her small frame tight against his chest. She sighed and melted into his hold, both of them breathing, in sync, for a long pause in an even longer day.

Jessica pulled away first, taking a deep breath and stiffening her spine. His arms missed her immediately.

“Has the staff given you everything you need? Would you like something to drink or eat?”

He took her hand and led her to the sofa. “I’m fine, and you’re done now. No more worrying about everyone else. Let me worry about you. How are you?”

“I’m okay. But I’m frustrated. Whoever it was got away. How does that happen? No one has ever gotten off the White House grounds after an act of aggression. Hell, almost no one’s ever gotten onto the grounds to commit an act of aggression in the first place. It’s happened a handful of times in the history of the presidency, and they have never made it far enough to reach the president or any of the White House staff.”

Kamal watched her delicate features tense into a scowl, and fought the urge to smooth his fingers over the line that appeared between her brows. Her peaches-and-cream complexion was pale and drawn, but her blue eyes blazed with the emotion of the evening.

“And no one had ever flown an airplane into a building before nine eleven. They will continue to invent new ways to attack, new ways to threaten. And we will continue to invent new ways to prevent them. It’s a dance as old as the human race.”

“I suppose you’re right,” she agreed. “I’m not comfortable with them at-large, however. Not because I’m fearful for myself, but I don’t want a faceless enemy of the country thinking they’ve gotten away with something. It will embolden them.”

Kamal folded his hands in his lap so that he wouldn’t reach for her. Their initial hug had been in response to a traumatic evening. He wasn’t really sure how she felt about what had nearly transpired between them before the shooting.

“Of course you’re concerned,” he answered. “And you have some of the finest counterterrorism investigators in the world, as well as the finest military and counterintelligence units. They will figure this out quickly. And I am prepared to offer any of my personal security staff to assist. We may have knowledge of certain factions and rumblings in the Middle East that your people cannot access as readily.”

She smiled at him, her expression tender. “Thank you so much…Kamal. I’ll have the Department of Homeland Security share whatever information they can with you so that your staff can conduct a parallel investigation. Between the two units, perhaps we’ll find who did this sooner.” She blushed, and his heart swooped inside his chest. “Egypt is a great friend to the US in this.”

Then he did touch her, a brief slide of skin on skin as he ran his index finger along her jaw.

“Egypt would very much like to explore its friendship with the US further,” he murmured.

She looked down at her lap, and his hopes fell, because he could read this woman as if he’d known her for years instead of weeks.

“Mr. Ambassador—”

“Kamal,” he corrected.

“Kamal. I think you know how hard this is for me.” She gazed at him again, and her eyes were bright with emotion and a regret so sharp that he physically ached for her struggle.

“You are a wonderful man, but I am the president of the United States. It’s impossible—completely impossible—for me to have certain kinds of friendships with anyone, much less a dignitary from a foreign country. I could be accused of treason. And though I have no intention of holding any political office after this term is over, I have a responsibility to protect my family’s legacy.” She paused, a thoughtful look on her face. “My late husband’s family legacy.”

Always the master of negotiation, Kamal knew that timing was everything. He remembered what Senator Aronson had told him, about the sacrifices that Jessica Hampton had made during the last decade, how he was the first man since her husband that she’d shown an interest in, and he thought about his own life of obligations and sacrifice. He knew better than almost anyone what a life spent living to other’s expectations required, and he also knew that you didn’t leave a life like that because you spent a few hours with someone charming, or nearly shared a kiss on a darkened patio.

“Madam President, I understand the demands you face, both from your family and from your country. I think, in fact, I might understand those pressures better than just about anyone. You and I have that in common. I am the eldest son of the wealthiest man in Egypt. The pressures are constant.”

“I remember hearing about your father. He is a lot to live up to.”

Kamal chuckled. “If only it were as simple as living up to what he’s done. I am expected to take the family’s legacy further, do more, be more.” He shook his head abruptly. “But we’re not here to talk about me. As I said, I mention it only because I know some of what you’re feeling. And while I would like nothing more than to deepen our friendship, I understand why you say it’s not possible.”

“Thank you, Mr. Ambassador. I hope this won’t impede our progress with the accord?”

He smiled at her. “Of course not. But I have a request for you.”

She nodded her assent.

“Let me be a friend to you, Madam President. Not the kind of friend who will cause problems to your professional reputation, but a true friend. Allow me to take some of your burdens when I can. You have staff to wait on you, aides to advise you, but who listens to the president at the end of her day? Who can you be completely open and honest with and not fear the political repercussions? Let me be that person. Everyone needs a friend who is there solely for them, even the president.”

“Oh my,” she gasped, putting a hand to her heart. “I’m not sure what to say to that.” She smiled, warmth and gratitude radiating from her eyes.

“Say that we are friends.”

“We are. As strange as it seems, we are friends, and I cherish that.”

He grinned as his heart soared. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d felt so light, so free of worries and obligations. He also knew that none of those things had changed, but somehow they seemed so much less important when he looked into her eyes.

“Now, as one friend to another, I should leave you to go to sleep. You have had an exhausting day, and tomorrow won’t be easier.”

They stood, and she walked with him to the door. Everything in him screamed to stay, hold her in his arms until they both fell asleep, but tonight wasn’t the right moment. He needed to handle this particular negotiation very delicately, or he’d risk never reaching an accord.

“Kamal?” Jessica asked softly as they stood before the closed door.

“Yes, Madam President?”

“Would it be impossibly presumptuous of me to ask for one more favor before you leave?”

“I’m at your service.”

“Earlier…before the shooting.” She blushed furiously, and he struggled not to chuckle. “I know that we can’t proceed down that road, but I can’t help but wonder…what it would have been like?”

He leaned down, his mouth so close to her ear that he could smell the lavender in her hair and feel the heat from her neck.

“It would have been spectacular, Jessica. Utterly spectacular.”

Then the ambassador from Egypt left the president of the United States gaping in lust as he strolled out the doors of the White House.

* * *

Kamal’s name and face were everywhere. Every major newspaper and cable news station in the free world had been rehashing the story of the assassination attempt on the president for days now. The Egyptian embassy had put out a brief statement reiterating that the ambassador had reacted as anyone with military training would have, and that all that mattered was the president’s safety and capturing and prosecuting this newest threat to America.

And America was livid. The entire nation was in a frenzy over their beloved, tragically widowed president nearly taken away by a madman. And Egypt was America’s new darling, Kamal the symbol of how the ancient nation had come to the rescue of the new one.

But in the midst of the newfound fame, Kamal’s father had been a thorn in his son’s side beginning at four a.m. the morning after the shooting and continuing through the current Skype conference.

“It is clear that the accord is going to be more trouble than it’s worth, Kamal. You need to find a way to end the process,” Mr. Masri intoned as he glared at his son through the large screen on the wall of Kamal’s office.

Kamal tried very hard not to show his exasperation. He’d heard his father’s song and dance every day for nearly a week now.

“As I’ve said, I am merely an agent of the State. The parliament has ordered that this accord be struck. I cannot single-handedly decide to end talks over an international agreement that I’ve been instructed to negotiate. Should the US do something that crosses one of Egypt’s hard limits for the accord, then, and only then, do I have permission to suspend the talks.”

“Huh. The parliament,” Mr. Masri scoffed. “I have spoken to President Abbas, and he feels the same that I do. You owe your position to him, and he does not favor the effort. You know that he cannot speak to you directly about it. It would be in poor form for him to subvert the parliament, which is why he asked me to speak with you. He needs to know what it will take for you to end your negotiations,” his father demanded in his usual authoritarian fashion.

Kamal rolled his eyes to the ceiling. “You know I can’t divulge that.”

“He is your president. You owe him your career, and he can help you go further than this. And if that isn’t incentive enough, I am your father, Kamal. You owe fidelity to your family before all others.”

Kamal’s gut churned. He knew that he was supposed to agree with this. Everything Kamal had in life was due to his father—his father’s money, his father’s guidance, his father’s influence. But somewhere deep inside, there was a small vibrant part of Kamal that rejected it all—the need to defer to everything his father demanded, the pressure to put the family before anything and anyone else, the idea that he wasn’t important in and of himself, but only as a tool to further the Masri empire.

“You wanted me to pursue this ambassadorship. I am showing my fidelity to the family by being good at my position. If you truly want politics to be in my future—if your dreams of me someday taking the highest office in the country are genuine, then I need to do my job as assigned, and that doesn’t include tanking the accord without justification.”

His father scowled before holding up a finger over the keyboard to his laptop. “We will discuss this further later. I have other business to attend to now.”

As his father pointedly pressed the disconnect button before Kamal could respond, he growled in frustration. Another conversation tomorrow? To what end? Kamal wasn’t going to be bullied into shirking his duties, and particularly when those duties included spending time with the very beautiful and brilliant president of the United States.

His intercom chimed, and Kamal pressed the button to listen to Shamira.

“Mr. Ambassador, the head of security is here to see you.”

“Please send him in.”

The door opened, and Tariq, Kamal’s very large, very intimidating head of embassy security, entered.

“Mr. Ambassador,” he said, stepping forward to shake Kamal’s hand.

“Please, have a seat. Would you like coffee or water?”

“No, thank you, sir,” the big man said, settling himself into one of the armchairs facing Kamal’s desk. Kamal sat as well and waited, arms resting on the well-polished surface of the antique desk.

“I have information about the shooting at the White House,” Tariq said in his deep, gravelly voice. Kamal nodded in assent before Tariq continued. “We have reason to believe that the Russian Bratva were involved.”

“What?” Kamal sat back in his chair, his brow furrowed in confusion.

“Yes, sir, I know that the go-to on this is a terrorist group—Islam’s Army, the Paradise Jihad, someone like that. But it truly isn’t their style. They don’t commit assassinations, they kill dozens, maim many more, and rarely target individual officials. They’re much more interested in flexing their muscle, throwing an entire nation off-kilter.”

“And you think this didn’t set America on its ear? I’d say they’re plenty off-kilter.”

Tariq tented his big fingers in front of his chest as he talked, his bald head dipping and lifting with his words. “Yes, but not to the degree they would be if they were all afraid to enter public spaces or were searching the skies for airplanes crashing into buildings. Really, sir, when in the last thirty years can you remember a terrorist act that involved targeting one person, even if that person is the most powerful official on the planet?”

Kamal had to admit that Tariq had a point. “But why the Bratva? Please don’t tell me President Hampton is indebted to a foreign mafia.” The idea was so preposterous, Kamal nearly choked on the words.

“Of course not, sir, and that’s the part we can’t quite piece together. We know that the type of bullet used was one commonly used in Bratva hired killings. They favor this type of gun, and the bullets for those aren’t common.”

Kamal’s jaw set, and he ground his teeth together.

“The Bratva are also known for their ability to infiltrate secure spaces and get out intact. Add to that the sighting of a well-known Bratva assassin in and around DC twelve hours before the attempt on the president’s life, and we feel that it’s sufficient cause to investigate further.”

Kamal had to agree, as off base as the idea seemed.

“And have you shared this with the US agents investigating?”

“Of course not,” Tariq growled, incensed at the suggestion. “We share no information with anyone until you’ve given your approval, sir.”

“Yes, thank you,” Kamal murmured, thinking over the whole scenario. “And I don’t want you to share this yet. We need more information, more details, particularly a possible motive. This isn’t to be discussed with anyone but me, and I don’t want anyone but you to have all the pieces. Keep each agent assigned to only one portion, and don’t allow them to speak about it to each other.”

“As you wish, Mr. Ambassador. I’ll oversee this personally, put only my most discreet men on it, and update you as soon as we gather any useful intelligence.”

“Thank you.” Kamal stood and shook Tariq’s hand before the big man left, as light on his feet as a ballerina in spite of his weight tipping the scales at well over two hundred pounds.

After he left, Kamal sat staring at the notepad on his desk for several long minutes. He’d heard the rumors his entire life—the Masris had ties to the Bratva—but in his family, business wasn’t discussed at home, and while Mr. Masri had brought both of his sons into the family business as teens, Kamal, at least, had never been privy to much other than the most basic discussions of the business’s worth and major endeavors. He had been pushed into politics while his younger brother took a more active role in the corporations.

Now the coincidence of his father being so opposed to the accord and the assassination attempt on his partner in that same accord by the Bratva seemed too convenient. He felt the slow burning of anger welling up inside him. He’d long ago accepted the probability that his father was less than ethical in his business dealings. And in all fairness, Kamal himself wasn’t opposed to skirting the fringes of the law if it would gain him the advantage when it came to information or control. But this was entirely different. Kamal didn’t get his finances involved in dirty business, and he didn’t do anything that would put anyone’s life at risk—ever.

He wondered briefly if those bullets had really been meant for the president or had they really been aimed at him? But no, regardless of how deep his father might be into something with the Bratva, he would never countenance an attempt on his oldest son’s life. If for no other reason than that Kamal was his ticket to the presidency of Egypt, and the elder Masri wanted that ticket badly.

No, if those bullets had been aimed at him, his father didn’t know it. But he felt it in his bones that his father was mixed up in this somehow. And that made his gut churn with a toxic stir of emotions. He couldn’t possibly let the Americans know about it, but could he keep the information about the Bratva from them? He’d made a promise to Jessica that he would help her track down whoever had done this. And he intended to make good on that promise. But he’d keep his father’s name out of it however he could. Hopefully, the Americans would be slower to peel back the layers, and hopefully, Kamal was wrong and all this really was simply coincidence.

He sighed to himself, leaning back in his chair. Everything in him said it wasn’t, and so Kamal did what he’d always done: He trusted his guy, picked up his cell phone, and hit speed dial number two. “We need a meeting,” he instructed. “Tonight. I’ll be there at seven.”