Clive was set up for the reception on the Residence’s Second Floor in the family kitchen and dining room. Waiters hustled in and out bearing trays of champagne and canapes: bruschetta with smoked salmon and basil, shrimp stuffed with prosciutto and Stilton cheese, and his little chocolate bouquets.

Each bouquet was made up of five slender Pocky sticks thinner than a pencil and half as long. Three shades of chocolate: dark, milk, and white. Then to complement the white, he’d started with a white chocolate base to make two more: blueberry blue and also apple red. He’d made two separate biscuit doughs: a plain one beneath the first four, plus a maple syrup-honey-flavored core for the fifth red stick. All tied so that they stood together like a thistle bloom, using tiny golden ribbons bearing the Vermont state motto: Freedom and Unity.

Chocolate and the American flag—in the flavors and spirit of Vermont.

The guests would all interpret it one way, but he was hoping one person might interpret it another.

He’d worked straight through last night and all day to get these right. For the banquet dessert, he still had the original design: a larger Pocky of plain biscuit and the Vietnamese and Philippine chocolates to complement the soup as well as harkening back to these. But the Pocky bouquet wasn’t for the diplomats. The bouquets were designed for one person alone, and never had he worked so hard or felt so inspired to achieve it.

Jacques Torres had always spoken of the dessert of the heart.

Clive had assumed he’d been talking about creating with passion and a desire to discover something new. But now he understood. This treat was so simple and delicate in one way, but in another he had never created anything so perfect. If ever there was to be a single dessert of his heart, this was the one.

He just hoped to god that it worked.

* * *

Linda Hamlin just hoped to god that she didn’t faint.

Unwilling to risk the Secret Service Ready Room close beside the downstairs kitchen, she’d changed into her dress over in the West Wing. Even threats of being tasered hadn’t wiped the smiles off any of the agent’s faces as she’d stowed her work clothes under a desk in the ready room there.

Captain Baxter waved her into his office as he hung up his phone. He, at least, wasn’t leering. Instead he looked grim.

“We just took down a car loaded with weapons. A real mash-up of conventional shit: handguns, shotguns. No sense to it. Not like someone’s collection.”

“Where?” Linda felt a shiver run up her spine.

“Abandoned on Embassy Row. The guys who dumped it knew where the cameras were well enough to hide their faces.”

“Japan’s people?”

“Or any of fifty others in that strip. Not quite in anyone’s front yard. Your guess is as good as mine. Car rented by a drug runner…who then reported it carjacked.”

“What makes you think it was related to us, then?”

“The drug runner was from East LA, never been here before. He received instructions, a plane ticket, and ten grand cash in an unmarked envelope. Did nothing illegal, but I’m holding him for forty-eight hours for ‘protection’. He was jacked by, and I’m quoting, ‘a couple of Asian dudes with some serious shit.’ Chinese Type 77 handguns. He’d never seen them before, but picked them out of a book fast enough. Said having one nearly shoved up his nose had made it real memorable.”

“That’s a very distinctive weapon, right down to the Chinese star on the handgrip.”

“That’s what I was thinking. Too distinctive. You were right, someone is definitely messing with us tonight. We’ve got the grounds locked down hard, but you’re inside. Keep your eyes open tonight, Hamlin.”

Walking across to the Residence had been a major challenge. She’d only partially won the shoe battle with Dilya. She wasn’t wearing spikes, but the black ankle boots had a wide two-inch heel that she still didn’t have a feel for though she’d practiced with them in her apartment last night. She got lots of practice because it wasn’t like she was having any luck sleeping.

Every time she’d lain down, her bed felt cold and empty. And while she lay there studying the ceiling, she’d only been able to remember Clive lying in that Barcalounger like the remains of some innocent, caught in the unexpected blast of an IED. She’d dozed a little. Not enough to dream, but enough for her mind to free associate in a new and hideous fashion. It was as if they had traded places and she was the one lying there with her chest cut open and someone inspecting the empty cavity where her heart should have been.

She’d even tried pulling on her dog tags as she wandered around the tiny apartment—in her new boots—because she couldn’t stand being in the bed anymore. All they did was remind her of Clive’s kiss that he always had made a point of planting there. She took them off and ended up watching an I Love Lucy marathon until it was time to go prepare for the reception.

Linda had spent the entire day at her desk studying the profiles of every guest invited to the reception until she could recite their schooling, family, and career.

And now she was here and couldn’t remember how to breathe.

Zackie greeted Thor at the head of the Grand Staircase. Dilya looked elegant, if a little loud, in a bias-cut gold lamé top with a draped collar matched to black slacks. She wore a pretty scarf of green and dark blue, almost big enough to be a shawl.

“I always wear it when I want to be fancy.”

“How come I’m stuck in these stupid heels and you get to wear red Converse sneakers?”

“Some of us just have better fashion sense than others.” Dilya’s smile flashed brilliantly before she and Zackie moved away.

Linda surveyed the layout from the staircase landing at one end of the party. The Center Hall stretched twenty feet wide and over a hundred long including the West Sitting Room through the broad archway beyond. Done in warm beiges and dark wood, it was an attractive space for a party. She almost laughed, a room that would absolutely kill her mother to know that her daughter was invited to. High time that Linda left her grudge behind.

She surveyed the crowd. A pianist played light music at a grand piano tucked close against one wall. There were eight potted palms spaced evenly down the length of the hall with a roughly equal number of Secret Service agents. Small clusters of chairs, some occupied, some not—most people stood. There should be fifty-three guests in all including the three prime ministers and their entourages, scattered in loose groups. Most held wine glasses. A few, she was pleased to see, weren’t dressed any fancier than she was. Though she was definitely in the lower-tier amidst so many fine tuxedos and stunning evening gowns, but that didn’t matter to her. She was a Secret Service officer here as a guest. As long as she didn’t stand out, Dilya had done her job well.

Back at the store, the girl had been oddly shy about Linda’s thanks, but accepted the offer of an ice cream sundae readily enough despite the January chill.

Much to her surprise, Linda had some money left over despite the hair and shoes. It was a low trick to play on an unsuspecting dog, but Dilya had leveraged Thor’s fame with the store clerk and negotiated such a discount on the dress and jacket that Linda had felt it necessary to tip him generously when Dilya wasn’t watching. Or when she thought Dilya hadn’t been—the way she’d played with Thor afterward said that the girl had been crafty and calculated the entire deal. A child raised in a barter-based society clearly enjoyed outsmarting a retail-based one. And she’d seen it far enough ahead to tell Linda that she had to bring Thor to go dress shopping.

As she stepped into the hall, Linda almost lost her balance when her heel caught the edge of the carpet.

Thor glanced up at her.

“Watch it or I’ll put you in heels and see how you do.”

Thor looked unperturbed.

Linda began matching up faces and names. The First and Second Couples were easy. Former President Matthews was also in attendance—his wife’s plane had been delayed and she wouldn’t be here until tomorrow’s meetings. She had no official capacity, but had close relations with all three guest countries through her UNESCO work.

The leaders of the three guest countries were chatting with their American counterparts. There hadn’t been anything damning in any of their files.

She spotted Harvey Lieber standing in a shadow along one of the walls, but close by the President. He afforded her a brief nod before turning back to study the room. The President shifted down the hall to join another conversation and Lieber followed. A massive black man did the same for former President Matthews.

Speaker of the House. Majority and minority whips of the Senate. Secretary of Defense Archie Stevenson—a tall and spare man with light brown hair—was having a heated debate with Secretary of State Mallinson. Despite Archie’s attempts to remain calm, Mallinson was waving his hands about in such a way that a nearby Secret Service agent shuffled farther along the wall to avoid being impaled.

Not a hard choice on who to root for—Secretary Stevenson was Dilya’s adoptive father, which was recommendation enough for Linda. Not wanting to enter Mallinson’s sphere of intolerable officiousness, she decided to circle the other way.

Thor had already proven that he didn’t need to be “on task” to find explosives—three days ago they’d just been walking to work when he’d detected the diplomat—she simply let him choose her way into the room but kept his leash short. She had tried to groom him for the event. However, his crazy tangle of fur that seemed to grow in every direction, but mostly straight out, looked much the same before and after brushing. She hoped her own hair wasn’t too much the same.

Thor drifted over to Agent Lieber, sniffed, then wagged up at him in greeting.

“Go away, you.” Linda couldn’t tell if he was addressing Thor or herself. “Do your damn job.” Okay, that one she got, and signaled Thor to keep moving. They moved slowly up the south side of the hall until they reached the grand double-arched window that seemed to be in every movie ever made about the White House. That she was suddenly standing in the real-life version of the movie set made her wish once again that she was just out walking the fence line and had never heard of Miss Watson or the White House Protection Force.

Taking a deep breath for fortitude, which didn’t provide any help at all, she crossed to the north side and began working her way back along the hall.

She made it about twenty feet before she plowed squarely into Clive’s back.

* * *

Clive had just wanted to take a peek into the West Sitting Hall to see how his part of the appetizer was faring. None were coming back on the serving trays, which he took as a good sign, but neither was much of anything else. He wanted to know if his were being eaten first or last of the selection.

At least that’s what he told himself he was doing. He’d just step out, take a quick look, and then duck back into the dining room to continue the service.

He wouldn’t be searching up the hall to see if there was a flounce of shining cocoa hair anywhere among the crowd. He wasn’t going to stoop that low.

Clive stepped into the hall and someone slammed into his back.

He tried to take a stumbling step forward, but a small dog—Thor—had circled around from behind him and stood with his forepaws practically on Clive’s shoes, happily wagging his tail. Unable to step forward, and overbalanced from behind, he went down like a drunkard on a storm-tossed sea. No handy furniture near enough to catch himself with, he crashed down on the rug. His tall chef’s hat tumbled away. Thor immediately raced over and stuck his head inside it.

Well, at least Clive knew who had hit him.

As did everyone else in the entire hall—they were all looking in his direction. As payback for bowling her into the men’s lavatory in the West Wing in front of her boss, this struck him as somewhat over the top.

Thor tried to lift his head, but in the process, the chef’s hat slid down to his neck. He began shaking his head trying to free himself as the crowd began laughing.

He lay there for a moment, focused on just how amazing two-inch heels made Linda’s legs look. The muscles in her calves were accentuated wonderfully, especially as he knew exactly how they felt when wrapped around— The past. Again!

She helped him back to his feet with a strength that was now very familiar. Except it was attached to a woman he barely recognized. Once he was stable, she moved forward and plucked his hat off Thor’s head and handed it back to him.

At the crowd’s applause, Thor wagged his tail.

The only thing that Clive could think to do was bow and then retreat back into the dining room. He was not, however, so addled that he failed to drag Linda along with him.

“I’m so sorry. Are you okay?”

He looked down at her and couldn’t speak.

Linda Hamlin in a dress. He’d never thought to imagine such a thing. The black dress clung to her and told him just how lucky he was…had been…to have a lover with a body like that. The jacket accentuated the color of her hair and brought out a slightest hint of deep red in the brown that he’d never noticed before. Her casually ragged cut had been transformed to accentuate all of her features and Linda was a woman with many, many fine features: bright eyes, wide mouth, pert nose…

“You changed your hair.” Which was perhaps the dumbest phrase ever uttered by man.

“And I’m wearing a dress,” her voice laced with deep chagrin and just a bit of the humor that he’d forgotten how much he missed.

“I noticed. My god, Linda. I can’t begin to tell you…” how much I’ve missed you “…how incredible you look.”

She grimaced, then scowled at somewhere near the center of his chest.

Just as she opened her mouth, the head of the PPD strode into the dining room.

“Hamlin. We aren’t paying you to chat up the chefs. Now get a move on.”

And without another word, he strode back out.

“What was…”

“Senior Special Agent Harvey Lieber hates me,” Linda patted his arm. “But he’s right. The trouble in Lafayette Square isn’t over. I think it’s hitting the fan tonight. Here at the reception if I’m right.”

“Have you…” No, of course, she hadn’t tasted one of his appetizers. She was in her focused-soldier mode. He swiveled to a passing tray and snatched a salmon bruschetta and handed it to Thor, who scarfed it down in a single bite. That delayed Linda just long enough for him to place a Pocky stick bouquet in her hand. “Try this. Please.”

Then, though it nearly killed him to do so, he turned her around and pushed lightly against her shoulders to send her back into danger. Because that was a part of who she was and it wasn’t up to him to keep her close and safe—no matter how much he wanted to.

* * *

Courtesy of her stupid heels, Linda practically did a Clive-style pratfall at his light push. It was either that or her weak knees. Whichever it was, she managed to keep on her feet by only the narrowest of margins. Even standing before him for just those few moments had stirred up things she didn’t understand until she was nearly swept under by vertigo.

But few heads turned as she stumbled out into the long hall once more.

East. She’d been moving east along the north side of the hall when she’d run into Clive.

So she continued east and let Thor lead the way. She was a professional and could guide him, but she didn’t feel up to leading at the moment. Only as she passed a small group of senators talking with Vice President Daniel Darlington did she remember to look at what Clive had given her. A tiny bouquet of multi-colored Pocky sticks in the colors of chocolate and the American flag wrapped in the golden ribbon bearing the Vermont state motto: “Freedom and Unity.”

She nibbled on one while she focused on getting her mind out of the kitchen and back into the hall. The chocolate was so good, even sublime compared to the samples he’d given her a lifetime ago in his chocolate shop.

A senior aide, who she couldn’t place at the moment—the head speechwriter?—stopped her to thank her and Thor for the fine work in Lafayette Square.

The blueberry one took her back to her childhood in Vermont—back before she’d understood that her family was a nightmare. There’d been a big blueberry bush in the backyard—might even still be there—and she remembered every summer, standing out in the sunshine, picking and filling her mouth as fast as she could. The little blue Pocky burst with the flavor of nostalgia so richly that she wondered if the speechwriter thought that it was his thanks that prompted her misty eyes.

She was halfway back to her original starting point when she ate the final red one. It wasn’t strawberry as she’d expected. Instead it was an explosion of Macintosh apple. Vermont in the fall slammed into her senses. Then she crunched down on the biscuit center and the flavor of maple syrup washed over her like the cusp of winter-to-spring when the maple tree sap was flowing but there was still snow on the ground.

Clive had made a treat of the seasons of Vermont.

She looked around and saw that they were the first items being swept off the trays that the waiters were carrying guest-to-guest. It seemed that everyone was holding the little golden ribbons. He’d made a treat for the reception that was the clear favorite.

That wasn’t right. Yes, it was a clear favorite, but how many people would understand that it was the seasons of Vermont? And Clive had said he was from San Francisco and had worked in LA, New York, Virginia… He’d never once mentioned Vermont.

She’d said nothing beyond the fact that she’d grown up there.

From that single clue, Clive had developed this magnificent treat for her alone. She had said such awful, unforgivable things to him, and he had given her back the best parts of her childhood. He’d fed a treat to the elite of Washington, DC, that was designed just for her.

“Are you okay?”

She could only shake her head and she focused on the man who had come up to her. Tall, lean, a tousle of light brown hair—Secretary of Defense Archibald Stevenson III and former major of the 160th Night Stalkers.

“You’re Dilya’s father.”

That earned her a surprisingly cheery, lopsided smile. “You’ve met her?”

“She helped me buy this dress. Jacket. Shoes.” Could she sound any more like a driveling idiot? “Told the salon how to do my hair.” Yes, apparently she could. Because her hair was exactly the sort of thing that the Secretary of Defense would care about.

“Allow me to say that she did a damn nice job. And that would make you Sergeant Hamlin and Thor. I was briefed on the work you did. Thank you for that.”

She considered alerting him that it wasn’t over yet, but the head of the Presidential Protection Detail had deemed it need-to-know only, so she kept her mouth shut.

“What happened to your friend?” Not her smoothest subject change.

“Friend?”

“You were, uh,” she’d dug the hole and couldn’t figure a way out of it. Fine. Might as well dig it deeper. “What did you do with Secretary of State Mallinson’s body?”

“Excuse me?” He didn’t sound offended, merely surprised.

“You weren’t exactly seeing eye-to-eye earlier. You’re the man left standing, so I figure you won or you did him in. Should I start checking behind the potted palms?”

His smile was more of a grimace.

“He has always been stubborn man, but tonight he was being stupid to the point of irrationality. It was as if none of his thoughts were connecting. Made me positively twitchy.”

“I’ll definitely start checking behind the palms.”

“Don’t bother. He just left. Said he had a meeting to get to.”

“Oh, well. It was a pleasure to meet you, sir.” The prime minister of Vietnam came their way and she decided it was best if she bowed out.

She checked her watch—the pretty feminine one that Dilya had insisted that she buy to replace her favorite Luminox Blackout military one. At least she’d been able to read that one. She squinted for fashion. Never again.

Twenty-six more minutes to the reception. Then down to the East Room for the dinner. She had been so sure that whatever was planned was going to happen at this reception, but nothing looked out of place.

* * *

They were nearing the end of service for the reception. Clive was arranging the last of his Pocky treats. Next up would be to race down the narrow spiral stairs that connected the kitchens: the Second Floor kitchen, the pantry close by the State Dining Room, the main kitchen on the Ground Floor, subbasement storage, and finally the second subbasement dishwashing room. The sous chefs should have the white chocolate-pomegranate baba ghanoush of the first course ready, but he wanted to check each plate himself while the diners were finding their seats.

Seeing Linda had given him such hope. Miss Watson had been right. He shouldn’t give up, no matter what. One look at her and he’d known. Okay, two. The first look had been him trying to comprehend what a stunningly gorgeous woman it had been his good fortune to find. But with the second look he’d seen the pain clear in her eyes. He knew for an absolute fact—as surely as dark chocolate and strawberries were a perfect match—that the real woman inside Linda-the-soldier was the one with the giving heart, not the automaton.

He wanted to see her again, right now.

But, she’d said there was danger here at the reception and that meant she was working. Special Agent Harvey Lieber’s furious reminder must mean that the danger was imminent and somehow Linda and Thor were the key to finding it.

Hadn’t Miss Watson said something about Linda being added to the guest list?

To the guest list. Not the agent list.

That meant that she wasn’t here as an agent, yet the head of the Presidential Protection Detail had made it clear that she was. And if she’d merely been a guest, she probably wouldn’t have brought Thor.

Linda with Thor.

That’s what was going on out there while he was in here making chocolate doodads. He looked down at the last tray of Pocky stick bouquets and felt more useless than ever before in his life. More useless than a young boy unable to attract his father’s attention. More useless than holding his mother’s hand as she died and unable to do anything to stop the process.

But there’d been a moment when he’d done something important. Maybe even more important than chocolate. Just a few days ago in Lafayette Square, he’d somehow managed to help Linda. A path that had led her here tonight.

Well, he couldn’t help her from here in the dining room. And he’d be of even less use from the downstairs kitchen.

He returned to finishing up the last tray. This one he would carry out into the hall personally. If there was any way that he could help Linda, he wasn’t going to cower in the kitchen just because it was dangerous.

* * *

Out of ideas, Linda had sought out Dilya.

She had nothing but a hunch that anything was going to happen tonight and she now doubted every assumption that had led her here.

But she’d still be happier if she could at least send Dilya out of harm’s way, even if she couldn’t justify clearing the room. The threat wasn’t credible. A block of C-4 in a diplomatic pouch didn’t mean anything. That had been outside the security bubble that enclosed the White House. It was nearly impossible to bring anything lethal through that barrier.

She found the teen near the center of the hall. It was only after she stepped into the conversation that she really focused on the man Dilya was talking to.

Former President Peter Matthews.

He was tall, handsome, and graying at the temples. He looked ten times as impressive in real life as he did on television.

Dilya still had Zackie beside her and she was arguing with the former President. “She is not hopeless. Her only problem is that she hasn’t been trained to be more than a pet.”

“And you’re going to make a military dog out of Anne’s Sheltie?”

“Sure,” Dilya told him blithely. “And Linda promised to help me,” Dilya turned to her.

She had? Well, to escape the dress store and then the shoe store and then the salon, she may have made any number of promises. “I’m glad to.”

“But that dog has a brain the size of a peanut.” As if to prove his point, the President tossed a stuffed shrimp on the floor in front of Zackie, who barked at it rather than eating it. “I win.”

Dilya sighed. “Thor’s smart though, isn’t he?”

“At least around food.” Linda snapped her fingers, then pointed at the shrimp. Thor—who’d been sitting patiently beside her—lunged in, snapped up the shrimp, and returned to his position to eat it happily.

“He’s well behaved,” the President bent down to pet him.

“Trained at a ranch in Montana.”

“Henderson’s,” he acknowledged. Then he froze, half bent over, before straightening slowly.

At first she was shocked that he knew the origin of her dog. But that didn’t explain why he was startled to be caught with that knowledge.

The only reason that she could think of for him to be surprised was if Henderson’s Ranch was more than it seemed. What if it was…

“WHPF,” Linda said to him.

“What’s that?” But his poker face sucked. Even she could read it.

“White House Protection Force, sir.”

Captain Baxter had said that the former President had certified the WHPF personally. Somehow, her dog and the WHPF were linked to one another.

He sighed, then shrugged his complicity.

Now it was Dilya’s turn to say, “What’s that? What’s WHPF? And what does Major Beale’s ranch have to do with it?”

“Hush, half pint,” the former President looked down at her. “Keep your mouth shut on this one. Not even your parents.”

Dilya nodded, but it was clear that she wasn’t going anywhere.

The former President sighed again. “Always have to have your nose in it, don’t you, Dilya?”

“Survival instinct,” Dilya answered flatly and Linda knew that it was true, even though it made Dilya blush to be caught telling a real truth.

“I wish I could have done more,” President Matthews sighed, apparently missing the depth of Dilya’s statement. “Not a lot of things for an ex-President to do. I’m not exactly the kind of guy who sits around in some consulting think tank. The WHPF has a good purpose behind it. I liked it and Emily agreed to set it up for me.”

Emily Beale. Major Emily Beale, formerly of the Night Stalkers. Linda had met her once, sort of. The Night Stalkers 5th Battalion D Company had transported her Ranger unit into a strike zone five years ago. There was no question that the reason they’d escaped the horrendous battle so unscathed had been largely due to the pilot of the team’s DAP Hawk, one Major Emily Beale—rumored to be the best pilot they’d ever had.

Now she’d created the White House Protection Force, which had earned Baxter’s and Lieber’s absolute respect. And the WHPF had been the one to make sure Linda was assigned to this duty—undercover protection of the President, who was presently standing not twenty feet behind the former President.

“Be all your dog can be.” The flyer in her DD 214 discharge packet had somehow come from Henderson’s Ranch.

“Emily’s dog trainer uses that phrase all the time,” the President explained. “Ex-SEAL, quite a character.”

A SEAL dog trainer at a ranch run by the Night Stalkers’ best pilot who had set up the White House Protection Force and then managed to get Linda assigned right into the center of it.

No pressure.

Of course Linda was a former sergeant of the 75th Rangers. Pressure was what she ate for lunch.

She scanned the room again. These were hers to protect, but she didn’t know how. The Secretary of Defense was now talking to a short, very buxom woman with a blonde streak in her Asian dark hair. The woman stood as Dilya might indeed describe a boardroom-street-walker—she looked sharp, classy, and just maybe a bit on the hustle. And quite pregnant. When she went up on tiptoes to kiss the Secretary, that confirmed her as Dilya’s adoptive mother.

There was no way Linda could get them out of the room without raising the alarm. And Linda wasn’t going to allow Dilya to lose another set of parents. She’d been orphaned at eleven, the same age Linda herself might as well have been. The girl had been fortunate enough to find new parents, a gift beyond any measure.

She had to solve this.

The contrast of Dilya’s mom beside Secretary Stevenson versus Secretary of State Mallinson was startling. One content to stand quietly while her husband rested a testing hand on her mounded abdomen—the other near to raving.

But Mallinson had left for a meeting.

A meeting.

Lieutenant Jurgen had used exactly that same excuse to get away from her after she’d nailed his training course—back then she had trusted the instructor to not be the agent of destruction. An oversight that still made her grind her teeth whenever she remembered it.

But no one set up a meeting during a State Dinner. And then to attend only half of the reception? What had Mallinson been trying to get away from?

The itch between her shoulder blades bloomed to life.

“Excuse me,” she walked away from the former President in midsentence of teasing Dilya and strode over to Harvey Lieber, lurking in his shadow. “If he’s still here, don’t let Secretary of State Mallinson off the property.”

“What?”

“Do it! Then have them check him for a trigger of some sort.”

To his credit, whatever he thought of her, Lieber didn’t hesitate to raise his wrist mic and send out the instruction.

His eyes unfocused as he listened.

“Nothing. Nothing,” he echoed the reports for her. “Got him. Treasury Building tunnel—unusual exit for him. Pissed as hell. Making a lot of threats.” His eyes refocused on her. “No trigger on him. Not even a cell phone. You sure about this, Hamlin?”

“Pissed or scared?”

He relayed the question and merely looked thoughtful at the reply.

“Get him back here,” she looked around the room. They couldn’t bring him to the Second Floor without creating a panic. She quickly reviewed the map in her head. Most of the Ground Floor would be filled with guests who even at this moment were gathering for the main party to descend the Grand Staircase and lead them to dinner. Except for…

“Take him to the Usher’s Room by the North Entrance.”

She didn’t bother to wait. Instead, she crossed the hall—as casually as she could manage, which only got her stopped twice for congratulations and Thor petted three times—then raced down the back stairs toward the State Floor.

Clive was still somewhere in the upstairs hall. If she was wrong, or too slow, he could well be in harm’s way. She moved faster, despite her unfamiliar heels.