The day had been just as brutal as Jim had expected. That he’d spent half of the short night thinking about Reese asleep just next door hadn’t helped matters.

Since when did he turn down a beautiful woman, no matter how much pain she was in? Since never. He’d learned that letting a woman have a good cry on his shoulder made him into a shining knight. And the sorry-for-doing-that make-up sex afterward was typically awesome.

But Reese was made of different, sterner stuff. She was like the difference between his old Kenworth semi-tractor with its cozy sleeping compartment versus a HETS tractor that hauled Abrams main battle tanks through the heart of a war zone.

He would’ve liked to start the day with something more friendly, but they’d barely had time for hello.

Morning route briefing over donuts and hotel coffee—really good hotel coffee, but of little help after a short night.

They’d had only a few minutes alone together on the drive to the Downtown Manhattan heliport but conversation had been about timing and logistics. Then he’d spotted Malcolm happily curled up in the First Lady’s seat. Thankfully, among the weapons, gas masks, and other paraphernalia, the vehicle was also stocked with Windex and paper towels. He shuffled into the back and spent the last part of the drive cleaning up dog hair.

“Thanks, buddy.”

Malcolm, who’d slept at the bar, in the hallway, and across his legs, offered him a lazy yawn that was hard to resist. He waved Malcolm out of the seat and onto the Suburban’s carpeted floor.

“Not with the sad doggie eyes,” Jim told him. “You know that doesn’t work on me.”

Malcolm sighed and moved to the floor. Jim began cleaning the back seat.

Reese’s sad eyes of last night had certainly been gone this morning. She was back to pure Secret Service driver. It was a sunny day in February and her dark glasses were firmly in place, hiding all of her thoughts.

The moment he’d stepped out of the vehicle and onto the pier at the heliport was the very last he saw of Reese all day except at a distance.

He and Malcolm cleared the heliport terminal building, bathrooms, and finally the L-shaped pier that stuck out into the East River.

Reese rolled the bronze Suburban out onto the pier and turned it around, ready to depart.

He saw her watching him through the driver’s window, but he and Malcolm were done scanning and there was no reason to delay. Back through the terminal, he was climbing into an idling black Suburban when he saw the white-top helo fly in over Brooklyn. An NYPD fast patrol boat circled beyond the pier while a helicopter gunship hovered above on Overwatch.

He shut the door and was whisked off to the first site on the First Lady’s itinerary.

Other dog teams had secured the store, but he and Malcolm did a final walk-through of their precise route—information so compartmented that even most of the agents and NYPD didn’t know it. Loading dock, freight elevator Number Three reserved for their exclusive usage, up to dresses, then over to shoes. He barely saw the ladies themselves as his work was done before they’d actually arrived.

He and Reese managed to exchange smiles as he headed out and was whisked off to the next site.

During the Broadway show, he’d constantly patrolled the lobby and backstage. The show had pyrotechnics and though there were two agents hovering over the technician and his supply of flammables and small explosives, the scent triggered poor Malcolm so often that they’d had to go for a long walk around the block just to calm his nerves.

Once they’d done the initial patrol at the Rum House—the place wasn’t going to have nearly as many business-class cokeheads for a while—he’d mostly hung by the door, idly chatting with the bartender who doubled as a bouncer. It was a prime spot, anyone entering the bar would have to walk past Malcolm’s sensitive nose.

Through the front window, he could just see Reese in the Suburban pulled close up to the curb with the rest of the Motorcade. She remained in the driver’s seat, ready to evacuate the party at a moment’s notice.

Harvey Lieber had been right, the three leading women of the White House were absolutely stunning together. He could see Ms. Matthews’ calm sophistication, Ms. Taylor’s class, and Ms. Darlington’s whimsical sense of fun as the three of them laughed together over a late night snack.

Detra—the head of the First Lady’s detail—flirted with him briefly each time she passed by on patrol. It seemed to just be a piece of who she was.

Beat Belfour—the head of Ms. Matthews’ detail—gave him one withering look that said she be glad to neuter him slowly with a dull blade if he screwed up in the slightest. He actually wouldn’t put it past her.

But it wasn’t any of them he was thinking of.

The reserved agent who had sat at the front corner table with him last night occupied his thoughts so thoroughly that he was glad Malcolm was the one watching the door because he was doing a lousy job of it.

Reese had enjoyed watching Malcolm and Jim doing their job throughout the day. Even at the end of it, the dog still had a bounce in his step and Jim still had a smile for her each time he passed by.

The First Lady’s Motorcade was quite different from the President’s. Thirty-five vehicles were reduced to five or six other than a police escort. They were seen as significantly less tempting targets for foreign attackers. Especially the current and former First Ladies, as both were immensely popular.

So she’d spent her day never more than three steps from her vehicle inside a highly secure area. Police and a Sweep Car led the way. Then her vehicle, with the head of the First Lady’s Protection Detail sitting where Jim had been all yesterday.

The contrast was jarring. Special Agent Detra Willand was a voluble and cheery blonde. She maintained that attitude even as she scanned for bad guys before opening the door for the ladies to exit the vehicle. As they rolled along between sites, Detra had filled her in on news items and gossip as readily as route protection details.

Jim had been comfortable with the long silences as they’d ridden together around Manhattan. Detra was almost never silent, and by the end of the day, Reese was exhausted. She liked Detra. The agent would be a great person to spend a night out on the town with. But after a day together…the silence was welcome.

By the end of the day, sitting outside the Rum House and watching through the bar’s front window as Jim was so perfectly vigilant, Reese could really appreciate him. She knew now that no matter how casually he sat at the end of the bar closest to the door and chatted with anyone who came up to him, he wouldn’t miss a single thing.

He hadn’t even missed that she would have hated herself this morning if she’d dragged him into her bed last night.

But that was last night.

She’d now had a whole day to watch him at a distance and think about it.

As usual, Jim departed minutes before her Motorcade did, rushing back to make sure the hotel was still secure as everyone reassembled in the vehicles. Once set, they rushed after him: police, Sweep Cars, her bronze Suburban with the three laughing women, and Detra once more chatting at her side. In the rearview mirror rolled Halfback—the heavily armed black Suburban that carried the rest of the First Lady’s Protection Detail, a press van, the Roadrunner communications vehicle, and a police car tail.

When she finally reached her room, she was thrown by the Do Not Disturb sign hanging from Jim’s door handle. Had she misread everything about the last thirty-six hours?

She considered knocking anyway and demanding answers. She considered pulling out her sidearm and shooting out the lock. Instead, she retreated to her room to fume in private.

Her foot crunched on a note on hotel stationary that had been slid under the door. In a heavy block print was a simple note: Our rooms have a connecting door.

Reese hadn’t given the inner door any thought last night except as a possible avenue of attack. Jim clearly had.

Before she could second guess herself, she stepped over and unlocked it from her side. When she swung it open, she saw that Jim’s was already opened a crack.

Moment of truth, Reese.

Jim Fischer wasn’t some contest, some race she had to win. But he definitely made a hell of a door prize.

She nudged the door open a little wider. Malcolm looked up at her from where he sprawled across the foot of the king-sized bed and wagged his tail. In the background, she could hear Jim’s shower running. Again, the door was cracked slightly open spilling the only light into the room. An invitation.

Reese had always been a morning-shower person. A fresh start to the day. Hot water, soap, green starting flag, go! Jim seemed to be more of a wash-off-the-day type, which always struck her as a little defeatist. Tonight perhaps she’d ignore that. But she’d only taken that single indecisive step into the room when the shower shut off.

She froze for a long moment while Malcolm watched to see what she’d do.

Never be here in the first place was most best option—hasty retreat and trust Malcolm to not give away her indecision. But now that she was here, retreating wasn’t an option. The right solution? Pedal to the metal.

Reese stripped as she hurried to the far side of the bed. Jacket, blouse and slacks over a chair, shoes and underwear on the floor by the bed, sidearm under the pillow, she slipped between the covers. She wished she’d thought to swing the connecting door back into place.

She slipped down deeper in the covers and warmed her toes against Malcolm.

After another minute, Jim stepped from the bathroom. He was naked and backlit by the bathroom light. It made her catch her breath. He walked all day every day and his muscle definition, highlighted in the bright light, was incredible. Adding in workout shoulders and he was a vision sparkled by tiny drops of water.

Whether it was her sharp breath or his noticing the ajar connecting door, he spun to face the bed.

“Reese?”

She kept silent in the shadows, not sure if she could speak.

“Reese,” her name turned thankful in his husky voice. It was enough to wash away her doubts. Though it wouldn’t do to have him too assured of himself, not after the doubts he’d just put her through.

“Fischer,” she kept it a simple acknowledgement she might use passing him in the hall of the West Wing.

She as much felt as heard his soft chuckle as he turned off the bathroom light. A dim nightlight in the bathroom spilled a soft glow into the room, just enough to track his movements. He crossed to the dresser first, where she heard a soft crinkle of foil.

“Pretty sure of yourself, buying condoms.” And she didn’t like that at all. Had he simply assumed that any woman would be glad to fall into his bed? It was almost enough to make her climb back out in the darkness.

“Part of Malcolm’s med kit. If I have to bandage a bleeding paw fast, I won’t have time to shave it before I tape it. Condom first, then tape over that so that I don’t catch his fur.”

“Oh,” she pulled the half discarded sheet back into place. “Better not hurt a paw anytime soon,” she warned the dog.

“Don’t worry, I carry plenty.”

“Were you a boy scout? Always prepared?”

“Eagle scout.” He slipped in between the sheets and an exploring hand landed on the flat of her belly. “And not ready for you.”

It was a corny line, except the way he said it, it didn’t sound like a line at all.

Rather than sliding up to grope her breast, his hand continued around her waist, then hauled her against him as if she weighed nothing. He was even careful not to snag her long hair as he pulled them together.

No kiss, no grope. Instead, he pulled her into a hug as tight as last night’s and held them together.

For a long moment, she could feel herself holding tension, like waiting for the starter’s flag. In many ways it was the most adrenaline filled moment of the race—all anticipation and withheld action.

But Jim didn’t start, instead he simply held her close.

As if he was waiting for something.

As if he was waiting for…her.

No man ever did that. Apparently Jim Fischer did.

She relaxed into him, sensations scorching along her skin as more and more of their bodies came into contact. Jim was warm from the shower and just a tantalizing bit cool from the sparkles of water that he’d missed toweling off. It made him feel more three dimensional. Like that moment she’d first run into his back in the West Wing—impossibly real.

He’d forgotten a razor when they’d stopped for essentials and she could feel his two-day beard as he buried his nose in the crook of her neck. Ignition sparks followed his hand as he brushed up to her shoulders, then slowly down her bare back and finally caressed her behind.

“That,” Jim whispered, “is an amazing ass.”

Far too many men had said that in one form or another. She was black, not some ass-flat white chick. But she was so tired of men saying so.

Reese’s arms were around Jim’s back, so she couldn’t punch him.

Instead she thumped a fist as hard as she could into his kidney.

Pain rocketed up Jim’s back. Not enough to make him scream as she had a lousy angle on him, but enough to engage a hundred percent of his attention. And to make him accidentally jam out his legs.

Malcolm responded with a yelp of surprise and a hard thump as he fell off the foot of the bed and onto the carpeted floor.

“Sorry, Malcolm,” Reese whispered out into the darkened room.

“Sorry, Malcolm? He’s not the one you just punched in the kidneys.”

“He’s also not the one who just told me I was hot because of the shape of my ass.”

Jim groaned a bit as he tested his back with a careful twist. If that was a near miss, he couldn’t imagine what a direct strike from Reese would feel like.

“Did I hurt you much?”

“Enough,” he winced as he shifted.

“Good!”

Deciding that his fate was in his own hands, Jim reached under her arms and grabbed her behind again.

Because he kept his elbows out, her next swing bounced harmlessly off his ribs.

“This…” he squeezed her tightly so there was no question about what he was talking about.

She tried once more to thump him and growled at her inability to strike her target.

“…is a truly exceptional piece of anatomy on a beautiful woman. It also had nothing to do with why I’m in bed with you.”

“Oh, but my breasts do?”

“Again, exceptional examples from what little experience I’ve had with them. Again, not particularly relevant.”

“Okay, Fischer, why the hell are you in bed with me?”

“You mean other than it being my bed and you’re the one who’s in it, not the other way around?”

“Yes, other than that.” He could hear her gritting her teeth and he liked doing that to her. A little payback for the kidney shot, a little bit keeping her off balance. He suspected that Reese was too used to a certain kind of man having a certain kind of expectation of this beautiful woman.

“Because from the first moment, you’ve been nothing like I expected.”

She didn’t even hesitate. “Because I didn’t throw myself at you from the first moment?”

“Because you keep being so much more than I expect. Then I raise those expectations and you either blow right by them or go sideways around them.”

“What did you expect?” She finally stopped any sign of struggling, but he wasn’t going to let his guard down just yet.

“At first the wide-eyed newbie. But then Dilya liked you and that kid goes deep in ways I guess I’ll never understand. You take the hit of losing your father. The way that happened, you could have hung it up and shriveled away worse than corn in a drought—most folks would. Instead, you come back as the driver of Stagecoach. Damn, woman! Then you’ve got an ass that feels as good as this,” he stroked it more gently this time and just couldn’t believe how soft her skin was over all that smooth muscle. “Is there anything you can’t do?”

“Apparently, understand an Okie.”

“Good, maybe that will keep you around a while trying to figure me out. Because you’ve sure got this good ol’ boy mystified.”

“Let’s see if I can demystify a thing or two.”