Her humor rubbed him the wrong way. He folded his arms across his chest and glared at her. “You don’t think it’s a bit odd that a group of women would travel a thousand miles to join a complete stranger for an hour of knitting?”
Caroline rolled her eyes in an overly dramatic show of pique. “Oh, for pity’s sake,” she muttered as she punched her pillow and dropped back onto the mattress, turning her back to him. “Cover the windows on your way out.”
He stretched his leg out to kick the bedpost again. “Women can be just as lethal as men. Charlotte Corday was a noblewoman who assassinated Jean-Paul Marat while he took a bath. No one suspected her either, until she stabbed him through the heart. Six months ago, a madwoman tried to kill Kaiser Wilhelm with an axe.”
She pierced him with a bleary eye over the edge of the bedsheet. “Do you memorize these little tidbits for fun?”
“Trust me, it isn’t fun,” he said tightly. “I want those women’s names. I have a list of suspected anarchists and need to cross-check them. And before you ask, yes, there are plenty of female anarchists.”
The way Caroline’s honey-blond hair spilled over her shoulder was worthy of a Botticelli painting. She looked warm and alluring, but her tongue was pure vinegar.
“The president left for Boston this morning, and the first lady is low-hanging fruit. Any self-respecting assassin would go to Boston, not Ida McKinley’s knitting circle. I didn’t sleep last night and intend to finish my nap.” She burrowed deeper into the mattress, presenting him with that tempting shoulder again.
She had a point, but he’d die before admitting it. He leaned back in his chair, wishing he didn’t find her so attractive. Women like her were trouble. She probably spent more on a single outfit than he earned in a year.
But she wasn’t lazy, and he’d made a mistake in thinking she was a lie-abed. “Why didn’t you sleep last night?”
She lifted her head to crack a glance at him over the covers. “Didn’t you inspect the overnight logs and notice Dr. Tisdale’s arrival at two o’clock?”
“Yes, and he left an hour later.”
“Leaving me with the first lady until six o’clock. Then I went downstairs to cancel her morning appointments. Then I visited her pharmacy for more medication and her seamstress to pick up the gown she is to wear for tonight’s dinner, and then I mailed invitations for next week’s memorial breakfast. Half an hour ago I came up here for a nap before the ladies from Iowa arrive. Thank you for waking me up and suggesting they might be harboring homicidal tendencies. What a soothing thought to lull me back to sleep.”
He leaned forward, bracing his elbows on his knees. “I’m sorry about waking you up. In the future, I really do need those lists, even if the president is out of town.”
Nothing could be taken for granted. The security here was looser than a typical bank, and his first step in tightening it was to change the lackadaisical attitude of the staff.
Caroline rolled upright and reached for a glass of water on the bedside table. She drank it all, then plunked the glass down with resolve. She paused. Beside the glass was a slim cigarette case, and she was staring straight at it.
“You don’t need them,” he said gently.
“But I want them.”
“There’s a difference between—”
“Between needs and wants, I know.” She pulled back from the table and folded her arms across her chest, her hands fidgeting and squeezing. “Do you have any vices?”
“None.”
“How did I know you were going to say that?” she quipped.
He simply shrugged. “Our world is made of rule-breakers and rule-followers. I think we both know our designated roles.”
She grabbed the cigarette case and emptied the contents into her palm. Then she leaned forward and plunked the pre-rolled cigarettes onto the mattress at the foot of the bed, a hint of challenge in her eyes. “Take those with you. As you can see, I don’t need them.”
He slipped them into his suit pocket and stood to leave.
“Don’t let me catch you smoking them,” Caroline called after him. “My good opinion of you will be shattered if you let me down.”
He battled a smile the entire walk back to his office.
After that day, Caroline began submitting official visitor lists to Nathaniel’s office. The lists were an extra burden on her overfilled day, but it wasn’t a completely unreasonable request.
What was unreasonable was the way Nathaniel began haunting the East Room each day during visitors’ hours. The grandiose room looked like something straight out of Versailles. It featured lavish artwork and huge chandeliers that twinkled with thousands of crystals. It was a favorite among the tourists, who gaped at the coffered ceilings, velvet drapes, and gilded mirrors.
Nathaniel Trask perched on a chair in the corner, scrutinizing the visitors like a cat waiting to pounce. He did it for an hour every day. The only time he tore his gaze off the visitors was to scribble in a little notebook. Caroline itched to know what he wrote, for his concentration was fascinating. Something about a man completely absorbed in his professional duties was inexplicably attractive.
One morning she simply couldn’t stand it another moment. He watched an elderly woman waddle past with a cane, huffing and out of breath as she admired a pair of marble lions flanking the fireplace. Nathaniel was almost holding his breath as he watched her, his stare disconcerting.
She slid up beside his chair and leaned down to whisper, “What do you think, arsonist or assassin?”
A smile fought to emerge, but he killed it quickly. “Sorry to disappoint. I think she’s an ordinary tourist. One who hails from the Midwest, if her accent is any indication.” He closed his notebook and slipped it inside his suit jacket. “I’ve got what I need for today. Let’s go outside.”
She followed him out to the southern portico, the semi-circular balcony framed by the iconic white columns. She snapped open her fan, for the August heat was sweltering. “No one will think poorly of you if you shed that suit jacket.”
His lips curved into one of those slow, closed-mouth smiles. “Somehow it doesn’t seem right to be on White House grounds without a suit jacket.”
He always wore a somber three-piece suit that looked oppressively hot. The only hint of decoration he wore was a silver tie clip with a little bird clinging to a slim branch. It was so heavily stylized that she must have seen it half a dozen times before she spotted the bird in the intricate silverwork.
“Tell me about the tie clip,” she said. “It’s surprisingly whimsical for such a serious, sober man.”
He touched the tie clip, flushing a little. “It’s a memento of my greatest professional failure.”
“Oh?”
“The Kestrel Gang. A dangerously clever group of counterfeiters. I’ve been hunting them for a decade. Once I spent almost a year in St. Louis on their trail, but it came to nothing.”
“Why are they called the Kestrel Gang?”
“Kestrels are the smallest breed of falcon. They are smart, tricky, and migrate all over the nation, which is how this gang of counterfeiters operates. Somehow they figured out that the Secret Service code name for them was kestrel, and they sent me this tie clip after I gave up in St. Louis.”