After a while, Caroline approached him at the railing. She wore summer whites with a shawl of ivory silk so delicate that it was nearly translucent as it draped across her shoulders. She stood a little closer than was proper and met his gaze.
“The other guards are all at the front tables, gorging on shrimp and crawfish,” she said. “No one will blame you if you join them.”
“I’m happy here,” he said.
Oh, she was in a mood. He could tell by the gleam warming her eyes as she twitched her shoulder, letting the shawl slip lower. The expanse of bare flesh she’d just exposed was unbelievably tempting.
“Please pull your shawl back up,” he said, fighting the smile that threatened.
“But I’m not cold.”
“I’ll have to leave unless you do.”
She put the shawl into place. “Better?”
Not really, but they were in full view of the president and the rest of the entourage who knew about his shocking weakness where Caroline was concerned, and it was for the best.
“Better,” he confirmed. They both turned to face the river, a full six inches between them, and yet their connection flaredto life. He was aware of every square inch of her as they sailed farther upstream.
“Are you really going to ignore me the rest of the trip? All the way to California and back?”
“I’ve never ignored you,” he said. She was constantly in his thoughts, and he liked having her there, even if she was a distraction.
“President McKinley isn’t my father. He has no right to dictate who I court. You know what I’m asking.”
He did. Every impulse longed to close the distance between them, for he’d never been so drawn to a woman before. They were attuned to each other. They couldn’t be more different in background or comportment, but they saw the world through the same eyes. They shared the same values, the same passion for art and beauty. He wanted her, and she wanted him. They weren’t yet free but would be soon.
“I’ve always loved counterfeit detection,” he said. “The challenge of it, the pursuit of it. Counterfeiters think like me. They are detail-oriented and patient. I love matching my wits against theirs.”
“Yes?” she asked, clearly wondering where this was leading.
“On September 15th, Wilkie has promised to transfer me back to the counterfeit division. I’ll be out of the White House.”
She turned to face him, sheltering her eyes from the sun with her hand. “And where will you be on September 16th?”
“Courting you.”
If possible, the gleam in her eyes intensified, and it took every bit of self-control to resist hauling her into his arms.
“I shall look forward to it,” she said, then returned her gaze to the marshland alongside the river.
The next two hours were possibly the most delightful of his life as they shared the afternoon, but all too soon, it was over.
The steamboat neared the port, and the familiar tension returned. He stayed on the top deck while sailors tossed ropestoward men on shore to secure the ship. The crowd was thinner now, but a few hundred were still here. Old Jake with his angel wings still paced the wharf, shouting doom and proclaiming the end of days.
Then someone else snagged Nathaniel’s attention. A man who didn’t look like he belonged. He carried a satchel and a plaid coat draped over his arm. He looked annoyed. None of that fit.
Worse, Nathaniel had seen him before. He raised his binoculars, focusing them on the scowling man. A receding hairline and saggy jawline, but most of all Nathaniel recognized the anger in the man’s eyes.
“Don’t lower the gangway,” he hollered below, then raced down the stairs, taking them three at a time until he reached the main deck. The McKinleys were at the front of the line to leave the ship, but he put an arm out to block them.
“Sullivan, take them to the kitchen. Lock the door. There’s a threat on the landing.”
Sullivan didn’t argue and neither did the McKinleys as they hurried down the passageway toward the kitchen. With its lack of windows and interior location, it was the most secure room on the ship.
The scowling man had been following them, for Nathaniel remembered seeing him at a speech in Pensacola. That was six days and three hundred miles ago, but he remembered the plaid coat and the man’s dark expression. Whatever was driving this man to follow the president was a powerful force, and it needed to be stopped.
Nathaniel gathered members of the local police and the ship’s crew and described the man who worried him. “He’s around five foot ten and between sixty and seventy years old, carrying a canvas satchel and a plaid coat. He’s white, with a receding hairline and a stocky build.” He surveyed the four crew members who’d gathered to help. The oldest and leastintimidating of the lot was an elderly man wearing a steamboat uniform and a nametag identifying him as Josiah Wilbert. “I want to detain him, and I want you to do it, Mr. Wilbert.”
