“Merde.”Jamie’s jaw dropped.
Several people had stepped out of the tent. Even among the dark suits and coats, a tall, broad man in a dark suit and coat stood out, thick silver hair swept into a boyish style that suggested, in an artful way, he’d just got out of bed with a glamorous woman. Samira stood, and had to dive for the laptop to stop it hitting the floor.
“Oh my God,” she said, planting the laptop on the chair. “Hyland.”
A dozen people swept in from nowhere—media, holding cameras and recorders. Faint shouts were audible.
“I’ve never seen him in person,” she said.
He strode to the middle Land Rover, flashing his vote-winning smile for the cameras, his suit jacket stretched over broad shoulders that tapered to a narrow waist, the fingers of one hand casually hooked in a trouser pocket. A flash of white on his belt—the fob.
Wow. She’d seen him on video and in photos thousands of times but now she got it. He looked like a film star playing the role of senator. An all-American actor who’d never be cast as anything but a hero.
“That guy tore my life apart and until now I’ve never laid eyes on him. And look at him. Even I want to believe he’s a good guy. That’s what we’re fighting here.”
The senator called out to the media and laughed with all his perfect white teeth. He answered a few questions, an arm slung over the rear door, which was held open by a diplomatic security agent. A camera flashed.
“It looks like an ad for Land Rover,” she said. “InGQ.”
Jamie slipped behind her and placed his hands on her upper arms. “There’s a reason they call him Teflon Tristan. That’s why we need that evidence. People aren’t going to believe it until he’s forced to admit his guilt.”
“So we just walk on up and say, ‘Hey, Senator, mind if I take a peek at your dongle?’”
“By the look of him, I suspect he gets that kind of talk a lot.”
“It wasn’t a joke. None of this is a joke.”
Jamie squeezed her arms. “I know, Samira,” he said, with a quiet seriousness that settled her nerves a touch.
The senator disappeared into the car and the cavalcade moved away, escorted by three police bikes as well as the cars, blue lights flashing from the Land Rover grilles, leaving Fitz, the Peugeot driver and half a dozen police outside the hotel.
The door to the parking basement rolled up and a blue Prius nosed out. Two men in black suits and sunglasses filled the front. Through the windscreen, Samira caught the unmistakable flash of a blond pixie cut in the back seat. The car turned onto the street in the opposite direction from the cavalcade. The rear windows were blacked out.
“That was Laura,” she said.
“I would have expected more protection.”
“She wouldn’t have the same level of protection as a president’s daughter. Those would be personal bodyguards—I know Hyland pays for protection for her, too. And there was someone with her in the back, a woman. A social-media manager?”
“Right, then,” Jamie said, releasing Samira. “Now’s as good a time as any to go and break into his room.”
“Oh my God, are you serious? We can’t just walk in there and bash our way through the hotel. That place will be crowded with security. And police. And goons. And his staff.” She swiveled. “We wouldn’t get—”
Jamie was grinning. The bastard.
She brought a hand to her chest. “Another joke.”
“Too hard to resist. Lighten up, Samira—it’s not like we’re about to mug one of the most powerful people in the free world. But, yeah, we’ll wait until Angelito and Holly get here in—” he looked at his bare wrist, and hurriedly rubbed it “—at eleven thirty and then we’ll come up with a plan that’s watertight and one hundred percent safe.”
She raised her eyebrows.
“Okay, maybe ninety-nine percent safe and just a little leaky.”
He raised his arms, rested his fingers on a ceiling beam and leaned his hips forward. His back cracked. Why did they never come as easily for her? She ached to wrap her arms around his muscular waist, burrow her nose into his sweater.
“Anyway,” he said, “nothing we can do until then, so I think my time’s best spent in bed.”
She stopped breathing.
