I turned away from the mirror to face him. "You don't have to call me that. I'm not royalty like the Prime."
His head tilted slightly. A gesture I'd come to recognize as curiosity. "The Prime isn't royalty. She's appointed by a quorum of members of the Alliance Council."
"Still," I said, reaching for my purse on the dresser. "We don't use terms like 'my lady' except for royalty. Haven't you noticed how the other agents call me Ma'am or Madam President?"
Something flickered across his face—was it disapproval? "It doesn't seem honorable enough," he said simply. Then, with a slight bow of his head, "The car is waiting."
Rickon moved to help me with my coat, a full-length velvet number that matched the cobalt blue of my dress. His hands were steady and professional as he settled it across my shoulders, but I swore I felt the heat of his touch even through the fabric.
The motorcade left the White House, traveling along I-695 toward the National Harbor where Declan had moored his yacht on the Potomac.
The whole idea made my skin crawl. I shivered, prompting Rickon to pull a flannel throw from the storage compartment and lay it across my legs. I didn't have the heart to tell him my shiver was more from dread than the cold.
The weather honestly wasn't too bad for late January, a moderate cold despite the dusting of snow on the ground. With remnants of Christmas lights still adorning some trees and buildings, it looked as though we traversed through a fairyland. I liked it. I'd dedicated the majority of my Christmas to treaty negotiations with the Japanese Prime Minister. Although Chef Henri made me some fruitcake and hot chocolate, I spent the rest of my time binge-watching Hallmark Christmas Movies. Not too bad, just lonely.
The SUV merged from I-695 to I-295, staying with the flow of traffic. Not an official motorcade, meant to be inconspicuous. But seriously, how unnoticeable were a dozen bulletproof SUVs traversing the streets of Washington, DC? I rode in the middle car with Rickon, Chase, and my driver, while other agents occupied the cars in front and behind me.
Twenty minutes later, we pulled into the National Harbor complex, the Ferris wheel looming against the darkening sky like some kind of carnival sentinel. The SUVs bypassed the main marina entrance, heading instead toward a gated access road markedPrivate - Authorized Vehicles Only. One of the agents inthe lead car must have called ahead because the gate swung open before we even slowed.
The private pier stretched out into the Potomac like a finger pointing accusingly at Maryland on the opposite shore. And there, moored at the very end like some kind of floating monument to excess, was Declan's yacht.
"Jesus Christ," I muttered.
The thing was massive. Easily several hundred feet, all gleaming white hull and polished teak decking. Even in the fading light, I noticed the name emblazoned on the bow in gold lettering:Sovereign. Of course it was. Because Declan Hewes couldn't just own a boat. He had to own a floating metaphor for his ego.
Warm light spilled from the portholes and upper deck, and I could make out figures moving around on the pier—more agents, I assumed—securing the area.
The SUVs came to a stop at the base of the pier. Through the tinted windows, I noticed at least four agents positioned at intervals along the dock, their breath misting in the cold air. They were trying to look casual, but the bulges under their jackets and the way their eyes constantly scanned the perimeter gave them away.
Chase shifted in the front passenger seat, speaking to the rest of the team, his voice crackling slightly over his radio. "The area is secure. No press presence detected."
Thank God for small mercies. The last thing I needed was photos of me boarding Declan's yacht splashed across every news outlet by morning. I could already imagine the headlines.President's Romantic Harbor Rendezvousor some equally nauseating variation. The thought made my stomach turn.
Rickon was already out of the vehicle, his movements efficient as he scanned the area before opening my door. Thecold air hit me immediately, cutting through the flannel throw I'd forgotten still draped across my lap.
I stepped out onto the pier, my heels clicking against the weathered wood. The yacht loomed even larger up close, all sleek lines and ostentatious luxury. A gangway extended from the main deck, and I could see someone—probably crew—waiting at the top.
My eyes drifted to the agents positioned along the pier. Professional. Alert. Doing their jobs. None of them were looking at me with anything resembling judgment, but I felt it anyway. What did they think of their President going on a date with DeclanfuckingHewes?
What didIthink of it?
I hated it, that's what. But it was a means to an end, and if it got Declan off the planet, it was well worth it.
I pulled my coat tighter and started toward the gangway, Rickon falling into step beside me, close enough that I felt the warmth of his presence. Chase and another agent followed close behind.
The yacht swayed almost imperceptibly with the movement of the water, and I heard the soft lapping of waves against the hull. Somewhere in the distance, a foghorn sounded.
I paused at the base of the gangway, looking up at theSovereignwith something between resignation and revulsion.
"Ready, Madam President?" Rickon asked quietly.
Was I? No. Absolutely not. Did I have a choice?
Also no.
We had already agreed when working out the security details of the evening that only three agents would accompany me onboard—Rickon, Chase, and a younger agent named Rivers who got his assignment because his dad was a congressman—and remain in the adjoining hallway while I shared a private dinner with Declan in his stateroom. At my signal, which wasnothing more than calling his name, Rickon would move in to apprehend Hewes. With any luck, we'd be off the yacht with no one being the wiser within the hour.
Ugh, what if Declan tried to kiss me? What would be worse if he did: vomiting or screaming? The last time I got kissed was about a month after becoming Vice President. First Lady Amelia Duncan had fixed me up with Senator Laberbera. She was always trying to fix me up with somebody. He was a nice man, a widower, but it just felt wrong. Then the President died, and there wasn't enough time to even think about kissing.
