“I am very grateful everything worked, sir.”
“I won’t forget, Agent Drummond.” He stepped back, smiled at both Mike and Nicholas. “Now, welcome to Camp David. I can’t tell you how much I appreciate you two making the journey on such short notice. Come on in, I want you to meet some people.”
Mike thought it was a lovely room; the ceiling had brown rafters and a cozy fire was burning. She could see the lights gleaming off the flagstone back terrace, and the lit pool beyond.
So the party was an intimate affair, if you considered forty or so people in the living room intimate. She saw everyone was buffed and polished and so very happy to meet her and Nicholas. She recognized congressmen and -women, some military bigwigs, and was that a justice of the Supreme Court? She was glad she had stashed a little black dress rolled in the bottom of her go-bag. No heels, as she’d told the vice president. She wore her motorcycle boots, better than the sneakers, Nicholas had told her. Chic and funky, he’d said. And he’d watched her as she’d twisted her hair into a chignon and set her black-framed glasses on her nose.
He’d looked her up and down, nodded. “Yes, you are armored up and ready to go, Agent Caine.”
She could only shake her head and feel like a bag lady next to Nicholas, who, naturally, was dressed impeccably in gray worsted-wool slacks, a light-blue button-down open at the collar, and a dark purple suede jacket, all of it screaming Savile Row, she’d told him.
“No, like I told you, Nigel has found Barneys and fallen in love. I think our days on Savile Row are now in the past. Except for shirts, of course.”
“Of course.” Handmade for him—of course. “Aren’t we a pair?” She looked down at herself, then over at him.
He’d stared at her, and slowly nodded. “Yes, we are quite a pair.” He’d said nothing more and they’d walked to Aspen, side by side, silent, Nicholas watching, always watching.
She looked over at him now, speaking with someone whose name she couldn’t remember. He hadn’t shaved, but he didn’t look scruffy or unkempt. He looked like a well-dressed bad boy, walking around the room, completely at ease. And always, he’d turn to her and take her hand, but there were too many people who wanted to speak to them individually, so he couldn’t keep her with him.
Callan was introducing her to her chief of staff, Quinn Costello, a firecracker in a nice suit. She looked over to see Nicholas speaking with Tony Scarlatti, Callan’s Secret Service lead. He was still worried, and now, she was certain he was warning Tony. Surely he’d relax a bit now. Tony was frowning, and nodding. His crew were the watchmen now.
Mike accepted a glass of champagne, clicked her glass to Callan’s. Callan nodded over her shoulder. “Nicholas Drummond, he’s a lot like his father, I think, and I quickly recognized that man as the complete package.”
“Yes, he is,” Mike said simply. “A lot like his father, I mean. Did you meet his mother, Mitzie, too?”
“Alas, no. But I remember her TV show. She’s quite as remarkable as his father.”
“She solves local village mysteries, you know,” Mike said. “Nicholas tells me that’s where he gets his love of puzzles.”
“Speaking of solving mysteries,” Callan said thoughtfully, eyeing Mike up and down, “it seems to me the two of you fit together well. I suppose you could say you’re perfectly attuned to each other, each of you needs the other. An amazing partnership. You each have your strengths, and they’re complementary.”
“You mean like I’m the wallflower and Nicholas is the outgoing charmer?”