Unfortunately, the woman standing before him wasn’t the Nealy he’d left in Iowa. This Nealy was elegant. Aristocratic. Pure WASP from the top of her patrician head to the toes of her Cole Haan loafers. She was wearing a strand of pearls that had probably come over on the Mayflower, a simple sweater that could only be cashmere, and perfectly tailored gray flannel slacks. Only the mangy dog who’d come out on the porch to jump on him and the cute brown-skinned baby nestled in her arms didn’t fit the image.

God, it was good to see her again. He itched to sweep her up and carry her to the bedroom where he could strip away all the signs of her wealth and position, but he figured that might not go over too well—either with her or with the Secret Service agent watching from the edge of the drive.

His heart swelled in his chest, but he couldn’t think of anything to say except I love you, which seemed a little premature, so he greeted the dog. “Hey, Squid.”

The baby blinked at Mat’s voice, then gave him a gummy smile.

The Queen of America stepped back from her door to let him in. His stomach sank. She was looking at him as if he were a distant memory of someone she’d once seen in steerage.

He followed her down a hallway that should have been in the Smithsonian and into a formal living room with lots of cherry, wing chairs, and old oil paintings. He’d grown up in a house full of mismatched furniture, Formica tabletops, and wooden crucifixes with dried-out palm fronds stuck behind them.

She gestured toward a spindly-legged love seat with a camel back. He carefully lowered his weight, half expecting the sucker to buckle underneath him.

She regarded him with all the confidence of a woman who finally knew exactly who she was. “I’d offer you something to drink, but we’re fresh out of root beer.”

Right now he’d settle for scotch, straight from the bottle. He noticed she was holding the baby so tight the kid was starting to squirm. “A new addition?”

“Andre belongs to Tamarah, the woman who watches Button.”

“I thought you were watching Button!” He winced at the accusing note in his voice.

She gave him a steely glare and didn’t bother to respond.

“Sorry.” His palms had started to sweat.

She chose a wing chair near a fireplace that the Founding Fathers had probably gathered around to discuss exactly how far they wanted to go with this Constitution thing.

The baby was still fidgeting. He waited for her to shift him to a more comfortable position, but she didn’t do it. She almost seemed to have forgotten she was holding him. He hoped that meant she was nervous.

She didn’t look nervous.