Moss massaged his throbbing temples. Did he really want to go up against the awesome Post and their team of investigative reporters? Not in this lifetime he didn’t. Well, maybe he’d take a stab at it if Amalie were still under his thumb, but she wasn’t. She was out there somewhere, and his gut was telling him the smarmy reporter knew exactly where she was. He continued to massage his temples, which were pounding so hard, he wondered if he was going to have a stroke. He needed to calm down and come up with a plan, and he needed to do it immediately, before more damage could be done.

Moss’s thoughts took him to the upcoming gala the First Lady was hosting in a few days. It was the last place he wanted to go. But at the moment, he could not see a way to get out of it. And then to hear that Amalie was going to attend. That news was like a silver bullet right through the heart. Maybe it was all a rumor initiated by that snippy reporter. Reporters did crap like that all the time in hopes of getting a rise out of whomever they were targeting.

On top of all that, the President had been silent. He hadn’t called once in the last two days. By the same token, Moss had not called the President either. A waiting game. Who was going to blink first? Maybe it was time to get out of Dodge. He had the wherewithal to go anywhere in the world he chose and live out his days in luxury. If he wanted to. The question was, did he?

Now that he was calming down, he started to think clearly. Maybe he could make things right, call Spritzer, and apologize. He could always get a new cell-phone number. In the whole of his life, with one glaring exception, he’d never apologized to anyone. Only when Gabe had proved right about the purchase of La Natural did Lincoln apologize for doubting him. Other than that, the reason he never apologized was because he was never wrong.

So, why start now? Spritzer was right, there was nothing more powerful than the written word, and the one thing any politician learned from the git-go was that you never made an enemy of the press. As in never, ever. And he’d done just that in a fit of rage.

Moss leaned over and pressed the button on the intercom. “Send someone up here to clean this mess. And when you’re done, put some flowers in here. I’ll move into one of the guest rooms until things are returned to normal.”

Flowers! He’d send Spritzer some flowers. Women liked flowers. That should make things right.