“Five years is a long time, Gabe. Lincoln always has an answer as to where she is. Saturday night will tell the tale.”

“Why do you say that?” Gabe asked, still trying to digest the fact that his best friend in the whole world was a possible wife batterer.

“Because there is a rumor going around that Amalie is going to attend the gala on Saturday night. Sans Lincoln. Just this morning, my personal secretary told me that Amalie Laurent will be the guest of the Director of the FBI. And that they will both be sitting at a table bought by the Countess de Silva? What do you think of that, Gabriel?”

They were back to Gabriel, with both feet in hot water. “Is that definite or a rumor?”

“The RSVP came back from Director Sparrow with his name and his guest’s name. It said Amalie Laurent, not Amalie Moss. Now, does Lincoln know that? I have no clue. If there’s nothing else, I need to go to my meeting. I’m already a half hour late.”

“Tell anyone who wants to know why you’re late that I was chewing off your clothes and making wild passionate love to you. They’ll cut you some slack then.”

Emily laughed out loud. “Okay.” She kissed him on the cheek before she left the kitchen.

Gabe missed his wife the moment the door closed behind her. He knew he was late for his next appointment, but he didn’t care. He got up and cleared the table and washed the dishes. He knew how to do laundry, cook, and clean because his mother taught him how to take care of himself. He was even a fair-to-middling plumber. He wished right now he could go outside and mow the lawn. He loved the smell of new-cut grass. He looked around the kitchen to make sure it was clean and tidy. What the hell, why not? He started stripping off his clothes as he headed for the master bedroom, where he pulled on a pair of threadbare gray sweatpants and a muscle shirt. He tied up the laces of his Nikes, fished around in the closet until he found his Atlanta Braves baseball cap, and squashed it onto his head.

Outside in the corridor, the President’s Secret Service men looked at him, their eyes popping. “Where to, sir?”

“The work shed. I’m going to mow the lawn.”

“But sir . . .” Protests followed the President’s long-legged stride all the way to the secluded work shed.

“No buts, gentlemen, I’m climbing up on that John Deere, and I am cutting the lawn. You can ride alongside or trot or watch me, your call.”