Moss scanned the pictures again to see who he was up against. A growl shot out of his mouth. Losers, all of them. And yet he’d lose out to a loser. His anger mounted till he could barely see straight. He reached for his coffee cup and took a huge swallow that exploded out of his mouth like a gunshot. He’d forgotten to add cream, and he’d burned his mouth. “Son of a bitch!”

His cell phone rang, not the White House special one but the other. He thought about not answering it but knew in his gut that it was someone important calling to congratulate him. Besides, only a very few power brokers had the number. Without checking caller ID, he answered the phone and struggled to make his voice sound normal when he said, “Good morning, my friend.”

“Uh . . . I’m sorry but this isn’t one of your friends. This is Maggie Spritzer from the Post. I’m calling to congratulate you on behalf of all the staff here at the Post and to ask you if we could meet to do an interview, and, of course, to take some pictures that are a little more flattering than the one we ran today in the paper.”

Moss felt his heart fluttering in his chest. He fought to take a clear deep breath. “Where did you get this phone number, Ms. Spritzer? There are very few people who know it.” He didn’t realize how tight he had clenched his jaw until he felt the pain ricochet down his neck.

“I’m a reporter, Mr. Moss. As you know, a reporter never reveals his or her sources. So, can we schedule an interview?”

Moss’s gut instinct warned him not to make an issue of the phone number. It would be a simple matter to have it changed within the hour and notify those who had it. “I’m afraid not, Ms. Spritzer. My calendar is full for the next six weeks. Thank you for the nomination, however. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’m late for a meeting.”

Maggie was, if nothing else, a dog with a bone. “Well then, perhaps you could find a few minutes on Saturday night at the First Lady’s gala at the Four Seasons. The Post bought a table, and I understand it is right next to yours. That way, we can also interview your beautiful wife at the same time.”

Who in the damn hell is this woman? Then he remembered. She’d done so many exposés along with that guy Ted something or other who was a Pulitzer Prize winner that her name was almost a household word. He felt his stomach tighten. “I’m afraid that won’t be possible either. I never do interviews, especially at social occasions. I think the First Lady might frown on that.”

“Well then, is there any truth to the rumor that your wife had facial surgery to alter her appearance and that no one has seen her in five years?”