Donovan looked around the office; it was much smaller than the senator’s but just as elegantly appointed. It was clearly a business office, just like the senator’s, but the number of potted plants and the personal memorabilia on the desk and walls revealed a definite woman’s touch. Donovan had never met Mrs. Braden before either, but he had certainly seen her photograph—and so had just about everyone else in America. Victoria Braden was one of the most photographed women in Washington, and now that she was the definite favorite for the role of First Lady, she was fast becoming the most photographed woman in the world. The camera loved her; she had hair like the mane of a thoroughbred, a deep chestnut brown with striking red highlights. Her flawless skin looked like rose petals, and her almond-shaped eyes and Cupid’s bow lips made her look like a model. So did her sense of fashion; everything she wore seemed to complement her perfectly, and every designer on the East Coast was competing to see whose gown she would favor at the next White House reception or ball. Victoria Braden was about fifteen years younger than her husband, just enough of an age difference to titillate the American public but still fall within the bounds of propriety. Every eye in America seemed to be turning to her, which made her the perfect wife for a presidential candidate like John Henry Braden; it was a match made in a politician’s heaven.

Donovan took a seat in an upholstered chair with his back to the door. The leather felt soft and supple, and he squeezed the arms and settled in a little. He glanced at a diploma prominently displayed on the end table to his left and read the top two lines: University of Virginia, Darden Graduate School of Business Administration. Not bad, Donovan thought. She may be a trophy wife, but she’s got a few trophies of her own.

“Coffee?”

Donovan twisted around and looked at the door. Victoria Braden was balancing a delicate bone china cup with a gold rim on top of a book in her left hand. She had today’s Washington Post tucked under her right arm and an assortment of folders and files in hand; she quietly pushed the door shut with her hip and crossed to her desk. She was dressed in a simple black blazer and skirt, with an open white blouse that showed off the long curve of her graceful neck. It was a simple, even utilitarian outfit, but the tailoring was immaculate and the lines flowed like honey. This is a woman who’s going places, Donovan thought. So what does she want with me?

“Thanks. I’m fine,” Donovan replied.

“I don’t know how you do it. Personally, I run on caffeine.”

“I gave it up when I joined the FBI.”