“Oh you’re such a goofy bore. Come down. I want to give you advice on the bureau,” he replied cheerfully. “Anyway I’m feeling all alone tonight. Keep me company.”

Over my dead and lifeless body, she thought. “Maybe we can get lunch near the office later this week, okay? But I’m going to bed now. Good night.”

“I’ll get you out one of these days,” he said, sounding untroubled. “Rain check, then.”

The intercom clicked and there was silence.

Shuddering she walked to the door to double-check that it was locked and bolted. She stared at the bolt for a few seconds, half convinced Hal would turn himself into a puddle, ooze under the security door, and reemerge in the living room to pay her another visit.

When she was finally sure that the coast was clear, she turned off the lights and climbed into bed with her cell phone set to speed-dial Sarah, just in case.

4

Not Camelot

Heat. Hot. It was painful but it felt so good.

First Lady Anita Crusoe was wrapped in a too-large terry-cloth robe, perched at the edge of a sunken bathtub, hot water running in a fat stream over her feet. For a moment her mouth fell open in joy and relief. So nice, this heat.

The First Lady was too chilled to remove her bathrobe, so she sat at the edge, examining her toes under the hot water. They were starting to turn red and sting; her body was betraying her. As First Lady of Colorado, she’d learned to be rock steady, braving the elements at endless outdoor events. Now, after less than one term in the White House, just a few hours outdoors felt like roughing it. These days she was used to heated trailers and aides handing her blankets or hustling her into warm cars. She had every luxury in the world. At this very moment she was at an estate with a prosciutto room. Truly, a room dedicated to slicing smoked meat!

Estoy mimada, she told herself. Her nostrils flared with a bleak laugh as she considered how quickly she had accustomed herself to VIP living. And just as quickly learned its costs.

Her mind flashed back to the scene in the Blue Room last week when she, Anita Crusoe, had knelt on her hands and knees vacuuming the drapes live on The Today Show, yammering about “the dangers of dust, mites, and mold stuck in your household fabrics.” Now, from her perch on the edge of the tub, she chirped, “Cleaning is good medicine!” with the same false excitement she’d oozed that day. Ridiculous. It was absurd that she’d allowed herself to be talked into taking on allergens as a cause. “I am a mechanical engineer,” she’d wanted to scream. Used to be, she corrected herself.