by Jillian Dodd
“Did you hear that?” Lorenzo asks me.
“I did,” I say, getting up and slipping into a robe. How could this be? They send me to save the Prince of a teeny country like Montrovia but allow our own President to get shot?
I rush down the stairs to the salon, grab the remote control from the bar, and flip on the television.
And there it is running across the bottom of the screen: Breaking News: The President of the United States has been shot.
“I’m turning on CNN,” Lorenzo says. The sound on his end is a few seconds ahead of mine.
An anchorman is discussing law with a White House correspondent. “Our twenty-fifth amendment was put into place for situations such as these. The Vice President will submit in writing to Congress that the President is unable to perform his duties and will become the Acting President.”
“And if President recovers?” the anchor asks.
“The Vice President stays Acting President until the President himself can submit in writing his ability to run the country.”
“And do we know if this has taken place yet?”
“We do not. We’re awaiting a press conference.”
“Can you tell us what you think is happening behind the scenes?”
“Based on protocol, the Vice President, who was in route to the Summit, would have been diverted and taken to a secure location.”
“How does the Vice President determine the President unable to serve?”
“I imagine he is being updated on the President’s condition.”
“Let’s run that footage now,” the anchor says, cutting him off. “We have Dr. Saul Penchant on the phone. Doctor, can you please watch this video and give us your professional opinion as to what condition you expect the President to be in?” He pauses and looks directly at the camera. “To our viewers, please note that this footage is of a graphic nature. Viewer discretion is advised.”
I mute the sound, wanting to see what happened with my own eyes and not be swayed by someone else’s opinion.
The President, surrounded by Secret Service, gets out of his limousine and turns to wave at the crowd gathered, who are being held back by construction barriers. Most are there to see the dignitaries as they arrive, but some are protesting the Summit. Just as the President turns back toward the entrance to the Summit, his body lurches. I pause the footage, rewind, and then watch it again in super-slow motion. The bullet appears to have entered the back of his neck. Most likely effective, but lower than I was taught to aim.
“They’re saying he’s been taken to the hospital,” Lorenzo says into my ear, causing me to set down the remote. “What’s your professional opinion?”
“A sniper, obviously, but based on where the President was hit, I’d say the shooter wasn’t up very high. The trajectory of the bullet appears flatter than I would expect. For a kill shot, ideally you hit the brainstem, which controls all body functions. However, this shot didn’t have optimal placement. If the President was lucky, the bullet may have passed clean through his neck.”
“And if he was unlucky?”
“It hit a major artery or the spinal cord.”
“How could someone do that? Security around the President is so tight.”
“Same way they almost got you. There’s no possible way the Secret Service can control every single window in the area. All it takes is one spot. One shot. Not that hard to do.”
“Are you saying you could do it?”
“I could definitely do it. Quite frankly, shooting him wouldn’t be that hard. Getting away with it is another story.”
“So you think they will catch the assassin?”
“Depends on how good he is.”
“Would they catch you?” he asks, a smile in his voice.
“The plan would be to not get caught.”
“So you were trained to shoot like that?”
“I have very good skills with all types of weapons from varying distances, but I’m a much better shot at close range.”
“Thank God for that,” he says.
I hear Juan speaking to him again then Lorenzo says, “I’m afraid I have to go now, Huntley. I’m being called into an emergency meeting. Take care, my love.”
After we end the call I sit at the bar, processing. I should be worried about our President and what it means for our country, but my thoughts are on Lorenzo. Two things he said took me by surprise, the first being that he still cares for me. The second being that Daniel somehow found out about me being on the yacht by myself and managed to convince the crew he was to join me.
“Would you care for a drink, Contessa?” Marco, one of the stewards asks, joining me in the salon.
“Got anything for a hangover?” I laugh. “How are you feeling today?”
“Remind me not to party with you,” he says, relaxing his stiff posture. “You’re an instigator.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“It means you encouraged us to do shots, but did not partake in them yourself.”
“I most certainly did, but I am not stupid enough to think I can match shots with someone of your body weight.”
He looks down, patting his very firm stomach, and gives me a smile. Marco is funny, a great dancer, and likes to party. “Are you saying I’m fat?”
“I’m simply stating that you weigh more than I do.”
His eyes move slowly down my body as his smile curls upward. “True.”
“Can I ask you something in confidence, Marco?”
“Of course, Contessa.”
“When did Daniel arrive on the Royal Yacht?”
“Just before you did. We were not notified in advance of his presence, but were ordered by the King to accommodate your every desire.”
“And what made you think I desired Daniel?”
“He said he was to meet you aboard,” he replies, as he moves behind the bar to make me a drink.
The fact that Daniel lied concerns me, and I wonder what that says about his character. Considering I’ve lied to him repeatedly, I shouldn’t really judge, but I do. I have good reasons to lie. He doesn’t.
With a concoction Marco calls “Hair of the Dog” in hand, I make my way down to the pool deck and spend a few minutes drinking it while watching Daniel carve through the water.
“Look at that,” his trainer says as I approach. “The butterfly is the most physically demanding of all strokes and purely competitive, but when well executed is a thing of beauty. Daniel’s perfect body movements are poetry in motion.”
I can’t argue with that, but I’m probably not focusing on the same thing he is. I’m focused on Daniel’s perfectly formed shoulders and his sheer power.
“He holds the world record in the 200-meter butterfly,” the trainer continues, “but I think he could break it at the Olympics this year.” He looks directly at me. “If he’s not distracted.”
I ignore his comment, walk to the end of the pool, slip off my robe, and jump directly in Daniel’s path.
Then I realize it was a stupid move because he’s coming at me fast and doesn’t appear to see me.
As I prepare to jump out of the way, he dives down, grabs me around the waist, kisses my stomach, then pops out of the water.
“My trainer is going to be pissed you interrupted my session,” he says, pulling off his goggles and lowering his lips to my shoulder. “But I love it.”
“Daniel, we need to talk. In private,” I say, then I extricate myself from his hold and climb out of the pool.
As I step onto the pool deck, Marco is there, holding out a fresh robe for me to slip over my bikini.
Daniel gets out of the pool, wraps a towel loosely around his waist, and follows me to the owner’s suite where I’m staying, ignoring shouts from his trainer to get his butt back into the pool.
“What’s up?” he asks, sliding the towel off his hips and running it through his wet hair.
“How did you know I would be on the Royal Yacht?”
“Ellis told
me when I went to your villa. Ari was having a party with only beautiful women on the guest list.”
“So why didn’t you stay there and party?”
“Because you were the only beautiful woman I was looking for. I needed to see for myself that you were okay, and I wanted to apologize for the bathroom.”
“You never apologized.”
He gives me a grin. “Well, I’m really not sorry for the bathroom. I wanted you. Now I have you.”
“I just spoke to Lorenzo. He wasn’t pleased to learn you were on his boat.”
Daniel unties my robe and slides his hands inside, gripping my hips and bringing them toward his. Normally, I love his cockiness and find his take-charge ways appealing, but not now. I back away from him and readjust my robe over my bikini.
“You’re mad?”
“I don’t like to be lied to.”
“I never lied to you.”
“You told me you were my party.”
“And I was,” he says, flashing his dimples. “And it was one hell of a party. We spent the entire first twelve hours in my bed. If my trainer hadn’t arrived, it would have been longer.”
I knead my fingers into my eyebrows, calming myself down. It’s clear that I am not well trained on one thing: relationships. No surprise. I’m supposed to avoid them. I’m only supposed to have meaningless sex—which is all this gorgeous man in front of me was ever supposed to be.
And how I need to keep it.
“I’ll talk to Lorenzo,” he finally says. “Is he mad at you? I assumed that you two were over since you weren’t together after the kidnapping. Do you need to talk about it? Were you badly traumatized?”
“Isn’t that something you should have asked me earlier? I didn’t even hear from you after the kidnapping. You didn’t even seem to care I was still alive.”
“Of course I cared, but I’m the Vice President’s son. I got shot with a tranquilizer dart and knocked out. I was either in the constant care of doctors or being asked a million questions.”
“Like what?”
“Like what I remembered.”
“And what was that?”
“Why are you asking me all these questions?”
“Because it happened to both of us. Wouldn’t it be normal to talk about it? Were you at all worried about me? I was kidnapped, threatened at gunpoint. I saw people get shot. Yet, for four days, there was no word from you. Not even a single text.”
“I’m sorry,” he says, putting his head down. “I wasn’t allowed.”
“By who?”
“You came onto the scene quickly. There were some people in the government who were questioning you and Ari.”
“So they took your phone?”
“They advised me not to have contact with you until they cleared your background.”
“Maybe they should have done that before we had sex,” I say, smarting. I’m mad. Worked up in the same way I was that night at The Casino when I was upset with both him and the Prince. Mad at people I’m not even supposed to have feelings for in the first place.
That’s it.
My mission in Montrovia is over.
My relationships with both Lorenzo and Daniel should be as well.
He reaches out to touch my face, but I bob my head to the side so that he misses.
“I can’t deal with drama right now, Huntley. I have to focus on my training.”
“And I’m a distraction. I know. Your coach already told me so. Maybe you training here isn’t a good idea.”
“You are mad.”
“It doesn’t really matter, Daniel.” I throw my hands up in the air, wondering why I’m even fighting with him when there is something more important I need to tell him. “That’s really not even what I wanted to talk to you about.” I grab the remote off the nightstand and flip on the TV. “The President of the United States was just shot.”
“Jack was shot?” he asks, calling President John F. Hillford, Jr. by his nickname.
“Do you know him well?”
“Pretty well. What did Lorenzo say about it? Does he know anything?”
“We were talking on the phone when he was informed of the news. He didn’t have any details.”
“Turn it up!” he yells out, as the picture flashes to the White House Press Room, and his father steps behind the podium.
I do as he asks and watch as he backs up and slowly sits on my bed. I may be spending time with Daniel on the boat, but I insisted on separate living quarters. I couldn’t bring myself to sleep with Daniel in Lorenzo’s suite.
His father speaks. “As most of you probably have already heard, the President of the United States was shot outside the entrance to the International Summit. We’re still awaiting details on his condition, but we know that his life is in grave danger. I ask that you pray not only for your President, but for his wife, Blair, and his daughters, Cara and Isabelle. And for his parents, the former President John Hillford, Senior and his wife, Betty. Although he is the leader of our great nation, he is, first and foremost, a husband, a father, and a son.
“It’s too early in the investigation to know who is behind the shooting, but rest assured, we will find those responsible and bring them to justice. May God bless the President, and may God bless the United States of America,” he says, concluding his speech.
“Mr. Vice President,” a reporter says. “Are you the Acting President?”
Daniel’s father closes his eyes and nods. He’s visibly upset. “Yes, while the President is incapacitated, I am Acting President.”
“What about the shooter? Has there been an arrest?”
“I can’t comment on the investigation, other than to say it is open, and I’ve received no definitive judgment on the shooter’s motive or identity.”
“Mr. Vice President, does that mean the shooter is still at large?”
“Yes, that is correct.” The room breaks out in slight hysteria, reporters teetering on the edges of their chairs, eager to dissect this news on air. The Press Secretary steps in front of the podium as Daniel’s dad moves away and says, “No further questions.”
“I need to talk to my dad.” Daniel runs into his stateroom to get his cell phone, comes back to sit next to me, and dials.
“Dad!” he says when his father answers. Because I’m sitting close, I can hear their conversation. “Are you safe?”
His father replies, “I’m in the White House. One of the safest places in the world.”
“I just saw your press conference. How is Jack?”
“Not good, son.”
“And do you really not know who the shooter was? Has no one taken credit?”
“The shooter was an assassin. And a very good one, since we can’t find a single shred of evidence. Are you at your training facility?”
“No, I’m on Prince Lorenzo’s yacht in Ibiza.”
“You mean King Vallenta?”
“Yeah, whatever.”
“I want you back in Washington,” his father says as I hear a chopper off in the distance.
I go outside to investigate.
The chopper lands on the yacht’s helipad, and Lorenzo gets out looking sexy as ever in an all black suit, black spread collared shirt, and shiny Italian loafers.
“What are you doing here?” I ask, greeting him with a tight hug. It’s only been a few days since I’ve last seen him, but it feels like much longer.
“I’m told Daniel needs to get back to the States,” he says, giving me cheek kisses.
“Are you sure you don’t just want him off your boat?” I whisper.
He winks at me in reply.
When Daniel joins us on the helipad, Lorenzo cups his shoulder, like they are still buddies. “It seems your Secret Service would prefer to have you in America rather than out on my boat with all that’s going on. My father and President Hillford were friends, so I will be departing for America shortly. Would you like a ride home on the Royal Montrovian Jet?”
“Yes, I would,” Daniel replies
gratefully. “Thank you.”
The former Dean of Blackwood Academy storms through the Black X headquarters and barges into the office of their leader, immediately shouting, “Did you conspire to kill the President?”
“What are you talking about, old man?” the leader asks.
“The President of the United States was just shot. It’s all over the news.”
“Well, that’s quite the interesting plot twist,” the leader replies, tilting his head thoughtfully.
“What do you mean?” The former Dean calms himself down, nervously smoothing the front of his trousers with his hands. “You didn’t answer my question.”
“No, I didn’t.”
“You said he was their pawn. You wanted him dead!”
“Just because I wanted him dead, doesn’t mean I did it,” the leader states. “The man has a lot of enemies in the world. Was it a terrorist attack?”
“No group has claimed responsibility as of yet. But it only happened in the last hour.”
“What else do you know?” the leader interrogates. “Have you called your contact at the CIA?”
“I have a call into him, but I would expect he is a little busy at the moment.”
“Why don’t you go over there, visit an old friend for lunch?”
“Because they all think I’m dead?” The former Dean can’t help but give the leader the kind of eye roll that probably makes him look like his favorite former student.
“Send the Ghost to my office and cancel Huntley and Ari’s vacation. I want them back on American soil.” The leader then puts his nose down and starts tapping away on his keyboard. “I’m going to hack my way into Langley and see what I can find out.”
When we get to the palace, Ari is there waiting for us. I give him a hug. “I missed you. I take it you heard the news?” I ask, the two of us staying outside to chat.
“I missed—” He’s interrupted as we simultaneously get a text from our personal concierge, meaning one of the Kates.
Concierge: We have secured your usual hotel suite in D.C. Please return to the States immediately.
