www.millsandboon.co.uk

      ANNETTE BROADRICK

      believes in romance and the magic of life. Since 1984, Annette has shared her view of life and love with readers. In addition to being nominated by RT Book Reviews as one of the best new authors of that year, she has also won an RT Book Reviews Reviewers’ Choice Award for best in series, a W.I.S.H. Award and a Lifetime Achievement Award for Series Romance and Series Romantic Fantasy.

      Contents

      Chapter 1

      Chapter 2

      Chapter 3

      Chapter 4

      Chapter 5

      Chapter 6

      Chapter 7

      Chapter 8

      Chapter 9

      Chapter 10

      Chapter 11

      Chapter 12

      Chapter 13

      Chapter 14

      Chapter 15

      Chapter 16

      Chapter 17

      Chapter 18

      Chapter 19

      Chapter 20

      Epilogue

      Chapter 1

      Washington, D.C.

       Monday, December 21

      A blast of frigid air swirled around Nick Logan, nipping at him like a hungry animal as he walked the two blocks between the parking lot and his newest assignment. He hunched his shoulders and quickened his steps until he reached the guard’s booth at the east gate.

      He paused beside the booth, peering inside at the lone occupant. “Hope you have a heater in there.”

      Ken White, working the uniformed division of the Secret Service, replied, “One of the many fringe benefits of this job, of course.” He gave Nick a quick once-over. “What are you doing here, Logan? I thought you were on the VP detail.”

      Nick shrugged. “I was, until last night.”

      “Good to see you,” Ken said.

      Nick walked through the iron-gated fence that surrounded the White House. He adjusted the collar of his heavy overcoat around his ears in an effort to block the raw wind blowing down Pennsylvania Avenue.

      The bleakness of the day fit his mood.

      By the time he reached the side door located between the White House and the Executive Office building and went inside, he was more than glad to be out of the wind. Nick paused in the entryway long enough to remove his coat, draping it over his arm before he headed for W-16, the large office/lounge that served as the command post for the White House detail of the Secret Service.

      Once there, Nick paused in the doorway and looked around. The room contained several folding chairs, a long table with coffee and supplies, and a dozen or more men waiting to be briefed for the next shift. He recognized most of them from other assignments. The Secret Service was a close-knit group.

      One of them broke away from a small group and approached him.

      “Nicholas Logan?” he asked. “I’m Gregory Chambers, the detail leader. Appreciate your coming on board at such short notice.”

      “I was sorry to hear about Colin Crenshaw’s accident. What happened?” Nick asked as he followed the older man across the room to the coffee area.

      “Lost control of his car over in Alexandria,” Chambers replied, refilling his cup while Logan poured himself some coffee, allowing the steaming brew to warm his hands. “The investigating officers figure the icy weather was to blame. Ran into a pole. One of those freak accidents nobody can really explain.” Chambers motioned Nick to follow him once again. “You’ll be covering his four-to-midnight shift,” he said over his shoulder. “Colin was a good man. We’re going to miss him.”

      Chambers paused beside a tall African-American who Nick noticed had been watching him since he’d first walked into the room—watching and assessing without betraying his thoughts. “Colin and Ron Stevenson here were partners, so you’ll be working together.”

      Nick held out his hand and Stevenson shook it.

      “We working the Man?” Nick asked, referring to the president.

      Ron shook his head. “Nope. The daughter.”

      Not quite the kiddy detail, but close. Keeping an eye on a college-age female was a little better than following the schedule of a couple of active teenage boys.

      Before he could ask Ron any more questions, Chambers began the briefing.

      “Only one incident to report since your last shift,” he said to everyone. “A taxi driver from Baltimore drove up to the front gate. His fare was a woman demanding to speak to the president. The matter was turned over to the police.” He continued to read from his notes, making comments and answering questions. Once everything was covered, Chambers nodded toward Nick.

      “The last item to be covered is to welcome Nicholas Logan, who’s joining this shift. Logan’s been working the VP detail for the past three years. Before that, he did his military service in various areas, including the Mideast during the Gulf crisis. Welcome aboard, Nick.”

      Several pairs of eyes turned his way, Logan noted. He received a few nods and a couple of smiles. This small group of men knew what they were there to do—keep the members of the first family safe—at least from four to midnight. After that, another group came in until they were relieved by the eight-o’clock morning shift. During their off-hours, he’d get an opportunity to get to know some of them better, but now each of them was focused on the business at hand.

      In his case, he would be learning more than he ever cared to know about the president’s daughter—which, at present, was very little.

      Ashley Elizabeth Sullivan, the oldest child and only daughter of James Allen Sullivan and his wife, Juliana Holmes Sullivan, was in her third year at Wellesley, and no doubt currently home for the Christmas holidays. From all that he had read and heard, she maintained an active life-style.

      Staying close to the VP had entailed a highly structured, politics-as-usual schedule. Nick had become accustomed to being part of the Washington infrastructure. Keeping a close watch on the activities of someone not in the loop would be a distinct change of pace. Not exactly what he’d visualized as his new assignment when he received the call late last night.

      Once Chambers dismissed the group, Nick turned to Ron and said, “So what’s the drill?”

      “The usual. We do our job, even though Ms. Sullivan has made her opinion of our presence abundantly clear on more than one occasion.”

      “Let me guess. A twenty-one-year-old single woman doesn’t care to be closely monitored by a group of men showing a keen interest in anyone who approaches her.”

      “You got it. She says it’s embarrassing and her friends rib her, especially whenever she goes out on a date. She insists on no motorcades…grudgingly allows a trail car.”

      “Should we tell her that it isn’t our biggest thrill to tag along on those occasions, either?”

      Ron smiled. “Not necessary. She’s a bright girl, and she’s been around politicians and the need for protection most of her life.”

      “You’d think she’d be