Page 80 of Secret Service
Why now? My life has been dedicated to this moment, to propelling the world to take a stand before it’s too late, before the phrase “never again” is uttered one more time. I gave my heart up for this, swore my desires were inconsequential set against putting an end to mass graves and unearthing skeletons with blindfolded eyes.
And then there was Reese.
I watch him go, hoping he’ll look back. Just one glance. He has my heart in his hands, and I wait…
It’s the last moment, but his eyes flick back over his shoulder as he pulls the Oval Office door closed behind him. He stills, and our gazes lock.
The world is accelerating, but you are my center, Reese Theriot.
“Boss,” Henry calls.
Our eyes hold until they can’t as he shuts the door. He never looks away.
* * *
Nothing can prepareyou for the grandeur of a state dinner.
The White House has been transformed from its usual reserved air to opulent excess. Vases as tall as I am line the Cross Hall,weeping with peace roses. Silver candelabras throw off shimmering candlelight. Flags of Canada, the UK, France, Germany, Italy, Latvia, Lithuania, Estonia, Norway, Turkey, and the Netherlands line one wall. US flags line the opposite side, a parade of spangled stars in the dappled glow.
Furious activity descends in round-robin sequence as each head of government arrives. Protocol dictates how we greet each other, what music is played, and the order of the receiving line as each enters the White House.
After that, the Secret Service is waiting, and while the presidents, prime ministers, the chancellor, and their spouses are welcomed with honors, their staff go through the security checkpoint, magnetometer, and bag scanner.
Reese’s agents, all in tuxedos, are both omnipresent and unobtrusive. I watch for Reese, but he’s not at the arrival ceremonies. Henry is, welcoming each head of government with brisk efficiency before turning them over to an impeccably dressed military officer who escorts them and their spouses up to the Residence.
We begin in the Yellow Oval, the Residence’s private party room. A string quartet plays from the corner as champagne and hors d’oeuvres circulate on silver platters that date back to the Jefferson administration. We spill onto the Truman Balcony while the sun sets, eleven world leaders, their spouses, and me making small talk. Our staffers are huddled inside, probably talking shop already, but right now, we are avoiding anything heavy. For once we are social, with no agenda, no ulterior motives other than to enjoy this evening.
Five minutes to eight. Reese appears at my elbow.
He’s in a tuxedo, almost the same style as mine, but he looks far better than I do. The lines of his tux accentuate his broad shoulders, long torso, tight hips. His jacket looks like it was painted on, even where there’s a little extra fabric to conceal his firearm, and the satin stripes that run down his pant legs make it seem like they go forever.
I want to feel those legs around me.
My hand lands on the small of his back, almost without thought, and my voice is soft and warm as I say, “Reese.”
One glass of champagne is apparently too much. I’m holding court by the balcony railing with most of my fellow world leaders, and after I speak, they all turn and stare at Reese, waiting for an introduction to the man who clearly matters to me.
Muscles coil around his spine. I drop my hand. My fingers dust over his concealed holster.
“Everyone, it’s my pleasure to introduce Special Agent Reese Theriot, the head of my Secret Service detail.”
They are gracious and welcoming, shaking his hand and asking questions about his position, his duties, and, of course, what secrets he can spill about the White House. Or, more importantly, me.
Reese is perfect, with that grin and the sparkle in his eyes as he says, “Fortunately for President Walker, every agent takes their presidents’ secrets to the grave.”
Their president. Such a tiny phrase, but it’s enough to make my heart gallop. I want to be yours, Reese.
Reese leans into my side. “Mr. President, the formal procession begins in two minutes.”
We down our champagne and follow Reese to the Grand Staircase. My fellow heads of government line up in the order each country recognized the United States upon our formation as a nation. Whoever figured that bit of protocol out, well, hats off to them. There’s some good-natured ribbing in the ranks, but since this is based on nearly two hundred and fifty years of historical tradition, no one takes it too seriously.
The other leaders have their spouses on their arms, but I stand at the head of the procession alone.
Except I’m not alone, because Reese is here, suddenly, standing so close to me the backs of our hands are brushing. He’s waiting for the signal to send us down, and for a moment, I picture drawing him close, walking down the stairs with him beside me for everyone to see.
Our eyes meet. I imagine lacing his fingers through mine and never letting go.
“Mr. President, it’s time.” He steps back. That’s my cue to leave him and begin the official procession.