Pursuit - Softcover

Über die Autorin bzw. den Autor

Auszug. © Genehmigter Nachdruck. Alle Rechte vorbehalten.

Chapter One
"Is she there? Do you see her?"
As Jessica Ford pushed through the smoked-glass door in front of her, cell phone clamped to her ear, urgency sharpened John Davenport's voice to the point where the alcohol-induced slurring of his words almost disappeared.
"Yes," Jess answered, her hand tightening around the phone as the door swung shut behind her, because the lady was and she did.
On the fringe of a raucous crowd intent on watching a televised basket ball game, the First Lady of the United States was sitting alone at a table for two in a dark, secluded corner of the hotel bar, knocking back a shot of some undetermined golden liquid with the stiff wrist and easy gulp of a practiced drinker. Wearing a generic black tracksuit with white stripes down the sides and white running shoes. With her trademark short blond hair tucked up beneath a baseball cap pulled low over her eyes. The sheer unlikelihood of her presence in this mid-priced hotel just a few blocks from the White House at ten minutes past midnight on a Saturday night, plus a strategically placed leafy potted ficus near her elbow, was all that stood between her and a Texas-size scandal.
Jess felt butterflies at the realization.
"Thank God." Davenport's tone was devout. "Tell her . . ."
A cheer from the basketball fans made it impossible for Jess to hear the rest. Grimacing, fearing disaster with every way-too-fast beat of her heart, she hurried toward the corner.
Even knowing what she did, her mind boggled at what she was being asked to do. She was not the First Lady's handler.
"I couldn't hear you. It's kind of crowded in here," Jess said into the phone as the cheering died down.
"Shit." Davenport added a few more choice words under his breath.
"Just get her out of there, would you?"
"Yes." Jess had already learned not to say "I'll do my best" to her formidable boss. He would snap that he wasn't paying for her to do her best, he was paying for her to do it. End of story. The phone disconnected with a click in her ear. Okay, the problem was now officially hers.
Where the hell is the Secret Service when you need them?
Casting another glance around, she had her answer: Nowhere useful, obviously. There wasn't a black suit in sight.
Davenport had said the First Lady would be alone. Silly of her to have doubted the all-knowing one.
"Mrs. Cooper?" she asked in a low voice as she reached the table, mindful of possible listening ears. Besides the First Lady and the basketball fans, there were only a few other patrons in the small, wood-paneled room. No one seemed even remotely interested in the solitary woman in the corner.
Still, it never paid to take chances. She needed to get her newest problem out of there fast.
The First Lady continued to stare at her now-empty shot glass. If she'd heard Jess speak to her, she gave no indication of it. Clearing her throat, Jess tried again.
"Mrs. Cooper? Mr. Davenport sent me."
That did it. The brim of the baseball cap tilted up. The look Mrs. Cooper gave her was tense, wary.
"Who're you?"
Jess attempted a reassuring smile. It felt tight.
"Jessica Ford. I work for Mr. Davenport."
The blue eyes that seemed so soft and gentle on TV and in magazine spreads narrowed. Tonight they were red-rimmed and puffy, devoid of obvious makeup, and hard. The attractive, round-cheeked face was puffy, too, and pale, but still instantly familiar in the way a fuzzy copy of an iconic photograph is f