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  “Tony Caproni is a sweet man. I’ve seen him three mornings a week for the past three years, more or less. I couldn’t imagine him doing such a thing.”

  “Which gives him a perfect opportunity to try something. If not him, then someone coercing him.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “Tony has regular access to the White House and drives a large van. He brings produce that the First Family and others attached to the White House consume. Why not target him?”

  “But he was arrested. How can he do anything now?”

  “We’re watching him all the same.” A warning signal flashed in his mind’s eye. The barista appeared with their coffees.

  “What’s wrong?” Tara studied his face as he took his first sip of coffee.

  “Look, we shouldn’t talk about the investigation anymore,” he managed to say. “I don’t want to tell you anything you shouldn’t know.”

  “So what should we talk about? The reason you asked me for coffee is to talk about this case, right? I might have some information you can use. Remember, you invited me for coffee.” Tara poured cream into the cup, then followed it with a generous spoonful of sugar. She stirred with enough vigor to slosh a little of the coffee onto the tablecloth. She frowned.

  “Yes. No.” His own demeanor baffled even him. “Tara, ever since I saw you last week…”

  She shifted on the booth’s seat to face him. He couldn’t guess how many times he’d thought about this very scenario, what he’d say if he could be the better man and not just walk away because it was the easy thing to do.

  He cleared his throat. “Ever since last week, all I can think about is how foolish I was. No. A fool and a coward.”

  Then Jack allowed himself to do what he’d promised himself not to. He pulled Tara close and kissed her.

  Chapter 6

  Any minute now, Tara knew she’d wake up. Her pulse roared in her ears as the kiss continued. To be in Jack’s arms again, to hear him say he’d been a fool. This was the stuff of dreams. Dreams she’d finally quit having. She’d moved on with her life until last Thursday, when Jack had literally walked back into her kitchen.

  She pulled away first, not as gently as she’d hoped. “Jack—“

  He touched her cheek. “All the time I wasted.”

  “I know.”

  He chuckled. “Don’t be so quick to agree with me.”

  “Where do we go from here?” She didn’t want to pin him down. Men like Jack Courtland, if they even suspected anyone was hemming them in, would run the other way. Even now, she suspected the booth felt too confining to him.

  “We get through the State Dinner. After that,” he said, reaching for her hand, “I want to see you again. As often as possible.”

  “Well, that sounds romantic. Are we on the schedule for Monday, Wednesday, and Friday, then?”

  “Ouch, don’t shoot me down when I’m trying.”

  “Sorry.”

  “I mean, Tara… I remember what my life was like when you were in it. You added something. Something that’s been missing since Paris.”

  She’d never heard him talk like this. “I don’t want us to go down the same old road, Jack. I can’t do that again. You missed dates. Because of work, I know. But then, when you finally left…” She shook her head.

  “George said something to me the other day. He basically said that I need to be willing to trust God enough and work on our relationship enough to make it work. And George isn’t a believer.” Jack flipped the knife back and forth on the tablecloth. “I was trying to do it all on my own the last time.”

  “George is pretty smart.” Tara sipped her coffee and looked toward the front of the restaurant. Foot traffic had picked up on the street outside. Another couple entered the restaurant and stopped at the hostess desk.

  “I’m working on it, Tara. I haven’t depended on anyone else in a long time. If I don’t make something happen, it doesn’t happen. It’s hard for me. I see George’s marriage on the rocks, and I see my own parents’ marriage that’s been going on for over thirty-five years. One side of it, and the other.” He shrugged. “I can’t promise you, though, that I won’t break your heart again. And you don’t deserve that.”

  Tara nodded. “I’m glad you’re being honest with me. I tell you what. You figure out what it is exactly that you want. One kiss and a heart-to-heart talk aren’t enough. You have a lot going on now with the case, just like I do.”

  He stared at her like she’d just slapped him. “Aw, Tara—“

  She reached into her purse and found a five-dollar bill. “Let me know in a week where you are. You know where I’ll be.”

  Thanks to Tara’s simple text message on Tuesday, giving Jack a tip about Trevor Bradshaw’s travel itinerary, they hauled Trevor in for questioning as soon as he arrived at Reagan National on Friday, and Jack almost didn’t care. Of course he cared. He had to.

  Like Tara suspected, Trevor’s mouth was bigger than his resolve to hurt anyone or make any “statement” of how he felt about the administration. The fertilizer he’d bought was for their acreage and was back in Texas, as was all the other paraphernalia he’d purchased.

  “I can’t believe y’all are dragging in a red-blooded, all-American citizen like this.” Trevor Bradshaw sat there in a chair, scowling. “I ain’t against our president. He can have his fancy-shmancy dinner party—I don’t mind.”

  “We had to be sure, Mr. Bradshaw,” said George.

  “I’m only against socialism. We don’t need the government trying to make our decisions for us. Really, I’m sure y’all don’t want that either. I don’t like the philosophy of President Franklin, that he and Congress can think for us better than we can.”

  Jack had to admit the guy had a point. “You’re free to go. But I’d avoid asking your cousin for a White House tour. You need months’ notice for that anyway.”

  Trevor nodded. “I found that out. I got a Capitol tour scheduled with my congressman’s office. After the tour, I’m having lunch in the House of Representatives cafeteria.”

  “You enjoy your stay in Washington, Mr. Bradshaw. We’d put you on our tour schedule here, except we’re not conducting tours currently,” Jack said.

  He left after asking if he could get his picture taken with “two real FBI agents,” and George turned him down. “That’s all we need, us popping up on Facebook,” he said as Trevor headed for the elevator.

  “What about the dinner staff, the servers?” Now that they’d spent their time working through the employees, there was the matter of the servers appointed to work the State Dinner. Most of them were college students or interns of some type.

  “Working on it. Only one red flag,” George said. He pointed to a name.

  “Lilith Mansour?” Her info said she was twenty-one, the daughter of physicians from Richmond, Virginia, in her final semester of undergrad studies at George Washington University, pre-law.

  “Her parents fled Anqara when she was two years old. It seems back in the early nineties, the present king of Anqara and his brother were battling for the throne, so to speak. Her parents were big supporters of his brother. So it was either leave town or put up with a man they hated.”

  “I don’t remember hearing that in the news.”

  “Probably not,” George said. “The world was busy watching the Persian Gulf instead.”

  “So Ms. Mansour snags a recommendation to serve tables at the State Dinner.” Jack rubbed his chin. “We have a tail on her now?”

  “Already done. So far, she’s keeping a low profile. Staying out of the cold, going to the library, to a few restaurants around the university.”

  “Good. Does Kanaday know about this?” “He knows.”

  Try something, just try it. Jack said, “Get a server’s uniform from Kanaday. I’m going to be there, too.”

  Chapter 7

  Tara’s feet hurt, and it was only eight in the morning on the day of the State Dinner. She’d been dog-paddling through
the past week with dinner preparations, had seen glimpses of the floral arrangements, and had even oohed and aahed over the place cards penned by the chief calligrapher.

  The kitchen was already hot, so she fled to the hall for a breather. She gave herself a mental pep talk. She hadn’t let the kitchen’s heat get to her in years, even with the sweat-soaked bandanna she wore on her head during eighteen-hour days like today.

  Adelaide had already launched a tirade in Spanish when sous chef Ken dropped a pan of dough for the flat bread, and the dough tumbled across the tile floor. Tara interpreted about half of Adelaide’s stream of speech. Her mother would’ve washed her mouth out with soap for that spiel.

  “C’mon.” Adelaide appeared at the door. “I know it’s been a hard week for you, but you can do this. One day, my job could be yours.”

  “Really?” If Adelaide had so much faith in her, she couldn’t cave.

  “You’ve got what it takes. I know so. Chief Usher Kanaday thinks so, as does Social Secretary Brinks. I’m not going to be here forever.” Adelaide nudged Tara’s shoulder. “I’ll be ready to slow down sometime in the next five years or so.”

  Tara straightened her posture. “I’m good. I just needed a minute.”

  Adelaide paused before they reentered the kitchen. “If that man is worth it, he’ll show up for you.”

  “Thanks. I hope he decides to show up, once and for all.” She drove thoughts of Jack from her mind.

  The phone rang, so Tara grabbed it. “Kitchen, Chef Whitley speaking.”

  “Delivery, Capital Produce,” said Buzz.

  “Got it, Buzz.” She hung up the phone. “I’ll go meet the truck.” She grabbed a wheeled cart.

  The Capital Produce truck came to its usual spot. A driver jumped down from the seat, singing in Italian. “Here we are. Got your leeks, endive, more strawberries, mangoes, blueberries, and pineapple.”

  “Tony! You’re back.” Tara couldn’t help but run toward the driver’s side of the truck to hug the older man. “What happened? You were arrested?”

  Tony shrugged. “Call it the wrong place at the wrong time. My daughter sent me a message that said, ‘Dad, meet me downtown.’ So I do. But it’s not her. There was a big group. Next thing I know, I get hauled in with a bunch of protestors. I’m cleared now. I’m okay.” He shook his head.

  “Wow. Well, we missed you. We were worried.”

  “You wipe away that frown, Miss Tara. Tell you what, I get Sofia to make you all some cannolis. Is this everything you need?” He gestured to the crates.

  Tara scanned the produce. “That’s it.”

  “I give you a hand.” Together, they wheeled the produce to the kitchen. “Oh, it’s good to be back, Miss Tara.”

  “Heath was nice, but he’s definitely not you.” At that, they both laughed.

  Jack straightened his tie and tried to look relaxed. Relaxed wasn’t a word in his vocabulary most of the time. Every nerve ending on his skin tingled underneath his tux. George had done one step better than get him in as a server; he was set to shadow Chief Usher Kanaday, who at the moment looked like a skinny penguin bouncing from table to table, checking place cards and tweaking floral arrangements.

  They’d already had the State arrival ceremony that morning on the South Lawn. Although the Anqaran royal family had been in the DC area since Thursday and it was now Monday, this was considered their official welcome to the country.

  The servers were scheduled to arrive within the next thirty minutes and receive instructions from Kanaday and Chef Montanez. Jack was ready to meet Lilith Mansour.

  He hadn’t seen Tara, and didn’t expect to. She was likely in the belly of the White House, scurrying around with the rest of the kitchen staff. Up here, guests had started to arrive in all sorts of tuxedos and gowns in every color of the rainbow.

  Jack had made up his mind about Tara. He only hoped she’d really listen to him. He didn’t blame her for being gun-shy, for lack of a better term.

  “All clear on the South Lawn,” a voice crackled into his earpiece.

  “State Dining Room clear,” Jack said.

  “Maxwell’s downstairs, Courtland. Do a walk-through instead of hobnobbing.”

  “Going now.” Jack headed toward the elevator that would take him to the ground floor.

  Tara stepped into the walk-in and inhaled the scent of fresh produce. Before long, they’d be plating the salads. A mix of arugula, romaine, and iceberg lettuce. Sous chef Ken had slaved over his vinaigrette until it sang on the taste buds.

  Best chopped fresh, the salad had to wait until the last possible moment. Already the hors d’oeuvres had gone upstairs to the dining room to be served to the guests as they waited to be seated.

  “Chef Whitley.” The voice made her freeze.

  “Hello?” She knew the voice but couldn’t place the owner.

  Heath Smallwood stepped out from behind the rack of produce and pointed a gun at her.

  “I think it’s time for you to help me prepare a special course.” He pointed at a bowl heaped with green leaves of spinach. “Try a sample. Now.”

  “What are you doing here?” Oh Lord. He’s got a gun. Jack. Her phone was in her pocket. Maybe he had his phone with him. He had to. She moved her hand toward her pocket, but Heath gestured to the bowl.

  “Eat this, or I shoot you. Then I move on to others. I’d rather you cooperate first. It’ll work much more smoothly this way.”

  “What’s wrong with the spinach?”

  “Not much other than a little salmonella, some E. coli. You’ll get sick. Probably won’t die. I don’t think. It can happen in extreme cases.” He gestured with his head to the box. “And now it’s all in that salad mix you’re getting ready to prep. Nice, huh?”

  “Why are you doing this? What are you doing?” The walls of the walk-in closed in around her like a trash compacter. “How did you get in here?”

  Heath glanced down at his chef jacket. “A truck can hold more than produce. You and Tony, the brainless driver, were too busy chitchatting while I walked right in with these crates of spinach and lettuce.”

  The elevator was out of order, so Jack took the stairs, after yet another person checked his credentials. He figured extra security on the ground floor.

  He took the hallway slowly, glancing into doorways. A buzz of activity at the end of the hall told him the kitchen was in full banquet mode.

  His phone buzzed on his hip. Tara’s number.

  He pushed a button. “Tara?”

  A clattering noise, an echoing voice. “You stupid woman—don’t make me shoot you.”

  Heath yanked Tara’s hand from her pocket and snatched her phone. “One phone call, and I send people to your townhouse. They know which ones are your friends, the lawyer and the tea shop lady.”

  She wanted to scream, but she didn’t want anyone else to stumble onto this scene. Which they would, soon, if she didn’t get out there with the lettuce and spinach so they could prep the salad.

  “The king of Anqara is ill, very, very ill, which many people don’t know. Catching E. coli or even salmonella would be deadly for him,” said Heath Smallwood. “His brother, shall we say, is eager to set things right in the nation-state again. They’re prepared to align with Iran and give them cooperation and funding instead of being a pebble in the shoe of their efforts.”

  “How does this help you? What do you get out of this?”

  “I get plenty. Normally I’d rather shoot people, but this is paying me enough so I can disappear for a while.”

  Tara started to reach for the nearest crate of spinach, then stopped. “I need to start prepping. They’re going to wonder where I am.”

  “Try anything and I mow down this kitchen one by one.” He lowered the gun a fraction. It had a silencer on the end. He could pop off a shot and no one would know.

  Did her phone call go through? She wasn’t sure.

  “Kitchen—now—it’s going live—” Jack hollered as he ran down the hallway. “Back
up, now!”

  He flew into the kitchen and saw the head chef. “Montanez—where’s Chef Whitley? She’s in danger.”

  “In the walk-in—in the back—What?”

  “Chef, who’s that new chef that brought in a big crate of produce?” asked a slim young man wearing a chef’s jacket. He pointed over his shoulder.

  Jack left them and ran for the walk-in, his gun drawn.

  “Everybody down.” He yanked open the door.

  The door opening made them both turn.

  “Down on the ground! Down now!” Jack growled. Tara glimpsed Jack in the doorway, gun aimed. She grabbed the nearest crate and yanked it onto both her and Heath. Produce and plastic crates tumbled on them.

  “On your face, on your face!” Jack was shouting. Tara scrambled away from Heath, toward the doorway and safety.

  “Move, Tara!”

  She flopped onto the spinach scattered on the floor. Heath rose up on one knee, gun in hand. Two pops, one loud and one soft, echoed inside the walk-in. Tara screamed and crawled to where Jack lay on the floor. “I’m hit—” he whispered.

  Chapter 8

  We did it.” Jack tried to move on the hospital bed, but another mind-searing bolt of pain shot through his shoulder. He grunted and finally sat up.

  “No, you did it. And you’re gonna yank something loose and end up in the ICU if you keep pulling stunts like that.” George stood by Jack’s hospital bed.

  “What, and leave all the work to you and the rest of the crew? Nah.” Jack shook his head. He glanced at the clock. His parents were arriving any moment. Once they’d heard the news, Dad booked the first flights they could to Reagan National. “How’s Smallwood?”

  “ICU. He’ll live, though. We’ve already traced the deposits in his bank account to Switzerland, and then to Anqara. He’ll face so many charges he’s not going to see the outside of jail for a long time,” George said. “Your chef is a scrappy thing, pulling that crate onto Smallwood. If she wasn’t a chef, I’d recommend we recruit her.”