The Rapids

“Rich people never think they’re rich. And they’re friends with President Poe. They don’t need to be rich.”

“Are you whining, Spencer?”

She groaned. “Yes, I’m whining. How long is Dunnemore staying?”

“Not my problem.”

Which meant it was her problem. Maggie had seen pictures of Rob Dunnemore. He was fair and very good-looking, more rugged than she’d expected—or particularly wanted to admit at the moment, since she preferred to think of him in terms of stereotypes.

People said he had gray eyes, but she hadn’t really noticed.

“When’s he getting here?” she asked.

“Half an hour.”

“I like the big warning I get.”

Bremmerton shrugged. “I just found out myself.”

“You have his flight information?”

He handed her a printout. “Don’t treat him like a VIP. He’s a federal agent. He’s here on business.”

“Marshal business? Or President Poe business?”

“Don’t go there, Maggie. Dunnemore’s main reason for being here is to see you. He’s not even being very subtle about it.”

Since Bremmerton had more than two decades of foreign assignments behind him and she had three weeks, Maggie trusted his instincts. She was fortunate to be working with him. He’d gone to Nairobi in the aftermath of the American embassy bombing that had killed scores there. From all accounts, he’d been a steady presence amid tragedy and fear. It wasn’t a surprise to anyone who knew him or his reputation. No task within the realm of diplomatic security was too big or too small for him to tackle, which, along with his mix of competence and genuine decency, had earned him widespread respect and admiration. He also managed to have a relatively normal family life, with his speech-therapist wife with him in The Hague and two kids in college in the Midwest.

Maggie had worked hard to gain George Bremmerton’s confidence in her three weeks at the embassy and didn’t take it for granted.

If he wanted her to baby-sit President Poe’s marshal pal, that was what she’d do.

“I guess I should get going,” she said.

“His twin sister’s getting married in a few weeks to the marshal who got shot with him in Central Park.” Bremmerton shrugged at his own non sequitur. “It’ll give you something to talk about. She’s an archaeologist. Sarah.”

“He’s going to want to talk about Nick Janssen.”

Given the small size of the Netherlands, Schiphol was almost exclusively an international airport—a very busy one—but Maggie had no trouble finding Rob Dunnemore. She recognized him from all the pictures she’d seen of him since the Central Park attack.

He was even more good-looking in person. Tall, very fit. Lightly tanned. He had on a dark suit that had come through the long flight virtually without wrinkles.

His eyes were, indeed, gray.

She introduced herself. “Can I carry something?”

“No, thank you, I’ve got everything.”

She’d expected more of a Southern accent. He had a small carry-on suitcase that she hoped meant he didn’t plan a long stay.

But as he observed her, she sensed an air of danger about him that took her aback. She quickly told herself she’d imagined it. It was just something she’d assumed because she knew he’d nearly been killed in the line of duty four months ago.

“Decent flight?” she asked, leading him out to her car.

“Uneventful.”

“That’s the way I like it. I always feel as if I’ve come out of the dryer after a long flight. Did you sleep?”

“I’m fine, Agent Spencer.”

But cranky, she thought. “Please, call me Maggie.”

He didn’t seem too excited about riding in her red Mini. She unlocked the passenger door. “SUVs don’t work that well in Holland with all the narrow streets and teeny-tiny parking spaces.”

“The Mini’s no problem. It’s yours?”

For the first time, she detected his Southern accent. She nodded. “It’s cute, isn’t it?”

She thought he might have smiled.

“Jet lag’s a killer,” she said when she got in behind the wheel. “My father used to swear by drinking a gallon of water on the plane and not eating a bite. I thought he was exaggerating, but he meant it. A whole gallon of water.”

“I ate everything that was offered.”

Maggie smiled. “That’s what I do.”

Dunnemore stared out his window most of the drive back to The Hague. She didn’t bug him. It was still before dawn his time. His body wanted to be in bed, asleep.

“I’ll drop you off at your hotel,” she said. “You can get settled, and I’ll come fetch you when you want—”

“I can make it to the embassy on my own.”

So it was going to be that way. He wanted control. No suggestions from her. She shrugged. “Fine by me.”

He sighed. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to sound surly. Thank you for trekking me around.”

“You asked for me. My boss gave the order.”

“I asked if I could talk with you. I didn’t mean—”

“It doesn’t matter.” She smiled over at him. “You’ve got me for the duration of your visit, Deputy.”

When they arrived at his hotel, he turned down her offer to make sure his room was ready. He’d see to it. He was definitely independent. Self-sufficient. Not one who played well with others. Maggie hoped it wouldn’t become a problem. She didn’t want to bump heads with Rob Dunnemore, friend of the president.

Thomas Kopac intercepted her when she got back to the embassy. “Rumor has it you’re escorting President Poe’s—”

“You shouldn’t be listening to rumors.”