Dark Protocol

Chapter 6

Genevieve

“Your rigidity irritates me.”

Roman Crawford’s final words were still haunting me hours later as I stood in front of the narrow closet in my temporary room. A President didn’t care what Secret Service regulations required for official appearance. He gave orders, and although I defied him when necessary, I knew exactly how much the success of this assignment depended on my ability to blend into his daily life as his shadow.

In the end, I replaced my stiff navy uniform with a deep gray pantsuit made of a fine wool-silk blend. I never wore this piece. It followed the lines of my body too closely, emphasizing my hips and waist in a way that generated unnecessary attention in my profession. Instead of the rigid button-down cotton shirt, I chose a silk blouse, but the Kevlar stayed. The slim, latest-generation vest fit close against my skin, almost invisible beneath the soft fall of the fabric. I moved my weapon from the usual shoulder holster to a concealed inner holster at the back of my waist.

When I looked into the mirror, I was still professional.

But the cold, boxlike armor was gone.

A woman stood there. One who hadn’t only come to protect, but who could blend into the elegant, luxurious world that surrounded Crawford.

At a quarter to nine, the motorcade was already waiting with engines running beneath the South Portico. The air carried the scent of wet asphalt after last night’s rain mixed with exhaust fumes. Director Vance stood beside the lead vehicle, gripping a tablet and speaking tensely into his radio. When he saw me approaching, his words faltered. His gaze moved over my new outfit, and one eyebrow lifted slightly.

He said nothing.

But the silent approval was there in his eyes.

Then the residence door opened.

Roman Crawford stepped out, two assistants hurrying behind him and trying to press papers into his hands. He dismissed them with a single movement. He looked immaculate. A dark gray pinstripe suit fit his body to perfection, echoing the shade of my own outfit so precisely it almost seemed as though we were part of a planned choreography. His face was cold and unreadable. There was no trace of the rage from the gym left on him.

The mask was back in place.

He started toward the limousine, but when I took my position at his right shoulder, his steps faltered for the smallest fraction of a second.

His blue eyes flicked toward me.

He took in the gray suit, the silk blouse, and for one brief moment, his gaze lingered on my neck, where a few loose strands of red hair had escaped my bun and fallen softly against my shoulder.

He said nothing.

The corner of his mouth didn’t move.

But the air between us suddenly grew heavier.

He climbed into the car, and I followed immediately.

The armored door closed, and the cabin filled once again with that suffocating silence that had vibrated through the walls all night. This time, he didn’t sit across from me as he had the day before. He sat beside me on the wide leather seat.

So close our shoulders almost touched.

Every time the limousine turned or slowed, I felt the dry heat radiating from his body and caught the scent of his spicy cologne, instantly dragging me back to the memory of the gym before dawn. My hand rested on my thigh. The grip of the weapon hidden behind my back pressed lightly into my waist, but every nerve in my body focused on keeping my breathing even.

The sense of confinement still scraped at my throat.

But the man sitting beside me was a far more dangerous stimulus to my instincts.

When we reached the Capitol, chaos swallowed us at once.

Reporters, flashing cameras, protesters waving signs, and supporters crowded around the steps in a single roaring ocean of noise. The agents immediately formed the protective barrier. I moved close beside Roman, shielding his right side with my body while my eyes swept the crowd. Every outstretched hand, every sudden movement, every shift in posture was a potential threat.

Roman walked forward with slow confidence, occasionally raising a hand toward the cameras. His face carried the perfect reassuring image of a head of state.

But I could feel the tension in his body.

He was drawn as tight as a bowstring ready to release.

Inside the Capitol’s cool marble hall, congressional leaders were already waiting.

Before the closed-door meeting, the President had been given a private reception room to prepare for his speech. Once the agents checked the room and declared it clear, Roman entered. I followed him inside and closed the heavy oak door behind us, shutting out the rest of the world.

The room was spacious, decorated with antique furniture and heavy burgundy silk wallpaper, but tension filled every inch of it the moment we were alone.

Roman walked to the window overlooking the National Mall, slid his hands into his pockets, and stared out at the rain-soaked city.

“You look better, Shaw.”

His voice was quiet, reflecting dully off the glass.

He didn’t turn, but I could see his reflection in the dark window.

“Less iron. More blood.”

“I can still perform my duties this way, sir,” I replied, stopping in the center of the room.

Slowly, he turned.

He adjusted the watch on his wrist, then began walking toward me. His steps weren’t as aggressive as they had been in the gym. They were slower.

Predatory.

Calculated.

He stopped in front of me, and his gaze openly moved over the gray suit, lingering on the soft fall of the silk blouse beneath which the rigid outline of my Kevlar vest was faintly visible.

“You’re still wearing armor.”

His voice dropped dangerously low.

He lifted one hand and brushed his index finger against the area beneath my collarbone, exactly where the hard edge of the vest began beneath the silk.

The touch was light.

Almost unnoticeable.

But it was hot, and even through the delicate fabric, I felt the firmness of his finger.

“Don’t you trust me, Girl Scout?” he asked softly. “Do you think I’d hit you here, where everyone is watching?”

My body tightened instantly beneath his touch.

My pulse beat violently in my throat, and the skin beneath his finger seemed to catch fire.

I didn’t step back.

I looked straight into his blue eyes, where the dark, burning tension from the gym had returned.

“I don’t trust anyone, Mr. President. That’s the entire point of my job.”

My voice remained ice cold, even though something inside me felt as if it were collapsing under his closeness.

Roman smiled.

But this smile wasn’t mocking.

It was darker.

Almost approving.

His finger slowly traced the edge of the vest down toward the center of my chest, where fabric met skin, then he let me go.

He stepped back, his eyes returning to my face.

“You’re a strange creature, Shaw,” he whispered.

There was something in his voice now that was far more dangerous than simple provocation.

“You think ice can protect you from fire.”

His gaze held mine.

“But ice always melts eventually.”

Before I could answer, a sharp knock sounded at the door.

Director Vance entered, announcing that the committee was ready.

Roman looked at me for one last second with a glance that made it perfectly clear our conversation was not over.

Then he turned and walked out of the room with decisive steps.

I drew a deep, invisible breath and pressed my palm against my thigh to stop the almost imperceptible tremor in my hand.

The silk against my skin still held the heat of his touch.

I followed him into the hall, but I knew that from this day forward, the boundaries I had drawn so carefully around myself had begun to blur beyond repair.