was about power. Veronica had played hardball with the big boys long enough to know that.
It wasn’t that he wasn’t interested—he’d made that more than clear in the way he’d looked at her all night long. But Veronica was willing to bet that right now Joe was bluffing. And while she wasn’t going to call his bluff, she was going to let him know that merely because he was bigger and stronger than she, that didn’t mean he’d automatically win.
So she lifted her head and, keeping her voice cool, almost chilly, said, “One would think that a Navy SEAL might be aware of the dangers of standing too long in a public corridor, considering someone out there wants Tedric—whom, by the way, you look quite a bit like these days—dead.”
Joe laughed.
Not exactly the response she was expecting after her verbal attack. Another man might have been annoyed that his bluff hadn’t worked. Another man might have pouted or glowered. Joe laughed.
“I don’t know, Ron,” he said, letting her go. His dark eyes were genuinely amused, but there was something else there, too. Could it possibly be respect? “You sound so…proper, but I don’t think you really are, are you? I think it’s all an act. I think you go home from work, and you take off the Margaret Thatcher costume, and let down your hair and put on some little black sequined number with stiletto heels, and you go out and mambo in some Latin nightclub until dawn.”
Veronica crossed her arms. “You forgot my gigolo,” she said crisply. “I go pick up my current gigolo and then we mambo till dawn.”
“Let me know when there’s an opening, honey,” Joe said. “I’d love to apply for the job.”
All humor had gone from his eyes. He was dead serious. Veronica turned away, afraid he’d see just from looking at her how appealing she found the thought of dancing with him until dawn, their bodies clasped together, moving to the pulsing beat of Latin drums.
“We’d best not keep Mr. Laughton waiting,” she said.
“Your Excellency.”
“Damn,” Joe said. “Margaret Thatcher’s back.”
“Sorry to disappoint you,” Veronica murmured as they went into the secret-service agents’ suite. “But she never left.”
“Saint Mary’s, right here in Washington,” Veronica said from her seat next to Joe at the big conference table. “Someone keeps taking Saint Mary’s off the schedule.”
“It’s unnecessary,” Kevin Laughton said in his flat, almost-bored-sounding Midwestern accent.
“I disagree.” Veronica spoke softly but firmly.
“Look, Ronnie,” Senator McKinley said, and Veronica briefly shut her eyes. Lord, but Joe Catalanotto had all of them calling her Ronnie now. “Maybe you don’t understand this, dear, but Saint Mary’s doesn’t do us any good. The building is too small, too well protected, and too difficult for the assassins to penetrate. Besides, it’s not a public event. The assassins are going to want news coverage. They’re going to want to make sure millions of people are watching when they kill the prince. Besides, there’s no clear targeting area going into and out of the structure. It’s a waste of our time.”
“This visit’s been scheduled for months,” Veronica said quietly. “It’s been scheduled since the Ustanzian secretary of press announced Prince Tedric’s American tour. I think we can take one hour from one day to fulfill a promise the prince made.”
Henri Freder, the Ustanzian ambassador to the United States, shifted in his seat. “Surely Prince Tedric can visit this Saint Mary’s at the end of the tour, after the Alaskan cruise, on his way back home.”
“That will be too late,” Veronica said.
“Cruise?” Joe repeated. “If the assassins haven’t been apprehended before the cruise to Alaska is scheduled, there’s no way in hell we’re getting on that loveboat.” He looked around the table. “A cruise ship’s too isolated. It’s a natural target for tangos.”
He smiled at their blank expressions. “Tangos,” Joe repeated. “T’s. Terrorists. The bad guys with guns.”
Ah. There was understanding all around.
“Unless, of course, we’re ready and waiting for ‘em,” Joe continued. “And maybe that’s not such a bad idea. Replace the ship’s personnel and passenger list with platoons of SEALs and—”
“No way,” Laughton said. “FInCOM is handling this. It isn’t some military operation. SEALs have no place in it.”
“Terrorists are involved,” Joe countered. “SEAL Team Ten has had extensive counterterrorist training. My men are prepared for—”
“War,” Laughton finished for him. “Your men are prepared and trained for war. This is not a war, Lieutenant.”
Joe pointed to the cellular phone on the table in front of Laughton. “Then you’d better call the terrorists. Call the Cloud of Death, call up Diosdado. Call him up and tell him that this is not a war. Because he sure as hell thinks it’s one.”
“Please,” Veronica interjected. “Before we continue, may we all agree to keep Saint Mary’s on the schedule?”
McKinley frowned down at the papers in front of him. “I see from the previous list that there weren’t going to be any media present at the event at Saint Mary’s.”
“Not all of the events scheduled were for the benefit of the news cameras, Senator,” Veronica said evenly. She glanced around the table. “Gentlemen. This rescheduling means hours and hours of extra work for all of us. I’m trying my best to cooperate, as I’m sure you are, too. But I happen to know that this appearance at Saint Mary’s was of utmost importance to Prince Tedric.” She widened her eyes innocently. “If necessary, I’ll ring up the prince and ask for his input and—”
“No need to do that,” Senator McKinley said hastily.
Getting self-centered Prince Tedric in on this scheduling nightmare was the last thing anyone wanted, Veronica included. His so-called “input” would slow this process down to a crawl. But she was prepared to do whatever she had to do to keep the visit to Saint Mary’s on the schedule.
McKinley looked around the table. “I think we can keep Saint Mary’s on the list.” There was a murmur of agreement.
Joe watched Veronica. Her red curls were up in some kind of feminine arrangement on the top of her head. With her delicate features and innocent blue eyes, she looked every inch the demure, cool English lady; and again, Joe was struck by the feeling that her outward appearance was only an act. She wasn’t demure or cool, and if his gut feelings were right, she could probably outmanipulate the entire tableful of them. Hell, she just had. But she’d done it so subtly that no one was even aware they’d been manipulated.
“About the Alaskan cruise,” Senator McKinley said.
“That’s not until later in the tour.” Joe leaned back in his chair. “Let’s keep it off the public schedule for now. We don’t want the T’s—terrorists—choosing that opportunity above
