you were a familiar face, an old friend.” That was the truth, as far as it went. Nicholas smiled tenderly. “We had a pleasant visit when I was here last in November. A cup of coffee. A nice chat about old times. It was a chance encounter—”
“It wasn’t chance. You arranged it. You manipulated me so that I’d run into you. I wasn’t aware of your legal status, but I am now.” She didn’t soften. “And we were never friends.”
He attributed her coldness and sarcasm to her desperate fear for her son. He let his gaze drift to the swell of her breasts, the soft shape of her hands. He’d accepted that the chance of a sexual affair was remote, at least while her husband was still alive. Nicholas was a vital man, wealthy, his hair silver now but his body taut, well-conditioned. Stuart Dunnemore was old. Just plain old. He was in his late seventies, but still a force in diplomatic circles, an expert—a visionary—in international conflict resolution. A realist, not a romantic. A pragmatist, not an ideologue. And a good man. He had humility, and he was kind. He’d endured terrible losses, a father dead in a logging accident at thirty-two, a brother killed on the beaches of Normandy, a wife he’d watched slowly waste away from multiple sclerosis.
Betsy would never leave him. But he wouldn’t live forever, either.
Right now, Nicholas needed to play on her emotions—her sympathy for him as a former classmate, for the struggling eighteen-year-old she must remember. He was a self-made man. He’d worked hard. He had so much to offer the world. But he couldn’t contribute if he was behind bars.
The Dunnemores were known for their compassion.
And they had the ear of the new president of the United States.
Betsy was right. It wasn’t just friendship that had drawn him to her. Nicholas wanted to convince her to tell her friend, Wes Poe, that their old classmate deserved a break. He’d paid a price for his mistakes. He would use his wealth for good.
He wanted her to get him a presidential pardon. It would stop the legal proceedings against him dead in their tracks. A pardon wouldn’t exonerate him, but it would keep him out of prison and buy him time to distance himself from his other activities before they, too, caught up with him. Time to take his profits and move on.
“How is Rob?” Nicholas asked quietly.
Her eyes glistened with sudden tears—a mother’s tears. They made her seem vulnerable, even more beautiful. He’d wanted Betsy Quinlan for a long time. He had wanted the girl she’d been at eighteen, and he wanted what she could do for him now, as a woman, as a friend and confidante of President John Wesley Poe.
“Oh, Nicholas. Damn. I must be out of my mind. I don’t approve of what you’ve done, but tax evasion—” She collapsed back against her chair. “It’s not a violent crime.”
“You’re upset because of Rob. I understand.”
Even in her early fifties, her skin was translucent, smooth and barely lined, her delicate bone structure the stuff of a man’s dreams. Nicholas wanted to take her hand and comfort her, but he knew better, resisted the instinctive reaction to her tears. A mother’s grief. She gulped in a breath. “He’s holding his own. I want to be there now—” She broke off, biting back a sob.
“When will you go?”
“As soon as we can. I told Sarah—” She stopped herself, as if she realized she was venturing into territory that was none of his business. “Travel isn’t as easy for Stuart these days, and he’s in the middle of critical meetings. If Rob were in danger—we’d be there now.”
“Of course you would.”
“But his doctors tell us that each day—each hour—that passes without complications is a good sign. They expect him to make a full recovery.” She held her purse close to her chest and got to her feet. “Sarah’s in New York. My daughter. She was at the Rijksmuseum, too.”
Nicholas had seen her. Pretty, smart. One of his men had delayed her to give him time to speak to her mother—who’d promptly told him she didn’t want him to contact her again.
“I hope Sarah didn’t see you,” Betsy said. “I hope no one saw you.”
He leaned back, studying her as he had when he’d sat behind her in a dull philosophy class, wondering if she were a virgin. The word in the dorm halls said she was. The Quinlans were well-to-do, classy people who gave a lot of money to Vanderbilt.
He sighed, pushing his coffee aside. “Betsy, please believe that I had nothing to do with the shooting yesterday.”
“I wish we’d never run into each other.” She seemed tired now, spent. “Call the U.S. embassy. Turn yourself in. If you’re innocent, trust the judicial system—”
“My attorneys—”
“I don’t want to hear about your damn lawyers!” She took a breath, her tears gone now. “You should have told me right from the start you were on the lam. I shouldn’t have had to find out on my own.”
He narrowed his gaze on her. “How did you find out?”
She averted her eyes. “That doesn’t matter.”
But it did. Charlene Brooker had told her. Betsy had to wonder why an army captain stationed in Germany had contacted her to discuss her relationship with him.
Did Betsy know that Captain Brooker had been murdered in Amsterdam, two days after the meeting about him?
“Stay away from me,” Betsy whispered tightly. “Stay away from my family.”
With a spurt of energy, she jumped up, almost turning over a chair as she made her way back out to the narrow cobblestone street, then quickly disappeared past a cheese-and-bread shop. She was smartly dressed, but she wore shoes that could handle Amsterdam’s many brick and cobblestone walks and streets, reminding him that she wasn’t eighteen anymore.
A large group of American tourists started rearranging tables, calling loudly, cheerfully, to each other about who would sit where.
A street musician fired up his accordion and moved in, playing a cheerful tune. The tourists laughed, loving it.
Janssen paid for his coffee and walked down the street to a small Mercedes that awaited him. The back door opened, and he slid onto the cool leather seat next to Claude Rousseau, his most experienced bodyguard.
“She won’t say anything,” Nicholas said. “She hasn’t told anyone that we’ve met. She’s not going to now that her son’s been shot. It would only complicate the situation for everyone—her, her husband, her son. The president.”
“Is she afraid?”
“Terrified.”
He sighed, his pulse quickening. Yes, terrified. And yet all beautiful Betsy Quinlan Dunnemore knew was that her old acquaintance from college was a convicted tax evader.
“Did she believe you?” Rousseau asked.
“About her son? I don’t know.” That troubled him, because he’d told her the truth. He’d had nothing to do with the shooting. “Have you heard from our man in New York? Does he have any idea what the hell’s going on there?”
