“The door.”

Slowly, he drew it shut until it clicked into the frame.

Katharine Haymes was seated behind Desmond Fowler’s desk, more perfectly at home than if her own name had graced the glass before it was broken. She wore a pair of reading glasses, which she now took off and set on a dictionary that Fowler had probably never opened. “Please,” she urged, gesturing with a pen in her hand. “Won’t you sit down?”

The president’s head swam with confusion and embarrassment, but a fresh infusion of anger steadied it. “I will, but not at your request. This isn’t your office to occupy, Miss Haymes.”

“Nor yours to vandalize, Mr. President. Let’s have a civilized talk instead, shall we?” As he made his way to one of the chairs that faced the desk, she added, “Could I make you a drink?”

“You’d like that, wouldn’t you? Get me off my toes and into my cups.”

“I’m only being courteous. Why? Are you implying that I might do something untoward if I could compromise your faculties?”

“No such thing was implied,” he responded, trying to keep the hint of defensiveness out of his voice. But he was off-kilter already, thrown by the situation. He wouldn’t have admitted it, but the drink might well have sharpened him.

“Well, in my experience, people who break into offices rarely have polite intentions, so you’ll have to pardon me. But you were going to do that anyway.”

“It doesn’t work like that.”

“It doesn’t?” She cocked her head. “Desmond tells me otherwise. But you and I both know that the world doesn’t run on his word. He certainly likes to think so, though, doesn’t he?”

Grant sniffed. “So what does that make you? The power behind the throne?”

“Oh no, don’t be silly. I stand behind no throne, Mr. President. Not his. Not yours.”

“But you came to us. You’re the one who needed a deal.”

She shook her head. “No, I didn’t need one. I merely wanted one, and Mr. Fowler made it easy for me. I don’t require your clemency any more than I require your affection or respect. My time and my money are my own, and I’ve never needed permission to make use of either. I won’t start asking now.”

“So why, then? What game are you playing at?” he asked, determined not to be led in circles.

“The same game I always play, and I always win.” She leaned back in the Secretary of State’s oversized chair. It made her look small, almost childlike.

Grant reminded himself that it was an illusion. “What are you so afraid of?” he asked her.

“Afraid?”

“Only the frightened are so hungry for power.”

“Oh,” she said, appearing to consider this. “I see. You think I’m compensating for some loss, or gathering up my coins against the coming storm. Not so at all, I’m afraid. I like games, and I like being in charge. The economics of warfare are a perfect fit.”

“For a woman?”

Her eyebrows tensed into something very close to a frown. “For me. It’s not my fault you fellows are so reluctant to let us play. Worried you’ll be beaten by a lady, I expect.”

“That’s got nothing to do with it.” The protest sounded a bit weak, even in his own head. “I’m not remotely concerned about being bested by you, or anyone else.”

“You ought to be. You won’t be president much longer, Mr. Grant. What power you have, you’ve squandered. You’ve passed it off to men who are weaker than you, but quicker and cleverer. And you’re reaping the rewards already. Their crimes are your responsibility.” She shrugged prettily, wickedly. “Perhaps you’re comfortable with that. For all I know, it’s the most useful truth you learned in the army—how the man on top is the one who takes the blame. Tell me, do you think that’s why you were allowed to become president?”

“I wasn’t ‘allowed’ the office. I was granted it by the voters.”

“Whatever you prefer to tell yourself, sir. But if you think for a moment that the rest of us had nothing to do with your appointment, then you know less about how the world works than I thought.”

Gruffly, he laughed. “The world is a battlefield, Miss Haymes. And I clawed my way to commander in chief because I am the best at what I do.”

“You were shoved into the role by people who wished to manipulate you, and take advantage of your political ignorance.”

“You don’t know anything about me. Or why I took the nomination, or why I’ve stayed as long as I have.”

She sighed, as if this whole conversation had gone beyond the tedious and he was missing her every point. “Very well. Then we know nothing about one another, and this is all one great mystery—like how we ended up in this room, together.”

“Don’t say that like you planned it, because we both know you didn’t.” He almost added that she was wrong, that he could guess or infer a great number of things about her; he knew her kind. But he didn’t want to tip that hand, or give her anything else to refute.

“Of course I did. You sent your secretary after Desmond on that ridiculous Sunday errand. I laughed, but he’s too greedy, too excited that you were offering him what he’d demanded. It didn’t occur to him that you might be up to something.”

He still didn’t believe her. “But it occurred to you.”

“It’s a simple trick, which is why it worked, I suppose. An oldie but goodie, as they say. Magicians do it all the time: Distract the audience with one hand, so they miss what the other is doing.”

“You like magic tricks, do you?”

“Very much.” She nodded. “I wanted to be a magician when I was a child. My father told me there was no such thing as a woman magician. That was the first time I hated him.”

“Because he was right?”

“Oh, no. He was entirely wrong. I hated him because I was too weak to prove it at the time. I think if he were still alive now, he might grant that I have indeed become a Mistress of Illusion, after a fashion.”

Grant didn’t like where this was going. “And what audience have you spellbound lately? What illusions did you perform while they were distracted?”

She pursed her shapely lips in a smile, showing no teeth, but something else instead … some unkind, happy trait that made his skin crawl. “All the world’s a stage, Mr. President, not a battlefield. I believe the Bard would have my back on that one. And if I told you how the trick worked, I’d be a terrible magician, wouldn’t I?”

“It’s also a terrible magician who performs a trick that no one notices.”

“Oh, all right then,” she said crossly—but lightly, as if her irritation was feigned. She wanted to be asked. She wanted to answer. “By way of throwing you a bone … you agreed to my amnesty because you believed I needed it. Poppycock! Utter illusion, from start to finish.”

“Is that so? Then what do you really need?”

“You’ll find out soon enough,” she said. Her promise was every bit as unsettling as her smile.

“That sounds rather like a threat.”

“Oh, no. If I wanted to threaten you, I’d pull out the gun that’s sitting in my lap. I’m reasonably certain it overrules your … hammer.”

“And you think that’s all I brought?” he asked.

“Whatever gun you’re carrying, you can’t reach it more quickly than I can reach mine. And since I win that particular little gambit, let’s move on to the next one. I’ll start: Tell me, what did you hope to find here, in Desmond’s office?”

“Brandy.”

“Oh, droll, sir. Very droll. Particularly since I offered you a drink, and you declined. So what else were you looking for? I’m game to play along.”

“Nothing that’s any concern of yours.”

“I doubt that very much,” she said. “At present, almost any affair of Desmond’s is an affair of mine.”

Grant found that prospect alarming, but unsurprising. He only let the latter sentiment show. “I’m certain that constitutes some breach of national security.”

“Then arrest me.”

“Apparently I can’t.”

“So why don’t you ask me whatever burning questions you hoped to have answered? We both know you can’t touch me, so I have no reason to lie. You never know—it might be easier than rifling through Desmond’s drawers.”