Excerpt From A Capital Holiday

Eyes closed, she sat in her seat, too edgy with fatigue to relax. Her feet ached from the endless hours of standing and walking these last four days, and her hands throbbed from the endless times they’d been shaken. Even the muscles in her face quivered with fatigue from smiling so much.

It was one of the prices she paid for being the President’s daughter, and an extremely popular one. A few pundits went so far as to suggest she was more popular than her father. More than one had dubbed her America’s Princess Di.

Popularity was not something Jocelyn had sought. But now that it had been thrust upon her, she tried to use it to benefit a host of worthy organizations, as well as her father’s administration.

This past week it had put her back on the campaign trail, stumping for congressional candidates in her father’s party. On Friday, Jocelyn had been joined by the President, and the schedule had become even more crowded and hectic.

The helicopter tilted and her stomach did a sickening little flip-flop as the craft veered to the right, bound for its landing site on the South Lawn of the White House. Flying had never been Jocelyn’s favorite mode of transportation, and in a helicopter, she was an unabashed white knuckler, despite the number of times she had flown in one.

Only a scant few of the staff were aware of her uneasiness at flying—Jocelyn refused to call it fear. It was something she had very early learned to conceal. Yet she couldn’t stop her hand from doublechecking to make sure her seatbelt was tightly fastened.

As soon as the helicopter righted itself, she opened her eyes and forced herself to look out the window, trying to distract her mind from the sensations of the helicopter’s descent.

The view of Washington, D.C. from the air was a sight guaranteed to do exactly that. Autumn’s vibrant crimson and gold colors still clung to the trees along the National Mall, a perfect contrast to the green of its grass and the gleaming white of its monuments.

Her glance touched on the white marble obelisk that honored the nation’s first President, George Washington. By law, it was the tallest structure in the city. The ring of American flags surrounding it waved idly in a late afternoon breeze. Again Jocelyn made an oft-repeated vow to herself that one day she would ride the elevator all the way to the top, something she hadn’t done since she was nine years old.

Just beyond the monument rose the familiar spires, towers and turrets of the Smithsonian "Castle". Its museums were other sights on her private wish list of places to explore—alone, without a horde of reporters and officials surrounding her, or camera lenses trained on her. Unfortunately, there didn’t seem to be much chance of that happening until she was around ninety.

Suppressing a sigh, Jocelyn looked beyond the row of museums that flanked the park-like Mall. At the far end stood the Capitol Building, its familiar dome topped by a nineteen-foot-high statue of Freedom.

For a moment she gazed down the length of Pennsylvania Avenue. A smile twitched the corners of her mouth as Jocelyn recalled a wry comment she had read a few weeks ago in the highly popular political column "Tucker’s Take". In it, the columnist Grady Tucker had likened the famous street that stretched between the White House and Capitol Hill to a rope in a tug-of-war game. A singularly apt description, she thought, especially when she considered some of her father’s recent battles with Congress over the budget.

Rising treetops blocked the Capitol Building from her view as the helicopter descended below them. Involuntarily Jocelyn dug her carefully manicured nails into her palms and inwardly braced herself for that small jolt of touchdown. At the same instant she jerked her gaze from the window, instinctively seeking her father’s strong, square-jawed face and making contact with his warm blue eyes.

Henry Wakefield looked back at her, his gaze knowing in its softness. Instantly she drew strength from his rock-steady calm, a ridiculous admission for a twenty-six-year old woman to make. But it was a true one, nonetheless.

As "Marine One" settled onto the South Lawn with only a gentle jar to its important passengers, her father quipped above the engine noise, "’Home again, home again, jiggety-jog," drawing a faint smile from Jocelyn.

When she was small, the slightest amount of air turbulence had frightened her. Each time her parents had recited that old childhood nursery rhyme; for some inexplicable reason it had always calmed her fears. Now it had become a private joke between Jocelyn and her father.

Henry Wakefield, dubbed "Hammerin’ Hank" by the reporters during his successful presidential campaign, glanced out the side window and sighed, "Just one more gauntlet to run."

Jocelyn knew without looking that he was referring to the White House press corps waiting on the South Lawn, hoping for one final sound bite they could use on this non-presidential election eve. The mere thought of more cameras, more shouted questions, was enough to set her teeth on edge.

Everything inside her screamed "Stop! No more!" But that wasn’t an option, and Jocelyn knew it.

The media pressure never seemed to faze her father, though. She supposed when weighed against the demands of his office, the press was no more bothersome to him than a swarm of pesky mosquitoes.

Each time she considered the responsibility that sat on his shoulders, Jocelyn swallowed her own complaints. She had only to look at him to see the changes nearly two years in office had made in him.

The strands of gray in his hair had multiplied tenfold, silvering its brownness. A new soberness had ingrained itself in his features, firming the line of his mouth. And after the weekend’s grueling schedule, there were new signs of weariness about him—a faint shadowing under the eyes, a deepening of the lines around his mouth, a slight sagging of his broad shoulders.

Yet, even as Jocelyn studied him, she watched him throw off the fatigue with a quick squaring of his shoulders and a determined lift of the chin. Before her eyes, Henry Wakefield recreated his public image of a vigorous, robust man.

Aware that she could do no less, Jocelyn slipped her toes back into her shoes and ignored the screech of protest from her aching feet.

The wash from the helicopter’s rotating blades buffeted the throng of reporters stationed well beyond it. A shower of autumn leaves spun from the trees to whirl through the air. Grady Tucker stood slightly apart from his colleagues but still close enough to be counted as one of them.

At six-foot-four, he was a tall and lanky man with features that were strong and angular, handsome in a fresh, down-home sort of way. A lingering summer tan gave color to his skin, eliminating any suggestion of office pallor. His hair was a sun-bleached brown, on the shaggy side and tousled by the helicopter-generated wind. The effect added to his slightly rumpled appearance.

He wore a tweed jacket with decorative leather patches at the elbows. Beneath it was a tan pullover sweater that gave some bulk to his otherwise lean frame. His jacket pockets bulged with a variety of items—the requisite notebook, pens and pencils of his trade, a briar pipe and a pouch of tobacco, plus the odd slips of paper and occasional paperclips, two dog biscuits, an old tennis ball, a roll of stamps as well as last week’s laundry receipt, matchbooks and a dozen other things he thought he might need or forgot he had.

The overall impression was one of easy carelessness and fresh-faced innocence. All that was missing was a scattering of freckles to complete the look.

His appearance was part natural and part cultivated. Only now and then did his hazel eyes reveal the keen intelligence behind the facade.

Tucker couldn’t say what had brought him to the South Lawn that afternoon. The White House wasn’t exactly his regular beat, although politics in general were. He certainly didn’t need a quote for tomorrow’s column; he had a week’s worth already written.

He was there mostly because he didn’t have anything better to do, and because he’d had an odd urge to come. And Tucker had always been one to follow the odd urges. They kept his life from getting into a rut. He abhorred ruts. Lately, he’d had the nagging feeling that he was slipping into one.

On the lawn, the helicopter pilot cut the engine, reducing it to an idle chug. As the blades slowed their rotation, a handful of Secret Service agents converged on the craft at a crouching jog.

An air of expectancy licked through the waiting press. Tucker felt the same quickening inside, even though his role was strictly one of a casual observer.

The instant the door opened to "Marine One", the horde of reporters, photographers and cameramen surged against the security barrier, jockeying for position. Tucker’s mouth quirked in a wry smile at his colleagues’ avidity.

With his hands stuffed in the pockets of his faded jeans, Grady sauntered a couple steps closer for a better view, then stood storklike, with his weight on one foot, the other leg bent, and watched the unfolding circus.

As the President emerged from the belly of the helicopter, there was an immediate click and hum of cameras. Tucker paid little attention, focusing instead on Hank Wakefield.

At first glance, the President looked like any other successful business executive, well-dressed in a dark suit tailored to fit his athletic frame. The growing touches of gray in his hair gave him a distinguished air, and there were enough crags in his face to keep him from being too movie-star handsome.

Privately Tucker acknowledged that Henry Andrew Wakefield looked like a President. More than that, he possessed that indefinable something—something magnetic and forceful—that prompted people to automatically turn to him in time of trouble, confident he had the answer. Proof of that was in Wakefield’s high confidence rating in the polls.

Wakefield glanced in the media’s direction. Beside Tucker, the AP reporter Phil Aikens grumbled an irritated, "What’d ya want’a bet he doesn’t talk to us?"

"What makes you say that?" Tucker cocked his head at a curious angle.

"Because he looked at us," the man muttered, never taking his own eyes off the President. "When he does that, he almost never answers any questions, leaving us with trying to read something into his body language. You know—one of those ‘Today the President appeared confident—or concerned—or weary.’ Take your pick.

Tucker smiled in commiseration. "You’d be better off with a ‘no comment’."

"Tell me about it," the reporter grunted.

The President turned back to the helicopter’s open door, a quick smile curving his mouth when his daughter stepped out. Phil Aikens saw her and flashed a grin at Tucker.

"’Course, there’s always Jocelyn," he said. "It’s a whole lot easier making up a story about her. Any kind of exclusive item on the First Daughter is worth her weight in gold."

Tucker shifted his gaze to the President’s daughter. Like her father, Jocelyn Wakefield was tall, lacking only three inches of matching her father’s six feet. She looked deceptively model-slender, but Tucker had seen enough pictures of her to know there were curves beneath that slimming business suit she wore. Its rich royal blue was a perfect complement to her fair skin and glorious red hair, a natural shade of strawberry-gold no hairdresser in the world could duplicate.

In the last three years, Tucker had seen Jocelyn Wakefield in person maybe a half dozen times, always at a distance like this. Her clothes and hairstyles had varied with the occasion, but Not the overall impression of elegance, poise and an easy charm. There was no demure dipping of the head, no hints of shyness or reticence. Her head was always up, and her smile always appeared warm and friendly, making her seem approachable. There was nothing practiced or phony about her.

"Gorgeous, isn’t she?" Phil observed the object of Tucker’s study. "The kind of woman you want to take home to meet your mom."

For a moment Tucker eyed Jocelyn with a purely male appreciation for her looks and figure, then dragged a hand out of his jeans pocket and scratched the back of his head. "I don’t know. I can’t quite see her fittin’ into my mom’s farm kitchen back in Kansas."

The President said something to his daughter that drew a wry smile and a nod from her. Together they moved out from the helicopter’s shadow, with Jocelyn lagging a half step back from him, a position that gave the cameras a clear angle at the nation’s Chief Executive. Her hair turned fiery in the afternoon sunlight, its sleekness gleaming with a more definite red.

The sight prompted Tucker to wonder, "Has she got a temper to go with that hair?"

Phil shrugged. "If she does, I haven’t heard a whisper of it."

Neither had Tucker, but he had never taken much interest in Jocelyn Wakefield, mostly because she hadn’t provided him with much fodder for his column.

As the President moved within range, reporters shouted questions to him, microphones thrust out to catch his reply. But Wakefield shook his head and touched a hand to his ear, indicating that he couldn’t hear them over the gathering roar of the helicopter now preparing to lift off. But it didn’t halt the barrage.

"What about the senate race in Ohio?"

"Does VanHorn have a chance of unseating Missouri’s Scranton?"

"The polls show you might gain only two seats in the House. Do you think you waited too long to—"

"Mr. President, what chance does your budget package have of passing if you don’t gain a majority in the House?"

"The ‘Atlanta Journal’ claims your support for Dykes was too little too late. What’s your comment on that?"

Smiling confidently, Wakefield waved at the cameras and kept walking toward the South Portico. Jocelyn mirrored his actions.

One of the network television correspondents yelled, "Why did you cancel your stop in Chicago, Mr. President? Do you consider that Senate race lost?"

Again, a wide-smiling Wakefield indicated he couldn’t hear the question. Then his moving glance landed on Tucker and stopped in surprise. In a flash, he changed directions, his smile lengthening into a grin as he raised a hand in recognition.

"Tucker." His voice boomed the greeting.

Startled by her father’s change of course, Jocelyn Wakefield stopped, but didn’t accompany her father when he walked straight toward the press corps. Her confused glance swept over the reporters’ faces before colliding with Tucker’s gaze.

For a split second he felt the impact of her brown eyes. Then he switched his focus to the approaching President of the United States. All around him there was a mad scramble for position, reporters and cameramen jostling him from the side and behind, microphones bristling all around him while the Secret Service agents moved in to keep the press safely at bay.

"I never expected to see your face among this horde of reporters, Tucker," the President declared, coming to a stop before him and extending a hand.

Tucker shook it and ducked his head in his best aw-shucks fashion. "Everybody makes mistakes now and then, Mr. President. My granddaddy always said that’s why we keep having elections."

Hank Wakefield threw back his head and laughed. Tucker had a brief glimpse of Jocelyn, enough to catch an echoing sparkle of laughter in her eyes. With both hands once again shoved in his pockets, he slouched a little more and shuffled his weight to the other foot.

"And I wouldn’t be too hard on these guys here, Mr. President." He bobbed his head in the direction of the flanking reporters. "They’re just trying to get an advance line on Who’s Who and Who’s Through?"

"Wouldn’t we all?" the President countered, his glance sliding over the group to Tucker’s left. "But I’m afraid they’ll have to wait like the rest of us, until all the votes are cast tomorrow."

Phil Aikens spoke up quickly, "Mr. President, what do you think Orrin Peters’ chances are of winning Indiana’s House seat from Clyde Renfrow?"

"It doesn’t matter what I think," the President replied. "It’s up to the voters to choose. But I do know the people of Indiana are as anxious as I am to get this budget issue settled, and Orrin Peters has voiced the same desire."

A flurry of "Mr. President’s" followed his answer, but Wakefield waved off any more questions. "Sorry. That’ll have to be it for now." He backed away, tapping his watch. "I’ve got a meeting to attend."

He walked off to rejoin his daughter, taking her by the arm and guiding her toward the White House entrance. The instant it was clear there would be no more remarks, the microphones and cameras were lowered, and the attention shifted to packing up and getting stories filed.

Pushed by no such deadline, Tucker went through the motions of patting his pockets, searching for the one with his pipe. Phil Aikens gave him a sideways glance, full of curiosity.

"I didn’t know you were such good friends with Wakefield," he said, as if smelling something suspicious.

"It was news to me, too." After a show of searching his pockets, Tucker unerringly plunged his hand into the right one and pulled out his pipe, then the tobacco pouch out of another pocket and dipped the pipe into the pouch to begin filling it. "I guess it just goes to show you that you can always tell an election is near when a politician can recognize you at a distance."

"Aren’t you being a bit too modest, Tucker," cameraman Joe Grobowski scoffed from his listening post, crouched two feet away. He scribbled something on the tape in his hand and stuffed it in his bag.

"Modest? About what?" Frowning, Tucker tamped the last bit of tobacco into the pipe bowl and returned the pouch to his pocket with one hand while inserting the pipe stem between his teeth with the other.

The plea of ignorance drew a skeptical glance from Grobowski. "You mean you don’t know that Wakefield regards you as his good luck charm?"

Tucker blinked in unfeigned surprise and plucked the pipe from his mouth. "You’re joshing me, Joe."

The roar of "Marine One" lifting off checked the cameraman’s reply as the turbulent wind, generated by its spinning blades, lashed out, tugging at coattails and loose notebook pages before sending dry leaves whirling around them. The noise receded as the helicopter gained altitude and rejoined its hovering military escort. Like a flock of brown pelicans, they lumbered off toward Andrews Air Force Base.

When the noise abated, Tucker turned back to Grobowski. "Now explain yourself, Joe," he declared, wearing his most serious face. "What’s all this about me being a good luck charm? ‘Cause I gotta tell you, Wakefield never struck me as the superstitious sort."

"It probably isn’t him as much as it is his staff," the cameraman conceded. "But it all started when you attended the convention where he won the nomination to become his party’s candidate. Everybody knows you don’t usually go to such things."

"But I went to both conventions," Tucker recalled, puzzled that any significance could be attached to his presence.

"And you also attended the first presidential debate—where Wakefield cremated Sy Cummings." Joe paused, his expression turning a little sly. "Do you remember the last time you went to a White House ceremony?"

Tucker chewed thoughtfully on the pipe stem while he searched through his mental files. Nodding, he recalled. "I came to see all the pomp and flourishes of Wakefield welcoming the new Israeli prime minister."

Afterwards, he had taken more than a few jibes in his column at America’s foreign policy. The most often-quoted item had been his claim that George Washington had set a poor precedent when he threw that dollar across the Potomac River, because ever since then, the government had tossed billions across the oceans.

"And do you also remember," Grobowski continued, "that not two days later came the big announcement of a new peace treaty between Israel and the PLO?"

Drawing his head back, Tucker cocked one eyebrow in a puzzled frown. "That’s nothing but sheer coincidence. It had nothing to do with me being here."

With the video tape and camera stowed securely in their traveling case, Grobowski stood up. "Coincidence or not, there are some on Wakefield’s staff who are convinced good things happen when you’re around. I guess we’ll see how true that is when the election results come in, won’t we?" Grinning, he sketched a salute to both Tucker and Phil Aikens and moved off. "See you."

Tucker absently lifted a hand in farewell, then dug a matchbook out of his pocket without the usual routine of a patting search. Still lost in thought, he tore off a cardboard match, scratched the head of it across the roughened strip and held the flame close to his pipe bowl.

"Wouldn’t that be an interesting headline," Phil murmured, eyeing him with amused thought. "’Grady Tucker—Wakefield’s Lucky Rabbit’s Foot.’"

A puff of aromatic smoke came from Tucker’s mouth. Wryness tugged at him as he lowered the pipe. "You know, Phil, I never have figured out why people think a rabbit’s foot is so lucky when you consider what happened to the rabbit."

The AP reporter chuckled to himself and shook his head. "On that note, I’m out’a here, Tucker. I’ve gotta story to write. See ya’ around."

"You, too."

Tucker stuck the pipe back in his mouth, clenching the stem between his teeth, and cast a last idle glance in the direction of the White House, catching a glimpse of the President and his daughter as they neared the steps to the South Portico. An instant later, the accompanying Secret Service agents and staff blocked his view of them.

Turning, Tucker stuffed a hand in his jacket pocket and fingered the dog biscuit inside it. "Time for me to shove off, too," he muttered through the pipestem, to no one in particular. "Molly’s gonna be wantin’ her walk."

Unhurried, he strolled from the grounds. A dozen yards from the gates, an elderly and well-dressed gentleman approached him, the head of his cane raised in a silent request for his attention. Removing the pipe from his mouth, Tucker automatically cupped a hand around its bowl and slowed his steps, nodding in response to the man’s grateful smile.

"I’m sorry to bother you, sir, but I was wondering if you could help me." He stopped before Tucker, planting the cane on the sidewalk directly in front of his feet and resting both hands atop it.

"I’ll try," Tucker promised, his glance running curiously over this man whose skin was as dark as his beard was white. He was round and short, the crown of his black Homburg coming no higher than the middle of Tucker’s chest.

"I had understood it was possible to tour the White House, but the visitor center is closed."

"During the winter months, it is," Tucker admitted. "But the White House is still open for tours Tuesday through Saturday, but only in the mornings. Basically you have two options now, you can either contact your local representative or senator to see if they can get you a pass or—you can go the Southeast Gate. But I think you have to be there before ten in the morning."

"The Southeast Gate before ten, Tuesday through Saturday," the man repeated, as if committing the information to memory, then tipped his hat. "Thank you very much, sir. You have been most helpful."

"No problem," Tucker replied and smiled to himself as the man set off with brisk, short-legged strides.

Jocelyn waited a beat after her father rejoined her before succumbing to her curiosity. "Who was that man you were just talking to?" she asked, resisting the urge to take another look in the man’s direction.

"That was Grady Tucker." He gave her a look that suggested she should have recognized the man.

"Grady Tucker," she repeated with dawning cognizance. "You mean, the Grady Tucker, the one who writes the ‘Tucker’s Take’ column?"

"The very same." Her father nodded.

This time Jocelyn did crane her neck to take another look at the man. No photograph of its author accompanied the column, only a drawing of a hand holding a pipe with smoke curling from it.

"I thought Grady Tucker would be pudgy and bald, with wire-rim glasses." She stared at the tall lanky man, dressed in jeans, sneakers and a tweed jacket, a pipe clutched to his mouth, then jerked her gaze to the front, trying to make the leap from imagination to reality. "He looks like some long-legged basketball player from Iowa."

Her father smiled drolly. "You’re close. He’s from Kansas."

"Kansas." Jocelyn wanted to laugh, but she suddenly couldn’t summon the energy.

"Tired?" her father guessed, his astute glance traveling over her smooth face.

She refused to complain, or to lie. "It’s been a hectic week."

He nodded wisely. "Your feet hurt, do they?"

Jocelyn all but groaned, "They’re killing me." Each step she took brought a fresh stab of pain shooting from her feet. She measured the distance to the oval-shaped portico’s ground floor entrance and wondered if she could make it. "I can hardly wait to kick these shoes off," Jocelyn told him without moving her lips, an art she had learned early in her father’s political career—a defense against all the networks that hired lip-readers.

In this town, image was everything, and had to be protected. Hence, public complaints or criticisms were swallowed or muttered very softly under one’s breath. To guard against embarrassing photographs of her skirt billowing up around her face in a strong wind, Jocelyn wore slim-fitting suits. To avoid mussed and untidy hair, she styled hers in a sleek French twist and plastered it with hairspray, not allowing a single strand to stray out of place. Rings were never worn on her right hand to avoid the pain of one of those extra firm finger-crushing handshakes. The list was endless, and constantly being revised. At times, Jocelyn felt she was a prisoner, manacled and chained by a thousand dos and don’ts.

Waiting at the ground floor entrance to welcome them back stood a tanned and athletically trim Alex Bakersmith, the White House Chief Usher. The bland-sounding title meant he was in charge of practically everything at the White House—budget, staff, maintenance, entertainment and more.

But it was the sight of Wally Hamilton, one of her father’s advisors and his deputy chief of staff, who was also anxiously waiting for them, that gave Jocelyn pause. As usual, he was busy chewing his thumbnail to the quick.

"What does Wally want?" Jocelyn wondered aloud.

"He’s probably waiting to walk me over to the Oval Office," her father replied.

"You have a meeting right away?" she said, half in protest, aware that he had been on the go since four in the morning, just as she had.

"Dwight Hawkins is supposed to be there to brief me on the latest information about that terrorist bombing in Paris," he said, referring to his Secretary of State.

"As worried as Wally looks, I hope the news isn’t bad."

"Wally is always worried about something. I have never met a man so quick to see the bad in everything," her father stated without rancor. "That’s why he is so valuable to me. With him, I know I’ll hear all sides. But this time I don’t think he’s worried about the terrorist attack. He’s probably received the latest election polls. Wait until he hears I talked to Tucker."

"What difference does Tucker make?" Jocelyn frowned.

"You aren’t going to believe this," her father warned, the beginnings of a smile dimpling his cheeks, "but Wally thinks Tucker is my good luck piece."

His answer startled a laugh from her. "What? Why?"

"You’ll have to ask Wally," he replied with an amused shake of his head. "He has a whole long list of reasons."

"You don’t believe it, do you?"

"No, but ole’ gloom-and-doom Wally does," he joked and started to split away from her to link up with his deputy. His glance traveled down to her feet. "You need to have Ernst come up and give you a massage," he said in parting. "Those aching muscles of yours will feel a lot better if you do."

At the moment Jocelyn had no desire to see another living soul, even a masseur. She’d had her fill of people pushing and pulling and manipulating her.

But she didn’t say that, replying instead, "Thanks, but I think I’ll just settle for a long soak in the Jacuzzi."

Alex Bakersmith inclined his head in greeting. "Good afternoon, Mr. President, Miss Wakefield. Welcome back."

"Alex." Her father nodded an absent acknowledgment and clamped a hand on Wally’s shoulder. Together the two of them set off for the colonnade that would take them to the Oval Office in the West Wing.

"Hello, Alex." Jocelyn managed a wan smile and walked through the door he held open for her, shadowed by her own personal Secret Service agent Mike Bassett.

The minute she reached the ground floor corridor, she stopped and slipped off her shoes and placed her hot and achy, nylon-stockinged feet on the cool marble floor. There was relief; perhaps not total, but there was relief. She briefly paused to savor it, then forced herself to continue along the corridor.

At the moment Jocelyn didn’t particularly care how inelegant she might look walking through the White House in her designer suit and carrying her low-heeled pumps. Privately she thanked God that no photographers were around to snap this picture and plaster it all over tomorrow’s papers.

Silently she made her way to their living quarters on the second floor of the presidential mansion. As always, Agent Mike Bassett left her at the elevator; the Secret Service didn’t venture onto the second and third floors, giving the First Family the illusion of privacy.

But Jocelyn knew it was only an illusion. The White House was served by a staff that numbered in the hundreds, ready to cater to her every need or whim—except the one Jocelyn wanted most —to be alone. Which was an impossibility. Even if she never actually saw the butler, the maid or the valet going about their business, she knew they were somewhere about.

In her side vision, Jocelyn saw the evening newspaper lying on the table just inside the hall by the elevator. With it were messages that had been left for Jocelyn and her father, the red-tagged ones indicating those that needed immediate attention.

Nerves frayed by the exhaustion and stress from the past week’s activities, Jocelyn stopped to glare at the stack of red-tagged messages, hotly rebellious at the thought of even one more demand on her time. She took one furious step past the table, then swung back. Tucking her shoes in the crook of one arm, she snatched up the messages, angrily riffling through them to remove the ones addressed to her attention. There were seven in all, four with red flags. Her fingers curled around the slips of paper, crumpling them into the palm of her hand.

One day—that was all she wanted. Just one twenty-four hour period al1 to herself—to do what she wanted, go where she wanted, wear what she wanted, say what she wanted.

One day of absolute and total freedom.

There had to be a way to arrange that. Jocelyn vowed to find it, convinced that if she didn’t, she would go stark-raving mad.

A thought popped into her head—one that was so outrageous, so radical, Jocelyn wondered if she hadn’t already lost her mind.

But it could work.

It would just take some careful plotting and planning. But it could work.