He’d just finished drinks with Neil, his father’s former campaign manager. Neil was still harping about the damned photo in the Post.

“Reconcile or dump her,” Neil said. “I can massage it either way, but this waffling makes you look indecisive.”

He could solve the problem by telling Neil that Olivia had dumped him. But she’d done that before, and he wasn’t yet ready to accept it as her final word on the matter. He’d been fielding calls from his real estate broker, asking what he wanted to do with the house he’d bought. A house, damn it. For them. The best goddamned house he could find, and she’d loved it. She’d loved him. Now she just walked away? There must be more to it. And he had a good idea where that blame could be laid: on the shoulders of one Gabriel Walsh.

“Mr. Morgan?”

He glanced up sharply. When he saw the young man approaching him—midtwenties, suit and tie, reedy and pale—James had to smooth the annoyance from his reaction. One problem with working in technology was that not everyone in the field had baseline social skills. To them, staking out James Morgan’s car was a perfectly fine way to apply for a job.

A few months ago, he’d have brushed the kid off, politely but firmly, warning him this was not the way to make friends in the world that existed outside his basement. Now, though, even if he didn’t plan to run for senator for years, he had to start paying more attention to how he reacted to strangers. Especially strangers who probably had a blog, Twitter, Facebook, and serious hacker skills.

“Yes,” James said, plastering on a smile. “How can I help you?”

“The question is, how can I help you?” The young man held out a card. “Tristan Crouch. The Belarus Group.” He paused. “Have you heard of us?”

A salesman? God, that was even worse.

“No,” James said, struggling to keep the curt edge from his voice. “I’m sorry, but I was just about to head home—”

“I heard you’re scheduled to attend a dinner party with the POTUS in a few months. You could ask him about us. I’m sure he recalls us fondly. We were instrumental in his own senatorial campaign.”

James stopped.

Tristan smiled. “Yes, I know, I’m too young to have done more than man the phones for that, but I’m using ‘we’ in the imperial sense. The group has sent me to make the first contact and to relay a few suggestions. They’re interested in what they see. They just have . . . concerns.”

James should politely excuse himself now. Tell Tristan that he appreciated his group’s interest and he’d love to have drinks next week, giving him time to do his research on them. But there was something in the young man’s tone and in his gaze that brushed aside James’s doubts, and as Tristan spoke, James began to recall hearing of this Belarus Group. He should listen.

“The most immediate concern is your change of marital status.” Tristan smiled. “Or should I say the lack of a change.”

James tried not to wince. Damn Olivia. Why did she have to make everything so complicated?

“We like Ms. Taylor-Jones,” Tristan said. “We believe she complements you perfectly. Attractive, but not unduly so. Ambitious, but again not unduly so. She’s bright and witty and charming. From a solid local family. And now she comes with a very intriguing backstory, and we are impressed that you appear to see past that. Most men in your position would not.”

“There’s no question of that. I love her.”

Tristan’s smile held a touch of condescension, unsettling in one so young. “That always helps. We feel that your choice to support her through this tragic revelation will further endear you to voters. However, it would be better if you were more actively supporting her. We saw the photo in the Post.”

Now James did wince. “I—”

“A biker.” Tristan’s lips twisted in distaste.

“And an MBA student who is clearly trying to get out of the family business. As for his association with Olivia, it is purely professional. They share a lawyer.”

“Which brings me to issue number two. How well do you know Mr. Walsh?”

“His reputation—”

“We deal in fact, Mr. Morgan. Not gossip.” Tristan opened his briefcase and handed James two folders. “That is the information we have collected on both Mr. Walsh and Mr. Gallagher. Neither is someone we wish to see associating with our candidate’s future wife.”

“I—”

“Our concern extends beyond their reputations for criminal and unsavory activities.” The young man’s voice dropped to a soothing murmur. “We fear for Ms. Jones’s safety, as we believe you should.”

“What?”

“We can see how she would find these two men appealing. They are both attractive and single, both powerful and successful in their own way, much like you. There is also the added appeal of . . .” Tristan seemed to search for a word. “Edge, perhaps. Excitement. Danger. These men have it in spades. While you . . .”

James heard the words hanging between them. While you do not.

You are James Morgan. You’ve made every most eligible bachelor list in the city for three years running. Women flirt with you everyplace you go. They buy you drinks. They give you their numbers. They pass you hotel room keys. And who is Olivia Taylor-Jones? The daughter of convicted serial killers. Yet she dumps you for a biker. A twenty-two-year-old biker.

He heard the words as if someone whispered them in his ear, and he felt the outrage of them.

If you want her, she should be yours.

He looked up sharply. He could have sworn he actually did hear those words, but Tristan only stood there, waiting and watching him.

She should be yours. You deserve her. They do not.

“I’ll leave those files with you, Mr. Morgan,” Tristan said. “And I’ll leave you with two thoughts. One, we would be very pleased if you reunited with your fiancée. Two, if you do not, and there is no one there to protect her . . .” His eyes bored into James’s. “She is dealing with dangerous men who will hurt her. You need to understand that.”

James nodded.

“Tell me you understand that.”

James felt his lips moving, as if someone was pulling them for him. “Yes, I understand that. I’ll look after her. I’ll fix this.”

Tristan smiled. “Excellent. We’ll be in touch soon.”