Chapter 11

CHAPTER11

Marin scooted out of the way of the butlers who were busy shuttling food from the main kitchen to the big tent in the rose garden. She only had a few minutes before Terrie or Aunt Harriett noticed Marin hadn’t come back from the bathroom. The dread she felt over Diego’s absence kept rolling through her stomach, making her woozy. She had to find him. Maybe one of his former coworkers in the Navy Mess had heard from the sous chef. Or knew where he’d likely be. The admiral said they were looking for him, but Marin was too on edge to sit around and wait for news.

She cut through the Palm Room leading to the West Wing. Otto was stationed at the door. He let out an excited yip when he saw her. Marin leaned in to give the dog a hug.

“You’re turning my K-9 into a lovesick puppy, Chef,” Officer Stevens accused. The smile on the Emergency Response Team officer’s face took away the sting of his words, however.

“I’m sorry to disturb Otto when he’s working. I just needed a hug.”

“He’s on standby today, so hug away.”

Tears welled up in Marin’s eyes when the dog nuzzled her cheek. How had her life become so frightening? And why?

“Are you okay, Chef?”

Marin stood up and brushed the dog hair off her jacket. “Yeah, just having a crazy day. I need to check on something in the West Wing.” She patted Otto on the head. “You be a good dog.”

Otto’s body suddenly tensed beneath her hand. A scream came from somewhere within the rose garden. The dog took off like a bullet.

“Not again,” Officer Stevens complained. “People keep thinking the media cables are snakes.” He jogged after his dog, only to quickly change course when someone called for help. Marin hurried down the path after him.

When she turned the corner, she stopped dead in her tracks. Angie, one of the temporary chefs the White House hired for big events, was on the ground holding her arm; it was oozing with blood. Two of the butlers were gingerly helping her stem the flow.

Officer Stevens crouched down beside her. “What happened?”

“Some guy jumped me,” Angie cried. “He stabbed me with something.”

“Did you get a look at him?” one of the other officers who’d just arrived asked.

“No. The pervert stayed behind me. He had on leather gloves, if that helps.”

Marin cried out sharply before slapping her hand over her mouth. The creepy guy she’d met on the stairs last week had worn leather gloves.

At her cry, Angie and the crowd surrounding her turned to stare at Marin.

“He thought I was you,” Angie accused. “He kept calling me Chef Chevalier. Then the dog showed up, thank God.”

The nausea that had been rolling in Marin’s stomach for the past hour threatened to come up. She spun around, cutting through the Palm Room to the deserted courtyard between the West Wing and the residence. Gulping in deep breaths, she tried to calm herself. Was someone trying to kill her? None of this made any sense.

She staggered in the direction of the carpenter’s shop, but she barely made it a step before two strong arms seized her from behind. Terror shot through her. Before whoever it was could get a hand over her mouth, Marin managed to scream. The sound of her own voice buoyed her and she began struggling against the hard body holding her tightly. She kicked her legs wildly and dug her elbow into her assailant’s ribs.

“Marin, settle down. It’s me.”

She flailed her arms and legs a few seconds more before realizing it was Griffin’s voice in her ear. Marin went limp in his arms. Of course it was him. Who else came to her rescue like a white knight whenever she was in a life or death situation? She turned in his arms and buried her face in his chest, wishing she could crawl inside his body. Griffin ran his hands up and down her back, quietly shushing her.

Footsteps sounded on the pavement.

“Anything?” Griffin asked.

“The dog lost him when he slipped into the crowd,” Adam said. “This guy is getting desperate, though. That was a pretty brazen move.”

“Let’s get her back inside.”

“Griffin,” she cried. “Why is this happening?”

“We’re going to figure it out.” He ushered her through the Palm Room and down the center hall. “I won’t let him get near you.”

Griffin set her down gently on the couch in the reception area of the Secret Service office. He crouched down at her knees in front of her. “Marin, whoever this is, we’re going to get him. But I need you to answer a few questions first.”

Marin’s head was pounding. “Questions? I don’t even understand what’s happening myself. How could I possibly have any answers?”

The FBI agent sat down beside her. “Chef—Marin,” she said, her voice gentle. “You may know something without even realizing it. We have the video surveillance from the Dupont on Saturday. It shows the man who dropped off the package. Can you tell me if you recognize him?”

Griffin placed an iPad on Marin’s lap and swiped his finger along the screen. A photo of the man she’d seen on the spiral staircase the other morning popped up. Marin flinched.

“Yes,” she whispered.

The FBI agent and Griffin exchanged a look.

“When and where?” Griffin demanded.

“Here. In the White House.”

Griffin muttered something beneath his breath.

“Where exactly in the House was he?” the FBI agent continued for him. “Do you remember?”

“Yes, he was coming down the back stairs that connect the main kitchen to the pastry kitchen and the family dining room.”

“When was this?” the agent asked.

Marin rubbed her throbbing temple. “Um, last week. The morning of the fire. That was Wednesday, I think?” She looked at Griffin for confirmation.

He nodded. “Was anyone else with him?”

She shook her head. “I didn’t see anyone.”

“Was Diego with you?” Griffin asked.

Marin shivered. “No. He came in early that day also. But he went directly to the Navy Mess. He said he had to check on a friend or something.”

The two agents exchanged another look.

“Oh, God. Diego is in danger, isn’t he?” Marin could barely get the question past her dry mouth.

“Whoever this guy is, he didn’t want to be seen,” the FBI agent said. “By you or anyone else. It’s quite possible he’s our art thief.”

Blinking back tears, Marin stared at the picture on the iPad. “My bloody jacket was in that package. Does this mean he stabbed Anika?”

“He was likely aiming for you,” the FBI agent said.

Marin tried to swallow around the lump in her throat. It was all so unbelievable. Anika’s brother hadn’t been responsible for her stabbing. Marin had. Her chest was now throbbing along with her head. “And Seth? Do you think this man killed him?”

The FBI agent placed a hand on Marin’s shoulder. “Among others. If I had to guess, I’d say this guy was trying to flush you out of your apartment. There was no way he could know about the back stairs. But you shouldn’t blame yourself for the actions of a madman, Marin. None of this is your fault.”

“He had leather gloves on the day he was here. When Angie mentioned them, it made me think of him.”

“What the hell is going on?” the president’s chief of staff bellowed from inside the director’s office. “Are the president and his family safe in the House or not, Director Worcester?”

“We’ve secured the First Family, sir,” the director responded. “My agents have also secured the perimeter of the building. All indications are that this guy slipped off the grounds before our net was in place.”

“Well that’s reassuring.” The chief of staff huffed. “Do we have any idea who this clown is? And why he was wielding a knife at an event that was open to the public?”

Griffin stood and walked over to the open door of the director’s office. “We’re running his image through facial recognition software right now. The process isn’t as quick as it appears in TV crime shows,” he explained. “But we suspect he’s our art thief.”

“That doesn’t really give me any more peace of mind, Agent Keller. The last time we spoke, you suspected Chef Chevalier was the damn art thief!”

It took a long second before the chief of staff’s words sunk in. But when they did, a cold wave washed over Marin’s body. Her breath burned as it sawed through her lungs.

“Wait a minute. You. . .” Marin had to pause a moment to stop her lips from quivering. “You thought I was. . . a thief?”

“Not me.” The chief of staff pointed an accusing finger at Griffin. “Him.”

Griffin’s face was impassive and his eyes dark when he finally turned to face Marin. Suddenly it all made sense to her. She’d been right all along. Guys like Griffin Keller only paid attention to women like Marin out of duty. Their romantic dinner on the Truman Balcony and his arousing kisses later in her penthouse had all been part of the ruse. Her only consolation was that he was not a good enough actor to carry out their lovemaking to its conclusion.

If that was actually a consolation.

It was all too much. Marin jerked to her feet on unsteady legs. She would not humiliate herself by crying in front of this jerk. Vomiting on his shoes was a distinct possibility, however.

“Marin,” he murmured.

“Don’t!” Unfortunately, it came out of her mouth as more of a sob. She dashed across the hall, through the Map Room, to the women’s lavatory. Locking the door behind her, she lost her battle with her nausea.

She wasn’t sure how long she sat on the floor of the restroom, a damp hand towel covering her tear-swollen eyes. But she was sure of one thing. Marin Chevalier was not a victim. And she would not waste another tear over Griffin Keller. Not when Diego was still missing and a murdering art thief was on the loose. One who wanted her dead.

There was a knock at the door and a shudder wracked her body.

“Marin, it’s Agent Morgan.” The FBI agent’s voice came from the other side of the paneling. “I thought you might like some cold water.”

A cool drink sounded heavenly, but Marin wasn’t sure she was ready to face anyone just yet. She reached up and unlocked the door, opening it wide enough to allow her fingers to slip through.

Agent Morgan put the bottle of water in Marin’s hand. “I have some animal crackers, too, if you think you’re up to it.”

Marin grabbed the bag and slid the door shut. She heard Agent Morgan sit down on the floor on the other side.

“I know this is all a bit overwhelming and frightening,” Agent Morgan said through the door. “But believe me when I say we’ll do everything in our power to find this guy. It’s what we do. And I, for one, am very good at my job. I won’t let anything happen to you.”

Given how the past few days had been going, Marin had to take the agent’s word for it. She wasn’t sure Agent Morgan was expecting a response, so she chewed on an animal cracker instead.

“Agent Keller won’t let anything happen to you, either,” Agent Morgan added.

At the mention of Griffin’s name, the animal cracker turned to dust in Marin’s mouth. She washed it down with a swig of water before she choked.

“Go easy on Griff,” the agent continued.

Griff.

Marin nearly gagged again. It would figure that the model-worthy FBI agent would have an intimate nickname for Griffin. He likely had one for the agent, too. The beautiful people had a tendency to stick together. She slammed her eyes shut against the images of how ‘Griff’ and the sexy redhead stuck together. Not that Marin cared about Not-So-Special-Agent Keller any longer. She was done lusting over him. Even if he did ride to her rescue as often in real life as he did in her dreams.

“When we found the original paintings at a crime scene last week, they were wrapped in a dish towel from the White House kitchen. It was only natural that we begin our investigation with the kitchen staff,” Agent Morgan explained.

A kitchen dish towel?

“That’s stupid,” Marin said before she realized she was speaking out loud. “Anyone working in the House could pass through the kitchen and pick one of those up.”

“Mmm,” Agent Morgan agreed. She sounded as though she were chewing on something.

Marin pulled the door open. “That’s a ridiculous way to go about investigating art theft.”

Agent Morgan pulled an animal cracker out of her own bag and contemplated it before she spoke. “We have to begin somewhere. Most times, we start with much less than a dish towel.” She popped the cookie into her mouth.

“Wow, that’s encouraging.”

“You mentioned that your sous chef, Diego, came in early that morning.” Agent Morgan was suddenly scrutinizing Marin just as she had her cookie minutes before.

Marin was sorry she’d opened the door. “Yes. He wanted to work on the marzipan figures.”

“And did he?”

“I told you, he stopped by the Navy Mess first. But I assume he did after that. They were finished when I came up from the chocolate shop.”

Agent Moran tilted her head. She had a long, elegant neck, Marin noticed with disgust.

“But Diego may have come in early to meet with someone,” the agent pointed out. “And he could have told you he was in early to make the marzipan just to cover his tracks.”

Marin scrambled to her feet. “No! Diego isn’t any more of a thief than I am! You said yourself that the creepy guy on the stairs is probably the one stealing the art. There’s no need to blame an innocent man. Or is that how this works? Guilty until proven innocent?”

The FBI agent stood up gracefully, brushing crumbs off her pants as she did so. “The ‘creepy guy on the stairs’ wasn’t working alone, Marin. I’m just throwing out theories to see what sticks.”

“No, you’re throwing my friend under the bus!” Marin cried. “And since I seem to be the only one concerned about Diego, I’m going to find him.”

“I can’t let you do that,” Griffin said from the doorway of the Map Room.

* * *

The frantic expression on Marin’s face made Griffin’s chest seize. Or maybe it was the way her mouth seemed to turn up in disgust when she looked at him that made it so hard to breathe. He could have decked the president’s chief of staff for his reckless words earlier. Marin would have found out sooner or later that she’d been a suspect, but Griffin would have preferred it happened later. Much later. The poor woman was reeling with fear for herself and her friends. Not only that, Marin was also likely wrecked with guilt over the injuries and deaths of innocent people. If Griffin had learned anything about her these past few days, it was that she was a caring, sensitive woman. He worried this whole situation could break her. Griffin was going to do his best not to let that happen.

She crossed her arms beneath those gorgeous breasts of hers. Defiance shined brilliantly in her blue eyes. “You are not the boss of me, Agent Keller.”

“No, but I am going to do everything in my power to keep you safe.”

And by safe, Griffin meant that knife-wielding bastard trying to kill her wouldn’t touch a single silky hair on Marin’s head.

“Why? So you can arrest me for shoplifting sugar flowers from the White House? Or maybe I’m going to be charged with embezzling marzipan? Or will counterfeiting crumpets be my crime?”

He might have laughed at her quips, but Marin was fuming. This was good. Griffin could work with anger. Her despair and fear would kill him, though. He wouldn’t be able to do his job knowing that she needed comfort and he wasn’t able to be the one to give it to her. No, he’d cultivate her anger instead. It would keep her from falling down a well of hopelessness. And this way Griffin would be able to hunt down art thieves and murderers worry-free.

“Guilty conscience, Marin?” he asked, unashamedly baiting her.

“You’re an asshole!”

From behind Marin, Leslie shot him a look that said he was that and a whole lot more. Perfect. Mission accomplished.

“Regardless, I’m calling the shots on this case and you are going into protective custody.”

“I’m not going anywhere with you,” she protested.

“A safe house is a smart idea, Marin,” Leslie put in. “It won’t be long until this is over.”

“How long?” Marin demanded. “How long do I have to stay in protective custody?”

Leslie shot Griffin a concerned look. It would likely take days to find the guy who was pursuing Marin; provided he slipped up and made a mistake. The attack on the White House grounds today showed just how desperate he’d become, though. Still, Griffin had no definitive answer to give Marin.

“We’ll do everything in our power to get you to your cousin’s wedding,” he assured her, hoping like hell he could keep his word.

“Ha! You don’t need to be worrying about Ava’s wedding any longer, because you are not going with me.”

Leslie arched an eyebrow at him. Griffin kept his expression stoic despite the fact that a large part of him wanted to take Marin to that wedding. He wanted to protect her from the slings and arrows of her cousin and her jet-set friends. Hell, he wanted to hold her in his arms on the dance floor all night. And he hated to dance.

“We need to get you out of sight,” Leslie urged. “You’re compromising the First Family every moment we delay.”

Marin wilted slightly at Leslie’s words. “You’re right,” she murmured. “I don’t want anyone else hurt because of me.”

She headed in Griffin’s direction on wobbly legs. He reached out a hand to steady her, but she recoiled like a shotgun after firing. The pain of her rejection was like a sucker punch in his gut.

“Allow me.” Adam stepped around Griffin and held out his elbow to Marin as if he was escorting her to a damn debutante ball.

Griffin bit his tongue. Hard. Adam taunted him with a wink over Marin’s shoulder before leading her down the hall. As much as he hated Marin’s preference for Adam right now, it was necessary. If he couldn’t have eyes on Marin twenty-four seven, Adam or Ben would. Griffin wasn’t about to trust her safety to anyone else.